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  When Mama Catherine led the way to the front of the house, Charlotte signaled to Drake. More than anything she wanted a moment alone to recover from the abrasive meeting.

  He raised an eyebrow, still fiddling with his snuff box.

  “I need to instruct Beatrice where to take Captain Henry.” She glanced at the servant coach.

  Beatrice and Drake’s valet were struggling to pull out the cockatoo’s massive travel cage, white wings spread inside to balance the bird as the cage heaved to and fro, tilting through the coach door.

  “The Gray Parlor will do for now.” Drake eyed his mother’s back as he spoke. “We mustn’t keep Mother waiting. Mr. Taylor will show them the way in your stead.”

  “I can tell Beatrice myself. I will only be a moment.”

  As she turned towards the carriages, Drake’s hand encircled her arm, stilling her. He shook his head, then nodded to the grim butler.

  The butler bowed and retreated to the carriage.

  “We mustn’t delay. You may visit Captain Henry later, but delaying will only anger Mother. Come.” His hand, still clutching her arm, guided her to the manor’s double doors.

  With a regretful glance to her bird, she trudged forward.

  Never had she felt so powerless. Her confidence drained. Even the arched windows on the ground floor frowned with her, as if the house sympathized.

  They entered an oval hall, galleries lined with ornate double doors extending to either side. Of all the balls Charlotte had attended, none of the homes had been this grand. Untouchably high ceilings and hallways the width of ballrooms were only the beginning of the grandeur.

  She gaped, enamored with the border friezes and the coffered ceiling, miniature murals painted in each square.

  Not until she’d completed a circle, giddy once more that this was her new home, did she notice Mama Catherine’s glare. Charlotte stopped mid turn, feeling three feet tall under the scrutiny.

  “A duchess does not ogle,” said the gargoyle. With a frown of distaste, she added, “I can see you are going to be a trial.”

  With a glance at the housekeeper, Catherine instructed, “Take her to her room. See she rests before dinner. I give you leave to show her about after dinner, but not before and only upstairs. The remainder of the house will wait for the morrow.”

  Without another word to the family, Mama Catherine about-faced and left, her cane thumping down the east gallery.

  Mary curtseyed and followed behind her mother, leaving Charlotte with Sebastian and Drake, but not for long, it would seem.

  “Mrs. Fisk will show you to your quarters. I will see you at dinner,” Drake said, patting her arm.

  What Charlotte assumed was meant to be a reassuring endearment made her feel childlike. She didn’t want to be patted. She was not a child. She was not a pet. She was not a trial.

  Without a backward glance, he and Sebastian left her alone with the housekeeper. Mrs. Fisk stood behind her, unsmiling. Charlotte followed the steely servant down the west gallery and up the rounded tower stairs.

  Disheartened would be an understatement. Somehow, she had to rise above this. This was her home now. She’d made the choice to marry a stranger because he was handsome, charming, and titled, and now she had to live with that choice.

  Somehow, she had to make this work.

  I will be your mistress, Lyonn Manor. Somehow. She spoke to the home through her heart, willing her future to be as uplifting as this grand staircase.

  Chapter 6

  Charlotte rested for several hours, emotionally exhausted.

  When she awoke, she didn’t ring for her maid, not right away. There was ample time before dinner for her to gather strength and explore her new room, a room she hadn’t yet seen given Mrs. Fisk’s hovering. The woman had refused to retire until Charlotte was changed and in bed.

  She was, again, treated like a child.

  One look around the lady’s chamber made her nauseated. Peach wallpaper, peach furniture coverings, peach bedding, peach curtains, everything a pale, nauseating peach. While a spacious and luxurious room, to be certain, the peach did nothing to welcome Charlotte.

  The peach had to go. A darker shade would do, perhaps a warmer color, anything but peach. If nowhere else in this house could she be mistress, she could assert authority over her own bedchamber.

  She began a mental list of necessary changes. After her tour in the morning, she’d need to put quill to paper to list her daily tasks, the household affairs, goals, and anything else that might need her attention, not forgetting her wish to pad all carriages. If she were to be duchess of all this, she needed a plan, especially if Mama Catherine and Mrs. Fisk weren’t going to show support. Failure was not an option. She would not allow those women to humiliate her.

  It would all begin with this room, her sanctuary. Charlotte sat on the offensively peach settee at the foot of the bed and visualized the redecoration. Even the rug was peach, a plush peach that brushed between her fingers when she pressed her palm to the lush threads, soft and enveloping. If only it weren’t peach.

  The paintings would have to go first, she decided. The eyes of women in stately dress stared down at her, judging her. She assumed these were the former duchesses of Annick, one generation after another. Who would want these women watching the lady of the manor sleep? The very idea made Charlotte shudder. These stuffy women needed to be removed to the dower house, along with the dowager.

  Landscapes would be a perfect replacement. If paintings of the estate and gardens had not yet been commissioned, she would see to it, for a view of the estate from her bed would be just the thing. At least she now had something to look forward to.

  An inspection of the windows revealed an attractive view of the rolling grounds at the back of the manor. She could just make out a columned rotunda on a hill in the distance and the edge of a rose garden below, beyond what she thought might be a grotto.

  How dull to arrive and be rushed into the peach terror without a tour of the house. As fatigued as she still felt, she would have liked a tour before dinner, specifically from Drake. Such would have given them an opportunity to get to know each other better and possibly a way for them to share a common interest, namely the estate. Did he love it as much as she already did? She wanted him to show her all his favorite places and accompany each room with a description of what it had been like to grow up in what seemed like a palace to her.

  A tour from the humorless housekeeper seemed a dreadful prospect. Better than a tour from her mother-in-law, Charlotte supposed. There, she needed to look on the bright side of all situations. Her marriage may be in shambles, her husband a pompous rake, and her mother-in-law a granite statue, but by Jove there was something positive about every situation.

  Continuing to explore the room, she opened the side door, which led to a lovely sitting room. She assumed the adjoining room would be the lord’s chamber. The thought of Drake’s bedchamber being so close to her own tied her stomach in knots. Was he in there? Was he resting? If she opened his door, would she find him abed?

  Her cheeks flamed, and her heart fluttered.

  More curious than cautious, she parted the door of the lord’s chamber to peek inside.

  Empty. Sighing with relief, she stepped inside.

  Drake’s room was a mixture of golds and browns, gold crivelli wallpaper, a scrolling leaf motif adorning the drapes around the four-poster bed and windows, and wingback chairs gathered around a mahogany table. The space suited Drake, she thought.

  Closing his door, she admired for a moment the sumptuous sitting room with its inviting escritoire, red and silver settee decorated with silk embroidery, and enticing views to the back of the house. Oh, she liked this room very much.

  Returning to the peach horror of a lady’s chamber, she rang for her maid to bathe and dress for dinner. Given her dinner companions, she wanted to look wo
rthy of her new role. With a bit of care, she would look every inch a duchess and hopefully avoid further criticism and embarrassment.

  Beatrice chose a noble gown, sleeves reaching to Charlotte’s elbows with ribbons lacing through eyelets from sleeve cap to elbow hem. Silver embroidery trimmed the edges of the azure bodice and along the hem, and a wide silver sash nestled under her bosom.

  Beatrice spent an hour preparing a coiffure of braids laced with pearls and silver ribbons. Soft curls framed Charlotte’s face.

  “You look like a duchess, you do,” declared the lady’s maid as she added the finishing touches to the ensemble.

  “I am a duchess,” Charlotte corrected, the words said more to her reflection than to her maid.

  With a final smoothing of the dress and straightening of the sash, Beatrice sent her mistress to brave dinner.

  To Charlotte’s surprise, a footman stood outside her bedchamber, waiting to escort her. As daunting as the size of the place, she didn’t think she needed an escort.

  He led her through the bedroom corridor, down the rounded tower staircase, through the west gallery, past the entrance hall, through the east gallery, and to the doors of the lesser dining room. Two footmen standing on either side of the double doors opened them at Charlotte’s approach. The footman who accompanied her announced her arrival to the room, the only inhabitant the dowager duchess.

  Charlotte curtsied and stepped forward.

  “Seating arrangements will be designed for every dinner party you host,” her mother-in-law said in greeting. “I will approve all seating charts to ensure you understand rank and status. There is an art to designing a seating chart, for some guests should not be seated together, regardless of rank, lest the dinner turn to war.”

  Catherine tapped the seat next to the head of the table. “You sit here, next to His Grace.” Walking to the foot of the table, she tapped the seat opposite the host’s. “I sit here.”

  Brows furrowed, Charlotte said, “Pardon me, Your Grace, but shouldn’t I sit—”

  The dowager duchess raised a hand. “I told you to call me Mama Catherine. I will not remind you again. As to the seating arrangement, I have always sat here. I expect that to be understood.” She moved to the chair next to the hostess’ seat without waiting for a response. “This seat is for my daughter, Lady Mary. Lord Roddam will sit across from you.”

  A footman opened the double doors and announced the arrival of Lady Mary. Sebastian and Drake followed shortly behind her, also announced. Charlotte thought it ridiculous to be announced to a room of five family members who all knew each other.

  As they assembled in their seats, Charlotte fumed silently, resenting her mother-in-law’s treatment, but without the courage to protest. Whatever relief Charlotte might have felt not to play hostess at her first dinner was overshadowed by frustration.

  Any expectation of Drake feeling outraged by his mother’s usurping Charlotte’s rightful place and defending her position as lady of the manor was crushed. Drake didn’t blink an eye when she sat next to him rather than at the foot of the table.

  Defend me! She cried inside. Defend your wife’s position in her new home!

  Was this punishment for the botched wedding night? Was this his way of showing her she wasn’t mistress of the estate until she consummated the marriage?

  He was oblivious to her inner rage, oblivious to his mother’s condescension. He exchanged small talk with Sebastian as though this were the happiest of days, his eyes laughing, his lips curved into a smile, happy to be home and unaware of his wife’s struggle.

  Footmen carrying trays bustled into the room. The butler described each of the dishes served. Charlotte paid not a bit of attention, lost in thought.

  On deeper reflection, she questioned if she wasn’t taking everything too personally. Was the condescension in her head? If she considered their perspective, her inner tantrum did seem silly. Today was only her first day, after all. Could she expect them to change a lifetime of habits so quickly? Her mother-in-law likely didn’t mean to be insulting, and it was merely Charlotte’s own insecurities that had her misinterpreting the woman’s intentions.

  Instead of resenting her mother-in-law, Charlotte should thank Catherine, for this gave her more time to grow comfortable in her role before having the whole of the estate on her shoulders. The seating arrangement also offered a perfect opportunity to talk with her husband, something they’d done little of, which was much of the problem, Charlotte believed.

  Yes, she should thank Mama Catherine.

  Mama Catherine—she certainly did not seem like a Mama Catherine. She-Demon Catherine, more like. Oh, botheration! All the optimistic thinking gone to mush in a single, vile thought.

  How inappropriate of her. How tactless. Charlotte scolded herself. For all she knew, this was the way of the world, the passing of the torch in ruled measure. She summoned patience to trust the dowager duchess’s decisions. This might all be part of some sort of training.

  As if the woman could hear Charlotte’s thoughts, Catherine turned her obsidian eyes to her daughter-in-law.

  “On the morrow, you will report to me after your meeting with Mrs. Fisk. We will begin your tutelage immediately. Our first lesson will cover the local gentry and nearest peerage. I do hope you are socially inclined, for you are expected to host parties and provide entertainment for all persons of consequence in the north. The laborers’ families also require entertainment, although of a baser nature. Once per year, you will be hostess to the royal family. I will expect you not to embarrass us.”

  When Charlotte didn’t immediately respond, Catherine said, “Do you understand, gel, or do they not speak the King’s English in the West Country?” Her sharp tongue sliced through Charlotte’s esteem.

  “Yes, Mama Catherine, I understand. I am eager to learn how I may be the best duchess.” From the corner of Charlotte’s eye, she saw Drake wink at her.

  “Nonsense. I am the best. In time, we can hope you’ll become tolerable enough to assume my mantle after I pass.”

  Judging from the lady’s surprisingly young age, Charlotte doubted such an event would occur any time soon. The bat probably had another forty years in her. That realization settled in the pit of her stomach, percolated, and left a bitter aftertaste. Forty more years living with this woman when Charlotte hadn’t made it through a single day?

  Give me strength, Lord.

  “Mary.” Catherine turned to her daughter. “You will have three callers this week. Lord Ashford on the morrow, followed by Lord Stroud, and then Lord Pickering.”

  Mary slouched in her chair. “I want to visit Arabella tomorrow, and I most certainly do not want to visit with them,” Mary whined.

  The snap of her mother’s fingers remedied Mary’s posture. Even Charlotte sat up a little straighter.

  “I will not have you disgrace yourself in front of your new sister. You are already sixteen and need to find a husband before you lose your bloom. Of the three, I have my eye on Lord Pickering. He’s a marquess from a reputable family. The estate is not far, and I have it on good authority he’s in dire need of money. The match would be amenable to both parties.”

  “But everyone knows he has a horrid reputation for gambling. And he spends all his time in London.”

  “All the more reason he’s a good match. You’ll be left behind to rule the estate as you please. You couldn’t ask for better circumstances.”

  “I might consider him, but only because he’s more amenable than Lord Ashford. Lord Ashford’s eldest daughter is older than I am!” Mary protested with a pout. “And so you know, Mother, I will never marry someone like him. He’s too old and froths at the mouth. I could never kiss someone who froths.”

  “What does kissing have to do with marriage?” Catherine asked. “No respectable woman kisses her husband. Preposterous.”

  “Why won’t you allow me
a proper come-out? Why can’t I have a Season in London?”

  “I will not parade you in front of all and sundry when alliances worth making are done between families of good breeding not in ghastly ballrooms. Nothing good comes from visits to London, certainly not marriages. Only desperate gels go to London.” Catherine stared down her sulking daughter. “I have invited three suitors for this week, and you will entertain them. Do you understand, or are all the women at this table feebleminded?”

  “It’s not fair,” Mary muttered.

  “Marriage has nothing to do with fairness and all to do with security and advancement. I was sixteen when I wed, and so shall you be. You will learn your place, Mary, and stop this petulance.”

  Mary nodded in acquiescence, but her lower lip protruded in silent defiance.

  Charlotte smiled reassuringly at Mary before frowning at her own husband who was deep in conversation with his cousin. Not only had he not heard a word of the exchange, but he clearly had no intentions of taking advantage of the seating arrangement to share conversation. Nothing could be more uncomfortable than spending her first dinner in silence. Catherine and Mary talked. Drake and Sebastian talked. Charlotte ate.

  Did Drake’s own thoughts of marriage echo those of his mother’s? Was this nothing more than a form of security and advancement?

  After the announcement of their betrothal, countless ladies had congratulated Charlotte on securing a catch well above her station. Some meant it a sincere compliment, others a vindictive slight, but they all repeated the same sentiment.

  Was this how Drake saw their marriage, how he saw her? Did he think her a desperate gel wanting nothing but security and advancement?

  Looking around the dining room and at her companions made Charlotte feel like a desperate gel in search of advancement. As much as this had been a dream come true, a place she could finally feel at home, it was far grander than she’d expected. She felt like an imposter.