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She whistled. It was quite infuriating. “Oh, so a lady.”
Whatever game this was, Charlotte was not interested in playing. She was tired, filthy, and hungry. “Please send up a tray, as I requested. When can I expect my luggage?”
The steward took a step back and folded her hands over her front. Her icy demeanor returned. “When security clears your luggage, it will be delivered.”
“You’re searching my bags?” The impudence. Charlotte flexed her hands, slowly uncurling her fingers from clenched fists, and willed herself to be calm.
“That is standard procedure.”
“How long will it take?”
“It takes as long as it takes. You did bring rather a lot,” the steward said.
“Should I just wrap myself in a bedsheet after my bath?”
“There’s no need to be so dramatic. The wardrobe and bureau have some items from the previous brides. Something is bound to fit you.”
Charlotte stiffened. Was that a dig at her weight? She was heavier than fashionable, but surely no one cared about fashion here. “That will be all,” she said cooly, dismissing the steward.
“I’ll send a tray up.” The woman looked as if she had something else to say but kept her silence as she left.
Charlotte sat on the edge of the bed, running her hand over the soft quilt. Far from lavish, the room—the bridal suite, she corrected—was a comfortable space. How many other people had slept in this bed? What happened to them? Did Draven really take a new bride every ten years? What was the steward trying to accomplish with her nasty attitude? Did she think she could scare Charlotte away? If three weeks of hard travel hadn’t done it, one rude woman certainly wouldn’t.
Exhaustion urged her to lie down and worry about it after a nap. Heavens, a nap sounded brilliant, but she pushed herself to her feet. She needed to keep moving. A bath, a snack, and then a nap.
The wardrobe was indeed stocked with clothing from other people. Stockings, shifts, and stays filled the bureau. They were all snowy white linen decorated with ribbons. She ignored them, not wanting to wear the castoffs of Draven’s other brides. Not for any superstitious reason, but it felt disrespectful to the women who were no longer there and to herself, dressing up to play a part.
No, Charlotte wasn’t interested in playing a role. She would be herself, and that included wearing her own clothes.
However, with the delay in receiving her luggage and trunks, she had to be practical. Needs must. She grabbed a silken robe from the back of the wardrobe and prepared herself to meet the vampire Lord Draven.
Chapter Five
Charlotte
The Aerie
The Dining Room
Lemoine delivered Charlotte to the dining room. The steward barely spoke to Charlotte and then only to order her about. Hurry up, don’t run, and so on.
Lemoine arrived before Charlotte’s trunks had been delivered. She had no choice but to wear a leftover dress in the wardrobe and a tatty pair of old slippers. The deep amethyst dress fit her poorly. Too tight in the arms, Charlotte was unduly aware of how the seams strained when she lifted her arms. The shoes pinched her toes. The antique compass around her neck clashed with the gown but she refused to take off her one piece of home.
At least the gown’s color suited her complexion.
The dining room was smaller than Charlotte expected. Again, much like her rooms, the dining room had been decorated with dark wood and dark green anything else: paint, upholstery, and curtains. The space was almost intimate with a table for six in front of a crackling fire. Above the mantle was a sword. A chandelier sparkled above the table, lit by candles. Dishes and silverware gleamed in the light. Sconces around the room gave the space a cozy glow, despite the broody decor.
The fireplace was flanked by double doors. With the heavy green drapes tied back, the falling snow was visible beyond the glass, itself nearly frosted crystalline with the flakes piled against it.
They were alone. The table had been set but there was no indication that dinner was ready to be served. Odd.
“I see the dining room has earned window privileges,” Charlotte said, attempting to lighten the mood.
Lemoine was not impressed. “This is Master Draven’s private dining room. You should be honored, not flippant.”
“Don’t guests typically have drinks in the drawing room until dinner is served?”
“The Master requested that you be brought here, not to the drawing room,” Lemoine answered in a polite tone that no one could find fault with. The vicious and hollow smile on her face, however, pushed her from contrite to downright spiteful.
