Page 13 of A Baron’s Most Inconvenient Marriage (Delightful Lords and Ladies)

Chapter 13

“You seem unusually quiet this morning,” Margaret observed, her voice carrying that perfect blend of concern and poise that Charlotte had always admired. “I do not believe I have ever seen you pass up raspberry preserves before, cousin.”

Charlotte stared at her untouched plate, where delicate patterns of morning light played across the fine China like nature’s very own set of watercolors.

The breakfast room, usually her favorite place to have her first meal of the day, with its eastern exposure and cheerful buttercup walls, felt oddly confining this morning, as if the very air had grown thick with unspoken thoughts.

“I suppose I am not very hungry,” Charlotte managed, though the words felt as stiff as her new stays.

She glanced at her cousin, noting how the morning light caught Margaret’s perfectly arranged golden curls, how her posture remained elegant even while reaching for the tea pot—all the little details that had once filled Charlotte with affectionate pride, now felt like something pricking at her insides, like thorns beneath rose petals.

“Not hungry, not talkative, and you haven’t mentioned painting once.” Margaret poured the tea with the grace of a seasoned duchess, the delicate stream of amber liquid flowing as smoothly as her social manner. “This is not like you at all, dearest.”

Charlotte traced a finger alongside the rim of her cup, watching ripples from in the dark liquid that mirrored the disturbances in her own thoughts. “I have been contemplating last night’s musical evening.”

“Ah.” Margaret set down the teapot with careful precision. “I thought you acquitted yourself rather well, actually. Your Scottish air had even Lady Cavendish of all people tapping her feet, though she tried desperately to hide it.”

“That is kind of you to say,” Charlotte forced herself to meet her cousin’s eyes—those same clear hazel eyes that had witnessed so many of her childhood adventures and secrets. “But we both know my performance wasn’t quite up to the standards of your Mozart.”

“Different styles serve different purposes,” Margaret said diplomatically. “Not everything needs to be perfectly executed to be perfectly delightful.”

The words, though kindly meant, somehow struck deeper than intended. Charlotte rose abruptly, moving toward the window where the garden beamed out its familiar comfort.

The roses were in full bloom now, their various hues ranging from deepest crimson to palest pink, each one perfect in its own way. Just as Margaret was perfect in her way—accomplished, graceful, everything a nobleman’s wife should be.

“Cousin,” Margaret’s voice held that note of gentle understanding that made Charlotte’s chest ache. “Whatever is troubling you, you know you can share with me. We have never had secrets between us. Let us not start now.”

Charlotte turned, the morning light now behind her like a shield. “Haven’t we?”

“Charlotte?”

“What is the nature of your feelings toward Sebastian?” The words emerged in a rush, like water breaking through a carefully constructed dam. “Truly, Margaret. I need to know.”

Margaret’s face registered surprise, then something deeper—a mixture of comprehension and compassion that made Charlotte want to look away. But she held her ground, needing this truth more than she needed comfort.

“So, that is what has been brewing behind those stormy eyes of yours.” Margaret’s voice held no judgement, only understanding. “Come sit with me properly. If we are to have this conversation, let us at least be comfortable while doing so.”

Charlotte returned to her seat, noting how even this simple act highlighted their differences. Margaret sat with perfect grace, while Charlotte’s movements felt suddenly awkward, as if her usual energy had transformed into unwieldy momentum.

“First,” Margaret said, reaching for Charlotte’s hand across the table, “you should know that I have been well aware of your feelings for Sebastian since we were children. The way you used to watch him when he visited William, how you always managed to have a new painting to show him…”

Charlotte felt heat rise in her cheeks. “Was it that obvious?”

“Only to those who knew where to look.” Margaret’s smile held genuine affection. “Which is why, when Lady Blackthorn began her rather obvious campaign to pit us against one another, I found myself in quite the awkward position.”

“Because of me?”

“Because of many things.” Margaret’s fingers tightened briefly on Charlotte’s. “But mostly because I have never seen Sebastian in that light. He has always been William’s friend and your object of fascination, but never… never someone I could imagine building a life with.”

“Even though he would be a perfectly sensible match?” Charlotte couldn’t keep the edge from her voice, no matter how hard she tried. “A baron with an ancient estate, a reputation for order and integrity, not to mention handsome enough to please any lady’s eye?”

“All of which is true,” Margaret acknowledged. “And on a purely practical level, I cannot deny that he would certainly be an excellent match. But Charlotte…” she paused, choosing her words with characteristic care. “Have you ever known me to do anything purely for practical reasons?”

Charlotte studied her cousin’s face intently. She noted how the morning light caught the subtle variations in Margaret’s complexion—the rose petal-flush of her cheeks, the cream-and-honey smoothness that spoke of careful attention to propriety in all things, even sun exposure.

How different from her own wind-blown features, perpetually touched by the elements she refused to hide.

“You have never been practical about matters of the heart, that much is certain.” Charlotte conceded. “But surely you must see how advantageous such a match could be? Even Lady Blackthorn-”

“Lady Blackthorn,” Margaret interrupted with uncharacteristic firmness, “sees what she wishes to see. Just as you, dearest cousin, are seeing shadows where none exist.”

“Am I?” Charlotte’s fingers twisted in her napkin, the fine linen crumpling like her composure. “When every quality you possess seems designed to make mine appear more… untamed in comparison?”

“Charlotte.” Margaret’s voice now held equal measures of affection and exasperation. “Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps those very qualities you are fretting about so, are exactly what draws Sebastian to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I watched him last night, you know,” Margaret said, reaching to pour fresh tea with that same effortless grace that Charlotte envied so. “Not because of any particular interest of my own, mind you, but because I was curious about what Lady Blackthorn found so promising in the match she kept trying to manipulate.”

Charlotte’s heart performed a complicated series of maneuvers that would have scandalized any dancing master. “And… what did you observe?”

“That while I was performing Mozart with all the precision my years of practice could produce, Sebastian’s attention kept straying to you. That when you took your turn at the pianoforte with that delightfully improper Scottish air, his entire being seemed to come alive with interest.”

“He was probably calculating how much damage my performance was doing to his social standing,” Charlotte muttered, though something warm also unfurled in her chest at her cousin’s words.

“He was smiling,” Margaret corrected gently. “Not his usual, polite, social smile, but something real and unguarded. I do not believe I have seen that expression on his face since well before his father passed away.”

Charlotte remembered that smile—and how it always managed to make her pulse skip like a stone across still water. “But surely that is not enough to build a life on? He is in need of someone who can help him manage the estate, someone who understands proper social obligations, someone who—”

“Someone who can challenge his assumptions?” Margaret suggested. “Someone who sees possibilities where others see only problems? Someone who brings life and color to his carefully ordered world? Never mind the fact, of course, that your father made sure you would be able to wonderfully aid him in the management of the estate.”

“You are being too kind.” Charlotte said, though she couldn’t quite suppress a smile.

“I am merely being honest.” Margaret said as she set down her teacup with deliberate care. “Sebastian holds me in perfectly proper esteem, as any gentleman should. But you, Charlotte… you he watches as if you are some rare, fascinating natural phenomenon he is still trying to categorize.”

“That is hardly flattering.”

“Is it not?” Margaret’s eyes sparkled with gentle mischief. “For a man who has spent his entire life studying and organizing everything around him, finding something—or someone—that defies easy classification might be exactly what he needs.”

Charlotte felt her cheeks warm. “Even if that means constant social disasters and improper musical performances?”

“Especially then.” Margaret reached across the table to squeeze Charlotte’s hand. “Now, shall I tell you something that might ease your mind further?”

“Please.”

“Lady Blackthorn’s efforts to throw us together have been rather… comprehensive. Yet, in all our carefully orchestrated conversations, do you know how many times Sebastian has mentioned you?”

Charlotte held her breath. “How many?”

“In every single one, without fail.” Margaret’s smile held triumphant satisfaction.

“Whether comparing my watercolors to your more vibrant painting style or relating some observation you had made about estate management, or simply commenting on how you would appreciate some historical detail—you are woven through his thoughts like golden threads through tapestry, dearest Charlotte.”

“But then why…” Charlotte paused, gathering her courage as the question churned in her mind. “If he holds me in such regard, why does he seem to welcome these meetings his mother arranges?”

“Does he?” Margaret’s eyebrow rose elegantly. “Or does he simply maintain the proper social forms while his attention remains firmly fixed somewhere else? Think carefully, cousin. When have you ever known Sebastian Whitmore to be anything but meticulously correct in his social behavior?”

Charlotte remembered his face the previous evening, how his carefully maintained mask had slipped when she had begun her song. How his eyes had followed her movements, not with the disapproval she had feared, but with something that looked almost like longing.

“I have been rather foolish, have I not?” she asked softly.

“Not foolish,” Margaret corrected. “Simply caught in that particular trap where love and fear tangle together like silk threads in an embroidery basket. But really the only question is: what do you plan to do about it?”

“What do you mean, what am I going to do about it?” Charlotte asked, though something in Margaret’s expression made her pulse speed up. “Surely there is nothing to be done except to continue as we are?”

“Is that truly what you want?” Margaret rose with fluid grace, moving to the window where morning light painted patterns across the garden path. “To remain in this carefully arranged dance where everyone pretends not to see what is actually happening?”

Charlotte followed her cousin’s gaze to where the roses climbed the garden wall. Some were perfectly trained along their trellises, others breaking free to grow in unexpected directions. Rather like her own heart, she thought—refusing to be contained by proper arrangements.

“I am not entirely sure that I know what I want anymore,” she admitted softly. “Or rather, I know exactly what I want, but I am not certain if it is what is best for anyone else.”

“Meaning what is best for Sebastian?” Margaret turned, the light behind her creating a perfect silhouette of graceful femininity. “The same man who is unable to keep his eyes off you, even when propriety demands his attentions elsewhere?”

“I still think he needs someone who can help him restore Blackthorn Hall to its former glory.” Charlotte’s fingers twisted in her skirts. “Someone who understands the proper way to manage a noble household, who will not cause him scandal around every corner, who—”

“Who will slowly suffocate everything that makes him truly come alive?” Margaret’s voice held uncharacteristic sharpness.

“Charlotte, I have paid attention these past weeks. When he is performing his social duties, he is like one of those mechanical figures in a Swiss clock—precise, predictable, and utterly lifeless. But when he is in your presence…”

“When he is with me, he is constantly having to manage social disasters,” Charlotte interrupted.

“When he is with you, he remembers how to laugh.” Margaret crossed the room, taking Charlotte’s hands in hers.

“When he is with you, his entire being lights up with the kind of energy I have not seen in many gentlemen. Do you truly think Blackthorn Hall needs another proper lady more than it needs that? Besides, since when have you doubted yourself to such a degree?”

Charlotte stared blankly at their shared hands for a moment. She noticed how Margaret’s perfectly manicured fingers contrasted with her own paint-stained ones. “But your mother—”

“My mother sees what society has trained her to see.” Margaret squeezed her hands gently. “Just as Lady Blackthorn sees only what she believes a baroness should be. But Sebastian… Sebastian sees you , Charlotte. All of you. Improper music and social disasters included.”

“Are you sure you truly don’t…” Charlotte paused, gathering courage once more. “… that is, if he were to turn his affections to you…”

“Then I would remind him, and everyone else, that his heart is already engaged elsewhere.” Margaret’s smile held absolute certainty. “I have no wish to be a pawn in Lady Blackthorn’s games any longer, nor any desire to separate two people who so clearly belong together.”

Relief flooded Charlotte’s chest, and it felt as sweet as the first summer rain. “I have been horrible about this, haven’t I? Doubting myself… doubting you… pulling away…”

“You have been human, dearest.” Margaret corrected. “And I understand completely. But Charlotte…” her expression turned serious. “You must promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Do not let your fear of inadequacy drive you away from what you truly desire. You may not be the sort of baroness society expects, but you are exactly the sort of baroness that Blackthorn Hall—and its baron—needs.”

Before Charlotte could respond, a knock at the door heralded the arrival of a footman bearing a silver salver. “Begging your pardon, Miss Fairfax, but this has just arrived for you from Blackthorn Hall.”

Charlotte’s hands trembled slightly as she took the elegantly folded note from the tray. Sebastian’s precise handwriting marked the front—not her full name, she noticed, but simply ‘Charlotte’ in his bold, decisive script.

“Shall I leave you to read it?” Margaret asked softly.

“No, please stay.” Charlotte broke the seal, her heart thundering and her fingers trembling. As she read the note, color drained from her face.

“Charlotte?” Margaret’s voice held concern. “What is it?”

“It is about the mineral works,” Charlotte whispered, the paper shaking in her grip, “There has been another collapse in the northern shaft. Sebastian says…” she swallowed hard. “He says he needs to speak with me immediately about something that might affect both our futures.”

Margaret’s eyes widened. “Both your futures? But surely that means-”

“It means,” Charlotte said, her voice steadying despite her racing pulse, “that I need to decide right now whether I am brave enough to be exactly who I am, of if I am going to retreat into who everyone thinks I should be.”

“And what have you decided?”

Charlotte looked down at the note once more, at the way Sebastian had written her name—bold and direct, just like his nature. Just like her own nature she had been trying so hard to temper to match society’s expectations.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that it is time to stop trying to be a hothouse flower and remember that I have always been a wild Yorkshire rose.”

The only question that remained to be asked was whether Sebastian would see that as an asset, or a liability when the future of his estate hung in the balance.