Page 10 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)

Charlotte stood in the antechamber and stared at herself in the mirror. Her dress was pretty enough. In fact, it suited her well. A masterpiece of ivory silk and lace.

She looked like a bride. A real bride. Her aunt had even given her a pair of pearl necklaces for good luck. A genuinely heartwarming gesture.

And yet she did not feel bridal. She felt no joy. No anticipation. Nothing.

How could this be her reality? How had she come to this day, to this moment, where she stood waiting to marry a man she could not bear?

True, he had done her no harm. And yes, he had offered her a way out of an impossible predicament. And yet she could not quite forgive that he had informed the newspapers of their impending nuptials before she had had the chance to consider the matter properly.

Had three weeks truly passed since that strange evening in his parlor? Evidently so. And yet it felt as though she had merely closed her eyes to rest and awoken in some surreal world, betrothed to a man she barely knew.

“Charlotte. Charlie,” Evelyn called, using her childhood nickname. She stepped up beside her. “You look lovely.”

“I do not feel it,” Charlotte muttered. “I feel nothing.”

Evelyn wrapped an arm around her. “I understand. I was once in your shoes, about to walk down the aisle toward a man who made my skin crawl. But at least in your case, he is not fifty years your senior. And he is handsome. And he has promised you your freedom.”

“Yes,” Charlotte murmured. “He told me he’s already begun setting up a library at his townhouse. Cases of books have arrived from his country estate. Or so I was told.”

“Good,” Evelyn said, nodding. “Then he meant what he said. He has kept his word. That must count for something.”

“Has there been no word from Nathaniel?” Marianne asked.

Aunt Eugenia, who had been braiding Marianne’s hair, looked up briefly, her brow furrowed.

“Nothing since that first letter ten days ago,” Evelyn reported with a sigh.

Charlotte sighed as well. All her hopes had rested on her brother-in-law—that somehow he would find a way to put an end to this arrangement.

And perhaps he might have, had he been able to return home.

But he was trapped abroad, contending with floods that continued to threaten his vineyards in Portugal.

He had instructed his friend and agent, Julian, to investigate Rhys—to uncover anything that might offer Charlotte an escape. But Julian had found nothing more than what was already known: his parents and elder brother had passed away not long ago, leaving him as the sole heir.

He was known as a rake, a dandy, but not a criminal. Unlike other men in their circle, he had no reputation for cruelty or scandal. His vice was debauchery, but no worse than half the lords in Mayfair.

Evelyn cleared her throat delicately. “Julian called on me again this morning.”

Charlotte turned to her. “And…?”

“He said that, in honor of your wedding day, he’s obtained a small morsel of information that may ease your mind. Apparently, your intended has a rather… peculiar reputation in St. Giles. In certain… houses of ill repute.”

“Peculiar?” Aunt Eugenia repeated, clearly intrigued.

“Yes. It seems he’s rather popular among the women there—not just for his coin but for his kindness.” Evelyn’s lips twitched in bemusement. “He apparently takes a genuine interest in their well-being.”

“My future husband has a sterling reputation among the cyprians of St. Giles?” Charlotte asked flatly. “Well, that is a comfort.”

“Well,” Evelyn replied with a shrug, “it’s better than if he were known to mistreat them or leave his bills unpaid. He seems the sort who wishes to be disreputable but can’t quite manage it. He shows a certain… tenderness, I am told.”

Charlotte spun around. “Please stop extolling my husband’s virtues in London’s brothels.”

“Charlotte!” Aunt Eugenia gasped. “Mind your language.”

“Why should I not speak plainly? All of London knows where he spends his time, or where he will spend it. Why should I pretend otherwise?”

“You might at least take comfort in the fact that he’s kept every promise so far,” Evelyn said. “The library, for one. The more-than-generous dowry. The arrangement allowing you to hire your own lady’s maid and cook. And the freedom to come and go as you please.”

“Yes,” Charlotte relented.

She had seen her betrothed only once or twice, and always in the presence of Aunt Eugenia and his uncle, alongside her father’s solicitor.

He’d suggested they promenade together, but she’d had no desire to spend more time with him than was necessary.

They would see enough of one another in the future.

Likewise, she had refused to see her father or allow him to interfere with the arrangements, and then had declined his request to attend the wedding ceremony. Of course, he had been in high dudgeon, wanting to be seen walking his daughter down the aisle, but she had put her foot down.

They had come up with a tale of a sick cousin in France to explain his absence.

Rhys had been courteous and decisive. He had easily agreed on the wedding breakfast menu and insisted they forgo a honeymoon.

Instead, they would be seen together around London in the days following the ceremony—attending musicales, promenading in parks, making the appropriate appearances.

Once the ton was convinced of their union’s legitimacy, he would retire to his country estate, and she would remain in town.

That had been their agreement.

They would live separately, trade places between the country and town as needed, and should both be summoned to the same location, they would keep separate chambers. She would go where she pleased, spend as much money as she pleased. It was all written—every line—in the contract.

And yet none of it made her feel better.

At least Marianne would be safe. In his single letter since all of this had begun, Nathaniel had made it clear that he would deal with their father. And he had. Marianne and Aunt Eugenia would go to Aunt Eugenia’s home in Bath.

Her father, of course, had claimed the idea as his own. But everyone knew the truth. He depended on Nathaniel’s purse and had clearly underestimated his resolve, even at a distance.

With Marianne away in Bath, Charlotte could breathe easier.

“We ought to go,” Evelyn said gently. “Or else the wedding will begin without you.”

“And would that not be a tragedy?” Charlotte murmured with a wry smile. “I still cannot believe that all these people agreed to attend.”

“Of course they did,” Evelyn drawled. “London loves a spectacle. And you and Rhys together? That is spectacle, indeed.”

Rhys.

The name sounded strange in Charlotte’s mind, but her betrothed had insisted on it. He had a peculiar aversion to his title, perhaps because it had once belonged to his father and was meant to be his brother’s.

Sometimes, she wondered if there was more to him. When he had invited her to promenade with him, after the contract had been signed, she had been tempted. One ought to know the man one was to wed, after all. But she had declined.

Distance, she had thought then, was best. For them both.

Now, she stood in the narrow space behind the curtain, waiting. The bells had begun to ring. The pews were filled with London’s finest, many of whom had been present the night she’d made her fateful announcement at the Swansons’ soirée.

She peeked through the curtain. There he was, standing at the altar. And he looked more like a man attending a masquerade than a wedding. Fawn-colored pantaloons, a purple waistcoat with gleaming gold buttons. Dashing, to be sure, but conspicuous.

She should have worn the scarlet gown, the one she had picked as an act of rebellion to announce her decision not to marry Lord Emery. Aunt Eugenia had forbidden it, of course. But it seemed her future husband had managed what she could not—rebellion, at least in fashion.

He was different. Strong-willed. Trapped by duty, like her. They had common ground. She would be free, but was that enough?

She turned around and looked at the door, beyond which lay a different kind of freedom. One that might end with her penniless, perhaps working as a scullery maid at some grand home.

She took a step toward the door, wondering if she should risk the future and ruin herself once and for all. She could run. She could be away before anyone noticed.

Then, she looked back at Rhys. Would she not be as free with him?

She rubbed her lips. He had not been unkind. Vexing, yes. Infuriating, sure. But unkind? No.

Still, this was not the life she’d chosen.

The vicar walked along the aisle toward her then, and she understood that he was checking if she was ready. Whatever decision she was going to make—left or right—was on her now.