A duchess. It still sounds utterly ridiculous.
Irene approached more gently than the others and adjusted one of the lace sleeves with careful fingers. “It truly is beautiful, Charlotte.”
Charlotte softened at once. “Thank you.”
Penelope sighed wistfully. “Do you think the duke shall cry when he sees her?”
Joan barked out a laugh. “The Duke of Mulford? Cry?”
Harriet frowned thoughtfully. “No, I think he shall stare at her in that dangerous way handsome men stare when they are entirely lost.”
Charlotte’s cheeks grew warm before she could stop herself. Unfortunately, her sisters noticed immediately.
“Oh!” Penelope squealed. “Look at her blush.”
“There shall be no peace in this family ever again,” Charlotte muttered.
The arguments over gowns grew even worse once the sisters realized they each wished to outshine the others at the wedding breakfast. Joan preferred bold jewel tones whilst Irene leaned toward soft blues and silvers. Penelope changed her mind every quarter hour depending upon which ribbon currently caught her attention.
“I selected lavender first,” Irene protested one afternoon.
“Yes, but lavender washes me out,” Penelope argued. “Surely you cannot expect me to sacrifice myself.”
“You are not dying. You are attending a wedding.”
“Which is practically the same thing if one wears the wrong color.”
Charlotte sank into a chair with exhausted disbelief. “You three have spent forty minutes discussing sleeves.”
“And we are not finished,” Joan informed her.
Harriet swept dramatically into the room, holding yet another pile of fabrics. “Girls, I have discovered the most divine French silks.”
Oswald groaned from the doorway. “Dear God, there are more?”
Charlotte covered her face briefly with her hands. She loved them dearly, but she had not realized wedding preparations could feel so much like surviving a battlefield. Every morning began with excitement and ended with her wanting to hide in a quiet room for several hours. Yet beneath the exhaustion lingered something warm and aching whenever she allowed herself to think of Victor.
That was the truly dangerous part.
She ought to resent him for trapping them both into this situation. Instead, she found herself remembering the way he had kissed her hand before she left Mulford Manor, holding her fingers just slightly longer than propriety allowed. She remembered the rough warmth of his voice in the library, the hunger in his eyes at the opera, the strange tenderness that occasionally slipped through his arrogance before either of them could acknowledge it.
Worse still, she found herself wondering whether he missed her at all.
One evening, whilst the household buzzed downstairs over guest lists, Charlotte escaped briefly to the upstairs corridor for silence. She leaned against the wall near the window and staredout across London’s rooftops whilst cool evening light painted the sky gold and pink. For the first time in years, her family’s future felt secure, her sisters laughed more than they worried, and her mother no longer looked constantly burdened by fear over finances.
Charlotte had achieved everything she once prayed for.
So why, then, does my chest ache so strangely whenever I think of my future husband?
A door opened nearby, and Bridget stepped into the corridor. She paused upon seeing Charlotte’s expression. “You are thinking too much again.”
Charlotte sighed softly. “Is it that obvious?”
“Yes.” Bridget smiled kindly. “You always look as though you are preparing to carry the entire world upon your shoulders.”
Charlotte looked down at her hands. “I simply keep expecting all of this to disappear.”
“It will not.” Bridget moved beside her. “The duke seems entirely serious about you.”
