Page 29 of The Dark Duke’s Cinderella (The Untamed Ladies #1)

CHAPTER 2

C harity’s heart pounded, and her head spun like it hadn’t since the time her sister Eleanor had hit her full force with a pillow during a pillow fight a few months back. Now, as then, she felt off-balance and grabbed onto the back of the chair to steady herself. He just said…He just…He….

He proposed. I cannot believe my misfortune. Do they never end?

“Lady Charity?” Gabriel Marting, the Viscount Markham, said, his voice cutting through her fog like a foghorn in dense mist.

She blinked and looked up, catching sight of herself in her reflection in the darkened window. She looked ill, unsteady.

“Yes, My Lord,” she said, aware that she sounded far from composed.

“Did you hear me?”

Oh, she had heard. She had heard far more than she wanted to. In fact, she wished she could say that she hadn’t heard anything at all and that she was unwell and had to lie down immediately to escape this unfortunate situation. But she could not for she was not alone with him. Of course not. That would not have been proper. She glanced at her mother, who sat by the fire, her hands folded in her lap, shoulders drawn back as she observed the scene.

“Well, Charity, what do you say?” her mother prompted.

Charity wet her dry lips. What could she say?

She had despised him for as long as she had known him, and now he was asking her to marry him. What was he thinking?

Markham was dreadful; he chased every skirt in London, he gambled, and he did not take his responsibilities in the House of Lords seriously at all. Not that her own father had either, but still. Harold Pembroke, the Viscount Pembroke had been an upstanding man. He’d loved his family. Markham—he was a different sort of man altogether. Her father had known this too, which was why he’d always made sure to intercede whenever Markham called on them during his visits north.

“I cannot,” she said. Her mother looked up, her lips parting as a small gasp escaped them.

The young man drew back his shoulders, his square face set, jaw clenched. If she didn’t know his personality already, she might have found him rather attractive. His deep black hair and striking blue eyes formed a beautiful combination. Some might even find the deep dimple in his chin charming. She might have been one of those someones if she had not known the sort of man he was.

“Lady Charity,” he said, “I understand that you have been under a lot of strain. These last few months have not been easy.”

“Indeed they have not, Lord Markham,” Charity replied. “I do not think that I can quite comprehend why it is that you have come here, this morning. We just entered half-mourning for my father, to entertain marriage now is not proper.”

“I assure you, it is very proper.” Her mother had gotten up and closed the distance between herself, her daughter, and her would-be suitor. “We must think of our future. We have lost Pembroke, our home for the entirety of your life. A majority of your father’s lands are gone to your cousin thanks to the entailment…” She looked down and shook her head. “We should not speak of this.”

Charity felt relieved; she hadn’t wanted to debate the sordid details of her father’s will in front of this man, though he likely already knew. In fact, she was almost sure he knew. After all, why would he have thought it was a good idea to come here and propose?

“My Lord, my daughter has been very tired,” her mother insisted. “She has not slept well, and she is not thinking rationally. If you could forgive us and allow her some time to come to terms with her position and the meaning of your proposal…”

“Of course, My Lady,” Markham said, bowing first to her mother and then to Charity. “I hope when I see you tonight, you will have had time to reconsider.”

As soon as Lord Markham left, her mother turned to her. “What are you doing, Charity?”

Charity shrugged. “I am declining a proposal. It is ridiculous. I do not care for him. Not in the least.”

“My dear, you need to marry. You know what your father’s will says. You will not inherit anything until you are married.”

Charity rolled her eyes. “I do not wish to marry him. I would rather not inherit at all if it means marrying him.”

“Charity, do not be silly. You must marry sometime. Otherwise, what will you live on? Pembroke is gone. All we have left is this house.”

“We have your inheritance, and the Dower House as well as this one.”

“We do not. I have sold the Dower House to your cousin. He wished for the entire estate to be intact and under his control, and I did not disagree with him. Thus, I have sold that house. This is our permanent home now. I beg of you, reconsider and speak to Lord Markham. Accept him and all shall be well.”

Charity didn’t know what to say. It had been hard enough losing her father, and then losing their home right after that. The reading of his will had been yet another blow. Because her father, her beloved father, who she thought worshiped her as much as she did him, had added a clause that seemed both arbitrary and cruel; she could make no sense of it.

He had set his eldest daughter up to inherit a tidy sum, a cottage in Brighton, as well as the contents of his library and many investments. However, she would receive none of this unless she married.

Her younger sister, Eleanor, had not been saddled with any such condition; she was simply expected to find a husband that would provide for her. Charity did not understand it. Of course, her father had to know that by making such a stipulation, her mother would not rest until she was settled.

The truth was, her mother was well provided for. Arrangements had been made even before their wedding that this would be so. Her jointure was generous, and she had received a hefty sum from her own parents, as well as the entire content of their home at Pembroke. The house itself had been passed on to the new Earl of Pembroke, her distant cousin Oliver. Due to the lack of an heir in her direct line, the title and the home were now lost, but Oliver was not an unreasonable man and had not fought the stipulation that everything inside the house, save for a few paintings that had been there when her father took possession, would be given to the family.

After all, Oliver was married to the daughter of a duke, and would likely not spend much time at the estate.

Still, her mother acted as though they were headed for the workhouse, which of course they were far from. They were still wealthy. Still respectable. Just without a title holder in the family.

In fact, Charity hadn’t minded terribly. Still, her mother acted as though not finding a husband immediately would be the end of them. It was silly, of course; the last thing Charity wanted was to get married. Not now, not so soon after losing her father. So soon after giving up her home, she had yet to truly experience London.

They had only come here a month ago, and they had still been in mourning. Now, at last, she was able to experience the balls, the dinners, and the parks she had so often heard about.

Unlike most peers, her father had not ventured back and forth to London for Parliament unless he chose to. Most other noble families packed up at the start of the season, relocated to their London homes if they had them, or rented them, and spent the season there. This had been the case for hundreds of years. But her father had hardly ever shown any interest in the House of Lords.

“You must get ready,” her mother said, drawing her from her thoughts. Was their argument concluded?

“Get ready?” she asked, for where in the world was she going to go after this ambush? Nowhere but her bedchamber, she'd decided.

“The ball at Stafford House. You said you were going, and you are. We cannot afford you getting a reputation for being unreliable,” her mother hissed.

“Nobody will notice if I am not there. It is not as though we are fixtures in the London circle,” she replied. The idea of a ball was as tedious as it was ridiculous, given the situation.

“You will go, and I will not hear a word about it. Your cousins will be collecting you in two hours. Lord Markham will be there, you can at least appease him with a dance. Now go. I will hear nothing more of this,” she said. Charity shook her head and made her way toward the hall when her mother called her back.

“You must do something about your hair. Have Stevens fix it before the ball. She knows what I want.”

Charity nodded before departing properly this time.

* * *

“Why must she push me like this? First a proposal from this horrid man and now a ball? Why does she hate me so?” she complained a half hour later, after Stevens, her mother's lady's maid, had put her into her gown.

“Your mother loves you, and you know this very well, Lady Charity. It must be that business with the will,” Stevens said with a sigh. Charity no longer had a maid of her own because Jean, her former maid, had been assigned elsewhere due to her reluctance to make a match. Her mother had claimed Jean was part of the inheritance, to be regained once Charity was married.

“I do not know what Father was thinking either,” she said, exasperated. “He must have known I would not want to marry someone I do not know. I want to marry for love, not by force. And what is the hurry anyhow? We are not hurting financially,” she said while Stevens walked to the cupboard and came out with a box, which she placed on the dresser before pulling it open. At once, Charity groaned.

“False ringlets? Must I?” she complained and got up, but her maid gently guided her to the seat.

“I am afraid you must, my lady. Your mother insists. And it is all the fashion.”

“It might be, but I think it is silly. I shall fear moving my head all evening lest they fall out,” she said.

“You will look lovely. You'll see, a fine gentleman will catch your eye tonight, perhaps even one you can love. Then you can do both what your father wanted and what you want.”

Stevens parted her hair carefully while Charity pondered this. It was all so strange. Nothing appeared to make even a bit of sense. Her father loved her. He knew she wanted to marry for love. He never would have forced her to wed before she received her inheritance. Then again, she had seen the will, and it had said right there above her father's signature that Charity would inherit nothing unless she was married.

She narrowed her eyes. How exactly had Lord Markham known of the clause anyhow? How had anyone? She hadn’t been in London but a few weeks, but her cousin Milly had already told her the inheritance and the stipulation were talked about all over London.

I wonder if Markham only wants what I stand to inherit, and not me. That must be it. But what am I going to inherit that he would want?

She wondered. Was there something she was unaware of in her inheritance? Was she going to receive some grand diamond? A hidden vault with gold, goblets, and coins? And what of her mother? Was there something in the inheritance for her also? She wasn't generally motivated by finances, so what was it?

Stevens continued to work on her hair, carefully bringing down the front from the center and parting it to the ears. Then, she affixed the long, full ringlets with great care so they streamed down her cheeks and rested on her shoulders. It felt like an eternity, but perhaps it was not as bad as all that. After a while, Stevens stepped back.

“There, it looks lovely.”

“You did well,” Charity admitted, though she felt off with the extra weight of the hair on her head. She knew it was all the rage to wear one's hair like this, but she did not like it. Her hair was naturally curly, and she felt it was much nicer than the false curls now dangling from her head.

She stepped in front of the mirror and examined herself. The gown was lovely in its simplicity—which was now all the rage—made of silk and in a deep lavender. It struck her as understated and yet striking. The fitted bodice gave her a shape she did not usually advertise, while the ruffled sleeves added a bit of flair to the ensemble.

As with all her gowns, the skirt was voluminous thanks to the crinoline. She would dress it up with a brooch and some other jewels to make it stand out against the others. Not that she was feeling like going out at all.

“Everyone at Stafford House will be beside themselves just looking at you,” Stevens said.

“Nobody at Stafford House knows me,” Charity replied.

“But they will, they will,” her maid insisted, and as Charity looked at herself, she wasn't sure if that was a good thing—or a bad one.