Page 5 of The Duke and the Wrong Bride

“Phineas!” her mother chastised.

He grimaced. “Sorry, dear. And sorry, Charlotte. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I’m just worried, is all.” He shot his wife a glare. “About the whereabouts of our daughter. What father wouldn’t be?”

“Very well said,” her mother responded with a tiny smirk.

Charlotte met her mother’s smile and matched it, then bowed her head as she sat at the end of the dining table. It was already laden with foodstuffs, and as soon as she was seated, one of the servers began to make a plate for her. Not that she was hungry, but again, she had to feign normality. And what was more, she wanted to be here to hear what her parents were saying and what they might decide now that Beatrice was in the wind.

She eyed both her parents, who had stopped bickering a moment so they might eat. Her father, ever the slob, shoveled a piece of cake into his mouth, caring not for the crumbs that fell onto his belly. He was a portly fellow with heavy jowls, a balding head, and big brown eyes that made him look kind, even when he was angry. Contrast that to her mother, who was petite in stature and frame, sharp-featured, and more intelligent than she let on—although it could be seen behind her eyes.

They made an odd pair, Charlotte had always thought. Her father was all bluster, her mother more reserved but far sharper, able to keep him in line with a simple look. Also an arranged marriage, they hadn’t been in love when they met, but, at least Charlotte liked to think, love had grown, and they were now as happy as anyone she knew.

It was no wonder her father had been so insistent on Beatrice marrying in the same fashion. He knew as well as anyone else that love would grow in time, all one needed was patience.

“Charlotte,” her father said suddenly, “where have you been all morning?”

Her cheeks flushed red, and she concentrated on her hands as she spoke. “In bed, Father. I was tired, is all.”

“You’re not sick, I hope?”

“No, just a little weary.” She looked up, and he was staring right at her. “But I’m fine now.”

“Good.” He reached for his glass of orange juice and took a long sip, watching her the whole while. “When His Grace arrives, which should be within the hour, I expect you to be looking your best.”

“W-what? Why?” she stammered.

“Because I said so.” He glanced at Charlotte’s mother, a silent conversation seemed to be had between them, and then he nodded and took another sip. “You are to be with us when we greet him, understand?”

“Y-yes, Father.” What else could she say?

Charlotte’s mind was running faster than an untethered horse as she readied for the Duke’s arrival. She bathed as soon as she finished breaking her fast. Miss Forbes helped her pick out her outfit, a white muslin gown paired with a maroon spencer, while her brown hair was arranged into ringlets. And then she fussed as she helped apply her powder. All the while, Charlotte wondered about that look her father and mother had shared meant. Surely, it was nothing? Surely, she was just imagining things? But she couldn’t dislodge the sense of worry that was slowly building inside of her. That feeling that something was happening, which she was a part of but hadn’t been informed.

There was nothing she could do about it, however, and thus, when the Duke’s carriage was sighted turning onto the drive, she made sure to meet her parents outside the manor, watching as it slowly approached through the garden and pulled up where the three of them stood waiting.

As she waited, she glanced back at the manor, spotting her younger sister and two brothers watching from the window in her sister’s room. Her sister stuck out her tongue, and her brothers made faces. All three of them were so young, young enough that they didn’t have to worry about decorum and expectations. Hannah, especially, was able to sit back and enjoy being the youngest in a way that Charlotte had never been able to.

“Straighten up,” her father instructed as the carriage came to a steady halt. “Smile, girl.”

“I am, Father…”

“You wouldn’t know it!”

“Phineas,” her mother sighed. “Leave her be. She looks fine.”

“I don’t want fine. I want resplendent!” He moved as if to force her to stand straight, as if he was going to take her by the mouth and push her lips into a gushing smile. But then the carriage doors swung open, and he was quick to drop his hands and turn back.

The Duke of Hayward appeared in the carriage doors. At first glance, he was everything that Charlotte had heard. Tall and well-built. Dashing and handsome. Dark and mysterious in that way all the women loved. He hovered in the doorway, eyeing the three of them with a curious smirk. And then those eyes fell on Charlotte, and his smirk turned into a smile, matched by his eyes, behind which there was a sudden flash of humor.

Charlotte’s mouth dropped open. Her heart began to race inside her chest. Her breathing became short and sharp. And she half turned as if to flee.

“Charlotte!” her father growled out of the corner of his mouth. “Smile, dammit!”

The Duke! It was the same man who had rescued her last night in the tavern. There could be no mistaking it! Even less chance once he stepped down from the carriage and into the light. As he swept in closer, that broad smile of his was seemingly one of greeting for his hosts but also mocking and just a little smug as he sized Charlotte up, clearly recognizing her the same way she recognized him.

“Your Grace!” Her father stepped forward and offered a deep bow. “I cannot thank you enough for gracing us with your presence.”

“And you, Lord Ramsbury.” The Duke’s bow was half as low as her father’s. “Your invitation was much appreciated. And Lady Ramsbury…” He reached for the hand of Lady Ramsbury, who gave it and giggled as he kissed the back of it. “You are as beautiful as they say.” His eyes then flicked to Charlotte. “And this ravishing creature must be Lady Beatrice Bolton.” His eyes flashed again as he held out a hand to her. “I hate to repeat myself, but again, your beauty is beyond even what the heralds sing.”

“Ah, no…” Her father stepped forward. “This is my second daughter, Lady Charlotte Bolton. Charlotte…” he hissed at Charlotte, who was yet to offer her hand.

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