15. In Which a Gentleman Stops Being Careful – Penworth House, Mayfair, London
IN WHICH A GENTLEMAN STOPS BEING CAREFUL
EDWARD
PENWORTH HOUSE, MAYFAIR, LONDON
Ishouldn't have come to the Penworth dinner.
Every rational part of my brain said it was a terrible idea.
Dinner at the Duke of Penworth's London residence.
The families gathered to celebrate what everyone assumed was an inevitable engagement.
Father and Marguerite. Lucas & Juliet, Mary & Matthew, Caroline & Alexander, Margaret & Edmund and Charlotte.
And Dunmore.
Dunmore, who was about to propose. Who had his father's blessing, Lucas’s apparent consent, and the full weight of two ducal families behind him.
I should have stayed away.
Instead, I arrived precisely on time and tried to pretend my presence was about family obligation rather than the fact that Charlotte had looked at me in that corridor at the Haverstock ball and said, "I need you in the room."
So here I was. In the room. Watching Charlotte perform the role of Perfect Future Duchess, while my chest felt like someone was tightening a vise around it.
The Penworth drawing room was magnificent. All gilt and crystal and expensive art carefully chosen to demonstrate wealth and taste. The Duke of Penworth held court with Father and Lucas, discussing politics and investments with the ease of old friends.
The Duchess of Penworth—Catherine, young and socially ambitious—managed the ladies with practiced grace. Marguerite, Juliet, Mary, Caroline, Margaret. All gathered to celebrate what they believed was Charlotte's triumph.
Charlotte stood near the windows with Dunmore.
She looked beautiful. Pale blue silk that made her eyes luminous. Hair arranged perfectly. Posture impeccable. Smile fixed.
I could see the panic underneath.
"—and the craftsmanship is quite extraordinary, Lady Charlotte. The enamelwork alone required three separate firings to achieve the proper depth of colour?—"
Dunmore was explaining a snuffbox. Of course he was.
But this wasn't just any snuffbox. This was special.
"I had it specially commissioned," Dunmore continued, his voice swelling with pride.
"It has your initials, you see. C.A. In gold filigree on the lid.
And inside—well, I wanted to wait to show you the inside until a more appropriate moment, but I can tell you it's quite remarkable. The miniaturist captured?—"
He stopped. Apparently realising he was about to reveal whatever surprise he'd planned.
Charlotte's smile didn't waver. But her knuckles were white around her fan.
A snuffbox. With her initials. Commissioned specially.
That wasn't just a gift. That was a declaration. A public claim.
"How thoughtful," Charlotte said. Her voice was perfectly modulated. "I look forward to seeing it."
"Excellent! I was hoping—that is, Father suggested—perhaps after dinner? A brief moment to show you properly?"
After dinner. Away from the crowd. The perfect moment for a proposal.
I was going to be sick.
Or possibly commit violence.
Both seemed equally likely.
"Dinner is served," the butler announced.
We processed into the dining room. Penworth had arranged the seating with obvious intent. Charlotte between Dunmore and the Duke himself. The position of honour for the future Duchess of Penworth.
I was relegated to the far end. Between Caroline and Margaret. As far from Charlotte as the table allowed.
Perfect.
I could watch Charlotte perform composure while Dunmore monopolised her attention, and I sat helplessly to intervene.
The first course arrived.
Dunmore immediately launched into a description of the snuffbox's origins. The craftsman he'd found in Bond Street. The multiple consultations required. The precise specifications for Charlotte's initials.
"I wanted it to be perfect, you see. A gift worthy of—well." He colored slightly. "Worthy of the occasion."
What occasion? What bloody occasion was he talking about?
Oh. Right. The proposal.
The proposal everyone at this table knew was coming except possibly Charlotte herself, who was performing obliviousness while her composure slowly fractured.
I forced myself to eat. To make conversation with Caroline about something I immediately forgot. To pretend I wasn't watching Charlotte's every micro-expression.
The second course. The third. Dunmore continued. The snuffbox. His collection. His plans to expand said collection. Did Charlotte know that there was an excellent auction house in Paris that specialised in eighteenth-century French enamels?
Charlotte made appropriate sounds. Smiled. Nodded.
Across the table, Juliet watched her daughter with concern. She could see it too. The performance. The strain.
But what could Juliet do? Object to dinner? Announce that Charlotte didn't want Dunmore?
Not without Charlotte's explicit refusal. And Charlotte hadn't refused. Hadn't said no. Was still playing the role she'd been assigned.
Even if it was killing her.
The fourth course arrived. Dunmore was discussing the interior of the commissioned snuffbox. A miniature painting. Something meaningful. He wouldn't say what—it was a surprise for later.
Later. After dinner. In the gallery where he'd planned this moment.
My hands tightened on my fork.
"Edward, dear, you're not eating," Marguerite observed from across the table.
"I'm fine."
"You look rather pale. Are you feeling well?"
"Perfectly well."
Papa caught my eye. He knew. He'd seen me watching Charlotte all evening. Seen the tension in my shoulders. The careful control I was barely maintaining.
His expression said: Be careful.
I was trying.
God, I was trying.
Dinner finally ended.
The ladies withdrew. The gentlemen retired for port.
I should have stayed. Should have engaged in the traditional masculine ritual of cigars and politics.
Instead, I counted to sixty. Then excused myself.
"Where are you going?" Father asked quietly.
"Fresh air."
"Edward—"
"I just need a moment."
I left before he could object.
The Penworth gallery was on the second floor. A long room filled with portraits and landscapes and expensive acquisitions. It opened to a terrace overlooking the gardens.
I knew Dunmore would bring Charlotte here. It was perfect for a proposal. Private but not too private. Romantic without being improper.
I stationed myself in the corridor. Waited.
Voices approached. Dunmore's enthusiastic tenor. Charlotte's carefully modulated responses.
They entered the gallery. I gave them thirty seconds. Then followed.
"—and here it is!" Dunmore was presenting the snuffbox like a military trophy. "You see? Your initials. And inside?—"
He opened it.
Even from the doorway, I could see Charlotte's face go carefully blank.
Whatever was inside that snuffbox, it wasn't good.
"It's a miniature," Dunmore explained. "Of you. Well, of us, technically, but the artist worked from a sketch I provided, and I think he captured your likeness quite well, don't you think? It's meant to commemorate—that is, I was hoping?—"
He was rambling now. Working up courage.
This was it. The proposal.
Charlotte was frozen. Her composure was a masterwork, but I could see the panic in her eyes.
"Lady Charlotte, I should very much like to call on your father. Formally."
There it was.
"Lord Dunmore—" Charlotte's voice was steady. Controlled. "I'm not certain?—"
"No need to answer now! No need at all. I simply wanted you to know my intentions. Father is quite keen, you see, and the Duke—your father, that is—seemed amenable when we spoke, and I thought—well, I wanted you to be prepared. For the conversation. When I call on him."
He wasn't asking. He was informing her that the proposal was coming. That arrangements had been made. That everyone had agreed except the one person whose agreement actually mattered.
Charlotte's knuckles were white around the snuffbox.
"Lord Dunmore, I need to be clear?—"
"The terrace!" Dunmore gestured enthusiastically. "Shall we step outside? The view is quite remarkable. And I do think the moonlight makes the miniature even more striking."
He was already moving toward the terrace doors. Drawing Charlotte with him through sheer oblivious momentum.
I stepped into the gallery.
"Dunmore."
Both of them turned.
Dunmore looked delighted. "Retford! Perfect timing. I was just showing Lady Charlotte the commissioned piece. Would you like to see?"
"Actually, I need to borrow Lady Charlotte. Family matter."
Charlotte's eyes met mine. Relief. Desperation. Please.
Dunmore's face fell. "Oh. Now? I was rather hoping to show her the gardens. The terrace at night is quite?—"
"I'm afraid it's rather urgent." I moved toward Charlotte. Held out my hand. "Charlotte?"
She took it. Let me draw her away from Dunmore and his snuffbox and his plans.
"But—the miniature—I wanted to explain the symbolism?—"
"I'm sure it's extraordinary," I said. "Perhaps later."
I steered Charlotte toward the terrace doors. Not the ones Dunmore had been aiming for—the ones on the far side that led to a more private section of the terrace.
We stepped outside.
The door closed behind us.
The terrace was dark. Lit by moonlight and the glow from the dining room windows below. We were above the main floor, overlooking the gardens. Private enough that no one would notice us. Public enough that we could hear the party continuing inside.
Dangerous.
So bloody dangerous.
Charlotte was trembling.
"He commissioned a snuffbox," she said. Her voice was shaking. "With my initials. And a miniature of us inside. To commemorate our engagement. An engagement I haven't agreed to."
"I know."
"He's going to call on Papa. Formally. Make an offer. And Papa—Papa won't refuse him, Edward. Penworth is Grandpapa's dear friend. The ducal alliance. The families. Papa will say yes and then Dunmore will propose, and I'll have to?—"
"No."
"No?"
"You won't have to do anything." I turned her to face me. "Charlotte, you can refuse. You're allowed to refuse."
"And humiliate him? Insult Penworth? Cause a rift between families?"
"Yes. If that's what it takes."
"Edward—"