The Runaway Duchess

by Jillian Eaton

“What happened?” Dianna demanded the moment Charlotte was in the carriage and the door was shut behind her. “You look horrible. What did your maid say?”

  Taking a deep breath, Charlotte repeated everything Vera had told her nearly word for word. When she was finished Abigail sniffed and returned to reading her book. Dianna’s reaction was a bit more ill contained.

  “What a horrid man!” she exclaimed. Color mottled her cheeks and her eyes flashed a dark, stormy shade of blue. “You cannot marry him. I forbid it.”

  “If only it were that simple.” Charlotte slumped back into her seat as the carriage jolted forward and closed her eyes. She felt Dianna pat her knee, and attempted a smile that fell flat on her lips. “There is no proof, but I know he is somehow responsible for the deaths of his first two wives. I know it. I’m afraid,” she confessed in a soft voice meant for her friend’s ears only. “I’m afraid of him, Di.”

  “I would be as well. Surely if you told your mother…”

  “I cannot. She will want to know where I received my information and if I reveal Tabitha’s name she will surely fire her.” It was a realization Charlotte had come to the moment she left the tea shop.

  The only thing Bettina disliked more than her daughter’s rebellious nature was gossip, and Charlotte knew that is all her mother would claim it was: nasty, ill-gotten gossip by a maid who had nothing better to do than spread lies. Tabitha would be let go on the spot and Charlotte would be no further from breaking her engagement to the duke than she had been before. “The announcement was printed in the papers this morning, you know.”

  “I know,” Dianna said solemnly.

  “Di, what am I going to do?”

  Unaccustomed to the feeling of helplessness that pushed down on her shoulders like a heavy cloak, Charlotte opened her eyes and turned her gaze to the window. London rushed by a blur of color and noise, an ever changing beast of epic proportions that cared little for the woes of one troubled woman.

  “We will come up with something.” Dianna’s tone rang with confidence, and Charlotte turned her head to smile gratefully at her friend.

  “You sound so positive.”

  “Because I am. This is not how your story ends, Charlotte. The princess never really has to marry the ogre, she only thinks she has to. That way her prince charming has something to rescue her from.”

  “I would much rather rescue myself,” Charlotte decided after she thought about it for a moment. “It is much more efficient that way.”

  Dianna, who was first and foremost a romantic, gave a gentle shrug. “Perhaps for you. Either way, we will come up with something. You will not have to marry the duke. I swear it.”

  Charlotte only hoped it was one promise Dianna would be able to keep.

  The next evening marked the third official event of the Season. It was an exclusive affair that required a hand written invitation from the hostess herself, an invitation which Bettina had (unfortunately) been able to procure. It seemed there was nothing off limits when one was engaged to a duke, and Lady Haversham’s ball was no exception.

  Having always disliked the forced politeness, aimless chatter, and rigidity of balls (not to mention having to remember a dozen different steps) Charlotte was not looking forward to this one. The only highlight she could see was that the duke would not be in attendance. He was suffering from a head cold and the rain that had plagued the city for most of the day would be keeping him inside.

  He wrote as much in a letter that had been delivered to the Vanderley town house early that morning. A letter he signed – Charlotte cringed to think of it now – ‘yours in everlasting love, Stanley’.

  The fact that he had begun using his Christian name in their correspondence was not a good sign. It implied a sense of familiarity that most certainly did not exist between the two of them, and Charlotte made it a point to sign her own return letter with a very formal and impersonal ‘Lady Vanderley’.

  She had not wanted to write back at all, but her mother had been insistent and rather than start off the day with yet another argument she reluctantly agreed.

  “Manners,” Bettina had harped as she stood over Charlotte’s shoulder and watched her write her reply word for painstaking word. “Remember your manners, dear. No one likes a rude duchess.”

  “I am not a duchess,” Charlotte pointed out, waving the quill in the air and causing Bettina to back away for fear of being splattered with ink, “nor will I ever be one.”

  Her mother had not deigned a reply, which only made it all the more frustrating. How could she argue her point when Bettina refused to argue? It was quite the conundrum; one she was no closer to solving than she had been the day before.

  At least, Charlotte thought with a sigh as she waited patiently inside the Haversham’s receiving parlor to be announced, I will not have to worry about running across the duke tonight.

  Lord and Lady Haversham were top notch quality amidst the ton and their ball, held annually in their own private residence, was one of the most sought after events of the season.

  Tonight was the first time Charlotte had ever been inside the elegant mansion, and as she shuffled forward behind a half dozen over young women waiting to be let into the main ballroom she let her gaze wander around the parlor.

  It was clear no expense had been spared when Lady Haversham furnished her home. Matching rosewood tables gleamed beneath the flickering light cast down by not one, but two chandeliers. The walls were covered in the finest silk and paintings framed in gold hung at eye level depicting various hunting scenes. A chaise lounge upholstered in sumptuous red velvet looked so comfortable Charlotte was of half a mind to curl up on it and take a nap, but at that very moment the line began to shuffle forward again and she was forced to move along with it or else risk having her shoulder pulled from its socket.

  “Must you hold me so tightly?” she hissed to her mother. “I am not going to bolt, you know.”

  “One never knows with you,” Bettina replied, speaking through a feigned smile she applied to her face as carefully as she did her powders and creams. “That is the problem.”

  Arm in arm mother and daughter strolled in seemingly perfect harmony through the parlor and into the grandiose ballroom. Charlotte did not even bother to count the number of chandeliers hanging from this ceiling.

  “Your invitation cards, if you please.” A short, portly butler with thinning hair stopped them under the archway and held out a gloved hand.

  Charlotte reached automatically for the reticule she always carried, but her fingers closed around only soft muslin. Of course. When one dressed formally one did not wear a purse for fear of running the lines of the gown. Quite impractical, really, but there it was.

  Her attire for the evening was a deceptively simple creation that highlighted her best features: namely, her fiery red hair and hazel eyes. It was an empire waist design that gathered tightly beneath her breasts before falling away into a soft, shimmering skirt of ivory spun through with gold. Matching thread, slightly wider and studier in design, held her hair back from her face in an intricate display of curls that had taken Tabitha nearly two hours to fashion. She wore no jewelry save a pair of emerald earrings that swung gently with every step she took and a matching bracelet.

  “Here,” Bettina said, releasing her death grip on Charlotte’s arm in order to thrust two cream colored envelopes at the butler.

  Sensing an opportunity to establish a bit of temporary peace between them before they descended into the ballroom, Charlotte leaned in close while the butler searched for their names on an impressively long ledger.

  “Mama, you look very pretty tonight,” she praised with a smile.

  It was true.

  Dressed in a gown of dark blue, Bettina looked positively regal with her auburn hair swept back in a twist and a necklace comprised of heart shaped sapphires and diamonds at her throat. The jewels glittered like ice beneath the becoming glow of the candle light, highlighting a roses and cream complexion she guarded more f
iercely than any gem in her possession.

  Charlotte’s mother had aged as all noblewomen wished to: softly and gradually, with only a faint set of wrinkles at her eyes and mouth to indicate she was no longer in the full bloom of youth. The streaks of gray in her hair she disguised with cinnamon; a natural home remedy only the wealthy could afford as the sweet smelling spice was a luxury when used in pies and pastries, let alone for beauty.

  Unfortunately, softness on the outside did not always translate to softness on the inside and there was a hard edge in Bettina’s voice when she said, “You are slouching, Charlotte. Straighten up. I knew we should have gone with the smaller corset. Even though the duke is not in attendance tonight you still represent him. Remember, all eyes will be on you tonight.”

  “Will they be on me, Mother? I wonder why that is. Could it be because I am to marry a duke, or is it because I am marrying a man three times my age?”

  Bettina’s eyebrows snapped together. “I do not approve of your tone.”

  “And I do not approve of—”

  “Now announcing Lady Bettina Vanderley and her daughter, Lady Charlotte!” The butler’s deep voice carried easily across the ballroom, effectively cutting off Charlotte mid-sentence and causing two dozen heads to swivel in their direction.

  “Smile,” Bettina demanded. Her fingers closed like dagger tipped claws around Charlotte’s wrist, leaving her no choice but to walk directly into the hellish melee of tittering ladies, oversized gowns, and lewdly staring gentlemen.

  Within moments they were surrounded and in an act of sheer desperation Charlotte accepted the first dance that was offered to her in order to escape the congratulations and well wishes that were tumbling from everyone’s lips.

  She had hoped the betrothal announcement would have gone unnoticed, at least for a few more days. She should have known better. Even one person reading of her impending nuptials to the duke would have been enough to flame the fires of gossip. There were no secrets amidst the nobility, and Charlotte inwardly cursed her mother for allowing the announcement to be printed with neither her knowledge or permission. Now everyone would think she wanted to marry Crane, a falsity she could hardly deny in a room filled shoulder to shoulder with her peers.

  One did not simply break an engagement to a duke, especially one as powerful as Crane. To do so would cause a scandal of outlandish proportions she would not soon recover from, and while she was certainly not above doing such a thing if it would ensure her freedom, she would rather save ruining her name as a last resort.

  “I hear you are to marry the Duke of Tarrow,” her dance partner said.

  Realizing she did not even know the name of the man she was waltzing with, Charlotte adopted a pretty smile and batted her lashes, two things which always seemed to ensure the conversation would stay light and not delve into personal matters she had no intention of discussing with anyone, let alone a perfect stranger. “Did you? How lovely. Are you enjoying the ball thus far?”

  Unfortunately, her partner was not easily swayed off topic. “Are you implying you are not engaged?” he persisted, his brown eyes filling with undisguised hope even as the hand he had resting lightly on her shoulder dropped a few inches to linger noticeably closer to the curve of her spine.

  He was handsome, Charlotte supposed, if one liked men who reminded them of basset hounds. Still, even with his drooping bottom lip and thick mop of hair he remained a far better prospect for marriage than her current fiancée, and her smile slowly faded as they took a second turn around the room.

  If she had not been so damn picky during her first two seasons this is who she could have ended up with. A kind gentleman, one who most likely spent his days out on the hunt field and had few aspirations beyond living off his inheritance, but one who was sweet and gentle and did not make her want to cringe and shudder every time she looked at him. But oh no, that had not been good enough for her.

  No, she had refused to accept any man’s offer for her hand – and there had been quite a few, as she was a pretty girl from a well to do family with a sizable dowry – because she did not fancy herself in love with any of them. Charlotte barely managed to disguise a grimace of self-disgust as her enthusiastic dance partner swung her around the floor for a third (and hopefully final) loop. Love. She was beginning to think it was something found only in fairy tales, the same as dragons and trolls and witches.

  “I say, is everything all right? Your face is turning rather red,” her partner observed.

  They had come to a halt in the middle of the room. All around them couples clapped politely, signaling the end of the waltz. Charlotte pressed her hands to her cheeks and felt that they were, indeed, quite warm to the touch. “I apologize, Lord… Er…”

  “Lord Yardley,” he supplied.

  “Yes, yes of course. I… You shall have to forgive me, Lord Yardley. I fear I am not feeling well and have not been a very good dance partner.”

  “Oh no,” he protested, reaching out to rest his hand on her forearm. At her stare he snatched it away and rubbed his chin instead, as though that was what he meant to do all along. “You were absolutely splendid. But is it true, Lady Charlotte?”

  “Is what true?” Her attention was already drifting, try as she might to remain focused. Her scalp itched from the wax Tabitha had used to ensure her curls stayed in place, and sweat was trickling down between her breasts. For the second time she reached for her reticule, this time to draw out a fan, and her teeth gnashed in frustration when she remembered it was sitting on her dresser at home.

  “Your engagement,” Yardley said earnestly. “Is it true, or is it not true, that you are to marry the Duke of Tarrow?”

  Any thoughts of fans and missing reticules fled Charlotte’s mind at the idea of being forced to confirm her betrothal out loud for everyone to hear. She took an involuntary step back and bumped hard against a woman in a plum colored dress who clucked her tongue in annoyance.

  “Watch your step, if you would,” the woman said sharply.

  “I… I am terribly sorry.” She turned to the side, and nearly tripped a servant attempting to carry a tray of scones from one end of the ballroom to the other. “Sorry!” she burst out again, clapping both hands to her burning cheeks. Why was it so damn hot? Someone needed to open a window. Or a wall.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Yardley walking towards her, his expression one of utmost determination. She waved him off. “It was lovely dancing with you, Lord Yardley, but I must… I must go powder my nose!”

  The room was spinning. Colors flew by, each one brighter than the last. Sound intensified, until it seemed as though she were hearing everything through a bullhorn.

  Feeling as though the floor itself was tipping sideways, Charlotte fought her way through the crowd, desperate for a breath of fresh air. Dimly she thought she heard her mother calling her name, but by then she had reached a door, and not caring where it led as long as it was away from the ballroom and the dozens of eyes she could feel upon her back, she turned the brass doorknob and stumbled through.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Gavin Graystone did not have a very high opinion of his first ball.

  To his mind it was a cluttered, tedious affair filled with high society nabobs who had nothing better to do than throw a party for themselves celebrating how bloody rich and important they all were.

  There was no gambling, no brawling, no women rubbing against his side like cats in heat. Thank God he had thought to bring his own whiskey for it seemed only lemonade – lemonade – was being served. Were it not for his need to meet with new potential clients and the fact that he had turned in a very big favor to ensure an invitation, he would have left hours ago.

  Pulling a silver flask from beneath his black waist coat, he took a liberal swig before collapsing his long, lanky body into a leather chair. Having retreated to an adjoining study some time ago in an effort to find quiet amidst the babbling chaos, he had little intention of returning, at least not until the whiskey too
k some effect.

  Gavin had not expected to be well received, and his assumption proved correct. He was, after all, the son of a baker, a common man without an ounce of blue blood running through his veins and no title to precede his name. But he was an ambitious man and a wealthy one besides. In truth he most likely could have bought and sold half the lords in attendance three times over, a fact they were very well aware of. It made them despise him all the more, even as they curried his favor like simpering pups begging for a bone.

  But they were purebred pups, he reminded himself with a sardonic tilt of his mouth. While he, no matter how much financial success he achieved, would always be seen as nothing more than a mangy mutt who was not fit to live in the same household, let alone eat from the same silver bowl, as his blue blooded cousins.

  When Gavin heard the door to the study open with an audible creak followed by the unmistakable scurry of small feet and the crinkle of crinoline, he grimaced and took one last swig from his flask, draining the contents in one satisfying swallow that left his throat burning and his mind pleasantly fuzzy.

  He had wondered how long it would be before an over zealous mother sent her daughter searching for him. There was more than one money hungry family in attendance tonight who would be willing to overlook his lack of title if it meant their salvation from financial ruin, and they had not been in shy in letting him know it.

  “If you are looking for Graystone he is not here,” Gavin drawled, not bothering to stand or even turn around to see what the fancy bit of fluff looked like. He had no intention of being lured into marriage by a member of the nobility, no matter how fair her features or soft her bosom. No, when he finally chose to take a wife it would be to a girl of his own class who had not been raised with a silver spoon jammed down her throat. One who knew what it felt like to work for what she had and did not laze about all day sipping watered down tea and getting fat on crumpets.

  He sincerely doubted there was a more spoiled creature in the entire world than a high society brat, and he abhorred their haughty demeanors and the way they looked down their nose at him when they had done nothing to earn their lot in life save being born to the right set of parents.