Page 1 of Duke of Sapphire

CHAPTER 1

“You will marry him!”

Charlotte watched her father’s reflection in the window. It looked larger than his actual person, which was saying something, as Lord Ashford was no stranger to imposing his presence on a room or, for that matter, an entire household.

His face hovered above the morning newsprint like a storm cloud with spectacles.

She tried to find her voice. “You said—only two days ago—that nothing had been decided.”

“Nothing had been decided,” he said, “because I was waiting for Lord Redmont to approach me properly. He has, and now it is settled. The arrangement is everything I could have wished for.” He snapped the paper straight and turned a page, as though she were a footman bringing the wrong tea.

Charlotte stared at the wax gleam on the sideboard, her hand pressed flat to its edge. “Father, I barely know Lord Redmont. I met him once at Lady Hewes’s garden party. And he—he said nothing but how the light made my hair look like a rowan tree.”

“He admires your hair,” the Earl said as though his daughter had just won a livestock prize. “A good sign.”

“That is not a good sign,” she said. “It is the sign of a person who cannot think of what to say about the rest of me.” Charlotte took a breath. “He did not ask about my interests. Or speak of his own. Or look at me except when you were looking.”

Her father closed the paper, folded it into a neat band, and set it aside. The storm cloud now hovered directly over her. “You are an Ashford,” he said. “That is all any man needs to know.”

The certainty in his voice grated down her spine. “Surely you want me to be happy?”

“Happy!” He barked it out, a single note, then caught himself and smiled. “I want you secure. I want you well-married. That is how daughters find contentment. Lord Redmont is a Marquess, and his property adjoins ours at three points. The match doubles our standing and brings considerable benefit.”

“What about me?”

He eyed her over the spectacles. “You will be a Marchioness with wealth and respect, and a husband whose habits are beyond reproach.” He leaned back, making the chair protest. “The arrangement is a privilege, Charlotte. Most young ladies would be grateful for the opportunity.”

Charlotte’s jaw tightened. “What if I cannot stand him?”

Her father’s smile faded. “Then you will learn to. He is not an ogre, nor are you so delicate.” He picked up a letter from his desk. “Your mother learned to like me well enough, after all.” His face flickered as he said it, like he’d stubbed a toe on the memory.

Charlotte stared at the pattern of tea stains on the rug. If she squinted, they resembled isolated islands on an empty map. Her father had spent years dictating the boundaries of her world from the comfort of this very room, never noticing that she was the one trapped on the shore.

He adjusted his spectacles. “This is not a negotiation. I expect you to show proper gratitude when you meet Lord Redmont tomorrow. You will accept his proposal. You will marry him within a fortnight. Do you understand?”

She wanted to shout. She wanted to fling the teapot at the wall, or, better yet, at his head. Instead, she gave the smallest possible nod.

“Good.” He said it as if he’d just won a particularly slow chess match. “You may go.”

Charlotte walked out before she had the chance to scream.

She made for the library. Always the library, always the only room that belonged to her, even when nothing else did. She pressed her hand to the door frame and hesitated. Inside, the light was pale, leaking through the glass at an angle that made every speck of dust look like it was trying to get her attention.

She selected a book at random—a volume on Venetian history—and sat with it in the window seat, legs drawn up, skirt wrinkling without regard for the day’s schedule.

Charlotte read the same sentence five times: The Doge’s daughter was imprisoned for refusing a marriage she found unpalatable. She could not help but think the Doge’s daughter had enjoyed more options than herself.

She set the book aside and looked out at the autumn garden. Even the hedges seemed resentful of their shaping, as if they had tried to escape and only been sheared shorter for their trouble.

“I do not want this,” she whispered, her breath fogging the glass. If only there was a way to send the words to someone who mattered. Looking up toward the sky, her throat tightened. “Mama, what advice would you give your daughter if you were here?”

She tried to imagine another life. One where her mother was alive and Charlotte was still shielded from her father. Or a city, perhaps, where a person could walk down the street without someone noting who her father was and how she might be improved. Or a cottage, somewhere on a hill, with a goat and a kitchen garden and nobody to answer to except the goat.

She looked down at her hands; at the pale crescent marks her nails had left in her palm.

Once, she could always imagine a different future. Lately, the stories she told herself ended up in the same place: alone, or trapped, or boxed in by somebody else’s plans.

She picked up the book again. It did not help. She set it down harder.