Chapter Five
The scent of freshly dyed silks and pressed muslin hung in the air as Charlotte stepped into the high, sunlit room of Hawthorne Textiles the following day.
Bolts of fabric, neatly stacked, gleamed in every shade from the softest cream to the deepest indigo.
Seamstresses bent over their worktables, listening to the sound of the rhythmic whisper of shears and the steady clatter of needles.
Lydia moved among them with easy command, her fingers trailing lightly over the cloth as she gave instructions.
It still amazed Charlotte, sometimes, to see her sister-in-law so firmly at the helm of this enterprise.
What had once been a necessity had grown into a triumph: gowns and coats worn by half the ton, stitched under Lydia’s eye.
“I shall need a wedding gown,” Charlotte said, the words slipping into the busy air before she could second-guess them.
Lydia froze, turning so sharply that the seamstress beside her pricked her finger. “A what?”
Charlotte lifted her chin, keeping her expression carefully neutral. “A wedding gown. You are best placed to make it.”
Lydia’s eyes widened, then softened with dawning comprehension. She seized Charlotte’s hands as her voice vibrated with excitement. “Charlotte, at last! You mean the poet? He has come for you? I knew he would.”
The flush that rose to Charlotte’s cheeks was sharp, unwelcome. She pulled her hands free. “Not the poet.”
Lydia blinked. “Not the… then who?”
Charlotte straightened her gloves. “The Duke of Duskbourne.”
For a moment, Lydia could only stare, her hazel eyes widening in astonishment. “Cassian Oberon?” she whispered. “He… he has proposed?”
“He has.” Charlotte busied herself with a bolt of ivory silk, though her fingers lingered too long on the smooth weave. “And I have accepted.”
“Goodness me,” Lydia breathed, recovering herself enough to shoo the seamstress away for privacy.
She leaned closer, her words tumbling out in a rush.
“But how? When? The man never attends so much as a supper, and suddenly he appears, proposing marriage to you? Charlotte, you must tell me everything.”
Charlotte smoothed the silk, her eyes fixed upon the pale shimmer of the fabric. “There is little to tell. He has need of a wife. I have need of a husband. The arrangement suits us both.”
“That is not little to tell,” Lydia insisted, but now her astonishment was softening into concern. “Charlotte, is this what you truly want?”
Charlotte forced herself to meet her sister-in-law’s gaze, just like she had her brother’s. “It is precisely what I want.”
Lydia studied her for a long moment, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to press further.
At last, she sighed, brushing a stray curl from her brow.
“Very well. But if I am to design your gown, do not imagine I shall make it plain or dull, no matter how sensible you sound. A Montclair wedding deserves silk worthy of the name.”
Lydia’s astonishment then gave way to something far brighter: excitement. She clapped her hands together, already assessing bolts of fabric as though they were soldiers ready to be commanded.
“Oh, Charlotte, I shall make you radiant,” Lydia declared, her eyes flashing.
“You shall glow so brilliantly, the ton will have no choice but to hush their gossip and admire you. Ivory, certainly, perhaps trimmed with silver thread, or pearls along the hem… yes, pearls will catch the candlelight beautifully. And a veil, of course, though you have the profile for a tiara…”
Charlotte let Lydia’s words wash over her. It was a tide of enthusiasm she could not quite step into. She traced a finger along the edge of a bolt of satin, smooth and flawless beneath her touch, but felt nothing stir in her chest.
Once, she might have dreamt of this, of the perfect gown, of a husband whose eyes lit with devotion as she walked toward him.
But now the thought only tightened something in her ribs.
This wedding was not a dream. It was an arrangement.
It was an agreement made in measured words, without affection, without tenderness.
What did it matter what gown she wore?
Still, she forced a small smile for Lydia’s sake. “You will design whatever you think best. I do not mind the particulars.”
Lydia’s hands stilled at the words, her brows drawing together as she turned back to Charlotte. “Do not mind? Charlotte, my dear, this is your wedding.”
Charlotte smiled. “It is a wedding, yes. But not the sort that requires fuss. I am not marrying for gowns or for admiration.”
Lydia squeezed both Charlotte’s hands. “Then I shall make certain your gown speaks for you, even if you will not. You shall stand at the altar not as a spinster, not as a shadow, but as a duchess. And I swear, Charlotte, you will glow.”
Charlotte swallowed against the ache in her throat, returning Lydia’s smile with practiced serenity.
Glow, yes. Even if the light is not my own.
***
“You devil,” Gideon exclaimed as he burst through the door of Cassian’s study, with a rolled newspaper clutched in his hand. He strode across the carpet and let it fall with a dramatic slap upon his friend’s writing table. “I must find out like this that your marriage is a done deal?”
Cassian looked up from his correspondence, his expression cool, unruffled. “You knew it was already arranged. I merely went there to confirm.”
Gideon dropped into the opposite chair with all the grace of a man who had never taken anything seriously in his life.
“Cassian, the ton is already in hysterics. Lady Charlotte Montclair, risen from the ashes of spinsterhood to become your duchess? They are all fainting into their teacups. And you…” He gestured with a careless wave.
“You sit here as though it were no more significant than adjusting the price of barley.”
Cassian returned to his letter, unmoved. “It is precisely as I told you: a practical arrangement. There is nothing more to say.”
“Nothing more to say?” Gideon repeated, his grin widening. “You vanish into a retiring room with the lady, reappear with her proposal still echoing in your ears, and within a fortnight the banns will be read. Forgive me, Cassian, but that is something to say.”
Cassian’s mouth curved in the faintest suggestion of a smile, although dry and humourless. “I imagine you will continue to say it, regardless of my silence.”
“Of course I will,” Gideon said cheerfully, sprawling back in his chair. “For I cannot decide what astonishes me more: that she dared propose it, or that you actually accepted. I must say, I thought you were telling me you would speak to her just so I would stop pestering you about it.”
Cassian shrugged indifferently. “It is all as you yourself presented it: sensible.”
Gideon chuckled, shaking his head. “Sensible, perhaps. But I have known you too long, Cassian. For all your iron logic, something about Lady Charlotte unsettled you. I saw it in your face the night you told me. Admit it.”
Cassian’s gaze hardened, but he said nothing. He would not admit aloud that her fire, her defiance, and her unflinching calm had struck him like no woman’s gaze had since Eleanor.
Gideon leaned forward. “You see? Even your silence betrays you. I think you may find this convenience far less convenient than you think.”
He then snatched the paper back up and shook it at him.
“And do you know this is all they are writing about? Columns upon columns of speculation. Half of them paint Lady Charlotte as a tragic recluse, the other half as some mysterious enchantress who has bewitched the Duke of Duskbourne. Your name is inked across every page, Cassian. Every teapot in Mayfair will be rattling over it before luncheon.”
Cassian steepled his fingers, his expression as cool and unreadable as stone. “And I care not in the least.”
“Oh, come now,” Gideon said with a laugh, dropping the paper again. “Not even a flicker of irritation?”
Cassian’s mouth thinned. “Only that it will encourage every bore in London to seek me out. They will want to speak of it, to ask their idiotic questions, to offer their tedious congratulations. That, Gideon, I despise.”
Gideon leaned back in his chair, grinning like a schoolboy who had caught out his tutor. “Ah, there it is, that spark of feeling I was looking for. Not about the lady, mind you, but rather about your hatred for conversation.”
Cassian shot him a look of long-suffering patience. “Must you always be insufferable?”
“It is my life’s purpose,” Gideon replied promptly. “And it is my particular joy when the great Duke of Duskbourne lowers himself to admit that society vexes him.”
Despite himself, Cassian let out a soft breath that might have been a laugh. Gideon’s teasing was relentless, but there was no malice in it, only the easy familiarity of a friendship weathered by years, battles in Parliament, and confidences never repeated.
“You may enjoy my suffering too much,” Cassian said dryly.
“Undoubtedly,” Gideon agreed. “But you must admit, Cassian, that this business of matrimony has made you far more interesting company than you have been in years.”
Cassian shook his head in exasperation, though the corner of his mouth betrayed the faintest upward curve. “You are impossible.”
“And yet,” Gideon said with a rakish grin, “you keep me.”
Cassian looked at him, while his grey eyes softened ever so slightly.
“That, Gideon, is the one thing I will not call absurd.” He reached for the stack of estate ledgers on his desk, drawing them closer with deliberate precision.
“Now be gone with your follies. I have actual work to do, something a man like you would not understand.”
Gideon barked a laugh, rising easily from his chair. “Work? Yes, Cassian, drown yourself in your beloved numbers and harvest reports. I shall leave you to them, since you find them more tolerable company than your oldest friend.”
He circled the desk, clapped Cassian soundly on the shoulder, and added with infuriating cheer, “But do not think I’ll cease teasing you. Oh no, my friend. I’ll be toasting your marriage of convenience in every club from White’s to Boodle’s before the week is out.”
Cassian gave him a level look. “Try, and you’ll find yourself without brandy in your glass for a month.”
Gideon only grinned wider, tipped an imaginary hat, and sauntered out, leaving the faint scent of tobacco and amusement in his wake. The door shut, and silence reclaimed the study.
Cassian set his jaw and returned to the ledger before him, though the words blurred. He sat back in his chair and allowed his gaze to drift to the fire.
Marriage.
The word settled heavily upon him, as though spoken aloud, it might alter the very air.
Yet what would truly change? A wife in name, a duchess at Duskbourne.
There would be appearances to maintain, duties to fulfil.
But his solitude, which had now become the core of his existence, needed not be disturbed.
Lady Charlotte had made it clear she wanted nothing of him but title and protection.
He, in turn, had no intention of offering more.
Yes. Little would change.
He convinced himself of it as one convinces oneself of a necessary truth: by repetition and by cold reason. A marriage of convenience, without affection, without risk.
And yet, unbidden, the memory of her bright, fierce eyes rose before him, as vivid as the crackling firelight. Cassian exhaled slowly, as if to banish the image.
Little would change, he reminded himself again.