She felt a flush rise to her cheeks at the compliment, yet swallowed the lump that formed in her throat.
“Well,” she said, “thank you. And yes, I shall accompany you to the ball. We will prove to all that our marriage is indeed authentic and silence all doubt.”
To her astonishment, he leaned over and briefly placed his hand atop hers, squeezing gently. She had not thought to don her gloves after their stroll, and thus felt the warmth of his palm pressing against the back of her hand. The brief connection was electrifying—a sensation she found thrilling yet unsettling.
She glanced downward at their hands, and on noticing her gaze, he quickly withdrew his hand and returned it to his own knee.
Yes, she resolved internally, they would dispel any uncertainty regarding their union. They would extinguish the doubt that was growing within her own heart that she wished would dissipate alongside it…
* * *
That Sunday, Eammon and Charity made their way to the ball at the Earl of Arlington’s grand Mayfair residence. The noble gentleman, Eammon’s maternal uncle, was known for his reclusive tendencies and seldom graced social affairs with his presence. Yet, the Arlington Ball was the singular event to which he invariably adhered, an engagement largely orchestrated by Eammon’s aunt, Louisa, though his rare attendance was deemed a triumph in their social circles.
“The Earl of Arlington is your uncle?” Charity inquired as their carriage rolled leisurely along the gaslit London streets, the rhythmic clatter of hooves echoing off the cobbled roads.
“Indeed. My mother Lydia’s younger sister, Louisa, is wed to him.”
“I see,” she murmured, musing on this revelation. “You possess such an extensive and illustrious family; it is quite the endeavor to keep account of them all. I can scarce imagine what it must be like, to be surrounded by so many relations.”
Eammon forced a smile, though within him stirred an unease, for she yet remained ignorant of the whole truth. He adjusted the cuffs of his coat, the fine wool stretching over his broad shoulders, before gazing out at the passing streetlamps flickering against the evening mist. The fine tailoring of his attire, a rich midnight blue tailcoat trimmed with silver thread, seemed to anchor him to the world of society—yet all the while, he felt the weight of his deception bearing down on him like an invisible cloak. His boots, polished to a gleaming shine, clicked against the wooden floor of the carriage with each turn of the wheels, a rhythmic sound that offered no comfort.
Their rapport had altered, grown easier. Once stilted dinners had softened into engaging discourse of literature, theatre, and society’s diversions. There was pleasure—true pleasure—in their exchanges. And yet, he knew such contentment was precarious, built on Charity’s mistaken belief that she had unraveled his secret. She remained under the illusion, albeit with some hesitation, that he had married her to conceal his supposed ignominious Irish Catholic ancestry. She knew naught of the reality. She was oblivious to the fact that her husband was an impostor. Markham’s investigation was no mere inconvenience—it threatened to shatter the fragile facade Eammon had so painstakingly constructed. Should Markham persist, he would unearth not only that Eammon had sought Charity’s hand to gain access to her father’s ledger of confidences, but that Eammon himself was no rightful heir. For, in truth, there was no legitimate heir to the dukedom…
The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine. The aristocracy did not take kindly to deception, and his carefully woven web of lies was beginning to fray at the edges. What recourse had he? He exhaled slowly, composing himself. There was but one path forward—to persist in the deception, to present a seamless front to the ton, and to silence Markham’s insidious inquiries before they laid him bare.
The carriage drew to a halt before Arlington House, a stately mansion that had stood sentinel over Mayfair for three centuries. The gilded windows shimmered with candlelight, illuminating the fine carvings and intricate masonry that adorned the grand façade. Liveried footmen hurried to their carriage, one lowering the step while another opened the door. Eammon stepped out first, his gloved hand extended to assist Charity. She descended with grace, her gown of deep sapphire satin catching the golden glow of carriage lamps, its rich fabric pooling elegantly about her feet. The delicate lace at her sleeves and neckline lent her an air of refined beauty, while the candlelight from within flickered against the subtle shimmer of the satin.
She lifted her chin as she surveyed the scene, her gloved fingers tightening slightly around his arm. “What a magnificent home,” she murmured, her gaze sweeping across the towering marble columns and the classical statues that adorned the grand vestibule. “I thought your sister’s house, where we dined on our wedding morn, was grand—but this…” She trailed off, admiration evident in her tone. Her sparkling sapphire eyes caught the gleam of the mansion’s expansive hall, the glimmer of the chandeliers casting soft halos on the marble floors. The tapestries that lined the walls seemed almost alive, their deep reds and golds swirling like forgotten tales from long ago.
He chuckled, though his thoughts were elsewhere. “Arlington House has stood for generations. My aunt has ensured that its grandeur has remained untarnished.”
As they ascended the marble steps, the vastness of the house enveloped them, the air filled with an air of grandeur and wealth. A long line of guests awaited their entrance inside, and the unmistakable sound of string instruments floated down the hallway from the ballroom. Charity’s dress, a masterpiece of blue satin, trailed behind her, a reflection of the evening’s elegance. She looked every bit the duchess, even though her title rested on a bed of lies.
At the head of the receiving line stood the Earl and Countess of Arlington. His aunt, Louisa, bestowed on them a warm smile, her silk gown a deep burgundy, her neck adorned with pearls. Her warm, soft hands reached out to take Charity’s.
“Eammon, what a delight it is to see you.”
“And you, Aunt Louisa,” he returned, before turning to his uncle. “Uncle Cecil.” Then, indicating Charity, he continued, “May I present my wife, Charity Hayward, Duchess of Leith?”
Charity instinctively dipped into a curtsey but arrested herself at the last moment, recalling that she outranked both the earl and countess. Instead, she inclined her head, awaiting their deference in accordance with propriety.
It was a peculiar thing—to have two individuals of such advanced years bow and curtsey before her—but such was the nature of society’s rigid order. Eammon felt his own discomfort shift to Charity, watching her navigate the unfamiliar territory of high society with grace and dignity, though there was a slight hesitation in her eyes.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said with composure. “Eammon has spoken of your family.”
“Has he?” the earl inquired, arching a skeptical brow. “The Haywards are not known for indulging in personal discourse.”
“What unfounded nonsense you speak, Cecil,” Louisa chastised with a gentle shake of her head. “She is family now.” She turned to Charity with a conspiratorial smile. “You must forgive my husband. He is an incorrigible curmudgeon, preferring his own company above all else.”
“I intended no slight,” the earl muttered, though his manner remained gruff. “It is an honor to welcome so lovely a young lady into our family.” He inclined his head towards Charity in formal acknowledgment.
She accepted the sentiment with a demure smile before allowing Eammon to lead her into the ballroom.
It was a more intimate gathering than the grand spectacles at Stapleton House, yet no less splendid. Only those expressly invited by the earl and countess were in attendance. Still, Eammon had been informed through reliable sources that Markham had secured an invitation as a guest of one of his cousins.
“Charity!” a familiar voice called.
Her cousin Millie bounded toward them, her auburn curls bouncing with each step, her earrings swaying in a glittering dance. She halted before them and executed a swift curtsey.
