9. In Which a Campaign Intensifies and Rescue Becomes Necessity – Ashford House, Berkeley Square, London
IN WHICH A CAMPAIGN INTENSIFIES AND RESCUE BECOMES NECESSITY
CHARLOTTE
ASHFORD HOUSE, BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON
The ton had decided.
I could see it in the way dowagers nodded when Dunmore and I entered a room together. In the gossipy glances at balls. In the way the Lady's Magazine had mentioned us twice in their latest column about "matches to watch this Season."
Dunmore, the Earl of Dunmore and Charlotte. The Duke of Penworth's heir and the Duke of Ashbourne's daughter. A ducal alliance. The match of the Season.
Perfect on paper.
Unbearable in reality.
And the family—my family, who loved me and wanted the best for me and had absolutely no idea what the best actually was—had abandoned every other candidate and gone all in on Lord Dunmore.
Which was how I found myself at Marguerite's tea on a Thursday afternoon in late May, sitting in the Ashford House drawing room, performing the role of Future Duchess while dying inside.
"More tea, Lady Charlotte?" The Duchess of Penworth—Dunmore's stepmother, young enough to be his older sister at thirty-one—smiled at me with the kind of warmth that suggested she'd already mentally redecorated the Penworth nursery for my future children.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
She poured with elegant precision. "You must call me Catherine. After all, we're practically family."
We were not practically family.
We would never be practically family.
But I smiled and accepted the tea and tried not to look at the door where I'd stationed Eleanor as my early warning system.
The drawing room was full. Marguerite had assembled the entire conspiracy: Aunt Mary discussing settlements with calculated casualness. Aunt Caroline dabbing at her eyes every time someone mentioned romance. Aunt Margaret taking notes in her ever-present notebook.
And in the center of it all: Lord Dunmore.
He'd arrived early. Brought flowers—an enormous arrangement that currently dominated the side table. Stationed himself in the chair beside mine with the determination of a man laying claim to territory.
He was telling me about a snuffbox.
Again.
"—and the craftsmanship is quite extraordinary, Lady Charlotte. The swan's neck actually moves when you open the lid. A tiny spring mechanism, you see, absolutely ingenious. I spent twenty minutes examining it at the jeweler's yesterday?—"
Twenty minutes.
He had spent twenty minutes examining a snuffbox shaped like a swan.
And now he was telling me about it in equally exhaustive detail.
"—the enamelwork on the wings required layering at least three different shades of white to achieve the proper depth?—"
I smiled. Nodded. Made sounds of interest at appropriate intervals.
Inside, I was calculating how many steps it would take to reach the door. Whether I could claim a sudden headache. Whether anyone would notice if I simply stood up and walked out of my own grandfather's house.
"Don't you think, Lady Charlotte?"
I had no idea what he'd just asked.
"Absolutely," I said.
Dunmore beamed. "I knew you'd appreciate it! Most ladies don't understand the intricacy of miniature mechanisms, but I could tell from the moment we met that you have a refined sensibility for?—"
"Charlotte, darling." Marguerite appeared at my elbow like a benevolent general. "The Duchess was hoping to see the conservatory.
I stood. "Of course, Grandmama. Your Grace—Catherine—if you'll follow me?"
We left Dunmore mid-sentence, still describing the swan's wing mechanism to Aunt Mary, who was nodding with the fixed expression of someone contemplating murder.
The conservatory at Ashford House was of the dining room—a glass-enclosed room filled with exotic plants Marguerite had collected over the years. It was beautiful. It was also completely transparent, which meant Marguerite and the aunts would be able to see us from the drawing room below.
This was not a rescue. This was supervised imprisonment with better scenery.
Catherine examined the orchids with polite interest. Then she turned to me with a smile that was both warm and calculating.
"Lord Dunmore speaks very highly of you."
"He's very kind."
"He's very taken." Catherine moved to the next display. "His father and I have been quite pleased with how the Season has progressed. Dunmore has always been particular about his interests, you understand. We weren't certain he'd find a young lady who could appreciate his... enthusiasms."
His obsession with snuffboxes. She meant his obsession with snuffboxes.
"Lord Dunmore is very knowledgeable," I managed.
"He is. And you've been so patient with him." Catherine's voice was kind. Genuine. Which somehow made it worse. "I know his conversations can be rather... focused. But he has the warmest heart, truly. And he thinks you're magnificent."
I knew he did. He'd told me. Repeatedly. In the same tone one might use to describe a particularly fine horse or an excellent roast.
"The families are so well-suited," Catherine continued.
"Your grandfather and my husband have been friends for decades.
The estates complement each other beautifully—Penworth in Nottinghamshire, the Ashford and Ashbourne holdings in Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire. And of course, a ducal connection..."
She trailed off. The implications hung in the air.
This wasn't just about Dunmore and me. This was about dynasties. About land and titles and the kind of alliance that made perfect sense to everyone who looked at it from the outside.
Everyone except me.
"I haven't made any decisions about my future," I said carefully.
"Of course not, dear. You're only seventeen. But—" Catherine's smile was gentle. "—when you do make those decisions, I hope you'll remember that some matches are worth considering not just for romance, but for all the other ways they enrich one's life. Stability. Security. Family."
She meant: You don't have to love him. You just have to marry him.
I smiled. Said something polite. Gestured toward another plant.
And tried not to think about Edward.
Edward, who wasn't here. Who had stopped attending every event after that charged moment in the garden. Who had looked at me and said, “I’m trying to do the right thing,” and then disappeared from my life as if he'd never been there at all.
I'd been managing without him for two weeks. Two weeks of Dunmore's snuffbox monologues and Catherine's gentle pressure and Marguerite's increasingly obvious satisfaction.
Two weeks of performing the role of Perfect Future Duchess while feeling like I was slowly suffocating.
We returned to the drawing room. Dunmore stood immediately.
"Lady Charlotte! Perfect timing. I was just telling your aunt about the Russian snuffbox I acquired last month. It has the most remarkable?—"
"Dunmore." A voice from the doorway. Calm. Casual. Devastatingly familiar.
Edward.
He stood in the entrance to the drawing room, looking like he'd just arrived from somewhere more interesting and was already planning his escape. His eyes met mine for half a second—a question, an acknowledgement—before turning to Dunmore.
"Retford!" Dunmore's face lit up. "I didn't know you were expected. Have you come to hear about the Russian piece? The craftsmanship is quite?—"
"Actually, I came to borrow Charlotte." Edward's voice was pleasant. Utterly unreadable. "Family matter. Father needs to speak with her about something regarding Ashford Hall."
It was a lie. Grandpapa was in the corner talking to the Duke of Penworth and looked like he needed Charlotte for exactly nothing.
But Marguerite was nodding. "Of course, Edward. Charlotte, go along. We'll manage here."
I didn't need to be told twice.
I crossed the room, trying not to look like I was fleeing. Edward offered his arm with perfect propriety. I took it.
We walked into the corridor. Past the morning room. Past the library. Out through the terrace doors into Marguerite's garden.
It was only when we were well away from the house that Edward spoke.
"You sent for me."
I had. A note, delivered by Eleanor this morning. Three words: Tea. Dunmore. SOS.
"How did you know?"
"Eleanor is terrifyingly efficient." Edward steered me toward the far end of the garden, where a stone bench sat half-hidden by climbing roses. "Also, she added a postscript: 'Charlotte is dying. Slowly. From snuffboxes.'"
I laughed. Actually laughed, here in Marguerite's garden, with the weight of the entire conspiracy pressing down on me. "She's not wrong."
We reached the bench. Sat. The roses created a screen—we could see the house, but anyone looking out would have to search to see us.
Edward turned to face me. "How long this time?"
"Twenty minutes. A snuffbox shaped like a swan. With a moving neck mechanism."
"Bloody hell."
"He examined it for twenty minutes yesterday at the jeweller's. And then spent twenty minutes today describing the examination."
Edward's lips twitched. "That's forty minutes of swan-based snuffbox content."
"Forty minutes I will never get back."
"Did he buy it?"
"I don't know. I stopped listening after 'layered enamelwork.'" I pulled off my gloves, needing to feel something real. The late afternoon sun was warm on my hands. "Catherine thinks I should marry him anyway. For stability. Security. Family."
"Catherine being?—"
"The Duchess. His stepmother. Thirty-one and already planning where to put my future children in the Penworth nursery."
Edward was quiet for a moment. Then: "Is she right?"
"About what?"
"About marrying for stability rather than—" He stopped.
"Rather than what?"
"Rather than love."
The word hung between us. Love. The thing everyone assumed I should feel for Dunmore and didn't. The thing I wasn't supposed to feel for anyone else.
The thing that was currently making it very difficult to look at Edward without my chest doing complicated things.
"No," I said finally. "She's not right. I've spent five years watching my aunts fall in love. Real love. The kind that makes them better, not just more secure. I'm not marrying someone for a ducal coronet and complementary estate holdings."
"Good."
"Is it? Because everyone else seems to think?—"