Page 1 of A Baron’s Most Inconvenient Marriage (Delightful Lords and Ladies)

Chapter 1

“Race you to the fountain!” Charlotte Fairfax’s challenge rang out across Hyde Park’s verdant expanse, her words carried away by the spring breeze that had already wreaked havoc with her half-up long brown hair.

“Charlotte!” James’s warning held more exasperation than true censure and carried the precise weight of someone accustomed to reining in disasters before they unfolded. He adjusted his cravat—a telltale sign of his growing frustration. “We are not in Yorkshire anymore, sister!”

But their youngest brother Colin’s eyes already sparkled with mischief at her challenge. His boyish grin flashing in her direction as he mounted his horse with a flourish, barely gripping the reins.

“Last one there buys Italian ices for everyone!” He wheeled his mount around, ready for a bit of sibling rivalry while the wind tousled his golden hair, adding to his perpetually carefree demeanor.

The late afternoon sun caught the brass buttons of Charlotte’s riding habit, transforming her into a creature of blue wool and golden light as she firmly gripped the reins in her hands.

Artemis tossed her head, her hooves striking the earth with barely contained energy, as if she too, longed to defy propriety and bolt into the wind.

Around them, the fashionable set of London already strolled and rode, going about their day as they created an elaborate pattern of movement like butterflies dancing in a luscious garden—that is, until Charlotte broke formation.

“Charlotte, for heaven’s sake…” William’s protest was lost in a thunder of hooves as Charlotte and Colin shot forward, leaving their two elder brothers behind in a flurry of dust and grass.

The wind tore at Charlotte’s hat ribbons as Artemis’s powerful strides ate up the distance before them. Her heart soared with the same wild freedom she felt when galloping across the Yorkshire moors.

There, in London’s premier park, the manicured pathways and carefully tended flowerbeds tried to impose order on nature itself, much as society attempted to tame Charlotte’s own untidy spirit.

Shocked gasps and titters followed their progress, but Charlotte paid them no mind. Colin was gaining on her left, his golden hair catching in the sun like a sailor’s looking glass.

But Charlotte had not spent countless hours racing her brothers at home without learning a few tricks, and so, she shifted her weight forward, encouraging Artemis to an even faster pace.

“Good lord!” she heard someone mutter as they thundered past. “Is that the Fairfax siblings?”

The fountain drew closer, its spray creating a delicate rainbow reflected through water droplets in the late afternoon sunlight.

Charlotte’s victory was assured until a cluster of elegantly dressed ladies appeared directly in her path, forcing her to veer sharply to the right. Colin seized this advantage, pulling ahead in the final stretch.

They drew their horses to a prancing halt beside the fountain, both laughing breathlessly. “Well done, sister,” Colin grinned, “though, I believe you owe us all Italian ices now.”

“I was sabotaged by that group of peacocks masquerading as ladies,” Charlotte protested, though she could not manage to suppress her own smile. “I demand a rematch.”

“Absolutely not!” William and James had managed to catch up, their expressions a perfect study in contrasting forms of disapproval. “Charlotte, you cannot race through Hyde Park as though it were our paddock at home.” William’s voice was calm and his expression impassive.

While James’s disapproval was sharp, William’s was tempered—more like a judge passing measured verdict than an older brother chastising a wayward sibling. He reined in his horse with controlled ease, a stark contrast to Colin, who was still catching his breath from laughter.

“The scandal sheets will surely have a feast,” James added, straightening his cravat which had come slightly askew in their chase after them.

“Oh, let them have it then,” Charlotte said, though a tiny seed of worry had already sprouted in the back of her mind. “Surely London society has more interesting matters to gossip about than one little race in the park.”

William’s stern expression softened slightly. “Dear sister, you consistently and utterly underestimate your own ability to create sensation. Look around you!”

Charlotte did as instructed, and her stomach dropped slightly. Their audience had grown considerably. Clusters of society’s finest had gathered, distracted from their promenading to observe the aftermath of the Fairfax sibling’s impromptu race, the expression on their faces ranging from scandalized to amused.

Several young ladies were hiding behind their fans, no doubt already composing the letters they would write to their friends about the shocking behavior they had been forced to witness.

“Perhaps,” Charlotte admitted, “we should have saved the racing for another time.”

“Another place ,” James corrected. “We are not in Yorkshire anymore, remember? London has an entirely different set of rules, sister.”

“And different expectations,” William added. “Especially for a young lady in her second season.”

Charlotte sighed, patting Artemis’s neck as the mare shifted restlessly beneath her. “Sometimes I think London has too many rules and too few opportunities for genuine enjoyment. How can anyone breathe under the weight of all these… constraints?”

“I suppose the same way you manage to draw breath in that ridiculously tight riding habit of yours,” Colin quipped from the side. “With practice and occasional moments of rebellion, I’d wager.”

The comparison startled a laugh from Charlotte, earning them even more disapproving glances from their growing audience.

But she sobered quickly as she caught sight of an all-too familiar figure hurrying away from the scene—her aunt’s messenger, no doubt racing home to report this latest transgression.

“Mother will certainly not be pleased,” she murmured.

“Mother is rarely pleased during the London season,” James observed dryly. “But perhaps we should return home and face the music, before she dares to send out a search party.”

Charlotte nodded, gathering her reins. The afternoon’s golden light had taken on a warning cast, reminding her of time’s swift passage.

They had a ball to prepare for that evening, after all, and her mother would surely require extra time to lecture her about proper behavior, before they could begin the ritual of dressing in their fine gowns and adorning themselves with fine jewelry.

As the siblings turned their horses toward home, Charlotte caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the fountain’s rippling surface. Her hair had indeed escaped its pins, creating a wild halo around her flushed face. the sight reminded her of another reason to hurry home—she wanted to look her absolute best that night.

She was determined to prove to society that she was more than just the Fairfax brothers’ madcap little sister.

As she turned Artemis toward home, the laughter still echoing in her ears, Charlotte stole a glance at her brothers.

Colin looked utterly unrepentant, William resigned, and James—as ever—the voice of reason, already preparing some well-meaning lecture on proper conduct.

But it was the hushed murmurs of bystanders that prickled at the back of her neck, the knowledge that her little act of rebellion had not gone unnoticed.

The Fairfax’s London townhouse—Ravensmere Manor, loomed before them, its Georgian facade a stern reproach to their afternoon adventures.

Charlotte’s mother stood framed in the doorway like a Renaissance portrait of pure maternal disapproval, her normally serene features drawing into tight lines.

“Charlotte Anne Fairfax!” Frances Fairfax’s voice carried the particular sort of disappointment that only mothers could achieve. “Your Aunt Cecelia’s messenger arrived ten minutes ago. Would you care to explain precisely why my sister-in-law felt compelled to inform me that my only daughter was racing through Hyde Park like a stable boy?”

Charlotte dismounted, smoothing her rumpled riding habit with hands that slightly trembled. “It was nothing, Mama. Just a bit of fun. Colin and I—”

“Do not drag me into this.” Colin muttered under his breath, though his eyes twinkled with amusement.

“Come Inside. Now. All of you.” Frances turned on her heel, leaving her children to follow in her wake like enchanted marionettes pulled by invisible strings.

The drawing room was a symphony of blue and gold, its elegant furnishings a reminder of the Fairfax family’s wealth, if not their title.

Charlotte sank onto a delicate settee, while her brothers arranged themselves in various attitudes of support—William with his diplomatic nature near the fireplace, ever logical James by the window, and a rebellious Colin on the arm of her settee.

“Charlotte,” her mother’s voice had softened slightly, which somehow only made it worse. William exhaled quietly, ever the mediator, already formulating words to smooth the situation.

James folded his arms across his chest, his sharp mind likely calculating the exact number of steps required to repair Charlotte’s reputation.

Colin, however, leaned against the settee with a barely concealed smirk as their mother continued, ever entertained by his sister’s rebellious streak. “You are nineteen years of age, and in your second season. Last year’s presentation at court should have taught you the importance of proper behavior. We may not possess a title, but we do have connections, wealth, and most importantly—a reputation that must be maintained at all costs.”

“I understand, Mama, but—”

“Do you? Because Lady Cecelia reports that half the ton had the pleasure of witnessing your display today. Lady Blackthorn herself was among the spectators.”

Charlotte’s heart plummeted like a crown tumbling down palace steps. “Lady Blackthorn?” The mention of Sebastian’s mother sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the cool spring breeze that flitted across her heated cheeks from the open window.

“Indeed. And while some may find your exuberance charming, others will only see impropriety. A young lady’s reputation is as delicate as spun glass, Charlotte. One wrong move and it can shatter beyond repair.”

Charlotte lifted her chin, forcing her hands to be still in her lap. “And what good is a glass too fragile to be touched, Mama? Must I remain on a shelf forever, admired, but never truly seen?”

“Might you be exaggerating slightly, Mother?” William interjected smoothly. “Charlotte’s spirit is well-known in society. I have heard her referred to as rather refreshing.”

“Many, perhaps, but not all.” Frances paced the length of the room, her silk skirts rustling like whispered secrets. “Not those whose good opinion we most need to court.”

Charlotte’s fingers traced the delicately embroidered flowers on a nearby cushion, each stitch as precise and regulated as the society rules she kept transgressing by just being herself.

“I am afraid you ask too much, Mama, asking me to be someone I am not. I cannot sit quietly and simper and pretend that my greatest joy is sorting silks for needlework.” Her tone carried a hint of bitterness.

“No one is asking you to pretend, dearest. But surely you can see how there must be balance. Your father has given you an education far beyond what most young ladies receive.”

“You speak French and Italian, and you understand estate management equally as well as you wield a paintbrush upon canvas. Your skills and talents far outshine our peers. These are gifts that should elevate you in society, not set you apart from it.”

Charlotte listened to her mother’s speech. She had heard the same gentle reprimands a thousand times over. “Charlotte, are you listening?” Her mother’s tone had grown slightly sharper, and Charlotte nodded.

“Of course, Mama.”

“Dear girl, you would do well to at least try to be more like your cousin.”

Charlotte sighed softly, her spine stiffening. Margaret Barrington was her cousin, as well as her best friend. She was a young lady who seemed to do everything just right without even trying to—making her the complete opposite of Charlotte.

“I will try my utmost to be a better daughter, Mama.” Charlotte said, her tone laced with bruised pride.

“Dearest, I did not mean to—”

A knock at the door interrupted Frances’s lecture. The butler entered with a letter on a silver tray, presenting it to William with practiced grace. Charlotte watched her eldest brother’s face as he read, noting the slight lift of his eyebrow that told her one thing: William was surprised.

“Well,” William said after a moment, “it seems tonight’s ball at Almack’s will be more interesting than anticipated. It seems Bash has returned to London.”

The cushion’s embroidery blurred before Charlotte’s eyes. Lord Sebastian Whitmore, Baron of Blackthorn, her brother’s best friend—and the secret object of her affections for far longer than she cared to admit.

He would be at the ball tonight. The same Sebastian whose mother had just moments ago witnessed her wild race through the park.

“When did he arrive?” James asked, ever practical.

“Yesterday, apparently. He has been settling estate business but writes that he shall join us tonight.”

Frances sank into a nearby chair as she pressed her fingers into her temples. “Wonderful. Lady Blackthorn will have fresh tales of Charlotte’s misconduct to share with her son.”

“Bash won’t care about all of that,” Colin protested. “He has known Charlotte for years.”

“Precisely so,” Charlotte murmured, though the words tasted bitter on her tongue, “He has known me since I was a child. That is all he will ever see when he looks at me.”

But even as she spoke, she straightened her spine. She might not be the most proper young lady in London, but she was also no longer the gangly girl who had trailed after her brothers and their friend. Tonight, she would prove it, to Sebastian, to her family, to the ton, and most importantly—to herself.

“May I be excused Mama? I need to get ready for the ball. I promise to be the very model of decorum this evening.” She spoke with a soft smile.

Frances studied her daughter’s face, no doubt searching for signs of sincerity. Finally, she nodded. “Very well. Sarah is waiting to assist you. And Charlotte?” She paused until her daughter met her eyes. “Do try to keep your hair properly arranged for at least the first hour of the ball.”

Charlotte ran into Sarah in the corridor and allowed her to hustle her toward her chambers.

“Your spirit is commendable, dear daughter,” Stephen Fairfax commented from his study doorway, surprising Charlotte as she hurried past. “Though, perhaps your time might be better spent preparing for tonight’s ball?”

Charlotte paused, caught between Sarah’s urging toward her chambers and her father’s implicit invitation. Her father’s study had always felt like a sanctuary, filled with leather-bound volumes and the strangely comforting scent of tobacco, and something else that was distinctively him.

Her heart leapt as she peered into the room, noticing how the afternoon light that filtered in through the windows caught the silver in his hair and the wisdom in his eyes.

“I have time yet, Papa,” Charlotte stepped into the study, breathing in its familiar atmosphere. Sarah made a sound of distinct disapproval but retreated—no doubt to inform her mother of this latest delay in preparations.

“Do you?” Her father gestured to the chair across from his desk. “I heard about your little adventure in the park today.”

Charlotte sank into the worn leather armchair, smoothing her skirts self-consciously. “Has everyone heard?”

“London thrives on gossip, darling girl. Though, I must say, your mother’s reaction was rather more dramatic than the crime warranted.” His eyes twinkled. “Unless, of course, there is some particular reason why you seem so concerned with your reputation today?”

“Not at all, Papa.” Charlotte said, despite the heat creeping up her cheeks.

“Hmmm.” She watched nervously as he shuffled some papers on his desk—a familiar gesture that had preceded many of their most important conversations. “Lord Blackthorn’s return to town has caused quite a stir in… certain circles, it seems.”

“Has Sebastian returned because of the estate?” Charlotte latched onto the safer topic. “I thought I heard William mention something about problems with the mineral works.”

“Indeed.” His expression shifted to one of approval. “Tell me, what do you remember of mining rights and tenant agreements?”

Charlotte sat straighter, grateful for this return to familiar ground. For the next quarter of an hour, father and daughter discussed property law and estate management, her childhood lessons flowing back naturally.

Her father nodded occasionally, asking pointed questions that made her think deeper, and consider alternatives.

“You see my dear,” he said finally, “you possess a remarkable mind. One that grasps both business and beauty, numbers, and nuance. Never allow anyone to make you feel like that is a flaw.”

“Even when society calls it unfeminine? When Lady Blackthorn—” Charlotte stopped herself, but it was too late.

“Ah,” her father leaned back, studying his daughter intently. “So that is the heart of it. You fear Sebastian’s mother will not approve of your education?”

“She witnessed me racing in the park today,” Charlotte admitted. “And she made it clear during our luncheon last week that she thinks Maggie would make a better match for her son.” She paused, but her father merely raised an eyebrow.

“Perfect cousin Maggie, who plays the pianoforte beautifully, and never says the wrong thing and—”

“And lacks your understanding of estate management,” he interrupted gently. “And your gift for languages. And your artistic eye that sees both the beauty and practical needs of the land?”

“Those are not the qualities most noble families seek in a bride, Papa.”

“Perhaps not. But they might be exactly what a certain young baron needs in a wife, particularly one facing challenges with his estate.” Her father rose, coming around to the desk to kiss her forehead. “You are your mother’s daughter in beauty, my dear, but you are mine in spirit. Never apologize for that.”

A knock at the door revealed James, his expression caught between amusement and exasperation. “Father, I apologize for interrupting, but Mother is about to have an apoplexy. And Charlotte, if you do not let Sarah dress you soon, I fear she might resign in protest.”

Charlotte rose reluctantly, but her father’s words had steadied her. “Thank you, Papa.”

“For what? Our usual business discussion?” His tone was innocent, but he winked at her. “Go on now. Show London that a lady can possess both sense, and sensibility.”

As Charlotte hurried toward her chambers, she heard her brother’s voice behind her: “You encourage her with such vigor, Father. Has that been your plan all along? The languages… the estate lessons…”

“A father must prepare his children for their futures,” Stephen replied. “Even if society has not quite caught up to what that future might be.”

Charlotte smiled, her heart leaping at her father’s words. Perhaps, just perhaps, her father was right. Perhaps being different wasn’t such a liability after all.

Charlotte’s bedchamber was a sanctuary of organized chaos—much like her mind. Her latest watercolor sat unfinished on the easel—an intricate study of her grandmother’s prized porcelain collection, each piece casting delicate shadows that she had begun the previous night.

Sarah had already laid out her ball gown—a creation of celestial blue silk that made Charlotte’s blue eyes appear darker and more mysterious.

“We are starting much later than I expected, my lady,” Sarah chuckled, already attacking Charlotte’s wind-tossed hair with a brush. “We shall barely have enough time to make you presentable.”

“Presentable will not be enough tonight, Sarah,” Charlotte muttered, studying her own reflection in the mirror. “Tonight, nothing less of extraordinary will do.”

Sarah’s clever fingers wove Charlotte’s brown tresses into an elegant arrangement of braids and swirls that somehow managed to look both fashionable and natural. “Might this have anything to do with Lord Blackthorn’s return to town?”

Charlotte’s cheeks reddened instantly, blazing like twin supernovas. “How did you—”

“Three years of dressing you, my lady. I know that look by now.” Sarah secured another pin in her hair. “Besides, you have kept every sketch you ever made of him, hidden in that portfolio you keep stashed under your bed.”

“Sarah!” Charlotte’s mortification was absolute. “You were not supposed to… I mean, I never…”

“Do not worry yourself, my lady. Your secret is safe with me.” Sarah’s eyes twinkled in the mirror. “Though perhaps not as secret as you imagine. Your brothers aren’t blind, you know.”

The thought that her siblings might have guessed her feelings for Sebastian sent a fresh wave of panic coursing through Charlotte’s veins. “Do you think he knows?”

“Men,” Sarah said wisely, “are remarkably unobservant about such things. Now, hold still while I finish setting these curls.”

An hour later, Charlotte barely recognized her own reflection. The blue silk gown emphasized her petite, but shapely figure, while Sarah’s artistry with her hair had transformed her usual windswept look into something ethereal.

For once, she looked like the sort of noble young lady who might just catch a Baron’s eye. She stared at herself for a moment, happy with how she looked.

Her dark brown hair—a cascade of deep, dark brown silk that seemed as rich as aged mahogany was expertly arranged.

Her heart-shaped face was framed by high cheekbones and her full lips curved into a smile that was both warm and filled with intrigue—as if she was on the verge of sharing a secret. Her small, gently upturned nose added to your youthful charm and her expressive brows brought the entire ensemble together.

She blinked her eyes, and her dark lashes opened, revealing a set of eyes that was reminiscent of a sunlit glacier—a cool, crystalline, and impossibly deep shade of blue.

A knock at the door heralded William’s arrival. “Charlotte? Are you ready? The carriage is—” William halted mid-sentence, his gaze scanning her appearance with the meticulous assessment of a man used to observing details.

His surprise was fleeting, and quickly replaced with approval. “Well, don’t you clean up rather nicely, little sister?” His compliment was delivered with the same careful diplomacy he used when debating politics—neutral, but sincere.

“Such flattery,” Charlotte laughed, though pleasure warmed her chest. “One might almost think you were proud to escort me to the ball.”

“Always.” William said as he offered her his arm with exaggerated gallantry. “Though I do hope you will refrain from racing any gentlemen across the ballroom.”

Charlotte’s retort died on her lips as they descended the stairs. Their mother’s approval was evident in her smile, while James and Colin added their own appreciative comments. For one perfect moment, Charlotte felt equal to the evening’s challenges.

But when her mother spoke again, reality crashed back in, chipping away at her confidence and resolve. “Lady Blackthorn will be there tonight, of course. We must be sure to greet her properly, Charlotte. We must try our best to smooth over this afternoon’s… incident.”

Charlotte suppressed a groan. She would have to face not only Sebastian, but his formidable mother, who had witnessed her wild behavior in the park with her own eyes.

The likelihood of Sebastian seeing her as anything other than his best friend’s hoydenish sister seemed to diminish with each passing second.

“Courage, sister,” Colin whispered as they entered the carriage. “Bash has never cared much for society’s rules either, you know.”

“That is because he is a man, and can afford not to,” Charlotte whispered back. “He can be as unconventional as he likes. I, on other hand, cannot.”

The carriage rolled through London’s gaslit streets toward Almack’s, that temple of societal approval where even duchesses must abide by the strict rules. Charlotte pressed her hand against the window, watching her breath fog the glass. Somewhere in that vast, bustling city, Sebastian was preparing for the same ball, perhaps thinking of nothing more than duty and business.

He could not possibly know that her heart was racing faster than any horse she had ever ridden on, that her carefully constructed composure might shatter at the mere sight of him.

“Remember,” Frances said just as their carriage joined the line approaching Almack’s, “a lady’s reputation—”

“Is as delicate as spun glass,” Charlotte finished. “Yes, Mama. I remember.”

But as they drew to a halt and the footman opened the carriage door, Charlotte made a silent vow. She would prove tonight that she was more than just a wild rose from Yorkshire.

She would show Sebastian—show everyone—that she could bloom just as brilliantly in London’s formal gardens as she did on the moors of Yorkshire.

That is, if only her heart would stop trying to gallop right out of her chest.