The wedding had arrived, and butterflies had taken residence in Charlotte’s diaphragm. They fluttered up and down, sending tremors through the rest of her body.

Marrying a duke. Marrying anyone.

It was the sort of thing any other debutante would have declared an impossibility. And yet, the day was here. Charlotte was in her finest dress even though it was only the morning.

She’d never considered herself sentimental and she was hardly going to begin now. She did her best to ignore the manner in which light shimmered over the columns of St. George’s. Georgiana’s alternating sparkling eyes and worried eyes.

“You don’t have to marry him,” Georgiana whispered. “If you don’t care for him...”

Charlotte smiled. Georgiana was romantic.

Whatever the duke’s faults, and proposing to her in front of her family was one of them, he was a good man. He’d treated her kindly, almost tenderly, calling on her every day before the wedding. The only problem with the wedding was that she might forget this was a transaction. He needed an unsuitable bride, and she was one.

He hadn’t even invited any guests. His brother was here, but that was on her mother’s invitation, and he’d been horrified at his brother’s sudden appearance. It seemed evident that she was doing her part at being an inappropriate bride; he didn’t even want anyone to see them marry. Oh, well. He’d be able to shock the ton when it was over. Despite their mother’s habit of telling everyone about the wedding, Charlotte was under the impression that most people did not believe her. A woman like Charlotte was not supposed to marry a duke.

When she approached St. George’s, the door to the church was locked. Georgiana attempted to open it, but no one was inside. Charlotte shifted her slippered feet under the portico, conscious of the befuddled passers-by who were unaccustomed to seeing people in bridal attire stand in front of church doors.

Her chest tightened. Surely, the duke hadn’t meant this to be a jest? She shook her head. He was too kind. She couldn’t believe it of him. But perhaps his brother had somehow convinced him not to marry her? Flora had packed her trousseau. She was expecting to move into his townhome this afternoon. She was not expecting to go back to her family in disgrace. That was certainly not how she desired to spend the last months of her life.

Papa approached her. “I’m afraid no one is inside. It seems the wedding is off.”

“My poor child,” Mama wailed and put her hand on her chest in a melodramatic gesture. “Woe is me.”

The normally jovial faces of her parents lacked any joviality. In fact, their countenances seemed most distressed. They stood stiffly in their formal attire.

Wheels ground over the cobblestones, and she recognized the duke’s carriage.

He’ll know what to do.

*

BLAST.

The church was shut, and the Butterworth family was distraught.

Callum glanced at Hamish. His brother wasn’t precisely smiling, but his lips were contorting into an odd position as if he were struggling to control them. A dull red blush spread upward from his neck when he saw Miss Georgiana Butterworth. At another time, Callum might have thought his brother was taken by her, but no doubt guilt was the impetus for Hamish’s uncharacteristic unease.

“How dreadful that the minister has vanished,” Hamish said to the Butterworth family, but his brother was no good actor. Callum could tell the man was pleased. “I’ll try to help you find the minister.”

Mr. Butterworth nodded. “I would be most grateful.”

The two left in Mr. Butterworth’s carriage, but Callum held no hopes that they would be successful. If he knew his brother, Hamish had bribed the minister and had ensured no one else would marry them, most likely dropping the names Lord McIntyre and Lady Isla to convince them of a moral onus. The clergy seemed most susceptible to entreaties to righteousness.

Miss Butterworth’s sister approached Callum as soon as her father and his brother rounded the corner. “I must speak with you.”

“Very well.”

“I fear your brother is intent on stopping the wedding. H-he believed me to be your betrothed and climbed into my room with a large bribe.”

Callum’s eyebrows jolted up. “Indeed?”

Was Hamish bribing everyone?

“I-I said no of course,” Miss Georgiana Butterworth assured him. “I would not like to come between my sister and the man she loves.”

Loves.

Charlotte’s family was under the impression that he was madly in love with Charlotte and she with him. Charlotte and he could hardly tell them that they were marrying because he found her family inappropriate. What would it be like, though, if he was marrying someone who truly adored him?

He forced himself not to contemplate that, instead considering his brother’s interference.

Callum had failed Charlotte.

It had been Callum’s idea for them to marry, but he hadn’t even managed to secure the ceremony. He’d allowed Charlotte’s mother to spend her time creating elaborate floral and herb arrangements for the wedding, and yet no wedding had taken place.

This was a disaster.

Fury at his brother coursed through him. His brother was supposed to be defending him, and not the offspring of their former guardian. Hamish seemed determined to stop the wedding, spurred by a false sense of heroism no doubt derived from reading too much Walter Scott. People in Scotland seemed to have developed the belief they were more heroic than others, simply for what their ancestors might or might not have experienced in past centuries.

His heart raced, and his formal attire felt too stiff against his skin. “I am sorry my brother behaved so abominably.”

Not that it mattered. His brother might believe he’d stopped the wedding, but he’d only postponed it. Nothing was going to compel Callum to give up the wedding. He would not allow Charlotte to spend her last months as a woman whose engagement had fallen through. He needed to convince Hamish that he’d been persuaded not to marry Charlotte after all, and then Callum would marry her quickly.

He thanked Miss Georgiana Butterworth and pulled Charlotte aside. “I am afraid there will be no wedding today.”

“Oh.”

Callum didn’t need to excel at observation to note the wobble in her voice, and his heart tightened. Perhaps she was worried that the wedding wouldn’t take place after all. Increased fury pummeled his veins. “We will still marry, of course.”

“G-good. Shall we try again next week?”

Marrying another time would be logical.

“We probably wouldn’t be able to book St. George’s,” he said.

“That’s fine,” she said. “After all, this is a very small wedding.”

Her words made him cringe. He wished he’d done a larger wedding, one where it mattered more if something occurred to it. Charlotte shouldn’t feel her wedding was a minor event. No wedding should feel like that.

Mrs. Butterworth’s elaborate bouquets would wilt were they to postpone the wedding a few days, and he didn’t trust Hamish to not manage to stop the next wedding.

They had to convince Hamish the wedding was off...for good. And that did not involve rushing about London, booking another church and having Mrs. Butterworth commence the creation of new bouquets.

A thought occurred to him. Elopement.

Nothing was more romantic than an elopement. Elopement involved travel and inconvenience. No one would think a wedding small if it involved an elopement. No one would muse that he had allocated meager resources to a wedding if they’d eloped.

Perhaps Charlotte would scoff at the idea. There were hundreds of reasons why an elopement was unideal.

“What would you say to eloping?” he asked.

Charlotte’s eyes widened. “That would be most exciting.”

“In a good manner?” he asked tentatively. It was important it be in a good manner.

“I’ve never thought I would elope,” she said. “Vicars daughters tend to marry in churches.”

“We can still marry in a church,” he said.

“Not a blacksmith’s shop?” Her eyes glimmered, and even though their wedding had been canceled, and even though he’d never been more upset at his brother than now, he found himself smiling back.

“Have you been to the Channel Islands?”

She blinked. “No. I haven’t been outside of Britain.”

“The Channel Islands are part of Britain.” Callum frowned. “Somewhat. Beautiful beaches, stunning sunsets, and more importantly, the—”

“—1754 Hardwicke Act doesn’t apply,” Charlotte said, and her voice was somewhat breathless.

He smiled. The woman had a habit of finishing his sentences, and he, of hers.

Perhaps it wasn’t a real marriage, with no expectation for lifetime companionship and children. Even the most unhappily men and women in the ton seemed to expect their spouses to make appearances at their side at balls, even if they stayed at opposite ends. Charlotte’s body would be under the ground by the end of the year, but something caused him to think perhaps their marriage could have been real.

“Consider it a sunnier Scotland.” He stepped closer to her. “Now, what do you say? Because it you desire it, we should leave soon. Before my brother returns.”

“I accept,” she said.

“Good.” He found himself beaming. He should be grateful at the opportunity to not marry at once. Didn’t men mourn their freedom after they married? “Let’s talk to your mother and sister.”

The conversation was quick. Charlotte’s older sister promised to do everything to keep Callum’s brother from following, and Callum told her to offer his brother the use of Callum’s carriage to return to Scotland. Then Callum led Charlotte down the steps of St. George’s, conscious of onlookers. They were used to scattering people at weddings with flower petals. Witnessing people in fine attire ascend the steps of the church and then make mournful exclamations, must be rather more novel.

“Follow me.” Callum flagged down a hack, and the driver pulled toward him abruptly.

“That won’t take us far.”

He smiled. “Perhaps not. But it will take us to Hades’ Lair where I will grab some funds, and from there we can go to the Thames and then to Guernsey.” Ideally, he would return to his townhome, but he did not want to meet Hamish. He thought Hamish would return to St. George’s, but he could not be certain. Fortunately, he always kept some things at Hades’ Lair.

“I will need to go to my parents’ home to get some items from my trousseau. One does not go to Guernsey and back in a day.”

*

I’M ELOPING.

Excitement and nervousness competed inside Charlotte. Charlotte wasn’t the type to elope, but everything had changed since she’d met the duke.

Riding in a carriage with him would be the first time they’d been confined together without anyone else. Even when she’d crept into his residence, she’d been well aware Flora had been with her. She wasn’t certain whispered conversations in corridors counted. As she became aware of his presence, she was certain it did not.

The man towered over her, a fact clear now he was not perched awkwardly in a chair that had once belonged to her Great Aunt, clasping a teacup in his hand, which had been how she’d grown accustomed to seeing him.

He gave the driver instructions and then assisted Charlotte up the short metal stairs before he settled into the seat opposite.

Callum’s mouth tightened, and Charlotte despised the worry in his gaze. A man like this wasn’t supposed to worry. He was a duke. He was supposed to drink brandy and play cards. He was supposed to ride his curricle through Hyde Park without worrying about the wellbeing of the women he saw. The most burdensome work he was supposed to do was posing for the occasional portrait, an exercise in stillness that would have caused the athlete in him to rebel, even though everyone who saw it would marvel at the softness of his velvet tailcoat and the pleasant symmetry of his features.

Finally the hack moved, bumping over the cobblestones, and she tried to ignore the man’s scent of fresh linen that wafted over her, his long legs that almost touched hers, and his chiseled face.

It suddenly seemed very important that Flora come with her to Guernsey.

“I’m sorry my brother ruined the wedding,” Callum said. “I—”

“—Didn’t even invite him,” Charlotte finished. “It’s not your fault.”

Lady Isla had been cruel when she met Charlotte, assuming, correctly, that Charlotte never ventured beyond Norfolk and London. Perhaps Charlotte should have some adventure. Most of the world was ocean, and it seemed wrong to exit the world without experiencing something of it.

Once the hack stopped before her parents’ townhome, Charlotte rushed out. The door swung open.

“Your Grace.” Flora curtsied deeply. “I trust the wedding was pleasant?”

Charlotte gave a tight smile. “There’s been a change of plans. We’re eloping.”

Flora’s eyes widened. “Your father does not approve after all?”

“He approves, but my betrothed’s brother does not.”

“I see.” Flora fixed an assessing look on her.

“We wanted to get my trunks. Since I won’t be staying here already. If they’re packed of course,” Charlotte said, finding herself stammering. She’d never done an elopement before and the process was novel.

“Naturellment,” Flora said. “They are already packed. I’ll have Samuel bring them to the duke’s carriage.”

Charlotte’s cheeks warmed again. “As a matter of fact, we are taking a hack.”

Flora blinked. “A hack?”

“Not far,” Charlotte hastened to say.

Flora nodded, but Charlotte had the impression she did not truly understand. The duke was in possession of multiple carriages, and should not require to take the plainest one available to anyone with coin.

“I know it’s an unnatural mode of transport,” Charlotte continued, “but it is vital that the duke’s brother not follow us, and the duke loaned his carriage to his brother.”

“How clever.”

“Besides,” Charlotte continued. “We are simply going to the Thames.”

“You’re taking a ship?”

Charlotte nodded, and this time she smiled, contemplated again being on a ship. She’d only ever been on a rowboat before in the local pond, and she suspected it did not count as a representation of all water transport. “Indeed. We’re going to the Channel Islands.”

“How wonderful,” Flora said.

“Will you come with me?” Charlotte asked. “There will be many French people. You’ll adore it.”

Flora’s face paled. “I-I can’t go.”

“But Flora... You were going to move with me to the duke’s.”

“And I am happy to do so. In Britain.”

“Why is that?”

For a moment, Flora hesitated. Finally, she sighed. “I-I am scared of boats.”

“Oh.”

“They can be quite dangerous,” Flora said. “The water is...unpredictable.”

“People have been crossing the English channel for centuries.”

“Not everyone with success,” Flora said.

“I suppose that’s true.”

“I wish I could come. But I can’t.”

“Because of your fear?”

“Er—yes,” Flora said. “Forgive me.”

She shut the door, and Charlotte was left to stare at the wooden frame.

“What is the matter?” Callum asked.

“Nothing,” Charlotte said, forcing herself to sound cheerful as a servant carried some of her trunks into the hack. “I’d just hoped my maid would join us.”

“I’m sorry,” Callum said. “Of course, if you would prefer to stay after all...”

Charlotte considered the possibility. “Is that your preference?”

“I am always up for adventure,” he said.

She smiled.

She knew what London was like.

She didn’t know what the rest of the world was like.

If she was going to die soon, she wanted to experience something of the world.

She wanted to see the ocean...up close.

She wanted to stand on a ship.

She wanted to visit a place where people spoke a different language.

“I’m up for it,” she said.

“Magnificent,” Callum said. “Then let’s hurry.”

Right.

Goodness knew how long her mother would keep quiet. Her mother didn’t tend to keep secrets.

Callum took her hand, and excitement thrummed through her. They hurried toward the hack.

The uncharacteristically blue sky had vanished, replaced with thick steel-gray clouds. Callum’s blond hair no longer gleamed, no longer glowed, but the austere surroundings did not hamper his appearance.

She climbed into the hack. The light was dim, even though the curtains had been pushed all the way open, and she glanced at the modest street.

She squared her shoulders. She’d come so far, and she wasn’t going to halt now, simply because her maid was too scared to go on the ship with her. The notion would be ridiculous.

She climbed into the coach, and the hack driver headed toward Hades’ Lair.

“I’ll only be a moment,” Callum promised her when the coach stopped.

“Remember to fetch Lord McIntyre’s old accounts.”

His eyes widened. “But this is to be your holiday.”

“It is important,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said solemnly before leaving.

He soon returned, and the coach continued toward the Thames. The rain pattered against the roof of the carriage.

“We should be out of Mayfair now. I’ll open the drapes.” Callum stretched toward the window, and Charlotte averted her eyes. The action was senseless, for she still glimpsed his broad chest and the manner in which the fabric tightened against interesting parts of his torso. His blond hair shifted and fell over his brow, masking his eyes. Rustling sounded, but the light in the carriage hardly shifted. She turned toward the window. The slate gray sky offered no joy. Condensation clouded the window, and Callum swept it away with his gloved hand. The view remained smeared, but gray row houses, stained from smoke, were visible. Their drab exteriors nearly blended with the ominous sky.

This wasn’t Norfolk. No sturdy oaks and chestnut trees stretched lofty branches into the sky over which squirrels raced. No sheep grazed in picturesque pastures, and no lambs ventured into spontaneous hopping competitions. No cows ran through verdant grass, moving their speckled coats elegantly.

This is an adventure.