Chapter 19
It’s a bad start. A terrible fucking start.
Wolfgang plonked a pole into the water and gave it a shove, propelling the punt along faster than was strictly necessary. He stood on the till and tried not to mind looking down on Lysander’s laughing face and Charlotte’s sleepy one.
The day was bright and the sun nearly blinded him as it bounced off the Medway, but Charlotte’s eyes were at half-mast beneath the outrageously large and floppy brim of her hat.
She dipped her hand into the river, her fingers playing above the reeds and feathery dropwort swaying in the current below, but not even the frigid water seemed to rouse her much, and that surprised Warrick, considering that English rivers, even in the summer, were cold enough to raise the dead.
Charlotte didn’t care. Her lips curved softly and her smile turned inward, aimed at her own secrets.
If he dunked them all in the river, would that wake her up?
If he pushed his face into a patch of stinging nettles, would he stop thinking about her?
Or had the two nights running she’d spent up to all hours with Darlington done permanent damage to her ability to stay awake, and to his brain’s ability to focus on anything else?
“Are we in a race, Wolfie, or has the river made you angry?” called Lysander, half asleep himself.
He’d always been a tired pup, but when he was younger it had been because he ran and rode too hard before collapsing in a pile.
After Waterloo, he was tired because of the thoughts that assaulted him at night.
“I’m not angry,” Wolfgang growled, and it was true.
He was fucking furious—at the sun for having the cheek to shine, at the fat clouds that scudded so carelessly across the sky, at Darlington for the slouching way he walked, as if his spine was collapsing under the weight of his self-regard.
Wolfgang was mad at himself for getting into this mess, and even more upset with the dowager for acting less like a chaperone and more like a madam, always waving Charlotte and Darlington off together.
Why do I care? Wolfgang eyed the thick wooden pole in his hand and wondered if he should bash it into his head. How the hell had he gotten himself in this position with the one woman who—
“Let’s hear about that suitor of yours,” said Lysander. “Where is he, by the way?”
“Sleeping, I suppose.”
Wolfgang grunted. It ought to be Charlotte who was sleeping, because while she was up all hours with Darlington, she also woke early each morning and closeted herself in her brother’s study, sneaking out only for breakfast and luncheon.
What was she doing in there? Whatever it was, the Marby girls seemed to be in on it, poking their heads in once in a while to bring her chocolates or bowls of strawberries, and to offer words of encouragement. Perhaps she was—
“Lord Darlington’s sleeping at three in the afternoon?” Lysander whistled. “Even I’m impressed.”
“Lord Darlington says he’s naturally nocturnal and does his best thinking when everyone else has retired.” Her smile was small, secret, and maddening. “You know the type—doesn’t care for conventional things, like polite conversation, or making it down for dinner on time, or—”
“Yes, he’s late and silent. What woman wouldn’t be pleased?” Wolfgang gave a hiss of disgust. “Next thing you know, he’ll call you his muse.”
Charlotte glanced up. “And what would be wrong with that?”
Wolfgang dropped the pole until he felt the riverbed and gave the punt an impatient shove. “Because you’re the artist, of course. Not the muse.”
Charlotte’s lips parted in shock and her eyes went so wide he thought he might drown in the deep, swirling green of her stare.
Wolfgang shifted uncomfortably. “Don’t look at me so. Even I can see how original you—” He tried again. “I’ve always thought you—Blast it! Take your bayonet lace, or those dead frogs you were stitching when we first met. Who else would—”
“You remember what I was embroidering when we first met?” she asked, and it sounded almost like an accusation. Or like… hurt?
Lysander’s head swiveled between them, and he made no effort to hide his fascination.
Botheration. Wolfgang felt his face go dark.
“One hardly forgets dead frogs.” Wolfgang gripped the pole so tightly he thought it might crack. He closed his eyes to let the sounds of the river calm him but it didn’t help, no matter how merrily the water rushed or how sweetly the finches and bluethroats sang.
Damn it, why did he have to notice Charlotte so much?
He was still tracking what she wore and had recently started naming each ensemble in his head.
Last night she’d floated downstairs for dinner in a pure white dress with a long black-and-white ribbon threaded through her hair and both wrists whimpering under the weight of a pair of ruby-and-diamond bracelets, looking like a heroine about to die of consumption.
Gothic Charlotte.
“Borrowing Anna’s jewelry, are you, darling?” the dowager had asked, with a half smile. “Clever! She’s the last one who would mind.”
Charlotte had laughed and lifted up the bracelets for Darlington to inspect, and was it Wolfgang, or had the other man lingered a little too long over her hand?
Now here she was today with a black ribbon around her throat and a black ribbon around her ridiculous hat, which was trimmed with some sort of wilting white flower.
Her dress was white muslin and made of a frothy material, and she’d tied it with a black sash.
All he could think was Ophelia Before the Drowning.
Warrick lifted the pole out of the river and splashed it carelessly in again, pleased when water sloshed on Charlotte’s slippers and she yipped.
It didn’t escape his notice that her latest ensembles were sure to appeal to a certain pale, hollow-eyed viscount, who looked as if he slept cuddled up to a portrait of Byron each night.
“Careful with that pole, Wolfie,” said Lysander.
“You call him Wolfie, do you?” Charlotte asked Lysander. She peeped up at Wolfgang from beneath her ridiculous brim, back to her usual mischief.
“Yes. Why, do you have your own pet name for him?”
Her mouth curved. “Shall I call him my muse? Would that send him into an apoplexy, do you think?”
Wolfgang bared his teeth at Charlotte, which only made her laugh. Her head went back, revealing the slim column of her neck where he’d like to—
Nothing!
He did not want to lick her.
“Tell me,” Charlotte said to Lysander, “has His Grace always glowered so?”
Lysander’s grin faded. He crossed his legs and stretched back as far as the wooden seat would allow, tilting his face up to the sun. “No. Wolfie used to know how to laugh, before John died.”
“Oh. Of course.” Charlotte lifted her eyes to Wolfgang, but he turned away. The last thing he needed was her sympathy, or that noticing gaze of hers penetrating too deep. “I remember.”
“Wolfie’s glowering again,” said Lysander. “He does seem to save his fiercest looks for you, Lady Charlotte. However did you harm him?”
“I, harm your brother? You have it all wrong.” She dropped her voice to a loud whisper. “I’m afraid he rather disapproves of me.”
“No!” Lysander clutched his chest. “How could that be?”
She shrugged, but her voice was curiously soft. “I’ve never understood.”
“Hmm. I have a theory.” Lysander gave a big yawn and stretched, which made Warrick instantly suspicious. The only thing more conspicuous than Charlotte dressing like a dying swan was Lysander acting innocent. “Would you care to hear it?”
But Charlotte had closed her eyes and dipped her hand into the river again, her interest in the subject of him clearly limited.
Warrick’s interest in the subject of her, on the other hand, was growing like a rash.
“Wolfgang!” Lysander called out sharply. “Watch out for that willow branch!”
The warning came too late and the punt was going too fast. Wolfgang plunged into the river with a yelp and an enormous splash.
When he broke the surface, Charlotte’s laugh rang out over his head, beautiful and maddening as it echoed up into the clear blue sky.