Page 40 of Why Do Earls Fall in Love?
“It would drive my father mad, you see,” Whiddon said defensively.
“Your father? The man who never comes to London?”
“Yes, well. There’s no saying he might not become exasperated enough to come to Town. To deal with me.”
She sighed. “And if he did . . .”
“He’d throw a fit.”
She closed her eyes. “We will discuss this. At length. But for now, I think I’d just like to go to bed.”
He took the candle from her. “Come along, then.”
She walked silently by his side while he led her upstairs, all the while trying to recall what the condition of the countess’s rooms might be. For the life of him, he could not remember what they looked like, but he knew where they were.
“Here we are.” He stepped in and she slowly followed. He winced as he heard the rustle of movement retreating from the light. He raised the candle. More shrouded furniture, a curtained bed, the smell of stale smoke and fetid air.
“No,” she said distinctly. “Absolutely not.”
* * *
Charlotte bither quivering lip and refused to cry. She was tired and unexpectedly forlorn at the changes in her life and the challenges still to be faced. She certainly hadn’t expected a filthy house, an inebriated staff and a dead cat to greet her upon arrival. Good heavens, why must it all be so difficult? She permitted herself a few moments pitiable despair, then dragged in a breath and drew herself together.
Turning to face Whiddon, she watched him evenly. “Where do you sleep?”
He looked startled. “Why?”
“Where. Do. You. Sleep?”
She recognized his suddenly shallow breathing and the widening of his eyes as the first signs of distress. He was distressed at the thought of sharing even something so small with her. She sighed.
“Through here,” he said, relenting.
They had connecting doors. She liked the idea.
This was his bedchamber. It was dark, the fire unlit. They truly hadn’t expected him back tonight. Whiddon moved about, lighting lamps and candles and the room brightened around her. It was done in cream and beige, with touches of dark wood and deep greens. It was also clean, orderly and comfortably appointed. She could see a sitting room beyond, and another door, closed now, that she guessed was a dressing room.
The sound of an opening door and hurrying feet preceded the breathless entrance of a servant. He was a man of middle years and trim physique. He looked rumpled and utterly astonished. “My lord! We did not expect your return this evening! You made no mention . . . We thought . . .” He stumbled to a halt when he noticed her at Whiddon’s side.
Her husband sighed. “Charlotte, this is my valet, Chapman. Chapman, make your leg to the new countess.”
“My lady.” Looking mortified, the servant bowed deeply.
“I am happy to meet you, Chapman. Lord Whiddon speaks highly of you.” She looked around. “You have the keeping of these rooms?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then you are clearly a treasure.” She looked about again. “I should like to consult with you tomorrow. After breakfast, if you don’t mind. But for now, will you track down my portmanteau and have it brought in here?”
“In here?” Whiddon asked.
“In here,” she said firmly. She watched Chapman expectantly.
“Of course, my lady. Shall I also send up one of the maids?”
“No, thank you. Just the portmanteau, then we would like to be left to ourselves until the morning.”
“Very good.” Bowing again, he left the same way he’d come.
