As the last weeks of the Season approached, invitations to gatherings grew sparse, and the once-pulsing rhythm of society's expectations slowed to a hollow, almost mournful beat. The prospect of securing an advantageous match seemed increasingly distant. Though she was still courted by a few men—gentlemen who treated her more like a pleasant diversion than a future partner—none stirred the flames in her heart. None were Philip.
Charlotte drifted through the remaining events of the Season, her every step calculated, each smile a mask of composure. She danced with every eligible gentleman who approached her, the motions of the waltz feeling like a blur, an empty routine rather than a promise of something real. Polite conversation flowed like the orchestra's background hum, and she nodded and agreed with all the right things, as if every word spoken mattered. But in truth, Charlotte felt as though she were floating through the crowd, detached from the very world she had once tried so hard to conquer.
Still, her eyes always found him. Across the room, amidst the swirl of gowns and the glint of chandeliers, she sought him instinctively—Philip, tall and composed, his dark blonde hair catching the light. Those green eyes she had once thought the most beautiful in the world now lingered only on Lady SophiaMarlow, softened by a tenderness that went beyond friendship—a quiet admiration that made Charlotte's heart sink. His laughter, so easy in Sophia's presence, cut through the air like a melody meant for someone else. And beside such effortless beauty and charm, Charlotte felt herself dim, her presence fading into the background.
The ache deepened with every glance, but she forced herself to smile, to dance, to accept the shallow attentions of other men. Yet none of them mattered. None of them were Philip.
It seemed nothing Charlotte did could earn her the favor she so desperately craved. Her heart ached each time she saw him interact with Sophia, and though she turned away quickly to hide her discomfort, the sting never quite left. She had to force herself to appear unaffected. To remain composed.
***
The evening of the Winterset Estate's ball had arrived, and the guests were all murmuring about the close of the Season. Determined not to squander a single opportunity, Charlotte danced with every eligible gentleman who approached, her smile poised and graceful, concealing the storm beneath. The air buzzed with the low hum of conversation and the soft rustle of silk and satin as couples twirled elegantly across the floor.
Jasper, as always, had his arm around Lady Abigail Browning, his movements fluid and effortless as they waltzed in perfect harmony. Charlotte watched them with a strange mix of emotions—discomfort, bitterness, and an almost painful longing. Her brother seemed to have found someone who truly captivated him. His gaze never left Abigail's face, his admiration so plain it burned Charlotte's eyes to see it.
The knot in Charlotte's stomach tightened as she watched them. Abigail was everything Charlotte had never been—quiet, steady, and somehow, deeply compelling in her simplicity. She lacked the cutting remarks and sharp edge Charlotte had honedover the years, ensuring that in every conversation, others knew she was above them in both rank and demeanor.
The evening ended, and Charlotte retired to her chambers in a daze, her mind spiraling as the reality of her situation sank in.
The Season was drawing to a close, and with it, Charlotte's fading hopes of capturing Philip's attention through the subtle strategies she had so carefully employed. She had tried everything—flirtation, charm, even the occasional calculated attempt to spark jealousy by dancing with other suitors within his line of sight. But none of it had made the slightest difference. Nothing could break through the quiet fortress of his gaze when it rested so unwaveringly on Sophia.
Her heart tightened as she sat at her vanity, her reflection staring back at her—a woman who had played every card she could, yet still stood empty-handed.
***
The following morning, Charlotte was having her breakfast in the drawing room when Jasper joined her. After helping himself to a plate from the buffet, he sat next to her and began speaking, his tone lighter than usual.
"I've made my decision, Charlotte," he said, taking a bite of fruit before continuing. "I'm going to propose to Abigail."
Charlotte's fork stilled mid-air. "Abigail?.. My friend Abigail?" she repeated, the name sounding strange in her mouth. "You've chosen her?"
Jasper nodded, his smile gentle but firm. "I have. I've already chosen a family heirloom ring—the one Mother once mentioned hoping it would go to my future bride. It feels right."
Charlotte's lips tightened. "You're certain Jasper?" Her voice grew harder as she continued, "She lacks the presence, the energy—everything a duchess should have."
Jasper's expression faltered for a moment, a flicker of disappointment flashing in his eyes before he composed himself."No, Charlotte. Abigail is steady, kind, and she fits with our family. Our parents would have been overjoyed with the match, just as they used to joke about us marrying when we were older—Philip and you, or Abigail and I."
Charlotte's heart stumbled at the mention of Philip's name. It was like a wound reopening. She turned her gaze away, but the bitterness was unmistakable in her voice. "So, it's final then?" she asked, the words coming out sharper than intended. "You've made your choice, and there's no room for any further discussion?"
Jasper sighed, his voice quiet but resolute. "It is final. Abigail is everything I could hope for."
Charlotte's breath caught in her throat, jealousy tightening around her chest like a vice. "You've really chosen her?" she asked, struggling to keep the bitterness from her voice.
Jasper raised an eyebrow. "Is there something wrong with that? I've known Abigail for years. She's always been your best friend. And now I see her in a new light."
Charlotte could feel the emotions swirling inside her, a vicious cocktail of jealousy and anger. "She's too quiet. Too plain. She's just a shadow of what a duchess should be," she muttered. Her eyes narrowed, and she could feel the simmering frustration rise to the surface, bubbling like a storm ready to break. "How can she have secured your attention, Jasper? How can she have secured a proposal when I have no prospects in sight?" The words slipped out in a rush, laced with resentment. "I've done everything. Everything I could to make myself appealing to gain a match with someone worthy of me and here I am with no proposals on the horizon."
Jasper's tone grew firmer, and there was a hint of frustration in his eyes. "Charlotte, don't be foolish. You're being courted—no one is questioning that. But stop making this something it isnot. This isn't me making any statements about you and your marriageability. You're reaching, and you know it."
Charlotte's heart sank, and as she gazed at her brother, a twisted thought crossed her mind: Maybe, just maybe, it was time to create a scandal. Not just any scandal — one that would force Philip's hand. If she couldn't win his affection, perhaps she could make it impossible for him to walk away. But how? What could she do that would leave him no choice?
The reality was harsh. The gentlemen who courted her felt beneath her, and choosing one of them would be nothing short of settling. They were interested in her family name and dowry, not her heart. As the Season's end loomed closer, desperation tugged at her.
Jasper watched her, his eyes clouded with concern, but he didn't speak again. He knew better than to try to argue now. Charlotte was beyond reasoning.
As she rose from her seat and turned away from him, the sharp click of her heels echoed in the stillness of the room. She walked out, her mind already spinning with the dangerous plans she intended to set into motion. The Season was nearly over, but for Charlotte it was far from being finished.
Chapter Five
