Again, it was manageable, but not desirable for any extended length of time. She couldn’t hide in her room until the wedding.
Wedding. It felt like a great boulder was sitting on her chest. She couldn’t lift her rib cage to suck in air. Wedding. Again, the word reverberated through her like a death knell.
Suddenly she was moving, hopping down from the dais where she stood and shaking out her skirts as though that could free her of the confounded dress. Perhaps then she could breathe.
Mrs. Hansen squawked, flapping her hands.
“I have to get this off.” Charlotte twisted around, trying to reach for the buttons she could in no way reach—at least not without help.
The other women exclaimed and lunged for her, but she was past reason. She couldn’t tolerate one more moment of this dress on her body.
“Char? What’s wrong?” Marian cried over Charlotte’s ragged gasps.
“It’s the dress!” Nora stabbed a finger in her direction. “It’s biting her!”
“Rubbish, Nora!”
Charlotte lifted her chest high, desperate, hungry for air.
“Look at her! What’s wrong with her?”
“Have a care! Stop! You’ll ruin all my hard work.” Of course, that was Mrs. Hansen.
Charlotte couldn’t stop, though. She couldn’t breathe and she was convinced that had to do with the wedding dress suffocating her.
Irrational or not, she twisted and tugged, getting poked by pins. She winced. The pain was justified. Necessary.
The dress had to come off.
Suddenly the room felt too tight. The dress itself was a constricting fist, but the room . . .
Heavens save her, the room was like a coffin closing in.
“Charlotte! Stop!” Marian waved her hands in the air as though she were trying to calm a wild animal. “We will help you! Hold still!”
Shaking her head, she lifted her skirts and lunged for the door, charging out of her sister’s dressing room and through her bedchamber.
Outside. Naturally there would be plenty of air outside. Outside this room full of ladies gushing over her in her wedding finery.
The other ladies followed fast on her heels, complaining loudly.
“Charlotte, what is happening?” Marian shouted.
She didn’t know. She only knew that panic was riding high in her squeezing throat and she needed out of this dress, out of this room.
Air. She needed air. Blessed air.
She yanked open the door leading out into the hall and stopped hard. Kingston stood there, clearly surprised to see her. She’d evidently caught him as he was passing by. He must think her mad, charging out like some deranged bride.
If it had been hard to breathe before, now it was impossible. She pressed a hand to her chest, wheezing.
His gaze widened, raking her up and down, missing nothing as he assessed her in all her wedding finery.
“Kingston,” she managed to get out in a gasp. As far as greetings went it was fairly pathetic.
His expression altered, flashing to alarm. “Charlie?”
Even in her state of distress, her face caught fire at the nickname he insisted on using. No one ever called her that, and it only added to the sense of intimacy between them—an intimacy that she could not allow to exist.
Suffocated beyond endurance, she clawed at the neckline. Modesty was the least of her concerns when she could not draw breath. At any rate, what would it matter if she tore it off? Underneath she wore a corset and chemise, and he had seen her in those before. In less than those.
He seized her elbow and his touch on her bare skin felt like multiple points of fire. “Charlie? Are you unwell?”
She shook her head, her fingers curling inward against her chest, digging into her bodice. “Can’t. Breathe.”
His gaze flicked from her face to her laboring chest.
She felt the arrival of her sister at her back. “Oh, Mr. Kingston,” Marian exclaimed in perfect graciousness even in the present circumstances. Her years as a governess had trained her to keep her composure. “It appears you’ve caught a sneak glimpse of our bride here.”
“It appears so,” he agreed even as his eyes remained transfixed on Charlotte.
“I trust you’ll spread no tales describing the glory of her dress.” Marian laughed lightly as she rested a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder.
“You can trust me, indeed. I’ll not utter a word of it.”
“Splendid! We want Mr. Pembroke properly surprised.” She gave Charlotte’s shoulder a reassuring pat—as though Charlotte cared about such tattle, as though she were not choking for breath.
“Your Grace . . . your sister does not look well.”
Marian stepped around to get a better view of her face. She blanched at the sight. “Char! You’re turning red!” Marian pressed the back of her hand to her cheek.
Suddenly Nora was pushing out into the hall with them. “Red? She’s turning purple.”
“She can’t breathe,” Kingston exclaimed.
Then it was all a blur.
Kingston spun her about and his hands went to her back.
Over Mrs. Hansen’s screeching, Charlotte heard the popping of buttons at the back of her gown. From her peripheral vision she saw several tiny rose-colored buttons launch through the air.
Her dress immediately loosened, sliding down her arms in a whisper.
Kingston’s gaze dragged over her. “Bloody corset,” he muttered. “No wonder you can’t breathe.” There was a tug on her laces and then relief as he undid them, freeing her from the constraints of her corset. Sweet air rushed into her lungs.
Air. Blessed air.
The shouting intensified and suddenly she was being hauled back into the bedchamber, away from Kingston’s eyes, as though she must be shielded from view, her modesty protected. That was an almost amusing thought considering that her modesty, in relationship to Kingston, was unsalvageable.
There was a brief moment before the door slammed shut on Kingston’s face when she saw his expression. He wasn’t looking at her semi-clad body or the wedding dress sagging around her. He wasn’t seeing the dress at all. He was looking at her face, and his gaze was full of worry.
He was worried. About her. For her.
He didn’t care about her torn wedding gown or that she stood in a state of dishabille. Indeed not. He only cared for her welfare and that she could breathe again.
“Come, come. Let’s get you to the bed.” Marian and Nora guided her to the bed as though she was an invalid. Before settling onto the thick mattress, she stepped out of her dress.
Mrs. Hansen was ready for it. She snatched it into her arms, embracing it like it was a dying soldier. With a moan of distress, she whisked it away, clearly hoping to repair it.
Nora dropped down beside her. “What on earth just happened?”
Marian scrutinized her closely. “Your color seems improved.”
“I already feel much better,” she murmured, taking a breath.
Perhaps it was putting on the wedding dress. Or perhaps it was the upcoming wedding. Either way, whatever had brought about her distress had passed and she was breathing easier now.
“Was it your corset? Were you laced too tightly? Poor dear.” Marian rubbed circles on the center of her back just like their mother used to do.
Charlotte inhaled and nodded. It was easier to let her think that than explain the truth. The truth. That she had found herself in some manner of physical upset simply trying on her wedding gown.