He gestured at the burned floor. “Those undergarments had it coming to them. They attacked me first.”
“Good Lord.” She stood back a pace. “I can’t decide if you’ve gone completely blockheaded, or if you are trying to make yourself detestable.”
“You tell me.” He gestured at the left side of his face. “I thought the eyebrow oracle revealed all.”
“Yes, well. It’s difficult to look at your eyebrow when your head is so far up your arse.”
He firmed his jaw. “It’s done now. There’s no undoing it. We’re leaving tonight, and we will be married soon thereafter. There isn’t any choice.”
“Oh, I still have a choice. Even if the consequences have changed, I always have a choice. If my alternatives are social ruin or a loveless marriage, I will take ruin. At least that would leave me the chance to find happiness somewhere else.”
He spread his hands. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to tell me, in simple terms, just what I’m getting if I marry you. Are you offering me love and partnership? Or a cold, elegantly appointed prison?”
He sighed heavily. “Charlotte . . .”
“Don’t give me that exasperated sigh. You know this is important to me. I want to hear, from your lips, that we will have a marriage built on respect and laughter and abiding devotion. Either you make me believe that, right here and now, or I will leave this house alone. Or let you leave it alone. We won’t be leaving it together, that’s my point.”
Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who could be a ruthless negotiator.
She crossed her arms. “I’m waiting.”
“I made it clear from the beginning that I can’t offer you that.”
“Love, Piers. That’s what we’re discussing. And I know you’re not accustomed to it. You can’t even bring yourself to utter the word.”
“Words. Words are meaningless.”
“Gah.” She made a motion as though she would strangle the air. “The very purpose of words is to mean something! There are entire books dedicated to listing nothing but words and their meanings. They’re called dictionaries; perhaps you’ve seen one.”
He gave her a dry look.
“It may be just a word,” she said, calming. “But hearing it would mean a great deal to me.”
“I do not countenance ultimatums. From anyone. And I cannot afford distracting attachments. I haven’t made such declarations since I was a child.”
“Perhaps you just need practice.”
“Perhaps you need to grow up.”
The words were sharp and aimed to wound, and Piers knew at once they’d hit the mark.
“I won’t do it,” she said quietly. “I’ve already lost my friend. There’ll be no recovering my reputation. Thanks to Frances, the gossip will reach London faster than we do. I’ll be called every vile name there is, whether it rhymes with Charlotte or not.”
“No one will dare.” If nothing else, he could promise her that. “Not if they wish to avoid the barrel of my pistol or the point of my sword.”
“Men can call each other out. This is enmity among ladies, Piers. You cannot shield me from it, and believe me—a woman’s tongue can be rapier-sharp. The ladies will cut me to my face. They will slice me to ribbons when my back is turned.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I could endure it all, if I knew you loved me. If we shared a life together that went beyond dinner parties and procreation. But without that . . .”
His heart twisted. “Charlotte.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t bear it.”
She ran from the room.
And there it was.
All her sweet words last night . . . Vowing to chip away at his defenses. To work for years, even decades, if that’s what it took. Because, she’d said, he’d be worth the effort.
I’m never giving up on you.
And yet she had. It had taken her all of one night. One glimpse at what he truly was, and what he was capable of doing—and her naïve promises went up in smoke.
Just as he’d known they would.
Because now she finally saw the truth. If she broke through the walls, there was little inside him but a dark, empty space.
It wasn’t worth the effort. Not at all.
Chapter Twenty-two
Charlotte spent the day in a trance, unable to sleep or take anything more than a few sips of tea.
When the maids came up to her newly designated room, she let them dress her in freshly washed underthings, cinch her stays tight, and help into her blue silk gown. She sat perfectly still as they dressed her hair in a pile of curls atop her head, bound with a silver ribbon.
She stared into the mirror.
Oh, Charlotte. You’ve been such a fool.
From the beginning, she’d been insisting that their match defied all logic. No one could fail to note the vast gulfs between them in class, education, and experience, not to mention their wildly different personalities.
But somewhere along the way their match had come to make perfect sense—to Charlotte, at least—no matter how implausible it might appear to the world. She unsettled him; he anchored her. Together, they could be more than they were apart.
She’d dared to hope that he felt the same. That he was in love with her, too. Even if saying so didn’t come naturally to him, his willingness to support her dreams, to wait for her, to treat her as his equal, would prove it to be true.
But instead of supporting her, he’d thrown her under the carriage wheels.
She didn’t know what to do. Delia wasn’t speaking to her. And though Mama had been her strength last night, she couldn’t ask her for advice today. Charlotte knew what the answer would be.
Of course you will marry him. He’s a marquess! Have you no regard for my nerves?
Just as the maid finished tying a cameo choker about her neck, someone rapped lightly on the door.
“Charlotte?” The door opened a crack. “It’s us.”
She knew that voice. Her heart leapt, and she ran to fling open the door.
Her sisters stood in the doorway, dusty and rumpled from travel.
To Charlotte, they looked like angels.
“Oh, this is wonderful. I’m so glad you’re here.”
She hugged her oldest sister, then turned to Minerva and clasped her tight.