Chapter One
This gown will be perfect for the betrothal ball.”
Panic and horror flooded Lady Charlotte Lovett at her mother’s offhand statement. The two of them were standing in front of an ornate mirror at their favorite modiste’s shop and surrounded by sinfully soft silks, delicate laces, and finely woven woolen cloth. It was not the setting for dramatic, life-changing announcements. Yet Charlotte could not escape the feeling that her mother’s seemingly innocent observation was actually a harbinger of doom.
“Whose betrothal ball?” Charlotte’s heart pounded desperately against her stays as she prayed her suspicions were unfounded.
“Yours,” her mother replied crisply. She circled around Charlotte as she checked the new dress for any flaws. Pursing her lips, Mother yanked the stomacher downward. Turning sharply to the dressmaker, she instructed in a clipped tone, “The bodice is not framing Charlotte’s décolletage. She must be turned out absolutely perfectly.”
“I… I am engaged?” The words flew from Charlotte’s lips even though she had suspected the truth. Her gut clenched so violently that she nearly flinched.
“Do not act so surprised,” Mother said absently as she continued to arrange the front piece of the gown. “You should have been married ages ago. Your father and I decided it was past time tostop humoring your missish qualms and conduct the arrangements entirely ourselves.”
Missish qualms?Every last one of their candidates had possessed the hallmarks of a tyrant—a rich, connected tyrant, but a tyrant all the same. It was why Charlotte was still unmarried at the grand age of five-and-twenty. She had tried offering her own suggestions, but her father would not hear of it. He wished to create a dynasty, and her opinions were obviously inconsequential.
“Who is the groom?” Lady Charlotte managed to ask. Nausea sloshed through her. She squeezed her eyes closed as if she could stop not just the queasiness but the entire farce.
Please let it not be the ancient Lord Paltham, who inquired after the natural shape of my hips beneath my petticoats. He is much too obsessed over whether I could bear him Paltham heirs, who he claims are always brawny babes.
“This is hardly the place, Charlotte.” Her mother’s lips tightened ever so slightly as she nodded with her chin toward the modiste. The dressmaker was doing a commendable job of pretending to be too absorbed in her work of stretching the silk skirts over the pannier to overhear the conversation.
“Madame Vernier, could you please give us a moment?” Charlotte asked, refusing to allow her mother any excuse to prevaricate.
“Why, of course, mademoiselle.” Madame Vernier bobbed her head as she made a hasty retreat.
As soon as the woman shut the heavy door behind her, Charlotte turned from the mirror to stare directly into her mother’s eyes. Observing her parent’s detached expression, Charlotte wondered with a pang of frustration why she’d even bothered. She would find no empathy there.
“Who is the groom?” Charlotte demanded, not even bothering to temper her voice.
Her mother arched one of her exceedingly thin eyebrows, butshe did not otherwise scold Charlotte for her tone. “William Talbot, Viscount Hawley.”
Every fiber within Charlotte shrieked in silent horror, but she, herself, made no sound. Anyone—even the uncouth Lord Paltham—would be preferable to the monstruous Hawley. An image of the smirking, handsome man rose in Charlotte’s mind. The fiend’s chiseled beauty could not distract from the cold, hard meanness that lurked in his crystalline eyes.
“Hawley shall make you a duchess when his father, the Duke of Lansberry, passes,” her mother continued, as if the title were all that mattered. But then, from the perspective of Charlotte’s parents, social standing was paramount to everything, especially after the taint that her aunt’s marriage had left upon the family.
“At least something good has come from your brother’s association with Lansberry’s youngest son, Matthew,” Mother continued. “Why Alexander chose to be friends with the third in line rather than Lord Hawley, I shall never understand. But Alexander’s relationship with the family expanded our sphere of influence to include the duke, which in turn has ultimately resulted in this betrothal.”
Charlotte ignored her mother’s musings about Matthew Talbot, a physician and naturalist, who was nothing like the rest of his brutish relatives. What mattered at the moment was the elder brother.
“Lord Hawley is not even nine-and-twenty, yet he has twice been widowed within a span of three years. The mourning period for his second wife hasn’t even ended. If he were a woman, he would be in seclusion and couldn’t remarry for another six months.” Charlotte couldn’t keep an edge of desperation from her voice.
“As the heir apparent, the viscount has a duty to quickly remarry and produce male issue,” her mother continued in her usual clipped tone. “Both wives died in tragic accidents, the poor man. But thereis no reason to think you would succumb to the same fate. It is not as if a curse is upon the family.”
No, it wasn’t bad luck that had befallen Hawley’s young brides but, according to whispers, something much more suspicious and sinister. Fear pumped through Charlotte as she scrambled for a way to make her mother see beyond the man’s title to his dangerous character. “People who cross the viscount have a tendency to end up dead.”
Her mother sniffed. “Do not be melodramatic, dear. It doesn’t suit you.”
“When Mr. Monroe beat Lord Hawley at whist, he was found with his throat slit—only the winnings had been taken and no other valuables.”
Her mother shrugged. “It was in an extremely seedy section of London. What do you expect?”
“After Lord Hawley’s mistress threw him over for another man, both she and her new lover burned to death in a house fire.” Charlotte grabbed her mother’s arm as if the gesture would somehow make her words miraculously heeded.
“You listen too much to prurient gossip, darling. It is not an admirable trait, especially for an unmarried miss, who is fast becoming an old maid.” Her mother deliberately lifted Charlotte’s fingers from her silk-clad arm. “Do you really imagine that an heir apparent to a dukedom is lurking about dark alleys attacking people and torching buildings?”
“He would not need to personally. I have heard that he associates with questionable…” Even Charlotte could hear how frantic her normally even-toned voice had become, but she could do nothing to staunch the fear seeping from her.
Her mother held up a gloved hand, her facial features set in elegant, yet unyielding lines. “That is enough, Charlotte. I will not listen to more of this drivel. Your father and I spoke with the Duke ofLansberry before he left to address an urgent matter on his Scottish estate. All of the details have not only been finalized but agreed to. We would announce immediately, but the duke wished for us to wait until he returned from the Highlands in two months’ time. At least that will give us ample opportunity to prepare for the betrothal ball and the wedding. Both events must be grand enough to be discussed in drawing rooms, not for just this Season but for decades to come. Our families do have reputations in Society to uphold.”
