Page 32 of Married to the Icy Duke (Duke Wars #3)
“ C harlotte? Charlotte ! Are you listening to me at all?”
Charlotte flinched, jerked out of her reverie, and glanced across the breakfast table to where Sybella was glaring at her.
“I’ve been talking to you for ten minutes at least,” Sybella pouted, “and you’ve just stared into space as though I wasn’t talking at all. It was rather hurtful.”
Charlotte flushed. “Do forgive me, Sybella. I never meant … that is, I slept poorly last night.”
Sybella sniffed, taking a long sip of her tea. “Well, I suppose you hardly did it on purpose. This house is so very drafty that one hardly sleeps a wink. I certainly didn’t. Perhaps I’ll mention something to my brother.”
One thing that Charlotte had noticed about Sybella was that she hated being ignored or passed over.
Of course, everyone hated that, but in Sybella, it seemed to provoke a sharp, almost visceral reaction.
Perhaps it had something to do with Sybella’s deceased husband.
She’d never met him, and Charlotte would not dare pry.
She hastily poured herself another cup of tea and began to fill her plate. It must have looked odd, her sitting there with an empty teacup and no breakfast, staring vacantly into space.
This is all his fault, Charlotte thought furiously, shoveling rather too much bacon onto her plate. This is Isaac’s fault.
Seeing him at dinner, after the incident in the washroom, had been …
it had been a trial. Charlotte could not help replaying it over and over in her head—the sensation of the water sloshing around her calves, his lips on the side of her neck, his touch on her body.
She could feel the ghost of his fingertips on the insides of her thighs, knuckles brushing the join of her legs.
The teacup clattered loudly against her teeth, tea slopping over the sides. Swallowing hard, Charlotte put it down with a clack. Sybella was watching her with her eyes narrowed.
“You are tired,” she remarked. “Perhaps you ought to take the day to rest. The guests are beginning to arrive tonight, remember?”
A cold rush shot through Charlotte. Of course . The wedding was tomorrow . How could she have forgotten? All the preparations had been done without her input, which of course she didn’t much care about, but now that the day was here, she felt so … so unprepared.
“Heavens,” Charlotte managed, offering a faint laugh. “That has certainly crept up on us, hasn’t it?”
Sybella eyed her narrowly. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“No, I am not.”
To her surprise, Charlotte realized that it was the truth. Despite her strange, new relationship with Isaac—it was not love, she reminded herself, nor even friendship, but something odd and indefinable and entirely inconvenient—she did not feel that breaking off the betrothal was a wise choice.
At any rate, breaking off a wedding the day before the ceremony would be a social death for any woman, let alone one like Charlotte.
When she glanced across the table, Sybella was still looking at her, eyes narrowed. Charlotte forced a smile.
“I take it Isaac is not joining us for breakfast?” she managed brightly.
Sybella sniffed. “No, he is not. He went out to his club early. I imagine we shan’t see him again today.”
Charlotte had hoped to feel relief at the news of his absence, or at best, nothing at all.
Her prayers were not answered, and instead, she felt her heart sink.
What is the point of all this? She scolded herself.
The man does not care for you. That was made plain.
A man who did care for you wouldn’t have swaggered out of that washroom without so much as a goodbye.
He wouldn’t have sat, as cool as a cucumber, across from you at the dinner table and never even bothered to look your way.
Privately, Charlotte had to admit that she’d hoped for something from Isaac at the dinner table. A knowing, secretive smile, perhaps, or the brush of his hand against hers under the table.
In her more unfettered imaginings, she’d conjured up images of his hand curling around her knee, warm and firm. Perhaps he might have pulled up a corner of her skirt, revealing her stockinged legs under the table, and slid his hand upwards, fingers questing …
She cleared her throat somewhat angrily.
Well, none of that had happened. He hadn’t glanced her way, let alone tried to touch her secretly.
He had drunk his port and smiled when Tommy refused his sprouts and had not joined the ladies in the drawing room after dinner.
The disappointment had crawled its way into Charlotte’s heart, like a worm burrowing into an apple, and stayed there.
It is my own fault. He promised me nothing, so I have no right to expect anything.
Perhaps it was my admission that I don’t want children. Perhaps, despite it all, he did want his own heirs, and now I have failed him in that, too.
She swallowed thickly, her tea sloshing around in her stomach. She had felt hungry when she first came down to breakfast, but now the piles of greasy bacon and slick eggs could not have looked more unappetizing.
Sybella, thankfully, did not seem to have noticed.
“Since this is the last day we’ll have more or less to ourselves before the wedding,” Sybella said, draining her cup of tea and pouring herself yet another, “I thought we might do something special.”
“I’m listening.”
“How about a picnic in Hyde Park? We can take Tommy and Mary, and you can do some of your painting, if you like. Perhaps a sketch, or something. Tommy does seem to love the outdoors, and I think it would do you some good. What do you say?”
Charlotte brightened a little. “Anything to get me out of the house.”
“Excellent,” Sybella lifted her teacup in a small toast. “I shall talk to the housekeeper after breakfast, to discuss a picnic being prepared for us, and you can help Mary wrangle my fearsome little nephew. How does that sound?”
Frankly, anything sounded better than spending all day wandering through the house, longing for Isaac’s return and dreading it at the same time. He had made it clear that the incident would not be repeated, and Charlotte would be a fool to think otherwise.
“It sounds perfect,” Charlotte said, and fervently meant it.
Hyde Park was irritatingly busy. Charlotte supposed that many families had made the same decision—to have a picnic before the weather turned.
Tommy trotted along, clinging to Mary’s hand.
The two of them walked in front, just behind the two footmen who carried the picnic paraphernalia.
Tommy kept twisting around to beam at Charlotte and Sybella.
He seemed excited for the picnic, and it was clear that he wanted to get up and run around the park.
“No painting implements?” Sybella asked, nudging her shoulder against Charlotte’s. “You could paint everybody who is staring at us at this exact moment.”
Charlotte grimaced. “I was trying not to notice. And no, I didn’t bother bringing my painting things, as I’ve set up a little art room back at the house. I cannot understand why everybody is staring at us, though.”
“They are staring at you . You are getting married tomorrow, my dear. People are always going to stare. They think that you should be holed up inside your house, pacing the floors and alternatively worrying about looking beautiful on your wedding day and how best to please your future husband. Society likes women to be apprehensive about married life, I can tell you.” She paused, snorting, and shook her head.
“They tell men that marriage robs them of freedom. Bachelors are desirable, considered to be clever enough to avoid being entrapped by us scheming ladies. However, the plain fact is that for a man, marriage and fatherhood barely impact his life at all. He can go to the club and do as he likes, while his poor wife gives up the comparative freedom of her singleness to trail along in his wake, raising his children. To be a spinster is not like being a bachelor. As I said, bachelors are desirable and clever. Spinsters are considered only a step away from Medusa.”
Charlotte glanced at her. “You seem to have a rather sharp view of marriage. While I agree that you are generally right, I do know some happy marriages. My brother, for instance. Gabriel and Thalia are most happy.”
Sybella gave a quiet little smile. “There are always exceptions. Ah, let’s stop here, under this tree. What do you think, Tommy? Do you want to eat our picnic here?”
The little boy nodded eagerly, beaming up at them.
In a minute or two, the blanket was set out, the food brought out of the hampers, ready to eat.
There was cold chicken and ham, along with fresh bread, cream, jam, and good butter.
There were macaroons, strawberry tarts, and other soft little cakes.
There were sandwiches, of course, and fresh vine tomatoes had been added in a basket, too.
“My brother’s cook is the finest woman on earth,” Sybella muttered fervently.
“She’s added a bottle of good red wine for us, and fresh lemonade for you, Tommy.
Mary, you’ll share our food, of course. You two,” she gestured to the footmen, “have you brought your own lunches? Has something been prepared for you?”
The men did not have their own food, and so Charlotte suggested they share in the bounty. Cook had packed plenty of everything, after all. The footmen seemed very pleased to eat some of the goodies, and bowed and smiled widely at her.
“Nicely done,” Sybella whispered. “If the household likes you—which I think they do—they’ll help you fit into your new position as Duchess quite nicely.”
The next ten minutes or so mostly passed in silence as they all tucked into their food. For a while, the distant crowds and Charlotte’s upcoming wedding faded altogether.
When he had finished his food, Tommy got to his feet and hovered expectantly on the edge of the picnic blanket.
“I believe he wants to go and look at the flowers over there, Lady Charlotte,” Mary explained. “Shall I take him?”
“Yes, thank you, Mary.”