Chapter 2 - Charlotte #2
Charlotte startled, realizing Mr. Blackwood had asked her something. Heat crept up her neck. “I— that is—“
“That such romantic constancy is best left to poetry? Real marriages require more sensible foundations than unwavering devotion.” He tilted his head, his confident smile assured.
How many times had she heard this? From her aunt, from society matrons, from well-meaning friends—all of them telling her, in different words, that her mother had been wrong.
That waiting for love was childish. Impractical.
I think,” Charlotte heard herself say, each word edged with frustration, “that we’ve convinced ourselves that settling for less than what Shakespeare describes is wisdom, when really it’s just cowardice. ”
Mr. Blackwood’s steps faltered slightly. “Cowardice? But surely—“
“Surely it takes more courage to wait for real love than to accept the first convenient arrangement.” The words escaped before she could catch them, and several nearby dancers cast disapproving glances their way.
“I—that is—“ Mr. Blackwood was the one who floundered now, wearing the expression of a man who had suddenly found himself in unexpectedly deep waters.
A shift in the room’s energy cut off his stammered response.
Charlotte didn’t need to turn to know what—or who—had caused it.
Though she had only spoken with Lord Penrose a handful of times in public settings, his presence carried a particular weight.
She had felt it during their brief conversations: the way he commanded attention without demanding it, the subtle shift in atmosphere when he entered a room.
It wasn’t personal familiarity that made her aware of him now, but rather the same instinct that made small animals freeze when a predator drew near.
The dance ended mercifully, and Charlotte curtsied to Mr. Blackwood with genuine gratitude for the temporary reprieve he’d provided. As she straightened, she caught sight of Lord Penrose across the room, impeccably dressed in midnight blue that, of course, perfectly matched her gown.
He was surveying the room with methodical attention, and when he spotted her, his smile became almost welcoming.
Almost, but for the chill it sent down her spine.
He was handsome, undeniably so, golden-haired and perfectly proportioned, with striking green eyes.
He reminded Charlotte of the fairy tales her mother had read to her as a child, the ones where beautiful creatures lured travelers to their doom with sweet songs and sweeter promises.
“Miss Fairmont,” Mr. Blackwood was saying, but his voice seemed to come from very far away. “Perhaps we might continue our discussion—“
“Forgive me,” Charlotte managed, her throat suddenly dry. “I find I’m in need of some air.”
She made her escape before he could offer to escort her, weaving through the crowd with growing desperation. But there was nowhere to hide in a ballroom, nowhere to run when society’s rules bound her as surely as chains. She had nearly reached the garden door when Lord Penrose’s voice snagged her.
“Miss Fairmont.”
She turned slowly, every instinct screaming at her to flee. He approached with the confident stride of a man who had never been denied anything he desired, his expression open and pleasant.
“You look particularly enchanting this evening,” he said, his gaze moving over her. “The blue suits you admirably. Might I claim your next dance?”
Up close, she could see the careful arrangement of his features, the practiced curve of his smile.
He said all the right things, positioned himself at exactly the proper distance, maintained the perfect degree of interest. And yet something else lurked beneath.
Something cold and calculating that his pleasant expression couldn’t quite mask.
“Thank you, my lord,” Charlotte heard herself say, her eyes catching the musicians preparing for a waltz. The thought of his hands on her waist, of being held that close, made her stomach turn. “But I fear my card is quite full this evening.”
Charlotte felt several nearby gazes upon them.
“Surely you could make an exception? After all, we are old friends, are we not?”
The casual presumption of intimacy, the way he claimed a connection that didn’t exist, made Charlotte’s skin crawl.
“Are we? I wasn’t aware that three conversations at public assemblies constituted friendship, my lord.”
The silence that followed her words seemed to expand outward like ripples in a pond, making a few nearby observers hold their breath.
Lord Penrose’s smile turned to ice, the warmth draining from his expression as something far more dangerous surfaced.
His eyes met Charlotte’s with a calculating intensity that made her throat tighten, and she found herself taking an involuntary step back before she could stop herself.
“You do yourself a disservice with such modesty, Miss Fairmont,” he said finally, his tone so cold it seemed to drop the temperature in the room.
He bowed again, this time with a fraction less depth.
“Perhaps at Lady Bellamy’s garden party next week, you will be less indisposed.”
As he walked away, Charlotte felt eyes boring into her from every direction. She had gone too far, been too obvious in her rejection. It wasn’t the proper way of things, and those who had witnessed it would certainly discuss it.
Henrietta appeared at her side within moments, her face pale with concern.
“Charlotte,” she whispered urgently, drawing her toward a quieter corner.
“You cannot afford to make an enemy of Lord Penrose.
Not with—“ She paused, glancing around to ensure they weren’t overheard.
“My mother has noticed things. The reduced staff at your house, the canceled orders at the modiste. When she tried to offer help, your aunt only said you needed to make an advantageous match this season. Charlotte, if things are truly that dire, you cannot afford to be reckless.”
Perfect. Her aunt had found time to confide their financial troubles to Lady Bellamy but hadn’t managed to inform Charlotte until forced to this morning.
“I know.” The words came out harsher than Charlotte intended, guilt and defiance warring in her chest. “Believe me, I know exactly what I can and cannot afford. Sometimes I think that’s all anyone in London thinks about. The price of everything and the value of nothing.”
She knew what society would say. That she could scarcely afford to refuse a man like Lord Penrose.
And yet she could not dismiss the instinct that screamed warnings whenever he drew near.
Everyone else saw an accomplished gentleman.
Everyone else praised his manners, his estates, his looks.
But Charlotte couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being studied rather than courted, assessed rather than admired.
She had made a mistake tonight, perhaps a disastrous one, but she couldn’t bring herself to regret the honesty of it.
If only her mother were here to tell her whether she’d been right to refuse him, whether instinct was worth trusting when the stakes were so high.
She moved closer to the windows, seeking something— anything—to focus on beyond the crushing burden of expectation.
Beyond the glass, rain had begun to fall, each droplet catching light from the chandeliers and fracturing it into tiny prisms. How she envied the raindrops’ freedom, their ability to simply fall where gravity took them.
Beyond the carefully maintained gardens and the iron gates of Hartley House, there must be people who lived differently.
People who spoke what they thought, who valued ideas above titles, who saw the world as something more than a marriage market—the way they did in books.
But they didn’t exist in her world. Not anymore.
And as her aunt’s voice echoed in her mind, reminding her of their dwindling fortune and the necessity of a good match, Charlotte wondered if they existed anywhere at all.
Henrietta followed, and seemed to sense that Charlotte couldn’t bear to discuss Lord Penrose any further just now.
“Well,” Henrietta said gently, “at least Mr. Blackwood didn’t flee in defeat after your dance.” Her smile was warm but teasing. “Poor man clearly hoped to impress you, though I can’t say I’m surprised he didn’t.”
Charlotte let out a shaky laugh. “He simply repeats whatever his tutors told him to think. I could recite his next three observations word for word.”
“And what would make a man interesting enough for the discerning Miss Fairmont?” Mischief danced across Henrietta’s expression, clearly trying to lift Charlotte’s spirits. “Perhaps if he arrived on a horse, brandishing a sword and spouting original interpretations of Sonnet 116?”
Charlotte almost smiled at the image. “I’d settle for someone who has an original thought and isn’t afraid to voice it, even if it makes others uncomfortable.”
“Miss Fairmont.” A sharp female voice interrupted their conversation.
Charlotte and Henrietta exchanged questioning glances before turning to see Lady Rutland standing before them, flanked by two of her friends.
“How delightful to see you still gracing such gatherings. We had heard…” She paused with theatrical delicacy.
“Well, we had heard your father’s recent misfortunes might require a more… modest social calendar.”
Charlotte felt the sting of the words as intended—not just for their cruelty, but for the horrible confirmation they represented.
She had known there might be whispers, had suspected that rumors could spread, but she hadn’t realized the knowledge had already reached the ton’s drawing rooms. Though perhaps she should have anticipated it.
Lady Rutland, despite her advancing years, was notorious for maintaining a network of paid informants.