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CHAPTER 7

CHARLOTTE PACED THE morning room, barely aware of her mother’s prattling. Pages and lists decorated the writing desk, and her mother repeatedly dipped pen into ink and wrote. She had started talking the minute they had entered the carriage the night before, and except for a brief interval of sleep, hadn’t stopped.

“It’s the date that needs to be settled first. Once we have that, all the other plans will fall into place. There’s so much to do.” Mother held up one paper. “We’ve so much shopping to accomplish. I wonder how much money your father will part with for the wedding and your bridal clothes. After all, we can’t be seen to be skimping when our daughter is marrying a duke. The stationer’s first, I think, to have invitations printed. Then there is the church. St. George’s is the only place that will do for a duke’s wedding. Perhaps we should secure the church first, before we see the stationer. But then again, we can’t secure the church until we have a date settled.”

It had been the same merry-go-round all morning, and Charlotte was heartily sick of it. Mother would be so disappointed when the duke called in to say it was all a hoax.

Charlotte had barely slept, mulling the evening in her mind, going over every moment, dissecting and holding it up to scrutiny. Somewhere between the moment he had asked her to dance that first reel—out of courtesy or pity, to be sure—and the mischievous way he had bowed over her hand and helped her up into her father’s carriage just after midnight, they had become engaged.

But in the cold light of morning, she knew it wasn’t real. It couldn’t last. Things like that didn’t happen to girls like Charlotte. He had whispered that they would sort it all out later, which must mean he was only playing a trick, that he wasn’t sincere and that she wasn’t to take him seriously. Any minute now he would arrive with apologies and rueful laughter, inviting her to enjoy the ruse they had played, and even the stubborn flicker of hope in her heart that she couldn’t quite quell would blow out.

Father entered, a newspaper under his arm, eyes piercing. “I’ll say this for him, he doesn’t let the grass grow under his feet.” He popped the paper open and jabbed his finger at the center of the page.

“Joseph? What are you talking about?” Mother wiped her pen on the inkwell and laid it down, turning sideways in her chair.

“I’m talking about Haverly. Look.”

Charlotte and her mother read where he pointed.

The Duke of Haverly to Wed Lady Charlotte Tiptree.

His Grace the Duke of Haverly and Lady Charlotte,

daughter of the Earl and Countess of Tiptree,

entered into a betrothal last evening

at the debut ball of Felicity Pemberton.

The article went on to remind readers that Marcus Haverly had inherited the title upon the death of his father and elder brother in a carriage accident this past summer, to proclaim the suitability of the match, and to wish the new couple well in their coming nuptials.

Father snapped the page over on itself, practically purring with satisfaction. “You’ve certainly done better for yourself than I thought you would, girl. I was so furious when you refused Eddington, but I had no idea you had aimed so much higher. Whatever you’ve done, you’ve clearly besotted the duke. Your intended seems eager to make everything official, else why would he have rushed the news into print?”

Charlotte wanted to snatch the paper from him and read it again just to make sure the words hadn’t evaporated. He had announced it in the daily? Did that mean he was sincere?

Or was this another joke? She didn’t know the duke that well, but surely an announcement in the papers was taking things too far to be humorous. When he called the engagement off now, everyone would know. Everyone would whisper and speculate that he had discovered something undesirable in his fiancée.

Would her father be forced to sue the duke for breach of promise in order to salvage her reputation? Would he even bother, or would he prefer to shunt her off to Yorkshire and forget about her and the way she had humiliated him yet again?

Charlotte’s hands shook as her mind raced. Lack of sleep had caused a headache to form behind her eyes. She wanted to escape to her room until it was all over.

Mother wore a look of supreme … innocence? She toyed with the quill, running the barbs through her fingers and not looking at Charlotte or her husband. Suspicion leaked into Charlotte’s mind. Surely not. Oh please, no.

“Mother?”

“Yes, dear?” A spring lamb couldn’t have contrived to look more blameless.

“Please tell me that you are not behind this. Please tell me that you didn’t send someone around to the newspaper first thing this morning with this information.” She fisted her hands at her sides, dread stiffening every muscle.

Mother flinched and set the quill on the desk with a slight tremor in her hand. “Well … It was just that …”

“Verona.” Father’s voice didn’t have the edge to it that Charlotte had expected. Instead, he patted her on the shoulder—a rare moment of approval or affection that startled Charlotte. “Well done. He can’t renege now. His bow is drawn, and he must loose the arrow.”

Charlotte tried to swallow, but her throat was too tight. So her parents had both been afraid that the duke would rescind his proposal, and in order to forestall this, her mother had rushed the news into the paper.

There was no graceful way for her to release the duke that wouldn’t now involve a breach of promise suit or damage to both their reputations.

The entire enterprise reeked of a desperation that was no compliment to Charlotte … or her parents.

Lord, what do I do now? Mother has trapped him as effectively as if she’d contrived to catch us in a scandalous embrace and demanded that he make an honest woman of me. Now I have to make an honest man of him. This can’t have been Your will. It smacks of Sarah and Hagar. Mother manipulating like Sarah to make sure she gets what she wants. Why couldn’t You have arranged something simple, an engagement to a humble baronet or second son, something to provide me just a little happiness? Is that too much to ask?

But she feared her prayers went unheeded. Clearly God did not intend for her path to be easy. She wondered if He even cared about one lonely young woman in London or if she had somehow been left out of His plans.

“My lord.” A small sound from the doorway. “His Grace, the Duke of Haverly, has arrived.” The butler stood at attention, an anxious look on his face. Tiptree servants often wore that expression, as if waiting for the next explosion from the earl.

“Well, don’t leave him cooling his heels in the hall. Show him in.” Charlotte’s father rubbed his hands, brisk and embarrassingly eager.

The duke looked splendid in a forest-green coat, dull-gold waistcoat, and deerskin breeches. His tall boots bore a high gloss that must’ve taken his valet hours to accomplish. He’d gathered his hair at his nape, fastened with a brown strip of cloth the same color as his hair.

And under his arm he carried a newspaper.

Mortification heated Charlotte from her core to her fingertips, a prickle raced across her skin, and a hollow feeling opened in the pit of her stomach. She was so ashamed, she wanted to cry.

“Your Grace, welcome to our home.” Mother rose and advanced on him. Her eyes flicked to the newspaper, and her steps faltered.

The duke barely gave Mother a glance, instead focusing his blue eyes on Charlotte. “Good morning, Lady Charlotte.”

“Your Grace.” The words came out a raspy whisper, forced past the rock lodged in her throat.

An awkward silence stretched out, broken when her father, with far too much bonhomie in his voice, said, “Perhaps we should leave the ladies here and step into my office to discuss the particulars?”

Reaching into his inner pocket, the duke withdrew a long envelope. “No need. My terms are here. I believe you will find them fair.” Without looking at Father, he passed the envelope across.

She had an otherworldly feeling, as if she were watching things happen to someone else. He’d prepared marriage documents? When? It was barely midmorning. The entire enterprise seemed to swing from impulsive to cold-blooded and back again. How was a girl to make sense of it? Things were moving so quickly, the end to the joke had to come soon, didn’t it?

If she was dreaming, she didn’t know if this was a nightmare or if she would awaken soon, disappointed that it wasn’t real.

“Lady Charlotte, my mother is most anxious to entertain you at Haverly House, and I hope you will accompany me there this morning.”

His mother wanted to see her? What about the newspaper article? What about him calling everything off?

Not a single page of any book Charlotte had ever read had prepared her for this situation.

“Oh yes.” Mother clapped lightly. “I’m sure we have much to discuss with the duchess. I’ll send for our wraps. There are so many details to settle.”

The duke bowed slightly. “Do forgive me. I am sure an invitation from my mother to you will be forthcoming, but for this morning, she would prefer to meet Charlotte on her own.”

Abashed, Mother subsided into the writing-desk chair. Without trying to draw attention to herself, she organized the lists and papers and evidence of her planning into a stack, sliding them into a drawer.

Meanwhile, her father had opened the envelope and drawn out the pages, scanning them like a man skinning a flea for its hide and tallow. His eyes gleamed like gimlets, and his narrow throat lurched. Charlotte wanted to sink through the floor.

“Yes, yes, most agreeable. You’ve been most generous, Your Grace.” He cast about as if looking for a quill in order to sign the papers right there and then. “You’re sure you don’t want a dowry?”

“I am certain of the terms laid out. And I prefer not to discuss them now.” His clipped statement slammed the door on her father’s grasping eagerness. Charlotte wasn’t sure if she was being bought or sold.

The duke came to Charlotte’s side, tall, broad, and seemingly unflustered by the situation. He held up the newspaper, open to the article.

“Your Grace …” Charlotte began, but he shook his head.

“Someone saved me a bit of trouble. Wasn’t that nice of them? I had intended to insert an announcement in tomorrow’s paper after we had formalized the arrangement, but imagine my surprise—and my mother’s—when this greeted me over the breakfast table.” He pointed to the headline.

“Your Grace …” She tried again, feeling like she might burst into flames at any second. “I … I … I …”

“Perhaps you could get your wrap? The duchess doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

And in a few moments, Charlotte found herself climbing aboard the duke’s carriage, the door, with the Haverly crest emblazoned on the side, closing behind him as he followed her inside.

You’re behaving like a ninnyhammer. Pull your wits together and just say it.

“Your Grace, I am so sorry. I had no idea they—my mother—would do such a thing.” She indicated the newspaper on the seat beside him. “It was my mother who contacted the paper. I know you were going to cry off this morning, reveal that you hadn’t been in earnest last night, and now …” She spread her hands in appeal. “But you still can. I will not hold it against you. I’ve a place to go, away from London, where my reputation won’t matter in the least. I won’t let you be boxed in so neatly by my parents when I know you have no intention of marrying me.”

He leaned forward, grabbed her hands, and silenced her. “So it was your mother? Very enterprising of her. I thought it might have been Dudley Bosworth who had overheard and told his mother. She’s a dreadful gossip.” He paused. “You thought I was going to take back my proposal?”

His hands engulfed hers, warming her ungloved fingers, making her feel small, fragile, and oddly protected. “What proposal? If I recall accurately, you never asked me to marry you. You announced it to our parents and in front of Dudley Bosworth, who was being a beast.”

He sat back, releasing her hands, and she chided herself for missing his touch. Bemused, he rested the length of his finger along his lips, but she could still see the smile he tried to hide.

“So I did. What an oversight. You’re prepared to release me from my non-proposal then?”

Her heart constricted, and she studied her fingers in her lap. “Yes, Your Grace. I know you were merely trying to pique your mother and to be gallant, rescuing me from Dudley’s boorish behavior. You shouldn’t be bound by an impulsive gesture. No one really expects you to marry me. I only hope your reputation won’t suffer from this caper.”

He was silent so long, she finally looked up. “Charlotte, has it occurred to you that I might not want to be released from this entanglement? I might have been a tad impulsive, blurting it out last night, but I’ve thought it over, and I believe being engaged to you suits me.”

She desperately wanted to ask him to explain before she had to face his mother. Why would being engaged to her suit him? She wasn’t beautiful, she had no great fortune, and she wasn’t known for her social graces—just the opposite, in fact. She had been told repeatedly that she possessed none of the qualities a titled peer wanted in a wife. He could have any woman he wanted, and somehow he’d gotten stuck with her.

The carriage lurched to a stop, and he reached for the door handle. “We are about to beard the lioness in her den, and I should warn you, she’s in a towering temper. However, her roar is much worse than her bite. Oh, I am told my sister arrived in town last night for a brief visit, so you can meet her as well. She was asleep when I got home, and I was away this morning before she arose.”

Charlotte couldn’t feel her feet as they went up the steps of the townhouse. Red brick, black shutters, white trim, everything symmetrical, square, perfect. And large. The duke’s townhome took up almost an entire city block and would rival the Tiptree country estate for square footage.

A footman opened the door as they approached, and they entered a hall that might have seemed cavernous but was so beautifully decorated that it felt both comforting and austere. The sign of perfect taste. A floating staircase spiraled up from the black-and-white marble floor, and small tables and chairs clustered between the doorways on either side, inviting one to sit and visit for a while. Every wall had been painted in a mural of a country scene with rolling green hills and pristine white clouds. Surrounded by such pastoral serenity, her nerves jangled even more.

Relieved of their wraps, Marcus took Charlotte’s elbow and led her into the first room to their left, an impressive drawing room with high ceilings, pale-green walls, and intricate plasterwork.

The duchess stood at the window. She must’ve seen them arrive. When she turned, her eyes could’ve frozen lava. Her mouth wore a crab-apple pucker, and every line of her body exuded disapproval. She wore a beautiful purple dress that screamed expense and that brought out the silver in her carefully curled hair. A black shawl hugged her shoulders, and Charlotte was reminded that she was less than a year bereaved.

Charlotte put her hand on the duke’s arm for support and dipped a curtsy. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

The duchess inhaled deeply, closing her eyes, as if forcing herself to keep her temper. “I had hoped this was all a bad dream, but I shall have to make the best of it. My son is headstrong, to say the least.” Her chin went up, as if she would be staunch and stalwart regardless of her circumstances.

The duke rolled his eyes. “Madam, please. We’ve been through this. I do not make decisions merely to try your patience. However, you are beginning to try mine. Charlotte, welcome to Haverly House, my headquarters when I am in London.”

A clattering on the stairs and quick footsteps behind them had Charlotte turning to find the source of the commotion. A petite dark-haired young woman burst into the room, stopping so quickly her dress flew around her legs and her curls bounced on her cheeks.

“Marcus.” The young woman all but launched herself at the duke, who caught her, smiling, and spun her in a half circle. “You’re looking well, but what is this I’ve been hearing? A fiancée?”

“Hello, Soph. Still acting the hoyden, I see.” He set her on the carpet and turned her by the shoulders. “May I present Lady Charlotte Tiptree? Charlotte, this is—” But his sister cut him off.

“Hello, I’m Sophie.” Small hands came out to greet Charlotte. “I’m so pleased to meet the girl who could turn Marcus’s head. I can’t wait to get to know you. We’re going to have so much fun. I can tell. Anyone with sense enough to fall in love with my brother—who is wonderful, by the way, but don’t tell him, for he shall become so puffed up with his own importance that he will be insufferable …” She paused. “I’ve lost the path of what I was saying. Anyway, it is such a pleasure to meet you, and I wish you every happiness.” Her eyes were the same blue as her brother’s and shone with interest.

Before Charlotte could respond to this torrent of words, the duchess snapped, “One would think you had not been properly trained, young lady. Clomping about the house like a plow horse, bursting into a room, and blabbering the instant you arrive. And your name is Lady Sophia. Why must you insist upon shortening it?”

Rather than looking abashed, Lady Sophia grinned at Marcus and gave him another quick hug. “Mother, if I didn’t disappoint you at every turn, you’d have nothing to talk about or occupy your time. Charlotte, do sit down. I want to know absolutely everything about you. How did you and Marcus meet? Was his proposal romantic? Have you chosen a date yet?”

Charlotte felt as if she were being jerked and popped like a kite on a string. One reception so cold, the other so warm. She found herself drawn down to a settee beside the duke’s sister, listening to her chatter and not being able to say a word.

Finally, Sophie laughed. “I can see I’ve overwhelmed you. I do apologize. Marcus says I fly through life, trying to cram too much into each day, and he’s probably right. He’ll tell you my tongue is never still, though that isn’t strictly true. But I assure you, I’m not scatterbrained or flighty, even though I come across like that, and I can be quiet and let others speak, if I put my mind to it.” She laughed, and Charlotte found herself laughing too, though she didn’t quite know why. Sophie was a refreshing delight.

With a pang, she realized Lady Sophia was a bit like she had hoped Pippa Cashel would be. Open and friendly, willing to chat and be friends right away.

“I’ve been told I need to bridle my tongue more times than I can count,” Charlotte admitted. “It’s a trial, isn’t it? When there are so many interesting things to say and to hear and to learn?”

The duchess snorted and adjusted her shawl. The duke stood by the fireplace, his arm on the mantel, watching them.

“I wish I could stay in London for the wedding, but I’m only here for a few days. I needed to fetch something from the Bank of England for Mrs. Richardson. My fiancé put her into my care, and when my darling Rich returns from sea, she will continue to live with us. We will be a happy family at last.” The longing and confidence in her voice touched something in Charlotte’s heart.

A happy family at last. Was that also in Charlotte’s future? She glanced at the austere duke.

“I suppose the most important issue at hand is when this … marriage … is to take place?” the duchess asked. She said the word as if it tasted badly and she wanted to spit it out.

Charlotte waited. She had no idea what was appropriate or if she even had a say in the matter. Her mother seemed set on charging like a bull, and the duchess seemed as if she would put off the event indefinitely. But what did the duke want?

“Charlotte, why don’t I show you the rest of the house, and we can discuss a few things.” The duke held out his hand.

Lady Sophia bounced off the settee. “Oh yes, I love Haverly House, though I am hardly ever here. Wait until you see the music room. It’s my favorite, though I can’t sing or play a note. And the portrait gallery. So many funny old faces and clothes. Do let me show you.”

“Soph, I don’t believe I included you in the tour.” The duke smiled to soften his words, and Lady Sophia made a face at him and subsided gracefully onto the settee once more. “It’s just possible that I should like to have my fiancée to myself for a while.” He led Charlotte from the room, closing the door on his mother and sister.

“A bit like trying to catch a kittiwake on the wing, is my sister. She spends most of her time in Oxfordshire on a neighboring property to ours. Her betrothed, Baron Richardson, is a major in the Royal Marines aboard the ship HMS Dogged, and she lives at his home, caring for his elderly mother. When he returns, they will marry, and she’ll settle down.” He sounded almost regretful, as if he didn’t mind her exuberance at all and would be saddened to see it dimmed. “I’m glad she won’t move too far away, however. As I said, Baron Richardson’s property borders the Haverly estates, so she will be your neighbor in the country.”

Charlotte tried to wrap her mind around the thought of living in Oxfordshire, having neighbors … of marrying this man and having their futures forever intertwined. It all sounded as if he were speaking of someone else, because she had never let herself dream of anything like this.

The duke showed her a morning room, a vast dining room, Lady Sophia’s music room. Lavish yet tasteful furnishings and appointments decorated each space, with harmony from one room to the next.

“It’s all so beautiful. I doubt Carlton House could rival it.” The Prince Regent’s residence was in the newspapers constantly, as he poured money into its design and refurbishment.

“It’s Cilla and my mother’s doing. The entire house was in an uproar for months two years ago as they redecorated every nook and cranny to host my brother’s wedding breakfast. I’m glad I wasn’t in residence for most of it. I only got posted to the War Department for the tail end of the renovations.”

“Cilla is your sister-in-law?”

“Yes, my late brother’s wife. She lives here too. With her daughter, Honora Mary. I’m surrounded by females.” He smiled ruefully. “And here I am intending to bring another into the house.”

The baby who the duchess wanted to be a boy so he would inherit the title—at least that was what all the gossips were saying. And from what the Earl of Whitelock had said, that Marcus had wanted to be a male too. What kind of man would pray that he wouldn’t inherit a title and lands and fortune?

They went up the elegant staircase, and he opened the double doors at the head of the stairs to reveal a massive room that spanned the entire back of the house. “How will this suit you for a wedding reception venue? Or do you think your parents would prefer the wedding breakfast to be at their townhouse?”

The ballroom could easily seat two hundred. Four enormous chandeliers were encased in cloth bags to keep the dust off, and the furnishings along the perimeter wore holland covers, but the walls were white with gilded carvings, and tall, draped windows gave out onto a balcony. And he wanted to know if it would suit? Without a doubt, her parents would prefer the festivities be held here.

“Is this really going to happen? Are we going to marry?”

He took her elbow, drawing her into the hallway and closing the ballroom door. “Let’s go to my sanctum sanctorum and talk about it. I promised you an explanation, didn’t I?”

The moment he led her into the room he called his sanctum, she was lost. Shelves covered every wall, and books lined every shelf. The space smelled of paper, leather, and undiscovered worlds. Deep chairs, a massive fireplace, a desk strewn with paper and books. She could not have designed a more perfect place.

It wasn’t until he laughed that she realized her mouth was open and her hands were clasped under her chin.

“If I had known this would be your reaction, I would have brought you here first. From the look on your face, I could buy you for a shilling about now.”

She shut her mouth, swallowing and trying in vain to keep the heat out of her cheeks. “I do beg your pardon. I didn’t realize … you weren’t jesting when you said that you personally accounted for much of Hatchards’ profits.”

“If I wind up penniless someday, it will be due to an inability to stop buying books.” He picked up a volume from his desk and handed it to her. “Quite possibly from buying them for my future wife. Call this a betrothal gift.” He shrugged. “Some men give chocolates …”

Charlotte took the book with trembling hands, a lump in her throat. She ran her fingertips over the gold-embossed title on the cover. The Complete History of the Greek Empire.

She looked up. “How did you know?”

He shrugged again. “I listened. You made an inquiry at Hatchards, and Quillington proved most resourceful. I hope you enjoy it. I sent a footman around for it first thing this morning.” He put his hand over hers on the book, pressing it slightly into the leather. “I would have given you my own copy, but it’s tattered and well used. It was a textbook when I attended university, and I fear I didn’t take care of it as I should have.”

“I have always wished I could attend university.” She tried to quell the sensations running up her arm at his touch. “I had to settle for Miss Hitchins’ School for Young Ladies in Dartmoor. Though I did learn a lot there.”

“I suppose history class was your favorite?” He drew her toward a settee before the fireplace.

“Yes, though some of the most important lessons I learned weren’t part of Miss Hitchin’s formal curriculum.” A knot formed in her stomach. Dare she broach such a personal subject? If they were contemplating marriage, she must.

“Lessons about life, I suppose?” His leg brushed hers as they sat side by side. “I learned my fair share, both at school and in the army.”

“Life lessons, yes, but Miss Hitchin’s is a religious school too. I learned about faith and the difference between religion and a relationship with God. My favorite teacher, Miss Wright, taught us to read the Scriptures for ourselves and to know the God of the Word.” Charlotte clenched her hands on the cover of the Greek history. Her relationship with God was essentially a private thing, and here she was pulling back the curtain and letting a stranger look into the deepest part of her. Would he understand? Would his feelings match hers?

The duke rubbed his chin lightly, his blue eyes appraising her. “I think your Miss Wright was very wise. Reading Scripture and knowing God are more important than merely belonging to a particular church or paying lip service to a denomination or religion. I can see we will have some lively discussions of both theology and history, as time allows. I like a good theological discussion on a Sunday afternoon.”

At his agreement, the knot in her middle eased. If he was willing to discuss theology with her in addition to history, they would get along well.

“Now, as you reminded me in the carriage on our way here, I have been remiss regarding an actual proposal.” He took the book, setting it beside him, and possessed himself of both her hands. “Lady Charlotte Tiptree, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

This was really happening to her. Though he had professed no love for her—and really, on such a short acquaintance, she shouldn’t expect him to, nor would she trust the sincerity of such a thing if he did—he did seem in earnest about marrying her.

And only days ago she had vowed to accept the proposal of the first man who would also buy her books.

Now that the moment was upon her, she realized what a shallow, silly thing that had been to promise herself. Looking into his gray-blue eyes, she searched for a reason to refuse and could find none. Her heart was at peace with the idea, even if her mind was in a dither trying to come to terms with everything that had transpired in the last twelve hours.

“I accept your proposal. After all, it is a fine library.” She gave him a saucy grin.

He squeezed her hands, and to her surprise, he bent and kissed her cheek.

Hours later, she could still feel the soft warmth of his lips on her skin.

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Charlotte followed the duke into the lobby of the opera house. People crowded the well-lit space, all talking, all jostling, all looking one another over.

It was her first time here, because her father thought the opera an ostentatious waste of money.

Considering the lavish gowns and abundant jewelry on display, Charlotte thought he might be correct. And though she had vowed not to do it, she couldn’t help but compare her own unadorned, iron-gray gown to the duchess’s and Lady Sophia’s beautiful dresses. Sophia’s blue eyes shone like candle flames, and she appeared to be enjoying herself immensely, and they hadn’t even been seated yet.

The duchess looked as if she had just taken a mouthful of vinegar. Was the woman ever pleased?

But Cilla outshone them all, with her pale golden hair and porcelain skin. She moved with such grace, and her navy dress with black beaded trim showed off her alabaster complexion. She had a sapphire-and-diamond necklace at her throat that winked and shone. The duke’s widowed sister-in-law had been quiet on the ride over, but she smiled kindly whenever her eyes met Charlotte’s.

Amidst all that finery, Charlotte felt dowdy and awkward. As they moved through the crowd, following the duke, they were stopped again and again by people she knew, and many she didn’t, offering their best wishes.

Their eyes slid over her face and form, and questions lit their eyes.

Why her? She isn’t much to look at, is she? Did she manage to trap him somehow? He’ll regret that soon enough.

Charlotte kept her chin up, but it wasn’t easy.

Theirs was a large party. How large, she didn’t realize until they were all in the lavishly appointed Haverly box in the second-tier balcony. The enclosed space was close to the stage, which meant they could see into almost every other box in the opera house. And which meant almost every other could see into theirs.

“Would you care to sit in front?” The duke, wearing the controversial, newish trend of evening black, looked so polished and handsome she had to force herself not to stare. His linens were pristine white, and the cut of his coat showed off his broad shoulders. She still couldn’t quite believe he meant to marry her. He had said he would explain his reasons when he took her to his library, but he hadn’t, not really. And she had been reluctant to ask, lest he realize his mistake and bow out of the engagement.

“Could we sit farther back, please? I’ve no head for heights.” Which was true, but beyond that, she didn’t want to be right by the rail where everyone could stare and make judgments about her.

The duchess had no such qualms, parking herself in the center of the front row and encouraging Lady Trelawney and Lady Farring to join her.

Charlotte took her seat in the back row, running her hand over the velvet upholstery. The Haverly box seated twelve in three rows of four, and she found herself between Marcus and Lady Whitelock.

The earl leaned forward. “Evening. Congratulations on your engagement. Marcus is a fast mover. I thought there was more going on last night than met the eye. When are you getting spliced?”

She laughed at his common speech, remembering that up until a year or so ago, he’d been a soldier. “The banns are to be read tomorrow for the first time, and we’ll wed in a month.” Everything was happening so quickly, she could hardly believe any of it was real. The duchess had pleaded for a long engagement—a year, perhaps two?—but the duke had been firm, not even asking Charlotte’s opinion, just stating his timeline and maintaining it in the face of his mother’s protests.

Lady Whitelock clapped softly. “That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you. Marcus is a dear friend, and I hope you’ll both be very happy together.” She smoothed the skirt of her pale-yellow gown. A Greek key design had been embroidered in gold thread around the neckline and hem, and she flicked open a matching fan, stirring a breeze in the close air. “At least you have a month to prepare. Evan gave me much less time. I suppose you will be assembling your trousseau? Or will the dresses planned for your Season substitute?”

Her trousseau. Another detail they, or rather the duchess in this instance, had decided earlier in the day.

“She’ll need a complete new wardrobe, Marcus.” The duchess had actually walked around Charlotte to study her from all angles, frowning. “I suggest you give us carte blanche to outfit her. After all, she’ll be a Haverly and a duchess, and she’ll need to dress appropriately to her station. I can see I shall have to take her in hand if we’re to bring her up to standards in only a month’s time.”

Heat burned up Charlotte’s cheeks, remembering. She knew her clothing was plain and unstylish, but to have the Duchess of Haverly speak about her as if she were a simpleton, and as if she needed a minder, galled her. Charlotte could not imagine a worse outing than to have the Duchess of Haverly shopping for her.

“Actually, I was hoping to speak with you about that, Lady Whitelock.” She smiled tentatively. “You dress so elegantly. I was wondering if you might consider helping me choose some new things.”

The earl grinned. “You won’t find better than Diana when it comes to picking out beautiful things. She’s got a great eye for design, whether it’s a ball gown or a ballroom. She completely redid the Whitelock estate, house, and grounds to the point where the Prince Regent has asked her advice for some of the work on Carlton House.” His pride in his wife shone in his words, and he put his arm around her, hugging her into his side.

Charlotte smothered a smile at how besotted he was. Didn’t he know that it wasn’t the done thing to be so obviously attracted to and proud of your spouse before the ton?

How long would it last? Would they go the way of her parents and most couples, descending into indifference and finally to infidelity, or would their love stay strong?

“I’d very much enjoy helping you, Lady Charlotte. Are you free to go shopping on Monday? With only a month until the big day, you’ll have to hurry to have everything ready.” Lady Whitelock leaned into her husband as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Perhaps we can prepare some lists of things you’ll need?”

“Ah, Diana, you and your lists.” The earl squeezed his wife’s hand, smiling contentedly.

The duke finished seating all his guests and took the chair beside Charlotte. His shoulder brushed hers, and every nerve signaled the touch to her heart. He smelled of soap and winter air, and he seemed to take up a lot of room in the box. He was a tall, well-muscled man, but it was more than that. Perhaps it was his commanding personality, or maybe it was that he was her betrothed and she knew so little about him that all her senses were on alert to gather information.

Or perhaps she was just a ninnyhammer, gauche and green and not sure how to behave around a man whose opinion she valued.

In the row before them, Lord Trelawney and Lord Farring sat with Lady Sophia and General Eddington.

The duke couldn’t have known about the general’s proposal to her at the ball, or he wouldn’t have invited the gentleman tonight. As it was, his greeting to Charlotte had been stiff and pompous. Poor man. It had to be much more awkward for him than for her. Rebuffed only to find her engaged to another man less than two hours later.

With a lithe, twisting movement, the duke reached for a velvet-covered folder in a rack on the wall and handed it to Charlotte.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

He whispered against her ear. “You don’t have to call me ‘Your Grace,’ you know. I’d much prefer if you used my name. It’s Marcus. Very few people call me by my name anymore. And my mother only uses it when she’s exasperated with me, though come to think of it, that’s most of the time.”

Her skin all but vibrated as his breath brushed her temple, and she turned to look into his eyes, mesmerized at how close he was. What was it about a whisper that intensified even the most innocuous statement? Their gazes held for a long moment, broken only when Evan laughed at something Diana said.

Charlotte turned to face the stage once more and opened the folder the duke … Marcus … had given her. Inside she found a program of the evening’s events.

An Italian opera.

The Earl of Whitelock leaned forward. “Diana’s promised to help me understand what’s going on. I’ve never been to the opera before.”

“She’ll have to help me too.” Charlotte closed the book. “I’m a novice as well.” She neither spoke nor understood Italian, and she was grateful for the brief synopsis in the program explaining what they would see.

Marcus glanced at her. “You’ve had several Seasons in London and haven’t been to the opera?”

She blushed at the reminder that she was no longer a debutante, and studied the gilded dolphins and tridents and mermaids adorning the walls and woodwork of the box.

He leaned close. “Would it be terrible of me to hope you do not enjoy the experience tonight?” His breath brushed her temple again, and she shivered. “I’ll confess, I’ve not yet been to an opera I enjoyed. If my mother didn’t insist upon keeping this box, I’d let it go to someone else. I enjoy going to the theater, but opera is just so much noise to me. Like a chorus of scorched cats. If you don’t care for it, I won’t have to go in the future.”

She bit her lower lip to keep from laughing as the orchestra began to play. The audience stilled, from the upper boxes to the pit, and the footlights blazed as the performers came onto the stage.

Movement across the way caught Charlotte’s attention. Heads swiveled, and a murmur rippled through the crowd, swelling as hands went up to direct gossip into eager ears. Even the music seemed dampened as people buzzed. Someone was entering the Royal Box. Had the Prince Regent or one of the royal dukes decided to attend this evening?

The velvet curtains at the back of the box stirred, and a woman entered, followed by a man. Recognition hit Charlotte at the same time it must have hit the crowd.

Pippa Cashel took a seat in the front row of the Royal Box directly opposite. Gracefully, she removed her lacy shawl to expose her bare shoulders and low-cut gown. Lamplight winked off her jewels and the metallic threads embroidering her neckline. Her dark hair curled luxuriously, threaded through with a golden ribbon. A half smile touched her lips, as if she weren’t aware that every eye in the place was on her.

Those same curious eyes then swerved Charlotte’s way. Word must have indeed spread about the confrontation at the Frost Festival. People must know that Pippa Cashel, the most sought-after courtesan in London, was the natural child of the Earl of Tiptree.

And Charlotte’s half sister.

Or if they didn’t before tonight, the buzz and murmurs from below were now informing anyone who would listen. Their faces glowed with curiosity. How would each woman react? Would there be a confrontation? The performers on the stage might as well have not existed. The real drama was in the boxes.

Pippa couldn’t have looked more serene and uncaring. Her chin was tilted at a regal angle, and she was breathtakingly beautiful.

A handsome man with silver at his temples took the chair next to her and patted her hand, smirking like she was his possession. She gave him an intimate smile, as if they were the only two people in the room, and another buzz went through the crowd.

It was that man Marcus had introduced to her at Pemberton’s. Lord Ratcliffe. She’d been impressed with his manners and dress at the time, but now she wanted to march into that box and yank his hand off her sister’s shoulder and spirit her away.

Charlotte didn’t realize she was clenching her fists in her lap until the duke reached for one of her hands.

She glanced up at him, but there was no curiosity or even sympathy in his eyes. Just understanding. Her husband-to-be knew about Pippa, about her father’s infidelity.

He squeezed her fingers lightly, rubbing his thumb on her knuckles. The contact gave her courage. If she can appear so unconcerned, so can you.

Charlotte straightened her posture, and she put a pleasant, interested expression on her face. The mask that society required and that most seemed to hope she would let slip.

“Good girl,” Marcus murmured, continuing to hold her hand.

The comfort his touch gave puzzled her. She wasn’t used to being touched. Neither of her parents was particularly affectionate, and Charlotte had grown up without hugs or handclasps. Having met the duchess, Charlotte wouldn’t have thought Marcus would be given to such things either, but then she remembered his greeting of his sister, Sophie. The hug, the pat, the indulgent smiles. A pang hit Charlotte’s heart. If she and Pippa had grown up together as real sisters—not that such a thing would have been possible—would they have hugged and giggled and teased?

Pippa kept her eyes on the stage and the performers, and Charlotte, after one last look at her regal sister, followed suit. She only glanced away from the stage once, to encounter the fierce gaze of the duchess as the woman glared at her over her shoulder for a long moment before turning forward again.

No doubt she was finding some way of blaming Charlotte for the situation.

The music rose and fell, soloists, choruses, the orchestra, but Charlotte heard none of it. She could only think of her sister and how she longed to help her. But how? Not only did Charlotte have no resources of her own, but her sister had refused any overture of help.

Would anything change when Charlotte was married? Would her new husband be appalled at her desire to help a prostitute? To even acknowledge her half sister, the paramour?

He shifted his hold on her hand, lacing their fingers together and resting their entwined hands on his thigh. Their palms pressed together, as intimate a contact as she had had in … forever?

“I will help her. Somehow.”

She didn’t realize she had spoken aloud until his clasp tightened.

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Marcus was proud of the way Charlotte had responded. Looking at her serene profile, he would never have guessed that she’d been startled by the appearance of her sister, nor that she was aware that everyone in the place knew of the relationship and was delightedly scandalized about it.

His mother had stared icy daggers at him for a moment and now sat as if a fireplace poker had replaced her backbone. Sophie sent an inquiring glance his way, but he shook his head and made an “I’ll tell you later” motion with his hand.

Pippa was a bold one, true enough. She’d braved the public eye before, but never so brazenly as the front row of the Royal Box at the opera. And she looked like a queen. What was she trying to prove?

More curious to him was Miss Cashel’s companion for the evening. Lord Ratcliffe, the Prince Regent’s closest adviser. That he was blatantly parading a courtesan about London wouldn’t earn him censure from the prince. More likely a nudge of the elbow, a wink, a slap on the back.

He wasn’t surprised that Ratcliffe had run of the Royal Box, being one of the prince’s inner-circle courtiers, but he was surprised that no one but Pippa joined him there. Marcus hadn’t been aware that Ratcliffe frequented the brothels of King’s Place. Aunt Dolly had never mentioned him before.

And neither had Pippa. Perhaps it was a recent acquaintance?

He’d have to ask Sir Noel for a look at the man’s dossier. Anyone with that much influence over the prince would surely have a file.

With Charlotte on Marcus’s left, it was easy to view her profile while appearing to watch the performers. Her cheek curved in a perfectly feminine way, and he’d been surprised at the softness when he’d kissed it earlier that day. He hadn’t noticed until now how long her lashes were. Perhaps he had been too distracted by the jade green of her eyes?

Her hair drew his attention. What did it look like when it wasn’t skewered back tighter than a Puritan’s purse strings? The knot at her nape seemed too heavy for her slender neck and appeared to defy attempts to tame the curl out of it. Her hair must fall nearly to her waist. Would the weight of it pull out some of the curls? Were those curls coarse or silky?

What would it be like to bury his hands in those curls and draw her toward him for a lengthy kiss?

When he realized his skin was heating and his collar tightening, he shook his head. Fanciful thoughts, and unusual for him. He wasn’t often so undisciplined. Anyway, perhaps she liked her hair styled the way it was. He was one to talk. His own preferred hairstyle had gone out of fashion years ago. Sophie had been trying to get him to cut it, but wearing it long meant he didn’t have to fuss with it. He could club it into a tie at his nape and forget about it.

It also helped with various disguises. He could appear an unkempt gutter rat in a matter of moments if need be, just by releasing his hair and dousing it with some goose grease, letting it hang over his face. He’d done it often enough.

A buxom woman stepped to center stage and let out with an ear-shattering high note. Scorched cats barely described it. Perhaps if they would sing in English he could follow the story, but as it was, he was lost and didn’t care to be found.

Glancing down, he studied her hand entwined with his. Charlotte had long, tapering fingers, slender palms, delicate wrists. Though she wore long white gloves, he could feel the light bones, the warmth. Soon those hands would be handing him his morning tea, turning the pages of a book across the fireplace from him of an evening, writing letters with the Haverly crest on the stationery.

He stirred, and she looked up at him, those green eyes catching the lamplight. He gave her a reassuring smile, and she faced the singer again.

His hands were darker, larger, and blunter. They were changing too. For years he had wielded a rifle and saber, soldiering on the Peninsula. He had worked with his hands. Now, though he still tried to ride every morning, the most taxing part of his day was standing still to have his cravat tied by his valet. The calluses were fading.

He was getting soft. And if he was going to continue to play the spy game, he couldn’t allow that to happen. Being fit and agile had saved his life on more than one occasion. He would have to do something about that. Perhaps he should visit Gentleman Jack’s for some sparring from time to time, or he should install a gymnasium at Haverly House to allow him room to box, fence, and practice his knife throwing.

Looking down into the pit, he locked eyes with a woman in the cheaper seats. He gave no sign of recognition, but he caught the glint in her eyes. Aunt Dolly, dressed for a night at the opera. She tapped her folded fan lightly against her palm, and he nodded slowly.

She had information that couldn’t wait.

The woman on stage stopped caterwauling and bowed to the applause of the audience before the heavy curtains descended on the first act. Marcus released Charlotte’s hand, grateful that intermission had finally come.

Soon he found himself standing in the hallway behind the box, surrounded by people laughing and talking.

“That was … interesting.” Whitelock shrugged. “How often does a fellow have to show up at the opera to be considered a gentleman?”

Marcus smiled. “More often than I would like.”

“Oh good. I was afraid I was the only one who wasn’t enjoying it. As soon as I can, I’m taking Diana and the boys back to White Haven.” He tugged at his collar. “I feel like I can’t breathe in London. And I miss comfortable clothes.”

“You’ll be in town for the wedding, I hope? I would like you to stand up with me if you will.” Marcus leaned to his right to keep Charlotte in view. She spoke with Lady Trelawney at the moment. Or rather she listened and nodded as Lady Trelawney talked.

“I’d be glad to. What changed your mind so quickly? Last time we talked, you weren’t interested in getting married, and now, bang! You’re ready to trot up the aisle. Did the Prince Regent put the screws to you like he did me?”

“You didn’t do too badly, arranged marriage or not.” Marcus evaded the question. His reasons were his own, and he hadn’t sorted them all out yet himself.

“No, and I’ll be the first to admit it. The prince did me a favor when he insisted I marry Diana. And Charlotte seems … nice.” Evan scratched his cheek, his eyes clouded. “Your dear mama doesn’t seem too besotted with the idea. Does she have reason for reservations?”

“You know my mother. Half the time Princess Caroline herself wouldn’t be good enough for her son, and the other half, her son wouldn’t be good enough to marry a ragpicker.” Marcus found himself wanting to leap to Charlotte’s defense. “Charlotte’s got a keen mind and sharp sense of humor. She’s well read, and she seems to want to help people.” Including her prostitute sister.

He hadn’t missed her whispered declaration when she’d seen her sister. She wanted to help Pippa even if Pippa didn’t want to be helped.

Evan nodded. “All excellent qualities. I wish you every happiness.” But doubts still lingered in his eyes. “Do you love her?”

“You didn’t love Diana when you married her. People marry for a lot of reasons, and Charlotte and I have ours. It will work out fine.” Marcus hoped he was speaking the truth.

Evan nodded. “I just want you to have the best of life, Marcus. You’ve been a good friend to me and Diana, and I want you to find happiness. You deserve it.”

As people filtered back to their seats, Marcus excused himself. “Now that the crush is thinning, I’ll go down and have some refreshments sent up for everyone.”

Making his way down the curving staircase, he passed several acquaintances. Last Season, he would have nodded and stepped aside so they could get by, but now they made way for him, dipping their heads, showing deference. He pressed his lips together. Inside he felt no different than before, but now he was a high-ranking public figure.

The manager of the refreshment room bustled out from the kitchen. “Your Grace, how may I serve you? Is there something amiss?”

“There are others here ahead of me. See to them first.” He motioned to those waiting at the small tables and those who stood in line to be seated.

The manager and a waiter looked from one to the other, as if they didn’t know what to do. “Of course, Your Grace.”

He scanned the faces, but Aunt Dolly wasn’t in sight. After placing his order to be taken up to his box, he drifted to the foyer.

There she was. Waiting beside a potted palm, studying a placard announcing the schedule of shows for this Season.

“Good evening.”

“You took plenty of time noticing me. Are your skills slipping?” She dug in her reticule as she spoke, keeping her voice low. “You’re playing the part of the smitten swain quite well. I couldn’t tell from where I was sitting, but it looked like you were holding hands with your betrothed for a long time.”

“You have information for me?”

“It’s been years since I went to the opera, and I’ve never sat in the pit before. I always had an invitation to the private seats back when I was a working girl.” She pursed her lips. “Though I never aspired to rise so high as Miss Cashel. Front row in the Royal Box no less.”

She dropped her handkerchief, and as he bent to pick it up for her, he palmed the note inside, slipping it into his coat pocket without opening it. “Thank you.”

She appraised him. “You certainly look like a duke tonight. Not a bit like Hawk, who swoops in and out of my place in the dead of night.”

He shrugged in the tight-fitting jacket and fingered the intricately tied cravat at his throat. “Just as well. Wouldn’t do for everyone to know I’m both.”

She nodded, flicking open her fan but not flapping it. “Still looking for that information you wanted from way back in the day, but that little note should shed some light on the Napoleon-is-dead news.”

Sir Noel and the stock exchange investigators had been following leads all day. The entire enterprise seemed to be a hoax perpetrated for the purpose of manipulating government stocks. There had been quite a brouhaha in the market, but the dust seemed to have settled for now. However, some quite influential names had been bandied about as the source of the manipulation, and Marcus suspected the fallout would continue for quite a while yet. There might even be a court case in the offing. Careers would be at stake, as well as the reputation of the exchange.

“Thank you again.”

“Best get back up there, Your Grace. Wouldn’t do your reputation much good to be seen talking to the likes of me.” She smiled, but the wistfulness about her eyes pierced him.