Page 38 of The Duke and the Wrong Bride

“Don’t you look lovely, Your Grace,” Lady Knotwood said.

“Thank you,” Charlotte said with a relieved smile. “As do you.”

“And after all that has happened.” Lady Knotwood sighed. “It’s good to see you putting on a brave face.”

“All that has happened?” Charlotte frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you?—”

“Your sister, dear,” Lady Knotwood said, voice dropping as she leaned in so that nobody might overhear. “Running off with a commoner—one of your father’s staff, I was told. Gosh, how such a thing might happen…” She clicked her tongue. “He must be beside himself.”

Charlotte stiffened. “I can assure you, my sister did no such thing. She is ill, Lady Knotwood. In bed as we speak.”

“Yes, yes.” Lady Knotwood touched her arm and nodded. “Of course, she is. It wouldn’t do for the Duke to hear such things either now, would it? I can’t imagine the embarrassment of being passed over for a farm boy.” She tittered. “No wonder the two of you have remained so hidden all this time.”

“Lady Knotwood,” Charlotte started again, meeting the woman’s eyes, so she might see that there was no attempt to trick or lie to her. “Whatever it is you’ve heard, it is false. My sister is ill. And I would ask that you remind anyone who asks of this.”

“Of course, of course.” Lady Knotwood nodded. “And as I said, my lips are sealed.” She winked at Charlotte, smiled to herself, and then scurried away.

And so the theme of the night was established.

It took Charlotte well over fifteen minutes to reach her husband. Not because of the distance between them, but because every time she started in his direction, somebody else would appear as if from thin air to ask her about her sister, and then assure her they didn’t believe the horrid rumor they seemed so intent on spreading.

Beatrice was locked in a dungeon underneath the manor after she announced that she would kill herself rather than marry the Duke.

Beatrice had died suddenly, and the rumor of her running away was designed to keep people from finding out.

Beatrice was caught in bed with another man the night before the wedding and had since been sent to a parish in the north to live out the rest of her life as a nun.

Beatrice was so ashamed of the man whom she was marrying, for the Duke was a known rake, that she fled the country rather than being forced to wed him.

Each rumor was more ridiculous than the last but also more believed. None was spoken about as if they might be a lie. None were seen to be the falsehoods they so clearly were. And every single one expressed the exact same aim—to shame Beatrice, to embarrass the Duke, and to cast Charlotte’s marriage in the worst possible light.

By the time she reached her husband, Charlotte was just about ready to demand that they go home immediately because she couldn’t bear to have one more conversation with a so-called friend who only seemed interested in confirming the very worst. And not out of worry, but because they wanted to confirm the gossip so they might spread it.

Henry saw her coming, smiled with delight as she approached, and then frowned when he noticed the exasperated look on her face.

“Is everything all right?”

“We have a problem,” Charlotte muttered under her breath, aware of the group of gentlemen he was with, not wanting to give them anything they might use against her. “I’m afraid I have to steal my husband from you.”

“And where might you be stealing him to?” Lord Talbot asked.

Her eyes went wide, only just now seeing the red-headed lord for the first time. She lowered her face, not in the mood to have him recognize her finally, as that was one more rumor she didn’t much feel like dealing with tonight. The first true one, as it would be.

“A dance,” she said. “His Grace promised me one earlier, and you all know that he’s a man of his word.”

“Ah, right, a dance,” Henry agreed, allowing himself to be pulled from the group. “I’ll be back,” he assured his friends. “Have to keep the wife happy, you know? As challenging as that is,” he joked.

The men chortled in agreement, and Charlotte grimaced, understanding the double meaning of what he’d just said, that being his need to keep her happy because, by all accounts, they were not, because as everyone seemed to know, Beatrice was supposed to marry him and many things had transpired to stop that from happening.

Henry led Charlotte to the dance floor, arm in arm, and as they walked, Charlotte felt the eyes on her. She saw the whispers hidden behind hands. She smiled and made sure to stay close to Henry, wanting to appear as if they were as happy as a couple could be.

“So,” Henry began once they reached the dance floor, centered, and waited for the music to begin. He held her right hand in his while his other hand rested on her hip. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

The music started, a waltz led by the string quartet set on a stage toward the back of the hall. Henry began to lead her immediately, his steps confident, the way he guided her suggestive of his adept dance moves. Their first dance, something that Charlotte had been looking forward to all week, was now spoiled with the rotten rumors that swirled around them.

“We have a problem,” Charlotte began, making sure to smile as she spoke while keeping in time with the music and the other couples who swept across the floor.

“Yes, you said that.”

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