Chapter 41
What was Charlotte up to, the scoundrel?
Wolfgang pondered the question as he waited at the bottom of the stairs for her to change for their walk to the cherry orchard.
She had a scheme in mind for their outing, that much was clear, though it was hard for Wolfgang to think of anything other than the glaze of pink on her cheeks, or how red and pouting her bottom lip had gone when he sucked it into his mouth.
It was damned difficult to keep up with Charlotte at the best of times, but he’d gone completely stupid ever since he felt her come apart in his arms. Only after he shook his head hard did he manage to dislodge a thought.
What was it again? Ah, yes. Charlotte was a scoundrel and she was definitely up to something.
Wolfgang leaned back against the banister.
He’d been waiting twenty minutes for her already.
Was her scheme to leave him cooling his heels so long that he gave up on their expedition?
Had she snuck out a side entrance? No matter, because Wolfgang had nothing but patience, as the members of his regiment knew well.
Once he had a goal in mind, he chased it down with dogged determination until he won.
He frowned.
Not that he wanted to hound Charlotte.
Damn it, he wanted her happy. Full of high mischief. Starting up a thousand silk mills, or hell, even starting land wars. He wanted her to be Maximum Charlotte, and now that he’d felt a slight thawing—
Charlotte drifted down the stairs and Wolfgang had to bite back a laugh.
Gone was her morning gown, replaced by… was that a walking dress?
He made a mental note to scrounge up a copy of La Belle Assemblée and the other fashion pages so he could study, because all he knew definitively was that her dress was peach and frothy, with lots of fuss at the bottom.
Charlotte the Ingenue.
It could only mean trouble, especially when she slanted him a look and slapped on one of her enormous hats, tying a particularly ridiculous polka-dot ribbon under her chin.
He offered his elbow and Charlotte slipped her arm through it and smiled up at him.
“You’ll adore our cherry orchard, Your Grace. And our fruiterer! I can hardly wait.”
“… Elton Heart, Waterloo, Knight’s Early Black, and Napoleon.
And those are only our sour varietals, most excellent when boiled with sugar and lemon peel.
On the sweet side, we have Kentish, of course, Bleeding Heart, Early May, and Duke.
Ha! Duke! D’you see, like you, Your Grace, but, in fact, a cherry varietal!
Most amusing! The sour fruit ripens first, and we’ve already—and with great care, I assure you—picked the fruit from our Elton Heart, our Knight’s Early Black, our… ”
Mr. Milstead, the family’s fruiterer, had been going strong for half an hour and showed no signs of slowing, much to Wolfgang’s chagrin and Charlotte’s evident glee.
The man had a round apple face, the shining eyes of a true believer, and an unshakable belief that his audience found cherry cultivation as uniquely absorbing as he did.
“… and we grow our trees in with our hops, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, as they both like a nice, protected spot and well-drained soil.
Best friends, are hops and cherries, and don’t they look well together, although we won’t pick our hops until at least September.
You can spot the distinctive shape of our Kentish oasthouse from here, although—ha, ha—she’s only half dressed.
As you can see, we are rethatching in preparation for drying the hops, which, of course, will happen in… ”
Wolfgang gritted his teeth. How long was eternity, exactly? Was it measured in chatty fruiterers?
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Milstead, but I seem to have forgotten,” Charlotte said. “Who was the first to plant cherries in Kent?”
Wolfgang nearly groaned. Of course, the little monster would ask questions.
Mr. Milstead blinked twice. “Lady Charlotte, how remiss I’ve been. And what an insult to Richard Harrys, who had the honor of being named fruiterer to King Henry VIII in—”
John, who’d spent his childhood in training, could command silence with the force of his dignity alone. Wolfgang, still no duke, lacked the courage to cut the man off. Or perhaps he lacked the heart, because the deeper Mr. Milstead dove into his subject, the brighter he glowed.
“Mr. Milstead! You’ve convinced me these trees are special indeed.” Wolfgang wondered if he sounded as desperate as he felt, though the way Charlotte’s mouth curved gave him a clue. “Would it be possible to sample the fruit?”
The fruiterer stopped mid-ramble. “But, Your Grace, surely…” He shook his head in disbelief. “Surely, you’ve… I’ve sent bushels to the house. How is it possible that no one offered you—”
“They have, of course. But the noblest fruit comes fresh from the tree.”
Mr. Milstead’s eyes were round as moons already, but they seemed to grow in size. “Just so! Would you like to sample a Bleeding Heart? Or no, a Kentish!” He dashed off murmuring to himself.
Charlotte lifted her face to Wolfgang, but the enormous brim on her hat meant he could only see her mouth and a bit of nose, both quaking with suppressed laughter. “You’ve only bought yourself a short reprieve. The Kentish trees aren’t far.”
“I bought myself freedom.”
Charlotte tilted her head all the way back so she could glare at him properly. “Mr. Milstead may be a chatterbox, but he’s a dear man and I will not dash off the moment his back is turned.”
“And if I have another plan entirely?”
Mr. Milstead soon galloped back with a handful of Kentish cherries, glossy, plump, and a pleasing red, with a nice pop of juice when Wolfgang bit into one.
“Oh, Mr. Milstead, how sublime!” Charlotte gave a sigh of pleasure, and Wolfgang suddenly longed for a basket of cherries.
He’d stretch her out beneath a tree and paint her lips with cherry juice, first that tempting lower lip and then the cheeky dip of her top lip.
He’d get her naked and paint her stomach, too, and then take the ripest, fattest cherry yet, bite it in two, and let the juice drip cold and sweet all over her—
“I swear the fruit tastes better every year, Mr. Milstead,” Charlotte said. “Tell me, how do you—”
“No!” Wolfgang’s shout was loud enough to strip the leaves from their branches. “No, Mr. Milstead, there can be nothing further to say after such perfection. It’s only fitting that the trees should have the last word.”
Mr. Milstead beamed. “A noble sentiment, Your Grace.”
Wolfgang held up one of the cherries, took a moment to admire it, and summoned his best approximation of a ducal nod.
He must have settled into the role more than he realized, or John gave him a boost from the beyond, because Mr. Milstead beamed even more broadly, bowed in response, and—thank heaven above and the devil below for good measure—took his leave.
“You see,” said Wolfgang, when the man was out of earshot. “No dashing off involved.”
“What if I have another trick up my sleeve? Mr. Milstead hasn’t yet told you about the hops, or given you a tour of the oasthouse. It was built in the fifteen hundreds, you know, so there’s plenty of history to—”
“If you call that man back, I’ll fall dead at your feet. Kent and Sussex will be obliged to fight a war, the French will sense an opening, and Napoleon will sail back triumphant from St. Helena. The fate of the kingdom is in your hands.”
“I suppose I’ll tolerate your company, then, at least for the walk back. To save England, of course.”
It was an opening and Wolfgang seized it. “What if we don’t return to the house? What if we walk down to the river, as we did once before?”
That ridiculous hat. When Charlotte dipped her head, he could see only a tantalizing sliver of her face and one black curl. Not nearly enough to allow him to read her as the silence stretched between them.
“All right,” she said quietly. “Let’s walk.”
There was a sudden boulder in Wolfgang’s throat, but he swallowed past it and offered her his arm. “Have I told you that I find your bonnet quite formidable? If Castlereagh had worn something similar at the negotiating table, I’m convinced he’d have gotten more concessions out of France.”
She laughed and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and they began to walk. “You see! There’s more to clothing than simply how wrinkled one can make it, my lord duke.”
They passed through an arch in the stone wall that surrounded the cherry orchard and a meadow opened before them, the sun slanting through the oak trees and waist-high grasses to throw ribbons of light across the path.
“Must you call me ‘my lord duke’? I much prefer Wolfgang.”
“Do you? Not Wolfie, as Lysander and Georgiana call you?” She tilted her head. “Or is that one reserved for Georgiana when she needs to send you out in the rain?”
“That dog is a crime on four legs,” said Wolfgang.
“I agree! Which is why it surprises me that you keep sneaking him bacon under the breakfast table.”
“You’ve been watching me. How gratifying.”
“Know thy enemy?” she offered.
That was it—Wolfgang couldn’t help himself.
He scooped Charlotte up and she gave a startled whoop of laughter as he waded off the path toward an oak tree, settling them down on the ground under its canopy.
The long grasses and goldenrods sprung up in a circle around them, an airy wall of yellow-green, as Charlotte rolled toward him and propped her head up in her hand.
“Well, my lord duke, I was the teeniest bit insolent to you and now here we are, all alone. Do you think to punish me? Or wrinkle me up to make your coat look better?”
Wolfgang flopped on his back and crossed his arms behind his head. “Your other suitors must have been useless if you think I have punishment in mind. Would you believe I simply like being with you?”
“I think you want to kiss me stupid.”
“Always.” He frowned. “But it’s even more important that we—”
Charlotte leaned down and kissed him herself, long and lazily, her hand drifting to his neck.