Page 9 of The Duke and the Wrong Bride

“You’re doing very well, by the way.” The Dowager Duchess of Hayward sighed as she sat down beside Charlotte. She was the Duke’s mother and, like the Duke, was an enigma to both Charlotte and the ton.

“Excuse me?”

The Dowager Duchess smirked, the wrinkles about her lips tightening “Oh, don’t pretend with me, dear. All these other hangers-on might be happy to play the game, but you and I both know what this is.”

Charlotte frowned, not entirely certain if she was being tested or not. “I’m not sure what you mean. My happiness knows no bounds. His Grace is?—”

“Ignoring you,” the Dowager Duchess cut her off, keeping the smirk, which rose to her eyes—eyes which were as green as her son’s. “But I wouldn’t take it personally, dear. Henry is… mercurial like that. Not at all like these other men who now bend to his will simply because he has a title. Why, I half suspect he’s enjoying himself as much as you are. That is to say, not at all.”

Charlotte tried to remain composed, not letting her confusion at the comment reach her face. She’d heard about the Dowager Duchess, of course, a woman who was once a lady of the ton, only to give up her title so that she might marry a member of the gentry, all in the name of love. With that in mind, it was no wonder she could see through the facade that Charlotte was trying to hide behind.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Charlotte offered plainly.

She glanced across the room just in time to see the Duke eyeing her and his mother. He was engaged with a portly man who stood out because of how simply he was dressed, almost looking like a worker who had somehow snuck inside. The man made a joke, but the Duke didn’t hear it—too focused on Charlotte and his mother—so the man threw an arm around the Duke and pulled him back into the conversation.

“He’s a sweet boy,” the Dowager Duchess continued. She was older than Charlotte’s parents by some years, dressed for splendor but looking uncomfortable in it. This entire scene, in fact, didn’t seem to suit her one bit. “Yes, he wears a hard outer shell, but I didn’t raise him to blend in with his peers. I raised him to stand out among them.” She raised a knowing eyebrow at Charlotte, as if what she had said made any sense.

“All right,” Charlotte said slowly. “And thank you for your kind words.”

The Dowager Duchess sighed and shook her head, looking as if she was going to add to her cryptic comment, but then decided better of it. “Give him time,” she said instead as she rose. “And who knows, maybe you’ll be happy.”

Charlotte sat alone for the next ten minutes, which she was grateful for, as it gave her time to consider what the Dowager Duchess had said. A strange message that she didn’t entirely understand and wasn’t sure she was meant to. Something about the Duke being kinder than he seemed. That maybe this marriage wasn’t going to be as cold and isolating as it had already proven itself to be. Kind words, sure. Hopeful, even. But for them to be proven true, the Duke would have to make an effort which, if the last two weeks were anything to go by, he wasn’t interested in doing one little bit.

“Why do you look so familiar?” a gruff voice suddenly spoke.

Charlotte started as she pulled herself back into the moment. Standing beside her, over her really, was a man she recognized for all the wrong reasons. She’d seen him earlier at the ceremony, knew him to be the Duke’s cousin or something of that nature, but had hoped to avoid him for reasons that were all too obvious.

“I don’t know what you mean…” she said meekly, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I can’t place it,” he continued, still standing over her, leaning on the table now to get closer. “Your face. Have we met before?”

“I don’t believe we have.”

“Yes… there’s something there. God! I shouldn’t have had so much to drink.” He laughed to himself, slamming a hand on the table to keep himself from falling.

Charlotte looked dead ahead, still refusing to meet his eyes. His name was Graham Stanhope, the Baron Talbot, and the moment she had appeared at the end of the aisle earlier, when she saw his mop of bright red hair, she knew in that instant who he was. The same man who had accosted her in the tavern two weeks earlier. The only other soul besides her husband who knew what she had done.

Her cheeks grew hot as she felt him eyeing her, and she prayed he wouldn’t realize where they had met. This day was enough of a travesty without adding Lord Talbot’s drunken antics to the mix. And although the Duke already knew what she had done, she didn’t fancy her parents or anybody else finding out.

“Let me take a look at you,” he grumbled suddenly, only to grab her by the arm and yank her to her feet.

“Oh!” she cried out.

“That’s better.” He was an ugly individual, she could now see. A squashed face. Pock-marked skin. A nose that was too small for the size of his head. “Gosh, there is something about you…”

“Please, My Lord.” Charlotte tried to pull her arm free, but he refused to yield. “If you don’t mind…” There were a few people nearby watching, but nobody moved to do anything. “You’re hurting me.”

“Your eyes…” he said, forcing her to look at him. “Where have I seen?—”

“What are you doing!” The Duke appeared from nowhere.

One minute, Lord Talbot had Charlotte by the arm, and the next, he was being pried off Charlotte and pushed back.

“What’s the matter with you!” Lord Talbot cried as he stumbled and regained his balance. “I was just?—”

“Keep your hands off my wife,” the Duke growled. He stood over him as a wolf might its prey, warning him off with a glare so rueful that the temperature in the room seemed to drop.

“I meant nothing by it,” Lord Talbot said as he straightened his coat. “We were just speaking.”

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