Chapter 27 - Charlotte
Charlotte
The glass was cold in her hand.
Charlotte stared at the champagne, bubbles rising through pale gold liquid, unable to recall the moment she’d taken it from the tray or when her fingers had closed around the crystal stem.
Everything following his voice had fragmented into pieces she couldn’t quite connect—retreating footsteps, the crowd filling the space where he’d been, her gaze lifting too late to find he’d already gone.
She should have looked at him, should have met his eyes instead of fixing her gaze on this glass like a coward. He was gone now, and that brief moment that might have been her only chance to see his face again had vanished while she’d remained frozen in place.
The ache of it surprised her. Shouldn’t she hate him? Feel nothing but contempt for the man who’d deceived her so thoroughly? Yet her chest tightened with loss, with the terrible certainty that she’d just let something irretrievable disappear into the crowd.
“Miss Fairmont?”
She blinked, turning to find Lord Penrose studying her, his expression unreadable.
“Forgive me. The music is lovely, I was simply—“
“Lost in thought?” He gestured toward the terrace doors. “Come. Let’s find somewhere we can actually hear ourselves speak. I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”
She’d known this was coming. Had felt it hovering all evening.
“Of course.”
Her voice sounded distant, as though someone else had spoken through her mouth. She set down her champagne and took his offered arm, letting him guide her through the French doors. Cool air wrapped around her bare shoulders, and she watched gooseflesh rise along her skin without really feeling it.
“The roses are particularly fine this year.” Lord Penrose steered them toward a more secluded path, away from other couples taking air. “Though perhaps not as impressive as Lady Bellamy’s collection.”
The reference to the Bellamy garden party sent pain lancing through her ribs. That night felt like it belonged to another lifetime entirely, to a different Charlotte.
They reached a stone bench tucked beneath a flowering arbor, the perfect spot for a private conversation.
“Miss Fairmont.” He turned to face her, his expression suddenly serious. “Charlotte.”
So this was it. Charlotte had thought herself prepared, had accepted that her family’s survival depended on this.
But as Penrose knelt before her, she discovered how wrong she’d been.
She hadn’t been prepared at all. Her heart remained tender and aching for a man who’d never been real, and she hadn’t had enough time to let go of that illusion before binding herself with vows that couldn’t be undone.
“My lord, I—“
“Please.” His raised hand cut off her protest. “Let me speak. Your father and I have discussed the matter at length. Our families’ interests align perfectly, and I believe we could make a most advantageous match.”
His hand closed around her gloved fingers. “Charlotte Fairmont, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Duty. This was what duty looked like. What survival required. Her father’s strained face appeared in her mind, the way his shoulders had bowed under invisible weight these past months. Aunt Margaret’s increasingly desperate glances. The creditors notices that arrived with disturbing frequency.
“Yes.” The word came out hollow, bitter on her tongue. “Yes, I will marry you.”
“The special license can be arranged within the week.”
Aunt Margaret’s voice filled the carriage, more animated than Charlotte had heard in months. Her hands fluttered as she spoke, already planning, already organizing Charlotte’s life into neat columns.
“Lady Jersey has already offered to host the wedding breakfast. Such an honor, of course. And Lord Penrose’s solicitor will call tomorrow to discuss the settlements.”
Her father sat next to her in the carriage, patting her hand, as though touching her might confirm this wasn’t a dream.
Charlotte nodded mechanically, her gaze fixed on the darkened streets beyond the window.
The congratulations still echoed in her ears—Lady Jersey pressing her hand with unmistakable satisfaction, followed by voices that blurred into each other until Charlotte could barely distinguish one from the next.
Mrs. Pembroke’s effusive praise. Lady Rutland’s knowing smile.
Henrietta’s worried eyes searching hers for answers Charlotte couldn’t give.
She’d smiled through all of it. Had curtsied at appropriate moments. Had felt Penrose’s hand at her back as he’d guided her from one cluster of well-wishers to the next, showing off his prize.
“And the flowers,” Aunt Margaret continued, pulling Charlotte back to the present. “We must decide on the arrangements. White roses, I think, with—Charlotte? Are you listening?”
“Yes.” The reply came automatically. “White roses.”
But she wasn’t listening. Couldn’t focus on flowers or breakfast menus or any of the thousand details Aunt Margaret seemed determined to catalog.
Her mind kept sliding back to the ballroom, to those moments after the congratulations when she’d searched the crowd.
Her eyes had moved without permission, scanning doorways, lingering on every figure in Rutland livery.
She’d caught glimpses—a footman carrying a tray, another collecting discarded glasses—but never the right one. Never him.
He’d already gone. Back to whatever duties servants performed when ballrooms no longer needed champagne. Back to corners and corridors where ladies didn’t look.
She’d had one chance to see his face properly, and she’d wasted it.
“The ceremony itself will be intimate, of course,” Aunt Margaret was saying. “But respectable. Lord Penrose has been most understanding about the timeline. With the creditors pressing as they are, we simply cannot afford a lengthy engagement.”
“Wednesday,” Charlotte heard herself say. The word felt foreign on her tongue. “He said Wednesday.”
Five days. In five days she would stand before God and promise herself to a man whose touch made her skin crawl. She would speak vows she didn’t mean, become Lady Penrose, and cease being Charlotte Fairmont entirely.
The carriage wheels clattered over cobblestones, counting down seconds she couldn’t reclaim.
The house buzzed with activity when they arrived, despite the late hour.
Word of the engagement had apparently preceded them.
Charlotte could hear the maids whispering excitedly in the hallways, their voices carrying relief.
They wouldn’t need to seek new positions now.
Wouldn’t face the uncertainty of finding employment in households that might not want servants from a family that had fallen so far.
Even Mills seemed to stand straighter, the tension that had stiffened his shoulders for months finally easing.
“Shall I help you undress, miss?” Annie asked, following Charlotte into her bedchamber.
“No.” Charlotte couldn’t bear more congratulations, more excited chatter about her good fortune. “Thank you. I can manage.”
Aunt Margaret appeared in the doorway before Annie could leave.
“Annie, that will be all for tonight.” She waited until the maid had retreated down the hall before turning to Charlotte.
“I won’t be confining you to your room anymore.
You’re engaged now, such measures are no longer necessary.
” A pause. “Though Annie will accompany you on your outings, as is proper. I trust there will be no more attempts at improper behavior.”
“Of course, Aunt.”
Her aunt studied her a moment longer, then withdrew, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
Charlotte stood motionless, listening to her aunt’s footsteps fade down the corridor. Alone at last.
Charlotte sank onto her bed, still in her evening clothes. She should change her clothes, unpin her hair, prepare for sleep. But she couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything except sit there and feel the weight of everything she’d agreed to.
Outside her window, Berkeley Square lay silent and dark. Miles away, he was probably settling into his quarters at the Rutland estate. Hanging his livery. Lying on whatever narrow bed servants slept in. Perhaps he was thinking of her. Perhaps he’d already forgotten.
Perhaps it didn’t matter either way.
Time passed. The excited voices of the servants faded one by one as they retired. The grandfather clock in the hall struck midnight, then one, the house settling into the deep silence of late night.
Charlotte sat perfectly still through it all, watching shadows shift across her ceiling as clouds passed over the moon. Her mind felt strange—both numb and racing, trapped in that horrible space between thought and feeling where nothing quite made sense.
Tap.
The sound cut through the silence. Her heart lurched violently, but she remained frozen on the bed, certain she’d imagined it. The house settling. A branch against glass.
Tap.
Sharper this time. Deliberate. Against her window.
No. He wouldn’t. Would he?
She rose slowly, her legs unsteady beneath her. Each step felt like moving through deep water, everything slowed and strange. Her fingers found the curtains, hesitated, then drew them back.
A tall figure stood below, in the shadows cast by the great oak tree.
The breath left her lungs in a rush. Even in darkness, even with rain beginning to fall, she knew. Knew it was him by something fundamental that her body recognized before her mind could catch up.
She lifted the window sash with trembling hands, night air rushing in, carrying the scent of rain and earth.
“How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?” The quote slipped out naturally, her voice barely above a whisper.
The ghost of a smile flickered across his face as he stepped forward into a patch of moonlight, pained and fleeting, as if even now he couldn’t help but appreciate the literary reference.
“With love’s light wings did I… o’er-perch?
Perched?” He stopped, shaking his head. “My father would be ashamed at how thoroughly I’m butchering this. I need to speak with you.”
Rain had plastered his dark hair to his forehead, made his simple shirt cling to the planes of his chest and shoulders.
He’d discarded his livery—wore neither the uniform that marked him servant nor the borrowed evening clothes he’d worn when they’d met.
Just a man standing in the rain. Just him, stripped of all pretense.
Everything she’d been holding back threatened to break free.
“Please.” His voice was low and rough, familiar in a way that made her throat tighten.
She should close the window. Should turn away, return to her bed, pretend she’d never heard that first tap against glass. The hour was late, the household deep asleep. No one had heard. She could still walk away from this.
“Go away.” But even as she said it, her feet refused to retreat, staying exactly where she was.
“I cannot.”
Two words. Simple, honest. His eyes held hers, and she could see something raw in them—pain, perhaps, or desperation. Something that matched the jagged pieces inside her own chest.
“Not until you hear me,” he continued. “Please, Charlotte.”
Her name on his lips. She’d heard him say it before, in libraries and kitchens, whispered against her skin. But never like this. Never weighted with such terrible need.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She should hate him for his deception, for making her believe in a man who’d never existed. Should summon Mills, have him thrown from the property, erase him from her life.
But her hand was already reaching for her cloak.
Because some traitorous part of her had been waiting for this. Hoping for it, even while hating herself for the hope. The part of her that looked at him standing in the rain, and felt the first real emotion breaking through the numbness that had suffocated her since Bond Street.
She wrapped the cloak around her shoulders, her pulse racing as she moved toward her bedroom door.