Chapter 19
“Irefuse to wear pale yellow,” Joan declared, pointing accusingly at a swatch of silk. “It makes me look like weak custard.”
“It does not,” Irene argued at once. “It makes you look cheerful.”
Charlotte sat in the parlor of her uncle’s London townhouse whilst absolute chaos unfolded around her.
Bolts of fabric had been draped over chairs, ribbons spilled from sewing baskets onto the carpet, and her sisters argued with the passion of generals preparing for war rather than ladies preparing for a wedding.
Bridget sat beside Irene with a notebook in hand whilst Penelope dramatically reclined upon the chaise as if the stress of selecting gowns might kill her before the ceremony ever occurred.
“It makes her look loud,” Penelope said thoughtfully. “Though perhaps that suits her.”
Joan gasped. “You little traitor.”
Charlotte pressed two fingers against her temple. “Must all of you quarrel over colours as if kingdoms depend upon it?”
“They do,” Bridget informed her solemnly. “This is a ducal wedding.”
Those words still startled Charlotte every time she heard them spoken aloud.
A ducal wedding. Her wedding. The notion felt absurd enough that she half expected someone to burst into the room laughing and reveal it had all been an elaborate jest at her expense.
Surely Victor would appear any moment to announce that the arrangement had been reconsidered and that he had regained his senses.
Harriet Brown, meanwhile, was busy tormenting her brother across the room. “Oswald, why is this house forever so stuffy?” she complained whilst dramatically fanning herself. “One might think you are attempting to roast your guests alive.”
The Viscount looked up from his newspaper with profound weariness. “Harriet, if the windows are opened, you complain of draughts. If they are shut, you complain of heat. I have concluded there is no pleasing you.”
“There is if you listen properly.”
“My dear sister, I stopped listening properly years ago.”
The girls burst into laughter whilst Harriet looked deeply offended for all of three seconds before she laughed too.
Charlotte smiled despite herself as she watched them all bicker.
She had missed her family desperately during her time at Mulford Manor, and now the house rang with familiar voices from morning until night.
Penelope suddenly leaned forward with wicked delight sparkling in her eyes. “Charlotte has said nothing at all about what she wishes for the wedding.”
“That is because no one allows me to speak long enough,” Charlotte replied dryly.
“Very well,” Bridget said grandly. “Speak.”
Charlotte hesitated. “I merely thought something modest would do.”
The room erupted into scandalized noise.
“Modest?” Joan cried. “You are marrying a duke.”
“A very wealthy, popular, handsome duke,” Penelope added dreamily.
Harriet pressed a hand dramatically to her chest. “Charlotte Brown, if you walk into that chapel looking modest, society shall think we raised you in a barn.”
Oswald folded his paper. “To be fair, Harriet, are country folk.”
Harriet threw a cushion at him.
Charlotte laughed softly, though inwardly her thoughts tangled themselves into knots once more.
Victor truly intended to marry her. Every gown fitting, every discussion of flowers and invitations, every whispered mention of wedding breakfasts made the reality harder to escape.
Yet still she could not quite understand why he seemed so calm about the matter when she herself alternated between panic and disbelief every hour of the day.
* * *
The following days passed in a whirlwind of preparations.
Charlotte scarcely had a moment to herself before another modiste, jeweller, or servant appeared requiring some decision about the wedding.
Her sisters treated the entire affair as if it were the social event of the century, which perhaps it was, considering the Duke of Mulford’s notorious reputation.
Charlotte, however, often felt as though she were being swept helplessly along by a tide too strong to resist.
The fitting for her wedding gown proved especially overwhelming.
The dressmaker fussed endlessly around her whilst pins gleamed between her lips and layers of ivory satin pooled around Charlotte’s feet like liquid moonlight.
Tiny seed pearls had been sewn along the bodice, and delicate lace softened the sleeves whilst Harriet openly wept at the sight of her eldest daughter standing upon the fitting platform.
“She looks like royalty,” Penelope whispered dramatically.
“She looks terrified,” Joan corrected.
“I am terrified,” Charlotte muttered.
The dressmaker clucked her tongue. “Stand straighter, Miss Brown. A duchess must never slump.”
Charlotte nearly laughed aloud at that.
A duchess. It still sounds utterly ridiculous.
Irene approached more gently than the others and adjusted one of the lace sleeves with careful fingers. “It truly is beautiful, Charlotte.”
Charlotte softened at once. “Thank you.”
Penelope sighed wistfully. “Do you think the duke shall cry when he sees her?”
Joan barked out a laugh. “The Duke of Mulford? Cry?”
Harriet frowned thoughtfully. “No, I think he shall stare at her in that dangerous way handsome men stare when they are entirely lost.”
Charlotte’s cheeks grew warm before she could stop herself. Unfortunately, her sisters noticed immediately.
“Oh!” Penelope squealed. “Look at her blush.”
“There shall be no peace in this family ever again,” Charlotte muttered.
The arguments over gowns grew even worse once the sisters realized they each wished to outshine the others at the wedding breakfast. Joan preferred bold jewel tones whilst Irene leaned toward soft blues and silvers.
Penelope changed her mind every quarter hour depending upon which ribbon currently caught her attention.
“I selected lavender first,” Irene protested one afternoon.
“Yes, but lavender washes me out,” Penelope argued. “Surely you cannot expect me to sacrifice myself.”
“You are not dying. You are attending a wedding.”
“Which is practically the same thing if one wears the wrong color.”
Charlotte sank into a chair with exhausted disbelief. “You three have spent forty minutes discussing sleeves.”
“And we are not finished,” Joan informed her.
Harriet swept dramatically into the room, holding yet another pile of fabrics. “Girls, I have discovered the most divine French silks.”
Oswald groaned from the doorway. “Dear God, there are more?”
Charlotte covered her face briefly with her hands.
She loved them dearly, but she had not realized wedding preparations could feel so much like surviving a battlefield.
Every morning began with excitement and ended with her wanting to hide in a quiet room for several hours.
Yet beneath the exhaustion lingered something warm and aching whenever she allowed herself to think of Victor.
That was the truly dangerous part.
She ought to resent him for trapping them both into this situation.
Instead, she found herself remembering the way he had kissed her hand before she left Mulford Manor, holding her fingers just slightly longer than propriety allowed.
She remembered the rough warmth of his voice in the library, the hunger in his eyes at the opera, the strange tenderness that occasionally slipped through his arrogance before either of them could acknowledge it.
Worse still, she found herself wondering whether he missed her at all.
One evening, whilst the household buzzed downstairs over guest lists, Charlotte escaped briefly to the upstairs corridor for silence.
She leaned against the wall near the window and stared out across London’s rooftops whilst cool evening light painted the sky gold and pink.
For the first time in years, her family’s future felt secure, her sisters laughed more than they worried, and her mother no longer looked constantly burdened by fear over finances.
Charlotte had achieved everything she once prayed for.
So why, then, does my chest ache so strangely whenever I think of my future husband?
A door opened nearby, and Bridget stepped into the corridor. She paused upon seeing Charlotte’s expression. “You are thinking too much again.”
Charlotte sighed softly. “Is it that obvious?”
“Yes.” Bridget smiled kindly. “You always look as though you are preparing to carry the entire world upon your shoulders.”
Charlotte looked down at her hands. “I simply keep expecting all of this to disappear.”
“It will not.” Bridget moved beside her. “The duke seems entirely serious about you.”
Charlotte swallowed. “That is what frightens me.”
Bridget blinked in confusion. “Most ladies would be delighted.”
Most ladies had not watched Victor charm with dangerous smiles and reckless behaviour.
Most ladies had not been kissed breathless by him in hidden libraries only to have him act perfectly composed the next morning.
Most ladies certainly had not fallen into an engagement through complete disaster and scandal.
Charlotte laughed weakly. “I think my life has become absurd.”
Bridget grinned. “Oh, undoubtedly. But at least it is interesting.”
Suddenly, a ruckus traveled up the stairs to their ears. Bridget's eyes grew wide.
Charlotte knew something was terribly wrong the moment the house erupted into frantic movement as she went downstairs. Servants hurried through the corridors carrying trays and polishing silver whilst Harriet loudly demanded to know why no one had informed her earlier that a duke was arriving.
Joan nearly tripped down the stairs in her haste to peer through the front window, whilst Penelope ran back upstairs twice to change ribbons because she claimed none of them conveyed the proper level of elegance.
“The Duke of Mulford is waiting in the parlor,” the servant announced.
Charlotte’s stomach dropped so violently she thought she might truly faint.
He is here. Unexpectedly. Without warning. Oh heavens.