Charlotte had already grown quite weary of the social season, though it had barely begun. A week in, two insufferable balls, and a tedious tea gathering later, she’d catalogued every eligible man of the season. The worst of them was a decrepit duke, likely in his eighties, searching for a fourth wife to warm his final days. The least unbearable was a baron in his early thirties, but even he seemed solely focused on procuring a wife capable of producing heirs. The notion repulsed her.

For Charlotte, this wasn’t a matter of personal desire. It was necessity. Her family’s fortunes were far from secure, and a suitable match could alleviate their precarious position. She did this for them, not herself. Certainly not to please these men.

The entire affair grated on her nerves. The elaborate dresses she wore felt suffocating, ostentatious wastes of fabric designed to catch the eye but not her spirit. The rumor mill had already begun churning, painting Charlotte as a dreary companion, so gloomy that even the happiest husband would wilt in her presence.

Her mother, exasperated and determined to salvage Charlotte’s prospects, took drastic action. She scoured London for a tutor—a specialist in refining young women into proper ladies. Someone to teach Charlotte the art of charm: how to dress, converse, captivate, and, above all, leave a lasting impression. The entire concept was revolting, but her mother insisted.

Charlotte was in her chambers, staring out at the bustling streets of London, when the door creaked open. She hadn’t expected you to arrive so quickly. You appeared her age perhaps, though there was a poise about you that instantly set you apart. Every movement seemed deliberate, your posture straight and composed, your presence undeniably commanding.

Charlotte sat up, smoothing the folds of her dress.

“You must be the tutor my mother hired. I’ll warn you now—I’ve earned myself quite the reputation in just one week. Dreadful wife material, they call me. I doubt there is enough coin in it for you to fix me."