Page 16 of Not his Marchioness
Bursting into her chamber, she hesitated, her hand hovering over the bell-pull. Should she ring for her maid?
No. No one must know. Well, Marianne would know. And their aunt, eventually. But only at the last minute.
Charlotte found her valise in the dressing room and flung it onto the bed. She unlatched it, crammed in the first items that came to hand—stockings, stays, a nightgown—then made for the armoire. She seized a handful of simple gowns, folded them carelessly, and stuffed them inside.
Once they reached Scotland , a servant would see to the wrinkles.
Did they have servants? Nathaniel hadn’t grown up titled, though he was the heir to a dukedom. But servants or no, she couldn’t be bothered. Wrinkled muslin was the least of her worries.
She crossed to her writing desk, snatching up her perfume bottle, coin purse, and a miniature of Marianne. She was weighing whether to take her keepsake box when a knock sounded at the door, startling her.
The door opened before she could reply.
“Marianne!” Charlotte gasped, hurrying to shut the door behind her. “Quickly, come in. I must tell you something. Something quite extraordin?—”
“I know,” Marianne interrupted, wide-eyed, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “But I’m not certain it is extraordinary. Father’s in raptures. Aunt Eugenia looks as if she’s swallowed a lemon, and I’ve no notion what to think.”
Charlotte froze. “Father?” she echoed warily. “What does he have to do with any of this? He cannot possibly know about Scotland.”
Her heart rate quickened.
“Who told him?” she demanded.
“No one,” Marianne replied, shaking her head. “He read it.”
“Read it?” Charlotte frowned. “Marianne, what are you talking about?”
Marianne gave her a look of pure disbelief. “That you’re to be married. To Lord Ravenscar.”
“I’m not,” Charlotte said hotly. “How could he possibly know about our conversation but not about Scotland? None of this makes the least bit of sense!”
“It’s in the scandal sheets,” Marianne breathed. “The Tatler, The Times, even The Standard. Wait here.” She dashed out of the room.
Charlotte stood frozen, as if turned to ice.
Moments later, Marianne returned, clutching two newspapers.
“Page three,” she said, unfolding one and thrusting it into Charlotte’s hands.
In bold letters, it declared:
THE MARQUESS OF RAVENSCAR AND LADY CHARLOTTE LANGLEY TO WED! THEIR SECRET UNDERSTANDING BROUGHT TO LIGHT!
Charlotte let out a strangled gasp and stumbled backward until the backs of her knees hit the bed. She sank onto the mattress.
“This cannot be real,” she whispered. “I gave him no answer. No such agreement was ever made. This is… this is utter balderdash!”
She leapt up again, crossing the room in agitated strides.
“Were you going to elope?” Marianne asked, eyeing the open valise.
“I was not,” Charlotte snapped. “Evelyn and I meant to go to Scotland. We were going to lie low until Nathaniel returned and reasoned with Father. I planned to write to Lord Ravenscar—inform him that I had yet to decide.”
“Decide on what, exactly?” Marianne asked, her eyebrow arched.
Charlotte pressed her palms to either side of her head and tugged lightly at her hair, as though pain might chase off the panic.
“He offered marriage,” she muttered. “A practical alliance, for mutual benefit. I told him I was undecided, that I would give him my answer shortly.”
