“Yes, as my wife, you are the Baroness Dewhurst, but you will be addressed as Lady Dewhurst.” He was still talking, but Charlotte didn’t hear. A sudden surge of warmth had infused her when he’d called her “wife.” She couldn’t say why, didn’t want to speculate. The meanings were too horrendous to contemplate.
“Traitor!” she whispered.
“Eh?” he asked.
“Oh, I said, so then our children would be Lady Dewhurst and Lord Dewhurst as well.”
He frowned. “We are not going to have children.”
“Of course not! I wasn’t implying—”
He held up a hand. “But were a baron and baroness to have progeny, they would not be titled. As I have explained to you, only the offspring of a duke or a marquess are given titles.”
Charlotte pursed her lips. She did not remember him saying that. He narrowed his eyes. “What is the wife of a duke called?” he quizzed her.
That one was easy, and Charlotte smiled. “A duchess.” Ha! Let Dewhurst try to get the better of her.
“And the wife of a marquess?”
She thought for a moment. “A marchioness?” He nodded. “An earl?”
“An earless,” she answered confidently. Dewhurst blanched.
“No, no!” she hurriedly added, “I meant an earlette.”
He clutched one of the bedposts, knuckles turning white. “A countess,” he said so quietly she could hardly hear him.
“Oh, of course,” she replied, hoping he was not about to collapse. His face was flushed and red, and he seemed to be having difficulty breathing. After a moment, his color returned, and she said, “But I thought a countess was the wife of a count.”
Dewhurst pulled on his coat sleeves, jerking the material fiercely. “There are no counts in England,” he said, voice hitting each word.
“Well, that makes no sense. You have a duke and a duchess, a marquess and a marchioness, a baron and a baroness. But a countess and an earl? That doesn’t seem quite right.”
“You questioning my knowledge on the matter?” he demanded.
“No. There’s no need to raise your voice. I was only wondering.”
“Wondering? What about listening? You’re driving me mad, woman.” He glanced at the clock and swore under his breath. “Dash it. I’m going to be late.”
“Late for what?” Charlotte asked.
He shook his head. “Do you realize I’ve been talking for over an hour, and you still haven’t grasped the basics?”
Charlotte huffed. “Well, maybe if you had a mite more patience—”
“Patience! I’ll have you know that I have the patience of a saint. I’ve sat for days—days, mind you—waiting out foreign operatives, I’ve endured over a dozen operas by a mediocre soprano who could barely carry a tune because proof of my devotion was required before I could bed her, and I once went two whole weeks without a suitably tied cravat because that dashed valet of mine got it in his head to go on strike. I have patience, madam!”
“I see. Well, cravats and opera singers aside, sir, you have as much to gain from this venture as those. If you could just begin again—”
“Begin again?” He stared at her as though she’d grown two noses. “Even if I were so inclined, I haven’t the time. I have an appointment with Josephine in a quarter hour, and I will be late as it is.”
“Josephine?” Charlotte gaped as indignation coiled in her belly, making her cold all the way to her toes. “Your mistress!”
“Good God.” He jerked at the sleeves of his tailcoat again. “You sound like a wife already.”
“And can you blame me? You’re going to see your mistress? Dressed like that? And on our wedding day?” She jumped up and stomped over to him.
“What’s wrong with my attire?” He angled so that he could see himself in the large cheval mirror. “These boots too drab? I should have Wilkins—”
