Page 18 of Not his Marchioness
Charlotte pulled back. “So you did not want me to marry Emery? You meant it?”
“Of course, I meant it. I thought it was horrid. I spoke to your father about it. Of course, he wouldn’t hear any of it. You know how he is. He always thinks he knows everything. He thinks he hung the very moon himself. In any case, that man is no longer our concern. Now, we must only worry about this new suitor. Do you care for him?”
Did she care for him?
Charlotte wanted to laugh, but she held back.
“Do I care for him? He is… He is… We discussed matters, but we made no agreement. I did not say yes or no.”
Suddenly, a wave of anger overcame her.
She stepped back from her aunt. “I must see him, right now. I shall go this very moment.”
She turned on her heel and walked to the door, then stopped. It occurred to her that she had no idea where the Marquess lived.
Turning back, she looked at her aunt. “Do you know where the Marquess of Ravenscar lives?”
Her aunt smiled. “I shall accompany you, my dear.”
Together, they donned their traveling cloaks and took the carriage. Charlotte sat quietly next to her aunt, drumming her fingers on her thigh.
How had all of this happened? She still did not know. How silly this all was. Ridiculous.
How had her life become such a mess? Was there perhaps still a chance that she could flee with her sister? Could they perhaps still go to Scotland?
But now, that was hopeless. Now, she would be a runaway bride twice over.
No, what she had to do was convince Ravenscar to retract his statement, to say that he had made a cruel joke.
Yes, that was what had to happen. Perhaps she could convince him to say that he and Emery had been behind it, playing a cruel trick.
Would he? She didn’t know. But she had to try.
“We are here,” her aunt announced.
Charlotte turned. “Already? I might’ve walked the distance.”
“You might have, but you would’ve arrived out of breath and likely with your hair disheveled. When a lady goes to confront a gentleman—which I believe you’re about to do, though I do not know the reason—she ought to look her best. Now, let’s go.”
CHAPTER 8
Her aunt stepped out of the carriage and handed her out. They found themselves standing in front of a modest townhouse on the edge of Mayfair.
It was a good neighborhood, but not the very best. She wasn’t even sure if this was still Mayfair. She looked up and noted that none of the windows were boarded up—usually a sign of wealth. The garden was well kept, though very small, as were most London front gardens. The large front garden at her own home was rather unusual.
Charlotte opened the small iron gate, which squeaked as she did so. Then, they walked up the steps, and she used a lion-shaped knocker to bang against the door.
She rolled her shoulders back and held her head high, standing ramrod straight. Quickly, she tucked a stray lock behind her ear, remembering her aunt’s advice.
The door opened, and she was ready to face the butler. But to her surprise, Ravenscar himself appeared.
“There you are. I was wondering when I might see you. In fact, I had expected you earlier today. I had a second glass of brandy all ready and waiting on my side table, but I’m afraid it has gathered dust by now.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. But before she could think of anything to say, he turned to her aunt.
“Goodness, how rude of me. Rhys Ellingsworth, the Marquess of Ravenscar. And you must be…?” He tilted his head to the side.
Her aunt curtsied. “Lady Eugenia. I am Lady Charlotte’s aunt.”
