Page 56 of Pride & Petticoats

She shook her head, the feel of plush counterpane cushioning her cheek. She was falling in love with him, and he saw her as one more annoyance in his life—another annoying female he had to appease. He probably couldn’t wait to be rid of her, and it would not be long now before he had his wish.

They were close to finding Cade. Charlotte did not need to be told that. She’d sensed it last night, and she suspected her husband was out searching for information on Cade right that moment. The end was near. For so long she’d yearned to return to Charleston, to the house on Legare Street, and to reclaim her father’s shipping business. But suddenly none of that mattered as much. Suddenly home was wherever Freddie was. Home was . . . here.

Not for the first time, Charlotte cursed her nature. In her personality there was no room for the tempering of emotions. She loved violently, wholeheartedly, or not at all. She gave of herself completely and absolutely, and she wanted the same from Freddie Dewhurst.

And she would never have it. She’d had glimpses behind his façade. Last night in the Brighams’ library had been the most revealing glimpse yet. But the revelation had not been a welcoming one. Despite his guise as a dandy, he was undeniably a soldier, a warrior. Charlotte knew that type well, knew that even if he felt more for her, he would never surrender to it. Because that’s what it would be to him. A surrender. A defeat. A humiliation that would destroy him as utterly as parting from him would destroy her.

The American colonist and the British nobleman. As ever, they were at cross purposes, and this time not even a revolution could put things to right.

Charlotte made her way back to her own room. Addy had disappeared earlier with a pile of clothing, so Charlotte was left with little choice but to don a flimsy white night rail she’d found in the back of the armoire. She was pulling back the covers of her own bed and preparing to extinguish the candles when she heard something shatter.

She ran across the room and flung the door wide. Addy was rushing into the hallway from the servants’ wing, and together they peered down the stairs to the ground floor of the house. There was another crash, and Addy clutched Charlotte’s arm protectively, then they heard Wilkins fussing and Freddie telling him to “stubble it.”

Except that Freddie was barely coherent. Confused, Charlotte tiptoed down the first two steps and stuck her head over the banister.

“Miss Charlotte, you get on upstairs!” Addy whispered loudly. Charlotte waved at her distractedly and took another step. “Miss, Charlotte you are not dressed! Get up here!” Addy tried again, but Charlotte ignored her.

In the foyer was her husband, looking as if he had been dragged behind a carriage through the streets of London, supported on one side by Lord Selbourne and on the other by Wilkins.

“Is he all right?” Charlotte called out. Lord Selbourne and Wilkins glanced up, then both hastily averted their eyes after glimpsing her scant nightgown. She pulled the transparent robe close around her body, for all the good that it did.

“He’s fine, Lady Dewhurst,” Selbourne answered looking at the wall. “You should retire. We have this under control.” Just then Freddie lurched to Wilkins’s side, and Wilkins almost lost his hold.

Charlotte frowned. “Is he drunk?”

Selbourne scowled and hauled Freddie up the first few stairs. Charlotte retreated to the landing and Addy. “He has been drinking,” Selbourne answered vaguely.

“But what . . . happened to him?” She had never even seen Dewhurst’s tailcoat wrinkled and now it appeared to be half torn off. And Freddie himself was barely conscious. Selbourne was all but carrying him up the steep steps.

“There was a slight altercation. Really nothing for you to worry about.”

They reached the top of the stairs, and Addy disappeared into Charlotte’s room, returning with a large shawl. She draped it over Charlotte’s shoulders, hiding her from view.

“I suppose you had better put him in my room, Lord Selbourne,” Charlotte instructed. “It’s the closest, and it appears he will need a nursemaid.”

“My lady, I must object,” Wilkins, who had followed Selbourne, offered. “I can attend to Lord Dewhurst. I have always done so before.”

“Well, Mr. Dewhurst is a married man now!” Addy interjected, hands on her hips. “And Miss Charlotte is going to take care of him. I’ll help her if she needs it.” Considering Addy had shown little or no interest in her husband before, Charlotte was a bit surprised at her sudden concern. Until she remembered that Addy opposed everything Freddie’s valet suggested. And her servant had seemed rather partial to Freddie—right after she’d started wearing her new shawl.

Wilkins glared at Addy, then turned back to Charlotte. “Madam, this person fails to understand that tending to Lord Dewhurst is my duty. I would not want you to trouble yourself.”

Before Charlotte could reply, Addy retorted, “It is no trouble. And you are going to be in trouble if you don’t get yourself out of the way!”

“Is that a threat?” Wilkins screeched. “Did this person just threaten me?”

“Yes, this person done threatened you, and she is going to do a lot more, too.” Addy took a menacing step forward, whereupon Wilkins screamed and darted behind the amused Lord Selbourne.

“All right!” Charlotte finally yelled. “Stop this at once! Lord Dewhurst is hurt, and we must all work together. Lord Selbourne, please put him on my bed. It is through that door. Addy, fetch me water and clean linen. Wilkins, get me a pot of strong coffee.”

A few of the other servants were milling about and Charlotte gave them orders as well. Amazingly enough, everyone obeyed without objection.

A chaotic hour later, Charlotte was able to sit down in the cream-colored armchair beside her bed and rest for a moment. The house was finally quiet, and everyone except her had probably gone to sleep. Even Freddie was sleeping. Or comatose.

Strange to see him lying there without all his defenses. No world-weary look in his eyes, no pithy retort on his lips, no bland smile about the corners of his mouth. Just her husband, who in the innocence of sleep resembled her first impression of him perfectly. He was the incarnation of the Archangel Gabriel—strong, golden, beautiful.

Glancing at him, Charlotte shook her head. She was never going to understand the British. He had nothing but criticism when he talked to her of the United States, but before Selbourne left she had managed to get most of the night’s story from him. Her fool of a husband had been defending her and started a brawl. Her husband: the defender, the warrior.

Freddie stirred and groaned. Charlotte rose, brushed the light ivory drape aside, and sat on the edge of the bed, mopping his brow with a cool cloth. Wilkins had divested his employer of his clothing and tucked him under Charlotte’s silk bedcovers. The servant had then retired reluctantly, and Charlotte and Addy had cleaned Freddie’s wounds. Thankfully his injuries were not numerous, and now her only concern was his swollen eye and the bruise forming on his rib cage.

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