It was not so much that Alexander had once courted Lucille, nor that she was so much prettier than Charlotte, so much more accomplished in her feminine ways. It was more that Alexander had not mentioned it to her. Not once had he even recalled Lucille’s name. In fact, he had not mentioned any previous engagements.
Charlotte supposed it wasn’t truly any of her business. After all, she and Alexander weren’t even courting. They werefriends at best. She wondered whether he still had feelings for Lady Lucille. She couldn’t blame him if he did—she was beautiful and witty—but she still felt the twist of jealousy in her gut.
“You’re slouching, Charlotte,” Aunt Lydia said, her cold words cutting through Charlotte’s burning pain. She sat upright, stretching her back perfectly straight, her lips pursed in annoyance. She hadn’t realized her shoulders had begun to stoop, but wasn’t that what happened when one received depressing news?
“Yes, dear Charlotte,” Lucille added with a note of false concern. “Slouching will do your posture no good. You don’t want to become a hunchback, do you? However would you find a husband then?”
“I should rather a husband who cares not about the shape of my body but rather prefers the depth of my mind,” Charlotte retorted, but Lucille only giggled.
“Honestly! Sometimes I wonder whether you’ve swallowed a dictionary.”
“Too intelligent for her own good sometimes,” Aunt Lydia replied. “But there are some men who like that sort of thing, I suppose.”
Charlotte looked up and huffed, letting her embroidery fall to her lap. “Is it really necessary to talk of me as if I am not even here?” she demanded. “I am part of this family, you know.”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Aunt Lydia said, quite ignoring Charlotte’s outburst. “Arthur is visiting this weekend.”
“Again?” Charlotte raised her eyebrows.
Arthur Mulligan, aged thirty-two, as Lydia’s nephew—by blood rather than by marriage as Charlotte was. He was a decent enough fellow. Harmless and kind enough. But he was also terribly simple, seemingly lacking in any mind of his own, and in truth, boring. He was gray when Charlotte craved color. He was bread while she wanted cake.
Still, they spoke fondly enough when he visited, which seemed more and more often of late. Aunt Lydia had begun inviting him to dinner or drinks or a walk in the garden at least once, if not two or three times every single week, and she often conjured ways of leaving Charlotte and him alone. If Charlotte didn’t know any better, she would think Aunt Lydia were up to something, but her aunt always made it clear that she didn’t care one way or another whether Charlotte married or not.
“Don’t say it like that,” Aunt Lydia said. She held her needle upright, the sharp tip of it glinting dangerously in the light. “He enjoys coming to see us, and I thought you liked his company too.”
“I like his company well enough,” Charlotte replied. “But if he comes around any more often, we will need to provide him with a permanent bedroom!”
Aunt Lydia tutted. “Don’t be so unsociable, Charlotte dear. A little socializing now and then will do you the world of good.”
And yet it is always with Arthur. Hardly a rounded socialization.
“I for one adore having guests,” Lucille replied, that dreamy not returned to her voice.
“You see,” Lydia said, pointing her needle in Lucille’s direction. “Not everyone hates it as much as you do.”
“I don’t hate—”
“And Arthur does seem to like you very much.”
“No, he doesn’t. He is an uninterested in me as I am in—”
“Oh how adorable,” Lucille cried. “Do you think they might end up marrying?”
“No!” Charlotte cried. “And that is not Aunt Lydia’s intention either! We are family and nothing more.”
“It is not for me to say,” Aunt Lydia said, acting coy. Charlotte stabbed her needle into her linen. “But I must admit, I think Arthur would make a wonderful husband. His calmness might even tame some Charlotte’s wilder ideas.”
“They say opposites attract,” Lucille said. “Wild and tame go together surprisingly well. It was the same when the duke and I met. We’re such different people and yet the attraction was instant.”
Charlotte got to her feet, throwing her embroidery down onto the couch behind her. She couldn’t listen to any more of this.
“What are you doing?” Aunt Lydia said, craning her neck to look up at her niece.
“I have a headache,” was Charlotte’s simple reply. “I am going to lie down. Good afternoon to you both.”
Chapter 22
“I’m sorry, Your Grace, but she is feeling unwell and doesn’t wish to be disturbed,” the butler reiterated for the fourth time.
