Page 48 of Tamed By a Duke
"Of course I am! Should a man not celebrate when he has won the hand of his fair maiden? And it is all thanks to you, dear cousin. If you had not stepped up to try and tackle your—what was it you called her?—blowsabella, I might never have stood a chance with Miss Bianca. My eternal gratitude to you, Penrith, for taming the shrew that is Miss Drew."
Penrith had tried, multiple times during Mr Dubarry's outburst to silence the lad, but he had not succeeded. Charlotte felt all the blood drain from her face as the weight of Dubarry's announcement sank in.
Penrith had only courted her so that his cousin might be allowed to court Bianca? This, of course, hurt, but not as much as hearing her character discussed so cruelly.
He thought her a blowse? A shrew to be tamed? Was she just a joke to him, an amusing tale to be recounted at dinner in White's?
Hurt turned to anger, as Charlotte thought on all of Penrith's soft words and promises. How had she been so stupid to trust a man—any man—after what had happened with Charles? They were all the same; they saw women as pawns to be moved around a chessboard for their own gain.
Charlotte rose quickly to a stand, searching for a way to flee the sunken garden. The only route of escape, she realised with a jolt, was the steps on which Penrith and Dubarry stood.
For a moment, she hesitated. Then righteous anger coursed through her veins; why should she slink away shame-faced? Penrith and his wretched cousin were the ones who should feel embarrassment, not her.
Charlotte lifted the hem of her dress and swept across the pebbles toward the steps. Penrith, his face pale, turned to look at her as she approached.
"Charlotte, I can explain," he said, reaching out for her hand, but she easily side-stepped him.
"I think your cousin has explained well enough, your Grace," she sniffed, casting both men as disparaging a look as she could muster. "You are both charlatans of the highest order. I bid you good-night and good-bye."
Tilting her chin proudly, Charlotte swept past both men, shocking Mr Dubarry—who was definitely deep in his cups—so much that he took a tumble down the steps.
The sound of cursing—Penrith's—followed Charlotte as she made her way back inside, but she did not stop to help. She did not stop moving, in fact, until she had corralled her grandmother and father together, and out the door to their carriage.
"D-did something happen, dear?" Lady Everleigh ventured, once the trio were safely ensconced in their vehicle and on the way back to Grosvenor Square.
Charlotte hesitated; how could she tell her grandmama what had transpired, when Lady Everleigh had pinned her hopes upon a proposal from Penrith? But then, her grandmother's disappointment could be nothing in comparison to the crushing pain in Charlotte's chest.
"I have been greatly disappointed, Grandmama," Charlotte finally said, though even as she spoke, she knew she was understating her suffering.
Her heart had broken in two, and she feared that it would never be whole again.
Chapter Fourteen
Hugh did not often think about the perception of time, but in the week following his disastrous ball, he found himself thinking on it constantly. How strange it was that sometimes a day could fly by, or an hour feel like a second, and on other occasions, time seemed to stop moving altogether.
Unfortunately, the latter currently applied to Hugh, who had found each day since Charlotte had waltzed out of his life interminable. Sad hours seem long, he though with a wry smile.
Oh, Hugh had tried to fill his hours well enough; calling on Charlotte, writing letters to Charlotte, arranging for bouquets of hot-house flowers to be sent to Charlotte...
Each of his efforts went unacknowledged. He had suffered the indignity of being told—five days in a row—that Charlotte was not "at home" by the Drew's stoic butler, Doyle. On the last such occasion, the butler had seen fit to take pity on Hugh, and had gently informed him that he did not think Miss Drew would ever be at home, should His Grace call.
Likewise, his letters, filled with heart-felt apologies, had gone unanswered. That they were probably being used for kindling, like one of Montague's lists, was not something that Hugh could bear to think about.
He had held out hope that perhaps his bouquets of flowers might at least have survived Charlotte's ire, until that morning, when he had called upon Agnes Thatchery to find that her small, cramped house resembled a hot-house.
"Miss Drew has sent a bouquet over daily with Thomas," the young woman had said, as she'd brought Hugh inside.
"I suppose they're from an unwanted admirer," Hugh had replied, attempting to amuse himself with dark humour.
"She must really not want him if she can't stand to look at these beauties."
The young woman's reply had been too astute for Hugh, who had quickly changed the subject to the reason for his call. Hugh had made arrangements, he informed her, for Agnes to take up residence at a cottage on his estate in Kent. There she would be given work—mending what needed mending from Penrith House—and Molly might be able to enjoy her childhood in the safety of the countryside.
"W-why are you offering to do this?" Agnes had asked, her expression more than a little wary. Hugh did not begrudge her her caution, after all the girl had been used and abused by the aristocracy before.
"I am doing this for Miss Drew," he had offered her a simple reply, "It is far easier for all concerned if I manage your care, rather than she."
Agnes had readily accepted his simple explanation, and after making arrangements for one of his staff to collect her, Molly and all of their belongings the next week, Hugh had taken his leave.
