“Splendid!” The dowager glanced at Charlotte again. “We’re delighted for the company.”
Warrick stretched out his tree trunk legs, plonking his boots on Charlotte’s bench, not quite touching her skirts but close enough that she felt the need to huff and move her embroidery basket soshe could scooch over. Warrick crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes, his long, fox-tipped lashes making half-moons on his cheeks.
How peaceful he looks, thought Charlotte.
It seemed an opportunity.
“Behave!” the dowager mouthed at her.
“Me?” Charlotte mouthed back as innocently as possible, already planning to wait until Lady Alice fell asleep, dig out her embroidery thread, and quietly stitch a worm crawling up the side of Warrick’s buckskins. Although—she frowned—Warrick’s buckskins were so tight that she’d have a hard time getting her needle in without waking him, or drawing blood. She could see the four exceptionally well-developed muscles of his quadriceps, running the length of his—
“Admiring Britannia, darling?” the dowager said dryly.
Charlotte turned to stare pointedly out the window.
Was it her, or had the interior of the carriage shrunk? Certainly it seemed warmer by the minute, and it was filled with a new scent, mineral but electric. It insinuated itself into her clothing and ruffled through her hair, and soon Charlotte’s lungs were full of it.
Why did Warrick, of all people, have to smell glorious? Why couldn’t he smell like sweaty old cheese, like most of the lords she knew?
Warrick cracked an eye open, looking warm and rumpled. “You were chattering up a storm when I entered. There’s no need to be quiet now—I can nap through anything.”
“We do have much to discuss, my darling,” the dowager said to Charlotte. “I have my list of suitors right here—”
“Isnowthe time, Gran?” Charlotte said with a meaningful look at Warrick.
He shut his eyes again and wriggled deeper into the squabs. “Don’t let me stop you. Go on, who are the poor saps?”
The dowager whipped out her list. “Let’s see! We’re considering Prince Belozersky, of course, Captain Winborne, Lord Cuthbert, the Marquess of Vyse, Lord Darlington—”
Warrick snorted. “What a list. Is that the best you can do?”
“Don’t you have something to occupy you this summer, Your Grace?” Charlotte asked. “Shouldn’t you be at Stoke House, striding around the fields or commissioning statues of yourself?”
“Darling, pay attention! What do you want in a husband?”
“That’s easy,” Warrick said from his corner. “Good looks, fat pockets, and most important”—he shot Charlotte an unreadable look—“the grandest title she can get.”
Charlotte smiled sweetly. “At the moment, what I value most in a man is silence.”
The dowager, deep in thought, ignored them both. “Kindness is important, of course, and you’re such anoticingchild. Perhaps we should look for a sensitive man?”
“Lord, no,” said Charlotte. “Whatever you do, spare me that.”
“You see?” Warrick muttered. “She wants fat pockets and a title. Finer feelings be damned.”
“Perhaps you never noticed, my lord duke, how quickly the word ‘sensitive’ changes when applied to different genders? A sensitive woman is attuned to others. A sensitive man, however, is someone who expects everyone else to tiptoe around him.”
The dowager appeared much struck. “Good heavens, it’s true! I wanted to box my Frederick’s ears when he told me how sensitive he was. It only ever meant that he was planning to shut himself away and have a good sulk.”
“Exactly so, Gran.”
The dowager considered. “What about chivalry? Would you like a—Charlotte, really! Must you make such dreadful noises?”
“Chivalry’s only men taking charge and expecting women to be grateful. I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life pretending to be helpless and thanking a man for it.”
“I know, darling,” said the dowager. “What you need is a reformed rake.”
It was Warrick’s turn to snort, and he abandoned all pretense of napping. “I presume you mean Vyse? He’s a rake, certainly, but I question whether he’s capable of reform. Besides, what good has ever come of expecting another person to change?”
