Chapter 6 - Charlotte
Charlotte
Charlotte felt as though she were sleepwalking through someone else’s life.
She moved through the glittering assembly, responding to pleasantries by pure instinct, but her thoughts remained anchored in the library.
The scent of soap and old books still clung to her senses, while her fingertips tingled with the phantom warmth of that fleeting touch when they’d passed the volume between them.
Her gaze swept the ballroom with what she hoped was casual interest, lingering on each unfamiliar face, each tall figure with dark hair. He had to be here somewhere.
“You seem distracted tonight,” Henrietta murmured. “Did Lord Penrose say something particularly offensive earlier?”
Charlotte let her friend’s question hang unanswered.
How could she explain that Lord Penrose, for once, was the furthest thing from her mind?
That her thoughts were consumed instead by a stranger, the first gentleman she could recall where she didn’t have to weigh every word.
With whom she could simply speak her mind and be listened to.
With whom, for a few moments, she’d forgotten to be afraid.
“Who else was invited tonight?” she asked instead, trying to keep her tone casual. “I don’t recognize everyone.”
“Besides the usual suspects, quite a few newly returned gentlemen from abroad,” Henrietta’s eyes narrowed slightly, sensing Charlotte’s evasion. “Mama was unusually generous with the invitations this year. Why do you—“
Henrietta’s words died on her lips as a hand settled against the small of Charlotte’s back.
A chill ran down Charlotte’s spine, her chest constricting as that suffocating cologne reached her.
Her whole body recoiled before conscious thought could catch up, every muscle tensing as if preparing for flight.
She didn’t need to turn to know who stood behind her. The hatred that flashed across Henrietta’s face confirmed what Charlotte’s instincts already screamed.
“Smile, my dear,” Lord Penrose murmured directly into her ear, his breath hot against her neck. “We wouldn’t want my godmother to think you’re anything less than perfectly content.”
As if summoned by his words, silence descended over the ballroom like a spell. Lady Jersey had arrived, her entrance commanding every eye and stilling every tongue. Charlotte felt Lord Penrose’s fingers press deeper into her back, silently warning her.
Lady Jersey’s gaze swept across the crowd before settling first on Charlotte, then moving slowly to Lord Penrose. Her silver hair was arranged in its usual perfect chignon, her golden silk rustling as she approached with measured steps.
“How delightful,” Lady Jersey said, her fan snapping open with a sharp click. “I’m so pleased to see you’ve finally come to your senses about where your best interests lie, Miss Fairmont.”
Charlotte managed only a strained smile and a shallow curtsy, jaw tight with the effort of keeping her thoughts behind her teeth.
It took everything in her not to show how much she hated this, how she wanted to step away from Lord Penrose’s burning touch that was holding her in place.
She could see that the older woman’s vacant stare cataloged every tremor, weighing each reaction, and Charlotte knew any sign of resistance would be noted and punished.
“Thomas, dear.” Lady Jersey extended her gloved hand toward her godson. “Do escort me for a turn about the gardens. The evening air will do us both good, and we have much to discuss.”
Lord Penrose squeezed Charlotte’s back once more before releasing her. “Of course, godmother. Miss Fairmont, we shall continue our conversation shortly.”
He caught her hand and pressed it briefly to his lips before she could pull back.
She watched them glide away, Lady Jersey’s silk catching the candlelight as they disappeared through the terrace doors. Only when they were gone did she remember to breathe.
“Well,” Henrietta murmured, offering Charlotte a glass of champagne. “That was less devastating than it could have been.”
“Was it?” She took a large sip, though the bubbles did nothing to settle her nerves.
“Lady Jersey didn’t immediately declare you unfit for society.” Henrietta’s voice carried a forced lightness. “With her, that’s practically a blessing.”
Charlotte barely heard her friend’s words. Her attention had been caught by a flash of movement near one of the doorways—a figure, tall and dark-haired, who for one disorienting moment looked like the stranger she met. But when she looked again, the space was empty.
I’m going mad, she thought. Seeing shadows and imagining things.
But rational thought did little to anchor her.
Lord Penrose had not returned as he’d promised, leaving her with nothing to occupy her attention and too much room to think.
It was this, she told herself, that caused her to steal toward the library more than once throughout the evening.
Certainly not the hope of stumbling upon the stranger a second time.
Each time she approached, she felt anew the peculiar tingle of connection, the unsettling sense that something profound had passed between them in those few stolen moments.
But the door remained firmly closed now. The footman stationed outside it was unfamiliar, his livery not this household’s but Lord Penrose’s. It seemed her earlier disappearance had not gone unnoticed, and Lord Penrose had wasted no time in ensuring it would not happen again.
Without the possibility of finding her stranger again, the evening’s brilliance dimmed around Charlotte.
The crystal chandeliers seemed less bright, the music less enchanting, the laughter more hollow.
She was turning away from yet another disappointed glance toward the library when voices drifted from the corridor ahead.
“The arrangements are nearly complete, I assure you.” Lord Penrose’s distinctive tone, accompanied by another man’s deeper voice. Both approaching.
Charlotte’s pulse quickened. She slipped around the nearest corner, pressing herself into the shadows of a narrow alcove. Her breath came shallow and quick as footsteps echoed closer, then stopped.
Right at the corner. Mere feet from where she stood hidden.
“How long until you’ll have it finalized?” The unfamiliar voice carried an edge of impatience.
“You’ll get your money.” Lord Penrose’s tone held cool confidence. “Everything is proceeding exactly as planned.”
“Is it? She doesn’t seem particularly compliant. Are you certain you can secure this?”
Charlotte frowned. She?
“It doesn’t matter whether she’s compliant. Her father has no choice but to force this marriage. The man is desperate enough to sign whatever I put in front of him.”
The words hit her like a physical blow. Her father. This marriage. They were talking about her.
Moving with infinite care, she leaned forward just enough to glimpse around the corner.
Lord Penrose stood with his back partially to her, facing a man dressed entirely in black—Viscount Blackwood.
Even in the dim corridor, his attire remained impeccable, dark hair perfectly groomed.
Moonlight from a nearby window illuminated his sharp features and gray eyes, fixed on Penrose with displeasure.
“And the documents?” Blackwood pressed. “They’re truly that important?”
“Essential. But don’t worry your head about the details.” A muscle jumped in Blackwood’s jaw at the dismissal. “I’ll manage the marriage. You’ll receive half of whatever money the property generates. A very generous arrangement, I might add.”
Documents? Money from property? Charlotte’s mind raced.
“I want what you owe me, Penrose.” Blackwood’s voice dropped dangerously low. “Until I have it, I’ll worry about whatever I damn well please. See that you speed this up.”
Charlotte pressed herself against the wall, her heart beating so violently she feared they might hear it.
“The situation requires delicacy. Push too hard and she might do something foolish. The leverage over her father is considerable, but she doesn’t know the full extent of it.”
Leverage over Papa? The fragments refused to fit together into any coherent picture.
“Then perhaps you should enlighten her,” Blackwood snapped. “Make her understand exactly what’s at stake for dear Papa if she doesn’t comply. Fear is far more effective than courtship.”
“I’ll handle Miss Fairmont in my own way.” The ice in Lord Penrose’s voice made Charlotte’s skin crawl. “You worry about keeping your mouth shut and staying patient. Unless you’d prefer to explain to your father why you can’t pay him either?”
The threat hung between them.
“Fine.” Blackwood bit out the word. “But this drags on much longer, and our arrangement changes. I’m not waiting forever while you play the devoted suitor.”
Heavy footsteps echoed as Blackwood stormed down the corridor—directly toward her hiding place.
Panic seized her. She spun and fled back the way she’d come, gathering her skirts as quietly as she could manage. Her silk slippers whispered against the marble as she moved as quickly as she dared.
Behind her, Blackwood’s footsteps receded in the opposite direction.
Charlotte slowed, glancing back over her shoulder. His dark figure disappeared around the far corner. Relief flooded through her, but her thoughts still spun. Documents. Property. Some kind of leverage over Papa. What could Penrose possibly—
She turned back and walked directly into something solid.
Strong hands caught her, steadying her.
“Forgive me, I—“ The apology died on her lips as her gaze lifted.
Lord Penrose stood before her. A slow, predatory look crossed his features and triggered a shiver in her, the blood draining from her face.
“Looking for something?”
Did he see me? Does he know I overheard?
Her mind raced, frantic. Her gaze darted past his shoulder, searching desperately for anything that might explain her presence here. The corridor stretched empty. No convenient person, no doorway she could claim as her destination.