Page 1 of Not his Marchioness
CHAPTER 1
ONE YEAR LATER, OCTOBER 5TH, 1814
“No!” Charlotte exclaimed and jumped out of her chair as though she had been stung by a bee. “I will not. I will not. I do not agree to this!”
Her father took a deep breath, his jaw slack. He paled beneath his white beard, his eyes wide as he looked from her to his guest, who, despite the outburst, looked rather nonchalant.
“Charlotte, I will not have you behaving in such a way in front of our guest. Lord Emery, you must forgive my daughter.”
Lord Emery looked at her and smiled. But it was not the sort of smile that would make a young lady swoon and reach for her smelling salts. It was the sort that made the contents of your stomach rise in your throat.
“Well,” he said in a smooth voice, “it is understandable that Lady Charlotte is surprised. It is rather a sudden proposal. However, in due course?—”
“In your course, gammon and nonsense, nothing,” she cut him off. “I will not marry you. I will not.”
“Plucky thing, aren’t you?” he said, as though he were speaking to a petulant child. “The contract is already drawn up. And I must say, your father has negotiated well. Your dowry will see you most comfortable. Should I depart this world before you, you will be generously provided for. Hanston Hall is one of the grandest estates in Brixton.”
“I do not care if you are the proud owner of the Tower of London. You could cut a dash in diamonds and velvet for all I care—I will not marry you!” She spun to her father, her hands now curled into fists. “And I cannot believe you. The audacity! Nathaniel made it very clear that?—”
At the mention of his son-in-law, her father slammed his fist on the table. “Nathaniel is in Portugal. He will not be back for several months. And this”—he gestured toward Lord Emery—“will not wait that long.”
“With all due respect,” Lord Emery interjected with a grin, “there are other young ladies who are interested. News of my recent good fortune has spread quickly among the ton. Many have already set their caps for me.”
“Congratulations,” Charlotte drawled. “Then I am certain any one of them shall make a fine bride. Some mooncalf, perhaps. But it will not be me.”
How was this happening? This was just like what had happened to her sister Evelyn, not a year ago. Their father had decided to marry her off not to an eligible gentleman, someone with poise and refinement, but to a man with one foot already in the grave, dusted off and presented as a viable option.
Of course, Evelyn, being the beautiful older sister that she was, had married him. Fortunately for her—and unfortunately for her poor husband—he hadn’t even survived the wedding breakfast, due to an apricot kernel.
After that ordeal, Evelyn had found herself in a rather peculiar position. A duchess in name only, she had looked at a bleak future. But she had taken her fate into her own hands. She had found a husband. It had not been a smooth operation, but she had ended up marrying a man who worshipped the ground she walked on.
Nathaniel, the Duke of Harrington, had appointed himself protector not just of his wife, but of her younger sisters, Charlotte and Marianne. And he had been a fine protector. Their father had even seemed genuinely regretful of his actions.
For a while, he had acted as though he really cared about them. He had stopped visiting gambling halls, stopped drinking, and had even stopped attempting to regain membership to various gentlemen’s clubs.
However, it seemed that this transformation had been merely for show, because no sooner had Nathaniel been forced to leave the country to tend to a flood that had severely damaged severalof his vineyards in Portugal than her father went back to his old tricks.
Only instead of finding her an elderly man dragged freshly out of a crypt, he had found one of London’s most dubious, most unpleasant lords—Alexander Bradenton, the Earl of Emery.
He was handsome, like one of those Greek statues. Unfortunately, his personality did not match his looks.
She shuddered when she thought of the things people had said about him. And now her father was expecting her to marry him, before so much as a courtship?
“No,” she said vehemently. “I will not be married. Not until Nathaniel is back,” she added, because her brother-in-law would not stand for this foolishness.
“You will do as I say! I am the master of this house. I am the head of this family!”
“In name only,” Charlotte retorted. “We both know that you need Nathaniel’s permission to do anything. Do you even know this man?”
She looked at Lord Emery, who continued to smile, although his index finger was now tapping against the armchair, indicating that whatever patience he had was thinning.
Good. Let him see how exasperating I can be, and he will decide not to marry me of his own accord.
“You will not ridicule me, Charlotte!” her father snapped. “My financial interests might be tangled up with your precious Nathaniel, but I am the one who decides whom my daughters will marry. And you will wed at the end of the week!” he declared. “Now, go to your chamber!”
“I am not a naughty girl to be sent to her?—”
Suddenly, Lord Emery leapt from his chair. “I will not permit you to speak like that to your father. Remember your place. This will not go on. I will assure you of that as soon as you are my wife. Now, do what he says!”
