“You don’t say?” murmured Wrexford.
“Oh, come.” Charlotte regarded Wolcott over the rim of her champagne glass. “Surely, you aren’t suggesting that I’d lampoon my own fiancé.”
“No, no—not at all! Good heavens, what a thought!”
What a thought, indeed.
On that note, supper was announced, and Alison gestured for Wolcott to lead Charlotte into the dining salon. More candles, their flames flickering off the crystal and warming the table with a rosy glow. The dowager had created an intimate seating arrangement at one end of the long mahogany table, with her and Wolcott facing Charlotte and Wrexford.
Charlotte felt her breath catch in her throat as she looked over the heirloom epergne and caught her brother’s smile.Memories, memories.Painful ones, rubbing raw against the good times. But family was family. She hadn’t dared admit until just now what a void the long-ago estrangement had left in her heart.
“So, Charlotte,” said Wolcott, once the soup was served, “tell me about . . . egad, I suppose what I want to ask is about your life since—”
“Since I flew in the face of all sanity?”
He gave a self-deprecating grimace. “An absurd request, I know, but there is so much that I don’t know.” An uncomfortable pause. “Father and Wynton refused to tell me anything other than the fact that you had eloped with Anthony Sloane. I wished to write to you, but they claimed they had no idea where you were, save to say that it was somewhere in Italy.”
“We were in Rome,” answered Charlotte. “A marvelous place for anyone interested in art . . .”
Somehow the account came out far easier than she ever imagined. Wolcott listened intently, and asked thoughtful questions about the details she mentioned, while tactfully avoiding any queries into things left unsaid. The explanation of Anthony’s delicate health leading to an early demise was the truth—just not the whole truth, and her brother accepted it with naught but a murmured condolence on her loss.
As the meal continued, Charlotte, in turn, pressed him for more details on his marriage, and his time spent running a lesser estate, well to the north of the family’s ancestral lands. From his answers, she sensed that he, unlike her father and elder brother, accepted that an aristocratic title brought with it both privileges and responsibilities . . .
The dowager, however, interrupted to suggest that they all retire to the parlor, where the gentlemen could enjoy their postprandial brandy or port in the company of the ladies.
“An excellent suggestion,” said Wolcott, her words sparking a mischievous twinkle lighting his eyes. “As I recall, you always insisted on having a glass—or two—of spirits with the gentlemen before withdrawing, much to Father’s irritation.”
“Your father was a pompous prig.” Alison settled on the sofa and smoothed her skirts. “He needed an occasional challenge to his authority to take the wind out of his sails.”
“You took delight in needling his friends as well,” replied Wolcott, taking a seat next to her. “There was the time that you lit up one of Sir Albert Endicott’s expensive cigars one night after supper, which had the baronet blowing smoke out of his ears.” A chuckle. “Didn’t Father accuse you of being foxed?”
“My wits weren’t in the least fuzzed—I knew exactly what I was doing.” The dowager eyed him through her quizzing glass. “Can you claim the same thing regarding the incident involving the garden fountain and Lord Ashleigh’s hat?”
Charlotte laughed. “Oh, Lud, I remember that. Didn’t you remove your trousers in order to—”
Her brother cleared his throat with a loud cough. “Let us not bore Lord Wrexford with puerile pranks from our family’s past.” He quickly shifted his gaze to the earl, who had moved to the tray of decanters on the sideboard. “I seem to recall having read that you are a patron of the Royal Institution, sir, and have written a number of papers on chemistry.”
“I have,” answered Wrexford, handing a brandy to Alison and Charlotte, then fetched one for himself and Wolcott.“Slàinte.”
“A fascinating area of study,” said Wolcott, after he returned the earl’s salute. “What do you think of Sir Humphry Davy’s experiments with magnesium . . .”
As the two of them fell into a conversation on the famous chemist and his work, Charlotte leaned back, taking a moment to simply bask in the joy of her brother’s presence.His face, his voice, his touch—he was all no longer just a hazy recollection, conjured from the recesses of memory, each time a bit more blurred by the passing years.
She closed her eyes for an instant, and on opening them again, she found Alison watching her intently, a glimmer of wetness sparkling on her lashes.
Their smiles met and the room seemed to shimmer with an unworldly light.
“You appear to have quite an interest in science, Lord Wolcott,” observed Wrexford.
His words brought her thoughts back to earth. Anxious to learn all about her brother’s current interests, Charlotte turned her attention to the exchange.
“Oh, I’m a mere neophyte. Your field of chemistry is quite interesting, as is geology and the new advances in electricity. I enjoy reading about them, but I can’t claim to have any real knowledge on the subjects.”
Wolcott’s mouth quirked. “Now, ask me something about botany, and I’m on less slippery footing.”
CHAPTER 13
Charlotte sat up straighter. “B-Botany?”
