Page 1 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)
“No!” Charlotte exclaimed and jumped out of her chair as though she had been stung by a bee. “I will not. I will not. I do not agree to this!”
Her father took a deep breath, his jaw slack. He paled beneath his white beard, his eyes wide as he looked from her to his guest, who, despite the outburst, looked rather nonchalant.
“Charlotte, I will not have you behaving in such a way in front of our guest. Lord Emery, you must forgive my daughter.”
Lord Emery looked at her and smiled. But it was not the sort of smile that would make a young lady swoon and reach for her smelling salts. It was the sort that made the contents of your stomach rise in your throat.
“Well,” he said in a smooth voice, “it is understandable that Lady Charlotte is surprised. It is rather a sudden proposal. However, in due course—”
“In your course, gammon and nonsense, nothing,” she cut him off. “I will not marry you. I will not.”
“Plucky thing, aren’t you?” he said, as though he were speaking to a petulant child.
“The contract is already drawn up. And I must say, your father has negotiated well. Your dowry will see you most comfortable. Should I depart this world before you, you will be generously provided for. Hanston Hall is one of the grandest estates in Brixton.”
“I do not care if you are the proud owner of the Tower of London. You could cut a dash in diamonds and velvet for all I care—I will not marry you!” She spun to her father, her hands now curled into fists. “And I cannot believe you. The audacity! Nathaniel made it very clear that—”
At the mention of his son-in-law, her father slammed his fist on the table. “Nathaniel is in Portugal. He will not be back for several months. And this”—he gestured toward Lord Emery—“will not wait that long.”
“With all due respect,” Lord Emery interjected with a grin, “there are other young ladies who are interested. News of my recent good fortune has spread quickly among the ton. Many have already set their caps for me.”
“Congratulations,” Charlotte drawled. “Then I am certain any one of them shall make a fine bride. Some mooncalf, perhaps. But it will not be me.”
How was this happening? This was just like what had happened to her sister Evelyn, not a year ago. Their father had decided to marry her off not to an eligible gentleman, someone with poise and refinement, but to a man with one foot already in the grave, dusted off and presented as a viable option.
Of course, Evelyn, being the beautiful older sister that she was, had married him. Fortunately for her—and unfortunately for her poor husband—he hadn’t even survived the wedding breakfast, due to an apricot kernel.
After that ordeal, Evelyn had found herself in a rather peculiar position.
A duchess in name only, she had looked at a bleak future.
But she had taken her fate into her own hands.
She had found a husband. It had not been a smooth operation, but she had ended up marrying a man who worshipped the ground she walked on.
Nathaniel, the Duke of Harrington, had appointed himself protector not just of his wife, but of her younger sisters, Charlotte and Marianne. And he had been a fine protector. Their father had even seemed genuinely regretful of his actions.
For a while, he had acted as though he really cared about them. He had stopped visiting gambling halls, stopped drinking, and had even stopped attempting to regain membership to various gentlemen’s clubs.
However, it seemed that this transformation had been merely for show, because no sooner had Nathaniel been forced to leave the country to tend to a flood that had severely damaged several of his vineyards in Portugal than her father went back to his old tricks.
Only instead of finding her an elderly man dragged freshly out of a crypt, he had found one of London’s most dubious, most unpleasant lords—Alexander Bradenton, the Earl of Emery.
He was handsome, like one of those Greek statues. Unfortunately, his personality did not match his looks.
She shuddered when she thought of the things people had said about him. And now her father was expecting her to marry him, before so much as a courtship?
“No,” she said vehemently. “I will not be married. Not until Nathaniel is back,” she added, because her brother-in-law would not stand for this foolishness.
“You will do as I say! I am the master of this house. I am the head of this family!”
“In name only,” Charlotte retorted. “We both know that you need Nathaniel’s permission to do anything. Do you even know this man?”
She looked at Lord Emery, who continued to smile, although his index finger was now tapping against the armchair, indicating that whatever patience he had was thinning.
Good. Let him see how exasperating I can be, and he will decide not to marry me of his own accord.
“You will not ridicule me, Charlotte!” her father snapped. “My financial interests might be tangled up with your precious Nathaniel, but I am the one who decides whom my daughters will marry. And you will wed at the end of the week!” he declared. “Now, go to your chamber!”
“I am not a naughty girl to be sent to her—”
Suddenly, Lord Emery leapt from his chair. “I will not permit you to speak like that to your father. Remember your place. This will not go on. I will assure you of that as soon as you are my wife. Now, do what he says!”
His voice thundered so loudly that she thought the windows might shatter. Even her father stood with his hand still in the air, pointing toward the window, but his mouth now hung open, as if waiting for a swarm of flies.
How dare the man speak to her in such a manner? How very beyond the pale!
She couldn’t deny it—this was her opportunity to leave, and she took it. She rushed outside, slammed the door shut, and leaned against it, shaking as she tried to compose herself.
This was not going to happen to her. No way. She wasn’t going to allow it.
Later that afternoon, she was sitting in her chamber when her aunt Eugenia entered.
“Dearest,” she said gently, “you must get ready.”
“Get ready?” Charlotte asked, confused. “Get ready for what?”
“The musical soirée at the Swansons’ home, dear,” Aunt Eugenia replied. “Why are you not getting dressed? You said you—”
“I said?” Charlotte suddenly leapt from her bed, her voice sharp. “Did you know? Did you know what he was planning?”
“Pardon?”
“Your brother. My father. He’s up to his old shenanigans again. He has found some horrible man for me to wed.”
Her aunt’s jaw slackened, and she staggered backward, dropping into a chair. She looked as though she might have the vapors right then and there.
“He cannot mean it. Surely he cannot.”
“But he does. And it is Lord Emery, of all people.”
“Lord Emery?” her aunt gasped. “But he is—”
“A rake of the highest order,” Charlotte cut in. “Everyone knows he’s spent half his newly acquired fortune in gambling houses across the country. And the number of bastards he fathered—I couldn’t count them on one hand. And that poor maid…”
“Now,” Aunt Eugenia said cautiously, “we do not know that he had anything to do with—”
Charlotte glared at her. “But we do.”
Two months ago, a maid had been found dead in the gardens of Emery Estate. It was said that she had leapt from a window to her death. Upon discovering she was with child, word that the father was Lord Emery himself spread.
Some said that she had made demands he didn’t wish to fulfill, and that he had rid himself of her. Others whispered that he had forced himself on her—a notion too terrible for Charlotte to fully grasp.
In any case, a man titled but tarnished was certainly not a suitable husband.
“Nathaniel will not allow it,” Aunt Eugenia insisted.
“We cannot delay,” Charlotte murmured. “Father wants me to be wed by the end of the week. I’m sure he’ll find some archbishop or another to issue a special license. You know how he is. He’s conniving. He will find a way.”
“He is your father,” Aunt Eugenia said, though the disappointment in her voice was unmistakable.
Brother and sister had once fallen out over his decision to force Evelyn to marry an old man, but they had grown close again in recent months, thanks to his supposed transformation. They had all even moved back into his townhouse.
Nathaniel had once arranged for Aunt Eugenia, Marianne, and Charlotte to live in a townhouse at the other end of town until their father showed signs of real change. With that change seemingly complete, they had returned home just a month ago.
Too soon, it seemed.
Aunt Eugenia pressed her lips together, then turned.
“I will send word to your sister. Perhaps there is a way to reach Nathaniel. Maybe you can stay with her for the time being. But for now, Charlotte, you must get ready. You must go and show your face. Do not let anyone think you are defeated. If you miss the soirée after your attendance has been confirmed, it will only spark rumors.”
Charlotte wanted to protest, but then a thought occurred to her.
Staying with her sister would be futile.
Evelyn might be a duchess, but she was still a woman.
Their father wouldn’t allow it. And she had to think of Marianne, her youngest sister—so vulnerable, so entirely under their father’s control, especially with Nathaniel away.
Even if they could summon Nathaniel, it would take weeks: time to send a letter to Portugal, find him, invite him, and prepare for his trip back home.
She had to stop this. Stop it before it started. But how?
She pressed her thumb and forefinger together as her thoughts raced. And then an idea came to her.
She smiled at her aunt. “You are right, Aunt Eugenia. I should attend the soirée. Please send my maid. I’ll get ready at once.”
The only way she could stop the arrangement before the ink dried on her father’s proposal was to cause a scandal. A scandal—no, a spectacle so large, so shameful, that even someone like Lord Emery wouldn’t want to marry her afterward.
And thanks to Evelyn, she had learned something about making such a spectacle.
Tonight would be the night to put all that knowledge to use.