She was clearly a dilettante.
“I have been studying it,” he told her. He sifted through a stack of charts and pulled one out, excitedly pointing at a dotted line. “A rare occurrence is coming. It is several years away, but it will take scientists time to prepare. Venus will travel in a specific arc and give us a single moment to take very precise measurements. And from that we shall know the distance from the Earth to the sun.”
“That is amazing,” she said.
He beamed. “The Transit of Venus, it is called. It will be quite the spectacle.”
“And from this”—Charlotte held up a finger, as if anyone might be able to tell she was referring to Venus—“you can work out distances between two entirely different celestial bodies?”
“That is the idea.”
“Could you teach me?”
“Well, I—” George stumbled over his words. Clearly, she’d surprised him. “I do not see why not. You have studied mathematics?”
“Not of the sort I suspect is required for this type of calculation,” Charlotte said with some annoyance. “There is a gap between what is thought to be suitable schooling for a girl and a boy.”
He shrugged. “If you wish to learn something, then you must.”
Charlotte tried not to smile. It was moments like these that made it very difficult not to fall in love with him.
She moved back to the telescope, taking a moment to relocate Venus. It was bright and brilliant in the night sky, outshining every star. “It is beautiful, George,” she murmured.
“It is.”
And he sounded content.
She pulled back to look at him. “This is what you have been doing? This entire time?”
He nodded. “There is something about the heavens. In this world we live in where I am given so much power and attention, it is good to remember that I am but a bit of dust on a small dot in the universe.” He smiled boyishly. “Keeps one humble.”
Her hand itched to reach out. But she could not. Not yet. She did not quite trust him.
“Being King is a hazard,” he continued. “My world has been made to revolve around me. It has made me selfish.” He looked away, briefly, then dragged his eyes back to hers. “I cannot imagine how painful and cruel it must have been to have me ruin your wedding night.”
“It was your wedding night, too,” she reminded him.
“I am so sorry.”
“Yes, well.” She swallowed. “I do not forgive you. Yet.”
“Yet.” There was a smile in his voice. “Yet is good. Yet is hope.”
“Perhaps,” Charlotte allowed.
“You know,” George said, taking a small step in her direction, “it almost does not quite count as a wedding night.”
“No?”
He shook his head. “We did not actually have the night part.”
Charlotte recalled her conversation with Lady Danbury. Agatha’s warnings had made her somewhat less eager for her marital duties. But at the same time, she understood that it had to be done. Consummation. Without it, she was not a true queen.
“We could start over,” George suggested. “Try again?”
“That seems a reasonable idea,” Charlotte said. She brushed imaginary dust from her skirt, eager to appear unconcerned. “We have been married over a week now.”
“Yes,” George said softly. “And I have kissed you but once.”
“At our wedding.”
“I have been longing to do it again.”
Her eyes met his. “You have?”
“Every minute”—he stepped closer—“of every day.”
“Why?”
“Why?” he echoed.
She gave a little nod.
“Because you exist,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I saw you, and I met you, and I spoke with you. I am enchanted. I can barely breathe for wanting to kiss you again.”
Charlotte had the oddest sensation that she was somehow suspended in space. That the air around her had turned a little bit solid, and it was holding her up, keeping her steady as her breath tickled through her body.
“Will you let me?” George whispered.
She nodded. She did not know what to expect, just that she thought she might die if she did not touch him.
But it was still awkward. And funny, almost. He smiled, and she realized he was as nervous as she.
So she smiled. Because she couldn’t help it.
And then his hand touched her cheek.
“Charlotte,” he whispered.
“George.”
His lips met hers. “Always.”
His hand found its way to her back, and he pulled her close. Charlotte had never stood so near to a man before. The heat of him, the strength held in check—it stole her very breath.
She touched his hair, soft and crisp, and he let out a small sound of delight.
“You like that?” she asked shyly.
“Very much. I daresay there is nothing you could do that I would not like.”
She laid her hand on his chest.
“I like that,” he said.
Emboldened—and amused—she reached up and tweaked his earlobe.
“That, too.”
“I’m out of ideas,” she admitted.
His arms tightened around her. “I have many.”
“Do you?”
“Mmm-hmm.” His lips came once again to hers, and this time his mouth was more demanding. “This, for example.”
After that, there were no more words. George kissed her with the same passion she’d heard in his voice when he spoke about the stars. He kissed her as if she were the rarest of jewels, precious and yet indestructible.
She felt worshipped.
Adored.
He was, once again, Just George.
But he had been Just George in the chapel garden. And he had changed. Warily, she stepped back. Her hand trailed down his arm until only their fingers touched. She needed to know what this kiss meant.
“Does this mean you are coming home?” she asked. “To Buckingham House?”
“Yes,” he said. “I am coming home to Buckingham House.”
“Tonight?”
He nodded. “Go back to your carriage and return. I shall follow posthaste.”
“We may not travel together? We did right after the wedding.”
He gave her one of his sheepish shrugs. “Rules to protect succession, I am afraid. Right after the wedding, there was no possibility that you might be carrying the next king.”
“There is no possibility now.”
“They do not know that.” George kissed her again, his lips a tender promise. “And after tonight, there will be.”
Buckingham House
The King’s Bedchamber
Later that night
In the time since the wedding, Charlotte had not allowed herself to peek into George’s bedchamber.
This had not been easy. His room was next to hers, and in fact, the two were connected through a series of small sitting rooms. She was curious. And perhaps a little vengeful. Many a night, Charlotte had wanted to rip her covers off, tramp over to his suite, and break something. Sometimes she wanted to break something that looked like it mattered to him. Sometimes she wanted to break something small, something no one would notice right away. It could fester.
Just like she was festering.
But she had resisted.
It was a strange existence, her new life. She was Queen of the most powerful nation on earth. If she wanted to break something, the mess would be cleaned up straightaway, and then the servants would probably think they ought to applaud her for it.
Oh very good, Your Majesty. Your skills of demolition are beyond compare.