Page 17 of Not his Marchioness
“Well,” Marianne said dryly, “it seems he’s misread your silence.”
Charlotte whirled around. “He did not misread me. I said that I am uncertain. I need time. I will send word. There’s nothing remotely equivocal in that. This isn’t a misunderstanding; it’s a trap. He needs a wife, and he means to ensnare me.”
Marianne stared at her. “But why? Why does he needyouin particular?”
Charlotte let out a bitter laugh. “Because the Lords have grown tired of debauched reputations. They’ve put pressure on certain peers to reform, or at least appear to. Lord Ravenscar requires respectability in short order, and I, the so-called Scarlet Lady, am the perfect scandal-turned-saint for his purposes.”
She waved her hand in frustration. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s played me false. What am I to do now?”
“I daresay,” Marianne murmured, “there’s precious little you can do. You’ll have to marry him.”
Charlotte blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve already been linked to Emery—publicly. And now you’re linked to Ravenscar. Spurning both would make you a laughingstock, and it wouldn’t stop there. You’d become the punchline of every joke.”
“Iknow,”Charlotte groaned. “I just… I don’t know how to undo this.”
A boisterous voice suddenly boomed from the corridor, “Charlotte, come to my study, now!”
Their father’s heavy footsteps passed the door and descended the stairs.
“I shall return anon,” Charlotte muttered, then hurried out.
Her father had sounded positively jubilant. Of course, he had. No doubt he’d read the papers and begun calculating ways to bring down the dowry he’d have to pay.
She entered the study to find Aunt Eugenia standing at the window, her arms crossed. Her father was perched on his favorite armchair, beaming.
“Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte,” he sang, rubbing his hands. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d landed a marquess? How splendid! When I suggested that dolt Emery, you should have said something. This is far better. I must say, you’ve done me proud.”
Charlotte’s whole body trembled with rage.
“I did not do this for you,” she said icily. “I acted to escape your endless schemes and social climbing. And in truth, I hadn’t agreed to?—”
“Nonsense!” he interrupted. “You’ll marry him. Had you told me earlier, I might have helped arrange it. A marquess! Two of my daughters married to high-ranking gentlemen. How very convenient.”
“No,” Charlotte spat. “You’ve never arranged a thing in your life that didn’t leave ruin in its wake.”
His smile faltered. “Charlotte, don’t use that tone with me. I am your father, and I am delighted. Why must you always dampen my joy?”
“There was no agreement,” Charlotte hissed. “None.”
Aunt Eugenia turned to her. “Charlotte, are you or are you not engaged to the Marquess of Ravenscar?”
Charlotte opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Finally, she exhaled. “It seems I am.”
“Jolly good, jolly good!” her father crowed. “I’ll write to our solicitor at once—dowry, settlements, and so on. You’ve done splendidly, my dear. I will overlook your earlier fit. No doubt it’s excitement. I always suspected you had better sense than you let on.”
With that, he swept out of the room, humming a merry tune.
Charlotte remained rooted in place, one hand gripping the back of a chair. Her aunt said nothing for a moment. Then, softly, “Charlotte, my dear… what have you done?”
“I have done nothing. I have done nothing!” Charlotte cried, shaking her head. “I have made a cake of myself. I have made a muddle of it all. Oh, goodness gracious. What am I to do?”
Aunt Eugenia stepped closer to her and wrapped her arms around her. She pulled her in, and Charlotte rested her head on her aunt’s shoulder.
She loved her aunt—she truly did—but sometimes she wished her mother were still alive. Her mother might’ve put a stop to this madness.
“My dear, I’m afraid you are going to find yourself a married woman sooner or later. I do not know what has happened between you and the Marquess, but I do think that it is better than the alternative.”
