“I shall have to decline.” He straightened up, looking at her father. “If you would permit me such an indelicacy, I would ask a moment alone with Charlotte.”
Her father shrugged. Something in the gesture told her this was not the first he was hearing of the Duke’s desire to speak with his daughter. She excused herself from the table all the same and walked off to join the Duke.
They settled in the obnoxiously green parlor, the shade of the walls doing nothing to lessen her nausea—she on the loveseat, him stood by the hearth. Smoothing out the skirts of her morning dress, she waited for him to speak.
“You know I have no children of my own, Charlotte.”
She started. Of all the things she had expected he might say, that had not been one of them. “It had not escaped my attention, Your Grace.”
He ran a hand along the mantlepiece, back turned from her. “Then you will not be surprised when I say that I have not a clue what it is to be a father.” He sighed. “But with you, your sister, your brother, in witnessing your father do what he could for you—I’d like to think I have come close.”
A flock of birds rushed past the window, and if was enough to distract her from wanting to be sick. That a man should have thought to make a wife of a woman he considered a daughter was an idea too grotesque to entertain. “I fail to understand why this would be cause for conversation between the two of us.”
He turned to her at last, the light from the fire haloing him. “I care for you, Charlotte, almost as if you were my own. I have no right of property over you, no right to tell you what I think is best… but I will tell you this.” He walked over to her, and each step he took made her heart beat louder in her chest. Then, he crouched before her. “There is not a man in London who will look to make you his wife after all that has happened. Not a man, except me.”
And there it was again, the churning in her belly. “Your Grace, you cannot mean such a thing. I am—“
“I haven’t any regard for what you think you are, Charlotte. I haven’t any regard for whatanyonethinks you are.” He pressed his hand atop hers where it rested on her knee. “I have no boyish desire to make you my wife. I have nodesirefor you at all… but I will not see you die a spinster when you could be a Duchess and so much more.”
She bit her lip, not knowing whether to trust him. It didn’t seem possible that a man of his stature could want to offer her a title in exchange for a loveless, fruitless, cold marriage of convenience. “It wouldn’t be right,” she tried to argue. “If you think of me as a daughter, for us to claim love before God—“
“People claim much more villainous things before Him.” He stroked her hand before coming to a stand. “Think on it for me.”
Think on it, she would not.
Outside the hotel where they had taken their luncheon, after an ordinary visit to the tailor’s, Matthew was regaling the Baron’s son with tales of his tour in France before the war.
Charlotte listened inattentively as they strolled down Bond Street, Eleanor and herself having joined the men a little after midday. Despite the odd cool glare, her brother seemed no more displeased with Charlotte than usual. Her sister, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to get enough of her, despite the presence of the ever-charming Pollock. She assumed nothing had gone awry between them, for his dreamy looks back toward the younger Fitzroy daughter.
She pulled tightly on the collar of her heavy fur pelisse, willing away the nip in the air. The men stopped before a milliner’s shop, so caught up were they in their japes and conversation, despite their appointment at Richmond Court for riding in the hour.
“You have an awful, sour look on your face, Charlotte,” Eleanor murmured from beside her. She huddled close to her sister, flicking a few loose hairs from her coat. “Oh, I do wish you had taken that note this morning.”
Charlotte pressed a finger to her lips, not wanting to alert their brother. “There was no point to it, sister. I knew what it would say—“
“That Huxley adores you and wished to make amends,” Eleanor lilted, clasping her hands beneath her chin.
“Surely, it didn’t say that!”
Eleanor grinned. “I wouldn’t know. I didn’t read it… but that certainly caught your attention.” She looked over Charlotte’s shoulder, then leaned in close. “Speak to him. Perhaps you might smooth things over and—“
Charlotte cut her off. She looked around, feeling the weight of the ton entire on her shoulders. Every lady they passed, every gentleman, too, looked at her in judgment—or so she felt. “There is nothing to resolve. It was a mistake,” she lied. “Nothing more.”
Eleanor blanched, looking behind them.
Charlotte turned to see Matthew shaking his head disapprovingly. “It is hardly gentlemanly to eavesdrop,” she admonished.
“I shall not discuss etiquette withyou,” he teased. Turning to Pollock, he said, “Have you heard from Huxley?”
“Matthew!” She could hardly believe he had the audacity. On second thought, she could. “That is not the done thing. Besides, we’ve no need to drag poor Mr. Pollock into our affairs.”
Her brother arched a brow, then waved her away.
Pollock, with his brilliant hazel eyes, shot her a sympathetic look. She could see why Eleanor was so enamored with him, feeling herself blush for his gaze upon her. “I do apologize, Lady Charlotte. I’ve heard not a thing from him in a week.”
“You know where he roosts?” Matthew inquired, and Charlotte nipped him in the back in vain.
“No, I can’t say I do. We correspond mostly. Good fellow, though. I highly doubt he intended on—“ He cut himself off. “Huxley did not seem a rogue.”