The Secret Plan for a Lady's Liberation, page 1
The Secret Plan for a Lady's Liberation
A REGENCY ROMANCE NOVEL
ABIGAIL AGAR
Copyright © 2019 by Abigail Agar
All Rights Reserved.
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Table of Contents
The Secret Plan for a Lady's Liberation
Table of Contents
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The Secret Plan for a Lady's Liberation
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
The Light in the Duke's Shadow
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
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The Secret Plan for a Lady's Liberation
Introduction
Lady Charlotte Grand is a wildly intelligent young girl, on the brink of crafting a beautiful life. But there’s just one problem: her parents have agreed to marry her off to a two-faced, arrogant Lord. Since everyone but her seems to be blind to his deceit, she decides to concoct a plan to prove his evil ways. But little did she know, when she traveled to London with her family, that she was about to meet an exciting man, capable of stealing her heart. Will she manage to focus on her mission or will she surrender to her feelings?
Handsome Lord Ewan Conrad is a man of incredible title and status. Despite his wealth, he’s building an importing and exporting business that sends him traveling around different cities and countries. He’s in it for the adventure, even though gossip swirls around him. But when he returns home in London, he’s struck with the beauty and charm of a young Lady. Will he dare to aim at her heart or will the secrets she seems to carry get him away from her?
Soon enough, the heroes are about to find themselves in a whirlwind of gossip, anger and betrayal. Will Charlotte find a way to escape from the terror of the deceitful Lord? And will Ewan and Charlotte find in one another a true soul mate, despite all odds?
Chapter 1
“An arranged marriage. Why, it’s simply unbelievable. It’s as though my parents haven’t given a single thought to my happiness. It’s as if they haven’t spoken a single word to me a day in my life!” Charlotte Grant sighed, smashing her fists atop her house dress. Her lower lip buzzed slightly as she frowned at her childhood best friend, the rosy-cheeked Margaret, who was perched on the edge of Charlotte’s bed. It was Margaret’s position to listen to Charlotte’s woes. It was her life-long duty, at least until both girls were married off to higher-titled men: boosting them beyond their lower-level nobility.
If that was truly what they were both “meant” for. Just another woman, with another title. Sometimes, it sickened Charlotte to her core: knowing that her life was little more than a filler for her parents’ status.
“Lord Seymour isn’t what I would term the greatest match for you, ’tis true,” Margaret said. It was clear she was trying to form the right words so as not to rile Charlotte up even more. “But–”
“There’s simply no buts, Margaret,” Charlotte stammered, strutting across the room. She nabbed a brush from her chest of drawers and began to sweep it through her often wild, near-black locks, which curled outrageously as summer crept closer. “It’s not how I envisioned my life. It’s not as though I was an enormous imbecile when it came to this courting business. I could have found a match myself. And perhaps that match could have pleased my parents.”
“Charlotte, your parents … They care about you. They truly do,” Margaret began. “And that’s why they’ve chosen Lord Seymour. They know, deep down, that …”
“Nonsense,” Charlotte scoffed. “My entire life, my father has looked past me, wishing and aching for the son he never had. And now, they want only to adopt Lord Felton Seymour—what a wretched name, no?—and ensure that their family name continues. And what with Felton’s incredible wealth from his grandfather, what could be a more perfect piece of the puzzle?”
Margaret seemed not to know what to say. Since the girls were young things, scampering across the fields of Northern England with wild eyes and scabbed knees (entirely unladylike, assuredly), they’d long played different roles. Charlotte was the loud one, the popular one: the one apt to lash out with whatever her opinion was, uninhibited. Margaret was far more sensible, and, Charlotte knew, was more the sort to marry whomever her parents pleased. She longed for the comfort of building her own family, of making her own home.
Sometimes, Charlotte sensed that her life would be far easier if she simply administered Margaret’s way of being. But she felt a burning in her stomach, one that told her that was simply no option for her.
It was her position to be unruly. She saw no other possibility.
“Absolutely ridiculous,” Charlotte stammered again.
Addie, the maid, rapped at the side of the half-cracked door and peered her crooked nose through. She gave Charlotte a grin and her eyes sparkled as if she already knew what Charlotte was up to. Addie had been around since Charlotte was a teensy thing and had been privy to some of Charlotte’s most mischievous acts.
“What are you two up to? Nothing good, I can only assume,” Addie said.
“Addie, I simply cannot marry him,” Charlotte said, crossing her arms hard across her chest. “It’s outside the bounds of reason. The man is an imbecile.”
Charlotte was half-conscious of Addie and Margaret making eye contact, seemingly exchanging some sort of agreement. Probably something along the lines of, Here she goes again.
“I know, darling. But I’ve come to fetch you. You know Lord Seymour will arrive for lunch in only an hour’s time, and you haven’t yet begun to prepare.” Addie scanned Charlotte’s housedress, the brush in her hair. “Please. You know your mother will have my head if you don’t make it in time.”
Margaret snapped up from the bed, ready to bolt into action. Charlotte sighed, allowing her shoulders to droop. As usual, she felt pressed toward a hard, impenetrable future she didn’t want. One that involved Lord Felton Seymour, her mother and father’s overwhelming joy, and her, stuck in some sitting room somewhere with a pile of stitching to do.
For Charlotte—who longed for inventive conversation, for creativity, for hours atop her horse, Goldie (her best friend, besides Margaret)—this was a death sentence.
But Charlotte managed. She slipped into the appropriate light-pink gown, with its low-cut neckline. Her tiny breasts bulged up only slightly beneath the line, and her waist was cinched tight. The pink skirt swirled around her ankles, and her black curls hung with more arrangement than they ordinarily did (especially as she spent so much time riding horses, letting her hair whoosh back in the breeze).
Margaret bid Charlotte goodbye fifteen minutes prior to the arranged lunch, giving her a hard-eyed look. She gripped Charlotte’s shoulders, whispering, “You know that whatever happens, I’m here for you. Just because you’re married to some arrogant nobleman …”
Charlotte rolled her eyes back. “Darling Margaret, I know you’re always here for me. And I, you. But if you’re ever engaged to someone as wretched as Felton, my goodness, I will do anything in my power to end it. For I believe that we, as women, deserve so much more.”
Charlotte stepped into the foyer to find her mother touching her face, frowning into the mirror. Her mother, Lady Theodosia Grant, was a good six inches shorter than her daughter, with a bird-like, sharp nose. Her eyes were piercing and bright green, just like Charlotte’s. At one time, Theodosia had been a remarkable beauty, capturing the attention of a traveling portraitist who’d come through Northern England only to paint her. The painting now hung in the sitting room of a much, much richer woman, who resided in London. Theodosia didn’t speak about it much anymore.
Theodosia sprung around the moment she realised her daughter was in the room with her. She flashed a false smile. “Darling,” she said. “You look absolutely stunning. I’m rather certain Lord Seymour will be pleased.”
“He’d better be,” Charlotte said, her nostrils flared. “For he’s engaged to me without trying at a
ll. Imagine it. I’ve worked the entirety of my life to be well-read, well-spoken. I’ve learned four different languages, am the county’s best rider …”
“Enough,” Theodosia said, pursing her lips. “I understand that you think you’re too good to marry for the benefit of this family. But you’re simply incorrect, Charlotte.”
That moment, Lord Ernest Grant entered the foyer. He was tall, broad-chested, with cheeks that sagged down toward his neck. His sideburns were thick and dark grey, and his eyes were far away as if he was continually thinking of anything else. Immediately, Theodosia perked up, arching her brows toward her husband. Despite their seeming inability to understand their daughter, Charlotte was relatively aware that they both still held the other in incredible regard. Perhaps it wasn’t love; perhaps nobody truly remained in love. But if it wasn’t love, it was rather like it.
“What’s this all about?” Ernest asked, his voice jocular. “I imagine the only bickering you girls are doing is playful in nature. Charlotte?” He turned his eyes toward his one and only daughter, standing to the side of his wife. They looked like judges, preparing to tell Charlotte her official punishment—how she would spend the rest of the years of her life.
“Yes,” Charlotte murmured. “Playful.”
As if on cue, there was a knock on the door. Theodosia turned quickly and snapped her feet across the foyer marble. Charlotte remained back, conscious that her father continued to study her. He seemed to look at her like a strange specimen, something he could never possibly understand.
“Lord Felton Seymour. What a pleasure it is to see you!” Theodosia said, her voice bright and sunny and false.
Charlotte’s heart dripped somewhere into her stomach. She swallowed hard. Everything within her told her to spin back, to rush out the back door of their crumbling family estate and leap atop Goldie. She imagined herself tearing across the moors, tears streaking down her face. “I can’t possibly live this way,” she would murmur to herself. “I’ll find another place to roam. Change my name. Charlotte Grant will be nevermore.”
Lord Felton Seymour greeted her mother and then stepped into the foyer, bowing to both her father and to Charlotte. His eyes were strangely small and watery, and his chin was weak and teensy and shiny. It looked rather like the chin of a much younger boy, perhaps twelve or thirteen. For whatever reason, Charlotte fixated on this chin, feeling a frown form.
“Charlotte, you’re looking lovely this afternoon,” he said. His voice was pompous and bouncy. The very nature of it turned Charlotte’s stomach over.
Theodosia glared at Charlotte from behind Felton’s shoulder. Charlotte forced a smile, a response. “As are you, Lord Seymour.” But in her own ears, her voice was remarkably sterile. It didn’t even sound like hers.
Moments later, Addie announced lunch. The four of them marched into the dining room, where the table had been set with a white tablecloth, flickering candles, and light pink flowers plucked from the newly-growing garden. Charlotte sat across from Felton, trying her hardest not to glare at him. Instead, her eyes floated across the room, atop her parents’ heads, towards the window. The April sun steamed in between the lace drapes.
“It looks marvellous, Lady Grant,” Felton said, sweeping his napkin across his lap and reaching for his fork. “I’ve told my mother time and again, if we don’t find a better cook like yours, I’m leaving the family estate.”
Theodosia chuckled. She brought a teensy morsel of chicken from her platter to her lips and chewed slowly, letting her green eyes turn towards Charlotte. After swallowing her baby morsel, she said, “Charlotte was quite good at cooking when she was a bit younger. It was one of her moods, you know. Until next, it was the pianoforte. And next, it was painting …” Theodosia gave Charlotte a half-smile.
“Oh, are you quite interested in music? I say, I’m terribly good at the pianoforte, myself,” Felton said, his voice bouncing along, even in the midst of his chewing. “It’s terribly difficult for me to find another person with quite my skills. You can imagine how I’ve always wanted to find a partner to play a duet with.”
“Why! That’s marvellous news. Something in common,” Ernest said. “You must play for us, both of you. I imagine that will make for a wonderful afternoon treat.”
“Splendid!” Felton said, his smile stretching wide enough for Charlotte to see the gravy frothing around behind his teeth.
Charlotte couldn’t have verbalised a worse way to spend her time. She hardly nibbled at her lunch, feeling too tight and stitched up. She felt the colour draining from her face and thought very seriously about feigning an illness. But as her betrothed, her mother, and her father scraped their platters clean, she realised it was time for this charade to begin.
“Shall we journey into the sitting room, then?” Theodosia said. “I, for one, believe it’s time for the two of you to begin your duet for us.”
“I’m afraid I …” Charlotte began before watching her father slice a particularly dark look towards her. She cleared her throat, and then nodded. She knew better than to act like her wild self in front of Felton. She fought at every single urge.
Once in the sitting room, her parents tossed themselves back in their chairs, seemingly exhausted post-lunch. Charlotte perched atop the piano bench, feeling Felton move alongside her. His elbow bumped into her upper arm. She cleared her throat, feeling her eyes well up with tears. How ridiculous this all was! She was eighteen years old, on the brink of the rest of her life. And yet, she would be forced to do this life, this wretched literal duet, for what felt like forever.
“Shall we begin in the key of A?” Felton offered, glancing her way.
“Whatever pleases you,” Charlotte said.
“Very well.”
Felton struck forward, drawing his fingers atop the higher octaves in a sort of Minuet. Charlotte bided her time before bringing her fingers to the lower notes and playing along with minor chords, ensuring that everything stayed in-tune but not bothering to add any flourishes. It seemed that Felton had enough flourishes for the both of them. In fact, as they played along, he bobbed his entire body back and forth—knocking his left shoulder into her and making her shiver.
Charlotte flashed her eyes towards her mother, giving her a sombre glare. Her mother arched her brow, giving what could only be a look of warning. If Charlotte didn’t behave herself, Theodosia would see to a punishment. “All women must think of their family first and foremost,” Theodosia had told her, time and time again. “Your father. Our name. It’s the essential thing. It will continue long after we’re buried, Charlotte. You must stop thinking that all you are, all you can be, is the only thing. Your painting. Your music. Your horse riding. It is nothing when compared to the importance of name.”
Lost in thought, Charlotte flubbed a chord in her left hand. Immediately, the sound became clunky and foreign. Felton drew his hands from the keys, flashing his fingers skyward.
“Dear me!” he cried, his eyes widening towards Charlotte. “I can’t imagine why you thought that would be a relevant chord at this time, dear Charlotte.”
Charlotte shot up from the piano bench, her cheeks growing rosy. Her mother’s face darkened still more. Felton remained on the bench, seemingly incredulous. Charlotte tittered, sensing that everyone in the room thought her a fool.
“I do apologise, Lord Seymour. It seems that I haven’t practiced nearly enough in the previous months. It had been a habit of mine to practice frequently, to fill my days with music. But as of late, I’ve spent the majority of my free hours atop my horse, Goldie.”
