Page 29 of Not his Marchioness
She couldn’t even fault them. She had once done the same. But it was rather unpleasant to know that her own wedding breakfast would likely fuel half the gossip for the upcoming week.
“Goodness,” Marianne said, biting into a tart. “Did you know the house was so grand? I had no idea.”
“Neither did I,” Charlotte admitted. “I had only been here once before, and I assumed only the narrow part belonged to him. But this? I cannot believe it. And I cannot believe how few servants he had.”
“From what I understand,” Aunt Eugenia piped up, “he had most of the rooms closed, since he didn’t use them. But now that you live here—and there will be life within these walls again—he’s had to hire an entire staff. Along with the staff he maintains in the country.”
“Well, fortunately, he can afford it,” Charlotte murmured, lifting her wine glass to her lips for a sip.
“Youcan afford it,” Evelyn reminded her firmly. “Don’t forget your title now. You are the Marchioness of Ravenscar. This is your home as much as his.”
“Legally, none of this is mine,” Charlotte pointed out.
“Legally.” Evelyn waved a dismissive hand. “But practically speaking, you’re the mistress of this house. You can do whatever you please. So, what do you want to do? There are so manycharitable endeavors, so many possibilities. You’ve always been passionate about reading and writing. Why not start teaching the less fortunate to do the same?”
Charlotte raised an eyebrow.
Ever since Evelyn had become a duchess, she’d launched herself into moral improvement with the force of a cannonball. It was admirable, of course, but wearying. Charlotte often found herself yawning just from watching her sister bustle around London, making the world a better place.
Still, Evelyn was right. Charlotte needed to do something. She couldn’t spend her life seated on cushions, collecting dust.
“Perhaps you can take up watercolor,” Marianne suggested brightly. “Be a proper lady of leisure.”
“Yes,” Aunt Eugenia agreed, dabbing her mouth. “That would be pleasant, wouldn’t it?”
Was that how her family saw her? An ornament who wanted nothing more than to sip tea, nibble on sweetmeats, and leaf through poetry?
It sounded peaceful, yes. But not for a lifetime.
Charlotte had always imagined herself as a mother. A wife. Someone who shared her days and thoughts with another person. But now…
Now, she realized that would never be her life. And she hadn’t really considered what she wanted it to look like instead.
“Perhaps one day,” Marianne said softly, “you and your husband will… change your minds. There might be children.”
“I should think not,” Charlotte muttered.
“You say that now,” Marianne insisted.
“No, I don’t just say it. We agreed. There will be no children.”
Charlotte noticed the way her sisters and aunt exchanged glances.
Aunt Eugenia cleared her throat delicately. “I know that’s the agreement now, dear,” she said, “but you must consider the future. You’re both still young. In a few years, Rhys may feel more comfortable in his position and wish to carry on the line. There are other considerations, too. Who will inherit the marquisate if he has no son? What if it’s someone dreadful? He may want an heir simply to prevent some simpleton from getting it.”
“Yes,” Marianne added, “you can’t be absolutely certain he won’t change his mind.”
“No. But I will be no one’s broodmare,” Charlotte said crisply. “We’ll live in separate quarters. We’ll hardly even breathe the same air once the dust settles. Besides, he has his… interests.”She dropped her voice. “Gaming halls. Wagers. Spirits. And, from what I’ve heard… opiates.”
Aunt Eugenia clutched her fan. Marianne looked appalled. Evelyn simply shrugged, unbothered.
“That may be his life now, but that doesn’t mean it will always be,” Evelyn argued. “Nathaniel was quite the rake when he lived in Scotland, and now he hardly visits his clubs. And if he does, it’s for luncheon. Men can change.”
“Yes, but Nathaniel adores you,” Charlotte pointed out. “Helovesyou. He’d spend every minute of his life with you if he could. I—” She sighed. “We can barely tolerate each other for five minutes.”
“That’s not what it looked like at the wedding.” Marianne grinned. “The way you whispered to each other…”
“Good Lord,” Charlotte muttered, grabbing her wine glass and taking two large gulps. “I knew that’s what it would look like. In reality, we were exchanging barbs. There was nothing romantic about it.”
