When You Wish Upon a Duke (11 page)

“Then likely he won’t care to see this.” Lizzie pulled a crumpled scrap of newspaper from her pocket, smoothing it over her knee. “I saw it right away in one of the news sheets on the sideboard this morning. I tore it out so Aunt Sophronia wouldn’t see it, leastways before you did.”

Charlotte frowned as she took the raggedy paper. She gasped as she began to read it, and gasped again at its conclusion. Aunt Sophronia had warned her of the consequences of her encounter with March at Mrs. Cartwright’s shop, but Charlotte hadn’t expected the gossip to be printed in the papers like this, for all of England to read.

What would Aunt Sophronia say?

More important, what would March say?

“I’d say it’s vastly impressive, Charlotte,” Diana said with admiration, leaning over her shoulder to read it again. “To think that you’re so
notorious
that the papers would make a puzzle out of your name, with initials!”

“Has Aunt Sophronia left her bedchamber?” Charlotte asked, rising from the bench. “Have you seen her yet this day?”

“Mama said they were going to take their tea together in the front parlor.” Diana slipped from the bench, too, the cat cradled in her arms and her eyes bright with excitement, and Lizzie instantly followed.

“What are you going to do, Charlotte?” she demanded. “You’re not going to show that to Aunt Sophronia, are you? Ooh, you’ll be in so much trouble once she reads it!”

“I may be in trouble enough already,” Charlotte said, her heels clicking on the paving stones as she hurried toward the house.

“We’ll come with you,” Diana said, trotting along beside her. “You’ll need supporters. Besides, I want to see Aunt Sophronia’s face turn red like a turnip when she reads the part about the sweet promise of your hymeneal bower.”

“No, you won’t,” Charlotte said. “I don’t want either of you there. This is something I must face by myself.”

She ran up the stairs, her skirts bunched in one hand and the damning column in the other. She didn’t wait for a footman to announce her to her aunt, but charged into the parlor on her own. Her aunt and her mother were sitting together at the table near the window, with tea, jam, and sweet buns before them and the fluffy white dogs sprawled on the carpet at their feet.

Yet the two women did not look happy as they sat there. They looked concerned and more than a little upset, and Charlotte’s spirits sank even lower. One of the footmen stood beside the table with his flat silver salver in his hands, obviously waiting for some reply or order. Surely whatever Charlotte said next couldn’t make matters worse, and without preamble she held the wrinkled scrap of newspaper out to her aunt.

“Diana discovered this in one of the papers,” she said, her voice trembling. “They’ve pretended to disguise my name and His Grace’s, but any fool could decipher it. Oh, Aunt, you were so right!”

But Aunt Sophronia only glanced at the article, not bothering to take it from Charlotte.

“That must be from the
Daily Courant
,” she said. “I wondered where it had gone. Never to be outdone, the
Inquisitor
has its own version, too, and of an equally panting tone. It is, sorrowfully, to be expected, considering
the lack of regard and respect in the modern world today.”

Confused, Charlotte gave her head a small anxious shake. “Then—then you are not concerned by this?”

“Of course I am concerned,” the countess said indignantly. “How could I not be? Isn’t this exactly as I’d predicted?”

“Yes, Aunt,” Charlotte said, tears stinging her eyes. “I can only guess what His Grace must be thinking, to see his name dragged into the papers like this.”

“I would wager a guinea that His Grace isn’t giving these tawdry words a single thought, or at least not the same thoughts that you are,” Aunt Sophronia said. “Gentlemen perceive these things differently than we ladies do. In fact, I would wager a thousand guineas, if I could find a taker.”

Only then did Charlotte notice the letter in her mother’s hands, heavy white stock with a gold imprint at the top. Slowly Mama refolded the letter and placed it on the table, giving a small pat with her open palm.

“You aunt is so sure, Charlotte,” she said softly, “because His Grace has already written to us.”

Mama was trying to smile, but her mouth crumpled, and instead she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes and bowed her head.

Charlotte stared at the folded letter, the bright green wax wafer marked with the Marchbourne arms stuck unbroken to the edge. She recognized the bold, masculine penmanship from the note that had come last week with the roses, the strongly drawn letters without any frills or flourishes, much like March himself.

She probably could have read the letter for herself, especially since the contents seemed to be in regard to her. But to touch the letter, to read it, would make whatever awful message it bore undeniably real.

“Has he broken with me?” she asked, so washed with disappointment that she could scarce stand. “Is that it? Has he called off our betrothal because of the scandal I have caused?”

“Broken with you, my dear?” Aunt Sophronia tipped back her head and laughed, a throaty laugh that Charlotte did not want to hear. “That is what you believe he has done? Broken the match?”

“Yes, I do,” Charlotte said, her hands clutched tight at her sides. “And if you were not so—so cruel, Aunt, you would tell me now, and spare me more misery.”

“Silly girl,” her aunt said. “The duke doesn’t want to break with you. Far from it. He wishes there to be no betrothal, because he cannot wait. He wishes to marry you at once, Charlotte. At once.”

Charlotte stared at her aunt, focusing on how the countess’s amber and diamond earring swung gently against her powdered cheek, a tiny detail that she could concentrate upon and keep the room from spinning away. “You are not jesting? The duke still wishes to marry me?”

“He most certainly does,” her aunt said, laughing again. “I do believe he’d marry you this day before dinner if it could be arranged. You’ve won His Grace so completely, Charlotte, that I do believe nothing would drive him off.”

Still Charlotte could not make sense of it. “But you are not serious about me marrying at once, are you, Aunt Sophronia?”

Her aunt smiled and tapped the table with a teaspoon for emphasis. “I am quite serious, niece, and so is His Grace. We had already agreed to the plans for a small ceremony to mark your betrothal later this week. His Grace suggests that this be transformed into your wedding instead. A simple affair, to be sure, before a handful of witnesses, but it will accomplish the same business, and you’ll be man and wife as definitely as if you were wed at Westminster.”

In three days—and forever after—who she was would no longer matter compared to who she’d become. Oh, preserve her, it was all happening so very fast!

Charlotte groped for the nearest chair, sinking into it. “How can it be possible? What of the banns?”

“Charlotte, he is a duke with royal blood,” Aunt Sophronia said, “and the archbishop himself will do whatever needs to be done in order to oblige him.”

“And me?” Charlotte asked. “What of obliging me?”

“What obligation could there be?” Aunt Sophronia asked, genuinely surprised. “This suggestion of his could not be a greater triumph for you. A betrothal is well enough in its way, but the sooner you and the duke are joined before God, the better for everyone.”

Until now, Mama had said almost nothing, letting Aunt Sophronia speak, but now she could keep silent no longer.

“If you please, Sophronia,” she said. “I should like to speak to my daughter alone.”

“To plan, no doubt.” The countess smiled, gathering up a dog beneath each arm. She paused before Charlotte and bent to kiss her lightly on the forehead. “Congratulations, Charlotte. I’m thoroughly proud of you.”

But as soon as she left, Charlotte dropped to her knees and rested her head on her mother’s lap. “Oh, Mama, forgive me, but this is all happening so fast!”

“My own baby,” Mama murmured, smoothing Charlotte’s hair back from her face. “Don’t be sad, sweet. Be brave, and try to think with a clear head. Your father planned this for you to make you happy, and in time I pray it will.”

“But three days, Mama,” Charlotte protested, her words choked with emotion. “Only three days, and then everything in my life will change!”

“It will, yes,” Mama said, her voice gentle, but firm, too. “But it will change whether you marry His Grace or not. Nothing stays the same, Charlotte, no matter how
much we might wish otherwise. At first I felt bad for not having given you more warning, but now I believe it was for the best, not to have had this wedding looming in your thoughts.”

“You and Di and Lizzie will leave,” Charlotte said, her words muffled by Mama’s skirts, “and I’ll be left behind and alone.”

“You won’t be alone, Charlotte,” Mama said firmly. “You’ll be with your husband, as is proper for a wife. You must learn to rely upon him, and he on you. If you have a real need or emergency, you’ll also have your aunt here in town with you.”

“But I don’t know the duke, not at all!”

“He doesn’t know you, either, Charlotte,” Mama said. “That is how all marriages begin, with the two of you discovering each other.”

“But Mama, I—”

Suddenly Mama’s face clouded with concern. “Unless there is something about His Grace that has made you wary of him? Is there, Charlotte? Because if you fear him, or believe he might harm you—”

Charlotte raised her head, her hands still resting on Mama’s lap. “Oh, no, not at all. It’s not that.”

Mama nodded, clearly relieved. “I’ve scarcely seen His Grace to form any impression of him, but he is a handsome gentleman, with a pleasing manner. A bit solemn, perhaps, but then he is a duke.”

“He
is
handsome, Mama,” Charlotte agreed quickly. “He has lovely dark eyes that speak his kindness, and his smile, though rare, is as pleasing as can be, and he is very gallant, that is, he can be gallant when—”

“Shhh, Charlotte, please,” Mama said. “Speak more slowly, and with more care for the words you choose.” Charlotte nodded and took a deep breath. “When the duke and I are alone, he hasn’t been solemn at all.”

“That he isn’t solemn with you is in his favor,” Mama said. “But that he has contrived to be alone with you is not. You are an earl’s daughter, Charlotte, and both my family and your father’s are a good deal older and more noble than his. You must take care that he always treats you with the respect you are due as a lady, even when you are alone together.
Especially
when you are alone.”

Charlotte nodded quickly. “He was most kind to me when were alone together at Mrs. Cartwright’s, and when he kissed me—”

“He did kiss you, then?” Mama asked tentatively. “It wasn’t an invention of the papers?”

Charlotte blushed, and she looked down. “He did, and it was—it was very nice.
He
is very nice. But Mama, what I wish for, what I hope for, is to be happy and in love as you and Father were, and—and I do not know how to make that happen.”

“Because you can’t force love to happen, Charlotte,” Mama said gently. “Love grows on its own, like the prettiest of weeds. You cannot predict where it will sprout, or even if it will. But if you nurture it with trust and respect, it will grow, and prosper. So it was between your darling father and me. Our match was arranged, too, and I was even younger than you when I wed, and oh, I was frightened of being a countess!”

“You were?” Charlotte asked. She remembered her parents as being so inseparable that it was hard to realize they hadn’t always known each other.

“Oh, yes,” Mama said. “I nearly fainted clear away at our wedding. But before long your father and I realized we suited each other quite well. We fell in love and stayed in love, and so I pray it will be for you and His Grace.”

Though Mama’s eyes were bright with unshed tears, she smiled, and her face seemed to soften and grow
younger as she spoke of Father. To Charlotte’s wonder, she glimpsed her mother not as she was now, but as she must have been long ago as a bride herself. She’d thought her parents had always loved each other, because that was how she remembered them. But now it seemed that they’d had to fall in love like anyone else. It was a wondrous, encouraging realization.

“I do believe His Grace likes me already, Mama,” Charlotte said shyly. “Why else would he have come clear to town and followed me to Mrs. Cartwright’s shop?”

Mama’s smile widened. “More important, why else would he have braved your aunt to do so?”

“He called her a dragon, Mama,” Charlotte whispered, lowering her voice even though her aunt was far from hearing. “I wanted to laugh when he did.”

“You should have,” Mama said, laughing now. “Because he is completely right. She
is
a dragon.”

Her laughter faded, her expression growing more serious again. She took Charlotte’s face in her hands, so tenderly that tears welled in Charlotte’s eyes. Mama was right: once Charlotte wed March, her loyalty must shift from her family to him. Her family would return to Ransom Manor, and future moments like this with her mother would be rare indeed.

“My own darling daughter,” Mama said. “How I will miss you! Yet I believe in my heart that His Grace will be the right gentleman for you. Be your own dear, sweet self, and how can he not love you?”

“And I
will
love him, Mama,” Charlotte said, promising herself as well as her mother. When she and March took their wedding vows, she knew she’d have to swear to that, as well as a great many other serious things, but she was certain that loving him would be the easiest vow to keep.

“In time, sweet, in time,” Mama cautioned. “You can’t force love, no matter how much you wish to.”

Tears welled up again in Charlotte’s eyes. “What if it doesn’t grow as you say?”

“It will,” her mother said softly. “I don’t doubt it. And once you love him, and he loves you, then you will be happy. You will. And that, Charlotte, is the very best I can wish for you both.”