Duke of Sapphire (Dukes of Decadence #6)

Chapter 1

“You will marry him!”

Charlotte watched her father’s reflection in the window. It looked larger than his actual person, which was saying something, as Lord Ashford was no stranger to imposing his presence on a room or, for that matter, an entire household.

His face hovered above the morning newsprint like a storm cloud with spectacles.

She tried to find her voice. “You said—only two days ago—that nothing had been decided.”

“Nothing had been decided,” he said, “because I was waiting for Lord Redmont to approach me properly. He has, and now it is settled. The arrangement is everything I could have wished for.” He snapped the paper straight and turned a page, as though she were a footman bringing the wrong tea.

Charlotte stared at the wax gleam on the sideboard, her hand pressed flat to its edge. “Father, I barely know Lord Redmont. I met him once at Lady Hewes’s garden party. And he—he said nothing but how the light made my hair look like a rowan tree.”

“He admires your hair,” the Earl said as though his daughter had just won a livestock prize. “A good sign.”

“That is not a good sign,” she said. “It is the sign of a person who cannot think of what to say about the rest of me.” Charlotte took a breath. “He did not ask about my interests. Or speak of his own. Or look at me except when you were looking.”

Her father closed the paper, folded it into a neat band, and set it aside. The storm cloud now hovered directly over her. “You are an Ashford,” he said. “That is all any man needs to know.”

The certainty in his voice grated down her spine. “Surely you want me to be happy?”

“Happy!” He barked it out, a single note, then caught himself and smiled. “I want you secure. I want you well-married. That is how daughters find contentment. Lord Redmont is a Marquess, and his property adjoins ours at three points. The match doubles our standing and brings considerable benefit.”

“What about me?”

He eyed her over the spectacles. “You will be a Marchioness with wealth and respect, and a husband whose habits are beyond reproach.” He leaned back, making the chair protest. “The arrangement is a privilege, Charlotte. Most young ladies would be grateful for the opportunity.”

Charlotte’s jaw tightened. “What if I cannot stand him?”

Her father’s smile faded. “Then you will learn to. He is not an ogre, nor are you so delicate.” He picked up a letter from his desk. “Your mother learned to like me well enough, after all.” His face flickered as he said it, like he’d stubbed a toe on the memory.

Charlotte stared at the pattern of tea stains on the rug. If she squinted, they resembled isolated islands on an empty map. Her father had spent years dictating the boundaries of her world from the comfort of this very room, never noticing that she was the one trapped on the shore.

He adjusted his spectacles. “This is not a negotiation. I expect you to show proper gratitude when you meet Lord Redmont tomorrow. You will accept his proposal. You will marry him within a fortnight. Do you understand?”

She wanted to shout. She wanted to fling the teapot at the wall, or, better yet, at his head. Instead, she gave the smallest possible nod.

“Good.” He said it as if he’d just won a particularly slow chess match. “You may go.”

Charlotte walked out before she had the chance to scream.

She made for the library. Always the library, always the only room that belonged to her, even when nothing else did.

She pressed her hand to the door frame and hesitated.

Inside, the light was pale, leaking through the glass at an angle that made every speck of dust look like it was trying to get her attention.

She selected a book at random—a volume on Venetian history—and sat with it in the window seat, legs drawn up, skirt wrinkling without regard for the day’s schedule.

Charlotte read the same sentence five times: The Doge’s daughter was imprisoned for refusing a marriage she found unpalatable. She could not help but think the Doge’s daughter had enjoyed more options than herself.

She set the book aside and looked out at the autumn garden. Even the hedges seemed resentful of their shaping, as if they had tried to escape and only been sheared shorter for their trouble.

“I do not want this,” she whispered, her breath fogging the glass. If only there was a way to send the words to someone who mattered. Looking up toward the sky, her throat tightened. “Mama, what advice would you give your daughter if you were here?”

She tried to imagine another life. One where her mother was alive and Charlotte was still shielded from her father.

Or a city, perhaps, where a person could walk down the street without someone noting who her father was and how she might be improved.

Or a cottage, somewhere on a hill, with a goat and a kitchen garden and nobody to answer to except the goat.

She looked down at her hands; at the pale crescent marks her nails had left in her palm.

Once, she could always imagine a different future. Lately, the stories she told herself ended up in the same place: alone, or trapped, or boxed in by somebody else’s plans.

She picked up the book again. It did not help. She set it down harder.

“You will marry him!”

It echoed again, this time inside her skull, bouncing off every wall. If she listened too long, it started to sound almost reasonable.

Charlotte closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the glass. “I will not,” she whispered.

The world outside stayed cold, and very, very still.

“—a dowry like that is hard to refuse, George. If you ever tire of the girl, send her my way.”

Laughter snapped down the hallway, raw and sudden, and Charlotte froze outside the study.

She flattened herself to the wall. The next voice was her father’s, lighter than she’d ever heard it.

“You would not know what to do with her, Pemberton. Redmont will make a Marchioness of her, and I will finally have a peaceful drawing room.”

“She does have spirit, your Charlotte. I imagine that’s more useful than you admit.”

“Not to a husband. And not to a family line.” Her father’s voice hardened. “The arrangement is final. I have signed the settlements; the ceremony is a formality.”

The word settlements was a punch to the gut. Charlotte’s feelings, her spirit, and her even wishes had never been considered in the discussion at all.

She stepped away before she could hear more, footsteps light on the carpet, up the stairs and away—anywhere but the echo of his voice. Her pulse thudded against her throat.

She did not slow until she reached her own room. She locked the door. The window was gray with pre-evening mist and her own reflection in it looked almost transparent, like a ghost who had never mattered to anyone.

She rang the bell for Edith.

The maid appeared at the door, her cap askew. “Lady Charlotte?”

Charlotte turned, unable to keep the urgency from her face. “It is time.”

Edith’s eyes went wide. “But—surely, my lady—”

“The proposal is happening tomorrow. My father said the ceremony is a formality.” She choked on the last word.

Edith set her jaw, smoothing her apron with trembling hands. “You do not have to do this, you know. You are clever. You could—”

“He’s signed the settlements. There is no cleverness left. My father just sold me to Lord Redmont.” Her voice came out flat, too loud. Charlotte blinked until the burn behind her eyes vanished.

Edith deflated. “I have prepared everything. If you are certain—”

“I am,” Charlotte said, before certainty could desert her.

“Then we must cut your hair.”

Charlotte drew herself up. “Do what you will, Edith,” she said. “It must be good enough to pass scrutiny.”

The scissors were cold and the lady’s maid held them awkwardly.

It was evident she rarely had cause to cut the hair of others.

Edith worked in silence, save for the steady snip-snap.

Each strand felt like a memory—Christmas mornings, falling asleep on storybooks, hiding under the library table.

When Edith finished, Charlotte’s hair brushed her shoulder blades instead of her hips. The fresh coiffure seemed scandalous.

Edith held up a mirror, biting her lip.

“Better,” Charlotte said. The reflection seemed sharper now, as if the old Charlotte had been left on the floor with the trimmings. “What next?”

“Put these on.” Edith handed her a pile of coarse, ordinary clothing—brown trousers, a blue coat, a linen shirt, and a cap that had once belonged to Edith’s brother. It covered all of Charlotte’s hair after it was pinned up.

“Walk with your shoulders back and never look down,” Edith said as she smoothed the lapels on the blue coat. “Speak as little as possible. If you must speak, deepen your voice. And do not smile at anyone. Please.”

Charlotte slipped into the borrowed clothing. The shirt was scratchy. The trousers, held up with a belt, cut sharply across her waist. The cap hid her hair, but not the fear.

“Will it work?”

Edith nodded, swallowing hard. “You could pass for a young valet. So long as nobody stares too long.” She fussed at the collar, straightening it, then clutched Charlotte’s hands. “If anyone asks, say nothing. Run if you must.”

“I am not running,” Charlotte said. “I am walking. Briskly.” The bravado surprised her.

Edith tried to smile and failed. “There is a carriage at the rear stable, set to leave for Bedfordshire before dawn. The driver is my cousin; he owes me three favors and will not ask questions. Do not stop anywhere near London, my lady. Go as far north as you can…” Her voice broke.

Charlotte nodded. “Thank you, Edith.”

The rest of the evening stretched thin and taut. Edith returned once, bringing a bundle of bread, cheese, and a battered book of poetry. “In case you need company,” she said, pressing the book into Charlotte’s hand.

“I will,” Charlotte said.

They waited, sitting close in the dark, not speaking. The silence was the only kindness left.

When the clock in the hallway struck two, Edith rose. “You must go.”

Charlotte followed her through the servant hallways, with her heart drumming so loudly that it created a steady roar. They slipped outside. The grass was slick with night dew, the stables a black hulk against the dim sky.

The carriage was there, lanterns doused. The driver had a burly shape. He had thrown a thick scarf over his jaw. The man nodded once at Edith, then at Charlotte. “You’re the new boy, are you?”

Charlotte nodded, voice locked tight in her chest. “I am.”

“Load in, then. We’ve a long way.” He looked her up and down, and for a breath she thought he might see through everything. Then he shrugged. “Just keep quiet and hold on if we hit a rut.”

Edith lingered at the carriage door. “Don’t look back,” she whispered.

Charlotte squeezed Edith’s hand and climbed inside the coach.

The carriage jolted forward, wheels crunching the gravel. Charlotte pressed her forehead to the window and watched the only home she had ever known fade into the fog.

She wondered, for one wild moment, if her father would notice she was gone before breakfast.

She hoped he gave her enough time to get as far as possible.