Chapter 8
Charlotte avoided Luca’s gaze as his hand clasped hers and guided her down from the carriage.
His touch was steady, sure, and altogether too distracting.
What had she been thinking, letting herself be so vulnerable with him only moments ago?
She should have bitten her tongue, as she usually did, and buried the truth deep where no one could find it.
That had always been her way—her armor. Yet, against all reason, a small part of her trusted him.
Which was sheer madness. She had learned from childhood that the only person she could rely upon was herself.
The moment her boots touched the ground, she withdrew her hand, quick and firm, as though contact with him had burned her. Taking a deliberate step aside, she placed a safe, proper distance between them. “Good day, my lord.”
He only smiled, infuriatingly unbothered. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t escort you inside?”
“A tolerable one,” she retorted.
“Ah, but I prefer to see you safely across the threshold—just in case you are absconded with and carried off to Gretna Green.”
“That is highly unlikely.”
“Unlikely, yes,” he said with mock solemnity. “But not beyond the realm of possibility.”
Charlotte pressed her lips together. Luca was impossible. The more she argued, the more determined he became, as though their verbal sparring were a game he meant to win. “Very well,” she muttered.
His grin widened, satisfied. “I see I am wearing you down—one argument at a time.”
“I am merely tired and would like a nap sooner or later,” she countered.
His chuckle was warm, too warm. “After you, Charlotte.”
She froze, her gaze snapping to his. “Shh…” she hissed in a whisper. “What if someone overheard you?”
He leaned in, lowering his voice to match hers. “Considering no one is on the pavement, I think we are safe from eavesdroppers.”
Her heart thudded at his nearness, but she forced herself to hold her ground. “I would prefer if you only call me by my given name when we are alone.”
“Not me,” he replied. “You may call me Luca whenever you wish. You could even scream it from the rooftops.”
“Are you ever serious?”
“With you? Never.” He winked.
And there it was—back to winking. She brushed past him with a huff, gathering her composure as she ascended the townhouse steps. At the door, Malone swung it open and stood aside to admit them.
Charlotte spun back, desperate to reclaim control. “As you can see, I am inside and safe. There is no point in you lingering any longer.”
He tsked, clucking his tongue as though she had disappointed him. “Are you so eager to be rid of me? I am rather parched. A cup of tea would be most welcome.”
“We are out of tea,” she replied.
His brows shot upward. “Out of tea? That sounds like a national emergency. What is a British household without tea?”
Before Charlotte could fashion a cutting reply, a voice cut across the hall.
“Charlotte.”
She turned to see Jane standing in the doorway, her brows drawn with worry. “The Duke of Brackenford is waiting for you,” her sister-in-law informed her.
Her heart sank, dread twisting in her stomach. She felt Luca lean ever so slightly closer, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “Would you like me to stay?”
Yes. The answer thundered inside her chest. But she must not sound too eager. “If you would like,” she replied, careful to layer her tone with nonchalance she did not feel.
He offered his arm. For once, she did not argue. She placed her hand lightly upon his sleeve, grateful for the solidness of him.
As Luca guided her towards the drawing room, Charlotte dared a whisper. “Thank you.”
His answering gesture was simple, just a light pat of his hand over hers, but it sent a strange ripple of warmth through her chest. It was ridiculous, of course.
She ought not to take comfort from him—least of all from him—but the steadiness of his presence lent her a courage she did not possess on her own.
The doors opened, and the air inside the drawing room thickened. Standing near the mantel, as though he owned not only the chamber but every soul within it, was the Duke of Brackenford. His expression was one of practiced boredom, and yet his eyes sharpened the moment they fell upon her.
“Miss Winslow.” His crooked smile tugged unpleasantly at his mouth, looking far too possessive for her liking. He gave Luca a shallow tip of his head. “Lord Luca.”
“Your Grace,” Luca replied politely.
The Duke of Brackenford’s hand cut through the air with an imperious flick. “I wish to speak to Miss Winslow alone.” His tone carried no question, only command.
Jane stiffened at Charlotte’s side, her voice firm. “I’m afraid that would be entirely inappropriate, Your Grace. Say what you need to say.”
The duke’s eyes narrowed. “That was not a suggestion.”
Jane did not so much as flinch. “Neither was mine.”
“Impertinent chit,” the duke muttered, his lip curling.
To Charlotte’s astonishment, Jane did not look away. She raised her chin and met his gaze directly. “Impertinent duke.”
The words hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown. Contempt twisted the Duke of Brackenford’s features as he glared at Jane. “I suppose it was for the best you left me at the altar. I now realize we would never have suited.”
“You decided that now and not when you struck me in front of God and witnesses at the chapel?” Jane challenged.
Charlotte’s heart thundered. The tension in the room was palpable as the Duke of Brackenford’s gaze broke from Jane and swung back to her. “I was hoping to speak to you privately, Miss Winslow. Since that is not an option, I shall proceed.”
Her breath caught. A sense of dread flooded her, rooting her feet to the floor. She shifted instinctively, edging closer to Luca, as though he might shield her from what she knew was coming.
With deliberate care, the Duke of Brackenford stepped towards her. Then—horror of horrors—the duke, proud and arrogant as he was, lowered himself onto one knee.
“Will you marry me, Miss Winslow?”
No. This could not be real. This man—this dreadful man—proposing to her?
Her stomach churned. To refuse him outright would be a grave insult, one she might never recover from socially.
He was a powerful duke. His displeasure could ruin her with little more than a whisper.
Yet the very thought of binding herself to him was unthinkable.
Her lips parted but no words came.
“Did you hear me?” the duke snapped, impatience leaking into his voice.
“I… I…” Dear heavens, how was she to answer? She had played so carefully this Season, presenting her image with precision. And now, in a single moment, it was all at risk.
Before she could speak, Luca’s voice cut across the silence. “I am afraid that is impossible, Your Grace. Miss Winslow and I are engaged.”
Charlotte’s head jerked towards him, her heart lurching. Engaged? He said it so easily, so convincingly, as though it were the plain truth.
The duke’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Is that true, Miss Winslow?”
The choice rose before her like a precipice. Deny Luca and face the duke’s proposal. Or step into Luca’s lie and hope she could emerge unscathed.
Her hesitation only emboldened the duke. He seized her hand with startling strength. His grip was unyielding, his liver-spotted fingers pressing into her skin. “You need not settle for a lowly second son of a duke. I offer you the title of duchess. The highest of honors.”
Charlotte glanced down at his hand, mottled with age, and bile rose in her throat. She could not. She would not.
Drawing a steadying breath, she slipped her hand free of his grasp, her voice clear despite the trembling inside her. “It is true. I am engaged to Lord Luca.”
The Duke of Brackenford surged to his feet, surprisingly nimble for a man of his years. His eyes gleamed with malice. “You will regret this.”
“I don’t think I will, Your Grace,” Charlotte replied, her voice firmer than she felt inside.
The duke’s face twisted with fury. With a sharp huff, he spun on his heel and stormed from the drawing room. The heavy slam of the front door echoed through the house, making her flinch.
“What a horrid man,” Jane stated. “You were right to refuse him, Charlotte, but did you truly need to create a fake engagement? After all, it was evident by your reaction that Lord Luca’s declaration caught you off guard.”
Charlotte’s eyes darted towards Luca, as if perhaps he might contradict Jane, but he merely dragged a hand through his hair, looking both weary and unrepentant. “It was the best thing I could think of on such short notice.”
“Well, you just told the Duke of Brackenford that you are engaged. Within the hour, half of Mayfair will be whispering about it. The gossips’ tongues will be wagging before supper is served,” Jane said.
A knot twisted in Charlotte’s stomach. She pressed her palm against it, as though she could still the storm inside. “What have we done?”
Jane’s gaze softened, brimming with understanding. “I will give you two a moment to speak privately.”
The minute the door closed behind Jane, Charlotte crossed the room and sank onto the settee, her body suddenly heavy, her thoughts too loud. She lifted her eyes to Luca. “Why did you have to say we were engaged?”
He stepped towards her. “What else could I say?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. He had a point, curse him. But that didn’t mean she would surrender. “I refuse to marry you,” she said. “Not even if you were the last man on earth.”
He smirked. “You do know how to make a man feel special.”
“Do be serious.”
“I am,” he responded, lowering himself onto the settee beside her.
His nearness was distracting, infuriating.
“Think about it. Being engaged has its advantages. We can spend time together freely, without anyone questioning it. And more importantly, we can investigate The Chelmsford Asylum without raising suspicion.”
Charlotte’s pulse skipped. He had a way of making the preposterous sound almost reasonable. Almost. “And what happens when we do not marry?” she asked.