Page 97 of Duke of Sapphire

Henry followed him into the hall.

Redmont was already at the foot of the stairs when Charlotte came down them. She stopped on the third step. Her face did not change—she was better at this than most people gave her credit for—but her hand had gone to the banister.

“Your Grace.” Redmont looked up at her with that smile.

“Lord Redmont.” Her voice was even. “I was not aware you had called.”

“A brief visit.” He settled his hat atop his head. “Sappherton has been most hospitable.” He tilted his head at her, the way he had in the ballroom corridor, the studied warmth that went nowhere. “You look well.”

“Thank you.” She came down the last three steps. She kept herself very straight. “I hope your business nearby has been productive.”

“Reasonably so.” A beat. “Your father is still incredibly angry, you know. I thought you ought to hear it plainly rather than through rumor.”

Charlotte’s chin came up a quarter inch.

“There is also some talk,” Redmont continued pleasantly, “about the suddenness of the match. People will draw their own conclusions. I’m sure you are aware of it. Some question whether⁠—”

“I am aware of what people say,” Charlotte said. “I have been aware of it since the Caldwell ball.”

“Of course.” Redmont picked at a glove seam. “I only think it worth considering. Your father’s connections. The legal questions that have been raised.” He glanced at Henry, then back. “These things have a way of becoming inconvenient.”

“I have no regrets,” Charlotte said.

“No.” Redmont looked at her. “I imagine you believe that.”

“I do not merely believe it,” she said. “It is a fact.”

Redmont smiled. It was a different smile from the one he’d worn in the sitting room. Smaller. More private. “You were always very certain, Charlotte. It was one of the things I most—” He stopped himself. “Well.” He inclined his head. “One day you may think differently.” He turned toward the door. The butler opened it. “Good day, Sappherton. Your Grace.”

He went, and the door closed. Henry looked at Charlotte.

She was standing at the foot of the stairs with her hand still on the newel post, and she was looking at the door with the expression she used when she was making herself not feel something quickly. Her chin was still up. Her posture was entirely correct. She looked exactly as she always did.

Except for her hand. She was pressing her thumb hard against the carved wood.

“Charlotte,” Henry said.

“I am perfectly fine.” She turned. “He is simply a man who cannot bear to be refused. I knew that.” She moved toward the drawing room. “Shall I ring for tea?”

“In a moment.” He followed her in. “What did he say? Before I came out.”

“You heard the exchange.”

“I heard the end of it.”

She sat. She smoothed her skirts with one hand, an automatic gesture, the kind she made when she was settling down from the inside. “He told me my father is still furious. People are questioning the marriage’s validity. They say I acted on impulse and may come to regret it.” She looked out of the window. “The usual catalogue.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I told him I had no regrets and he left.” She looked back at Henry. “It was nothing I had not already heard.”

“But it rattled you.”

She opened her mouth.

“Charlotte.”

She closed it. She looked at her hands for a moment. “It is not Redmont,” she said at last. “Redmont I can manage. I have managed him twice now and I will manage him again if it comes to it.” She paused. “It is my father. He mentioned my father.” She turned the cuff of her sleeve once, a small, tight motion. “Every time someone mentions him, I go—smaller. I told you about that. I know I do it. I can see myself doing it.” She looked up. “I cannot seem to stop.”