Page 1 of A Lady's Dangerous Secret
CHAPTER ONE
LONDON, APRIL 1816
Idon’t want to be here.
I need a husband.
I don’t want to be here.
I need a husband.
Lady Charlotte Tipton, daughter of the Earl of Pulverbatch, braced herself for what she must do. She was at one of the premiere balls of the London Season, because she had a secret.
A terrible secret.
No, a dangerous secret.
Her blue eyes swept over the tableau before her. Hundreds of candles illuminated a gilded ballroom filled with thecrème de la crèmeof Society. Bejeweled ladies in their finest gowns batted their eyelashes at preening gentlemen in perfectly tied cravats. Musicians tuned their strings in preparation for a night of dancing. Many would call this scene idyllic. Except Charlotte. All she saw was a means to an end.
She had made haste to travel to London only three weeks prior, due to theIncident.Charlotte’s entrance into thetonhad been an abstract thought until now. Her current presence at the Markham Ball and her debut at Almack’s Assembly Rooms several nights earlier solidified her fate. She would need to playthe role of an innocent debutante in search of a husband, as if her life depended on it.
Because it did.
So much had changed in such a short time. If Charlotte had still been at home, she would have ridden her dappled gray mare astride through the hills of Shropshire with a cool wind whipping across her face. Instead, only hours ago, her lithe body had been forcefully maneuvered into stays that had been tightened without remorse. Then she had been poured into a ball gown consisting of a white satin slip and a silver net overlay embroidered with beaded flowers. Her chestnut hair had been wrangled into a chignon, which offered her the gift of throbbing pain behind her temples. Finally, she had been anointed with a borrowed sapphire parure that was meant to be herpièce de résistance,but the jewels only weighed her down. Despite these tribulations, Charlotte was determined to persevere and secure a titled husband as quickly as possible.
She was off to a tepid start thus far. She had been paraded about Almack’s as if she were a piece of prized horseflesh, while whispers of her generous dowry spread throughout the crowd. The next day, she had received plenty of flowers from potential suitors, though an air of desperation permeated their notes. She understood desperation all too well, but she did not have much time to spare. Settling for a debt-ridden popinjay would be a last resort.
The distinct pressure of a hand on her upper arm caught her attention. A pair of chocolate-brown eyes bore into her. It was none other than her inimitable and social-climbing aunt, Lady Frances Howe, Marchioness of Hardwicke.
“Damn.”
“I heard that, Charlotte.” Her aunt’s fingers further tightened on her arm. “I did not present you to the Queen to hear you swear like a sailor. Act like a lady.”
Charlotte attempted to lift the edges of her mouth into a smile, though all she felt was a grimace. Her aunt did not take note, and with Charlotte in tow, charged into the crowd like a general marching into battle. They approached a group with their heads dipped in polite conversation. Her aunt’s face lit up. “Lady Carrington, it has been too long!”
A graceful woman with amber eyes and blonde hair curtsied. “Lady Hardwicke. We’re delighted to see you. You remember my daughter, Bridget?”
The young woman, a spitting image of Lady Carrington, stepped away from her mother with downcast eyes and gave a deep curtsy to Aunt Frances, who said, “Of course, this must be your first Season. This is my niece, Charlotte.”
The two matrons proceeded to dive into the lateston-ditsof High Society,while Charlotte and Lady Bridget hovered near their elbows, with Lady Bridget still silent and eyes downcast.
The supposed scandals of thetondid not interest Charlotte one bit. Her gaze drifted to two gentlemen engaged in atête-à-têtenearby. These men were oblivious to the women but posed a potential escape from her aunt’s idle chatter. Charlotte stared at the men in hopes they would feel her eyes upon them and turn around. Alas, after what felt like minutes of trying, their heads remained bowed deep in conversation, creating an immovable obstacle; meanwhile, guests shuffled around them with jostling elbows and swishing skirts.
One of these skirts belonged to a woman with a hawklike nose, curly red hair, and hazel eyes, who stepped toward them. “Lady Hardwicke, Lady Carrington.” She dipped into a curtsy.
Charlotte’s aunt looked down her nose at the intrusion and said, “Lady Booth.”
Once the social nicety of introductions was over, Lady Booth took over the conversation. “Lady Hardwicke, I’msoglad tomeetyour niece. I heard she is adiamond of the first water.”Lady Booth’s calculating eyes assessed Charlotte from her chignon to her slippers. “Youarea pretty thing,” she muttered. “I understand this is your first Season. Butwhyhave you notcomeoutsooner?” Lady Booth smirked while awaiting a response.
Charlotte’s aunt was unperturbed. “Why my niece is the sweetest young woman and could not bear to leave her dear mother alone in Shropshire. You know how the countess prefers the country.”
Her aunt referenced a touchy subject for Charlotte, whose “dear mother” was not so dear at all. Charlotte doubted ‘her mother, the countess’ had even noticed that her only daughter had suddenly departed for London.
But that was nothing new.
“Luckily,” her aunt continued. “Lady Charlotte had no pressureto snag a wealthy husband the moment she left the schoolroom. How are your darling daughters?”
Charlotte flinched. Her aunt’s counterattack was commendable.
