Her mother, too, appeared uncertain how to proceed. Lady Fitzgerald’s fan fluttered in her hand, and the fine muscles along her jaw were tense.
“Er, how do you find London at this time of year?” Charlotte ventured, hoping a banal topic might carry them through these last excruciating moments.
Leonard’s face brightened. “Ah, London,” he said grandly, “a bustling hive of civilization, to be sure. Still, I find I prefer the countryside, where I can indulge in my favorite pastime without hindrance.”
Charlotte tried not to sigh. He would bring up hunting again.
“Which is hunting, of course!” It was clearly his favorite subject too. He beamed, apparently oblivious to the flicker of discomfort that crossed Charlotte’s face. “Nothing finer than the thrill of the chase, I say. My father’s estate is full of game—deer, pheasants, even the occasional boar if one is lucky enough. Just last week, I managed to bag a fine stag. Antlers like a crown on the poor beast’s head!” He laughed heartily, oblivious to how Charlotte paled at the image.
Her stomach lurched. She did not relish the idea of animals brought down for sport. A sudden image flared in her mind: A graceful creature fleeing through dappled sunlight, only to be cut down by a man’s bullet. Nausea rolled through her. How could anyone boast so eagerly of such a cruel pastime?
She was beginning to feel a little like a deer in Sir Roger’s sights herself. She shot a look of panic at Lady Fitzgerald, silently pleading with her mother to release her from this torture.
Her mother cleared her throat. “I’m sure country pursuits can be… invigorating,” Lady Fitzgerald said evenly. “But many gentlemen of good breeding also enjoy art, museums, or even charity work in Town. Have you any such interests, Sir Roger?”
He shrugged as though this were a strange question. “I’ve not much patience for art or artifacts, I’m afraid. As for charity—well, that’s best left to the ladies, don’t you think? You have tenderer hearts for such matters.”
Charlotte pressed her lips tightly together. The more he spoke, the more boorish he seemed. Based on her mother’s expression, she agreed. She opened her mouth, no doubt to smooth matters over, when Sir Roger suddenly leaned toward Charlotte again.
“If your ankle continues to trouble you, my lady, I know a splendid remedy. Though I suppose a delicate lady might needsomething less vigorous—perhaps a sip of brandy? My father swears by it for all ailments.”
Charlotte almost choked on her own frustration. “I—no, thank you, I do not partake of spirits,” she said, trying to remain polite. “I’m sure rest will suffice.” She set her cup down with exaggerated care, every movement controlled. If she let her emotions slip, she might say something truly unforgivable, like begging him never to return or talk to her again.
The ensuing silence was broken only by the faint ticking of the mantel clock. After what felt like an eternity, Sir Roger seemed to realize he had exhausted his store of conversational topics. He placed his empty teacup on the table and patted his knee, as if preparing to rise.
“Well, then,” he said at last, “I suppose I should not overstay my welcome. Your company has been charming, Lady Charlotte, Lady Fitzgerald.” He stood and bowed low, sending a faint whiff of that cloying cologne and perspiration that Charlotte already despised. “I wish you a swift recovery, my lady,” he said to Charlotte. “And I do hope to call again soon, when you are fully recovered for our walk.”
Charlotte managed a thin smile and a stiff curtsy. “Thank you, Sir Roger. You are most kind.”
Her mother stood as well, folding her fan neatly. “Thank you for your visit,” she said smoothly. “We appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
Charlotte held her breath until the footman had escorted Sir Roger out the door. The moment the latch clicked shut, she exhaled in relief and pressed a hand to her temple.
Her mother turned to her, displeasure not hidden from her voice. In fact, she looked outright angry. “I am not often left at a loss for words, Charlotte, but I fear that was one of the most blatant excuses I have ever heard. You are not injured, and thereis nothing wrong with your ankle. Why create such fabrications? I was most embarrassed!”
Charlotte’s cheeks heated. “Because I don’t like him, Mother. I do not wish to be courted by him or have him think I am in any way interested. The very idea makes my skin crawl. I don’t know why you seemed so happy for him to call on me.”
Her mother raised a cool eyebrow and swept her hand toward the door of the drawing room. “Do you see anyone else calling? Anyone at all?”
That stung. Hiding her face so as not to show the sudden tears that had sprung to her eyes, Charlotte sat down again heavily.
Her mother sighed loudly. “I am sorry, dear,” she said in a gentler tone. “But he is of good family, not so old as many men who seek a bride, and he has no scandal attached to his name that I’m aware of. What is it about him that so offends you? He is a good match. He has a reasonable enough fortune to keep you in a manner you are accustomed to, but not enough that he will expect a bigger dowry. This would be a very respectable match.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened. How could her mother not see it? Was everything about money and status? “He’s coarse,” she said, striving to remain calm, although inside she felt far from it. “His manners are dreadful, his hygiene questionable, his every other word a boast of killing some poor creature for sport. Did you not hear how he actually laughed at the notion that a young lady might not enjoy hunting? And he spoke of charity as though it were beneath him.”
Lady Fitzgerald tilted her head slightly. “Many gentlemen hunt, my dear. It’s not uncommon, and you should not hold such an aversion to it. As for his conversation…. Well, not every suitor will be a poet or philosopher. Some men are more direct. And he is not so very old—he must be what, eight-and-twenty? Barely older than your brother.”
Charlotte clenched her hands in her lap. “Yes, but one can be older without being so… unrefined. He gave me no sense that he values anything I might hold dear. He seemed interested only in bragging about himself and… and staring at me as though I were a prize on display.”
Her mother’s gaze softened slightly. “I see. You feel he does not respect you.” She paused, letting that hang in the air. “I understand such concerns, Charlotte. Truly, I do. But as I’ve told you before, not every courtship will begin with fireworks of admiration and understanding. Some marriages settle into comfort and tolerance rather than romance. Practicality counts for much in our world.”
Charlotte shook her head. “I cannot live a lifetime with a man who sets my teeth on edge at the very first meeting. If I must marry, let it be to someone who at least tries to understand me—or at the very least does not actively repel me.”
Lady Fitzgerald sighed, turning to face the window. Outside, the summer sunlight fell softly on the neat garden, where roses and jasmine bloomed in delicate profusion. “Such idealism,” she murmured, almost to herself. “I only want to ensure your future is secure.”
Charlotte blinked back another unexpected sting in her eyes. Lady Fitzgerald had sounded almost loving. “And I appreciate that, Mother. But how secure can a future be if every day is a trial, every conversation a torment?” She took a step forward, her voice earnest. “You said he’s not old and he’s from a good family—but none of that matters if I cannot respect him. Nor he me. I beg you, do not encourage him to call again.”
Her mother weighed Charlotte’s words for a long moment, the silence broken only by the distant murmur of voices from the servants’ quarters below. At last, she folded her fan and turned back to her daughter. There was resignation, and perhaps a hint of regret, in her eyes.
