“Well, I was rather hoping you might take a turn about the promenade with me. It’s a lovely day to be outside. I took myhorse out this morning, and it’s quite splendid weather.” He grinned at her, showing teeth that were disturbingly yellow for a man of his station who couldn’t be much older than William.
“Oh, that would be wonderful, except….” Charlotte cast her mind about for a suitable excuse, ignoring her mother’s glare. “I’m afraid I turned my ankle coming out of the Steeles’ yesterday,” she improvised quickly. “I need to rest it.”
Her mother’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. Charlotte sipped her tea again, avoiding her eyes.
Sir Roger looked crestfallen. “Well, that is a shame. I do hope it heals quickly. Some other time?”
“Of course, that would be… nice.”
Sir Roger beamed, clearly not getting the hint. Instead, he moved a little closer to her, and she caught a stronger whiff of his pungent scent. Between Sir Roger’s attentions and her mother’s steady perusal of her, Charlotte felt trapped, and anxiety rose up in her.
“I, erm, seem to be coming down with a headache,” she said, imploring her mother with her eyes, but this time Lady Fitzgerald ignored her, her stiff shoulders making it clear that she was thoroughly unimpressed with Charlotte’s conduct.
There was no getting out of it, she realized. She would have to make conversation with the man. His thigh brushed up against hers in what she was sure was no mistake.
“So,” she said, angling her body away from his as much as she could, “you say you were out on your horse this morning? My brother loves to ride too.”
“Yes. I was hunting on my father’s estate—just outside of London, you know. He has some prime deer, brought down from his estate at the New Forest. We’re a hunting family, and I’m a crack shot.”
Charlotte’s stomach turned. She was fond of animals, and deer were at once so graceful and majestic…. The thought of them being hunted down by this awful man was abhorrent.
“I’m not a fan of hunting, I’m afraid,” she said in her primmest voice, hoping that would put him off.
Instead, he let out a great guffaw of a laugh that made even her mother jump.
“Well, I wouldn’t expect you to be, my dear.” He chuckled, slurping at his tea. “Young ladies are much too delicate for that sort of thing, I suppose. No, you must leave such pastimes to us men.”
Sir Roger’s grin was wide, revealing his unfortunate teeth once again. Charlotte allowed herself the smallest exhalation of frustration behind her teacup, hoping her annoyance was not too plain on her face. Though how the man could miss the careful control of her expression was beyond her understanding. He seemed incapable of intuiting the mood. Or her.
Her mother cleared her throat softly from the other side of the room. Charlotte felt a surge of resentment that Lady Fitzgerald was subjecting her to this discomfort. Charlotte knew that her mother was desperate to see her betrothed, but surely not to this odious little man? She couldn’t imagine anyone more unsuitable.
“Indeed, Sir Roger,” she said evenly, placing her teacup down on the saucer with delicate care. “I’m sure some men quite excel at those pursuits.” She maintained a tone of vague disinterest, hoping he would lose enthusiasm for the conversation if he realized she was not going to simper and flutter at him.
Instead, Sir Roger leaned forward, reducing the already limited space between them even further. She caught another whiff of his sweat-laced aroma and had to stiffen her spine to keep from recoiling.
“Hunting is only one of my talents,” he said. “I also know a thing or two about horseflesh. Perhaps when your ankle is recovered, I might show you my stables. My father’s estate is only a short carriage ride away.”
Charlotte opened her mouth, desperate to refuse, when she caught sight of her mother’s narrowed gaze. The warning was clear: Do not refuse him again. Her mother’s motives were transparent. If Charlotte could not charm the Duke of Arundel—or any other worthy candidate—perhaps she could be steered toward a man who, while not a duke, was at least from a noble family.
Lady Fitzgerald’s priorities were never more obvious: Charlotte was to marry, and soon, and if that meant suffering through performing some distasteful courtesies, so be it.
But Charlotte had standards—surely her mother did too? For all her emphasis on station and propriety, Lady Fitzgerald was no fool. Perhaps she simply wished to see if Charlotte would stand up for herself, or gauge what she truly desired. Charlotte could hope.
“That would be… interesting,” Charlotte managed, choosing each word slowly and carefully, “but I really cannot say when I’ll be recovered.” She gave him her most apologetic smile, praying he would accept the hint this time. “One never knows with these little twists and sprains.”
He patted his knee as though they had shared a great joke. “Ah, yes. Women are more fragile in that regard. Still, I won’t give up hope.”
The patronizing tone made Charlotte’s stomach twist. She glanced at her mother again, but Lady Fitzgerald’s face was impassive.
Charlotte decided to try a more subtle deflection. “Do you enjoy attending concerts such as last night’s recital?” She asked this in the mildest tone she could manage, hoping to steer theconversation toward something harmless—and perhaps boring enough that he’d run out of steam.
Sir Roger shrugged, apparently unimpressed by the topic. “I’m not much for music unless it has a good marching tempo,” he said. “I find all that tinkling on pianos and scraping on violins rather tedious. Give me a good hunt, a strong horse, and a fine roast at the end of the day, and I’m satisfied.”
Charlotte’s heart sank. Such a man had nothing in common with her or her interests. Not that a husband and wife needed perfectly aligned passions, she imagined, but surely they must have something in common, or what would a couple talk about every day?
Although that was the least of Charlotte’s objections to her would-be suitor. She eyed him surreptitiously over her teacup, taking in his bushy brows, eager expression, and air of pompous entitlement.
She glanced at the ornate clock above the piano, hoping that this would prompt Sir Roger to politely take his leave, but it seemed the man was either impervious to subtle hints or simply too self-involved to notice them. Instead of rising to depart, he remained seated, looking completely comfortable. The silence stretched, taut as a violin string, and Charlotte desperately searched for a way to break it without encouraging him to linger.
