“I had it redesigned just for you.”
Charlotte knew that could not be entirely true, not when their wedding had been agreed upon only a few months earlier. But still, she loved it. The stonework was much more to her taste than the brick of St. James’s Palace.
Most importantly, she would be the head of her own household. Queen not just of her country, but of her home. That would not be easily attained at St. James’s, where Princess Augusta was in residence.
Here, at—
She paused. “What is it called?”
“Buckingham House,” he said. “But you may rename it if that is your desire.”
“No, I like it. It has the sound of something that will endure.”
“I pray that it will.”
Charlotte could not stop smiling. She had not known she had it in her to feel such joy, that she could be made so happy by another human being. She could not stop thinking about how lucky she was. George was kind, and funny, and he seemed to be very intelligent. On the way over from St. James’s Palace, he had told her of some of his scientific interests. He owned a telescope, apparently—a very large one—and something else called an orrery that predicted the positions of the planets and moons.
She had never been particularly interested in astronomy, but when George told her about it, it came alive. She wanted to know more. She wanted to learn.
Now he had bought her this? She looked back up at him. “This is truly our house? Oh, George . . .”
“It is your house,” he said.
She blinked, certain she could not have heard him correctly. “My house. What do you mean?”
He motioned to the enormous building behind him. “This is where you shall live. I had all of your things moved here during the ceremony.”
Charlotte kept staring at the building, as if she could somehow see through the stone to her trinkets and gowns, presumably tucked away in wardrobes and cabinets. “I am not sure I understand,” she said. “If this is my house, is it not also our house?”
“I suppose officially St. James’s is our house,” he said, in a voice that indicated he had not considered the matter until that very moment. “But this is where you shall stay.”
“Oh” was all she could say.
He patted her arm. “You shall be very comfortable here. It is very modern.”
“Where will you stay?” she finally asked. Because he had not uttered one word about his own plans.
“I have an estate in Kew.”
“Kew,” she repeated. So many one-word sentences, and nothing but echoes of his pronouncements. She felt rather stupid, to be honest.
She despised feeling stupid. Truly, it was the one thing she could not tolerate.
“It’s not far. Less than ten miles.”
“So you shall live in Kew.”
“Yes.”
She looked back at Buckingham House, which had seemed so glorious when he’d lifted his hands from her eyes. Now it was just a house. Large, elegant, but just a house.
She forced a smile. Not much of one, though. “And I shall live here.”
“Yes.”
“George,” she said cautiously. “It is our wedding night.”
“And it is late,” he said, his voice slightly brisk, as if he’d only been waiting for the correct sentence upon which to change the topic. “You have been traveling, and I should let you get inside. You will need to meet your staff, and you will want to get some sleep.”
“No,” she protested. “George. It is our wedding night. We are supposed to . . .”
He just stared at her, and she would swear something in his eyes . . . changed. What was the opposite of a flicker? Because that was what happened. Something went flat. Maybe even a little cold.
“We are married,” she said. “Are we not supposed to do what married people do?”
His brows rose, and not with amusement. “Are you demanding I perform my marital duty to you?”
“I am not demanding. I am not even sure what marital duty is. I just know . . .” Charlotte felt herself flailing. She was uncertain, unmoored. She did not know what was happening, and worse, she was not sure what should be happening.
“Do we not spend this night together?” she finally asked. “My governess said that is what happens on a wedding night. The bride and groom sleep together in one bed.”
“Fine,” George said with a huff of annoyance. “I shall stay.”
Charlotte watched as he stomped toward the house, utterly baffled by his abrupt change in behavior. “George?” she asked, her voice tentative.
He paused near the entrance, and even before he turned around, she could tell he was rolling his eyes at her. “I said I shall stay,” he said. “Are you coming?”
“I— Yes.” She gathered her skirts and hurried after him. What was happening? Where was the darling man who had teased her about princess armies and jumping the garden wall?
Answer: Stomping ahead of her, right past the row of servants who had lined up for their arrival.
“Ah, hello, hello,” she said, pausing to nod and generally be polite, unlike her furious husband, who was already halfway down the hall.
“Thank you,” she murmured to the woman she guessed was the housekeeper. “Brimsley, you’re here. Of course you are.”
He bowed. “Your servant, Your Majesty. May I present the staff?”
Charlotte threw a desperate glance at George, who was disappearing up a staircase. “Perhaps another time.” She took off, moving as quickly as she could without actually breaking into a run. “George! George!”
But he was already up the stairs.
“George!” She picked up the pace, but there was only so much she could do in her wedding gown. “I cannot keep up. Please. Slow down.”
He whirled around so suddenly she stumbled back. “I thought you wanted me in the bedroom,” he said, flinging one of his arms out to motion down the hall. “Is that not where I should be?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Not if you are going to behave this way. You are angry. What is wrong? What have I done? Whatever it is, I am sorry.” She reached within for bravery, then she reached out to him. Took his hand. “Please,” she said. “Forgive me. I do not know what is happening.”
She felt his hand tremble in hers, heard his breath catch, and then slow down. “You have done nothing to be sorry for,” he said. “I just . . . I just want to go to Kew.”
“So let us go to Kew.”
“No,” he said, too loudly. “I . . .”
She understood. And it was awful. “You do not want me to go to Kew.”
“This is your home,” George said, but the words sounded mechanical, as if he’d practiced them in his head.
“And Kew is your home,” Charlotte finished.
“Yes.”
“I see,” she said. But she did not. She did not see at all.
“You do?” George said brightly. He took back his hand. “Good. That is very good. You are all right, then. You will get settled, and you will be comfortable, and all will be well and right. I shall speak with you . . . later.” He gave her a smile, one that she could not judge the sincerity of, and started walking back down the hall toward the stairs.
What?
No.
“I am not all right,” Charlotte said forcefully.
He turned.
“Is this how it is to be?” she asked. “This is our marriage? You there and me here?”
He swallowed. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“I thought it would be . . .” He swallowed again, and truly, he did not look quite right. “It is easier.”
“For whom?”