After all, he had passed the halfway mark of his twenties and could see the great age of thirty on the horizon. And lucky him, he happened to have found a young woman who piqued his interest.
So why was he conflicted?
He didn’t know if Charlotte Rare-Foure were truly a suitable wife, even though he’d been thinking about her to the detriment of his cases and any useful thoughts, ever since dropping her home. The memory of their astounding kiss haunted him, if such a thoroughly delightful occurrence could be considered in such terms. But haunting seemed correct, for her face appeared before his eyes as he tried to write notes and the feel of her lips, the taste of them, too, had him longing for more.
At his age, he thought it a pleasant revelation to learn how kissing could be a new experience. He’d kissed his moderate share of women, but when his lips had touched Charlotte’s ... he shook his head. All he knew was he could have continued kissing her for hours, feeling at the time as though they were forming some singularly deep bond.
Directing his horse along Rotten Row, he nodded to those who greeted him, although he seemed to recognize no one while absently pondering the confectioner. Her sisters had both found husbands, and Pelham’s wife made an acceptable duchess by all accounts, seeming calm and gracious.But Charlotte as a viscountess and one day a countess?Charles wasn’t sure.
Undoubtedly, she could easily handle the task of being an excellent hostess, as well as handle household accounts since she could run a shop and seemed to have a good head on her shoulders. But there was more to a mate than that. She must be a nurturing mother, a dependable helper, and if he needed a good ear, she ought to be like the pulpit sounding board, so he could discern his clearest ideas from her returning them to him.
Moreover, if thousands of evenings together stretched before them, perhaps seated in his study, he wanted a wife who would enjoy reading and discussing the stories.
Strangely, the middle-class shopgirl seemed suited to all that and more.
As to the other talents of ladies of his class, he knew they ought to be able to sketch, play the piano, and even sing, but he didn’t care one way or the other if she had any of those dubious skills.
There was, in fact, only one thing that truly mattered to him —faithfulness.
Chapter Ten
Waverly was going to tease him whether he learned of it sooner or later, so Charles might as well get the worst of it over. He sat at White’s club with Pelham and Waverly, partly enjoying a mid-day meal, partly not enjoying it, since his thoughts were racing.
Pelham vowed not to spend every moment talking about siring an heir, but as it was the single thing on his mind, he did so anyway. The duke predicted when he thought his child was going to arrive, he explained in detail what strange things his wife was asking to eat, and he listed the names they were considering for their offspring. However, when he started to list the colors they’d chosen for the nursery, Waverly sighed so loudly, it droned out Pelham entirely.
“I’m sorry,” Waverly said, “were you still talking? I thought I could hear flies buzzing in my ears. What about you, Jeffcoat?”
He set down his wine glass. “Bees droning, I believe.”
“All right,” Pelham said, but his smile was no less bright. “I am going to be a father.”
“Really?” Waverly quipped. “One would never know it. Why don’t you tell us all about it?”
The three of them laughed.
“Well, what other news then?” Pelham asked. “What about you, Waverly? Any sweet young lady in your capable sights?”
Waverly shrugged. “I am not attending anything this Season, unless the two of you want to make asses of yourself again at a costume ball.”
“I think not,” Pelham said. “Once you’ve been to a royal fancy-dress ball hailed as the event of the decade, it seems as if there is little point in going to another.”
Waverly shrugged, as if that said it all. But Charles wondered if Pelham realized their friend had dodged and deflected the question about a woman of interest. Apparently he did not, for Pelham was busy humming a lullaby they all knew from childhood.
“Are you practicing?” he asked the duke.
“What?” Pelham exclaimed.
Charles smiled. “You seem to be humming a little song meant for children. I must assume you are practicing.”
Waverly chortled as Pelham’s face went red.
“I hadn’t realized I was doing so. My duchess and I, that is, she gave me a book.”
“What book?” Waverly pressed.
“Tommy Thumb's—” Pelham began.
“God, no!” Waverly exclaimed, looking horrified.
