Page 20 of A Baron’s Most Inconvenient Marriage (Delightful Lords and Ladies)
Chapter 20
“You cannot possibly mean to end things with Bash,” William declared, his voice carrying the incredulous timbre of a man confronted with an incomprehensible paradox.
Charlotte stood by the window of Ravensmere’s morning room, her fingers compulsively smoothing the cream vellum that bore the evidence of her irrevocable decision.
“The letter has already been dispatched,” she replied, her voice remarkably steady despite the hollow sensation expanding beneath her breastbone.
William crossed the room with swift, agitated strides, his reflection fragmenting and reforming in the ornate mirror that hung between twin portraits of Fairfax ancestors.
“Without consulting me? His fingers raked through his dark hair, disrupting its careful arrangement. “Charlotte, this defies all reason. Sebastian is a man of honor, of substance-”
“And of significant financial obligation,” Charlotte interjected, turning to face her brother with unexpected composure.
The pallor of her complexion and the shadows beneath her eyes were the only visible indicators of three sleepless nights spent weighing impossible choices. “Father has made his position abundantly clear. No dowry shall accompany my hand in marriage to Sebastian.”
William paused, absorption of this new information momentarily interrupting his protestations.
“I see,” he said finally, his voice modulating from outrage to thoughtful concern. “Yet Sebastian himself made no mention of financial considerations when we last spoke. Indeed, he professed feelings of a most sincere and profound nature.”
Charlotte’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on the letter, causing the expensive paper to emit a faint protest. “"His feelings may be genuine,” she conceded, each word measured with painful precision. “However, practical realities cannot be dismissed in favor of sentiment.”
“What on earth is going on with you? You don’t seem yourself…”
The door opened, interrupting William to admit James, whose expression suggested he had overheard at least a portion of their conversation.
“I gather we are discussing Charlotte’s inexplicable termination of her courtship with Whitmore,” he observed, closing the door with careful precision.
“Inexplicable is precisely the word,” William agreed, throwing up his hands in a gesture of profound frustration.
“After consideration of all relevant factors,” Charlotte said with quiet firmness, “I have concluded that such a union would prove disadvantageous to both parties.”
The formal phrasing, so unlike her typically direct manner, betrayed the careful construction of her rationale.
“You employ the language of contracts rather than affection,” James noted, moving to the fireplace. “Curious terminology for a young lady previously inclined toward romantic sensibilities.”
Charlotte turned back to the window, using the movement to conceal the tremor that passed through her slender frame. “Perhaps recent experiences have fostered a more practical perspective.”
The brothers exchanged glances laden with unspoken concern. Charlotte’s transformation from spirited, occasionally impetuous girl to this composed, emotionally contained young woman had occurred with disorienting swiftness.
“There is more to this decision than financial considerations,” James stated rather than asked, his analytical mind assembling fragments of information into a cohesive pattern.
“Lady Blackthorn’s recent visit, father’s withdrawal of your dowry, and now this abrupt departure for the Continent—these events form a constellation too precise for coincidence.”
Charlotte’s reflection in the windowpane betrayed a momentary flicker of distress before her features composed themselves once more.
“I have accepted Lady Blackthorn’s invitation. The opportunity to see Italy, to paint landscapes beyond England’s—however magnificent—familiar vistas, is one unlikely to present itself again.”
“The same Lady Blackthorn who regarded you with barely concealed disapproval throughout your stay at Blackthorn Hall? Who orchestrated Margaret’s visit explicitly to diminish your standing in Sebastian’s estimation?”
Charlotte turned, her blue eyes meeting her brother’s with unexpected defiance. “People change, William. Perhaps the dowager baroness has recognized qualities in me that she previously overlooked.”
“Or she has recognized an opportunity to separate you from her son through means more subtle than outright opposition,” James suggested, his tone gentle despite the damning implication. "Charlotte, consider-”
“I have considered,” she interrupted, an uncharacteristic edge creeping into her voice. “I have weighed every possibility, examined every consequence with a thoroughness that would satisfy even Father’s exacting standards. This decision, though difficult, represents the most advantageous outcome for all concerned.”
William crossed over to Charlotte, placing his hands upon her shoulders with fraternal concern. “This is not you speaking,” he said quietly. “These calculated phrases, this dispassionate reasoning—they belong to Father’s ledgers, not my sister’s heart.”
“Perhaps you do not know me as well as you believe,” she replied, each word carefully controlled. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have preparations to complete.”
She departed with measured steps, her posture a study in deliberate dignity.
Only when the door closed behind her did she permit her shoulders to slump infinitesimally, a momentary concession to the grief she dared not display before witnesses, even those bound by blood and affection.
***
“This makes no sense,” Sebastian murmured, the paper trembling almost imperceptibly in his grip. “None whatsoever.”
The letter itself offered little illumination. Charlotte’s distinctive handwriting—typically exuberant and slightly irregular, like her personality—had been disciplined into formal elegance.
The phrases themselves possessed a similar constraint: expressions of gratitude for his attention, acknowledgment of the pleasure his company had afforded, regretful recognition that their temperaments and circumstances rendered them ultimately unsuitable as life partners.
The words formed a perfect facsimile of a courtship’s conventional conclusion, yet lacked the essential spirit that had characterized their relationship from its unusual inception.
“Bash,” William greeted Sebastian, extending his hand with the straightforward manner that characterized the Fairfax men. “I trust you’ll forgive this unannounced intrusion.”
Sebastian clasped his hand firmly, drawing strength from the solid connection. “Nothing to forgive. Indeed, your arrival seems providential, given recent developments.”
William’s expression confirmed Sebastian’s suspicion that Charlotte’s letter had not been dispatched without her brother’s knowledge. “You’ve received Charlotte’s communication, then.”
Though a fire burned with steady determination in the grate, its warmth seemed unable to penetrate the chill that had settled in his core since reading Charlotte’s elegant dismissal. “A development I confess I did not anticipate.”
William seated himself with the unconscious grace of a man comfortable in aristocratic surroundings despite his family’s mercantile origins. “Nor did I,” he admitted, his candor a refreshing counterpoint to the obfuscation Sebastian had encountered in Charlotte’s carefully composed phrases.
“Though certain facts have emerged that may clarify, if not justify, her decision.”
Sebastian leaned forward slightly, his normally disciplined features betraying keen interest. “I would be grateful for any illumination you might provide. The letter itself offers little substantial explanation.”
“My father,” William began, selecting his words with evident care, “has imposed certain conditions regarding Charlotte’s future marriage prospects. Specifically, he has declared that should she wed you, she would do so without the financial advantages typically accompanying a Fairfax daughter.”
The revelation struck Sebastian with the force of physical impact, momentarily robbing him of response. When he finally spoke, his voice emerged lower than its usual precise tenor. “He would withhold her dowry.”
William nodded, his expression suggesting the decision troubled him as much as it evidently disturbed Sebastian.
“A tactical maneuver designed to test the sincerity of your regard. My father harbors concerns that your interest in Charlotte stems more from Blackthorn Hall’s fiscal challenges than genuine affection.”
Under different circumstances, Sebastian might have bristled at this implication. Now, however, the accusations regarding his motives seemed secondary to understanding Charlotte’s abrupt withdrawal. “And Charlotte believes this financial impediment renders our match untenable.”
“That appears to be her consideration,” William confirmed, though something in his tone suggested the explanation remained incomplete.
“She has also accepted your mother’s invitation to tour the Continent for an extended period. They depart for London within days, and thence to Italy after a brief sojourn in the capital.”
Sebastian stared at William with undisguised astonishment. “My mother has invited Charlotte to accompany her abroad? The same mother who regarded your sister as fundamentally unsuitable for the position of Baroness Blackthorn?”
“The very same,” William confirmed, his sardonic tone suggesting he found the transformation equally suspect. “A metamorphosis so remarkable that one cannot help but question its authenticity.”
Sebastian rose abruptly, moving to the window where rain continued its relentless assault upon the ancient glass.
The physical movement provided momentary distraction from the tumult of his thoughts, which arranged and rearranged the facts like chess pieces seeking advantageous configuration.
“When precisely did my mother extend this invitation?” he asked finally, his back still turned to his visitor.
“Three days after your... conversation with my father.” William replied, the significance evident in his measured delivery.
Sebastian’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on the window frame, the only outward indication of the anger rising within him like floodwaters against a crumbling dam. “And Charlotte accepted this invitation immediately?”
“With what I’m told was minimal hesitation,” William confirmed. “A decision that confounded both James and myself, given her evident distress following the dissolution of your courtship.”
Sebastian turned, his gray eyes narrowed with sudden comprehension. “She believes she’s acting in my best interest," he stated rather than asked.
William’s expression suggested the assessment aligned with his own conclusions. “A sacrifice she seems determined to present as pragmatic decision.”
Sebastian resumed his seat with deliberate control, though the rigid set of his shoulders betrayed the effort required to maintain his aristocratic composure. “Your sister possesses a stubborn streak that rivals geological formations in its immovability.”
“A family trait,” William acknowledged with a rueful smile that momentarily lightened the atmosphere. “Though in Charlotte’s case, it manifests most powerfully when she believes herself to be protecting those she... values.”
The careful selection of the final word—values rather than loves—did not escape Sebastian’s notice. Even in this private conversation between gentlemen, certain sentiments remained protected by the formality that governed their social interactions.
“What would you suggest?” Sebastian asked finally, pragmatism reasserting itself through the emotional maelstrom.
William’s response carried the decisive quality that had established his reputation in business circles despite his youth.
“Propriety must occasionally yield to more urgent considerations. If you believe your feelings for Charlotte warrant extraordinary measures, then perhaps extraordinary measures are justified.”
Sebastian’s eyebrows rose fractionally at this unexpected counsel. “You advise direct intervention? Despite Charlotte’s explicit termination of our courtship?”
“I advise,” William replied carefully, “that you consider whether adherence to convention in this instance serves either Charlotte’s welfare or your own. My sister has convinced herself that separation represents the optimal solution for both parties. Only direct evidence to the contrary seems likely to disrupt that conviction.”
Sebastian absorbed this recommendation in thoughtful silence, weighing social expectations against the prospect of permanent separation from Charlotte.
When he finally spoke, his voice carried the quiet authority that had commanded respect among Blackthorn Hall’s tenants even before his formal assumption of the title.
“Thank you for coming, William. Your candor provides clarity where Charlotte’s letter offered only elegant obfuscation.”
William rose, recognizing the shift in Sebastian’s demeanor from confusion to determination.
“I should mention that James and I have agreed not to interfere directly unless Charlotte shows signs of reconsidering her position. Thus far, she maintains a facade of composed resolution that would impress diplomatic envoys.”
Sebastian’s lips curved in a smile that held more acknowledgment than humor. “A facade I suspect requires considerable effort to sustain. Charlotte’s natural exuberance resists containment, like a stream diverted from its natural course.”
“Precisely,” William agreed, moving toward the door with evident relief at Sebastian’s comprehension. “Though whether that facade will crack before her departure remains uncertain. They leave for London in three days’ time.”
Sebastian accompanied him to the entrance hall, where Hargrove materialized with William’s hat and riding coat. Outside, the rain had intensified, drumming against the ancient stones of Blackthorn Hall with percussive insistence.
“The weather promises an unpleasant journey,” Sebastian observed, glancing toward the leaden sky visible through the open door. “You’re welcome to remain until conditions improve.”
William shook his head, donning his coat with practiced efficiency. “I’ve ridden through worse. Besides, my absence from Ravensmere might trigger questions I’d prefer to avoid at present. Charlotte believes I am tending to business matters.”
The two men clasped hands in farewell, their grip conveying solidarity that transcended the formal phrases society dictated for such partings.
As William mounted his horse and disappeared into the rain-swept landscape, Sebastian returned to his study with measured steps that betrayed nothing of the emotional tempest raging beneath his composed exterior.
The days that followed unfolded with excruciating slowness, each hour marked by the relentless ticking of the longcase clock in the entrance hall.
Sebastian immersed himself in estate matters with single-minded focus, reviewing ledgers, consulting with tenants, and implementing improvements with mechanical efficiency.
Only those who knew him intimately might have detected the subtle changes in his demeanor—the absence of his rare but transformative smile, the increased precision in his already methodical habits, the occasional moments when his gaze fixed upon some distant point beyond the immediate surroundings, as though seeking something—or someone—beyond physical reach.
“Excuse the interruption my lord,” the butler said as he entered the room. “But Lady Diana left this for you.” He handed Sebastian a paper envelope. “She was most insistent it reach you as soon as possible.
The contents, penned in Diana’s careful handwriting, produced an immediate and profound transformation. His complexion paled, then flushed with anger so intense that the paper trembled in his grip.
The carefully cultivated restraint that had governed his behavior since receiving Charlotte’s letter disintegrated like frost exposed to sudden flame, replaced by a determination that hardened his aristocratic features into uncharacteristic severity.
Within moments, Sebastian had summoned his valet, issued rapid instructions regarding travel arrangements, and dispatched a messenger to the stables with orders that suggested urgency transcending normal considerations.
Propriety, convention, and patient calculation—the governing principles of his existence since assuming the title—receded before a single imperative that overwhelmed all competing considerations.
He would reach London, even if doing so required riding his best horse to exhaustion and traveling through the night without pause.
Lady Blackthorn’s machinations, executed with aristocratic precision and manipulative cunning, had manufactured circumstances that threatened to separate him permanently from the woman whose absence had rendered Blackthorn Hall a mere structure rather than a home.
Social dictates that cautioned against dramatic gestures or public displays now seemed trivial impediments compared to the prospect of losing Charlotte forever due to misunderstandings cultivated with maternal determination and aristocratic calculation.