She had a scheme in mind for their outing, that much was clear, though it was hard for Wolfgang to think of anything other than the glaze of pink on her cheeks, or how red and pouting her bottom lip had gone when he sucked it into his mouth.
It was damned difficult to keep up with Charlotte at the best of times, but he’d gone completely stupid ever since he felt her come apart in his arms. Only after he shook his head hard did he manage to dislodge a thought.
What was it again? Ah, yes. Charlotte was a scoundrel and she was definitely up to something.
Wolfgang leaned back against the banister. He’d been waiting twenty minutes for her already. Was her scheme to leave him cooling his heels so long that he gave up on their expedition? Had she snuck out a side entrance? No matter, because Wolfgang had nothing but patience, as the members of his regiment knew well. Once he had a goal in mind, he chased it down with dogged determination until he won.
He frowned.
Not that he wanted tohoundCharlotte.
Damn it, he wanted her happy. Full of high mischief. Starting up a thousand silk mills, or hell, even starting land wars. He wanted her to be Maximum Charlotte, and now that he’d felt a slight thawing—
Charlotte drifted down the stairs and Wolfgang had to bite back a laugh. Gone was her morning gown, replaced by… was that a walking dress? He made a mental note to scrounge up a copy ofLa Belle Assembléeand the other fashion pages so he could study, because all he knew definitively was that her dress was peach and frothy, with lots of fuss at the bottom.
Charlotte the Ingenue.
It could only mean trouble, especially when she slanted him a look and slapped on one of her enormous hats, tying a particularly ridiculous polka-dot ribbon under her chin.
He offered his elbow and Charlotte slipped her arm through it and smiled up at him.
“You’ll adore our cherry orchard, Your Grace. And our fruiterer! I can hardly wait.”
“… Elton Heart, Waterloo, Knight’s Early Black, and Napoleon. And those are only our sour varietals, most excellent when boiled with sugar and lemon peel. On the sweet side, we have Kentish, of course, Bleeding Heart, Early May, and Duke. Ha!Duke! D’you see, like you, Your Grace, but, in fact, a cherry varietal! Most amusing! The sour fruit ripens first, and we’ve already—and with great care, I assure you—picked the fruit from our Elton Heart, our Knight’s Early Black, our…”
Mr. Milstead, the family’s fruiterer, had been going strong for half an hour and showed no signs of slowing, much to Wolfgang’schagrin and Charlotte’s evident glee. The man had a round apple face, the shining eyes of a true believer, and an unshakable belief that his audience found cherry cultivation as uniquely absorbing as he did.
“… and we grow our trees in with our hops, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, as they both like a nice, protected spot and well-drained soil. Best friends, are hops and cherries, and don’t they lookwelltogether, although we won’t pick our hops until at least September. You can spot the distinctive shape of our Kentish oasthouse from here, although—ha, ha—she’s only half dressed. As you can see, we are rethatching in preparation for drying the hops, which, of course, will happen in…”
Wolfgang gritted his teeth. How long was eternity, exactly? Was it measured in chatty fruiterers?
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Milstead, but I seem to have forgotten,” Charlotte said. “Who was the first to plant cherries in Kent?”
Wolfgang nearly groaned. Of course, the little monster wouldask questions.
Mr. Milstead blinked twice. “Lady Charlotte, how remiss I’ve been. And what an insult to Richard Harrys, who had the honor of being named fruiterer to King Henry VIII in—”
John, who’d spent his childhood in training, could command silence with the force of his dignity alone. Wolfgang, still no duke, lacked the courage to cut the man off. Or perhaps he lacked the heart, because the deeper Mr. Milstead dove into his subject, the brighter he glowed.
“Mr. Milstead! You’ve convinced me these trees are special indeed.” Wolfgang wondered if he sounded as desperate as he felt, though the way Charlotte’s mouth curved gave him a clue. “Would it be possible to sample the fruit?”
The fruiterer stopped mid-ramble. “But, Your Grace, surely…” He shook his head in disbelief. “Surely, you’ve… I’ve sentbushelsto the house. How is it possible that no one offered you—”
“They have, of course. But the noblest fruit comes fresh from the tree.”
Mr. Milstead’s eyes were round as moons already, but they seemed to grow in size. “Just so! Would you like to sample a Bleeding Heart? Or no, a Kentish!” He dashed off murmuring to himself.
Charlotte lifted her face to Wolfgang, but the enormous brim on her hat meant he could only see her mouth and a bit of nose, both quaking with suppressed laughter. “You’ve only bought yourself a short reprieve. The Kentish trees aren’t far.”
“I bought myself freedom.”
Charlotte tilted her head all the way back so she could glare at him properly. “Mr. Milstead may be a chatterbox, but he’s a dear man and I will not dash off the moment his back is turned.”
“And if I have another plan entirely?”
Mr. Milstead soon galloped back with a handful of Kentish cherries, glossy, plump, and a pleasing red, with a nice pop of juice when Wolfgang bit into one.
“Oh, Mr. Milstead, how sublime!” Charlotte gave a sigh of pleasure, and Wolfgang suddenly longed for a basket of cherries. He’d stretch her out beneath a tree and paint her lips with cherry juice, first that tempting lower lip and then the cheeky dip of her top lip. He’d get her naked and paint her stomach, too, and then take the ripest, fattest cherry yet, bite it in two, and let the juice drip cold and sweet all over her—
