Charles cocked his head. “If you think this government building is fine, I cannot wait for you to see my country home of which you will be its mistress. Another minute and you shall be my wife.”
She nearly slapped a hand to her forehead as a thought dawned on her. She had run away to the Continent with a man without telling her family — the exact thing she’d thought was too selfish to ever do. Granted, crossing the Channel had been unintentional, but if Charles had gone ahead of her, she would have pursued him without care for her own ignominy by the very next steamship. Luckily, she had caught him.
They were holding hands, facing one another, and she squeezed his gently.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“I love you,” he said louder so everyone could hear.
There was an approving murmur in the room, and she knew there was nothing selfish about what she’d done. For she would spend all the days of her life loving this man with all her heart.
When the mayor declared them married, Charlotte turned to see her parents, certain she could see joy shimmering in the room.
A MONTH AND A HALF later, having seen everything they wanted to see of France, Switzerland, Italy, and Germany, Charles sat beside his viscountess on a train from Dover to London in a private carriage. Taking hold of her gloved hand, there were times when he still couldn’t believe they were together. He should never have doubted her.
It was strange then to hear her suddenly doubt herself over the clackety-clack of the train wheels. “I don’t know anything about running a nobleman’s household. What if I make a hash of it?” she asked as they approached the outskirts.
He grinned down at the capable woman who could accomplish more than most men he knew.
“You shall make a welcoming hostess,” he vowed. “But as your older sister will tell you, it is not all parties. Or rather, it can be too many parties. Hosting becomes a duty and a job, as demanding as being a confectioner. And the stakes are higher.”
“Higher than my almost ruining my family’s shop with a few hasty decisions?”
Shrugging, he brought her hand to his mouth and nuzzled it through the thin cotton, making her laugh.
“You didn’t almost ruin anything. However, a misstep in the wrong place, such as at a royal event, for instance, or a word in the wrong ear can have monumental consequences, international ones even. On top of being a viscountess, you are the wife of a barrister.”
“Meaning what exactly?” she asked, trying to keep her face solemn and failing. Abruptly, she flashed him a smile.
“What do you find so amusing?” he asked.
“Every time you use the wordwifeand refer to me, it feels as if you’re tickling my ribs.”
“I enjoy tickling you,” he said, then thought of the past few weeks in various inns, especially their nights together. “I’ve enjoyed everything I’ve had the pleasure to do with you,” he added, making her cheeks turn pink.
And since they were alone, he yanked off his gloves and trailed his finger down the sweet curve of her cheek.
“As the wife of a barrister,” he said, trying to sound grave, “you must not seem perverse or depraved in any way.”
She clamped her hand to her mouth, but her shoulders began to shake. Finally, she let loose her laughter, spilling out like water from a broken dam.
“Oh, Charles,” she said when she could speak again. “You are so dear to me, even when you are too serious. Do I seem as if I might have a tendency toward some perversion I cannot even imagine or depravity that might get you thrown from the bench or disbarred?”
“No,” he said, glad she hadn’t been insulted because he was, in fact, only joking. “In summation, as the wife of a peer of the realm and a barrister’s wife to boot, you must behave with decorum and dignity, demonstrating good judgment and ... you’re grinning again,” he pointed out.
“You saidwifeagain.” She tapped her lap with her free hand. “I don’t wish to gainsay you, for you know better than I, to be sure, but I have read the papers, including the scandal sheets. A bad habit, I know. Nevertheless, it seems you are discussing standards that are broken daily by men and women of the nobility.”
She was right, but he wanted to do better. Moreover, he wanted her to do better. He didn’t want anyone to ever whisper about her as they had his mother.
“I don’t want to be in the gossip rags,” he insisted. “I don’t want people reading how you were dancing to closely with another man or how I slept with my cook or with Lord So-and-So’s wife.”
She drew back. “Would you sleep with our cook?” Her tone was appalled.
“Of course not,” he said quickly. “Thus, I will behave in a manner that precludes my having to worry about seeing such a story in the paper. But I also don’t want to read about my wife with another man.”
“Oh,” she said, her tone soft. “Whether nobility or not, no one wants such a thing to happen. I cannot imagine the heartbreak of my mother or my father were either to find the other had been untrue.”
“Exactly. Heartbreak and humiliation,” he added, thinking the latter destroyed his father nearly as much as the former. “But your parents wouldn’t have to read about it in the morning, afternoon, and evening standard, or hear it whispered every time they walked into a room, or even into the chambers of Parliament.”
