“IS IT YOUR HEAD? IS IT POUNDING?”
“Are you shoutingon purpose?”
“Of course I am. I had my valet rouse me early so I could torture you, but now I see there’s other mischief to be found. Georgiana, my angel of truth, what are the ladies up to?”
“I don’tknow!” The little white bow Georgiana wore in her hair quivered in outrage. “Misha went down to the river and—Mother, ouch! Why are you pinching me? Hetoldme I could call him Misha.”
Lady Skeffington went red. “I didn’t pinch you, dear.”
“Yes, youdid!” Georgiana clutched her arm and glared at her mother. “Misha said he was going down to the river and all of you went quite strange. Why did we move breakfast out here? Why do you need your opera glasses and why won’t you letmehave a turn? Is there a heron down there?What are you looking at?”
Lysander grabbed a plum and bit into it. “Georgiana, I suspect Misha has a bad head and has gone to clear it out with a swim. Your sisters have their opera glasses out in order to spy on him.”
Alexandra’s shoulders shook helplessly, her face alive with mirth. “Oh Lord! Georgie, really. Learn some discretion.”
“Right.” Wolfgang drained his coffee cup and pushed back from the table. “For once, Belozersky’s onto something. You lot are louder than screech owls.”
He paused by Georgiana’s seat. “You may call me Wolfie, if you wish.”
She considered. “Wolfie? And will you call me Georgie?”
“Certainly, Georgie.”
He flicked her nose and strode away toward the blissful quiet of the river.
“May I have an opera glass?” asked Charlotte after Wolfgang left.
Alexandra passed hers over and Charlotte tracked his meandering path down to the river, watching with grim satisfaction as he stumbled and got whacked in the face by a blackberry bramble.
When he reached the river, Wolfgang—oh bollocks! When had she started thinking of him as Wolfgang again?—Warrickcalled out a half-hearted greeting to Belozersky and yanked off his jacket and cravat before leaning against the trunk of an ash to strip off his boots and stockings. Her breath hitched as he turned his back and pulled off his shirt in one fluid motion, filling her lens with acres of muscle and the long, thick indent of his spine.
Charlotte lowered the glass and squared her shoulders.
Drat the man. He’d had his mouth on her breast the night before and didn’t even have the manners to remember. Worse, he’d traced his fingers over her face, his touch so reverent that her skin still glowed.
I was born to adore you.
Such a little sentence—why should it make her want to cry?
Charlotte sank down into her chair and her hair, piled high up on her head, tipped forward to hang over her eyebrows and sulk, like a low-hanging cloud.
Her mother was right—feelings for a man led only to disaster. She’d certainly felt oddly feeble after her first catastrophe with Warrick. Her stomach had ached like a darkening bruise, her muscles cried out from strain, and she often found herself flinching, as if the slightest knock might break her. The feeling lingered, no matter how many good works she did, or quadrilles she danced, or chocolates she gobbled, or gowns she ordered. Not even mischief helped—Charlotte had barely mustered a smile when Julian confronted her with the unflattering portrait she’d embroidered on his new waistcoat.
“D’you know, a swim sounds just the thing,” said Lysander. “Lady Alice, would you excuse me?”
The dowager waved languidly. “Go on, go on. We English must seize good weather.”
Lysander saluted her with a piece of buttered toast and jogged down toward the river.
“May I have a turn with the glass?” Elizabeth asked her mother.
“Hmm?” said Lady Skeffington, absorbed by the scene at the river.
“It’s my turn next!” cried Georgiana. “Why are you all sobotheredby a few men swimming?”
Charlotte tossed Georgiana her opera glass. “Go ahead and look for yourself. It’s nothing too scandalous—just men in their buckskins.”
“Thankyou,” said Georgiana, though she pointed her glass not at the men but at the beaver lodge upstream.
