“I will. I—”
But George had already allowed Reynolds to usher him away.
Charlotte
Buckingham House
The Queen’s Bedchamber
Later that night
Charlotte was tucked in bed, scrubbed clean and wearing her oldest, softest nightgown when a knock sounded at the door.
Odd, that. The maids never knocked. They just slipped in and out like ghosts. Charlotte wasn’t supposed to notice them, and most of the time, she didn’t.
It was probably Brimsley. He would not enter unannounced after she had gone to bed. He was too easily embarrassed, that one.
Well. He was going to have to see her with her sleep bonnet and her undereye creams and all those other secret feminine tricks men weren’t supposed to know about.
“Enter!” she called out, fully expecting his small frame to appear in the doorway.
But it was a much taller man who entered her bedchamber. A much broader man.
George.
She felt her lips part with surprise as she hurriedly rubbed at the cream on her face. Why was he here? She was naught but a duty to him. He had said it quite clearly, and she remembered each word with surgical clarity:
You told me to bed her. I have done so. I understand. It has been abundantly clear since my first breath that I am born for the happiness or misery of a great nation, and consequently must often act contrary to my passions.
She was a duty. A chore. And he had not even truly wanted her.
She could have borne it better if he had not lied. He had made her feel wanted. Adored, even. He had told her she was special, she was incomparable. A rare jewel.
He had made her feel that theirs would be an uncommon union, more than just a diplomatic treaty.
Worst of all, he had made her hope.
He had led her to think that with her he might be Just George. And maybe she could be Just Charlotte.
It would have been better if he had stayed awful. She would not feel so betrayed.
“Good evening,” she said. All things considered, she was rather proud of her civility. She’d wanted to say, Why the hell are you here?
And maybe throw something.
“Good evening,” he said in return. He wore his dressing gown, the same one he’d had on the night before. Surely he did not think they were going to do . . . that . . . again? After what he’d said about her?
Except he did not know that she’d heard.
This was a predicament. She did not wish to admit that she’d eavesdropped. Such behavior was beneath her, and besides that, there was something awful in admitting that she knew the truth. How could she possibly be expected to look at him and say, “I know I am just another one of your royal duties.”
It was easier to pretend that she did not care for him.
“I did not see you at dinner tonight,” he said.
“I told you, I wished to dine formally.”
“Did you enjoy your meal?”
She stared at him. Was he truly going to come into her bedchamber and make polite conversation? To what purpose?
“I was not hungry,” she finally said.
“I was,” he replied. He crossed the room and propped himself against the edge of her bed. “Quite.”
And then he just stood there. Looking at her.
“I’m going to read,” she declared. She grabbed one of the books she’d left on her bedside table and picked it up. He was not unintelligent. He would get the hint.
He didn’t say anything, so she opened the volume with more of a snap than was strictly necessary and flipped to the title page. It was in German. Good. She could use something familiar this evening.
“Very well.” George pushed himself off the side of the bed and walked around to the other side.
“What are you doing?” she half-shrieked.
“I’m getting into bed. I should have thought that was obvious.”
She squirmed over to the far edge of the mattress. “You can’t sleep here.”
“I was under the impression ours was to be a true marriage.”
“Perhaps,” Charlotte said. “But not tonight.”
He paused in his movements and regarded her with a coolly assessing stare. “May I inquire why not?”
“Do I need a reason?”
His brows rose. “If you want me to judge you as something other than a fickle female, then yes, you do.”
“Fine,” she said, closing the book on her finger as if she needed to mark her place. He might as well think she’d actually been reading it. “I did not see you today.”
“That’s your reason?” His face betrayed his surprise, and he looked as if he might well laugh at her. “You did not see me today.”
Even Charlotte had to admit that it was a weak argument. “Well . . .” she stalled.
“Today. This day. This one day.”
She stiffened. “Please don’t mock me.”
“I do not mock. I am only trying to understand.”
“I feel mocked.”
He tilted his head to the side as if he were taking the time to catalogue his thoughts. “Very well. Yes, I’m mocking you. But only because you are being ridiculous.”
“If I do not have bodily autonomy, what do I have?”
Now he did laugh. Harshly. “Neither of us has bodily autonomy. We are both required to make a baby.”
“Yes, I know,” she muttered. “You live for the happiness and misery of a great nation.”
“Ah. So you have heard me say that.”
She froze. She was going to have to admit she’d been eavesdropping.
But then he added, “I have made that speech countless times. So much so that I fear it may supplant ‘God and my right’ as the official motto of the sovereign. But you should know something. I have meant it, every time I have said it. I am not my own man, Charlotte. The Crown rests heavy on my head.”
It would soon rest on hers, too. Literally. Coronation was not far away.
“As sovereign, I have duties. You know this.”
“Duties,” she scoffed. She was coming to detest that word.
He took a breath. A rather long and awkward one, to be honest. “I have had a trying day,” he finally said. He paused, and he seemed to be doing something odd with his hands. Eventually they formed stiff fists, and he placed his arms at his sides. “I do not wish to argue with my wife.”
“You do not need to argue with your wife. You need only to go back to your own bedchamber.”
“I want to sleep here,” he said, and it sounded as if each word was ground out of his very soul. “I was hoping for comfort.”
“Comfort,” she echoed.
“Yes, comfort. From my wife, for whom I have been—” He swore under his breath. And then the oddest thing happened. His mouth did not move, but she would have sworn he was speaking to himself.
“You are my wife,” he finally said out loud.
She shook her head. “You cannot ignore me the entire day and then expect me to lie here and—and—”
“And?”
“And—service you in the evenings.”
His mouth fell open. “Service me? Is that what you’re calling it?”
“It was my first time. I hardly know what to call it.”
He yanked back the covers with enough force to send one of her pink cushions flying. “I was under the impression that you enjoyed yourself.”
“It was . . .” Charlotte tried very hard to appear nonchalant. “Pleasant, I suppose.”
“Pleasant.” He crawled up on the bed.
She tried not to look at him, but he was looming over her, and it made her feel things. “Pleasant,” she repeated.