The Vanishing Bride (The Lost Loves #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Charlotte Townsend was a dead woman. Dead women could not feel. Dead women did not want for anything. She was neither seen nor heard. The reminder tumbled in her head as she pulled aside the light blue-and-white toile print curtain to peer out at the gardens blooming beneath her bedroom window.

A dead woman no longer enjoyed the changing of the seasons, nor the sweet, heady scent of roses and hyacinths as they burst forth in a profusion of color throughout the carefully manicured flowerbeds at Fermoy.

A resigned sigh escaped her lips, and she dropped the curtain back into place, making the room look perfectly undisturbed.

As it should be. She was as good as dead.

The secret of her continued existence was known only by a handful of trusted and loyal servants who kept the estate running when the Baron Percy and his wife weren’t in residence.

Above all, she must not be seen. Fermoy was a remote, luxurious estate on the Cornish Coast of England.

Her own private piece of paradise. The only place she ever felt any true happiness. The perfect place to hide.

The property was rather isolated, with few members of the nobility owning land nearby.

Many families benefited from the income generated by the land, without visiting often.

She was well cosseted in her isolation, wrapped in sumptuous satins and silks that were wasted on her, a beautiful bird in a gilded cage of her own choosing.

Yes, she had chosen this life, she reminded herself.

Charlotte ran a hand down her soft midsection, smoothing her skirts nervously as was her habit. When the loneliness surfaced and the memories of all that she had lost began taunting her, the reminder strengthened her resolve.

She had chosen this life for a reason.

The day appeared clear and warm, perfect for whiling away the hours perched on a blanket with a picnic and a sketchbook.

To recklessly allow the sun to warm her skin.

A dead woman wasn’t required to meet the beauty standards of the moment.

She could indulge in a delicate sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose or an extra cake or two at teatime. For who would know what she had done?

No one.

Being dead had its advantages.

Charlotte made her way down to the breakfast room, where food had been laid out on the sideboard.

Her eyes roamed greedily over the honey cakes, fresh bread, fruit preserves, and sweet rolls.

Filling her plate, she sat in her usual solitary spot with her cup of warm chocolate and her newspaper.

She devoured gossip from the city, always dated from a few days ago, if not longer.

Charlotte looked forward to the days when a freshly ironed paper would arrive from London, sent lovingly by her parents, the Townsends.

Time was of no importance when one was deceased.

She scoured the columns for news from the city, and changes in the House of Lords.

Most titillating of all, she devoured the gossip involving those she used to rub shoulders with in her first few seasons out in society, allowing their interesting stories to fill her moments of boredom.

The stories were the last thread connecting her to a past life.

Swirling the luxurious chocolate over her tongue, Charlotte savored one of her favorite indulgences.

Placing the cup in the ornate gold foil design saucer, the clink of china resounded in the empty room, a sharp sound to her ears.

A wistful sigh escaped her lips as she twirled a stray strand of her hair between her fingers and continued reading.

The worst part of dying was the loneliness.

The isolation from her close friends and beloved family.

She was but a distant memory amongst the lords and ladies of the ton.

Where her disappearance had caused a slight ripple in the still waters of society, no one spoke of her now, almost a decade after her departure.

She relished visits from her mother and siblings when their busy lives permitted them to take time in the English countryside away from their other estates and responsibilities.

Her sisters had long since been married and assumed the powers and privileges of married life she had eschewed.

Charlotte accepted that such would not be her destiny.

She would never be a bride, a wife, or the viscountess her family had intended her to be.

Well, that was one benefit of vanishing from society, she thought with a smirk.

Her plans changed one dark night in London when an unmarked carriage transported her off toward a new future.

A different kind of freedom awaited.

A prolonged illness had been the key to attaining that liberty.

Charlotte chose to die a social death—for another to live untouched by devastating scandal. A truth that could only be hidden if she removed herself completely from society.

Disappearing into the night, she was free from the whispers, the frowns, the rejection, and the utter condemnation of the ton. After what she had done, options had been limited. She was confident that she had chosen the best path. It was an easy decision at the time.

Though she embraced her fate with little protest, it didn’t mean there weren’t days when she longed to be seen, ached for the conversations and intrigue that were the norm when she resided with her family.

To converse with members of her own rank and mingle in ballrooms while sipping champagne beneath the sparkle of chandeliers.

A small smile curved her lips as she finished reading the latest scandal sheets.

Hungrily devouring the descriptions of the beautiful gowns worn at the Landenham Ball, of who had been caught trysting with whom, and which couple had been forced into a hasty marriage as a consequence.

Shaking her head, her attention drifted down to her simple primrose-colored day dress.

It was functional for life in the country, where almost no one would see her.

Being at the height of fashion mattered not when one was never subject to the harsh judgments of the ton. A soft laugh escaped her lips.

She didn’t miss everything about society.

There was no point in wasting time feeling sorry for herself. The sacrifices she made meant her precious secret was kept safe and protected, and that was her only goal.

Brushing her hands together and standing, Charlotte dropped her napkin on the table and made her way to the kitchen to speak to Mrs. Poppet.

She would plan a delightful picnic and bring sketchbooks and paints.

There were new breeds of wildflowers displaying their finery at this time of year, slowly nurtured by the warm spring breezes and the caress of sunshine.

She was eager to illustrate and label them in her journal.

In some ways, she loved wildflowers the best. They were free; they obeyed no rules, and it was almost impossible to confine them.

There was a beauty in their wildness that could not be emulated within the regimented structure of a fully manicured garden.

She pressed her gloved fingertips to her mouth, the mere thought of being among them bringing a smile to her lips.

The sun would warm her skin, the happy chirps of the birds in the trees would delight her, as would the sound of the air rustling through the tall grasses.

For in death, she had found a comforting sense of liberty.

Every moment of freedom reminded her exactly why some secrets were worth dying for.