Page 9 of A Baron’s Most Inconvenient Marriage (Delightful Lords and Ladies)

Chapter 9

“He is here… again.” Colin announced from the window seat, his voice carrying a note of carefully studied nonchalance. “And by judging the way he is fiddling with his cravat before taking the steps to the front door, I’d wager he brings news that requires a particular… delicacy.”

Charlotte’s fingers stilled on her embroidery hoop, the needle poised mid-stitch like a thought caught between formation and expression.

The morning room, usually her favorite refuge with its eastern light and stunning views of the garden, suddenly felt too warm and too confining.

“How could you possibly get all that from a mere cravat adjustment?” She asked, proud of how steady she kept her voice despite the sudden flutter in her chest.

“The very same way one reads weather from wind patterns, sister dear.” Colin mused as he turned from the window, his expression caught between amusement and concern. “Bash only fidgets with his clothing when he is preparing to navigate particularly treacherous waters.”

Before Charlotte could respond, their mother swept into the room like a particularly elegant whirlwind. “Charlotte! Oh, what a happy day, dearest! Lord Blackthorn has come to call again…”

She stopped dead in her tracks, and eyed her daughter with a hint of apprehension, “I… well, surely you wish to change into something more… suitable?”

Charlotte glanced down at her morning dress, which was a perfectly respectable creation of pale lilac. “Am I not adequately dressed for receiving morning callers, Mama?”

“Adequate is hardly the word one wishes to hear when discussing one’s appearance during courtship,” Her mother sighed, reaching to adjust a stray curl that had escaped Charlotte’s careful coiffure. “Particularly when the gentleman in question is a Baron.”

“He may be a Baron, yes, but one that has known me since I was in leading strings,” Charlotte reminded her, though she allowed the fussing, nonetheless. “I hardly think he expects me to receive him in full evening attire at ten in the morning.”

“Do not pout, Charlotte,” her mother chided, though her tone held only teasing.

James appeared in the doorway then, his usual calm presence a welcome anchor in the mounting tension. “Shall I show him in, Mother? Or would you prefer Charlotte change into full court regalia first?”

Frances shot her middle son a quelling look. “Your sister’s future happiness is hardly a matter for jest, James.”

“On the contrary,” James replied smoothly, “I believe laughter might be exactly what is needed here. Sebastian looks about as comfortable as a fox at a hunting party.”

Charlotte rose, setting aside her embroidery with careful precision. The morning light streaming in through the tall windows caught the silver threads in her work—a pattern of wild roses climbing an invisible trellis.

She had chosen the design in a moment of whimsy, thinking of their conversation in the park, but now the symbolism felt almost too pointed.

Sebastian entered with his usual grace, though Charlotte noticed the slight tension in his shoulders that Colin had somehow divined from his cravat adjustment.

His dark curly hair caught in the morning sun, casting subtle bronze highlights and his grey eyes held a warmth that made her pulse quicken despite her growing sense of unease.

“Miss Fairfax,” He bowed, the gesture as precise as always. “I hope I find you well this morning?”

“Quite well, thank you my lord,” Charlotte executed a perfect curtsy, years of training taking over where her scattered thoughts failed her. “Though I must confess, you early call is unexpected.”

“I thought perhaps…” Sebastian glanced at Frances, who showed no signs of withdrawing. “That is, if you are not otherwise engaged this morning, I might suggest a turn about the garden? The morning is particularly fine, and it seems a shame to waste it.”

James stepped forward smoothly, as if waiting for his cue. “I would be happy to serve as chaperone. Unless Mother has other plans?”

Frances hesitated, clearly torn between propriety and her obvious curiosity. “Well, I suppose… though Charlotte, please do take a shawl. The morning air still carries a hint of spring’s chill.”

The garden welcomed them with a riot of early blooms, their fragrance hanging sweet and heavy in the morning air.

Charlotte walked next to Sebastian, with James keeping a few paces behind them, acutely aware of the careful distance propriety demanded, yet somehow feeling both too close and too far from the man beside her.

“Your mother’s roses are particularly fine this year, Miss Fairfax,” Sebastian observed, though his tone suggested horticultural observations were the farthest thing from his mind.

“Mama claims it is because she has finally convinced the gardener to prune them according to her exact specifications,” Charlotte replied, falling into the easy rhythm of polite conversation. “Though, I rather suspect it has more to do with the way she speaks to them each morning, encouraging them to grow in properly organized patterns.”

“And do they comply with her wishes?”

“About as well as I do,” Charlotte said with a wry smile. As soon as she did, she noticed something flickering across Sebastian’s face, and suddenly, she wished she had said nothing at all. “That is to say, they seem to have their own ideas about proper growth patterns.”

Sebastian’s lips quirked slightly. “Like someone else I know who refuses to be constrained by society’s carefully laid plans?”

The words might have been meant in a teasing way, but something in his tone made Charlotte’s steps falter. James, ever perceptive, had dropped slightly behind them, giving them as much privacy as propriety allowed.

“My lord,” Charlotte said carefully, “I sense you did not call on me this morning merely to discuss my mother’s gardening techniques?”

“No,” Sebastian admitted, his fingers tightening almost imperceptibly on his walking stick. “Though I find I would rather discuss gardens and roses than…”

He paused, seemingly gathering his thoughts. “Charlotte, there is something I must tell you, though I confess, I am not entirely certain how to begin.”

The sound of her Christian name tumbling from his lips sent a shiver down Charlotte’s spine and her heart felt like wanted to soar toward the heavens and drop into a bottomless pit all in one instant.

Sebastian drew a careful breath, his grey eyes fixed on a point just beyond Charlotte’s shoulder, as if the carefully manicured hedges might offer him the words he so clearly sought. “The Baroness is hosting a dinner party,” he blurted.

“Ah.” Charlotte’s fingers curled into her palms, hidden within the folds of her skirts. “And I presume the guest list includes a carefully curated selection of eligible young ladies?”

“Including your cousin.” Sebastian’s voice held a note of strain that made Charlotte’s chest tighten. Margaret would be there.

Suddenly, the morning air felt too thin, and Charlotte felt like she was trying to breath at a too-high altitude. She forced her steps to remain steady, though her mind raced like leaves caught in an autumn storm. “I see.”

“I had thought…” Sebastian paused; the frustration evident in the set of his shoulders. “That is, I had considered asking you to attend. As my guest.”

Charlotte’s heart performed a complicated series of mini acrobatics—and it caught her slightly off-guard. “But you have reconsidered?”

“My mother has made it clear that such a gesture might be seen as… inflammatory.” Sebastian’s walking stick struck the gravel path with slightly more force than necessary. “She believes it could create unnecessary tension among the guests.”

“You mean to say it would interfere with her plans to present my cousin, Margaret as a more suitable alternative.” The words emerged sharper and quicker than Charlotte had intended, like thorns breaking through careful cultivation.

Sebastian stopped walking, turning to face her with an intensity that made her breath threaten to seize altogether. “Charlotte, you must know that I have no intention of—”

“Of what, Lord Blackthorn?” She lifted her chin, though the effort of maintaining composure felt like balancing on a knife’s edge while wearing silk socks. “Of considering a match that would bring both title and fortune to your estate? Of pleasing your mother? Of doing what any sensible nobleman in your position would do?”

James had fallen further behind, providing them with the illusion of privacy while remaining within proper chaperoning distance. His presence felt like an anchor, keeping Charlotte from saying more than she should.

“I thought we had agreed to speak plainly with each other,” Sebastian said quietly.

“Very well then.” Charlotte smoothed her skirts, a gesture that had nothing to do with wrinkles and everything to do with steadying her nerves. “Plainly speaking, I believe you should attend your mother’s dinner party. You should meet Margaret properly, without any… encumbrances.”

“Encumbrances?” Sebastian’s voice held a dangerous edge. “Is that truly your opinion of this?” he gestured briefly between them, “whatever this is?”

“I view it as what it is, Lord Blackthorn—a temporary solution to both our problems.”

Charlotte forced herself to meet his gaze, though it felt like staring into the sun. “One that should not prevent you from making a more advantageous match, should the opportunity present itself.”

“And what of your problems?” Sebastian stepped closer, close enough that Charlotte could see the flecks of silver in his grey eyes. Her breath caught slightly in her throat, but she held her nerve as he spoke. “Will not my attending this dinner party leave you vulnerable to the very gossips we sought to prevent?”

“It will hardly be the first time in my life that I shall survive scandal, Lord Blackthorn,” She said smoothly, “and I shall do so again.”

Charlotte managed a smile that felt like shattered glass against her lips. “Besides, I believe I am becoming rather adept at navigating society’s treacherous waters.”

“Charlotte, I—”

“Please.” She held up a hand, needing distance before her composure shattered completely. “If you are requiring release from our agreement, you have it. You need not feel any obligation to—”

“I am not asking for release,” Sebastian interrupted, his voice carrying not only that quiet authority that made her pulse stutter, but something raw. “I am trying to apply honesty to a situation that has become more complicated than either of us anticipated, with rather alarming speed, has it not?”

“Then let me be equally candid, my lord.” Charlotte drew a steadying breath. “You should attend the dinner. You should become better acquainted with Margaret. And if you find that she… suits your needs better than our current arrangement…”

Charlotte felt like she was going to choke as she forced the words past the tightness in her throat, “Well, that was always a possibility we had discussed, was it not?”

Sebastian studied her face with an intensity that made her want to look away. Before she could reply, a sharp rustling from the hedgerow interrupted them.

Charlotte turned, startled, as a rather plump orange cat shot out of the greenery, tail fluffed in indignation. It dashed past them in an orange blur.

“I see the gardener has another rival for control of the rose beds,” Sebastian remarked dryly.

Charlotte exhaled a laugh, the moment of tension diffused. “Shall we return to the house? I believe Mama will be expecting us for tea soon.”

Sebastian’s lips curved slightly, though the smile did not reach his eyes. “This conversation is not finished.”

“No,” Charlotte agreed softly. “I do not suppose it is.”

They walked back in complete silence, with James falling into step beside them as they neared the house. Charlotte’s mind whirled with all the things left unsaid, all the emotions she dared not examine too closely.

She had offered Sebastian his freedom, had encouraged him to explore a possibility that might bring him happiness and security. And, to top it all off, she was being slightly snotty about it.

So why did doing the right thing feel so utterly, devastatingly wrong?

***

“That shade of blue would suit you perfectly, you know,” Margaret observed as Charlotte examined a length of ribbon in Madame Bijou’s shop the following day. “Though, perhaps we should focus on selecting your hat first?”

Charlotte replaced the ribbon carefully, her fingers lingering on its silk surface. “I am not entirely sure I am in the mood for a new hat today.”

“No?” Margaret’s reflection appeared next to Charlotte’s in the shop’s gilded mirror. “Would this have anything to do with a certain dinner party I am to attend next week?”

Charlotte turned to study her cousin properly. Margaret stood with her usual elegant poise; her golden hair arranged in perfect ringlets beneath her fashionable bonnet.

Everything about her spoke of careful cultivation—from her impeccable posture to the gentle wisdom in her hazel eyes. Yet, nothing about it was fake.

“How long have you known?” Charlotte asked, moving toward a display of flowers and feathers, needing the distraction of movement.

“Lady Blackthorn’s invitation arrived yesterday morning.” Margaret selected a spray of silk roses, holding them up to catch the light. “I must admit, I was rather surprised not to find your name on the guest list, cousin.”

“Were you?” Charlotte’s fingers traced the edge of a delicate lace trim. “I would have thought the baroness’s preferences quite clear by now.”

“What is clear,” Margaret said carefully, “is that she has certain… expectations for her son’s future. Whether those expectations align with his wishes is another matter entirely.”

Charlotte’s hand stilled on the lace. “Did he seem… comfortable at the previous dinner?”

“Ah.” Margaret set down the roses, turning to face her cousin fully. “So, that is what you truly wish to know.”

“I merely—”

“Charlotte.” Margaret’s voice held gentle reproach. “Have we not shared secrets since were children building fairy houses in Aunt Frances’s garden? Surely, we can speak plainly now?”

The shop girl approached with a selection of ribbons, but Margaret waved her away with practiced grace. When they were alone again, Charlotte found herself speaking.

“Colin mentioned that you and Sebastian seemed to… get along well.”

“We have had perfectly pleasant conversations about Italian poetry,” Margaret said. “Though I suspect his mother’s enthusiasm for our limited interactions far exceeds the reality of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that she seems to spend an awful lot of time maneuvering us into conversations, praising my accomplishments, and creating situations where Sebastian and I might find common ground.”

Margaret’s lips curved wryly. “It all feels rather like watching a general position troops for a battle obviously doomed to fail.”

Charlotte could not quite suppress a smile at that. “And, has the general’s strategy proved successful?”

“That would rather depend on the objective.” Margaret moved to examine a display of ribbons, her fingers sorting through them with careful precision. “If she had hoped to showcase me as a suitable alternative to you, I am afraid she will be utterly disappointed.”

“Alternative implies a choice has already been made.” Charlotte said softly.

“Hasn’t it?” Margaret turned, studying her cousin with uncommon intensity. “Charlotte, be honest with me. What precisely is the nature of your agreement with Lord Blackthorn?”

Charlotte’s chest tightened at the direct question. “How did you know?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I hardly see how that matters.” Margaret said, inclining her head.

“It is… complicated.”

“Life often is.” Margaret selected a length of emerald ribbon that complimented her eyes. “But feelings rarely are, once we stop trying to arrange them into the patterns that society deems acceptable.”

“You haven’t answered my question either, you know.” Charlotte noted.

Margaret sighed, setting down the ribbon. “Would you like the pretty, proper answer? Or the truth?”

“Since when have I ever preferred pretty to honest?”

“Very well then.” Margaret led them to a quiet corner of the shop, where a pair of chairs awaited weary shoppers. “The truth is… Lord Blackthorn is everything a nobleman should be—intelligent, responsible, kind. In another life, I might have been quite happy to consider him as a potential match.”

Charlotte’s heart leapt and twirled within the confines of her ribcage. “And in this life?”

“In this life,” Margaret said gently, “I have the distinct pleasure of watching my dearest cousin, and best friend fall in love with him, while he rather obviously falls in love with her, though neither seems quite ready to admit it.”

“Maggie-”

“He speaks of you, you know.” Margaret’s voice held quiet certainty.

“Not directly, perhaps, but you were present in every conversation I have had the pleasure of having with him. When we discussed Italian poetry, he mentioned your translation of Dante. When Lady Blackthorn praised my watercolors, he spoke of your ability to capture the spirit of a landscape rather than just its surface.”

Charlotte’s fingers twisted in her skirts. “That does not mean—”

“It means exactly what you are too afraid to acknowledge, dearest Charlotte.” Margaret reached over to still Charlotte’s restless hands. “The only question that remains to be asked is this: why are you so utterly determined to push him toward any other option but yourself?”

“Because I want what is best for him.” Charlotte whispered. “And I am not at all convinced that I can be that.”

“Perhaps you should let him make that determination.” Margaret said, squeezing her hands once more before releasing them. “Though I rather suspect you will have quite the battle convincing Lady Blackthorn to see things your way.”

“I do not need to convince her,” Charlotte said, rising. “I just need to make sure I do not stand in the way of Sebastian’s happiness.”

Margaret watched as her cousin move toward the shop’s window, where London’s fashionable set strolled past, each person playing their own carefully designed role in society’s elaborate performance.

“And what of your happiness?” Margaret asked softy. “Does that not factor into your calculations?”

Charlotte’s reflection in the window seemed to waver, like an image in troubled waters. “Some things matter more than personal happiness.”

“Like what? Duty? Honor? The expectations of others?” Margaret joined her at the window. “Tell me, cousin, when did you become so willing to accept the limitations placed upon you?”

Before Charlotte could respond, a familiar carriage pulled up by the window—Lady Blackthorn’s distinct blue-and-silver-livery unmistakable even in the crowded street. The dowager baroness stepped out of the carriage with regal grace, but it was her companion that made Charlotte’s breath catch. Out stepped no one other than Frances Fairfax, followed by Diana Blackthorn’s pale face.

“Well,” Margaret said quietly. “It seems we are not the only ones making social calls today.”

Charlotte’s heart performed one final, complicated maneuver as she stared blankly, unsure what to make of what she was seeing.

“Perhaps,” Margaret suggested, “we should conclude our shopping?”

But Charlotte barely heard her, her mind already racing to what Lady Blackthorn’s unexpected visit might mean. Something told her that the carefully measured steps of their social dance were about to become considerably more complicated.