Charity sat in silence, uncertain of what to say or how to comprehend what she had just heard. She harbored a deep loathing for this man—she truly did. For now, in addition to compelling her to marry him without her consent, he pretended to be benevolent.
She ought perhaps to be grateful for Ambrose’s company, for she had sorely missed him, but she despised the notion of being further indebted to the duke. Eammon. He already acted as if she should be thankful for the forced marriage, but she remained perplexed.
There was no more time to ponder, however, as the carriage drew to a stop before Somerset House, the general registry office. She awaited the coachman to open the carriage door, and then the duke alighted. He extended his hand once more, and she accepted it. The sensation was strange; at once, she felt the strength in his grip. He held her hand firmly yet somewhat gently. She swallowed hard. She had been assisted out of carriages before, yet this action had never incited such a visceral response in her.
The fury this man stirred within her lingered, but the feeling of his hand around hers was not entirely displeasing.
Goodness gracious, what am I thinking? I loathe him. I truly loathe him. He is ruining my life! I must not dwell on how strong his grip is!
She inhaled sharply and moved past him as he helped Millie from the carriage. She needed to cease her thoughts entirely. She required an utterly empty mind to endure this ordeal. She had to press on, as her father often said.
“How magnificent!” Millie exclaimed as she joined her. “I have never before visited Somerset House, though I ought to have.”
Charity blinked, and on absorbing her cousin’s words, she glanced around to see that, indeed, Somerset House was quite grand. The complex was magnificent and irregular, with edifices and wings that spanned various eras. Some were in the Tudor style, others appeared newer, yet all were distinct and imposing.
The River Thames flowed behind them, the shouts of those rowing ripping through the air.
“Are you cold?” the duke’s warm voice reached her ear. She turned to him and caught her reflection in his eyes. She appeared pitiful and diminutive. No wonder, for she had always been small, standing at just five feet. Yet it was not merely her stature. She resembled someone who had withdrawn into herself. Again, she perceived a softness in his eyes. She had scarcely thought this possible, as the night before he had been brimming with arrogance and resolve. Yet he stood here, perhaps filled with a hint of regret for his actions.
“I am as well as you would expect,” she managed, pulling her shoulders back. “Yet I do wonder: is there no other recourse? We could declare ourselves mistaken, that we believed we were wed but that the man who performed the ceremony was not a proper registrar?”
The softness in his gaze vanished, and his jaw tightened. “Lady Charity, I cannot protect you if you will not allow me.”
“Protect me from what?” she asked, her tone taking on a note of desperation.
“This debate is fruitless and I will not waste my time on it; we must proceed,” he barked, striding toward the building. Millie and his cousin had already gone ahead, and the carriage had driven away to some unknown destination. Charity puffed up her cheeks and let her shoulders
sag. It was futile. She was to be wed, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it.
The interior of the registry office buzzed with activity. Clerks bustled about, all immaculately attired, while people moved up and down the halls. She realized that weddings were not the sole occurrence at Somerset House, for half of London seemed to be present. She trailed behind her betrothed and their party, feeling akin to a dog following its master without a lead.
Thoughts swirled once more. Could she make her escape? She might easily dash out of the registry office again. No one was holding her prisoner, after all; she was not yet his wife. Yet as she pondered, she recognized it was not a prudent idea. Where would she go? Would she make her way to Hartford, fetch Ambrose, and ride to—where? Besides, she was no longer able to mount the Shetland pony. She was small, at barely five feet, but ponies were not meant for adult riders.
Then, to her dismay, she saw something that extinguished all foolish thoughts of running away.
Her mother. And Eleanor.
CHAPTER9
Charity
She stood frozen in place as her mother approached her with dainty yet hurried steps. Eleanor hurried after her, displaying a newfound agility. Her sister had been weighed down by grief over their father, but now appeared in fine form again. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a woman with faded auburn hair in the background, smiling at her. The dowager duchess, perhaps?
“Oh, Charity,” her mother exclaimed, her voice brimming with joy. The duke had spoken true. She understood the dowager duchess's meaning. She was glad, and judging by the smile on Eleanor's face, so was she.
Everyone appeared happy—everyone but her.
“Why did you not inform me you had encountered a duke? And that he wishes to wed you?” Her mother placed her hands on her shoulders, her lashes fluttering and her eyes misty with tears.
“You are to be a duchess! I cannot believe it!” Eleanor added, her voice thick with emotion.
They assumed she was pleased by this turn of events. She glanced at her intended, who had approached his mother and was engaged in quiet conversation with her. Eammon, as she had trained herself to think of him, bore no resemblance to his mother. He was tall and dark, with blue eyes, while she was short—a little taller than Charity, she supposed, but still diminutive. Indeed, he bent slightly to address her. Observing them, she noted a gentleness within him once more. His stern visage softened as it had earlier when he had caught her lost in contemplation, concerned for her well-being.
“Why did you not mention His Grace when Lord Markham made his offer? I would have sent him away at once. A duke is a far superior match. Even if it must be this one,” her mother said.
“Even this one,” Charity murmured, frowning. What did that imply? Was not a duke a duke? She looked up again. Eammon Hayward was a most confusing man, to be sure. Everything about their brief courtship had been strange, and now her mother’s observation…
“I…”
