by Erica Vetsch
“I am certain of the terms laid out. And I prefer not to discuss them now.” His clipped statement slammed the door on her father’s grasping eagerness. Charlotte wasn’t sure if she was being bought or sold.
The duke came to Charlotte’s side, tall, broad, and seemingly unflustered by the situation. He held up the newspaper, open to the article.
“Your Grace …” Charlotte began, but he shook his head.
“Someone saved me a bit of trouble. Wasn’t that nice of them? I had intended to insert an announcement in tomorrow’s paper after we had formalized the arrangement, but imagine my surprise—and my mother’s—when this greeted me over the breakfast table.” He pointed to the headline.
“Your Grace …” She tried again, feeling like she might burst into flames at any second. “I … I … I …”
“Perhaps you could get your wrap? The duchess doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
And in a few moments, Charlotte found herself climbing aboard the duke’s carriage, the door, with the Haverly crest emblazoned on the side, closing behind him as he followed her inside.
You’re behaving like a ninnyhammer. Pull your wits together and just say it.
“Your Grace, I am so sorry. I had no idea they—my mother—would do such a thing.” She indicated the newspaper on the seat beside him. “It was my mother who contacted the paper. I know you were going to cry off this morning, reveal that you hadn’t been in earnest last night, and now …” She spread her hands in appeal. “But you still can. I will not hold it against you. I’ve a place to go, away from London, where my reputation won’t matter in the least. I won’t let you be boxed in so neatly by my parents when I know you have no intention of marrying me.”
He leaned forward, grabbed her hands, and silenced her. “So it was your mother? Very enterprising of her. I thought it might have been Dudley Bosworth who had overheard and told his mother. She’s a dreadful gossip.” He paused. “You thought I was going to take back my proposal?”
His hands engulfed hers, warming her ungloved fingers, making her feel small, fragile, and oddly protected. “What proposal? If I recall accurately, you never asked me to marry you. You announced it to our parents and in front of Dudley Bosworth, who was being a beast.”
He sat back, releasing her hands, and she chided herself for missing his touch. Bemused, he rested the length of his finger along his lips, but she could still see the smile he tried to hide.
“So I did. What an oversight. You’re prepared to release me from my non-proposal then?”
Her heart constricted, and she studied her fingers in her lap. “Yes, Your Grace. I know you were merely trying to pique your mother and to be gallant, rescuing me from Dudley’s boorish behavior. You shouldn’t be bound by an impulsive gesture. No one really expects you to marry me. I only hope your reputation won’t suffer from this caper.”
He was silent so long, she finally looked up. “Charlotte, has it occurred to you that I might not want to be released from this entanglement? I might have been a tad impulsive, blurting it out last night, but I’ve thought it over, and I believe being engaged to you suits me.”
She desperately wanted to ask him to explain before she had to face his mother. Why would being engaged to her suit him? She wasn’t beautiful, she had no great fortune, and she wasn’t known for her social graces—just the opposite, in fact. She had been told repeatedly that she possessed none of the qualities a titled peer wanted in a wife. He could have any woman he wanted, and somehow he’d gotten stuck with her.
The carriage lurched to a stop, and he reached for the door handle. “We are about to beard the lioness in her den, and I should warn you, she’s in a towering temper. However, her roar is much worse than her bite. Oh, I am told my sister arrived in town last night for a brief visit, so you can meet her as well. She was asleep when I got home, and I was away this morning before she arose.”
Charlotte couldn’t feel her feet as they went up the steps of the townhouse. Red brick, black shutters, white trim, everything symmetrical, square, perfect. And large. The duke’s townhome took up almost an entire city block and would rival the Tiptree country estate for square footage.
A footman opened the door as they approached, and they entered a hall that might have seemed cavernous but was so beautifully decorated that it felt both comforting and austere. The sign of perfect taste. A floating staircase spiraled up from the black-and-white marble floor, and small tables and chairs clustered between the doorways on either side, inviting one to sit and visit for a while. Every wall had been painted in a mural of a country scene with rolling green hills and pristine white clouds. Surrounded by such pastoral serenity, her nerves jangled even more.
Relieved of their wraps, Marcus took Charlotte’s elbow and led her into the first room to their left, an impressive drawing room with high ceilings, pale-green walls, and intricate plasterwork.
The duchess stood at the window. She must’ve seen them arrive. When she turned, her eyes could’ve frozen lava. Her mouth wore a crab-apple pucker, and every line of her body exuded disapproval. She wore a beautiful purple dress that screamed expense and that brought out the silver in her carefully curled hair. A black shawl hugged her shoulders, and Charlotte was reminded that she was less than a year bereaved.
Charlotte put her hand on the duke’s arm for support and dipped a curtsy. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
The duchess inhaled deeply, closing her eyes, as if forcing herself to keep her temper. “I had hoped this was all a bad dream, but I shall have to make the best of it. My son is headstrong, to say the least.” Her chin went up, as if she would be staunch and stalwart regardless of her circumstances.
The duke rolled his eyes. “Madam, please. We’ve been through this. I do not make decisions merely to try your patience. However, you are beginning to try mine. Charlotte, welcome to Haverly House, my headquarters when I am in London.”
A clattering on the stairs and quick footsteps behind them had Charlotte turning to find the source of the commotion. A petite dark-haired young woman burst into the room, stopping so quickly her dress flew around her legs and her curls bounced on her cheeks.
“Marcus.” The young woman all but launched herself at the duke, who caught her, smiling, and spun her in a half circle. “You’re looking well, but what is this I’ve been hearing? A fiancée?”
“Hello, Soph. Still acting the hoyden, I see.” He set her on the carpet and turned her by the shoulders. “May I present Lady Charlotte Tiptree? Charlotte, this is—” But his sister cut him off.
“Hello, I’m Sophie.” Small hands came out to greet Charlotte. “I’m so pleased to meet the girl who could turn Marcus’s head. I can’t wait to get to know you. We’re going to have so much fun. I can tell. Anyone with sense enough to fall in love with my brother—who is wonderful, by the way, but don’t tell him, for he shall become so puffed up with his own importance that he will be insufferable …” She paused. “I’ve lost the path of what I was saying. Anyway, it is such a pleasure to meet you, and I wish you every happiness.” Her eyes were the same blue as her brother’s and shone with interest.
Before Charlotte could respond to this torrent of words, the duchess snapped, “One would think you had not been properly trained, young lady. Clomping about the house like a plow horse, bursting into a room, and blabbering the instant you arrive. And your name is Lady Sophia. Why must you insist upon shortening it?”
Rather than looking abashed, Lady Sophia grinned at Marcus and gave him another quick hug. “Mother, if I didn’t disappoint you at every turn, you’d have nothing to talk about or occupy your time. Charlotte, do sit down. I want to know absolutely everything about you. How did you and Marcus meet? Was his proposal romantic? Have you chosen a date yet?”
Charlotte felt as if she were being jerked and popped like a kite on a string. One reception so cold, the other so warm. She found herself drawn down to a settee beside the duke’s sister, listening to her chatter and not being
able to say a word.
Finally, Sophie laughed. “I can see I’ve overwhelmed you. I do apologize. Marcus says I fly through life, trying to cram too much into each day, and he’s probably right. He’ll tell you my tongue is never still, though that isn’t strictly true. But I assure you, I’m not scatterbrained or flighty, even though I come across like that, and I can be quiet and let others speak, if I put my mind to it.” She laughed, and Charlotte found herself laughing too, though she didn’t quite know why. Sophie was a refreshing delight.
With a pang, she realized Lady Sophia was a bit like she had hoped Pippa Cashel would be. Open and friendly, willing to chat and be friends right away.
“I’ve been told I need to bridle my tongue more times than I can count,” Charlotte admitted. “It’s a trial, isn’t it? When there are so many interesting things to say and to hear and to learn?”
The duchess snorted and adjusted her shawl. The duke stood by the fireplace, his arm on the mantel, watching them.
“I wish I could stay in London for the wedding, but I’m only here for a few days. I needed to fetch something from the Bank of England for Mrs. Richardson. My fiancé put her into my care, and when my darling Rich returns from sea, she will continue to live with us. We will be a happy family at last.” The longing and confidence in her voice touched something in Charlotte’s heart.
A happy family at last. Was that also in Charlotte’s future? She glanced at the austere duke.
“I suppose the most important issue at hand is when this … marriage … is to take place?” the duchess asked. She said the word as if it tasted badly and she wanted to spit it out.
Charlotte waited. She had no idea what was appropriate or if she even had a say in the matter. Her mother seemed set on charging like a bull, and the duchess seemed as if she would put off the event indefinitely. But what did the duke want?
“Charlotte, why don’t I show you the rest of the house, and we can discuss a few things.” The duke held out his hand.
Lady Sophia bounced off the settee. “Oh yes, I love Haverly House, though I am hardly ever here. Wait until you see the music room. It’s my favorite, though I can’t sing or play a note. And the portrait gallery. So many funny old faces and clothes. Do let me show you.”
“Soph, I don’t believe I included you in the tour.” The duke smiled to soften his words, and Lady Sophia made a face at him and subsided gracefully onto the settee once more. “It’s just possible that I should like to have my fiancée to myself for a while.” He led Charlotte from the room, closing the door on his mother and sister.
“A bit like trying to catch a kittiwake on the wing, is my sister. She spends most of her time in Oxfordshire on a neighboring property to ours. Her betrothed, Baron Richardson, is a major in the Royal Marines aboard the ship HMS Dogged, and she lives at his home, caring for his elderly mother. When he returns, they will marry, and she’ll settle down.” He sounded almost regretful, as if he didn’t mind her exuberance at all and would be saddened to see it dimmed. “I’m glad she won’t move too far away, however. As I said, Baron Richardson’s property borders the Haverly estates, so she will be your neighbor in the country.”
Charlotte tried to wrap her mind around the thought of living in Oxfordshire, having neighbors … of marrying this man and having their futures forever intertwined. It all sounded as if he were speaking of someone else, because she had never let herself dream of anything like this.
The duke showed her a morning room, a vast dining room, Lady Sophia’s music room. Lavish yet tasteful furnishings and appointments decorated each space, with harmony from one room to the next.
“It’s all so beautiful. I doubt Carlton House could rival it.” The Prince Regent’s residence was in the newspapers constantly, as he poured money into its design and refurbishment.
“It’s Cilla and my mother’s doing. The entire house was in an uproar for months two years ago as they redecorated every nook and cranny to host my brother’s wedding breakfast. I’m glad I wasn’t in residence for most of it. I only got posted to the War Department for the tail end of the renovations.”
“Cilla is your sister-in-law?”
“Yes, my late brother’s wife. She lives here too. With her daughter, Honora Mary. I’m surrounded by females.” He smiled ruefully. “And here I am intending to bring another into the house.”
The baby who the duchess wanted to be a boy so he would inherit the title—at least that was what all the gossips were saying. And from what the Earl of Whitelock had said, that Marcus had wanted to be a male too. What kind of man would pray that he wouldn’t inherit a title and lands and fortune?
They went up the elegant staircase, and he opened the double doors at the head of the stairs to reveal a massive room that spanned the entire back of the house. “How will this suit you for a wedding reception venue? Or do you think your parents would prefer the wedding breakfast to be at their townhouse?”
The ballroom could easily seat two hundred. Four enormous chandeliers were encased in cloth bags to keep the dust off, and the furnishings along the perimeter wore holland covers, but the walls were white with gilded carvings, and tall, draped windows gave out onto a balcony. And he wanted to know if it would suit? Without a doubt, her parents would prefer the festivities be held here.
“Is this really going to happen? Are we going to marry?”
He took her elbow, drawing her into the hallway and closing the ballroom door. “Let’s go to my sanctum sanctorum and talk about it. I promised you an explanation, didn’t I?”
The moment he led her into the room he called his sanctum, she was lost. Shelves covered every wall, and books lined every shelf. The space smelled of paper, leather, and undiscovered worlds. Deep chairs, a massive fireplace, a desk strewn with paper and books. She could not have designed a more perfect place.
It wasn’t until he laughed that she realized her mouth was open and her hands were clasped under her chin.
“If I had known this would be your reaction, I would have brought you here first. From the look on your face, I could buy you for a shilling about now.”
She shut her mouth, swallowing and trying in vain to keep the heat out of her cheeks. “I do beg your pardon. I didn’t realize … you weren’t jesting when you said that you personally accounted for much of Hatchards’ profits.”
“If I wind up penniless someday, it will be due to an inability to stop buying books.” He picked up a volume from his desk and handed it to her. “Quite possibly from buying them for my future wife. Call this a betrothal gift.” He shrugged. “Some men give chocolates …”
Charlotte took the book with trembling hands, a lump in her throat. She ran her fingertips over the gold-embossed title on the cover. The Complete History of the Greek Empire.
She looked up. “How did you know?”
He shrugged again. “I listened. You made an inquiry at Hatchards, and Quillington proved most resourceful. I hope you enjoy it. I sent a footman around for it first thing this morning.” He put his hand over hers on the book, pressing it slightly into the leather. “I would have given you my own copy, but it’s tattered and well used. It was a textbook when I attended university, and I fear I didn’t take care of it as I should have.”
“I have always wished I could attend university.” She tried to quell the sensations running up her arm at his touch. “I had to settle for Miss Hitchins’ School for Young Ladies in Dartmoor. Though I did learn a lot there.”
“I suppose history class was your favorite?” He drew her toward a settee before the fireplace.
“Yes, though some of the most important lessons I learned weren’t part of Miss Hitchin’s formal curriculum.” A knot formed in her stomach. Dare she broach such a personal subject? If they were contemplating marriage, she must.
“Lessons about life, I suppose?” His leg brushed hers as they sat side by side. “I learned my fair share, both at school and in the army.”
“Life lessons, yes, but Miss Hitchi
n’s is a religious school too. I learned about faith and the difference between religion and a relationship with God. My favorite teacher, Miss Wright, taught us to read the Scriptures for ourselves and to know the God of the Word.” Charlotte clenched her hands on the cover of the Greek history. Her relationship with God was essentially a private thing, and here she was pulling back the curtain and letting a stranger look into the deepest part of her. Would he understand? Would his feelings match hers?
The duke rubbed his chin lightly, his blue eyes appraising her. “I think your Miss Wright was very wise. Reading Scripture and knowing God are more important than merely belonging to a particular church or paying lip service to a denomination or religion. I can see we will have some lively discussions of both theology and history, as time allows. I like a good theological discussion on a Sunday afternoon.”
At his agreement, the knot in her middle eased. If he was willing to discuss theology with her in addition to history, they would get along well.
“Now, as you reminded me in the carriage on our way here, I have been remiss regarding an actual proposal.” He took the book, setting it beside him, and possessed himself of both her hands. “Lady Charlotte Tiptree, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
This was really happening to her. Though he had professed no love for her—and really, on such a short acquaintance, she shouldn’t expect him to, nor would she trust the sincerity of such a thing if he did—he did seem in earnest about marrying her.
And only days ago she had vowed to accept the proposal of the first man who would also buy her books.
Now that the moment was upon her, she realized what a shallow, silly thing that had been to promise herself. Looking into his gray-blue eyes, she searched for a reason to refuse and could find none. Her heart was at peace with the idea, even if her mind was in a dither trying to come to terms with everything that had transpired in the last twelve hours.
“I accept your proposal. After all, it is a fine library.” She gave him a saucy grin.