“Her choice,” he repeated.
“She should make a better choice,” he said, feeling and thinking dark things.
She disappeared inside the carriage and Kingston felt the ridiculous urge to give chase. To stop the carriage and wrench her from it and save her from herself.
She deserved better. He’d only been in her company a short time and in the company of her betrothed an even shorter duration, and yet he knew that.
That mouth of hers deserved to smile. The passion inside her ought to be let out, and that fop wasn’t the man to do it.
“By God.” Warrington broke into his musings. “It’s her.”
His gaze snapped back to the duke. Only the duke wasn’t looking at him. His focus was fixed on the departing carriage.
“What do you mean?” he asked warily.
“She is the reason you’re still here. Charlotte.”
Instantly he realized his mistake. He should never have asked after the chit. Nor should he be staring after her like an abandoned puppy. Warrington was far too observant. Kingston had made his interest in her much too obvious. Ah, bloody hell.
“Nonsense,” Kingston lied, doing his best to keep his tone light and easy. Too much denial would not be the thing either. “I only met her last night.”
And last night had been truly incredible.
“And she must have made some impression on you.”
Indeed she had, but Warrington didn’t need to know all the details of that. He could never know, in fact.
The last thing he needed to find out was that Kingston had dallied with his sister-in-law. If his stepbrother didn’t challenge him outright to a duel over that offense, he’d at the very least cast him from his home.
And Kingston had no intention of leaving. Not yet.
Or even worse than those possibilities: Warrington could force him to do the honorable thing and marry her.
That would be a tragedy for both of them. He’d make a miserable husband.
“You’re mistaken,” he insisted, determined to convince him. “I’ve no appetite for milksop misses.”
“Hm,” Warrington murmured, clearly still in doubt. “I must confess, she does not strike me as your brand of female.” Kingston bit back that he had not imagined the duchess to be to Warrington’s tastes either, but such a response would be much too defensive . . . much too revealing.
“You are correct. She is not to my tastes.” Somehow the untruth managed not to stick in his throat and choke him.
“Indeed. Respectable females are not your ilk.”
“No,” he agreed. “They are not.” No sense explaining to him that presently no female was to his taste—respectable or otherwise. Until last night. Until Charlotte Langley.
Warrington considered him for a moment before moving away. Once he was gone, Kingston’s gaze returned to the departing Pembroke carriage. He watched it go, cutting through undulating waves of heat rising up on the afternoon air.
He watched until the conveyance was well out of sight, vowing he would be waiting for her on her return to Haverston Hall. He and Miss Langley would have words.
They had much to discuss.
Chapter 10
Charlotte plucked at her dress and pulled it away from her chest, hoping to encourage a bit of air flow to cool her skin in the very close and suffocating confines of the carriage.
It did little good. Her chemise and corset remained plastered to her body. What she wouldn’t do to be free of her garments and out of this infernal heat and back in the pond again—without Kingston. The winter had been unseasonably cold, and it seemed they were being rewarded with an unseasonably warm summer in recompense.
Billy’s voice murmured beside her in a mild, intermittent drone as he returned her home following tea with his family. He was not much for conversation. Nor did he ever expect much chatter from her.
She frowned. She might have exchanged more words with Kingston last night than she had in weeks with Billy. That was a troubling realization.
She shook off the sudden insight and chased away her frown, reminding herself that she liked Billy this way. She liked that Billy did not talk to nauseating excess. If he talked excessively, then he would be like his parents. She shuddered briefly.
These days his sporadic commentary centered on the subject of their wedding. They would marry this summer, but they still had much to decide. Mrs. Pembroke was forever telling her that.
Even so, her primary focus was on the passing countryside and not the myriad wedding tasks demanding her attention. She lifted her face, hoping to feel a bit of breeze reach her through the window.
She slid Billy a considering glance. He was attractive in a mild, unassuming way. She covertly assessed his lanky form. Soon they’d be married and sharing a bed. Her thoughts had never strayed to those intimate details before, but now she wondered.
Now she questioned whether there would be passion between them. It had never felt a necessary prerequisite, but she could not help thinking it would be nice. After last night . . .
No.
She would not think about last night or compare it to anything. Not Billy.
The carriage rolled to a stop before Haverston Hall and she inched forward in her seat, eager to be free of the stuffy confines of the carriage. The coachman opened the door and handed her down. Billy followed, taking her elbow and leading her very correctly up the front steps.
Once they were in the foyer, they were spared the impact of direct sunlight, but the lack of free-flowing air made her tug uncomfortably at her collar.
“I will see you tomorrow?” Billy inquired, bending over her hand.
She nodded, trying not to hide her cringe at the reminder. He would be bringing both his mother and grandmother with him for tea.
Charlotte watched from the doorway as he departed, climbing back up inside the carriage. She stood there for some moments as the carriage rolled away, various emotions churning through her chest. Turning back around in the foyer, her gaze landed on the footman. He stood post in the corner, trying to look alert and not a little drowsy in the sweltering afternoon.
She could empathize. She tugged at the cloying and itching fichu tucked into her gown. Escaping to her room, removing her garments and flopping down on her bed for a nap in nothing but her chemise sounded like bliss.
She took the winding steps upstairs. Once in her chamber, she shed her clothing. Dropping down on the bed, she spread her arms wide at her sides, not touching herself.
The memories of last night were too close. Her skin felt new, tender and raw. No longer the skin she had worn yesterday but a new layer. It would take some time for it to fade into something resembling normalcy, she imagined . . . for her to feel like herself again.
Still, the lack of clothing was an improvement in the uncomfortably warm air.
She exhaled and inhaled in several great sighs, futilely wishing that she could have a day without the Pembrokes in it.
A reprieve from Billy’s family. A senseless wish. At least until they were married. For now, she was scarcely ever alone with Billy without his mother present.
She really needed to learn a little more forbearance when it came to his family. They were to be her family, too.
She cared for Billy a great deal. She’d known him all her life, after all. That meant she had known his family all her life—even if his grandmother had only recently come to live with them. Charlotte should be able to find something agreeable about them . . . something to like.