Lady Charlotte Victoria Alexandria Bridgewater did not want to make the best of the situation. She was furious at her parents, the Duke and Duchess of Bridgewater, for their insistence that she marry Brandon Snodgrass, gangly, pimply, but oh so rich. Every time she thought of her wedding—and worse, her wedding night—all she could see was Brandon’s pasty, needle-nosed face, his thin, cold lips, and the profusion of pustules that decorated his skin. Everything about him was revolting—his high, shrill laugh, his knock-kneed, bowed-shouldered body, his greasy hair, even his hands. They were bony and always damp. At the last garden party before their wedding, he’d hung onto her hand for half the afternoon, his index finger slyly tickling her palm whenever he could. Charlotte had been ready to vomit, especially since that very night, her mother had given her “the talk.,” describing the sexual act in such vague and nebulous terms that if it hadn’t been for the fact that Charlotte had grown up in a huge country house and had seen dogs, cats, horses, and the servants going at it, she wouldn’t have the foggiest notion what her mother was nattering on about.
“This is something we women simply have to endure—at least until there’s an heir and a spare,” her mother had finished. “My advice to you, dear, is to get with child as soon and as often as possible. In a few years, he’ll leave you be.”
The worst problem was, Charlotte didn’t want to be “let be”—oh, yes, certainly when it came to Brandon letting her alone, but over the past three years, parts of her body that had never mattered began to grow and flower, causing stirrings deep in the pit of her belly that Charlotte could only assuage with the help of a wet, soapy sponge at bath time or on the back of a horse. Charlotte had always ridden astride when she was on the estate; better to be unladylike than to take a tumble. But ever since she had discovered that wonderful, tender spot between her legs, riding astride had become more than just a pastime.
