“I swear the fruit tastes better every year, Mr. Milstead,” Charlotte said. “Tell me, how do you—”
“No!” Wolfgang’s shout was loud enough to strip the leaves from their branches. “No, Mr. Milstead, there can be nothingfurther to say after such perfection. It’s only fitting that the trees should have the last word.”
Mr. Milstead beamed. “A noble sentiment, Your Grace.”
Wolfgang held up one of the cherries, took a moment to admire it, and summoned his best approximation of a ducal nod. He must have settled into the role more than he realized, or John gave him a boost from the beyond, because Mr. Milstead beamed even more broadly, bowed in response, and—thank heaven above and the devil below for good measure—took his leave.
“You see,” said Wolfgang, when the man was out of earshot. “No dashing off involved.”
“What if I have another trick up my sleeve? Mr. Milstead hasn’t yet told you about the hops, or given you a tour of the oasthouse. It was built in the fifteen hundreds, you know, so there’splentyof history to—”
“If you call that man back, I’ll fall dead at your feet. Kent and Sussex will be obliged to fight a war, the French will sense an opening, and Napoleon will sail back triumphant from St. Helena. The fate of the kingdom is in your hands.”
“I suppose I’ll tolerate your company, then, at least for the walk back. To save England, of course.”
It was an opening and Wolfgang seized it. “What if we don’t return to the house? What if we walk down to the river, as we did once before?”
That ridiculous hat. When Charlotte dipped her head, he could see only a tantalizing sliver of her face and one black curl. Not nearly enough to allow him to read her as the silence stretched between them.
“All right,” she said quietly. “Let’s walk.”
There was a sudden boulder in Wolfgang’s throat, but he swallowed past it and offered her his arm. “Have I told you that I findyour bonnet quite formidable? If Castlereagh had worn something similar at the negotiating table, I’m convinced he’d have gotten more concessions out of France.”
She laughed and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and they began to walk. “You see! There’s more to clothing than simply how wrinkled one can make it, my lord duke.”
They passed through an arch in the stone wall that surrounded the cherry orchard and a meadow opened before them, the sun slanting through the oak trees and waist-high grasses to throw ribbons of light across the path.
“Must you call me ‘my lord duke’? I much prefer Wolfgang.”
“Do you? Not Wolfie, as Lysander and Georgiana call you?” She tilted her head. “Or is that one reserved for Georgiana when she needs to send you out in the rain?”
“That dog is a crime on four legs,” said Wolfgang.
“I agree! Which is why it surprises me that you keep sneaking him bacon under the breakfast table.”
“You’ve been watching me. How gratifying.”
“Know thy enemy?” she offered.
That was it—Wolfgang couldn’t help himself. He scooped Charlotte up and she gave a startled whoop of laughter as he waded off the path toward an oak tree, settling them down on the ground under its canopy. The long grasses and goldenrods sprung up in a circle around them, an airy wall of yellow-green, as Charlotte rolled toward him and propped her head up in her hand.
“Well, my lord duke, I was the teeniest bit insolent to you and now here we are, all alone. Do you think to punish me? Or wrinkle me up to make your coat look better?”
Wolfgang flopped on his back and crossed his arms behind his head. “Your other suitors must have been useless if you think I have punishment in mind. Would you believe I simply like being with you?”
“I think you want to kiss me stupid.”
“Always.” He frowned. “But it’s even more important that we—”
Charlotte leaned down and kissed him herself, long and lazily, her hand drifting to his neck.
“Damn it.” He wrenched his head back. “I’m not seducing you. I’mcourtingyou.”
“Mmm.” Charlotte smiled, soft and dreamy. “Court me a little harder.”
Fuck.
Wolfgang was a good soldier, and he couldn’t resist a direct order. He flipped over and bent his mouth to hers.
