Page 43 of Why Do Earls Fall in Love?
Chapter 9
Whiddon sneaked out of the mews just as dawn began to send pink streaks through the sky. The grooms had not yet begun to stir, thank goodness. The house staff certainly was not up and moving, not after last night’s debauch. He did see the hall boy in the kitchens when he entered through the back. The wretch smirked at him as he went by, raising his hand in salute and biting off a huge piece of toast at the same time. Whiddon just rolled his eyes and continued on.
He hesitated outside the door to his rooms. His tired brain stirred up an image of Charlotte inside, in his bed, sleepy and warm. With a curse, he kept going and entered Chapman’s rooms instead.
The valet had gone already. To fetch breakfast? Whiddon sank into a chair and hung his head in his hands. He’d known he was going to be terrible at marriage, but he hadn’t expected to make a mess of it so quickly.
Getting back to his feet, he started to pace. How could he have forgotten to make arrangements for his new wife? His shoulders sagged. It was probably for the best. Now Charlotte would see that she shouldn’t count on him. She wouldn’t get her hopes up and she wouldn’t be disappointed.
Better for everyone, all around.
He threw himself back into the chair. For several moments he watched the brightening sky. Where was Chapman?
The long, uncomfortable and mostly sleepless night began to catch up with him. Laying his head back, he closed his eyes.
He awoke with a start. The room was full of morning light. He heard voices. They came fromhisroom.
He flew out into the corridor and flung open his door. Charlotte sat there, in his sitting room, at the table where he habitually took breakfast. She was fully dressed in a gown of sprigged muslin in light blue. It looked worn and she looked achingly young, but her expression was all business as she perused a stack of papers before her. Chapman stood at the hearth, placing crumpets onto a toasting stick.
Hiscrumpets.
“Good morning, Gabriel,” Charlotte said brightly. “Sit down, won’t you? Chapman and I have already done a thorough inspection of the countess’s rooms. Getting them in shape will be my first priority, along with finding a suitable lady’s maid.” She smiled. “Luckily, things in there are not as bad as I feared. The mattress must go. There’s an entire village of mice living in it. The bed hangings and window curtains have played host to rival colonies of moths, I believe, and the chimney is blocked. But the rest of it just needs a thorough scrubbing.” She consulted her list and took up a pencil. “Would you care to let me know what the budget should be?”
“Budget?”
“I believe you understand the concept. A limit to the amount of money you would like me to spend on the project?”
“No. No.” He waved a hand, but still did not join her at the table. “Spend what you will. Send the bills to me. Just get it all done quickly.”
“That’s very generous. Thank you.” She was fidgeting with the pencil and all he could think of was the feel of those fingers on his shoulders last night and the shiver of pleasure that had gone down his spine when she buried them in his hair.
“But what of the rest of the house?” she asked.
“What of it?”
“Is there a limit to what you’d like me to spend as I restore the rest of the house?”
“Restore? There’s no need for such a bother. Just have your rooms done and stick to them.” He gestured. “It works for me.”
Her lips pursed and she glanced over at his valet. “When was the last time that the Marquess of Broadham was in this house?”
Chapman shot him a look.
“Chapman?” she demanded.
“He’s never been here, madam, not in the six years that I’ve been here with his lordship.”
Her brows raised as she stared at him again. “You’ve been letting a Mayfair townhouse slide into a molding heap of dust and filth to spite a man who has never been here to discover it?”
“Oh, he knows,” Whiddon told her.
“How? You’ve told him?”
He made a face and shook his head. “No. I don’t correspond with my father.”
“Then how?”
“He has informants among the servants here.”
