“This is…” He blinked twice. “This is good. Very good indeed!”
“You needn’t sound so surprised.” Men so often seemed to feel as if they sat behind an invisible gate, and were astonished to find how easily women could open it.
“It’s only—most people would choose white for a feather. Diamond or rock crystal.”
“Yes, but this feather’s from a silk pattern I designed, and it’s a specific bird. You notice that the shaft is a deeper pink than the rest of it? My grandmother corresponds with a naturalist in the Americas, and she sent her a—”
“I like the curve of the tip and the darker pink streaks. Do you imagine it as a brooch?”
“Yes, or a hair ornament. You see?” She pulled the sketchbook close and was preparing to draw, until one of the candles sputtered so badly that it went out. “Good Lord! It must be appallingly late.”
Darlington stretched before wandering over to the window, where the sky was beginning to gray. “I suppose we ought to retire.”
“I suppose so,” she agreed, though she wasn’t the least bit sleepy. Darlington’s sketchbook made her want to leap into his brain, rifle around in his thoughts, and let his ideas light her up like lightning bolts. He was a bit arrogant, but he was a viscount—arrogance rather went with the territory.
All in all, it was a promising start.
CHAPTER 19
It’s a bad start. Aterrible fucking start.
Wolfgang plonked a pole into the water and gave it a shove, propelling the punt along faster than was strictly necessary. He stood on the till and tried not to mind looking down on Lysander’s laughing face and Charlotte’s sleepy one.
The day was bright and the sun nearly blinded him as it bounced off the Medway, but Charlotte’s eyes were at half-mast beneath the outrageously large and floppy brim of her hat. She dipped her hand into the river, her fingers playing above the reeds and feathery dropwort swaying in the current below, but not even the frigid water seemed to rouse her much, and that surprised Warrick, considering that English rivers, even in the summer, were cold enough to raise the dead.
Charlotte didn’t care. Her lips curved softly and her smile turned inward, aimed at her own secrets.
If he dunked them all in the river, would that wake her up? If he pushed his face into a patch of stinging nettles, would he stop thinking about her? Or had thetwo nights runningshe’d spent up to all hours with Darlington done permanent damage to her ability to stay awake, and to his brain’s ability to focus on anything else?
“Are we in a race, Wolfie, or has the river made you angry?” called Lysander, half asleep himself. He’d always been a tired pup, but when he was younger it had been because he ran and rode too hardbefore collapsing in a pile. After Waterloo, he was tired because of the thoughts that assaulted him at night.
“I’m not angry,” Wolfgang growled, and it was true.
He was fucking furious—at the sun for having the cheek to shine, at the fat clouds that scudded so carelessly across the sky, at Darlington for the slouching way he walked, as if his spine was collapsing under the weight of his self-regard. Wolfgang was mad at himself for getting into this mess, and even more upset with the dowager for acting less like a chaperone and more like a madam, always waving Charlotte and Darlington off together.
Why do I care?Wolfgang eyed the thick wooden pole in his hand and wondered if he should bash it into his head. How the hell had he gotten himself in this position with theonewoman who—
“Let’s hear about that suitor of yours,” said Lysander. “Where is he, by the way?”
“Sleeping, I suppose.”
Wolfgang grunted. It ought to be Charlotte who was sleeping, because while she was up all hours with Darlington, she also woke early each morning and closeted herself in her brother’s study, sneaking out only for breakfast and luncheon.
What was shedoingin there? Whatever it was, the Marby girls seemed to be in on it, poking their heads in once in a while to bring her chocolates or bowls of strawberries, and to offer words of encouragement. Perhaps she was—
“Lord Darlington’s sleeping at three in the afternoon?” Lysander whistled. “Even I’m impressed.”
“Lord Darlington says he’s naturally nocturnal and does his best thinking when everyone else has retired.” Her smile was small, secret, and maddening. “You know the type—doesn’t care for conventional things, like polite conversation, or making it down for dinner on time, or—”
“Yes, he’s late and silent. What woman wouldn’t be pleased?” Wolfgang gave a hiss of disgust. “Next thing you know, he’ll call you his muse.”
Charlotte glanced up. “And what would be wrong with that?”
Wolfgang dropped the pole until he felt the riverbed and gave the punt an impatient shove. “Because you’re the artist, of course. Not the muse.”
Charlotte’s lips parted in shock and her eyes went so wide he thought he might drown in the deep, swirling green of her stare.
Wolfgang shifted uncomfortably. “Don’t look at me so. Even I can see how original you—” He tried again. “I’ve always thought you—Blast it! Take your bayonet lace, or those dead frogs you were stitching when we first met. Who else would—”
