Page 7 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)

Charlotte leapt down from the carriage and swept into the house. The butler had barely reached the door before she dashed past, her skirts billowing, and took the stairs two at a time.

She was going to Scotland. She was going to flee this entire farce.

Bursting into her chamber, she hesitated, her hand hovering over the bell-pull. Should she ring for her maid?

No. No one must know. Well, Marianne would know. And their aunt, eventually. But only at the last minute.

Charlotte found her valise in the dressing room and flung it onto the bed. She unlatched it, crammed in the first items that came to hand—stockings, stays, a nightgown—then made for the armoire. She seized a handful of simple gowns, folded them carelessly, and stuffed them inside.

Once they reached Scotland , a servant would see to the wrinkles.

Did they have servants? Nathaniel hadn’t grown up titled, though he was the heir to a dukedom. But servants or no, she couldn’t be bothered. Wrinkled muslin was the least of her worries.

She crossed to her writing desk, snatching up her perfume bottle, coin purse, and a miniature of Marianne. She was weighing whether to take her keepsake box when a knock sounded at the door, startling her.

The door opened before she could reply.

“Marianne!” Charlotte gasped, hurrying to shut the door behind her. “Quickly, come in. I must tell you something. Something quite extraordin—”

“I know,” Marianne interrupted, wide-eyed, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “But I’m not certain it is extraordinary. Father’s in raptures. Aunt Eugenia looks as if she’s swallowed a lemon, and I’ve no notion what to think.”

Charlotte froze. “Father?” she echoed warily. “What does he have to do with any of this? He cannot possibly know about Scotland.”

Her heart rate quickened.

“Who told him?” she demanded.

“No one,” Marianne replied, shaking her head. “He read it.”

“Read it?” Charlotte frowned. “Marianne, what are you talking about?”

Marianne gave her a look of pure disbelief. “That you’re to be married. To Lord Ravenscar.”

“I’m not,” Charlotte said hotly. “How could he possibly know about our conversation but not about Scotland? None of this makes the least bit of sense!”

“It’s in the scandal sheets,” Marianne breathed. “The Tatler, The Times, even The Standard. Wait here.” She dashed out of the room.

Charlotte stood frozen, as if turned to ice.

Moments later, Marianne returned, clutching two newspapers.

“Page three,” she said, unfolding one and thrusting it into Charlotte’s hands.

In bold letters, it declared:

THE MARQUESS OF RAVENSCAR AND LADY CHARLOTTE LANGLEY TO WED! THEIR SECRET UNDERSTANDING brOUGHT TO LIGHT!

Charlotte let out a strangled gasp and stumbled backward until the backs of her knees hit the bed. She sank onto the mattress.

“This cannot be real,” she whispered. “I gave him no answer. No such agreement was ever made. This is… this is utter balderdash!”

She leapt up again, crossing the room in agitated strides.

“Were you going to elope?” Marianne asked, eyeing the open valise.

“I was not,” Charlotte snapped. “Evelyn and I meant to go to Scotland. We were going to lie low until Nathaniel returned and reasoned with Father. I planned to write to Lord Ravenscar—inform him that I had yet to decide.”

“Decide on what, exactly?” Marianne asked, her eyebrow arched.

Charlotte pressed her palms to either side of her head and tugged lightly at her hair, as though pain might chase off the panic.

“He offered marriage,” she muttered. “A practical alliance, for mutual benefit. I told him I was undecided, that I would give him my answer shortly.”

“Well,” Marianne said dryly, “it seems he’s misread your silence.”

Charlotte whirled around. “He did not misread me. I said that I am uncertain. I need time. I will send word. There’s nothing remotely equivocal in that. This isn’t a misunderstanding; it’s a trap. He needs a wife, and he means to ensnare me.”

Marianne stared at her. “But why? Why does he need you in particular?”

Charlotte let out a bitter laugh. “Because the Lords have grown tired of debauched reputations. They’ve put pressure on certain peers to reform, or at least appear to.

Lord Ravenscar requires respectability in short order, and I, the so-called Scarlet Lady, am the perfect scandal-turned-saint for his purposes. ”

She waved her hand in frustration. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s played me false. What am I to do now?”

“I daresay,” Marianne murmured, “there’s precious little you can do. You’ll have to marry him.”

Charlotte blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve already been linked to Emery—publicly. And now you’re linked to Ravenscar. Spurning both would make you a laughingstock, and it wouldn’t stop there. You’d become the punchline of every joke.”

“I know,” Charlotte groaned. “I just… I don’t know how to undo this.”

A boisterous voice suddenly boomed from the corridor, “Charlotte, come to my study, now!”

Their father’s heavy footsteps passed the door and descended the stairs.

“I shall return anon,” Charlotte muttered, then hurried out.

Her father had sounded positively jubilant. Of course, he had. No doubt he’d read the papers and begun calculating ways to bring down the dowry he’d have to pay.

She entered the study to find Aunt Eugenia standing at the window, her arms crossed. Her father was perched on his favorite armchair, beaming.

“Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte,” he sang, rubbing his hands. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d landed a marquess? How splendid! When I suggested that dolt Emery, you should have said something. This is far better. I must say, you’ve done me proud.”

Charlotte’s whole body trembled with rage.

“I did not do this for you,” she said icily. “I acted to escape your endless schemes and social climbing. And in truth, I hadn’t agreed to—”

“Nonsense!” he interrupted. “You’ll marry him. Had you told me earlier, I might have helped arrange it. A marquess! Two of my daughters married to high-ranking gentlemen. How very convenient.”

“No,” Charlotte spat. “You’ve never arranged a thing in your life that didn’t leave ruin in its wake.”

His smile faltered. “Charlotte, don’t use that tone with me. I am your father, and I am delighted. Why must you always dampen my joy?”

“There was no agreement,” Charlotte hissed. “None.”

Aunt Eugenia turned to her. “Charlotte, are you or are you not engaged to the Marquess of Ravenscar?”

Charlotte opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Finally, she exhaled. “It seems I am.”

“Jolly good, jolly good!” her father crowed. “I’ll write to our solicitor at once—dowry, settlements, and so on. You’ve done splendidly, my dear. I will overlook your earlier fit. No doubt it’s excitement. I always suspected you had better sense than you let on.”

With that, he swept out of the room, humming a merry tune.

Charlotte remained rooted in place, one hand gripping the back of a chair. Her aunt said nothing for a moment. Then, softly, “Charlotte, my dear… what have you done?”

“I have done nothing. I have done nothing!” Charlotte cried, shaking her head. “I have made a cake of myself. I have made a muddle of it all. Oh, goodness gracious. What am I to do?”

Aunt Eugenia stepped closer to her and wrapped her arms around her. She pulled her in, and Charlotte rested her head on her aunt’s shoulder.

She loved her aunt—she truly did—but sometimes she wished her mother were still alive. Her mother might’ve put a stop to this madness.

“My dear, I’m afraid you are going to find yourself a married woman sooner or later. I do not know what has happened between you and the Marquess, but I do think that it is better than the alternative.”

Charlotte pulled back. “So you did not want me to marry Emery? You meant it?”

“Of course, I meant it. I thought it was horrid. I spoke to your father about it. Of course, he wouldn’t hear any of it.

You know how he is. He always thinks he knows everything.

He thinks he hung the very moon himself.

In any case, that man is no longer our concern.

Now, we must only worry about this new suitor. Do you care for him?”

Did she care for him?

Charlotte wanted to laugh, but she held back.

“Do I care for him? He is… He is… We discussed matters, but we made no agreement. I did not say yes or no.”

Suddenly, a wave of anger overcame her.

She stepped back from her aunt. “I must see him, right now. I shall go this very moment.”

She turned on her heel and walked to the door, then stopped. It occurred to her that she had no idea where the Marquess lived.

Turning back, she looked at her aunt. “Do you know where the Marquess of Ravenscar lives?”

Her aunt smiled. “I shall accompany you, my dear.”

Together, they donned their traveling cloaks and took the carriage. Charlotte sat quietly next to her aunt, drumming her fingers on her thigh.

How had all of this happened? She still did not know. How silly this all was. Ridiculous.

How had her life become such a mess? Was there perhaps still a chance that she could flee with her sister? Could they perhaps still go to Scotland?

But now, that was hopeless. Now, she would be a runaway bride twice over.

No, what she had to do was convince Ravenscar to retract his statement, to say that he had made a cruel joke.

Yes, that was what had to happen. Perhaps she could convince him to say that he and Emery had been behind it, playing a cruel trick.

Would he? She didn’t know. But she had to try.

“We are here,” her aunt announced.

Charlotte turned. “Already? I might’ve walked the distance.”

“You might have, but you would’ve arrived out of breath and likely with your hair disheveled. When a lady goes to confront a gentleman—which I believe you’re about to do, though I do not know the reason—she ought to look her best. Now, let’s go.”