Page 4 of To Have & To Hold

The Duke of Kenswick stared down the length of the drawing room like a man preparing to go into battle—because, at present, that was precisely how he felt.

She was going to be the death ofhim.

Lady Charlotte Eaton—sixteen years old, alarmingly pretty, and as wild as the colt she had once attempted to ride bareback when she was a child—stood in the center of the room in a gown that had him wondering why he had agreed to bring her to London.

“Do you like it?” she asked, twirling just enough to make the skirts flare in a whirl of pink silk. “Madame Sorel said it isethereal.”

Nathaniel opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He closed it again with a sigh. He knew nothing about the latest fashion styles or trends, but surely the dress could not be finished? At the very least, not the top portion of it.

The neckline could not quite be classified as scandalous, but with the tops of her shoulders peaking out from the rose colored gown, it was certainly nothing he had ever imagined his youngest sister wearing.

He tried again to voice his concerns, but the sheer anticipation on Charlotte’s face made every carefully prepared word die in his throat. He closed his mouth again, silently.

Charlotte’s face fell. “You despise it.”

“I did not say that,” Nathaniel corrected.

“Your scowl did,” Charlotte retorted. “Quite loudly.”

Nathaniel bit back a smile. If he had mastered one thing over the years of raising Charlotte, it was knowing how to keep from encouraging her antics, no matter how amused he may be by her theatrics.

“I think it may be a little much for your first ball.”

“Nathaniel…” Charlotte sighed, throwing herself dramatically into the chair beside him. “I only get one chance to make a dazzling first impression.”

“Charlotte,” he cupped her chin gently, keeping his voice even. “You are being presented to the Ton, not crowned Queen. It is truly not as exciting as you believe it to be.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes before dropping her chin into her hand, offering him her perfectly perfected pout. “I merely want people to notice me.”

Nathaniel took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to rid himself of the headache that had appeared the moment she entered the room.

“You do not need an extravagant gown for people to notice you,” he mumbled under his breath. She heard him anyway, and her eyes flew to his, a smile lighting up her entire face.

“Do you truly mean that?”

Nathaniel nodded slowly, forcing himself to smile back. It was the truth; she would be the talk of the entire Ton this season—but it was potentiallywhythat absolutely terrified him.

Everything about Charlotte was dazzling. Her pale blue eyes and raven-black hair were an exact mirror of Nathaniel’s own. But that is where the similarities between them ended.

Where Nathaniel was steady and unshakable, Charlotte was wild and untethered. Her laugh was infectious, and her joy uncontainable. She possessed a sense of humor that hovered dangerously close to improper for a young lady of her age and station. She was, quite simply put, a storm in lace petticoats.

She was also convinced that her future held grand romance and sweeping declarations of love. She read too many novels, spoke too freely, and had already developed an alarming habit of gazing dreamily at any man who dared smile at her—Rosemore Hall suffered an unfortunate shortage of footmen and stablehands as a result.

It wasn’t that she was entirely ill-intentioned. Nathaniel had believed he was protecting her, keeping her hidden at his estate in the Peaks of Derbyshire and shielding her from the merciless scrutiny of society. But now, as he took in the wild sparkle in her eyes, he feared he may have made a very grave mistake.

Society was dictated by an array of unseen and unspoken lines—lines that, if crossed, could shatter a reputation in a moment. Charlotte galloped toward every boundary like it was an open invitation, and while Nathaniel could silence the House of Lords with a single glance, he had yet to figure out a way to keep hold oftheseparticular reins.

“I have drawn up a list.”

Nathaniel was pulled from his thoughts as Charlotte placed a folded paper on the table between their chairs.

He glanced from the list to his sister, already regretting the question forming on his tongue.

“A list of what?”

“Potential suitors,” she replied, looking at him as though he had completely lost his senses—though, truthfully, most conversations with her made him feel as though he had.

“I have ranked them by rumored poetry skills, jawline structure, and likelihood of being tragic.”