Chapter One
“My Lady, your father requests your presence in his study.”
The butler’s measured tone as he delivered the message had sent a flutter of apprehension through Lady Charlotte Wyndham’s chest. Her father, Thomas Wyndham, Earl of Westbridge, never disrupted his morning routine of estate business without significant cause.
The summons had arrived unexpectedly while she reviewed the housekeeper’s accounts - a task she had taken over after her mother’s passing three years ago. Now, she paused outside her father’s study, smoothing her pale muslin morning dress with trembling hands.
Through the tall windows lining the corridor, morning sunlight illuminated the fine Turkish carpet, its rich patterns a stark contrast to the plain cream tone of Charlotte’s skirts. She found herself focusing on a particular whorl in the design, attempting to gather her composure.
Her mother’s voice seemed to whisper in her memory: ‘A lady’s composure is her shield, my dear. Whatever the world presents, meet it with grace’.
Oh, how she missed that gentle guidance.
Lady Westbridge had possessed an innate ability to navigate every social situation with unfailing grace, while somehow maintaining the warmth that had made their home so loving.
Charlotte often felt that she fell short of that example, despite her best efforts.
“My Lady,” Barstow, the butler, bowed, opening the heavy mahogany door with practiced efficiency.
His expression betrayed nothing of the meeting’s purpose, though Charlotte knew that he must be aware of any significant household matters, and probably knew something of the reason for her having been summoned to her father today.
The Earl’s study had always impressed upon Charlotte the weight of her family’s history.
Dark wood panelling soaked up the sunlight, leaving corners in perpetual shadow, despite the June brightness.
Leather-bound books lined the walls, their gilt lettering catching the light like so many watchful eyes.
The massive desk, imported from the West Indies by her grandfather, dominated the room, much as her father’s presence dominated their lives.
The scent of beeswax and leather permeated the air, mingling with the faint trace of her father’s distinctive cologne.
“Charlotte.” Her father’s voice matched his surroundings - solid, authoritative, brooking no opposition.
He did not look up immediately from the papers before him, a habit that had always made Charlotte feel like a schoolgirl awaiting judgment for some indiscretion.
“Sit down, my dear. We have matters of significance to discuss.”
Charlotte sank into one of the leather chairs facing the desk, her fingers instinctively finding the delicate lace handkerchief in her pocket - one of her mother’s last gifts to her.
Something in her father’s tone - a note of finality, perhaps - sent her heart racing. The morning suddenly felt heavier, weighted with unspoken expectations.
The Earl finally looked up, his grey eyes sharp beneath brows that had silvered early, lending him a distinguished air that served him well in Parliament.
“Your Season has concluded satisfactorily,” he began, shuffling papers on his desk with unusual attention. “You conducted yourself with admirable discretion, particularly in dealing with those fortune hunters who sought your dowry rather than truly your hand.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Charlotte’s voice emerged smaller than she had intended.
The Season had been everything she’d dreamed of - the balls, the musicales, the quiet hope that somewhere among London’s eligible gentlemen, she might find a connection that transcended mere social advantage.
She had danced with dozens of partners, engaged in countless carefully proper conversations, and yet that spark of mutual understanding she longed for had proven elusive.
The Earl cleared his throat.
“However, at nineteen, you cannot delay marriage indefinitely. It is time to secure your future - and the family’s interests - with an advantageous match.”
Charlotte’s fingers tightened on the handkerchief, the fine lace pressing patterns into her skin.
“Father?”
“I have received an offer for your hand.” He paused, clearly savouring the moment. His fingers drummed once on the polished surface of his desk – an action which Charlotte had learned to associate with particularly momentous announcements. “From His Grace, the Duke of Alverton.”
The room seemed to tilt slightly. Charlotte heard herself speak as if from a great distance, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears.
“The Duke of Alverton? But I’ve never even been introduced to His Grace.”
“That will be remedied tomorrow afternoon.” Her father rose, moving to stand before the window that overlooked the garden of their London townhouse.
The morning light cast his figure in silhouette, reminding Charlotte painfully of similar scenes with her mother, who had loved to watch the gardeners tend her roses.
“His Grace has expressed interest in forming an alliance with our family, and I have accepted on your behalf.”
“Without consulting me?”
The words escaped before Charlotte could stop them, sharper than was entirely proper.
She immediately pressed her lips together, conscious of her father’s disapproving frown as he turned back to face her. The sunlight now illuminated his expression fully, showing the deep lines that responsibility had carved around his mouth.
“My dear, while your sensibilities do you credit, you must understand that such an opportunity cannot be dismissed for want of a prior acquaintance. The Duke of Alverton is one of the most eligible men in England. His restoration of his family’s fortunes shows remarkable capability.
The connection would be advantageous for all concerned. ”
“But Father-” Charlotte stopped, gathering her thoughts. Her hands twisted the handkerchief, creating creases she knew her maid would later struggle to press out. “Surely there should be some... some mutual regard before such a step is taken? Some opportunity to determine if we might suit?”
The Earl’s expression softened marginally, and for a moment, Charlotte glimpsed the father who had once swung her onto his shoulders in this very room, before duty and loss had hardened him.
“Ah, Charlotte. You have clearly read too many novels. A love match is a pleasant notion, but a marriage of mutual respect and compatible status is far more likely to bring lasting contentment. The Duke offers stability, position, and the protection of one of England’s oldest titles.
What more could a young woman wish for?”
Love, Charlotte thought, but she knew better than to voice such a sentiment. Instead, she spoke quietly, striving for the grace that her mother had recommended.
“When is it to be?”
“The marriage will take place in late July. His Grace prefers a small, dignified ceremony, which suits our circumstances admirably.” Her father returned to his desk, his tone becoming brisk as he shuffled through the papers before him.
“The Duke’s sister, Lady Margaret Hawthorne, will accompany him tomorrow when he calls on me to allow the completion of the formal arrangements.
I believe that you met the lady, briefly, during your Season? ”
Charlotte cast her mind back through the whirl of social encounters, remembering a quiet, dark-haired young woman who had stood slightly apart from the crowds at Lady Ashworth’s musicale.
“Yes, at Lady Ashworth’s. She seemed very gracious, though rather reserved.”
And lonely, Charlotte had thought at the time, recognising in Lady Margaret’s practiced calm posture something of her own carefully maintained composure.
“A proper demeanour for a Duke’s sister,” her father commented approvingly. “You would do well to emulate her dignity, Charlotte. Your new position will require…”
“Father.” Edmund’s voice cut through the lecture from the doorway.
Charlotte turned to see her brother, Viscount Parrington, standing there, his usually mischievous expression uncharacteristically serious.
The morning light caught the golden highlights in his fair hair - so like their mother’s - and Charlotte felt a rush of gratitude for his timely intervention. “Might I have a moment with Charlotte?”
The Earl considered his heir for a long moment before nodding dismissively.
“Very well. Charlotte, you may go. I trust that you will spend the afternoon preparing yourself for tomorrow’s meeting. The Duke of Alverton is not a man to appreciate frivolity. Edmund, stay with me a moment.”
Charlotte rose, and executed a perfect curtsey, though her legs felt unsteady.
The butler materialised to open the door, his experienced eye noting her pallor, but maintaining the discreet silence that marked a superior servant.
She forced herself to walk sedately through the corridors, past the watchful eyes of housemaids dusting the family portraits, until she reached the garden door, assuming that her brother would follow, once their father released him.
The June morning had bloomed into glorious warmth, the kind of day that usually found Charlotte sketching in the garden or practicing her piano with the windows open to catch the breeze. Today, however, the beauty felt like a mockery of her tumultuous emotions.
She made her way to her mother’s rose garden, where the flowers were in full bloom, their sweet fragrance filling the air, then sank onto a stone bench, her rigid posture finally crumpling as the tears she had held back began to fall.
“Oh, Mama,” she whispered, touching the delicate petals of a pink bloom her mother had particularly loved, “I wish you were here. How am I to be a Duchess? From what little I’ve heard of the Duke of Alverton, he’s terribly stern and cold.
They say that he barely participates in society beyond what duty requires, that he cares for nothing but his estates and his family’s position. ”