Chapter 4
As Charlotte stepped into her townhouse, she was keenly aware of the lingering warmth in her hand from where Lord Luca’s lips had brushed against her gloves.
She curled her fingers into her palm as if that might erase the sensation, but it only made her all the more conscious of it.
Her cheeks burned traitorously, and she hated herself for it.
Why should one kiss upon her hand—no matter how gallant or practiced—have left her so undone?
He was insufferable, arrogant, maddening. So why was she blushing?
She drew in a deep breath as she crossed the threshold into the entry hall.
Home. Blessedly home. Away from Lord Luca, away from his too-knowing smirk and infuriatingly confident gaze.
And yet his words echoed in her mind like an unwelcome guest. Did he truly intend to pursue justice for the duke’s wronged wives?
Her musings were interrupted by a familiar voice.
“You are back already?”
Charlotte turned her head and found Jane in the drawing room doorway, her expression curious. “I am.”
Jane gestured her closer. “Come, I want to hear all about it.”
Reluctantly, Charlotte obeyed, and went to sink down onto the settee beside her sister-in-law with a dramatic huff. “It was awful. Truly awful,” she declared. “A wheel broke on Lord Welker’s carriage, and I was forced—forced, mind you—to accept a ride home with Lord Luca.”
Jane’s brows arched with amusement. “Perhaps you should start from the beginning.”
Leaning back, Charlotte raised her hand to her forehead in theatrical despair. “Lord Welker asked me if I liked weather. Weather, Jane. What does one even say to such a thing? It is like asking if someone enjoys breathing.”
Jane’s laugh rang out. “He was most likely nervous and spoke the first thing that came into his head.”
“He should have tried harder,” Charlotte sniffed.
“Well, do you like weather?” Jane teased.
Charlotte groaned. “He also vowed to give me the moon if I granted him a waltz. It was utter nonsense.”
“Perhaps he was trying to be charming.”
“Then he failed miserably. And to make matters worse, when the wheel broke, he berated his poor driver for all to hear. A crowd gathered, and who should appear but Lord Luca. I could practically see the smugness radiating from every inch of him.”
Jane’s eyes twinkled. “Wasn’t it fortunate he arrived when he did?”
“Perhaps. But must he look so very self-satisfied?” Charlotte flung up her hands. “Why do bad things happen to good people?”
“I daresay you exaggerate,” Jane said. “All ended well enough.”
Charlotte sat up straighter, indignant. “Ended well? I had to endure a carriage ride with Lord Luca, and he insists upon calling me ‘Diamond’ as though it were my given name. If he persists, I shall be forced to punch his handsome face.”
“His handsome face?” Jane repeated. “Do you think Lord Luca is handsome?”
Mortification prickled Charlotte’s skin. Blast her careless tongue! “It matters not whether he is handsome,” she responded. “He is impossible. A thorn in my side.”
Thankfully, Jane did not press her, but instead asked, “Would a cup of tea calm your nerves?”
“No. But a biscuit or two might.”
Before Jane could reply, Malone entered with his usual solemnity. “The Duke of Brackenford requests a moment of your time, Miss.”
Charlotte froze. “The duke? Here? And he wishes to see me?”
“Yes, Miss.”
She had no time to collect her composure before the man himself appeared, leaning heavily on his cane yet carrying himself with commanding presence. His slicked-back white hair gleamed, his deeply furrowed face a map of age and pride.
“Miss Winslow,” he rasped.
Years of genteel training came to her rescue. She rose and curtsied gracefully. “Your Grace.”
He gave Jane a curt nod. “Lady Alcott.” His voice held no warmth. “I wish to speak to Miss Winslow alone.”
“No,” Jane said firmly.
The duke’s eyes narrowed. “Ah, yes. There is that impertinent tongue that I am so well acquainted with.”
Jane’s chin lifted. “You are mistaken, Your Grace. We are not, nor have we ever been, acquainted.”
“I was your betrothed,” he countered with cold satisfaction. “But I did not come to dwell on the past. I wish to become better acquainted with Miss Winslow.”
Without waiting for permission, he lowered himself into an armchair, his eyes settling on Charlotte with an unsettling intensity.
Charlotte forced herself back down onto the settee, her spine rigid. “What would you wish to know, Your Grace?”
He bared his discolored teeth in what passed for a smile. “I see that the rumors are true. Your beauty is unrivaled.”
She inclined her head, though her stomach twisted. “You are kind,” she said, her words devoid of any emotion. She had no intention of encouraging him, but she knew better than to be rude to a duke.
His gaze swept over her as though she were a mare to be purchased. “I would like you to accompany me in my carriage through Hyde Park during the fashionable hour. It would please me to display you.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. No. Absolutely not. But she knew she had a part to play. “I regret that I have only just returned from such an outing. It would be best if I remained at home today,” she said, attempting to be cordial.
“Then tomorrow,” he said, not a question but a command.
Charlotte stammered, searching desperately for an excuse. “I… I—”
Jane spoke over her. “I’m afraid my husband would never approve of such an arrangement.”
The duke’s jaw hardened. “And why is that, my lady?”
Jane’s gaze was unflinching. “Because he would never permit his sister to be paraded about. I suggest you look elsewhere for a bride, Your Grace.”
For a moment, silence suffocated the room. Then the duke rose, leaning on his cane. “I should have expected this. You rejected the chance to be a duchess yourself, Lady Alcott. Now you would rob your sister-in-law of the same opportunity, perhaps out of petty envy.”
Jane didn’t even flinch. “What you think of me is not my concern.”
His eyes glittered with malice. “You are making a grave mistake.” He tapped his cane sharply and turned away. “I will see myself out.”
The door closed behind him, and the air seemed to loosen.
Jane released a heavy breath. “What a horrid man.”
Charlotte reached for Jane’s hand, grateful tears stinging her eyes. “Thank you for what you did.”
Jane squeezed her sister-in-law’s fingers. “It would appear the duke has fixed his attention upon you. You must be careful, Charlotte. He is not a man to be crossed.”
Charlotte nodded. But inside, her thoughts churned.
She would never marry the Duke of Brackenford.
Not if he were the last man alive upon the earth.
The very idea of becoming his duchess made her stomach turn.
Yet, for all her revulsion, a spark of practicality pierced through: this might be her best chance to ask Jane what she knew of the duke’s late wives.
Lord Luca’s request still lingered in her mind, needling at her conscience.
If those women had suffered, if they had been wronged, then perhaps Charlotte could be of use in bringing the truth to light.
She took a steadying breath. “Jane… do you think the rumors are true that he killed his four wives?”
Jane’s lips pressed into a thin, grim line. “I do.” Her voice carried no hesitation. “When we stood at the altar, he struck me. In front of the vicar, the guests—everyone. That is the kind of man he is. Cruel. Unforgiving.”
“Did he ever speak of his wives to you?”
Jane shook her head slowly. “Rarely. But when he did, it was only with scorn. There was no tenderness, no grief. Only contempt.”
Charlotte pressed a hand to her heart, pain flooding through her. “Those poor women,” she whispered. “What they must have endured.”
“Leaving him at the altar was the best decision I ever made,” Jane said.
“And I am so glad you did. You have made my brother so happy, Jane. I have never seen him smile so freely—so often. It is as if he has been unshackled from the chains of his past.”
At that, Jane’s expression softened. “I daresay we unshackled one another.”
“What do you know of the duke’s first wife—the one who was sent to the asylum?”
Jane’s smile dimmed. “He claimed she was mad. But I never believed it. She was seen at a ball the very night before she was committed. Perfectly lucid, by all accounts.”
“Did no one object?”
“Oh, many did,” Jane said. “But nothing could be done. All that was required were two doctors willing to declare her mad. With his wealth and influence, he could find those easily enough.”
Charlotte frowned. “It should not be so simple to condemn a woman to such a fate.”
“Yet it happens,” Jane replied. “More often than most realize. Men of power and rank find it a convenient way to rid themselves of troublesome wives since a divorce is nearly impossible to obtain.”
Charlotte closed her eyes, horror washing over her in cold waves.
How fragile a woman’s security was. A husband’s displeasure could banish her to an asylum, silenced and forgotten.
She thought fleetingly of her own father and shuddered.
Perhaps she should be grateful that he, for all his faults, had not chosen such a path for her.
Jane’s voice broke through Charlotte’s spiraling thoughts, tugging her back to the present.
“We shouldn’t dwell on such unpleasant things,” she said, her tone decisive.
“The duke is in my past, and that is where he shall remain—if I have any say in it.” Her lips twitched. “Now, about those biscuits.”
The tension that had been coiling tight in Charlotte’s chest eased, and she allowed herself a small laugh. “I could most certainly use a biscuit.”
“As could I… although, I propose a trip to Gunter’s for some lemon ice.”
Charlotte shot to her feet. “Lead the way.”