“If a woman doubts as to whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to refuse him. If she can hesitate as to “Yes,” she ought to say “No” directly. It is not a state to be safely entered into with doubtful feelings, with half a heart.”
—Emma
WALKING back to the abbey, Nicholas wondered if he had done the right and proper thing. It was clear that Charlotte did not really want to marry him. If the doctor had not died, Nicholas would be planning his departure as soon as his own father and brewery venture would allow. He would have probably never seen her again. She had only agreed to marry him because he had used every logical argument to force the agreement.
She had blanched when he had mentioned consummating the marriage. And he would not soon forget her wistful questions: “I would be free to live my life however I choose? Perhaps consummation would not be required?” At least he had not had to face the embarrassment of explaining that he and his family had decided long ago that the risk of any of Nicholas’s progeny inheriting his great failing was too large a risk for the successful continuation of the dukedom.
She had wanted to make sure that a coupling would only have to occur once in their marriage. It would be as she had suggested, a marriage of mutual respect such as one held for a dear distant relative. That would have to be enough for him
And she would be safe from harm, never dependent on the whim of an employer. Perhaps in time she would grow to admire the set of skills he possessed: his organizational capabilities, his cool head under fire, the loyalty he could inspire in his men, and his willingness to give of himself.
But as his father had warned him, he would never try to live up to the high set of intellectual standards she would expect in a man she could truly respect and love, for it was an impossible task that he was sure to fail.
He had yet to attempt to tackle his greatest difficulty: the task of figuring numbers on paper. He had always had the capacity to calculate long sums in his head, just as he had been adept at music. He had confounded Rosamunde’s music teacher and his stepmother by his ability to perfectly execute memorized piano concertos. Her Grace had been horrified and had denied him access to the music room, saying the playing of instruments was reserved for young, unwed ladies.
That was when he had realized that he must leave the abbey; he would never be of any value to his family. But with perseverance he had regained his self-worth through servitude to the Crown.
Nicholas was on the precipice of wishing he could alter his fate. She would be worth it. Her love would be worth it.
The consecutive private interviews she had faced with the two male relatives in her life proved more trying than expected. First Charlotte had had to endure the exuberant well wishes of her overjoyed brother, who believed that it was a love match on both sides. Then she had had to withstand the cynical musings of Alexandre, who had dissected her betrothed.
“Ah Charlotte, it is a shame that he is a cripple both mentally and well, perhaps less so, physically. You deserve a `whole man,’ not someone you will have to nurse and read to your entire life. But I suppose his title and his gold will go a long way in erasing his faults,” Alexandre had said, after receiving the news.
She was infuriated. “That is most unfair. You know he is as fit as you or James. And as for—”
“Did his injury affect his ability to sire…” He waved his hand loftily in the air, allowing her to guess his vulgar question.
“Why, of course not. But I have not had firsthand—oh, you are just teasing me now, I know your tricks,” she said in annoyance.
“Well, I suppose if I cannot have you…”
“You never wanted me, monvieux.”
“You burst the illusion so heartlessly, my love.”
“It is easy. It is too bad the ladies at the abbey are not so well-used to your illusions,” she said, with a knowing smile.
“But then it would not be nearly so amusing. The petite Lady Susan, is she not deliciously delicate and feminine? Albeit not a trace of intelligence in her attic,” he said, with a sly smile. “Unlike you, my little bluestocking cousine. It is really too bad your father was not the miser I made him out to be. I was so sure.… We could have returned to Paris and cut quite a dash, as the English say.”
“Yes, well perhaps for a week or so. Then you would have found une petite amie to try your charms on, and I would have become a shrew.”
“My dear Charlotte, you think me very fickle,” he said with a grin. “Do you think it would be de trop to continue to bed Lady Susan’s delightful maid if I many Lady Susan and her divine ten thousand a year?”
Charlotte shook her head, and could not stop the tickle of a giggle in her throat. “Impossible. You are a rake without boundaries, Cousin. You do not deserve my notice. If you were not my cousin, I would give you the cut direct at every opportunity,” she said, regaining a serious expression. “As it stands, I can only beg you to never speak unkindly of my future husband again.”
“I see how it will be. No joy in your marriage, only duty and honor. How very English and boring. I would expire within a week’s time. Ma cousine, I wish you joy, but do not expect my attentions to change toward you just because you have altered the rules somewhat. In my experience, married ladies are adventuresome and quite enchanting!”
Charlotte sighed. Alexandre used his flirtatious charm to hide the genuine familial bond he had finally developed for her since arriving in Wiltshire. At least his verbal jousting had forced her to sharpen the meager amount of wit she possessed. It was a tool she would need to survive the ordeal of facing the frosty overtures of the duke’s family.
“Well I see you have not lost all notions of propriety, Miss Kittridge,” said Her Grace, halfway through dinner that evening. She had not condescended to say one word to Charlotte before then. The duchess had refused to meet her gaze, and had given the briefest nod when she and her brother had appeared at the abbey. “I suppose we should have a mourning dress or two made up for you so you do not have to continue to wear Rosamunde’s.”
Charlotte would not rise to the bait. “That will be unnecessary, Your Grace. I ordered several a few days ago.”
“Well, I for one find this hasty marriage business more than a little awkward. It is unheard of to marry in blacks. Not that I was consulted. People will talk. I don’t understand why this cannot be put off until the proper mourning period has passed. At least a year. Indeed, I do not see why it should take place at all.”
A long, awkward silence enveloped the room. Lady Susan drew all attention her way with the sound of a loud sniff and a haughty tilt of her nose.
Nicholas cleared his throat. “I am sure, madam, that you are not intentional in your insults. However, let me assure you that I will not allow my betrothed to suffer any abuse. Miss Kittridge and her family have been nothing but beneficial to us. I suggest you remember that on all future occasions. She has done me the honor of agreeing to become my wife, and as such I will insist that she be accorded the respect due her position.”
“Well, of all the—” replied Her Grace before halting when faced with the steel of Nicholas’s gaze.
Stone-cold silence invaded the room. Only the clacking of silverware could be heard. Charlotte forced herself to continue taking small bites of food that tasted like sawdust.
Only Rosamunde was capable of maintaining the facade of gentility. “Will you remove from the cottage, Charlotte? There is a lovely bedchamber next to my own in the south tower.”
Charlotte’s gaze darted to Her Grace, who was biting her tongue in anger. “No, I think not. At least not until after my brother departs for London. I must sort through all of my father’s papers and books. Lord Huntington has been kind enough to suggest that I store the books and such in the Duke’s great library,” she said, before continuing, “And it will be easier to see those who stop by for the occasional complaint or two between my visits to your father and other patients.”
“Do you intend to continue to practice your nursing skills when you are the future Duchess of Cavendish, my dear?” Lord Edwin asked in a mocking tone. “How utterly charming and provincial.”
“I see nothing wrong with helping the less fortunate, my lord,” she replied.
“Yes, but Miss Kittridge, you might bring some horrid disease to the abbey. We can’t have that, especially when His Grace lies so ill. And we do have a respected apothecary in the village,” said the duchess.
“I understand your concerns. However, my father and I tended the infirm throughout our stay in Wiltshire, and no one expressed any concern until now. I fail to see what has changed. Although I am sure the apothecary will be frequented much more now, despite his ill care of His Grace.”
Charlotte glanced at Nicholas, who gave her a small smile of encouragement.
“I would be delighted to help you in any way, Miss Kittridge,” said the vicar. “I for one am most impressed with your good deeds in the face of your devastating loss.”
“Oh, please do not offer me compliments. They are unjustified. Really, I do not think I have had a moment to comprehend what has happened,” Charlotte said in a low voice.
“My dear, we are very sorry for your loss,” the Dowager Duchess of Cavendish said. “I fear we will never be able to find another physician as competent as your father. We are lucky to have you still willing to nurse my son.”
The Dowager Countess Elltrope made a disgruntled noise. “Well, I still say my Susan would have made a dedicated nurse to the duke as well.”
The dowager duchess snorted.
Alexandre stepped into the fray. “What? My delicate flower—Lady Susan exposed to the dangers of the sickroom? I think it would be most unwise. Her sensibilities would be overpowered.”
“Thank you, sir, for understanding my wilting Feminine Nature, although I am sure I could match Miss Kittridge’s abilities if I was ever to Heed the Calling,” replied Lady Susan haughtily.
“My dear, perhaps it would be better for you and your grandmother to consider departing our little family gathering. We would be sad to lose your delightful presence, but I would not want to compromise your sensibilities and your delicate health,” said the dowager duchess, with a comical mixture of false sadness and ill-concealed triumph. “Really, the duke’s illness and now Dr. Kittridge’s sudden demise must surely have left you feeling unsettled in the extreme. We would understand if you must cut your visit short.”
The elderly Hortense Elltrope easily trumped her hand. “But my dearest friend, we could not leave you in your hour of sisterly need, and besides, I daresay the extensive renovations we have ordered on the country estate are not complete. I fear we must trespass on your hospitality a bit longer, Margarita,” she said, directing a simpering smile to the vicar.
If Charlotte had not been feeling so vulnerable to every person’s speculations, she surely would have found the exchange amusing. As it was, she was amazed to watch Lord Edwin vying with Alexandre for Lady Susan’s favors as feverishly as the two matrons fought over the patient vicar. And glad she was to have the attention of almost everyone move to other corners.
James and Rosamunde continued to glance in each other’s direction. Louisa Nichols tried unsuccessfully to garner a few compliments from Lord Edwin and Alexandre, while Lady Susan preened and pouted.
Charlotte felt the weight of the duchess’s disapproving stare and Nicholas’s gaze in her direction throughout the rest of the lavish meal. She would count the days until she could leave these argumentative and frequently unkind personalities. She was only song to leave Rosamunde and perhaps even the Dowager Duchess of Cavendish, who had offered a kind word or two when she could be torn away from the fray.
All in all, the idea of her union with Nicholas had gone over as well as could be expected. And at least no one had thought to bring up the embarrassing topic of possible children the union might bring. She would not have been able to hide her sadness. Without a doubt, the duchess would place infertility at the top of her list of requests—or demands—to God in her evening prayers. Little did Her Grace realize that her prayers were unnecessary.
She kept putting off the date of their nuptials. Nicholas wondered if he would have to bundle her up and force her to face the vicar. He rested on a log, taking a brief respite from helping to finish building the brewery’s sluice gatehouse. How many more days could he stand the delay of the marriage?
The commission was in her brother’s eager hands, and he was panting to be off. And Nicholas very much wanted to accomplish the deed before his poor father departed this earth, and he feared the end was near. For the last three weeks he had had to withstand his stepmother’s insistence that the news of his engagement had led to the current spiral downward. He had refused to listen to any of it.
And now the brewery was well on its way to completion. The ponds had been dug, the buildings almost completed, and the barley planted. The expert from Prussia had proved his weight in gold. Mr. Gunter had spent hours teaching the ragged group from the countryside all there was to know about his trade. The man had even gathered orders from several neighboring counties, and he had agreed to stay on through the first several batches.
In the upper areas, more and more neighbors were beginning to use the fields and pastures Nicholas had declared common land. The laborers and tenant farmers did not know it yet, but he had also arranged for the purchase of twelve milk cows for the most needy families.
Those animals would not be the first to munch their fill of the verdant pastures. Already, old Silas had brought in the first small flock of prize sheep he had been sent to purchase in Lancashire. Altogether, three shepherds would be required to oversee the flock once it filled out. Rough enclosures were planned to provide protection for the prime animals.
Edwin had been furious, calling Nicholas all kinds of unchivalrous names for not using his funds to support the ducal lands. Edwin had pulled out the ledgers, indicating every reason why the estate could better use his monies. Nicholas had listened patiently and promised to consider the dire situation. The steward had coughed once and asked who would be overseeing the enterprises once his lordship returned to the military life. Nicholas had a growing unease with Wyndhurst’s steward, despite Edwin’s assurances of the man’s past successes. Mr. Coburn had shaken his head when Nicholas had mentioned Owen Roberts’s name.
It was here in his own fields that Nicholas felt a glow of pride fill his being at all the productivity. He loved to see progress. It was the first time he had ever experienced it. For so many years he had seen only destruction. He had witnessed the devastation of war and had participated in it. And he had been excellent at it—too excellent in many cases.
Until now, he had not realized how much it had weighed on his conscience and on his soul. He prayed he would not have to return to it. The fragile peace with France must hold. Nicholas would help preserve it, or better yet, help the war-ravaged countries rebuild.
The one little burr in his future was Charlotte. Would this marriage prove disastrous? She was so hesitant to go through with it. He could envision many bleak evenings with her at the hearth reading a huge tome, trying occasionally to give him false hope in his first childish workbooks.
He thought of his endless reams of blotched papers, filled with rows of ill-formed letters. At least the headaches had disappeared altogether. And he had even taken a few moments to form numbers out of clay, to put in the first firing in the kiln he had had constructed near the brewery. It was a secret. He had planned to show the kiln to Charlotte right away, but she had avoided him at every opportunity.
“Hey ho!” hailed Owen Roberts. “We’re ready to unleash the last dam.… Come along, if you want to see it, then.”
Nicholas arose from his shady perch, rubbing his aching thighbone by habit. “Go on, I’ll meet you.”
He smiled. Owen was someone he trusted to ensure the proper running of all Nicholas’s endeavors when he returned to his duty. Owen had told him that being literate did not make a man; being a leader of men made a man. It was Owen who had insisted Nicholas was the only one who could organize the menfolk to save themselves.
Nicholas arrived below the ridge and watched a dozen men remove obstacles from the stream’s flow. A series of eight interlocking reservoirs, increasing in size, would provide spring water for ale making. Another dozen men were finishing the work on the sluice gatehouse and the adjacent building containing the rudimentary elements needed to begin the brewing process. Owen and Mr. Gunter joined him at his vantage point.
“A fine sight is it not, my lord?” exclaimed Mr. Gunter in his accented English. The spring water flowed into the first pond before them.
“Yes, indeed,” replied Nicholas. “The hops should arrive from Kent in two weeks time. And the barley should be ready to harvest then if the weather holds.” Nicholas glanced up at the brilliant blue sky. “My father agreed to allow the dray and draft horses I purchased to be stabled at Wyndhurst. And the first of the wooden kegs should arrive tomorrow.”
“We’ll begin then, in two weeks time, my lord,” Mr. Gunter said with a broad smile. “The water from this spring should produce one of the finest ales in all of England.”
“Have you decided about the orchard?” Owen asked, reminding Nicholas of the badly overgrown grove of apple trees on the property.
“Yes. Have some of the men begin the clearing away and improvements in the soil. We’ll look into purchasing a large press next year once we see profits from the brewery. We can’t afford to invest in it yet, but we can distribute what meager produce the trees yield this fall,” Nicholas said.
Mr. Gunter left to check the levels in the ponds, leaving Nicholas alone with Owen Roberts. A brief silence ensued.
“What is on your mind, man?” Nicholas asked.
“I was thinking I should be offering my congratulations. The missus has a sister who’s a chambermaid at the abbey. She says you’re to marry Miss Kittridge.”
Nicholas clapped a hand on Owen’s shoulder. “News travels fast.”
“If you’ll pardon me for sayin’ so, you look none too happy about the idea,” Owen said. “You havena’ mentioned it once.”
“Outspoken as always, that you always were.”
“Marriage isna’ so bad. The procreatin’ business is the best part,” he said with a wink. “Hmmmm. Blunt as always, too.”
“From what Sally’s sister says, there’s a French feller trying to do lots of procreatin’ at the abbey. Better mind what’s your own and send the man on his way after the weddin’.” Owen wheezed, and coughed at his own humor.
“All right, old man. You’ve had your say.”
“No, I havena’. What’s this I hear about you still plannin’ on leavin’ for Paris? What are you thinkin’? With a missus, and your father so ill, you need to plant your roots here.”
“Owen—” Nicholas breathed deeply and shook his head. “It’s no good. I’ve only ever known the military life. Don’t think I don’t want to stay here, even though life with the duchess and Lord Edwin would be unpleasant at best. It is just that I made my path long ago, and I am too old and tired to change it. I know how to organize soldiers and execute skirmishes with precision, how to shoot dead on, and I know how to work through the channels of the military. I know nothing about overseeing five large ducal properties.”
“You could learn.”
“Actually, I’m not sure I could or would want to. Sometimes it is better to stay with what you know you can do well.”
Owen indicated with a sweep of his arm the brewery and kiln in front of them. “Isna’ this proof enough that you can do other things just as well? Don’t be dense, man.”
Nicholas paused. “I’m afraid that is precisely what I am, at least for the near future. And I am not willing to gamble on the lives of the hundreds of families tied to our lands.”
“Nah. You’ve just always fancied war. I was hopin’ you’d outgrow it.”
“And you, my friend, delight in playing ‘what if’ games. I’ve enjoyed this foray into industry and agriculture and I will continue to be involved from afar—with your help. But I will be leaving for Paris, mark my words.”
Little did the man know how close Nicholas had come to choosing just the path Owen suggested. But Nicholas was a man who rarely tempted fate. And while he was willing, due to necessity, to break his promise by marrying Charlotte, he would not change the original promise made so long ago to his father and brother. He would not change the course that would prove most beneficial to the dukedom.
Nicholas hated to use subterfuge on her, but he had decided that the ends justified the means. He found Charlotte just where her brother had said, at the graveyard, laying flowers on the bare earth of her father’s grave. Kittridge had agreed to meet Nicholas at the village church in one hour’s time, along with Rosamunde. As Nicholas approached the stone arches of the graveyard, he glanced down at the pocket watch he had removed from his waistcoat. He had but a quarter of an hour to convince her anew.
She looked so pale and reed-like in the black gown she wore. Her bonnet had fallen down her back, the ribbons tied at their ends around her slim neck. Brown wavy hair coursed down her back. The wind played havoc with her curls. She was so young and fragile.
She looked up when she heard his approach.
Nicholas faced her sorrowful expression. “Good day, Charlotte.”
“Good day, my lord,” she replied in her soft voice. “Nicholas.”
“Nicholas,” she whispered. A lock of hair blew into her eyes.
He brushed the hair from her face and grasped one of her hands in his own. It was ice cold and very small in his calloused palm. “Is it so very hard to accept your future fate with me?”
She did not pretend to misunderstand him. “Perhaps a little.”
“How much longer will it take for you to accept me, Charlotte? We have not the luxury of time, unfortunately.”
“I do not know.”
“You have already given your word.”
“Yes,” she said, looking at her father’s grave.
He hated to force her. “Even my stepmother has accepted the inevitable. I believe she is secretly looking forward to the excuse to have a huge wedding breakfast. Her invitation list covers no less than eleven pages, although I am sure that few of the guests will descend from estates as far away as Scotland.”
She continued to stare at her father’s grave.
He sighed. “Your brother is anxious to be gone. And I am worried my father won’t last another month,” he said, lifting her chin to encounter her expression.
“I know,” she said. “Do you think—?”
“Yes?” he encouraged her.
“I am not sure I have the courage to face the hordes of people Her Grace has condescended to suggest. And—”
“And—” he encouraged her.
“I had rather this not be a joyous occasion.” She had a pleading expression. “I don’t know if you can understand. I have little interest in pretending to be joyful when my father has just died.”
He had to bend toward her to catch the last few words. “Charlotte, I would not tax you further. I have never expected you to feel delight on the occasion,” he said.
“If you would prefer, we could go straight away to the church. I have the special license,” he said, patting his breast. “And I have taken the liberty of asking your brother and Rosamunde to join us. I had hoped…” he said, feeling like a tongue-tied schoolboy.
She looked at him with huge gray eyes. For some unfathomable reason it gave him courage. “I had hoped you would do me the honor of marrying me this very morning.”
“With only James and your sister present?”
“Yes. Well, and Charley too.”
“Yes,” she replied quickly.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
God help him, he felt like picking her up and swinging her around in circles, no matter this was hallowed ground. Instead, he raised her delicate hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of her glove, squeezing his eyes shut as he did so. He wanted to turn her hand to brush a kiss on the sensitive underside of her wrist, but did not want to fluster her. She reminded him of a small wren, ready to fly away at the slightest provocation.
As they walked the short distance to face the vicar’s domain, he kept a firm grip on her arm. A hard breeze forced a few of the less hardy horse chestnut leaves to the ground. They entered the sanctuary, and the sounds of their shoes against the slate echoed within the walls. Mr. Llewellyn entered from a hidden side door along with Charley, wearing his Sunday best. Rosamunde and Charlotte’s brother had arrived well before the appointed time and sat close together in the front pew. They were conversing but broke apart with Nicholas and Charlotte’s appearance in the nave.
Rosamunde handed Charlotte a small, beautiful bouquet. Nicholas guessed his sister had chosen the blooms from her private glass greenhouse for their significance: rosemary for remembrance, a single white rosebud for simplicity and girlhood, sweet william for gallantry, sweet violet for modesty, and a linden flower for… Nicholas looked at his sister and touched the heart-shaped leaves. With a knowing smile, he shook his head. Linden represented conjugal love. Rosamunde was a true optimist.
The short ceremony moved Nicholas in a way he had not anticipated. He promised before God and the people he cared for most in the world that he would honor and protect this woman with his life. And she promised to honor and obey him.
In the middle of the ceremony, she looked at him with the most trusting look he had ever encountered and he felt overwhelmed with an emotion he could not name. Lord, but she was beautiful. He was struck by her radiant air of goodness. She lowered her eyes to their hands when he slipped the slim gold band on her finger, his mother’s wedding ring. Her lips trembled with unspoken feelings.
He lowered his mouth to hers to seal their vows, and then they were embraced by everyone, with only a few tears on feminine cheeks. After signing the church register, Nicholas invited the vicar and Rosamunde and Kittridge to join them in an impromptu late breakfast at the village inn. It was as unfitting a place for a future duke to celebrate his marriage as Nicholas could envision. It was perfect.
Charley was tapped to deliver an invitation to Owen and Sally Roberts from Nicholas, who painstakingly wrote the note in his primitive hand before leaving the church.
When the party entered The Quill & Dove, they created quite a commotion. Mindful of his wife’s tender sensibilities concerning crowds, Nicholas ensured with a few gold sovereigns that the inn’s doors would be locked. But word of the wedding spread as fast as the eager innkeeper’s wife’s lips could move. Nicholas arranged for the fast-growing number of curious villagers outside to partake in a bounteous feast under the shade trees while the wedding party enjoyed theirs in the privacy of the inn.
His little wife looked quite happy as she consumed a glass of rare champagne from the inn’s deepest recesses. It was the first time he had seen a smile return to her unusual lips since that fateful morning three weeks before. Perhaps he would be able to coax her charming dimples to make an appearance as well, if he was lucky. He would endeavor to do so once they were in the bedchamber.
It was all so very strange to Charlotte. She knew she should be feeling shock and still sorrow, but looking at his classically chiseled features, Charlotte could not bring herself to feel anything but tentative excitement.
She had done it. She had married him.
Oh, it was wrong of her to allow him to break his vow to not marry, and of course he did not love her, but she could not help but feel wonder and a girlish thrill that they were tied together for life.
The innkeeper unlocked the door to allow Owen and his wife entrance. They bustled forth with great smiles on their faces.
“This calls for a toast,” called out James, looking overjoyed. “To the blushing bride and chivalrous groom!”
“Hear, hear,” seconded Owen.
Glasses clinked and the wine and champagne were consumed with gusto.
“And to those who could not be here to share in our happiness,” whispered Charlotte almost to herself. Nicholas turned to her and she realized he had overheard her. He clinked her glass. “I wish he were here too.”
He had such kind eyes; the sort where a smile could be seen lurking in the crinkled corners without bothering to appear on his lips. Charlotte wished her marriage would be the happy ending found in all of those marvelous novels she had read by the mysterious “Lady.” Would she find the happiness of Elizabeth Bennett and Elinor Dashwood? She feared she was more like the overly correct and timid Fanny Price of Mansfield Park, who would have never survived the rigors of life as a duchess.
She must venture to play the part of Elizabeth Bennett tonight in the bedchamber, as there was no one else she could so desire to emulate. Eliza would not be in fear. Charlotte rather thought the character would lead the way even if she had no idea what to expect.
Now she was becoming ridiculous, Charlotte thought as she listened to all the toasts made to their health and happiness and too many other topics. The champagne had gone to her head. Watching Nicholas’s handsome form, just a footstep or two away from her, all thoughts of novels and heroines fled.
He moved with such controlled grace, without a single wasted motion. A bottle-green coat emphasized his immense shoulders and strong waist. She looked down the buff-colored breeches molded to the defined muscles of his legs. Charlotte’s heart beat faster in her breast as she remembered what lay beneath all those elegant clothes. She had seen almost every inch of him when he was feverish so many weeks ago. And now, soon, very soon, he would know every inch of her. She felt as nervous as a cat caught under the bedcovers.
Nicholas closed the small gap between them and linked arms with her. It all felt so natural and right when she glanced down and noticed the gleam of burnished gold residing on his long tapered finger.
He was her husband. His gentle touch reassured her. Perhaps, just perhaps, everything would work out. She would try very hard to be the perfect wife. Then, with time, he might come to love her, to match the passion she felt at his touch and at his glance. As if he read her mind, he met her gaze and smiled.
Toasts were made to the dukedom, the brave heroes who fought under Wellington, the talented chef of the inn, the proprietors, and by the time a toast had been made to the vicar, Nicholas could see Charley getting wobbly in the legs.
Nicholas broke up the celebration before anyone became maudlin or singing broke out. As it was, Charley serenaded the foursome while they walked back to the abbey. The music brought back a familiar wave of battlefield emotions to Nicholas. He was surprised to feel somewhat nauseated by the chirping sounds. He said nothing to stop Charley because he did not want to hurt his young batman’s feelings.
Nicholas was living too soft a life here. It was time to return to his old ways with the small addition of his wife. He looked down at Charlotte, who had to take two strides for every long one of his, and prayed that this evening’s consummation would be completed without much suffering on her part.
The idea of breaching her maidenhead was daunting at best. Since Charlotte had been raised in a household of males, he wondered if anyone had ever discussed what was to be expected in performing her duty. One glance toward her brother’s innocent expression made him doubt it.
And he would have to broach the delicate topic of avoiding the conception of a child. All of these worries meant very little to him, if he were to admit the truth. These thoughts were hardpressed to overcome the great desire he felt looking into her clear gray eyes and at the gentle swell of her breast.