Her mother tugged on her hair. “Language.”
“Sorry. I just can’t imagine how you made it through.”
“The same way every woman does, Charlotte. We aren’t given the power or bodily strength that men have. We have to draw on the store of it within ourselves.”
She divided Charlotte’s hair into sections and began to weave it into a tight plait. “Once all three of you were healthy and under one roof, I vowed that you would never find yourselves in such straits. You would marry well, to men who could offer you true security. I never wanted you to spend sleepless nights fretting over the butcher accounts.”
Charlotte felt small for ever complaining about Mama’s matchmaking attempts. No question, those attempts were ridiculous and mortifying—but hardship had a way of shaping people, the way boulders and wind could twist a growing tree.
Besides, she was fortunate to have a mother at all. So many children grew up without them. Piers, for one, and the poor man was the worse for it—walled off from the world, a stranger to his own emotions. At least Charlotte had always known she was loved.
She reached under her pillow and found her little bit of stitched flannel, rubbing its softness between her fingertips. “Why didn’t you remarry?”
“I thought about it,” Mama said. “And I did have offers. But I couldn’t reconcile myself to the notion for many years, and by then it was too late. I’d lost my youth.”
“You must have loved Father very much.”
Mama didn’t reply. She tied off the plait with a ribbon and came around the bed to sit beside her. Her blue eyes were moist as she searched Charlotte’s face.
“Oh, Charlotte.” She sighed.
A lump formed in her throat. “Yes, Mama?”
“You look like death. For goodness’ sake, put some color into your complexion.” She seized Charlotte’s cheeks with her thumbs and forefingers, squeezing them hard.
“Mama!” Charlotte tried to wriggle away from her pinches. “Ouch.”
“Oh, hush. When Lord Granville looks in on you, we don’t want him to find you a disheveled horror. He might break off the engagement.”
The mention of Piers made her heart twinge. She would endure a thousand pinches if it meant she could see him and be held by him again.
“Lord Granville wouldn’t break off the engagement.” She’d given him ample opportunity, and he’d refused.
I chose you, Charlotte. I’m not looking back.
“You say he won’t, but don’t grow complacent. You are a lively girl and tolerably bright, but your looks are your best advantage.”
Charlotte fell back against the pillows. It was hopeless.
“Mama, I do love you.” She said it aloud to remind herself, as much as anything. “Even though you are absurd and embarrassing, and you drive me utterly mad.”
“And I, you. Despite the fact that you are ungrateful and headstrong, and have no respect whatsoever for my nerves. I suppose you want Delia to come up and read to you.”
“No. Not right now. I want to see Piers.”
“Lord Granville isn’t here.”
She sat back up. “He isn’t here? Where did he go? And if he’s not in the house, why on earth did you subject my cheeks to medieval torture?”
Mama shrugged. “He had some business to attend to. Great men often do, Charlotte. I know he is not quite a duke, but you must accustom yourself to the idea that your husband-to-be is an important man.”
She sent up a prayer for patience. “Do you happen to know when my important husband-to-be will be returning?”
“I overhead him telling Sir Vernon that he expects to return tonight, but that it may be quite late. Just as well. By tomorrow, you’ll be recovered enough to get out of bed.”
This couldn’t wait until tomorrow. She needed to see Piers. She had a memory of his arms about her in the corridor, and his grim face as he’d worked to find the cause.
She touched the bandaged incision on her arm. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been unconscious and weak. That was hardly the impression she’d hoped to create, when she vowed to convince him she could make a competent partner.
She’d begged for a chance to prove herself, and then she hadn’t even made it through breakfast. At this point, she would be lucky if he trusted her to pour a cup of tea.
Piers pounded down the rutted dirt road like the Devil was breathing down his neck.
At times like these, he envied his brother. Prizefighting seemed the ideal career for beating back one’s demons. When Rafe wanted to hit something—or someone—he didn’t need an excuse.
Piers didn’t have that luxury. The violence in his line of work was sporadic, at best.
Tonight, the best he could do was push his horse into a gallop as he turned down the drive, and hope the rush of cooling wind shook loose some of his rage.
He was angry with Sir Vernon and this genteel madhouse he seemed to be running. Furious with whoever had poisoned Charlotte. But most of all, he was livid with himself.
He dismounted his horse and handed the reins to a groom before striding through the doors of Parkhurst Manor. He didn’t look for his host or make any effort at polite greetings, but blazed a path straight up the stairs.
He was tempted to head down the corridor to see Charlotte, but he resisted the urge. He’d failed to protect her from being poisoned. The least he could do was leave her to her rest.
Once he’d conferred with Ridley and been assured of her continued recovery, Piers retired to his bedchamber and turned the key in the lock. He stripped off his waistcoat and pulled off his boots. His cravat unknotted, he cast it aside before yanking the hem of his shirt from his breeches and lifting it over his head. Then he went to the washstand and filled the basin, scrubbing himself clean and splashing water over his face.
“Are you going to leave this on the floor?”
He lifted his head and turned.
Charlotte was leaning on this side of his locked bedchamber door, dangling his cravat from one hand. A sly smile curved her lips. She looked like the beautiful assistant in a conjurer’s act, poised for wild applause.
Voilà!
He wiped his face with a towel and stared at her in disbelief. “How did you . . .”
From behind her back, she produced a hairpin. “I’ve been practicing. You were right, it’s not very difficult once you have the trick of it down.”