Page 2 of Duke of Sapphire

“You will marry him!”

It echoed again, this time inside her skull, bouncing off every wall. If she listened too long, it started to sound almost reasonable.

Charlotte closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the glass. “I will not,” she whispered.

The world outside stayed cold, and very, very still.

“—a dowry like that is hard to refuse, George. If you ever tire of the girl, send her my way.”

Laughter snapped down the hallway, raw and sudden, and Charlotte froze outside the study. She flattened herself to the wall. The next voice was her father’s, lighter than she’d ever heard it. “You would not know what to do with her, Pemberton. Redmont will make a Marchioness of her, and I will finally have a peaceful drawing room.”

“She does have spirit, your Charlotte. I imagine that’s more useful than you admit.”

“Not to a husband. And not to a family line.” Her father’s voice hardened. “The arrangement is final. I have signed the settlements; the ceremony is a formality.”

The word settlements was a punch to the gut. Charlotte’s feelings, her spirit, and her even wishes had never been considered in the discussion at all.

She stepped away before she could hear more, footsteps light on the carpet, up the stairs and away—anywhere but the echo of his voice. Her pulse thudded against her throat.

She did not slow until she reached her own room. She locked the door. The window was gray with pre-evening mist and her own reflection in it looked almost transparent, like a ghost who had never mattered to anyone.

She rang the bell for Edith.

The maid appeared at the door, her cap askew. “Lady Charlotte?”

Charlotte turned, unable to keep the urgency from her face. “It is time.”

Edith’s eyes went wide. “But—surely, my lady⁠—”

“The proposal is happening tomorrow. My father said the ceremony is a formality.” She choked on the last word.

Edith set her jaw, smoothing her apron with trembling hands. “You do not have to do this, you know. You are clever. You could⁠—”

“He’s signed the settlements. There is no cleverness left. My father just sold me to Lord Redmont.” Her voice came out flat, too loud. Charlotte blinked until the burn behind her eyes vanished.

Edith deflated. “I have prepared everything. If you are certain⁠—”

“I am,” Charlotte said, before certainty could desert her.

“Then we must cut your hair.”

Charlotte drew herself up. “Do what you will, Edith,” she said. “It must be good enough to pass scrutiny.”

The scissors were cold and the lady’s maid held them awkwardly. It was evident she rarely had cause to cut the hair of others. Edith worked in silence, save for the steady snip-snap. Each strand felt like a memory—Christmas mornings, falling asleep on storybooks, hiding under the library table. When Edith finished, Charlotte’s hair brushed her shoulder blades instead of her hips. The fresh coiffure seemed scandalous.

Edith held up a mirror, biting her lip.

“Better,” Charlotte said. The reflection seemed sharper now, as if the old Charlotte had been left on the floor with the trimmings. “What next?”

“Put these on.” Edith handed her a pile of coarse, ordinary clothing—brown trousers, a blue coat, a linen shirt, and a cap that had once belonged to Edith’s brother. It covered all of Charlotte’s hair after it was pinned up.

“Walk with your shoulders back and never look down,” Edith said as she smoothed the lapels on the blue coat. “Speak as little as possible. If you must speak, deepen your voice. And do not smile at anyone. Please.”

Charlotte slipped into the borrowed clothing. The shirt was scratchy. The trousers, held up with a belt, cut sharply across her waist. The cap hid her hair, but not the fear.

“Will it work?”

Edith nodded, swallowing hard. “You could pass for a young valet. So long as nobody stares too long.” She fussed at the collar, straightening it, then clutched Charlotte’s hands. “If anyone asks, say nothing. Run if you must.”