Page 10 of An Unwilling Earl
Jacob felt as if his face had gone numb. He hadn’t expected Oliver to mention Cora. Armbruster never spoke of Cora, and neither did Jacob, for that matter. He thought of her. Not as much as when his grief had been so all-encompassing that he hadn’t wanted to get out of bed. But he thought of her more than occasionally.
“All I’m saying is that it’s normal for you to be attracted to someone else.”
“I’m not attracted to Charlotte Morris,” Jacob said a little more forcefully than necessary.
Oliver held his hand up in surrender—or placation—Jacob didn’t know, but his anger deflated and left him feeling hollow.
“Fair enough,” Armbruster said as he leaned forward to tap the sketch. “Do you want to know what I found out about Miss Morris?”
Jacob was loath to admit that his entire body was straining to know more about Charlotte Morris. Who was she? Why had she left her aunt’s home? What type of person was she?
He nodded curtly, afraid to betray his intense desire for knowledge of this woman who, less than a week ago, he hadn’t known existed.
“It seems that Charlotte Morris is related to me in a way.”
Jacob sat up straighter. “You’re related to the Morrises?” Good Lord, he couldn’t imagine that dried-up, humorless woman related to any of Armbruster’s family.
“Charlotte’s mother was Lady Harriet Stafford, daughter to my mother’s second aunt or some such thing. I dozed off at this point because Mother does like to go on and on about the family tree.”
“Stafford,” Jacob murmured, his mind working furiously. “As in the Marquess of Chadley?”
Charlotte is related to amarquess?
“It seems Lady Harriet defied the family and wed a George Morris, brother to this Lord Morris. His brother was a baron, but George was not even knighted. Nothing. He had no title, no wealth, nothing to recommend him to the daughter of a marquess. So of course, the relationship was forbidden.”
“Of course,” Jacob murmured, caught up in the tale.
“Lady Harriet and George ran off together. Married at Gretna Green. Less than a year later poor Harriet died during childbirth, leaving George with a brand-new daughter and no wife.”
Jacob suppressed a shudder. The situation was all too familiar to his own story. But Armbruster was caught up in the telling of his tale to notice.
“Sixteen years later George passed away, and Charlotte became the ward of Lord and Lady Morris.”
“But why didn’t the marquess claim Charlotte?” Jacob asked.
“He’s a stern fellow, according to my mother. Refused to forgive Harriet for running off like she did. Wouldn’t even forgive her after her death and wanted nothing to do with her child.”
“Harsh.”
“Quite.”
“So George Morris died,” Jacob said, “and Charlotte went to live with her aunt and uncle. Something happened while she was living with Lady Morris, and she ran away.”
His mind was in sleuth mode, like when he and Armbruster were trying to solve one of their mysteries.
“She would be coming up on twenty years old now,” Oliver said. “She could be like her mother and has fallen in love with someone Lady Morris found unsuitable.”
“I have a feeling Lady Morris finds everyone unsuitable.”
“Mother had occasion to meet Lady Morris, years ago,” Armbruster said. “When Lord Morris was still alive. Some sort of social engagement benefiting a charitable organization. Mother couldn’t remember the details.”
“Shocking,” Jacob murmured.
“I agree. Mother tends to remember everything. She said Lady Morris spoke very little, looked disapproving most of the night, wore the most regrettable black gown that covered every bit of skin, and refused all food and drink.”
“Doesn’t believe in alcohol?”
Armbruster shuddered. “Unimaginable.”
