If Marcus was now forced to become the Duke of Haverly, could he still continue his work for the Crown?
London, England
February 1, 1814
“This is your last chance, Charlotte. If you don’t find a husband this Season, you’re finished. Your father won’t impoverish himself further, and I can’t say I blame him. Three Seasons on the Marriage Mart really is the outside limit.”
Lady Charlotte Tiptree looked up, one tendril of hair twined around her index finger. Her concentration broken, she tucked a slip of paper into her book on Roman history to mark her place and forced herself to return to the nineteenth century. “I’m sorry, Mother. Were you speaking to me?”
“You’re the only other person in the drawing room, are you not? Please put that down and pay attention. Why must I always drag your nose out of some tome or other? If your father catches you reading again, I don’t know what he’ll do.” Mother shook her head, her hands fluttering. Mother’s hands always fluttered, especially when she was agitated. “And sit up like a proper lady. I don’t know what your posture will become if you continue to lounge like a sultan. It’s as if we didn’t go to great expense to see you become a lady. What did they teach you at that finishing school?”
Refraining from rolling her eyes—another gesture that would get her a scolding—Charlotte pulled her legs off the arm of the deep chair and put her feet on the floor. It had taken an age to get into a comfortable reading position, and now all that effort was wasted. She smoothed her plain gray skirt. The dress was serviceable and chaste, covering her from neck to ankles, but nothing about it was pretty. None of her clothes were really pretty, her father feeling such fripperies an unnecessary expense. He could pinch a shilling until the King’s profile cried. And as for the finishing school, it was more of a prison on a barren wasteland in Dartmoor. Run by an impoverished gentlewoman with no sense of humor, the Hitchin’s School for Young Ladies was an academy so obscure, Charlotte had been one of only a handful of students, and none of those with social aspirations or titled family.
It had been less expensive than sending her to Switzerland with other girls of her rank.
Plastering a pleasant, slightly vacant expression on her face—the aspect Mother thought all young ladies should wear—Charlotte put her feet primly together and straightened her shoulders. “What is it you’d like to speak about?” Though she knew. It had been the topic of many a tedious conversation throughout the summer, the fall, and over the interminable holidays.
Mother exhaled, her features relaxing into kinder lines. “I don’t mean to nag, but you must face the truth. If you don’t change your ways, you’re going to wind up a spinster. You’re nearly there now. Your father has spent all the money he intends to in order to see you prepared to take your place in society. What kind of a thank-you will it be if you squander your last opportunity? You’re not getting any younger, and there will be many fresh faces in the ton again this year. If you don’t put yourself out to be agreeable, to be the sort of woman a peer is looking for in a wife …” She gripped her fingers in her lap.
Something hovered on her lips, and Charlotte tensed. Mother rarely hesitated when Father wasn’t present, so whatever it was must be momentous.
Mother took a deep breath, as if fortifying herself. “Your father has instructed me to inform you that if you are not engaged to be married before Easter Sunday, he will have no choice but to send you to live at Aunt Philomena’s in Yorkshire.” Tugging her handkerchief from her sleeve, she waved it as she talked, the scent of her lavender sachets filling the air. “Philomena broached the subject herself, and he’s latched on to the idea. I tried to talk him out of it, but he’s adamant. He says your lack of a husband is your own fault and that becoming Aunt Philomena’s companion would be fitting punishment for your behavior over the last two years.”
Charlotte’s mind went blank. This was a new twist. Father had occasionally made vague statements as to her future, but nothing this definite … or dire.
Aunt Philomena. She winced.
To be accurate, she was Charlotte’s great-aunt on her father’s side. Having just endured the Christmas holidays with her at the Tiptree estate in Essex, the thought of a life sentence as her companion drained the blood from Charlotte’s head.
Surely this was an idle threat? Her father couldn’t be so unfeeling, could he?
Aunt Philomena complained about everything. Nothing suited or satisfied her, and her voice could crack glass. She must go through a half dozen paid companions every year because none of them could abide her for more than a few weeks—either that or she fired them for any of a hundred petty reasons.
But as a relative, Charlotte would not be allowed to quit, and Aunt Philomena would be delighted to have a servant who couldn’t give her notice no matter how poorly she treated her. No wonder she’d planted the seeds of the notion for Father to consider. And Father would surely jump at the chance to fob Charlotte and the expense of keeping her off on someone else.
But Aunt Philomena?
Philomena smelled perpetually of naphtha soap, vegetable tonic, and ceaseless discontent.
But … Charlotte’s only escape would be to find a husband?
Was there no other answer? No way to avoid either fate?
It wasn’t that she was averse to having a husband and a family, but the men of the ton were all so boring or boorish, or both. Self-absorbed, idle, lightweight … None of them seemed to do anything constructive or important with their lives.
Mother put on a brave, encouraging face. “You’re not unpleasant to look at, you are the daughter of an earl, and you have a proper education and training in deportment. You would be an acceptable bride if you’d only try. All it requires is that you exert yourself, perhaps use a bit of flattery, a bit of coquettishness. Make a man feel good about himself. Show an interest in something other than your books, and perhaps flirt a little.”
Flirt. Act like an empty-headed miss who couldn’t cross a ballroom unless a man gave her directions and lent his arm for her to lean upon.
“Don’t make that face at me, young lady. It’s not wrong to be smart, but it is wrong to assume that everyone else is stupid compared to you. If you continue to make potential suitors look foolish with your sharp tongue, you’re destined for Yorkshire and the life of a lady’s companion, and you might as well forgo this Season and head to Aunt Philomena’s now.” Her mother’s voice had sharpened, and her shaft hit true.
Charlotte nodded, letting her chin drop, knowing she had been guilty of handing out setdowns when she lost her patience with the shallowness of conversations at balls and dinners. But how could she possibly marry a man who bored her to sawdust? If only she could meet someone who actually did something with his life, who could claim to have read any book in the last year, who did more than talk about his haberdashery or his driving skill with a coach-and-four. Someone who wasn’t looking for a bit of fluff to admire him and remind him how wonderful he was. Someone who might actually be capable of fidelity and genuine love and soul-nurturing conversation.
Perhaps someone who could see behind the plain dresses and severe hairstyle, prescribed by her parents, to the person she was inside.