Page 62 of Duke of Sapphire

“We’re going inside,” Charlotte told him. “Mrs. Ellison will find you something in the kitchen.”

Ian’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of somethin'?”

“Shortbread, I should think.”

He considered this. “All right,” he said, and walked past them toward the kitchen door.

Henry went to find Lord Ashford.

The man standing at the window of the blue sitting room was built solidly, with the thick shoulders of someone who had once been strong and had gone to heaviness with age. His coat was excellent. His expression, when he turned, was not.

“Sappherton,” the Earl said. Just the one word, like a door closing.

“Ashford.” Henry moved into the room and did not gesture toward a seat. “I understand you wished to call.”

“You can imagine my surprise on discovering your absurd marriage.” The Earl’s eyes went past Henry to Charlotte, who had come in behind him and stopped near the door. “Charlotte.”

Charlotte said, “Father.”

The Earl looked at her for a moment, and whatever he saw, it did not soften him. “Go and wait upstairs. I will speak to the Duke alone.”

“She stays,” Henry said.

The Earl glared at him. “I was not speaking to you.”

“Nevertheless,” Henry said. “Charlotte stays.”

A long beat.

“Then we will use your study,” the Earl said. “I will not conduct a family matter in a sitting room.”

Henry led them down the hall.

He stood near the window. Charlotte was beside the desk. Her father stood at the center of the room as though he owned it, which was, Henry noted, a specific choice.

“You have made an exhibition of yourself,” the Earl said to Charlotte. “Do you have any conception of what the last three weeks have been like for me? The inquiries, the gossip, the questions I have been required to answer?” He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. “I want you packed and home before evening.”

Charlotte said, “I am home.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“This is my home.” She kept her voice even, but Henry could see her hands were pressed flat to the sides of her dress. “I am married.”

“You are married,” the Earl agreed, and the word landed like an accusation. “Without my consent. Without consultation. You ran off in the middle of the night and made a circus of the entire affair and I am expected to—what, exactly? Congratulate you?”

“I am not asking for congratulations.”

“What are you asking for, then?”

Charlotte opened her mouth.

“Because what you have done,” the Earl continued, “is demonstrate to every drawing room in England that you are ungovernable. That my daughter cannot be trusted to conduct herself with the most basic⁠—”

“I left a match I did not want,” Charlotte said. “I do not see why that reflects on you.”

“Everything you do reflects on me. You are my daughter.”

“I was your daughter. I am now the Duchess of Sappherton.”