Page 17 of A Baron’s Most Inconvenient Marriage (Delightful Lords and Ladies)

Chapter 17

“Must you truly depart so soon?” Sebastian’s question lingered in the crisp morning air as he stood beside Charlotte’s carriage, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the gravel drive of Blackthorn Hall.

The pale Yorkshire sun illuminated Charlotte’s face, highlighting the genuine regret in her expression. “I fear my mother would consider my extended absence a significant breach of decorum, even with Diana’s impeccable chaperonage.”

Her gloved fingers adjusted the ribbon of her bonnet, a delicate movement that belied the tumult of emotions beneath her composed exterior.

“One could hardly accuse you of embracing decorum too fervently,” Sebastian replied, the corner of his mouth lifting in that particular way that transformed his austere features into something far more approachable—a private expression Charlotte had come to treasure during her stay.

Diana, who had emerged from the grand entrance with a small package wrapped in tissue paper, approached with quick, light steps that betrayed her youth despite her ladylike bearing.

“A small token to remember your visit,” she said, pressing the parcel into Charlotte’s hands. “It’s merely a handkerchief I’ve embroidered, but I thought perhaps you might—”

“I shall treasure it,” Charlotte interrupted, her fingers closing around the gift with genuine warmth. The notion that shy, reserved Diana had labored over such an offering touched her deeply.

As the footman secured the last of Charlotte’s trunks, including her precious painting supplies, Sebastian offered his hand to assist her into the carriage.

The brief contact, her fingers resting upon his palm, sent a current of awareness through him that both startled and intrigued him.

How curious that such a simple touch could convey more meaning than hours of formal conversation in London’s stifling drawing rooms.

“You must write to us directly upon your arrival at Ravensmere,” Diana insisted, her normally quiet voice unusually emphatic. “I shall be desolate without your company.”

Charlotte leaned from the carriage window, the breeze catching an errant curl that had escaped her carefully arranged coiffure. "I promise.”

Sebastian stood perfectly still as the carriage began its journey down the winding drive, a posture of aristocratic composure that concealed the peculiar sense of loss expanding within his chest.

Only when the vehicle disappeared beyond the ancient oak at the bend did he permit his shoulders to relax infinitesimally.

“I will miss her,” Diana murmured beside him, her gaze still fixed on the now empty drive. “It had only been a couple of days, but I had forgotten how pleasant laughter could sound echoing through these halls.”

Sebastian glanced down at his sister, struck by the perception in her observation. “Indeed,” he replied, offering his arm as they turned back toward the house. "She has a particular ability to illuminate her surroundings.”

Like a shaft of sunlight piercing a cathedral’s gloom, he thought but did not say.

Hours later, as afternoon light slanted through the mullioned windows, Sebastian found himself staring unseeing at the estate accounts, his mind replaying moments from Charlotte’s visit with uncharacteristic distraction. The afternoon they had discussed the water rights dispute, her incisive suggestions revealing an understanding of estate management that had astonished him.

The evening in the music room when, rather than attempting to match Margaret’s accomplished performance, Charlotte had chosen a lively country air that had Diana tapping her foot beneath her skirts and even coaxed a reluctant smile from his mother.

Sebastian leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. What had begun as a courtly favor to a friend’s sister—a means of salvaging her reputation after an unfortunate incident—had evolved into something altogether unexpected.

Charlotte Fairfax, with her impulsive nature and disarming honesty, had somehow become indispensable.

The realization crystallized with the clarity of fine Venetian glass: Charlotte would make an exemplary Baroness Blackthorn.

The thought should have alarmed him. She lacked the polished refinement his mother considered essential, and her spirited nature frequently bordered on impropriety by London standards.

Yet Sebastian found himself contemplating, with increasing certainty, that Charlotte’s qualities—her intelligence, her compassion, her ability to breathe life into the solemnity of Blackthorn Hall—were precisely what the estate required. And more than that: it was what he wanted.

A hesitant knock interrupted his reflections. “Enter,” he called, straightening in his chair.

“From Lady Blackthorn, my lord. She requests your presence in the morning room at your earliest convenience.”

Sebastian accepted the missive with a nod of dismissal, breaking the seal with a sense of foreboding. His mother’s ‘requests’ invariably preceded discussions that tested even his considerable diplomatic skills.

“Sebastian,” she acknowledged, as he entered the drawing room, gesturing to the chair opposite. “I trust your correspondence is proceeding satisfactorily?”

“As well as can be expected,” he replied, seating himself with the fluid grace that characterized his movements.

A flicker of discomfort crossed his mother’s features before she schooled them to composure. “Do not tell me you are still pining after that girl leaving here.”

“My courtship of Charlotte is not a matter open for negotiation,” Sebastian stated, each word weighted with quiet authority. “While I understand your concerns regarding her suitability, I find her qualities admirably suited to the responsibilities of a baroness.”

Lady Blackthorn’s eyebrows rose fractionally. “You speak as though your intentions are decided.”

“Increasingly so,” Sebastian confirmed, his gaze unwavering.

“A baroness requires refinement and discretion, qualities Miss Fairfax has demonstrated only intermittently. I have invited Lady Margaret to visit and—”

Sebastian rose in a single fluid movement, towering over his mother’s seated form with the unspoken authority of his position.

“Lady Margaret is welcome as our guest, of course. I shall treat her with every courtesy her rank and character deserve. However,” he continued, his voice dropping to a register that brooked no argument, “I will not permit any orchestration intended to undermine my relationship with Charlotte. On this matter, Mother, we must reach an understanding.”

His mother’s lips thinned almost imperceptibly, the only visible sign of her displeasure. “As you wish. Though I maintain that Lady Margaret’s company may offer valuable perspective.”

Sebastian inclined his head in acknowledgment, then turned toward the door, his movements betraying none of the frustration simmering beneath his controlled exterior. “If you will excuse me, the estate ledgers require my attention.”

***

Only when the heavy oak door closed behind him did Lady Blackthorn permit her rigid posture to soften. She gazed out the window at the meticulously maintained gardens, where the first hints of autumn touched the ancient oaks with gold.

Charlotte Fairfax had made more progress with her son than she had anticipated. The situation would require a more delicate approach than she had originally planned.

***

Charlotte unfolded Margaret’s letter with fingers that trembled. The Ravensmere morning room, with its cheerful yellow walls and abundant light, seemed suddenly confined as she read her cousin’s elegant script:

Dearest Charlotte,

In the interest of our continued friendship, I feel compelled to inform you that Lady Blackthorn has extended an invitation for me to visit Blackthorn Hall.

Given our previous discussions regarding Lord Blackthorn, I felt it only proper that you should hear of this arrangement from me rather than through society’s whispers.

Please understand that I have accepted purely out of courtesy to her ladyship, and harbor no intentions that would compromise your understanding with the baron.

The remainder of the letter blurred before Charlotte’s eyes as a cold sensation spread through her chest like frost across a windowpane.

Her hands lowered the paper to her lap as she gazed unseeing at the portrait of her grandmother that hung above the mantelpiece.

“Charlotte? Are you unwell?” Her mother’s voice cut through her distraction. She moved across the room with the graceful efficiency that characterized her movements, her brow furrowed with concern.

Charlotte started, the letter crinkling between her suddenly tightened fingers. “I am perfectly well, Mama. Merely... surprised by correspondence from Margaret.”

Her mother seated herself beside Charlotte on the small settee, her shrewd eyes missing nothing—neither her daughter’s agitation nor the elegant handwriting visible on the folded paper. “And what news does your cousin impart that leaves you so discomposed?”

Charlotte hesitated, balancing truth against discretion. “She has been invited to Blackthorn Hall. By the dowager baroness.”

The implication hung in the air between them, unspoken yet unmistakable.

Her mother’s lips compressed into a thin line as she absorbed this information.

Unlike her daughter, whose emotions frequently displayed themselves with transparent honesty, her mother possessed the ability to conceal her thoughts behind a mask of social propriety—a skill Charlotte had never quite mastered.

“I see,” she said finally, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her morning dress. "And this invitation comes mere days after your own departure from Blackthorn Hall. How... interesting.”

Charlotte flinched at her mother’s tone, which managed to convey volumes of disapproval without raising a single decibel. “It signifies nothing,” she insisted, though her voice lacked conviction. "Sebastian—Lord Blackthorn—has made his attentions quite clear.”

“Has he?” Frances Fairfax asked her daughter, her eyebrows lifting slightly.

“The invitation to Margaret comes from Lady Blackthorn, not Sebastian,” Charlotte protested, rising in a swift movement that sent the letter fluttering to the carpet.

She paced toward the window, her fingers twisting together in an uncharacteristic display of anxiety. “He has been nothing but honorable in his dealings with me.”

Her mother retrieved the fallen letter, carefully refolding it along its creases. “Charlotte, I have no wish to cause you distress. But as your mother, I must consider your reputation and your heart.”

She paused, choosing her words with deliberate care. “If Lord Blackthorn is toying with your affections, however unintentionally, perhaps it would be wiser to end this courtship before more damage is done.”

Charlotte whirled to face her mother, her blue eyes bright with emotion. “End the courtship?”

Her mother’s voice remained level, though concern shadowed her features. “Society already whispers about the unusual circumstances of your courtship. If it becomes known that both Barrington cousins are being entertained at Blackthorn Hall in quick succession, those whispers will multiply tenfold.”

“Sebastian has treated me with nothing but respect and consideration,” she said finally, turning to face her mother with newfound composure.

“I have absolute faith that he will continue to do so. Whatever Lady Blackthorn’s designs may be, I refuse to allow them to dictate the course of our courtship.”

Charlotte’s face filled with a resolute expression, the stubborn set of her jaw resembling her father’s. “Very well,” her mother replied, conceding, and rising with fluid grace. “But I shall inform your father of these developments.”

“Mother, please—” Charlotte began, alarm flaring in her eyes.

“Your father’s concern for your welfare is not negotiable, Charlotte,” her mother interrupted with gentle firmness. “Nor is mine. We have indulged your unconventional nature more than most parents would consider prudent. In return, I expect you to respect our judgment in matters of propriety and protection.”

With these parting words, her mother departed, leaving Charlotte alone with her tumultuous thoughts and Margaret’s carefully penned letter.

***

“I gather you’re discussing Charlotte and Bash,” William said without preamble, closing the door behind him as his mother entered the study.

“Your mother has concerns about Lady Blackthorn’s invitation to Margaret,” his father confirmed, gesturing for him to join them.

William nodded, seating himself with the casual elegance that characterized the Fairfax men. “As it happens, I share those concerns. However,” he continued, forestalling his mother’s response, “I believe the situation stems from Lady Blackthorn rather than Sebastian himself.”

“You seem quite certain of that assessment,” his father observed, studying his son’s face.

“I’ve known Bash since our school days," William replied. “He is many things—occasionally rigid, excessively responsible, and utterly incapable of falsehood. If he says he’s courting Charlotte in earnest, then he is.”

Mrs. Fairfax leaned forward slightly, her skepticism evident in her expression. “Even with his mother actively promoting an alternative?”

“Especially then,” her son confirmed with a wry smile. “Bash’s sense of honor would prevent him from abandoning his commitment to Charlotte, regardless of his mother’s machinations.”

He paused, his expression growing more serious. “That said, I’ve written to him seeking clarification. It seemed the most direct approach without causing undue alarm.”

His father nodded in approval. “Prudent. And what was his response?”

“I received his letter this morning. He states unequivocally that Margaret’s invitation came solely from his mother and that he has no intention of transferring his attentions from Charlotte. Furthermore,” he added, withdrawing a folded paper from his coat pocket, “he has invited me to return to Blackthorn Hall, presumably to witness his continued commitment to our sister.”

“You only just returned from Blackthorn Hall,” his mother noted, her brow furrowing slightly. “Wouldn’t another visit so soon appear rather conspicuous?”

“Precisely my thought,” William agreed. “Which is why I’ve asked James to go in my stead. He has legitimate business interests in Yorkshire that provide a reasonable pretext for his presence.”

His father’s expression cleared as he absorbed this information. “So both Sebastian and James will be at Blackthorn Hall while Margaret visits. That should prevent any inappropriate maneuvering on Lady Blackthorn’s part.”

“That was my thinking,” William confirmed. “And Bash’s invitation suggests he wishes to demonstrate his honorable intentions toward Charlotte, rather than concealing any contrary designs.”

His mother seemed unconvinced, her fingers tapping a thoughtful rhythm against the arm of her chair. “While these precautions are commendable, they do not address the underlying issue—Lady Blackthorn’s apparent opposition to Charlotte as a suitable match for her son.”

A contemplative silence settled over the room as all three considered this observation.

“Perhaps,” Mr. Fairfax said finally, his voice taking on the decisive tone that had resolved countless business negotiations, “it is time to …”

He turned to his wife, a glint of determination in his eyes. “My dear, I believe we should host a dinner party. Something... substantial.”

William’s mother caught his meaning immediately, her expression shifting from concern to calculation. “Indeed. The Harvest Celebration would provide an excellent occasion. We could invite the Northbrooks, the Pendletons, and of course, Lord and Lady Havelock.”

As his parents began planning what promised to be the social event of the season, William slipped from the study to inform Charlotte of these developments.

He found her in the garden, ostensibly sketching the late summer blooms but clearly distracted, her charcoal hovering indecisively above the paper.

As Charlotte absorbed William’s reassurances, her natural optimism reasserted itself.

Yet beneath her renewed confidence he detected a shadow of uncertainty—for he knew that the dowager’s invitation to Margaret had revealed a vulnerability Charlotte had not previously acknowledged, even to herself: that despite Sebastian’s apparent regard, their courtship remained precariously balanced between genuine affection and the complex calculations of advantageous alliances that governed their social world.