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Mr. Berryman moved to the front of the room near the Oakleys, a rather harried expression across his features.

“I’m terribly sorry for the delay,” he said. “Thank you for your patience.”

His white hair—balding in the center and thick on the sides—stuck up at odd angles and was untidier than Charles could ever recall seeing.

Mr. Berryman greeted the Oakleys and Charles’s parents—avoiding Charles’s gaze altogether—as he stood before the fireplace with his back to the hearth. Then he faced the six of them with a calming breath. “Now. Shall we begin?”

“Yes,” Mr. Oakley said decisively.

“I think that would be for the best,” Mother agreed.

Charles looked between them in stunned silence, still refusing to believe what he thought was happening.

Then again, he’d thought this before with Mother. When he was a young boy, he’d been tricked into eating broccoli with the promise of growing a full foot overnight. He hadn’t grown a hair.

And then there was the time he’d been home from Winchester for the summer holidays, and she’d promised to leave for a fortnight with Father to London. She’d returned early, and he had been thoroughly punished for bringing a group of friends to Grendale Manor to hold a house party—or rather, a drinking party.

Tristan had gotten off without a scathing retort, which was just as well. He never acted out like Charles did.

There were countless other instances where Mother said one thing and the truth revealed opposite—especially in regard to the women she found to be “perfect” for him.

“Miss Beaumont has a five-thousand-pound dowry.”

Yes, but the woman was already engaged to another.

“Miss Fitzroy is to inherit her family’s extensive property.”

Yes, but said property was in the middle of wetlands and would be shared with the woman’s six younger brothers.

“Miss Grant has such lovely red hair.”

Yes, but the woman was stronger than Charles and could throw him over her shoulder if he attempted to tease her.

But...this. This was the worst trickery Mother had ever performed.

“Miss Marie Oakley, Mr. Charles Shepherd,” Mr. Berryman said, interrupting Charles’s slew of memories. “Please, step forward.”

Miss Oakley did as she was told, facing Mr. Berryman, but when Charles did not, all eyes fell on him. Father tossed his head toward the vicar, Mother nodded encouragingly, but Charles remained rooted to his spot and finally found his voice.

“I do apologize,” he said, “but what exactly is going on here?”

He didn’t really need to ask. Obviously, his parents had taken leave of their senses—no, they’d gone utterly mad.

Mother and Father exchanged concerned glances, then Mother gave a tense, little laugh. “Oh, Charles. You are always such a tease. But, son”—she cleared her throat—“I do not know if this is an appropriate time.”

He stared at her, his mouth agape.

Mother meant well. He knew she did. And how he loved her with her opinions and pushiness and emotions. But sometimes, her will was unfounded. She couldn’t possibly think that feigning ignorance would convince him to give up his entire life and marry a stranger.

A gorgeous stranger, but a stranger, nonetheless.

He looked past the scowling eyes of Mr. Oakley to where Miss Oakley watched him once more. No change had come across her features other than the kindness in her eyes shifting ever so slightly to confusion.

“Forgive me, Miss Oakley, Mr. and Mrs. Oakley,” Charles said, “but I fear my parents have led you astray.”

“Charles,” Father’s voice boomed from the background, “your mother was right. You must cease your teasing now.”

“I am not in jest, Father,” Charles said through clenched teeth. Then he looked at Mother. “Did you truly believe a trick of this magnitude would work?”