The Duke of Snow and Apples (14 page)

Charlotte dissolved into giggles. “That’s ghastly!”

“I should have simply looked like
this
after Noxley chastened me. Servants are supposed to receive instruction cheerfully and obediently, are they not?” He waggled his eyebrows.

“You’d have frightened the viscount out of his wits,” she agreed. “Not that he wouldn’t have deserved it. I’m so sorry. He’s a
toad
, Frederick.”

“I believe that’s an insult to amphibians in general.”

Charlotte laughed. “There now. You can manage cheerfulness perfectly well. I do believe that’s your natural temperament.”

Frederick scowled again, without much heart behind it. “I don’t have a natural temperament. I’m a footman. No temperament is my natural temperament.”

They passed the potionsmaster’s, and Charlotte stopped. “I remember this shop from the last time I came to visit Aunt Hildy. I wonder if the same old potionsmaster, Mr. Gerd, still works here.”

Taking his cue, Frederick stepped in front of her and opened the door. “Shall we?”

The inside of the building was warm and smelled strongly of sugar and cloves. The shelves were lined with bottles of every shape and size, their contents and uses labeled in violet ink. Pain-eases and hair-colorers, potions for dissolving grime and potions for cooling fevers, lung potions and stomach potions and skin potions.

Frederick observed Charlotte as she admired a thin-stemmed bottle containing a potion for whitening skin, while his thoughts spiraled inward. He didn’t just want to watch her or be with her. He wanted to
know
her. He wanted to ask and be answered. So he did. “Your stepmother—is she the reason you’ve never visited Charmant Park?”

“Do you always spy on your betters?”

He quirked a smile. “I don’t have to spy. I simply have to exist at the same moment my betters are saying something interesting.”

Charlotte sighed. “Yes, she’s the reason. We always used to visit Aunt Hildy in the late summer. I loved Aunt Hildy’s clothes. She would follow us on fishing excursions or footraces in beautiful silks and satins, regardless of weather or circumstance.” She laughed. “I don’t believe she held onto a single lady’s maid for longer than a month.”

“Miss Lamonte currently holds the record.”

“I can imagine. Barely a year after Mama died, Papa remarried, but…I still considered myself in mourning.”

“And your stepmother took issue with that?”

“Quite the opposite. She went to rather extraordinary lengths to prove to Sylvia and me that she respected our feelings. She spoke in a very quiet voice. She wore dark colors along with us. She never yelled at or scolded us. When we next visited Charmant Park, however, it became apparent that Aunt Hildy’s idea of respecting our feelings differed wildly from Stepmama’s.

“The moment Aunt Hildy saw us she took us to task for our dark frocks and long faces. Raggamuffins and chimney-sweeps, she called us.” Charlotte dimpled at the memory. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her run so fast, before or since, into the house to return with something,
anything
, colorful. Aunt Hildy made me put on her prized sapphires, while Sylvia found herself wrapped in a violet Elassine shawl with fringe so long it dragged on the ground. Only then did Lady Balrumple deem us fit enough to honor our mother’s memory by being as cheerful and darling as possible. It was the first time since Mama died that I felt anything approaching cheerful or darling.”

Her smile faded. “Stepmama, of course, looked perfectly scandalized. I’m sure she must have thought Lady Balrumple quite vulgar. And Aunt Hildy took one look at Stepmama and—and…” She blushed. “I’m sure you’ll think me unkind, or disloyal.”

“Never.”

She turned to meet his eyes, a frank and open look that struck something sensitive within him. “Aunt Hildy was very cruel to Stepmama. She called Stepmama a morbid old crow, outfitting her niece’s daughters with the ragpicker’s leavings. She declared Stepmama couldn’t cross the threshold of Charmant Park until she was dressed appropriately—she suggested a turban of gold silk, although a riding hat with ostrich feathers would be an acceptable alternative. Since Stepmama had packed nothing of the sort, Aunt Hildy merely sniffed and took Sylvia and me into the mansion and sent a footman to escort Stepmama in ten minutes later.”

“She probably missed your mother very much,” Frederick said, following Charlotte as she explored the shelves. When sunlight hit the glass bottles, they sprayed the light in all directions, littering the shop with odd streaks and spots of brightness.

“I’m sure she did. I was glad to see my stepmother get such a set-down. She was all swansdown and honey, too soft, too sweet, too smothering. I didn’t
want
her. I wanted Mama.” Charlotte ducked her head, ostensibly to gaze at a small pot of freckle-reducing unguent on a lower shelf, while at the same time shielding her face from Frederick’s view with the rim of her bonnet.

“What happened next?”

“I believe Aunt Hildy was sorry for her display, for when we all came down to dinner she treated Stepmama with the utmost politeness.” The rim still obscured Charlotte’s face, although her voice took on a strained quality. “Stepmama smiled all through the meal—and the next day, she bundled us up in our carriage and returned to Glenson without so much as a word of explanation. We never visited Charmant Park again.”

Her speech at an end, she picked up a crystal-cut glass, held it to the light, and watched the prisms it made on the walls.

Frederick reached out a hand, rested it on a shelf before them, and Charlotte placed her own hand atop of it, and slowly curled her fingers around it. “Charlotte…”

“My stepmother, I discovered, is actually terribly shy.” She removed her hand and moved on to another shelf. “She’s very awkward speaking in front of people with whom she’s not well acquainted, and new people sometimes frighten her. I didn’t know this about her back then. I didn’t want to know anything about her.”

“Charlotte…”

“Lady Balrumple terrified her very badly.”

“Look at me.”

And she did, God help him. She turned, her warm brandy eyes wet with tears, her look cutting through the servant’s livery to the man beneath, until he wanted to brush her tears away with a man’s fingers, and cheer her with a man’s touch.

“For a while I felt I had no one—I hated Stepmama for taking us away, but then I also hated Aunt Hildy for frightening her off. Lady Balrumple probably tried to apologize, but I wouldn’t know. I ignored her letters for a long time.” Shame hung over her like a dirty-yellow pall.

“You’re here now.”

“Only because…”

“Do you think Lady Balrumple cares why? You’re here
now
. And she’s the happiest she’s been in a long time.”

“How can you know that?”

Frederick tried to return her look with one of his own. It went against his habit to maintain eye contact, but her eyes welcomed him like home. “You’d be surprised how vulnerable and honest people can become when nobody is looking—all the secret joys and longings they air out that used to be packed away.”

“You’re not nobody.”

Silence stretched between them. Frederick didn’t want to let go. Looking at this woman, with her fire-colored emotions and brandy-colored eyes, he could believe anything, and he wanted to believe that he was someone,
Frederick
, even if it was only to one person.

Charlotte turned toward the counter to continue her exploration of the potion shop, severing the thin, tenuous tie. She brightened at the prospect of a tin of handmade lemon-drops, an art the late Mr. Gerd had passed on to his son.

“Two coppers, please,” said the potionsmaster.

Frederick beat her to it, placing two coins from the pocket of his greatcoat onto the counter. Watching her splutter gave him a delightful sense of satisfaction.

“You can’t just…just…”

“Is there a problem, Miss?” he asked.

“Of course not,” Charlotte said, blushing.

As soon as they left the shop, Frederick popped one of the lemon-drops into his mouth. “These
are
delicious.”

“Those are mine!”

“Really? Did
you
pay for them?”

Charlotte’s mouth sagged open in outrage.

Frederick grinned, and something inside of him loosened even further. Perhaps Charlotte was right—maybe cheerfulness was his natural state. With an exaggerated show of politeness, akin to a parent responding to a child’s rude request in an effort to teach her manners, he opened the box of sweets and held it out under Charlotte’s nose. “Would
you
like a lemon-drop?”

Charlotte sniffed and turned sharply into a deserted side street thick with weeds. Cursing his own foolishness, Frederick followed, taking three whole steps with an apology already on his tongue before she whirled around and stopped him in his tracks.

“You owe me a lemon-drop,” she said. “I’m not afraid to take it.” Despite the seriousness of her tone, the little rebellious corner of her mouth gave her away.

Before he could protest, she planted her mouth firmly on his. His mouth opened on instinct, and before she could regret her forwardness, his tongue swarmed in, boldly, recklessly, plundering without permission or mercy.

Frederick tasted lemon and Charlotte, a dizzying combination. With a muffled groan, he pulled her closer, the war of their tongues buffeting the poor melting lemon-drop until it scraped his gums. Holy Maiden of God, she was so soft and sweet, he wanted to eat
her
, lemon-drops be damned. Her hand slipped inside his coat, tracing lines of fire along his ribs with her fingertips.

Just as suddenly, she pulled away, leaving him with the fading taste of citrus. She backed up a few steps, breathing hard, her face a study in various shades of pink. Her lips pursed as she sucked on something lodged in her cheek.

“Just as sweet as I remembered,” she said. She tucked something square into her reticule even as Frederick realized his coat pocket was empty. As nonchalant as she acted, Frederick saw her whirling in a pattern of lusty blush-tones, pink, gold, brown, red, orange. Because of him. He’d woken those colors. He’d painted her that way, with daubs of rosy pleasure and yellow excitement. What other intimate pigments could he create with her?

He must have moved toward her, for she dodged away, holding her reticule full of stolen goods high above her head. “To the winner go the spoils!”

“I don’t want the spoils.” At the unexpected growl in his voice, a thrill of lightning green shot through Charlotte. He lunged. She turned her face away, laughing a spray of robin’s-egg blue, so he burrowed into the curve of her neck instead, tasting the rising excitement of her pulse. He worked his way up to her jaw, across her cheek, and as his hands moved upward, skimming her curves, testing her softness, the colors around her deepening into burgundy, chocolate, and mahogany.

He moved to her eyelids, but she pulled back. “No, I want to see!”

“Do you?” His magic pooled in his eyes, ready to be used, but he held back, somewhat hesitant. What would Charlotte really see in him? What if she saw something dark or ugly? What if whatever lurked inside of him, the root of what was ultimately wrong with him, came up in his eyes?

Awkwardness descended upon them slowly and silently as frost, and Frederick was sorry when Charlotte pulled away, even as a small part of him was relieved.

“We should probably return to the draper’s,” she said. “Aunt Hildy will be wondering where I am.” She reached into her reticule and pulled out the box of lemon-drops. “You should have this.”

“No. Keep it. I bought it as a gift.”

Charlotte’s cheeks pinked. “Now I feel greedy.”

No greedier than I
. He could actually
see
Charlotte emotionally retreating, as paler, sensible colors slowly took over and replaced the richer tones of desire. Already he yearned for that more sophisticated palette, for the taste of her, for the places he would touch and kiss to bring out her hidden shades. His hand twitched, as if to reach for her, but he brought himself under control.

She turned, briefly, to look back at him. With a small smile, she popped a lemon-drop into her mouth.

…

As the carriage rattled its way down the lane on the last stretch before reaching Charmant Park, the year’s first snow began to fall. A light, feathery shower, barely enough to dust the fields before it melted in the morning, turning dirt into mud, and boots into muddied boots, and muddied boots into work. Frederick scowled at the offending sky.

The carriage pulled into the drive leading through the gates, just behind an unfamiliar, richly caparisoned coach, jet-black with red wheels and brass trim. A coachman in red-and-black livery who had enough capes on his coat to put poor Shipley to shame, drove a pair of matched grays that probably bore as exalted a lineage as the carriage’s occupants.

As Frederick assisted Lady Balrumple and her guests out of his carriage, a footman helped a young woman out of the other. She wore an ice-blue pelisse that suffered from an overabundance of lace. Her bonnet struggled with the same affliction, coupled with an absurd fascination with white silk ribbon.

This beribboned construction framed a lovely heart-shaped face set like a pale opal in a nest of golden curls. Despite her familiar stubbornness of chin and wideness of eyes, Frederick couldn’t recall ever having met her. She resembled nothing so much as a pampered, domesticated bird—a dove, perhaps.

It was at that moment that Charlotte descended the carriage, and at the other woman’s soft, girlish sound of pleasure, she froze. Her wolfish eyebrows arrowed down and a scowl cut deep into the lines of her face. A bare moment ago, she’d been a young woman, delighted at the prospect of snow, but now she looked like another animal entirely. One that ate doves.

The dove-girl turned, and let out a high trill of joy. “Charlotte! Aunt Hildy!”

Lady Balrumple threw up her hands, necessitating a footman to chase after her airborne reticule. “Sylvia!”

The two women met in a firm embrace, both uttering words of affection and fondness. Charlotte uttered something that would have curled the hair on Frederick’s wig if she’d only said it a bit louder.