Chapter 1

June, 1825

Miss Charlotte Mulberry stared straight ahead. With her gaze fixed solidly on the vicar as he prepared to deliver the somnific weekly sermon, she could at least feign ignorance of their presence. Her former betrothed, the Right Honorable Mr. Arliss Cranford, the man she had agreed to marry and whom she had been engaged to wed for far too many years on the pretext of his limited means, had broken their agreement and wed another. Too poor to marry Charlotte, he’d found himself wealthy enough to marry another. Or perhaps the other had been wealthy enough to tempt him away.

Her awareness of his appearance—their appearance—had nothing to do with him, per se. There was no awareness of him. No intimate connection that called to her. Rather, it was the low thrum of whispers amongst the parishioners. To maintain what little dignity she still possessed, Charlotte simply refused to react. Let everyone whisper and stare and gossip. Let them. She would maintain her composure. No one would see her tremble and shake. No one would see her tears. She would smile and wish them well if she was confronted with the need to speak to them at all and she would not, above all else, she would not ask the question that plagued her endlessly. Why? Why had she not been enough?

The whispers suddenly stopped. Indeed, the entire congregation went completely silent. Not even the shuffling of feet could be heard from the pews. Against her will and against all good sense, Charlotte did turn then. And what she saw was beyond shocking. No wonder the congregation had been stunned to muteness. For striding through the doors to the church, sweeping down the center aisle in his great coat, with a fashionable beaver hat tucked beneath his arm, was none other than the Marquess Aimsbury.

One might assume such a man would be more for town than their simple country village. But no. He was perfectly content, as content as a man of his somewhat solemn disposition could be, to rusticate in the countryside. He was simply not one to be social. Ever. For any reason. At all. When he spoke, it was single syllables, primarily restricted to simple yes and no responses to things asked of him. There were no pleasantries exchanged. No talk of weather or such banal pursuits passed his lips. The man, known far and wide as the Moody Marquess, was simply a curmudgeon. A young, handsome but terribly brooding curmudgeon.

And he’d chosen that day of all days to attend church. So he would have Charlotte’s undying gratitude for diverting attention from her and her marital, or lack of martial, woes. Offering up a silent prayer of thanks to the Almighty for the mysterious ways in which He had chosen to deliver her from abject humiliation yet again, she was painfully aware of the gate opening to the pew behind her. She was equally aware of the large male presence that seemed to suddenly fill the space. The Marquess was a very tall man. Broad shouldered and long limbed, she had to wonder that he would be able to fit in the pews without his knees knocking against the back of the one in front of him when he sat.

When the entirety of the congregation had regained their composure, vicar included, the weekly church service commenced. Hymns were sung. Not by the Marquess behind her, but he dutifully stood as expected even if not a note passed his lips. And as predicted, when he sat, his knees knocked into the back of the pew where she sat. He mumbled a brusque ‘pardon’ and then retreated once more into his usual stoney silence.

And the vicar, of all Sundays, chose that one to sermonize on the act of forgiveness. Pointedly and at length. Great, great, length. Exhaustively, in fact. Beside her in the pew, her aged uncle slept on, blissfully unaware of all of it. The man snoozed everywhere, so church ought not be any different for him, she supposed.

At long last, the service ended. With some less than gentle prodding and several loud coughs, she managed to rouse her uncle and get him to his feet. He shuffled out of the church, and with no other choice in the matter, she shuffled beside him. There would be no hasty escape. There would be no surreptitious departure whereby she could ignore the condescension and false pity from others. Oh, how she detested feeling that she was at the center of attention—and that the attention was for such a humiliating matter. After all, Ambleside was a very small village and a very dull village. Her failed betrothal was a source of much excitement.

It dawned on Charlotte that she was being very mean. Not everyone in the village was against her. She had friends there. It was wrong to think that everyone was rejoicing in her downfall simply because it alleviated boredom for a bit.

“Yoo hoo! Miss Mulberry? Miss Mulberry?”

The cawing voice was Mrs. Barrington, the most renowned society matron in their small corner of Britain. She was also a notorious gossip. Girding herself for the onslaught of questions, Charlotte forced a smile. “Yes, ma’am?”

“We are having a bit of an impromptu gathering at the White Oak Hall today, but all that is an advance of the true event,” she said, referencing her home by name. “I am leaving for Blackpool in a sennight for Mrs. Whitmore’s house party, and I thought a little gathering would be just the ticket. What could be better than a house party? Say you’ll come, Miss Mulberry. Both today and to Blackpool! I know you’ve been invited. It would be such a delight to have you there.”

Charlotte wanted to refuse. It was on the tip of her tongue to do so when her uncle answered for her. “That’d be just the thing for you, Charlotte,” he stated. “No more moping about the house. Get out and enjoy time with some young people!”

Oh, for the earth to simply open and swallow her whole. “No one is moping, Uncle.. And yes, Mrs. Barrington, I would be very pleased to attend your soiree today and I plan to attend Mrs. Whitlow’s house party.”

“And you, my lord?”

Charlotte glanced over her shoulder to see that Mrs. Barrington was addressing the Marquess who had been lurking behind them.

“And what?”

Two words. It was a miracle.

“Would you care to join us for my little party today and Mrs. Whitlow’s in Blackpool? I know she sent you an invitation as well.” The invitation was offered without any sort of enthusiasm at all. Inviting the Marquess to any event was rather like asking someone how they liked the weather. Everyone did it, and those asked always muttered some polite nonsense that meant nothing and everyone parted ways.

Charlotte waited for him to refuse. Because he always refused. It was a given for all of them really. Even Mrs. Barrington appeared bored as she waited for the very expected answer. And then, he shocked them all with one single word answer.

“Yes.”

It was impossible to say who was more stunned by his response, Charlotte, Mrs. Barrington or the Marquess himself. Regardless, after a momentary pause, Mrs. Barrington cleared her throat lightly. “To which part are you agreeing, my lord? The gathering today at White Oak Hall—which, since we are having such fine weather today, will be just some light refreshments and outdoor games. Or Mrs. Whitlow’s house party in Blackpool?”

“Both,” the Marquess replied.

It was to be a day filled with such surprises. Whether they be pleasant, unpleasant or of great variety, remained to be seen.