ChapterOne
It was not often one was invited to a ball hosted by the Duke of Hexham, and the impoverished Calore family was not insensible of the honor attached to the invitation.
“Just fancy,” Marcella said, examining her appearance before the speckled mirror, twirling her skirts. As the Earl of Lowood’s sister, she had endeavored to procure the nicest dress for herself: a muslin and lace concoction in the palest pink. “The Duke will be there, andI’veheard he’s on the look for a wife now that Constance is settled.”
“Marcella,” Charlotte sighed. Her dress was the same she had worn for three events in a row, and despite her maid’s best efforts, the pale green material did nothing for her complexion. “I hardly suppose the Duke is the type to concern himself overly much with his sister. And do you think of nothing but marriage?”
“With the Duke? What else is one supposed to think?” Marcella jerked her head away from her lady’s maid. “Watch where you’re putting those needles.”
Her maid ducked her head. “I’m sorry, My Lady.”
“And why would a Duke wish to ally himself with this family?” Charlotte demanded. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we don’t have a penny to our name, and Cousin Sebastian cannot fix this on his own.”
Marcella patted her dark hair and glared at Charlotte in the mirror. Charlotte recognized the spiteful look, the way Marcella’s lips pinched in both disgust and disapproval. “Perhaps,” Marcella said, her words poisonous, “you would like to be the one tofix this.”
“If you mean that I wish I could marry to spare Sebastian the burden of providing for me, then you are correct.”
“As though you don’t intend to pursue the Duke.” Thinking herself vindicated, Marcella turned her attention back to her reflection. “You’re just jealous he will inevitably prefer me.”
“The prevailing fashionisfor dark hair, you’re right,” Charlotte mused, and Marcella smiled triumphantly, “but shallow beauty will only appeal to shallow men. If the Duke is shallow enough that he does not mind your personality, then you are more than welcome to him.”
“Youhussy.”
Charlotte’s mother, Anastasia, the Dowager Countess of Lowood, opened the door and cast a stern gaze over the two girls in the dressing room.
“I could hear you arguing from down the hall,” she said. “What can there be to argue about on such a day?”
“Charlottethinks I am ugly on the inside,” Marcella said.
“I said no such thing—you said that all by yourself.”
“You implied it.”
“You are determined to throw yourself at the Duke of Hexham despite his reputation.”
“Enough.” Charlotte’s mother held up both hands. “I will not hear any more on this subject.”
“He is arake,” Charlotte said; this time her words were pleading, and she met Marcella’s gaze in the mirror. “A man such as that cannot make you happy, Mar.”
“He is a Duke, and his consequence will be enough to satisfy me,” Marcella snapped. “You will not take this chance of happiness from me.”
“Finish Lady Marcella’s hair,” the Countess said to the maid. “Charlotte, come with me. Your cousin is waiting downstairs. Marcella, you may arrive when you are done, and I want to hear no more of this from either of you.”
With another sigh, Charlotte gathered herself and walked downstairs. There was only so long her cousin could continue to maintain the townhouse, she reflected, looking around the home that had been hers so long she couldn’t imagine losing it. Once her father’s debts had been fully paid, there would be nothing left—and providing for her and Marcella’s Seasons all at once was no doubt another pressing financial concern, although Sebastian would not hear of her mentioning it.
But her dress alone was evidence enough that there was little money for them and more need for her to marry and make a match. As detestable as this evening’s entertainment would be—for she had no interest in attending the home of such a notable rake—at least she might find a gentleman who would not mind her lack of dowry or connection to a family in such dire straits.
Sebastian, as promised, waited for her in the drawing room, already dressed in a smart waistcoat and jacket. They were not the prevailing fashion, but his Hessians were well polished, and his breeches fitted well to his legs.
“I have never known such a thing as ladies’ dressing,” Sebastian said, turning to her. Like Marcella, he had dark hair swept back from his face and hazel eyes that often held a twinkle, like now. “I heard the argument from downstairs. Pray, what have you found to argue about now?”
“The Duke of Hexham, of all things,” Charlotte’s mother said, casting her hands to the sky. “Consider, nephew—we have not yet reached the ball, and they are already arguing about the prospect of marriage.”
Sebastian raised an eyebrow at Charlotte. “Surely you are not considering marriage with a man of that reputation?”
The way Sebastian framed the question irked Charlotte; she knew that his earlier days had involved gambling and excess just like every man’s youth, but she merely smiled. “It is not I who intends to pursue him, cousin.”
“I am glad of it,” Sebastian said, still with that frown. “Though I condemn Marcella’s taste.” Privately, Charlotte thought it reflected Marcella’s personality rather well; she had always been attracted to power, no matter its origins, and she cared little what she had to do to attain that power. If Charlotte had been her brother—
