Chapter 29
“Iliked James,” Ian announced. “He’s wee, but he can throw.”
Charlotte made herself smile. “He did very well.”
“When will I see him again?” Ian swung his legs under the chair. “Will we go back to Evermere next week? Or will they come here, an’ I can show him the rock in the garden that looks like a cow?”
“I am not certain when we shall see them again,” Charlotte answered. She broke off a corner of toast and forgot to eat it. “Soon, I hope.”
Soon. That is sensible. Perfectly ordinary. Unlike kissing one’s husband by a stream.
Her stomach gave an odd flutter. She pressed her hand flat against the table and tried to focus on the marmalade rather than the memory of Henry’s mouth brushing hers.
“Ian,” she said carefully, “did you enjoy the game? Squads and Sentinels?”
“Aye.” He grinned. “James kept droppin’ the ball, but we didnae let the enemy get him. An’ ye near fell in the water, but Sappherton caught ye.”
She felt heat climb into her cheeks. “Yes. That was truly kind of him.”
More than kind. Closer than any kind thing has any right to be.
Footsteps sounded in the passage. Charlotte’s spine straightened on instinct. She turned her head toward the breakfast room doorway.
Then she looked back at her plate as if toast required her whole attention.
“I liked the ducks too,” Ian went on. “They marched. Did ye see?”
“I did,” she said. She had. Right before Henry’s hand had gone to her waist. Right before everything else had gone entirely strange.
Henry walked into the room.
Charlotte raised her eyes. Their gazes caught and held.
Say something. Say good morning. Say anything at all.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning, Henry,” Charlotte managed.
“Good mornin’,” Ian added. “We’re talkin’ about James.”
“So I recall,” Henry replied.
He crossed to his place, each movement neat, and sat. A footman stepped forward at once with the coffee pot. Charlotte watched the dark liquid pour, watched Henry reach for the newspaper as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
It was not natural. He never read the paper at breakfast. He always spoke to Ian. He often drew Charlotte into some ridiculous argument about trade.
Today he lifted the paper like a shield.
Ian frowned. “Why are ye readin’ that now? Ye daenae read it in the mornin’.”
Henry kept his eyes on the print. “There is news I must address.”
“But ye can talk an’ read,” Ian protested. “Ye did it on the journey. Ye read letters an’ still scolded me.”
Charlotte bit the inside of her cheek.
Do not laugh. Do not make this worse.
“Today is different,” Henry said. “I have neglected the London reports. It will not take long.”
He did not look at her. Not once. Not even when she reached, somewhat blindly, for her cup and nearly upset the marmalade.
He regrets it. Or he has decided it was nothing at all. Lips touch in streams every day, apparently. Perhaps he thinks I misinterpreted him. Perhaps I did.
Ian stabbed his egg. “Ye’re bein’ dull.”
“I am being responsible,” Henry said.
Charlotte buttered the same piece of toast twice. Her hand shook.
Was it truly a kiss? It was so brief. So soft. Perhaps I imagined it. Perhaps I pressed more meaning into it than there was. Oh, this is insufferable.
Ian nudged her arm. “Charlotte, tell him he’s dull.”
“I am attempting to eat my breakfast,” she answered. The words came out thinner than she liked. “And I do not call Dukes dull at the table.”
“I do,” Ian muttered.
Henry turned a page. “You may refrain from that as well.”
Silence settled over the table, broken only by the rattle of china and Ian’s occasional sighs. Charlotte stared at her untouched toast.
If he wishes to pretend nothing occurred, I can do the same. I am entirely capable of pretense. I did it for years.
Her stomach fluttered again at the lie.
Henry saw them before they saw him.
He had come out of his study with a file in hand, intent on the steward. The corridor stretched long and straight to the main staircase. At the far end, Charlotte and Ian were walking side by side.
Ian was talking with his whole body, arms waving, head bobbing. Charlotte listened, head bent toward him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder.
Henry stopped.
Turn back. Go the other way. There is another route to the morning room. No one will know.
Charlotte lifted her head. She saw him.
She stopped too.
They faced each other down the length of the corridor like two generals who had not prepared for this particular battle.
Her lips parted. He saw it even in the distance. She looked as if she were going to speak.
Then she closed her mouth again, the line of it tightening. Her hand dropped from Ian’s shoulder.
Ian squinted. “Are ye stuck?” he called.
Charlotte cleared her throat. “No. We are not stuck.”
Henry’s fingers tightened around the file.
For heaven’s sake. This is absurd. She is my wife. We have shared a bedchamber while traveling and a carriage. I cannot be brought to a standstill by the sight of her in a corridor.
He made himself take a step forward.
Charlotte took a small step too. Then she seemed to think better of it. She turned, put a hand on Ian’s shoulder again, and steered him in the opposite direction.
“We are going this way,” she said.
Ian dug in his heels. “But the library’s that way. Ye said we were goin’ to the library.”
“You need more sunshine,” Charlotte said briskly.
“We just came from the gardens,” Ian objected. “Ye said I was as brown as a nut.”
“That is why you may grow even more brown,” she replied. “Variety, Ian.”
Henry stopped again and pinched the bridge of his nose.
This is ridiculous. She is avoiding me. Turning entire routes about simply not to speak to me. I kissed her once, and now she is fleeing down corridors. Well done, Sappherton. You have managed to terrify your own wife.
Ian had twisted around. “Henry, are ye comin’ to the sunshine too?”
Henry lowered his hand. “I have business.”
Ian scowled. “Ye always have business.”
Charlotte kept walking, her grip gentle but firm on the boy’s shoulder. She did not look back.
Henry watched them go, his chest tight.
She disliked it. She must have. Or she would not be pulling Ian about like a pawn on a chessboard to avoid passing me in a hall.
He should not have touched her. He should not have kissed her. And he certainly should not be thinking about that kiss every hour since it happened.
* * *
“Will ye read to me afore bed?” Ian asked.
Dinner had just ended. The candles were still bright. The servants moved quietly along the walls, clearing plates. Henry’s wine sat untouched.
“Of course we will,” Charlotte said. She folded her napkin. “We always do.”
Ian looked at Henry. “Both o’ ye.”
Henry set down his glass. “If you wish it.”
“I do,” Ian said. He slid off his chair. “Come on. If we wait, your nurserymaid, Miss. Holt will say it’s too late.”
Henry rose. Charlotte did the same. Their gazes crossed for a fleeting second.
Do not think of streams. Do not think of kisses. Think of nursery stories. There are dragons. Dragons are safe.
They walked up to the nursery together, Ian in the lead, clutching his toy soldier. Charlotte kept a small distance between herself and Henry, enough to be proper, and enough to make him acutely aware of it.
In Ian’s chamber, the fire burned low. Toys were scattered across the rug in a line only Ian understood. Charlotte went straight to the wardrobe.
“Nightshirt,” she said. “Come here.”
Ian wriggled out of his jacket and raced toward her. “Tell the story about the pirate again.”
“We shall see,” Charlotte replied. She pulled the nightshirt over his head, smoothing it down. “It depends on whether you get into bed without argument.”
“I never argue,” he said, indignant.
Henry stared into the fire.
Do not look at her. There is no need to watch her tie the ribbon on his nightshirt. You have seen nightshirts before. This is nothing new.
He looked anyway when she laughed.
Ian scrambled into bed and burrowed under the covers. “Ye have to get in too,” he said. “One on each side. Like a fort.”
Charlotte glanced at Henry. “I do not think that is quite necessary.”
“It is entirely necessary,” Ian said. “Else the dragons get in.”
Henry cleared his throat. “Very well.”
He removed his coat and laid it over the back of a chair. The bed was not made to accommodate a duke, a boy, and a duchess. He managed to fit himself on the edge, shoulder against the headboard, careful not to jostle Ian.
Charlotte climbed in on the other side, skirts tucked, her shoulder making the smallest contact with the boy’s.
Henry could smell her scent at once. Roses. Not heavy. Just there.
Of course she wears rose water. Half the ladies in London wear it. This is nothing unusual. Except it is. Because it is on her skin. Because it is inches from your own.
Ian sighed contentedly. “This is better.”
Charlotte reached for the storybook on the table. “Which one tonight?”
“The ship one,” Ian said. “Wi’ the storm.”
She picked up the book and leaned across to hand it to Henry. Their fingers brushed.
Both of them pulled back too fast. The book slipped.
It landed squarely on Ian’s stomach.
He sat up a little and stared at them. “What are ye doin’?”
Charlotte forced a smile. “We are merely clumsy this evening.”
Henry retrieved the book. “It appears so.”
Ian looked from one side of the bed to the other. “Ye’ve been strange all day.”
Charlotte smoothed the blanket. “Have we?”
“Aye,” Ian said. “Ye didnae talk at breakfast. Ye turned round in the corridor like ye were avoidin’ him. An’ now ye’re droppin’ books on me. Has there been a quarrel?”
“There has been no quarrel,” Charlotte said quickly. “Your guardian and I are simply…tired.”
“Ye daenae look tired,” Ian replied.
Henry opened the book. “The sooner I begin, the sooner you will sleep, and then you will care very little whether we look tired or not.”
Ian made a face. “That’s true.”
Charlotte settled back against the pillows. Henry started to read.
The words came haltingly at first. His mind was not on the storm or the brave sailor or the ship that refused to sink. It kept sliding toward the warmth of Charlotte at his side. The faint brush of her sleeve against his arm when she shifted. The rise and fall of her breathing as she listened.
This is lunacy. You are a grown man. You have addressed Parliament. You have negotiated with men twice your age. You should not be undone by the sound of your wife breathing.
The rhythm of the story took hold at last. Ian’s eyelids drooped. His head settled more heavily into the pillow.
By the third page, his grip on the toy soldier had loosened. By the fifth, his soft snores cut through Henry’s sentence.
“He is asleep,” Charlotte whispered.
Henry closed the book. “Yes.”
He eased himself out of the bed with care. The mattress dipped, then stilled. Charlotte slipped free on her side, moving with the kind of quiet that comes only from practice.
Ian did not stir.
Henry set the book on the small table. He kept his eyes on the cover, tracing the worn edge with his thumb.
Do not look at her. Do not say anything. Leave. It will be safer if you leave.
He turned toward the door.
A soft knock came.
He stopped and glanced at Charlotte. She had frozen near the foot of the bed.
Henry crossed to the door and opened it.
Mr. Gedge stood in the corridor, a folded paper on a tray. “Forgive the interruption, Your Grace. This was delivered at once from Scotland. The rider said it was urgent.”
Henry’s stomach tightened. “Thank you.”
He took the paper directly from the tray. The seal bore the mark of Nathan’s solicitor.
Charlotte had come to stand just behind him. He could feel her nearness like heat.
His fingers were not as steady as he wished when he broke the seal.
He unfolded the note and read.
Nathan and Eleanor Drummond have been found alive.
Henry read the line again.
Alive.
The words sat on the page, simple and impossible.
Alive. After all this time. After every letter. Every search. Every plan made on the assumption that they were gone. Alive.
It sounded almost too impossible to believe.