Page 2 of The Duke’s Christmas Redemption

Chapter One

June 1817, Westbridge House, London

“My Lady, your father requests your presence in his study.”

The butler’s measured tone as he delivered the message had sent a flutter of apprehension through Lady Charlotte Wyndham’s chest. Her father, Thomas Wyndham, Earl of Westbridge, never disrupted his morning routine of estate business without significant cause.

The summons had arrived unexpectedly while she reviewed the housekeeper’s accounts - a task she had taken over after her mother’s passing three years ago. Now, she paused outside her father’s study, smoothing her pale muslin morning dress with trembling hands.

Through the tall windows lining the corridor, morning sunlight illuminated the fine Turkish carpet, its rich patterns a stark contrast to the plain cream tone of Charlotte’s skirts. She found herself focusing on a particular whorl in the design, attempting to gather her composure.

Her mother’s voice seemed to whisper in her memory: ‘A lady’s composure is her shield, my dear. Whatever the world presents, meet it with grace’.

Oh, how she missed that gentle guidance.

Lady Westbridge had possessed an innate ability to navigate every social situation with unfailing grace, while somehow maintaining the warmth that had made their home so loving.

Charlotte often felt that she fell short of that example, despite her best efforts.

“My Lady,” Barstow, the butler, bowed, opening the heavy mahogany door with practiced efficiency.

His expression betrayed nothing of the meeting’s purpose, though Charlotte knew that he must be aware of any significant household matters, and probably knew something of the reason for her having been summoned to her father today.

The Earl’s study had always impressed upon Charlotte the weight of her family’s history. Dark wood panelling soaked up the sunlight, leaving corners in perpetual shadow, despite the June brightness. Leather-bound books lined the walls, their gilt lettering catching the light like so many watchful eyes.

The massive desk, imported from the West Indies by her grandfather, dominated the room, much as her father’s presence dominated their lives.

The scent of beeswax and leather permeated the air, mingling with the faint trace of her father’s distinctive cologne.

“Charlotte.” Her father’s voice matched his surroundings - solid, authoritative, brooking no opposition. He did not look up immediately from the papers before him, a habit that had always made Charlotte feel like a schoolgirl awaiting judgment for some indiscretion. “Sit down, my dear. We have matters of significance to discuss.”

Charlotte sank into one of the leather chairs facing the desk, her fingers instinctively finding the delicate lace handkerchief in her pocket - one of her mother’s last gifts to her.

Something in her father’s tone - a note of finality, perhaps - sent her heart racing. The morning suddenly felt heavier, weighted with unspoken expectations.

The Earl finally looked up, his grey eyes sharp beneath brows that had silvered early, lending him a distinguished air that served him well in Parliament.

“Your Season has concluded satisfactorily,” he began, shuffling papers on his desk with unusual attention. “You conducted yourself with admirable discretion, particularly in dealing with those fortune hunters who sought your dowry rather than truly your hand.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Charlotte’s voice emerged smaller than she had intended.

The Season had been everything she’d dreamed of - the balls, the musicales, the quiet hope that somewhere among London’s eligible gentlemen, she might find a connection that transcended mere social advantage.

She had danced with dozens of partners, engaged in countless carefully proper conversations, and yet that spark of mutual understanding she longed for had proven elusive.

The Earl cleared his throat.

“However, at nineteen, you cannot delay marriage indefinitely. It is time to secure your future - and the family’s interests - with an advantageous match.”

Charlotte’s fingers tightened on the handkerchief, the fine lace pressing patterns into her skin.

“Father?”

“I have received an offer for your hand.” He paused, clearly savouring the moment. His fingers drummed once on the polished surface of his desk – an action which Charlotte had learned to associate with particularly momentous announcements. “From His Grace, the Duke of Alverton.”

The room seemed to tilt slightly. Charlotte heard herself speak as if from a great distance, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears.