Page 53 of Touched By a Traitor
“You might not wish to wed me,” he said, his voice growing harder, “but you have precious few… options left. Pack your things. We shall set… out for York to marry within the week.”
When Charlotte’s gaze showed defiance, panic seized him. “There’s nothing to ponder, and no… point in waiting. We’ve already… indulged the scandal sheets far too long… If you’re married to me… you’ll at least have my protection.”
The moment the words left his mouth, Andrew recoiled inwardly. This wasn’t how he’d planned to propose, wasn’t how he’d dreamed of winning her back.
Hostility etched itself into every line of Charlotte’s face. “Protection? You mean control. You only wish to claim me, not love me. Will you truly take a woman whose heart belongs to another?”
Her words struck him, but he saw through them—the pain in her eyes, the way her voice trembled with hurt rather than conviction. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
“You don’t love him. You’re saying that to wound… me, and we both know it.” His jaw clenched. “But you’re right about one thing… I am selfish. Selfish enough to… want you despite everything, selfish… enough to have ruined you… rather than lose you to him.”
She bristled, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Even if you forced me to the altar, you will never truly have me. Chatham would have loved me the way I wished to be loved. I love him from the depths of my soul, and that is one thing you cannot take away from me!”
Andrew staggered back as if she’d struck him, though he knew she was lashing out in anger and pain. The desperation in her voice, the way she clung to Chatham’s name like a shield—she was trying to hurt him as he had hurt her.
“Keep telling yourself that,” he said quietly, his voice hollow. “But we both know you’re lying.”
She lifted her chin, her eyes blazing with defiant tears. “You may have my hand, my name, and my body, but you will never have what I gave to Chatham freely. So yes, I will marry you because I must. But do not mistake duty for affection, or submission for love.”
He stepped into the hallway, closing the door softly behind him, and stood there for a moment, horrified by his own behavior.
What kind of man had he become?Forcing her into marriage, trapping her with threats and desperation—it sickened him. Outside, he gasped for air, rain mingling with the tears he hadn’t realized were falling.
He had lost her completely now, and worse—he had become the blackguard she believed him to be.
*
Charlotte endured thelong journey to Whitstable in silence, feigning sleep to avoid confronting the reality of her forced betrothal. Upon arrival at Andrew’s grand estate, she was struck by the opulence surrounding her. As Mrs. Poulett showed her around the lavender suite, Charlotte’s fingers traced the soft velvet drapes and silk counterpane, a glimmer of girlish excitement breaking through her melancholy.
Later, as she sat by the crackling fire in her nightclothes, resentment at her situation warred with grudging appreciation for the security Andrew’s wealth provided. However, she couldn’t help but compare this to the life she might have had with the duke—a union built on mutual respect, even if it lacked passion. With Andrew, she faced the opposite problem: his commanding presence ignited desire within her, but she feared their relationship would be defined solely by these heated moments rather than the intellectual partnership she craved.
When she heard Andrew’s footsteps approach their adjoining door, Charlotte’s heart raced. The firm click of the lock brought disappointment mingled with relief. Sinking deeper into the plush armchair, she stared into the dancing flames, wondering if the price of passion would be the sacrifice of her own identity.
The Wedding
24 December 1836
The wedding ceremonywas a simple affair, held in a quaint stone church nestled in the heart of Whitstable. Andrew had insisted on the intimate gathering—only Daisy, Susie, the Duke of Lancaster, and the Marquess of Hereford stood as witnesses to what felt more like a reckoning than a celebration.
He had pleaded with Madam Tansley to attend, but she had adamantly refused, explaining that her presence would sully their reputation irrevocably.
Pale light streamed through the stained glass windows, casting a muted glow over the ancient wooden pews. Andrew stood before the altar in his tailored ivory suit, his throat tight as he watched Charlotte clutch her small bouquet of evergreen sprigs, holly, and herbs. Her hands trembled slightly, and the sight sent a stab of guilt through his chest. She looked resplendent in her pink gown, but he could see the tension in her shoulders, the careful mask she wore to hide her true feelings.
What had he done? The question hammered at him as he gazed upon his bride. He was determined to claim her as his own in every sense of the word, but doubt crept into his mind like poison. Did her thoughts drift to Chatham even now? Could he truly build a life with a woman whose choices he had stripped away?
The ceremony itself was brief, the vicar’s words echoing through the hushed church as they exchanged vows that felt more like a business contract than promises of love. When Charlotte slipped the simple gold band onto his finger, Andrew felt the weight of it like a chain—not binding her to him, but him to the consequences of his actions. Fifteen minutes and multiple signatures later, she became the Countess of Carlisle.
As they turned to face their small audience, Andrew caught Daisy’s beaming smile, her eyes glistening with genuine joy while Susie offered Charlotte a reassuring look. Despite Daisy’s warning glare, Hereford and Lancaster shook their heads gravely, as if Andrew were about to face the gallows.
Perhaps he was.
His heart ached with the desperate need to make his bride understand that his actions, though brutal, stemmed from a love so consuming it had driven him to madness. But looking at her profile now—proud even in defeat—he realized that love without respect was merely possession. He had won her hand but lost her heart, and the victory felt hollow.
As they took their first steps as husband and wife, Andrew silently vowed to spend his life proving that he could be worthy of her—not the man who had forced her into this union, but the man who might somehow earn her forgiveness, and perhaps, eventually, her love.
*
Charlotte felt thewarmth of his hand in hers and hated how her body still betrayed her, yearning for his touch even as her mind rebelled against him. The love she had carried for six years still burned beneath her ribs, but it was tainted now with the bitter knowledge that his love, if it even was love, came with chains. Heclaimed to want her, yet his actions had shown he would rather break her wings than risk losing her to flight.
