Page 5 of To Have & To Hold

He looked up from the list in his hand. “And what, precisely, doestragicmean?”

“You know…” she waved a dismissive hand. “Dark and brooding. Preferably with a mysterious past.”

Nathaniel let the information sink in before responding. “I have been told that I brood,” he said flatly. “Does that make me tragic?”

Charlotte leaned forward, patting his hand. “You are the most tragic man I know, dear brother.”

She plucked the list from his hand, examining it as though it were her greatest accomplishment. “But sadly, you are not sociable or interesting enough to qualify for any of these other categories. If a young woman were to include you on their potential suitors list, they would have to rank you underunmarried, rich Duke.But if it makes you feel better, you would be at the top of the category.”

Nathaniel pressed his fingers against his temple as his headache came rushing back. “Remind me again why I agreed to bring you to London this season?”

“Because you love me,” Charlotte replied, leaning forward to brush a quick kiss in the air beside his cheek. “And because the sooner you marry me off, the sooner you are rid of me.”

Nathaniel felt something tug sharply in his chest at the thought. Charlotte was exhausting, but the idea of no longer hearing her stockinged feet racing through the halls or her laughter echoing through the gardens affected him far more than he cared to admit.

He knew one day she would marry, just like their sister Adeline had, and he would truly be alone.

“Besides,” Charlotte said, rising from her chair and heading toward the door with an unmistakable bounce in her step. “I only need a little scandal. Just enough to be interesting—nothing ruinous.”

“Charlotte,” Nathaniel called, earning a wicked smile as she turned back to him from the doorway. “What have we discussed regarding scandals?”

“That they are inevitable?”

“That they are avoidable,” he groaned. “If you behave.”

She glanced down at her list once more, her smile deepening. “Definebehave, YourGrace.”

Chapter Two

Emilia learned long ago to recognize the sound of her uncle’s displeasure. It wasn’t loud, for Lord Moorfield did not raise his voice often—that would have been crude. Instead, his displeasure lived in his silence and words chosen for their ability to wound with a hidden edge. It was in one of those silences that Emilia now sat, her eyes fixed on the ink and stationery in front of her.

She sensed his mood the moment she walked into the room. Nothing had been said, but the way his gaze had slid past her as though she were an inconvenience, rather than the daughter of his only sister, told her everything she needed to know. If it were not for the fact that her aunt had specificallyrequested her help finalizing the invitations for their annual dinner party, Emilia would have already left the room.

“The Beckley ball will be well attended,” Lord Moorfield said at last, breaking his deafening silence. “I have confirmed our place on the guest list.”

Across the room, Louisa looked up from her embroidery.

“Will Lord Whitcombe be there?” she asked eagerly.

“He will,” he replied. The smile that touched his lips sent a chill down Emilia’s spine. “He has just returned to town and has promised the Beckleys his attendance.”

Emilia’s fingers tightened around her pen.

Lord Whitcombe was not a young man, nor was he kind—at least not from what Emilia had heard whispered from behind fans and parasols. But he was a Viscount; one with a fortune large enough to distract from the reputation that followed him from his vast country estate.

Lady Moorfield smiled, her satisfaction matching her husband’s. “This is an excellent opportunity, Louisa.”

Louisa preened. “When he sees my new gown, he will be utterly incapable of noticing anyone else.”

Emilia swallowed, her heart tightening at the innocent eagerness. There was little chance Lord Whitcombe would notice anything beyond the size of her dowry.

“Louisa is still only sixteen,” she said carefully, testing the room before continuing. “Perhaps waiting another year—”

Her uncle’s sharp gaze flicked to her, cutting her off mid-thought. “Louisa will be seventeen at the time she is presented. It is a perfectly acceptable age.”

“Quite,” her aunt added, not even bothering to raise her gaze to Emilia, her eyes set pointedly on Louisa. “Lord Moorfield has already been in correspondence with Lord Whitcombe, and he is very eager to make your acquaintance.”

Louisa sat a little taller, her chest puffing out with pride.