The Captivating Lady Charlotte (Regency Brides: A Legacy of Grace #2)
Carolyn Miller
For my parents,
David & Kay Weaver.
Thank you.
CHAPTER ONE
St. James’s Palace, London
April 1814
THE ROOM GLIMMERED with a thousand points of sparkling light, the bright glow from the enormous crystal-dropped chandelier glinting off heavily beaded gowns, ornate mirrors, and the desperation shining in dozens of pairs of eyes.
Lady Charlotte Featherington glanced at her mother and smiled. “Truly,
Mama, there is no need to look anxious. We shall not disgrace you.”
Her mother drew herself up, as if the very idea of even appearing concerned was an affront. “I am not concerned about you, dear girl, but …” She made a helpless gesture with her hands and glanced at the young lady accompanying them.
“I assure you, Aunt Constance, I have no intention of disgracing you, either,” said Lavinia Stamford, Charlotte’s cousin and recent bride of the seventh Earl of Hawkesbury.
“You remember everything I told you?” Mama said worriedly.
“I cannot promise to have remembered everything, Aunt Constance, but I have no wish to embarrass you—or my husband.” This was said with a sidelong glance at the earl, Nicholas Stamford, that caused a pang in Charlotte’s chest. How lucky Lavinia was to have found such a perfect match.
Charlotte smiled as her mother bit her lip, no doubt torn between sharing her oft-stated opinion about the Stamfords and not wishing to offend Lavinia on such an important day.
She turned her attention to the front of the room, as the Lord Chamberlain called the name of the next young lady to make her presentation. Butterflies danced haphazardly in her stomach. Only two to go, then it was her turn. Pushing to her toes, she peered around the rather large pink-swathed matron in front, whose ridiculous confection of a headpiece held no less than eight—or was it nine?—ostrich feathers. She reached up a hand to pat her own far more modest hairstyle, with the obligatory five white ostrich feathers.
“Charlotte!”
“Yes, Mama.” Charlotte fought a sigh and assumed the more correct stance of a gently bred young lady.
“I will rejoin you shortly, my dear.” With a press of his lips to Lavinia’s cheek, and a bow and good wishes for Charlotte, the earl exited, doubtless to join the other new husbands and fathers waiting in the chamber next door.
Charlotte followed Lavinia’s gaze as she watched him leave. Such a handsome man, who wore so well the embroidered velvet coat and silk knee breeches demanded by court. She nodded to herself, heart dancing. She would marry a man who looked so well—perhaps even this year! For as Mama had said so often, after Charlotte’s presentation the doors of every noble house would be open to her, and the offers to her father for her hand would pour in. Drawing in a breath, she braced her shoulders. If only she could find love among the eligible—
“Lady Anne Pennicooke,” the Lord Chamberlain called, before gesturing forward the next young lady.
“Amelia has done well enough for the girl,” Mama said with a sniff. “Though I do think the size of those diamonds veers toward the vulgar. One should hint at one’s wealth, not trumpet it like the king’s herald.”
“Very poetic, Aunt Constance,” Lavinia said, a smile lurking in her eyes as she glanced at Charlotte.
Mama sniffed again. “I’m pleased to see you took my advice about wearing the coronet, Lavinia. Your grandmother would be pleased to know it was getting some use again. It’s such an elegant piece.”
“Oh, I agree. It is very elegant,” Lavinia said, touching the pearl-and diamond-encrusted band across her copper-blond waves. “But this is the Hawkesbury coronet.”
“Are you sure?” Mama said, brows lowered, peering with an expression of suspicion.
“It appears very similar, but yes, I am sure. Nicholas assures me this is the coronet each new countess has worn.”
“Last worn by your mother-in-law?” Charlotte murmured.
Something flickered in Lavinia’s eyes, but her tranquil expression did not change. “Yes.”
Charlotte inwardly applauded her cousin’s fortitude. Her marriage had come with a very high price—that of a meddling older woman whose love for her son had been soured by his insistence on marrying a woman she despised. It must be so hard, Charlotte thought, to be at the receiving end of constant sniping and bitterness, but Lavinia bore it well. She possessed a measure of grace that seemed to permit her to smile and turn the other cheek, even as she must surely writhe inside.
Charlotte smoothed down her elbow-length gloves, surreptitiously watching her cousin as she continued waiting patiently. Why the dowager countess felt entitled to be so rude was a mystery, especially when her eldest son had proved responsible for the death of Lavinia’s mother, the Aunt Grace whom Charlotte had never known. But fault seemed of little consequence. Probably it was the Duchess of Salisbury, Charlotte’s grandmother, and her frequent avowals of the Stamford family’s decidedly inferior connections—and cutting them in public—that had fed such bitterness.
Of course, Lavinia had never shared any of this, but it was there, evidenced by the dowager countess’s not-so-discreet comments and the flushed cheeks and angry-looking flash in her eyes whenever Lavinia entered the room. The fact Lavinia had to rely upon her aunt for sponsoring her presentation to the Queen, and not her mother-in-law as other new brides might expect, said enough. No, while Charlotte might envy her cousin’s good fortune in marrying such a handsome man, she did not envy her the cost. A family who could not esteem the son’s chosen bride would be anathema to her—and yet another thing of which to be aware as her father presented young men as potential suitors.