Lord Stanley grasped Charlotte around the shoulder and drew her firmly to his side. Despite her utter shock, a frisson of pleasure ran through her at the sudden closeness. Unfortunately, the other ladies were gasping at the gesture, and Charlotte, mortified by the spectacle of it all, jabbed her elbow sharply against his ribs in an effort to regain some distance.
But he only tightened his hold, as though entirely unbothered by her protest.
Charlotte stared at him.
Wife?
For one utterly deranged moment, she wondered if perhaps he had finally lost his senses.
She felt overwhelmed by his proximity: the scent of sandalwood, the solid strength of him against her side, the maddening steadiness of his breathing compared to her own near hysteria.
Engaged.
To Lord Stanley.
Mrs Wilberforce staggered backwards and collapsed onto the nearest sofa, clearly on the verge of a swoon. Lady Bainbridge,ever prepared, produced a vial of smelling salts from her reticule.
As the pungent scent revived her, Mrs Wilberforce gasped, ‘Ah—oooh—how could you, Henry? And Miss Lucas! Here? In the library, of all places!’
‘Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Minerva,’ Lady Bainbridge said brightly. ‘Can’t you see they’re in love? It’s terribly romantic.’ She clapped her hands together with delight. ‘Congratulations, my lord.’
Lord Stanley bowed. Taking Charlotte’s trembling hand in his own, he declared smoothly, ‘I have been in love with Miss Lucas for some time now, Minerva. I hoped you would be pleased to see me finally persuaded to settle down. She has bewitched me—body and soul.’
Charlotte nearly sank through the floor.
His tone was so sincere. So utterly convincing.
Mrs Wilberforce blinked rapidly. ‘When—how—did this happen? She’s our governess, Henry! And what about Miss Pearson? She was under the impression—just this morning—that you intended to offer for her.’
Charlotte looked at him sharply, but he was looking resolutely ahead, avoiding her eyes.
Did he truly mean to propose to Miss Pearson?
The realisation stung rather more painfully than she cared to admit. Of course—of course he would choose the paragon Miss Pearson to be his Baroness. No one—least of all Lord Stanley—would choose Charlotte to be his wife unless he were forced into it.
Her mother’s voice rang unpleasantly in her ears. Who would choose a clumsy spinster over a beauty?
And Charlotte had just stepped directly between them.
Lady Bainbridge merely smiled wider. ‘A change of heart, clearly.’ She looked like a woman who had not merely stolen the cream, but churned the entire dairy herself.
‘But how could you choose her—a mousy little governess—over the beautiful Miss Pearson? And an heiress, no less!’ Mrs Wilberforce cried.
Charlotte’s head whipped around, colour rising painfully at the insult.
‘She is no longer a governess,’ Lord Stanley said sharply. ‘And I would thank you not to insult my bride-to-be. If you cannot be pleased for us, Minerva, then you may hold your peace.’
Charlotte could not entirely blame Mrs Wilberforce. Next to the elegant and accomplished Miss Pearson, the comparison to a mouse hardly seemed unjust. Beside Lord Stanley himself—all hauteur, broad shoulders, and carved like some infuriating Greek statue—she must appear woefully dowdy indeed.
And yet his arm remained firmly around her.
Mrs Wilberforce stared helplessly between the two of them before finally rising with all the stiffness of a marionette.
‘I’m... happy for you both, of course,’ she managed at last.
She embraced her brother, then Charlotte in a manner so rigid it barely qualified as affection, before withdrawing in a cloud of disbelief. Lady Bainbridge followed with serene delight.
Miss Hill and Miss Underwood, by contrast, embraced Charlotte with far greater enthusiasm.
