“Well, you did just then,” Belle said.
Charlotte’s response was nothing more than a blank stare. “I’m sure you’re mistaken,” she murmured.
“I’m sure I’m not,” Belle replied, “but it hardly signifies.”
An awkward silence descended upon the group, until Charlotte cleared her throat and said, “I must leave, I’m afraid. I’m meant to meet Lydia in my room.”
“Do give her my regards,” Ned said smoothly, wondering why she winced right after she told him she was meeting Lydia.
“I will,” she said, and now her cheeks were turning slightly pink.
Ned felt his brow furrow in thought. Was Charlotte lying about meeting Lydia upstairs? And if so, why would she think he’d care? What secret could she possibly possess that would affect him?
“Have a care with that ankle,” he said. “You might want to prop it up on a pillow once you get to your room.”
“An excellent idea,” she said with a nod. “Thank you.”
And with that, she limped around the corner and disappeared from view.
“Well, that was interesting,” Belle said, once Charlotte was obviously out of earshot.
“What was interesting?” Ned asked.
“That. Her. Charlotte.”
He stared at her uncomprehendingly. “I speak only English, Belle.”
She jerked her head in the direction in which Charlotte had departed. “That’s the one you ought to be marrying.”
“Oh, God, Belle, don’t start.”
“I know I’ve said—”
“I don’t know what you haven’t said,” he snapped.
She glared at him, then glanced furtively about. “We can’t talk here,” she said.
“We’re not talking anywhere.”
“Yes, we are,” she returned, yanking him into a nearby salon. Once she’d shut the door, she turned on him with the full force of sisterly concern. “Ned, you must listen to me. You cannot marry Lydia Thornton. She is all wrong for you.”
“Lydia is perfectly acceptable,” he said, his tone clipped.
“Do you hear what you’re saying?” she burst out. “Perfectly acceptable? You don’t want to marry someone acceptable, Ned. You want to marry someone who makes your heart sing, someone who makes you smile every time she enters the room. Trust me. I know.”
He did know. Belle and her husband loved each other with a fierce devotion that should have been nauseating to behold, but somehow Ned had always just found it rather warm and comforting.
Until now, when it was starting to make him feel—good God—jealous.
Which of course only served to put him in a ripping bad mood.
“Ned,” Belle persisted, “are you even listening to me?”
“Very well, then,” he snapped, unable to prevent himself from taking his foul temper out on his sister, “you tell me how I’m meant to get out of it. Am I supposed to jilt her three days before the ceremony?”
Belle did nothing but blink, but Ned wasn’t fooled. His sister’s brain was working so fast he was surprised he didn’t see steam coming out of her ears. If there was a way to break an engagement three days before a wedding, he could be sure that Belle would think of it.
She was silent for just long enough that Ned thought their conversation might actually be over. “If that’s all, then,” he said, stepping toward the door.
“Wait!”
He let out a weary groan. It had really been too much to hope for.
“Do you realize what you said?” she asked, placing her hand on his sleeve.
“No,” he said baldly, hoping that might be the end of it.
“You asked me to tell you how you could get out of your marriage. Do you know what that means? It means you want to get out of it,” she finished, rather smugly, in his opinion.
“It means nothing of the sort,” Ned snapped. “We can’t all be lucky enough to marry for love, Belle. I’m almost thirty. If it hasn’t happened yet, it’s not going to. And I’m not getting any younger.”
“You’ve hardly one foot in the grave,” she scoffed.
“I’m getting married in three days’ time,” he said in a hard voice. “You ought to accustom yourself to the notion.”
“Is the land really worth it?” Belle asked, her soft voice more arresting than any shout could ever be. “Twenty acres, Ned. Twenty acres for your life.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” he said stiffly.
“Don’t try to fool yourself into thinking this is anything but the most mercenary of endeavors,” Belle said.
“And if it is,” Ned returned, “am I so very different from most of our class?”
“No,” she acceded, “but it’s very different from you. This isn’t right, Ned. Not for you.”
He gave her an insolent stare. “May I go now? Does that conclude our interview?”
“You’re better than this, Ned,” she whispered. “You may not think so, but I know so.”
He swallowed, his throat suddenly tight and dry. He knew she was right, and he hated it. “I’m marrying Lydia Thornton,” he said, barely able to recognize his voice. “I made my decision months ago, and I will stand by it.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. When she reopened them, they were sad and shiny with tears. “You’re ruining your life.”
“No,” he said shortly, unable to tolerate the discussion any further. “What I’m doing is leaving the room.”
But when he reached the hall, he didn’t know where to go.
It was a sensation he seemed to feel quite a bit lately.
“What took you so long?”
Charlotte started in surprise as she entered her room. Lydia was already there, pacing like a caged cat.
“Well,” Charlotte said, “I turned my ankle earlier today and I can’t walk very quickly. And—” She stopped herself. Better not to mention to Lydia that she’d stopped to talk with the viscount and his sister. Because she’d accidentally mentioned that she was planning to rendezvous with Lydia, and Lydia had told her quite explicitly not to tell anyone.
Not that Charlotte could see what the harm was. But still, Lydia didn’t seem to be in the most even of moods. Charlotte saw no reason to disturb her further.
“How bad is it?” Lydia demanded.
“How bad is what?”
“Your ankle.”
Charlotte looked down as if she’d forgotten it was even there. “Not too terrible, I suppose. I don’t think I’ll be winning any footraces anytime soon, but I don’t need a cane.”
“Good.” Lydia stepped forward, her gray eyes—so very like Charlotte’s own—glittering with excitement. “Because I need your help, and I can’t have you lame.”
“What are you talking about?”
Lydia’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m eloping.”
“With the viscount?”
“No, not with the viscount, you dolt. With Rupert.”
“Rupert?” Charlotte nearly shouted.
“Will you keep your voice down?” Lydia hissed.
“Lydia, are you mad?”
“Madly in love.”
“With Rupert?” Charlotte returned, unable to keep the disbelief from her voice.
Lydia gave her an affronted glare. “He’s certainly more worthy of it than the viscount.”
Charlotte thought about Rupert Marchbanks, the golden-haired self-described scholar who’d lived near the Thornton family for years. There was nothing wrong with Rupert, Charlotte supposed, if one preferred the dreamy type.
The dreamy type who talked too much, if such a thing could exist.
Charlotte grimaced. Such a thing most certainly did exist, and his name was Rupert. The last time he’d been over, Charlotte had feigned a head cold just to escape his never-ending drone about his new volume of poetry.
Charlotte had tried to read his work. It seemed only polite, after all, given that they were neighbors. But after a while, she’d simply had to give up. “Love” always rhyme
d with “dove,” (Where, she wondered, did one locate that many doves in Derbyshire?) and “you” rhymed so often with “dew,” that Charlotte had wanted to grab Rupert by the shoulders and yell, “Few, hue, new, woo, Waterloo!” Good gracious, even “moo” would have been preferable. Rupert’s poetry could surely have been improved by a cow or two.
Saying moo on cue at Waterloo.
But Lydia had always seemed to like him a great deal, and in fact, Charlotte had heard her dub him “Brilliance personified,” on more than one occasion. In retrospect, Charlotte probably should have realized what was going on, but in truth, she found Rupert so ridiculous that it was difficult to imagine anyone might see fit to fall in love with him.
“Lydia,” she said, trying to keep her voice reasonable, “how can you possibly prefer Rupert to the viscount?”
“What do you know of it?” Lydia retorted. “You don’t even know the viscount. And you certainly,” she said with a haughty sniff, “don’t know Rupert.”
“I know he writes bloody awful poetry,” Charlotte muttered.
“What did you just say?” Lydia demanded.
“Nothing,” Charlotte said quickly, eager to avoid that conversation. “Just that I finally had a chance to speak with the viscount today, and he seems like a most reasonable man.”
“He’s awful,” Lydia said, flinging herself onto Charlotte’s bed.
Charlotte rolled her eyes. Please, no hysterics. “Lydia, he’s not at all awful.”
“He has never once recited poetry to me.”
Which seemed to Charlotte like a point in his favor. “And this is a problem?”
“Charlotte, you would never understand. You’re much too young.”
“I’m eleven months younger than you!”
“In years, perhaps,” Lydia said with a dramatic sigh. “But decades in experience.”
“In months!” Charlotte nearly yelled.
Lydia placed a hand over her heart. “Charlotte, I don’t want to have a row with you.”
“Then stop talking like a madwoman. You’re engaged to be married. In three days. Three days!” Charlotte threw up her hands in desperation. “You can’t elope with Rupert Marchbanks!”
Lydia sat up so suddenly that Charlotte felt dizzy. “I can,” she said. “And I will. With your help or without it.”
“Lydia—”
“If you don’t help me, I’ll ask Caroline,” Lydia warned.
“Oh, don’t do that,” Charlotte groaned. “For heaven’s sake, Lydia, Caroline is barely fifteen. It wouldn’t be fair to drag her into something like this.”
“If you won’t do it, I’ll have no choice.”
“Lydia, why did you accept the viscount if you dislike him so?”
Lydia opened her mouth to reply but then fell silent, and an uncharacteristically thoughtful expression crossed her face. For once she wasn’t being dramatic for the sake of drama. For once she wasn’t going on about love and romance and poetry and tender emotions. And when Charlotte looked at her, for once all she saw was her beloved sister with whom she’d shared almost everything. Her very childhood, even.
“I don’t know,” Lydia finally said, her voice soft and tinged with regret. “I suppose I thought it was what was expected. No one ever thought I’d receive a proposal from an aristocrat. Mother and Father were so thrilled by the offer. He’s quite eligible, you know.”
“I’d gathered,” Charlotte said, since she’d had no firsthand experience on the marriage mart herself. Unlike Lydia, she’d never had a London season. The money simply hadn’t been there. But she hadn’t minded. She’d spent her entire life in the southeast corner of Derbyshire, and she fully expected to spend the remainder there as well. The Thorntons weren’t on their way to the poorhouse, but they were forever robbing Peter to pay Paul—it was expensive, Mrs. Thornton was always saying, to keep up appearances. Charlotte thought it a wonder that they’d never had to sell off the parcel of land that was serving as Lydia’s dowry.
But Charlotte hadn’t minded the lack of the season. The only way they would have been able to pay for one would have been to sell off every last horse in the stables, which her father was not willing to do. (And the truth was, neither was Charlotte; she was much too fond of her mare to trade her in for a couple of fancy dresses.) Besides, twenty-one wasn’t considered too old to marry in these parts, and she certainly didn’t feel like an old maid. Once Lydia was married and out of the house, Charlotte was sure that her parents would turn their attention to her.
Although she wasn’t quite certain that was a good thing.
“And I suppose he’s handsome,” Lydia conceded.
Far more so than Rupert, Charlotte thought, but she kept that to herself.
“And he’s wealthy,” Lydia said with a sigh. “I’m not mercenary—”
Obviously not, if she was planning to wed penniless Rupert.
“—but it’s difficult to refuse someone who is going to provide dowries and seasons for one’s younger sisters.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened. “He is?”
Lydia nodded. “He hasn’t said as much, but the money would be a pittance to him, and he did tell Father that he would make sure the Thorntons would be provided for. Which would have to include the lot of you, wouldn’t it? You’re Thorntons, just as much as I am.”
Charlotte sank down into her desk chair. She had no idea that Lydia had been making such a sacrifice on her behalf. And on Caroline’s and Georgina’s, of course. Four daughters were a stunning burden on the Thornton family budget.
Then an awful thought occurred to Charlotte. Who was paying for the wedding festivities? The viscount, she supposed, but one could hardly expect him to do so if Lydia was going to jilt him. Had he already forwarded funds to the Thorntons, or had her mother made all of the (very expensive) arrangements with the understanding that Lord Burwick would reimburse her?
Which he most certainly would not do after he was left dangling at the altar.
Dear God, what a coil.
“Lydia,” Charlotte said with renewed urgency, “you must marry the viscount. You must.” And she told herself that she wasn’t saying it simply to save her own skin or to save her family from ruin. She honestly believed that of Lydia’s two suitors, Ned Blydon was the better man. Rupert wasn’t bad; he wasn’t going to do anything to hurt Lydia. But he spent money he didn’t have and was forever talking about things like metaphysics and higher emotions.
Truly, it was often difficult to listen to him without laughing.
Ned, on the other hand, seemed solid and dependable. Handsome and intelligent, with a rapier wit, and when he spoke, it was about topics that were actually interesting. He was everything a woman could want in a husband, at least in Charlotte’s opinion. Why Lydia couldn’t see that, Charlotte would never understand.
“I can’t do it,” Lydia said. “I just can’t. If I didn’t love Rupert, it would be different. I could accept marriage to someone I didn’t love if that were my only choice. But it’s not. Don’t you see? I have another choice. And I choose love.”
“Are you certain you love Rupert?” Charlotte asked, knowing she was wincing as she asked the question. But what if this was just a silly infatuation? Lydia wouldn’t be the first woman to ruin her life over a schoolgirl crush, but Charlotte didn’t care about all those other unhappy women—they weren’t her sister.
“I do,” Lydia whispered. “With all of my heart.”
Heart, Charlotte thought dispassionately. She thought she remembered Rupert rhyming it with dart. And once with cart, although that had seemed rather odd.
“And besides,” Lydia added, “it’s too late.”
Charlotte glanced at the clock. “Too late for what?”
“For me to marry the viscount.”
“I don’t understand. The wedding isn’t for another three days.”
“I can’t marry him.”
Charlotte fought the urge to growl. “Yes, you’ve said as much.”
??
?No, I mean I can’t.”
The word hung ominously in the air, and then Charlotte felt something explode inside of her. “Oh, no, Lydia, you didn’t!”
Lydia nodded, and not with a single ounce of shame or remorse. “I did.”
“How could you?” Charlotte demanded.
Lydia sighed dreamily. “How could I not?”
“Well,” Charlotte retorted, “you could have said no.”
“You can’t say no to Rupert,” Lydia murmured.
“Well, you can’t, that’s for certain.”
“No one could,” Lydia said, now smiling beatifically. “I’m so lucky he’s chosen me.”
“Oh, for the love of God,” Charlotte muttered. She got up to pace the floor, then nearly howled in pain when she remembered her poor, abused ankle. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to marry Rupert,” Lydia said, the dreamy look in her eyes rather startlingly replaced by clearheaded determination.
“You’re not being fair to the viscount,” Charlotte pointed out.
“I know,” Lydia said, her face colored by enough remorse that Charlotte rather thought she meant it. “But I don’t know what else to do. If I tell Mother and Father, they will lock me in my room for certain.”
“Well, then, for heaven’s sake, if you’re going to elope, you must do so tonight. The sooner the better. It’s not fair to leave the poor man hanging.”
“I can’t do it until Friday night.”
“Why the devil not?”
“Rupert won’t be ready.”
“Well, then, make him be ready,” Charlotte ground out. “If you don’t elope until Friday night, no one will know until Saturday morning, and that means that everyone will be gathered in the church when you don’t show up.”
“We can’t go without money,” Lydia explained, “and Rupert can’t get the bank to release his funds until Friday afternoon.”
“I didn’t know Rupert had funds,” Charlotte muttered, unable to be polite at such a moment.
“He doesn’t,” Lydia said, apparently not taking any offense. “But he does receive a quarterly allowance from his uncle. And he won’t get that until Friday. The bank is most insistent.”
Charlotte groaned. It made sense. If she were in charge of doling out Rupert’s quarterly allowance, she wouldn’t give it to him a day earlier than the first of April, either.