Not the Kind of Earl You Marry

by Kate Pembrooke

  Madame Rochelle bestowed the lady with a look of genuine welcome. “As you say, Lady Serena. I have long found the English peculiar.”

  Lady Serena laughed good-naturedly. “Some would say the same of the French, but we won’t debate the eccentricities of our nationalities today.”

  “Before we leave the subject entirely, I’d still like to make it clear there is nothing improper about my relationship with Lord Norwood,” Charlotte replied.

  Lady Serena’s eyes twinkled merrily at Charlotte. “Never fear. I know William too well to think there was.”

  “Yes, but I’m not sure about the rest of London,” Charlotte said, with a rueful smile, thinking of Lady Bohite and her ilk.

  “If there’s one rule I live by, it’s don’t let the opinions of others bother you. Gossip and scandal are the meat and marrow of London society. And there are always those who will draw the worst conclusions, but even among those who don’t, the suddenness of your engagement has the town buzzing. You and William are the current on dit.”

  “My brother didn’t manage this very well, I grant you,” Lady Peyton said. “But what man lets his head rule his heart? Once he settled on Charlotte, he saw no reason to wait simply to accustom people to his choice.”

  “And I for one applaud his impetuosity and his choice of fiancée.” Lady Serena gestured to Charlotte’s hand. “May I take a look at your ring? It is your betrothal ring, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte said, feeling self-conscious as she held out her hand for Lady Serena to get a better look at it.

  “Very nice.” Lady Serena nodded approvingly. “Is it a piece with sentimental value?”

  “It belonged to his grandmother,” Charlotte said, keeping her answer deliberately vague. Since it was a family ring, she presumed it held sentimental value, but the earl’s note hadn’t explicitly communicated this to her. She glanced toward Lydia and Elizabeth. “I hope your family doesn’t mind if I wear it.” She stopped abruptly, fortunately catching herself before she voiced the rest of her thought aloud. It would have been hard to explain to Lady Serena why she hoped the family wouldn’t mind if she wore it for a little while.

  “Mind?” said Lydia, almost indignantly. “Why we’re delighted Will chose it for you.”

  “It does suit you,” Lady Peyton added.

  Madame Rochelle, who had been standing silently in their midst while the conversation swirled around her, spoke abruptly. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I must see if Angelique is done writing up the bill of sale. My next appointment will be here in thirty minutes, and my assistant still needs to take the measurements. While she’s doing that, you and I, Lady Serena, will discuss our business.” The modiste looked toward Charlotte with an ironic smile. “I’ll have Angelique add a few”—she glanced down at the list Charlotte had given her—“flannel nightgowns, mademoiselle. But with the proviso that you tell your Lord Norwood that I objected most strenuously to them.”

  “I certainly will,” Charlotte agreed, shocked at this concession by the modiste but happy to comply with her condition. It was a moot point anyway, since the topic would never come up in the first place.

  Madame Rochelle departed through a curtained doorway that Charlotte supposed led back to the working areas of the dress shop.

  Lady Serena raised an amused brow. “She must like you, Miss Hurst. I can only imagine how it must grieve her artistic soul to make something so mundane as flannel nightgowns. I don’t think she would agree to make them for many of her customers.”

  “I am all astonishment,” Charlotte said. “Particularly, since thus far, the capitulation has been one-sided.”

  “She can be a force to be reckoned with,” Elizabeth observed.

  “And then some,” Charlotte replied. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask Lady Serena what business brought her to Madame Rochelle’s, but the modiste returned and handed the bill of sale to Lady Peyton, who looked briefly at it. “Yes, that looks about right.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Charlotte said. “But you’ve given that to the wrong party. Lady Peyton isn’t responsible for the bill.”

  Madame Rochelle sent a questioning glance in Lady Peyton’s direction.

  “I insist on handling the expense,” Charlotte said firmly.

  “No, dear Charlotte.” Lord Norwood’s eldest sister shook her head. “Lydia and I will take care of this. It’s our gift, to welcome you to the family.”

  Before Charlotte could mount a protest, Lydia said, “You must allow us to do this to celebrate our new sister.”

  A small lump formed in Charlotte’s throat at the genuine affection she saw in Lydia’s eyes. She’d always wished for a sister, and she couldn’t imagine a finer one to gain than the sweet Lady Chatworth. Even the more reserved Lady Peyton—no, Elizabeth, she corrected herself—even Elizabeth would make a wonderful (albeit more exasperating) sister.

  “That is much too kind…and generous,” she began, stopping when her voice cracked on the last word. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and tried again. “Really, I couldn’t.”

  Accepting such a gift would not be a wise move. She needed to keep her distance, to keep herself firmly rooted in the reality that she wasn’t joining this family. It was all playacting, a performance, nothing more.

  “If it will assuage your conscience, I promise you Peyton won’t bat an eye at the total. It’s a great deal less than I usually spend when shopping for clothes.” Elizabeth folded the bill and tucked it into her reticule. “Now let’s allow Madame to take your measurements.”

  “Angelique, Gabrielle,” the modiste called. The two girls reappeared and stood at attention on either side of their employer. “Well, mademoiselle? Shall we proceed?” the modiste asked, giving Charlotte the last word on the matter.

  Charlotte hesitated, conflicted. Refusing the gift was, in a way, tantamount to refusing their friendship, and she was loath to do that. But accepting would be crossing a line she wasn’t sure should be crossed. She felt the eyes of every person in the room on her, awaiting her decision.

  “There will be some flannel nightgowns?” she said at last, forcing a smile to her lips to cover her precarious emotions.

  “Oui,” said the modiste with a faint smile. She signaled to Gabrielle, who opened the box. Madame selected a tape measure and said, “Angelique will take you back to our changing area and help you undress. You must strip to your shift.”

  Angelique led Charlotte to a curtained-off corner of the room, where the modiste’s assistant busied herself with the fastenings at the back of Charlotte’s gown. The curtain protected Charlotte’s modesty but didn’t prevent her from hearing the conversation taking place.

  “How is Mrs. Bright working out for you?” Lady Serena said. “Are you satisfied with her workmanship?”

  “Mrs. Bright is a most welcome addition,” the modiste replied. “Her workmanship is par excellence; she’s industrious and reliable. I could take more like her, if you can find others so skilled with their needle.”

  Charlotte listened with interest, feeling like an eavesdropper, even though she wasn’t eavesdropping exactly. After all, it wasn’t a secret she was behind the curtain.

  “I’m so happy the placement is satisfactory, and that you’re interested in employing more of these women,” Lady Serena said. “I brought some embroidery samples for you to evaluate.”

  Angelique began to undo the lacing of her stays. Charlotte could hear low murmurs of approval, and then Lady Peyton said, “This one is exceptionally fine.” Charlotte presumed they were passing the embroidery samples around for all to see.

  “Yes,” Madame Rochelle agreed. “She is an artist with her needle, that one. These others are quite well done also. I’d be willing to give all these ladies positions. How soon can they start?”

  “In a fortnight. Possibly sooner, depending on how well some last-minute details fall into place,” Lady Serena said. “All currently reside outside the city, but if you’re willing to employ them,
we’ll move them into new lodgings close to here.”

  “It is a good deed, you do, Lady Serena, giving these women a chance at an honest living.”

  “Well, someone has to,” Lady Serena replied dryly, “since our government hasn’t seen fit to address the problem by supplying them with a widow’s stipend. I appreciate your willingness to employ them and not take advantage of their desperation.”

  “I pay fair wages for a fair day’s work,” Madame Rochelle said. “I will not profit off of another’s misery.”

  “If only everyone shared your attitude,” Lady Serena said.

  “I know what these women face. My family fled the terror in France and came to England. Life became very difficult for us after my father’s death. We nearly starved before a kind innkeeper gave my maman employment. So I’m glad to do something similar for others.”

  “I’ll be in touch once we’re able to bring these women to London and get them settled. And, ladies, thank you for your support of our subscription ball.”

  Charlotte surmised this last was directed to the earl’s sisters. Lady Serena must have sold them tickets when they’d been talking together while Charlotte had been wrangling with Madame Rochelle.

  To Charlotte’s relief Angelique finally began taking her measurements. Listening behind the curtain had its drawbacks, namely that it made participating in the conversation awkward.

  “Miss Hurst,” Lady Serena continued. “So nice to see you again. As I promised last night, we shall have a nice coze soon and get better acquainted.”

  Despite her current state of undress, Charlotte thrust her head out from between the curtains. “Yes, we must. I very much want to hear more about your efforts on behalf of the war widows.”

  Lady Serena smiled and inclined her head. “Au revoir to you all then.”

  Madame Rochelle waved a hand indicating Charlotte should step out from the sheltering curtain. She hesitated, her innate modesty making her uncomfortable with stepping out before Lord Norwood’s sisters while wearing only a shift.

  Lydia must have sensed the reason for her reluctance because she said, “We’ll wait for you in the anteroom.” The sisters departed, leaving Charlotte alone with the modiste and her assistants, and in quick order she was measured, and then Madame had a selection of fabrics draped across Charlotte’s shoulders. The modiste stood and studied the effect of each of these with pursed lips and a thoughtful look. And no explanation.

  Charlotte assumed it was to ascertain how the various colors looked on her, but she wasn’t sure. It wasn’t as if she’d ordered gowns, which naturally would have a varied palette. Undergarments usually came in shades of white and cream, although the trimmings might incorporate different colors. At any rate, Charlotte didn’t question the modiste, having by this point decided to take the easiest course and let the Frenchwoman go about her business unimpeded. So it was with no small relief that she rejoined the earl’s sisters.

  Lady Peyton gave her an understanding look and said, “I think we could all do with some tea.”

  Chapter Nine

  In short order, Lady Peyton’s coachman whisked them to her residence on Grosvenor Square. As soon as the carriage came to a stop, a footman in forest-green livery hurried over to open the door and help them down. Charlotte took a brief look at the brick exterior faced with tall white columns spaced between the front windows before she followed the earl’s sisters up a set of marble steps.

  The butler met them in the spacious entryway and took their hats and gloves. “Shall I have tea sent in, my lady?” he inquired.

  “Please do, Ridley,” Elizabeth replied. She led the way across the black-and-white parquet flooring of the foyer to a door that opened into a sunny sitting room. The color scheme suited Lady Peyton: The pale yellow walls echoed the tint of that lady’s fair hair while the furniture, upholstered in blue and green florals, provided a pleasing counterpoint. The effect was feminine without being cloying. She waved Charlotte toward a small sofa, while she and Lydia settled into matching armchairs.

  As they waited for the tea to arrive the conversation turned to their recent shopping trip.

  “It was an excellent start,” Lydia said. “Except for stockings, Charlotte is set as far as lingerie goes. We should order her new gowns next, and then tackle the question of millinery and shoes. I was thinking—”

  Start? Good heavens, she’d assumed they were finished, but apparently in the minds of the earl’s sisters they’d barely begun. “Oh, no, no, no. What we ordered at Madame Rochelle’s should be enough to satisfy the pretense of preparing a trousseau. It will have to be, because I’ve no intention of purchasing more items I don’t need. My present wardrobe is sufficient to see me through to the end of the betrothal.” Lydia’s expression dimmed at Charlotte’s mention of ending the betrothal.

  “I understand your reluctance to incur unnecessary expenditures,” Elizabeth said. “However, there is the matter of a ball to celebrate your engagement. You’ll want to order a special gown for that, at least.”

  “I’m afraid I consider a ball as unnecessary as an expanded wardrobe,” Charlotte said, feeling that things were spiraling out of control and not confident she could stop it. Nonetheless she had to try. “Please view this from my perspective. I agreed to an engagement with your brother only as a means to an end, and making all this fuss…” Charlotte raised her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Don’t you agree that, under those circumstances, acquiring a wardrobe I don’t need, or hosting a ball to celebrate an engagement that isn’t really an engagement, is taking things too far?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “The ball isn’t really negotiable. We must act as if your betrothal is real, and that means we must have a ball to celebrate it.”

  “But in the time it takes to plan and finalize the arrangements and send invitations, the betrothal may well be over, which would be awkward to say the least,” Charlotte argued.

  “That is something to consider.” Elizabeth tapped one elegant finger rapidly on the arm of her chair as she thought about this. “I think the easiest solution is for you and William to remain betrothed until after the ball, even if it could be ended earlier.”

  “No!” Charlotte blurted out the single word with more force than she intended. “No,” she repeated, softening her tone in response to the frowning expressions of concern worn by both of Lord Norwood’s sisters. “Dragging out the betrothal isn’t an option. It’s best to be done with this business as quickly as possible so your brother and I can resume our normal lives.”

  “We simply won’t refer to it as an engagement ball and we won’t characterize it as one on the invitations,” Lydia said, leaning forward excitedly. “Everyone will assume that’s why you’re giving it, Elizabeth, but it’s a way to save face if the betrothal ends before the ball takes place.”

  “That’s rather deviously brilliant,” Elizabeth praised her sister. “I like it.”

  Lydia turned to Charlotte with an apologetic smile. “I know you aren’t keen for Elizabeth to hold this ball, but it’s the expected thing to do. People will think it odd if we don’t mark the occasion with a grand to-do of some sort. You do understand that, don’t you?”

  Before Charlotte could reply, a maid entered bearing the tea tray, and fast on her heels were Lord Peyton and Lord Chatworth, which effectively put an end to the discussion. Charlotte supposed the interruption hardly mattered, since it was unlikely she would have prevailed anyway. The maid set the heavily laden tray on the low table in front of the sofa on which Charlotte was seated.

  “Just in time for the food,” Elizabeth said, giving her husband an arch look.

  “As is my usual habit,” Lord Peyton agreed with a cheeky grin. “I’m glad to see you requested a substantial repast.” He plucked a carved wooden chair from its spot along the wall and placed it next to his wife’s armchair. Lord Chatworth walked over to Lydia and kissed the top of her head, then stood next to her, one hand resting fondly on her shoulder.

&nb
sp; “Ridley deserves the credit. He ordered the tea, not I.” Lady Peyton busied herself serving the cups of tea and passing around plates of food. The conversation lulled as the gentlemen busily devoured several of the tea sandwiches while the ladies showed a preference for the sweeter items.

  Charlotte nibbled on a lemon biscuit as she studied the two couples. Lord Chatworth hovered beside his wife, solicitously refreshing her plate when she expressed a desire for some more of the sugared fruits. She found it touching that he was so obviously enthralled by his wife, eager to please her slightest whim. The Peytons, well past the honeymoon stage in their marriage, seemed amused by it.

  Charlotte idly wondered what sort of husband the earl would make. She couldn’t picture him as slavishly devoted as Lord Chatworth. He didn’t strike her as the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, though she could imagine him covertly bestowing warm, speaking glances on the object of his devotion. Or bringing a blush to her cheeks as he whispered teasingly improper suggestions in her ear.

  Caught up in these speculations, she was startled when Lord Norwood unexpectedly appeared in the doorway. So startled that she choked on a bite of biscuit and coughed out a fine dusting of biscuit crumbs onto the front of her bodice. Honestly, had she been trying to make an inelegant spectacle of herself, she couldn’t have done a much better job. But then, to her continued chagrin, she couldn’t stop coughing as some biscuit crumbs still tickled her throat and windpipe. The Peytons and Chatworths watched her with a mixture of uncertainty and concern.

  Lovely, Charlotte. Just lovely. She held up a hand to indicate she was fine, but her continued coughing seemed to contradict her message.

  To his credit, Lord Norwood crossed the room with commendable haste. He handed her the teacup sitting on the table beside her.