Page 5 of The Duke’s Christmas Redemption

The rest of the meal passed in a blur of perfectly prepared dishes that Charlotte could barely taste.

Her mind raced with questions.

What would the Duke be like? Would he find her wanting? Could she learn to be the sort of Duchess that his position in society required?

The weight of expectations - her father’s, society’s, and soon her husband’s - pressed upon her like a physical thing.

The thought that she would marry with no more acquaintance of the man than a formal business meeting, and perhaps one dance, left her feeling hollow, as if all of the possibilities which her life had contained, only yesterday morning, had slipped away from her in the instant that her father had so casually traded her for social benefit.

*****

Later, in her chamber, her lady’s maid helped her prepare for bed with unusual gentleness, clearly sensing her mistress’s distress. The maid’s practiced fingers made quick work of Charlotte’s elaborate coiffure, each pin set aside with care.

“Begging your pardon, my Lady,” the maid ventured softly, “but I heard from my cousin who works at Lady Ashworth’s that His Grace is considered very handsome, despite his serious ways.”

Charlotte managed a small smile at this attempt at comfort.

“Thank you, Morton. That’s kind of you to mention.”

She dismissed the maid early, preferring solitude with her thoughts.

Moving to her window seat, Charlotte pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Below, the garden lay silvered in moonlight, her mother’s roses pale ghosts of their daytime glory.

In six weeks, she would leave this home, these familiar comforts, for a new life with a stranger. The thought should have terrified her, and in one way it did, yet somehow, amid the turmoil of her emotions, a spark of hopeful curiosity flickered.

What sort of man could resurrect a failing estate at nineteen?

What had driven him to such dedication?

And what had his first betrothed’s betrayal done to his heart?

The moonlight offered no answers, but as Charlotte finally turned away from the window, a strange calm settled over her.

Tomorrow would bring what it would bring.

She would face the Duke of Alverton with all the grace that she could muster, and perhaps... perhaps there might be more to him than society’s whispers suggested.

Charlotte moved to her writing desk and pulled out her journal - another habit inherited from her mother. Her hand was steady now as she uncorked her inkpot and picked up her pen to record the day’s events.

Whatever happened tomorrow, she would face it with dignity. She was her mother’s daughter, after all, and while she might long for romance, she possessed strength, as she had proven before – it would have to be enough.

Outside, a nightingale began to sing, its sweet notes floating through the summer night. Charlotte paused in her writing, listening to the song’s rising and falling cadence. Regardless of her situation, there was always beauty to appreciate – she would just have to look for it.