The Duke of Snow and Apples (28 page)

“Good morning, milady,” he said.

“Come, join us.” Aunt Hildy gestured toward the chair next to her, and nearly an entire table away from Charlotte.

“Yes, milady.” Frederick bobbed his head in obedience, then winced. He crossed the room and took his seat with an almost exaggeratedly careful air, as if sneaking through a den of basilisks where even the smallest sound might wake them to ravening hunger.

“Not hungry?” the viscountess asked. A flush crept into his face and down his neck. One satisfied one’s breakfast needs from the sideboard. Guests served themselves. He inched out of his chair once more and crossed to do so.

Charlotte frowned. Seeing Frederick in an aristocrat’s garb made him seem smaller, if that were possible. She remembered the smooth gestures of his hands as he’d served dinner, the confident loping gait as he ran to fetch gloves and tippets, and she contrasted that with the way he hesitated at the sideboard and crept back to his seat like a thief.

As a footman, Frederick had known his place in the world. Now, he seemed lost, as if without the crushing weight of brass and velvet and hair powder he risked floating away like a seed on the wind. It moved Charlotte to a small amount of pity.

“That is a lovely stickpin, Frederick,” she said. “I mean, Y-Your Grace.”
Wait, why can’t I call him Frederick?
They were officially engaged, forcibly by her aunt’s hand in order to spare Charlotte’s reputation. Her small spurt of pity dried up.

“Thank you,” he replied. His voice rang hollow and oddly off-key within the tense, silent room. “Or rather, thank Mr. Colton, who was so kind as to lend it to me.”

“Nothing of it.” Mr. Colton glanced away, as if Frederick had identified him as an accomplice in a crime. “Your Grace.”

“I knew your father in school, Snowmont!” Lord Enshaw nearly shouted, eager to disperse the stifling awkwardness. “Some years behind me, of course, but a good lad for all that. Though, Saints above, if he got an angry look in his eye, he made sure you knew it.”

“I never knew him,” said Frederick. “He died when I was little more than a baby.”

“So you’ve been a duke since before you could talk,” said Augusta. Usually, the shy young marchioness tended to choose seats close to her grandmother, Lady Alderley, but today she sat to Charlotte’s left, a silent show of support that surprised her. “That’s a lot of responsibility to endure so early.”

Why is she trying to
understand
him?
The spike of petulance in Charlotte faded almost as soon as it appeared. Understanding Frederick should be
her
duty. After all, they would soon wed. The trouble was, Charlotte had spent too much time believing she understood everything. The spark of red beneath her collarbone she understood least of all.

“My mother helped,” said Frederick. “I mean, she taught me what to expect. We stayed in the country mostly, so I grew up with the land.”

“But your mother endured the Entailment in regency for you, waiting until you came of age. You never had to feel that,” said Sir Bertram. A muscle in the corner of his eye twitched, but otherwise his otherworldly reserve seemed to have returned. His glare, even though directed at Frederick, awoke a strange feeling of listlessness within her. She turned away, and the feeling passed.

Silence settled once more over the guests. Frederick’s countenance dimmed beneath an onslaught of sickly, dark purple, as he admitted, “No. I never had to feel that.”

At this point, a footman entered with the morning’s mail and air posts. All eyes in the room leapt from the uncomfortable conversation to inspect the servingman. Charlotte blushed. Doubtless all the footmen would receive such scrutiny, for a little while at least, until the Seven Dowagers determined whether or not they employed the greater part of the Council of Blooded under their roof.

Aunt Hildy sorted through the envelopes on the salver. “One for you, Charlotte. This is your father’s handwriting.”

Charlotte took the envelope—as her hand brushed against her great-aunt’s, Lady Balrumple met her gaze for gaze. “Do you want to tell him about your impending nuptials, or shall I?”

Charlotte’s hand clenched, crumpling the folded paper sealed with the glyph of her father’s favorite ward. Every day, it seemed, more and more things clamored for attention. What was she going to tell Papa?
I’m marrying a duke
. That was a start.
I’m marrying a duke who was supposed to be dead but worked as a footman instead and his heart bleeds out of his eyes.

“I could write to Papa if you like,” said Sylvia. She’d woken up this morning far from her usual sunny perfect self. She looked pale and wan, and dark smudges stained her eyelids.

“Thank you, but no,” Charlotte said. She stuffed the letter into the pocket of her gown.

“Well, the renovations on Neigent Hill are finished,” said Sir Bertram from the other side of the table, perusing an opened letter. The paper rustled as his hands trembled a moment before he settled them. “I think now, more than ever, we should return to our—Lord Snowmont’s estate. There is much you have missed, Frederick, or no longer know. And about ten years’ worth of explanations I’m sure all of us would like to hear.”

Aunt Hildy’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “Far be it for me to enforce my hospitality against another man’s will, but certain matters regarding Frederick and his wedded future have been put in motion…”

“You’ll get your wedding,” Sir Bertram said. “But I think the line of succession for one of Allmarch’s oldest duchies and reintroducing my stepson to his lands and responsibilities takes precedence.”

“In the hierarchy of importance at Charmant Park, the thoughts of men rest on a lower rung,” Lady Balrumple returned, eyes glinting. “Particularly when they conflict with the designs of women.”

“Thanks to the
designs of women
, my stepson has gotten himself leg-shackled before he’s even undergone the Entailment.”

Across the table, Frederick made an odd, choking sound, as if the foppish stickpin in his cravat had somehow pierced all the way through the lace to prick his throat.

“How
dare
you!” The shrillness of the viscountess’s tone caused the glasses to rattle. “Duke or no, no one tosses my grand-niece aside like so much human offal!”

“Have you taken a look at your grand-niece lately? She’s as surprised as any to find out her lover has higher prospects than a promotion to
under-butler
,” said Sir Bertram, speaking in a strangely uneven staccato cadence. “In my objective opinion, Miss Charlotte seems entirely too familiar with human offal.”

“Enough!” Frederick exploded, throwing the arguing pair into a state of silent shock. The duke himself rocked back in his chair, unsettled by his own outburst.

Sir Bertram recovered first. “I hardly think—”

“It no longer matters what you think, not—not in this respect.” Frederick covered his stumble by plucking at the lace on his cuffs, a passable imitation of a bored courtier. “Miss Charlotte is my fiancée and future duchess, and I don’t want to hear you speak of her again without the utmost respect and deference.”

“I don’t you think you understand—”

“I’ve been a duke since I was two years old. A footman since I was fifteen. Both perspectives have taught me more about responsibility and duty than you can possibly comprehend. I know my situation. It daunts me. Terrifies me. But don’t believe I don’t understand it.”

Charlotte pressed back against her chair. What had begun as a nervous, fumbling speech had ended with the polished brass peal of authority that years of soot and boot-polish couldn’t tarnish. Had the duke in Frederick always been there, lying in wait, beneath the veneer of servitude?

“I’ll sign whatever paperwork you like to satisfy your family’s honor as to my engagement, but perhaps returning to take up the reins of my estate, and eventually the Entailment, should come first,” Frederick told Lady Balrumple, but Charlotte listened with only half an ear.

Was that all she knew of Frederick? The veneer? A warm, false personality that could be exchanged as easily as a coat?

The spark of red beneath her breast reminded her otherwise, but what could she trust? The memory of red hadn’t warned her Frederick was a duke. She’d found no lies when she’d succumbed to the gloriously strange connection of his magic, which meant it was useless, for who was Frederick Snow, footman, if not a falsehood?

Charlotte didn’t quite realize she was standing until she heard the scrape of her chair.

“Are you all right?” asked Aunt Hildy.

“Fine. Lovely. Slight headache.” She pressed her fingers to her temples, not in affectation, but a hopeless attempt to still the thoughts rattling about in her head like pairs of dice. “Please excuse me.”

“Wait!”

Charlotte pattered out of the breakfast room and into a hallway lined with tall, clear windows that let in floods of morning sun, blinding her. Too bright. Too exposed. Charmant Park was a maze, surely if she looked hard enough she could find some dank little dungeon she could hide in.

“Wait, Charlotte. Please!” Sylvia’s voice.

Charlotte turned a sharp right, into a long portrait gallery lined with low, soft benches. Dark eyes of oil and paint stared down at her, and her sister’s footsteps followed her in.

“Please. Can’t you talk to me?”

“What’s there to talk about?” Charlotte scrubbed at her eyes. “I’m marrying a Cleighmore. You should be thrilled. Maybe we’ll even have a double wedding.”

“Are
you
thrilled?”

“Of course.” Charlotte turned and fixed a ghastly smile onto her face. “I’m getting married. You’re getting married, and you’ve made it more than obvious to everyone what a superior state marriage is.”

Sylvia crossed her arms under her bosom. In their private sister-speak it used to mean, “I am being serious.” Now, Charlotte had no idea what it meant. Maybe, “I’m pretending to be serious but really I’m imagining capering olyphaunts.”

“It’s superior to me, because I am marrying the man I love.”

“You love him?” Charlotte asked. “Are you sure? Are you absolutely certain?”
Mr. Peever could be anyone. And you’d never know unless he decided to tell you.

“Of course.”

Something in Charlotte’s face, a sudden tensing of muscles, must have indicated her intent to flee, because Sylvia blurted out, in a small voice, “But I wasn’t always.”

She sank onto a bench, tracing the curve of her lips with her thumb for a moment before she spoke. “Not at first. It happened so quickly. I met him at the spring assembly at the Glenson Royal Inn—you remember the one, I wore the lavender muslin and white sash—and all at once I felt so warm and terrified and insanely happy and when he touched my hand I thought I would die. I wanted to be with him forever so that he might hold me and I might die a thousand times. I only knew him for an instant!” She flushed pink, gnawing on the tip of her thumb. “I’d never believed in that true-love-at-first-sight nonsense, never thought it would happen to me. What was the whole point of courting for weeks on end if you could forge a connection at a moment’s glance? What if I was wrong? What if I’d gone mad? What if none of it was real?”

Charlotte sat down before her knees gave away her surprise. Sylvia gnawed her thumbnail, and for a moment they were little girls again, Charlotte covered in mud, Sylvia less so, but as embarrassed as if she were, plotting together how to keep out of trouble.

“I thought I needed your approval to prove I was not an idiot, that I was not ignoring the man’s obvious faults and allowing myself to be taken in,” Sylvia said. “For every novel about endless love, there are just as many about virtuous maidens tempted down the road of ruin. Harry wanted your approval so badly, wanted you to know he could be kind and attentive—what a fool I was, to assume you wouldn’t fall in love with him! How could any girl not—he’s p-perfect.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I did not mean to hurt you, Charlotte—honestly, I never thought he was your sort.”

Sylvia, unsure and afraid? Sylvia, who could charm and delight the most razor-edged old widow in moments? Charlotte sorted through her memories, tinged as they were with hurt and envy. Mr. Peever had never made overtures. He’d never performed anything that tested the boundaries of propriety. He had been kind, and he’d been attentive, and the novelty of keeping a gentleman interested rather than frightening him away had gone to Charlotte’s head like a strong drought of plum wine. The morning after she’d felt empty and a bit sick, but hardly broken.

“I was never in love with Mr. Peever,” Charlotte said. “It was that you were in love, and you didn’t tell me. With something so important, I thought I’d be the first to know, but you hid it from me for months.”

“I thought if I told you, it would spoil it,” Sylvia confessed. “You’d like him automatically, for my sake. I wanted to be sure. I was frightened.”

“And now you are sure?”

“Hardly.” Sylvia dropped her hands into her lap. Her soft, cultured, ladylike hands. Both thumbnails gnawed to the quick. “But I know that what I feel, when I am with him, is worth the risk of uncertainty.” Her hands clenched. “I only wish I’d had the courage to realize that for myself earlier.”

Charlotte hoped that her dumbfounded silence conveyed the easing of her heart, for she truly had nothing to say.

Sylvia must have sensed the subtle change of subject from her sister’s posture. “It might not be so bad for you. I mean, at least he’s
your
footman.”

“He’s not
my
anything.” The words no longer burned her tongue, but a heavy sadness kept Charlotte from floating away with the hope Sylvia’s revelation had released. Did she have the courage to attempt the unknown? Probably not. “I don’t even know him.”

Sylvia wrinkled her nose. “You didn’t fancy him
because
he smelled like silver-cleaning potion did you? Or because you prefer men in wigs?”

Charlotte stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, he was a footman when you met him. I assume your worry is because he won’t be doing any more footmanish things,” said Sylvia, eyes wide. “I’ll admit to…
admiring
the way he carries a tray.”