Chapter 33
The problem of clothing coming off, Charlotte thought—once her pulse had finished rioting and her blood had stopped battering her brain—was how damned difficult it was to get it on again.
Gentlemen don’t have these problems, she thought darkly as she clutched her bodice to her chest and wriggled off Warrick’s lap, causing him to suck in his breath and mutter all sorts of interesting curses.
Breeches both were convenient and looked fabulous on her legs, and yet was she allowed to wear them?
Of course not.
So instead, Charlotte had to try to maintain her dignity while contorting herself back into her morning gown, which fastened with two ties, one directly below her shoulder blades and one directly above them.
Charlotte had to admit the task was beyond her, which meant she had two options: stop the carriage and scandalize the coachman by asking him to help her dress, or summon her most imperious voice and demand that Warrick lend a hand.
Charlotte turned her back to him and lifted her hair, and a breeze wafted gently across the nape of her neck. Such a sensitive spot. How would it feel if Warrick slowly dragged his teeth along—
No! Stop!
He was Warrick.
His teeth and the clever things he might do with them were none of her concern.
“Your Grace, I require assistance.” She was pleased with the brisk tone she managed, as if she often found herself half dressed in a landau.
“Yes, of course.” He sounded more like a rockslide than a man.
Charlotte waited, but he made no move toward her. “Your Grace, my ties?”
He swallowed. “Your ties.”
His rough knuckles brushed across her spine and it was all she could do to stop herself from stretching into his hand.
No! she commanded her spine. Stand strong!
But obedience wasn’t her forte, and her body paid no attention to her commands. Charlotte could only hold on tight to the front of her dress and hope he didn’t notice how she trembled.
Warrick worked as quickly as he could, doing his damnedest not to touch her again as he tied what felt like two rough knots. Still, the air in the carriage thickened, so hot and sweet that Charlotte found it hard to breathe.
Oh, why should it be Warrick?
Why must he light her up this way?
“There,” he said gruffly, and his hands fell away from her. “All done.”
Charlotte gave an experimental wiggle and nothing fell off. She shrugged on her spencer, straightened on the seat, and waved him away. “All right. Back to your side, then.”
Warrick shifted to the other seat. “Charlotte, I must—”
“Please tell me it’s not time for one of your speeches. Let me guess—you’re dreadfully sorry, you regret everything, and you promise never to kiss me again. There, have I covered it?”
She expected Warrick to bristle or perhaps sling back an arrow, but the wretched man looked…
Oh, hell.
His hair was a mess, though that was hardly unusual, and neither was the state of his cravat, which was just loose enough that she could see interesting shadows beneath his jawbone.
His chest was as broad as ever, and Charlotte couldn’t help noticing what a comfortable spot the crook of his arm would make for anyone foolish enough to curl into it.
But while she was familiar with the rather sloppy splendor of his grace, the Duke of Warrick, she’d never seen him look so shattered before.
“You mistake me,” Warrick said quietly. “I only wanted to say how much I admire your silk mill, both the enterprise itself and whom you chose to staff it.”
“Oh.” Charlotte sat quite still, unsure what to do next. Damn Warrick. How was she meant to hector him after such a sincere apology? “Thank you?”
“I…” Warrick stared down at his hands. “I tried something similar with the men of my regiment, but my brother’s estate is mostly farmland. Not all of them are suited to the work. Lysander wants to start up an ironworks, but…”
His shoulders went up and down.
Charlotte frowned. “I don’t understand. You’re finding work for men on Lord Lysander’s estate?”
“No, I meant on the ducal estates. My estates, I suppose, though”—Warrick grimaced—“every time someone says ‘Your Grace,’ I look around for John.”
The fight drained out of Charlotte. Wolfgang looked so grim, but not in his usual way, like a magistrate handing down a sentence. Instead, she saw loss, a sadness old and heavy enough to settle into regular grooves around his mouth.
“I was so sorry to hear about his death,” she said softly.
“I know.” His eyes were dark when he raised them to hers. “You wrote me.”
Heat crept up Charlotte’s neck at the thought of that last stilted letter, just a few short lines. She still had his letters at the bottom of a drawer somewhere, as well as the hot, furious ones she’d written and never sent.
“It was odd to address a letter to Your Grace, the Duke of Warrick. It felt as if I were writing to someone else entirely.”
Although, of course, that wasn’t the only reason he’d seemed suddenly a stranger.
“It’s still odd. My father was the duke, and then he raised my brother to take his place. It was never meant to be me.” He gave a strange laugh. “I was always the second son, as I’m sure you remember.”
Charlotte frowned, not quite understanding. “Did you feel like the second son?”
“I’ll always be the second son. John might be gone, but that doesn’t make me the oldest—it only means there’s an empty spot where he’s meant to be.”
Her eyes pricked. “Of course.”
The carriage went quiet, and Charlotte had to fight the urge to cross over to his side and wrap her arms around him tight.
Instead, she turned her head and stared at the countryside flashing past, wondering why the quiet in the carriage felt peaceful, instead of like a quick lull before they took up arms again.
Blast it, she’d liked him once, until those black days that left her wondering if she’d ever known him at all.
“You should help Lord Lysander with his ironworks,” she said softly. “Especially if it creates a place for men who don’t have one. You should do whatever you like to make the estate your own. Isn’t that what your brother would have wanted?”
Wolfgang’s gaze seemed to pierce her, reaching uncomfortably deep, and soon the air thickened again—
“I find I’m quite tired!” she announced rather desperately. “Will you mind if I drift off?”
“Of course not.”
Charlotte nodded politely, turned her head into the velvet squabs, and snapped her eyes shut. There—much better! She could almost find her equilibrium, if she didn’t have to look at him.
“Charlotte?”
Blast. His voice surrounded her more completely when her eyes were closed.
“Hmm?” she managed.
“About our kiss—I don’t regret it. Not in the least. I’d drag you onto my lap and lose myself in your mouth for a hundred miles, if I thought I could stop there.”
Her eyes flew open. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“Because it’s the truth.” Wolfgang regarded her steadily. “I’m beginning to think it’s time for some between us.”