Failedattempts?I can only think of the one. Did they really believe I would go to Paris and find my future husband? That’s hard to believe.
Instead, I met a darkly handsome charmer who sweet-talked me right out of my panties after only a couple of months of what I believed to be harmless flirting and endless conversations about Parisian architecture.
God, what a mess I made.
And we can’t forget my debutante ball. My father believed the finest young men Manhattan had to offer would be lining up to date me upon my debut. After that disastrous night, not a one of them came calling.
Is that even a thing?
My negative vibe that evening didn’t help my chances. I didn’t want to be there, and I made it painfully obvious. I didn’t want to go through the entire spectacle, knowing I would undoubtedly fail. That no one would be interested in me. I was only going through the motions to make my parents happy, and besides, it was expected of me because I’m a Lancaster.
What they’ve discovered is I’m the most boring Lancaster to ever exist.
The last year has been peaceful. Quiet. No one has asked me to do anything, and I love it. I fend for myself. I spend time with the servants and enjoy their company. I’ve read enough books to fuel my rather fervent imagination. I’ve dabbled in writing. Mostly poetry.
I like my solitary existence. I don’t need something like a freakinghusbandto mess that up.
Once my father makes up his mind, he won’t budge. He believes this is my only recourse, and he won’t let me back out of it. And if it’s messed up somehow, and we don’t go through with the marriage, it’ll end up being my fault.
It always is.
And I’ll pay the price.
I always do.
“We need to pick out a dress for you to wear to your engagement party,” Mother says, pointing at me when I open my mouth. I slam my lips shut. “And nothing black. You want to look like a radiant bride-to-be, not a depressed goth girl.”
I can’t believe my mother just called me a goth girl. “Perfect. I can wear black to the wedding, then.” I smile serenely, knowing she’s going to turn me down, but attempting to shoot my shot anyway.
The expression of horror on my mother’s face is comical. “Absolutely not. You can’t wear black to yourwedding, Charlotte. That’s so…unbecoming.”
Knew she’d say that. “The whole idea of this wedding is unbecoming if you ask me. I don’t even know him.”
“You’ll get to know him,” Mother says, like what’s happening to me is perfectly normal.
“At our engagement party?” I actually scoff, which I can tell irritates her. Everything I do seems to irritate her. “When is the wedding date anyway?”
“Sometime in late October, though it’s not one hundred percent confirmed yet,” she answers.
My favorite month, ruined thanks to getting married to a total stranger. “Great. That’s less than six weeks away.”
Why the rush? And who is this guy? Why would he so readily agree to marry me, sight unseen?
None of this makes sense.
“Darling, this is a good thing. A solid marriage you can count on. Someone to have children with. You know, your fiancé is rather attractive.” The gleam in my mother’s eye fills me with unease.
Everyone knows Louisa Lancaster hasn’t been faithful to her husband, which I suppose is fine because he’s not faithful to her either. They put on a united front, and for the most part, I do believe they’re united. They’re friendly. There’s no obvious animosity, but their relationship lost all spark long, long ago. Maybe it never had any spark to begin with. They continue to each have their affairs on the side, but nothing too blatant or obvious.
Yet somehow everyone knows my father’s penchant for women with bright red—overly fake—hair and my mother’s desire for a younger man. She keeps getting older, yet they stay the same age.
Around twenty. Twenty-five tops. Once they creep closer to thirty, it’s over.
And that’s gross.
“He is,” I say simply, wondering at the unfamiliar possessive feeling I’m experiencing toward him. Not that he belongs to me, but he is my future husband.
Meaning he’s off-limits to my mother.