“Surely you do not wish my cousin to forget her obligations?” She eyed him like she espied a particularly nasty insect, before turning to Charlotte. “Your mother does not want you to forget your dance with Lord Carmichael.”
Charlotte forced herself to smile brightly. “How could I forget? I cannot disappoint him. Please excuse me.”
Lavinia turned to the others. “Good evening.”
“Good evening,” Henry and Lord Fanshawe echoed, the latter’s reply sounding as if through gritted teeth.
A shiver rippled through her. Surely he had not intended something nefarious. But in such a setting, with so many witnesses, it would not take much at all for a lady’s reputation to be ruined, or for a scandal—or the presumption of one—to force a couple to the altar.
“Thank you, Lavinia.”
“I’m sorry if you do not like to hear this, but I do not trust that man. He smiles too quickly with his lips, but never with his eyes.”
Charlotte nodded, unable to disagree.
Lavinia drew her to where the sets were forming. “I cannot see Lord Carmichael, can you?”
“No.”
“Oh well. Ah, look. Here is my friend.” Lavinia smiled at the plain girl Charlotte had noticed earlier. “Charlotte, please permit me to introduce my dear friend Catherine Winthrop to you. Catherine, this is my cousin, Lady Charlotte Featherington.”
After an exchange of curtsies the older girl smiled, genuine warmth lighting the corners of her honey-brown eyes. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Charlotte.”
“And you, Miss Winthrop.”
“I’m sure you don’t remember, but I was at Lavinia’s wedding last December.”
“Oh! I’m afraid—”
“Charlotte!” Mama drew near, the frown in her eyes reserved for Lavinia’s friend. “Excuse us, Lavinia, but I must steal Charlotte for a moment. Her dance partner is waiting.”
Charlotte made her farewells and hastened after her mother.
“I’m sorry, Mama, but I could not find Lord Carmichael anywhere.”
“No matter, we have found you a new partner.” Her mother headed past a woman wearing bright red sateen and a majestic turban of orange silk, shot with purple. “My goodness,” Mama murmured. “The things some people think fit to wear in public.”
“Who wishes to dance with me, Mama?” Please Lord, not Lord Fanshawe! She held no wish to speak with him, let alone stand so close as a dance required.
“Someone who has been quite anxious for this opportunity, I believe.”
Her mother drew her forward, then gently pushed her toward the man standing next to her father.
The man whose countenance lit at the sight of her. The man around whom circled so much gossip and speculation. The man whom she’d thought she would never see dance.
The Duke of Hartington.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHARLOTTE’S LOOK OF shock stripped away the courage William had felt earlier. A prize he was not, not to this young lady, however much he might be considered one by her parents. William swallowed a sigh, pushed his lips into a smile. “Lady Charlotte, I hope you will do me the honor of standing up with me for this dance.”
Her eyes flashed, and he knew in that moment she did not feel like she would be bestowing an honor, rather succumbing to an obligation. She slid a look at her parents, which only confirmed his suspicions.
His heart sank. Despite her mother’s assertions, clearly Charlotte had little desire to dance. Was he such a fool to persist in this ridiculous hope?
Lady Exeter seemed aware of this as she said, “Charlotte?”
Her daughter’s posture straightened, her chin lifted, yet she looked no higher than his neckcloth. “Thank you, sir. I’d be delighted,” she said in a flat voice that suggested anything but.
Fighting dismay, he held out his hand and led her to join the set that had already formed. Around them, dancers responded to the lilting melody with laughter and smiles, but she said nothing, her manner as uncompromising as her posture.
“Thank you for not embarrassing me with a refusal.”
Now her gaze met his. “Sir, I—” Her lips parted, closed again.
The dance progression parted them, preventing conversation momentarily, before she returned to his side. “Are you enjoying your season?”
“You asked me that earlier.”
“Forgive me. You said it proved most diverting?”
“Yes.”
He cleared his throat. “Is time spent with Fanshawe so diverting?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“At supper before, I assumed …”
Her eyes flashed; she said nothing, but two bright spots of color suffused her upper cheeks.
He had offended her.
Censure twisted within as the music separated them again. What kind of fool was he? How could he hope to win her—with slights and offenses?
When the dance finally returned her to him, he could think of nothing more to say. Were his assumptions about Fanshawe incorrect? He had wondered earlier, her look of relief at her cousin’s intervention enough to lend wings to his hope. He opened his mouth. Closed it. What could he say that had not been said to her enough already tonight? He’d heard the young bucks tonight, heard their compliments; he needed something more original than flattery. But charm had always proved elusive, and as much as he admired her openness, found her youthful presence refreshing to his soul, and her looks very diverting indeed, he could not help but be aware that she did not feel so about him.
He glanced down at her. The top of her head reached to his eyes, and from this vantage point he could see the lovely lines of her neck, the creaminess of her skin, catch the flash of diamond drops in her perfect little ears. What could he say but the truth?
“Lady Charlotte?”
She glanced up, and their gazes held.
His pulse throbbed. He could drown in those eyes: so clear, so entrancing, so beautiful. “You are most lovely.”
A rosy pink suffused her features, and she glanced down modestly.
His heart tripped. Heavenly Father?
Charlotte barely knew if she was to move or stand still. This man kept her off-kilter with his awkwardness and admiration, with those deeply lashed, deeply dark eyes.
“You dance very well, Lady Charlotte.”
“Thank you.”
So she should. Mama had engaged the redoubtable Mr. Finetti, whose command of the elegancies of all the proper dances had given him the reputation of London’s foremost dancing master. But she could not say this.
Neither could she look at his eyes, risk sinking into their fathomless depths. Up close, his eyes held a myriad of specks, as if a fairy from a French tale had scattered golden dust while he dreamed. She, who had never considered him attractive save when he smiled, had suddenly become captive to his eyes.
She ducked her head, unwilling to see the dowagers sitting on the room’s perimeter. Her cheeks flamed. She knew what they were saying behind their painted fans and painted smiles. The duke’s singling her out in such a manner, dancing with her when he’d not danced with any others, would only set tongues flapping, and—her spirits sank—no doubt a heavy exchange of wagers in the card room next door.
Was Father there? She nearly stumbled, but the duke held her safely. Of course he would be; he never danced anymore. What bets would he lay down? She nearly slipped again. Was Henry right? Wasn’t this akin to selling her off to the highest bidder?
Tears rushed to fill her eyes, to fill her throat. She blinked them back, keeping her lips lifted in a stiff smile, only to meet the sardonic gaze of Lord Fanshawe. Upon noticing her attention, he swept her a bow. Her smile wavered, and she turned her head away. Of course Lord Fanshawe was displeased; he knew she was supposed to be partnering Lord Carmichael. He might smile easily, but Lavinia was right. Lord Fanshawe’s smile lit neither his eyes nor his features. He might as well wear a mask.
She returned her attention to covertly study the
man across from her. His chin was firm, his lips thin, tweaking to an occasional half smile, as if wryly amused. This man might not smile often, but when he did, it made her pulse skip a little. Unlike other gentlemen of smooth manners and smoother words, the duke’s conversation, sparse as it might be, held purpose, and a dignity that lent an authenticity to his speech. He might rarely flatter, but in the absence of flattery his words felt more trustworthy. And his eschewing of the props of the fops and dandies—his only concession to jewels a signet ring and pocket watch—such lack of ornamentation was perhaps also indicative of his character, that he felt no need to try to impress those who required such aids to be impressed. Which was, somehow … impressive.
The dance drew to an end, the lines reformed, the music faded, the dancers bowed, curtsied, applauded.
“Shall we?”
The duke offered his arm and they wended their way through the ogling crowds, the stares and whispers behind fluttering fans making her feel hot and jittery. By the time they’d crossed the ballroom, it was a relief to finally sink into a chair beside Mama, and pretend her exhaustion necessitated the duke’s fetching her a glass of lemonade.
Mama leaned near as he walked away. “You dance together very well.”
“He is too short.”
“Nonsense! He is taller than you. Indeed, he is just as he ought to be.”
Charlotte snatched up a fan to wave her heated face. And to hide her lack of smile.
“I was just saying to dear Lady Castlereagh how wonderful it is to see the duke in good spirits again, and she agreed. And he is always so elegantly dressed, such a lovely gentleman—”
“Why don’t you dance with him then, Mama?”
“Why, Charlotte! The very idea. A woman of my age?” Her mother gave a tittery laugh. “No, he would be far more interested in someone much younger.”
Someone who might give him an heir, Charlotte thought miserably.
“Now, turn those lips into a smile, my dear. I have good news. Lady Castlereagh has decided to overlook the whispers and grant you vouchers at Almack’s.”
“Oh! That is good news.” Her spirits lifted. Perhaps if she were to go to London’s chief marriage mart she might be able to find someone truly eligible. Henry might decry the fare of stale cakes and sandwiches, and that nothing stronger was served than orgeat and lemonade, but to receive entrée to Almack’s was cachet beyond almost anything else.
Mama nudged her. “Pin on a smile. The duke approaches, and we can’t have you giving him the wrong impression.”
“And what precisely is the right impression, Mama?”
“Why, that you enjoy his company, of course! Ah, Duke,” Mama said, bonhomie oozing from every pore. “So thoughtful, so kind of you,” she said accepting the cup of lemonade.
The duke cut Charlotte a look, amusement dancing in the dark depths of his eyes. “Lady Charlotte, would you wish for some lemonade, too?”
Appreciation at his forbearance with her mother’s antics made her smile genuine. “Yes, please.”
“Oh, is this lemonade?” Mama said, a look of disgust crossing her face. “I would much prefer champagne, if you’d be so kind.”
“Mama,” Charlotte said in an undertone, behind her fan. “You cannot send him off like a servant!”
“Perhaps, madam, if you were to pass your drink to your daughter, you might find she may be in need of it.” This was said with a hooked brow, which brought a flush to Mama’s cheeks and a hurried passing of the cup to Charlotte, who drank from it gratefully.
“I apologize, Duke. I did not mean—”
“It is of no consequence, madam. I shall seek out a glass of champagne immediately.”
With a small bow he departed, threading through the crowds until he was lost from view.
“Such a kind man,” Mama sighed. “If your father were here and asked to do such a small thing, he’d no doubt create such a fuss. And you know I cannot stand it when people create fuss.”
Charlotte hid her smile in the bottom of her glass. Well she knew Mama could not stand for people other than herself to make a fuss …
“Ah! You’re here.” Henry slipped into the vacant chair beside her. “Freddy didn’t like it by half seeing you dancing with ol’ Hartington.”
“He’s not that old.”
“No? Older than you’d want though, isn’t he, Lottie? Though not older than what Father—”
“Henry!” Mama snapped. “Do not speak in such a vulgar manner.”
“Mama, it is not vulgar to speak plainly. Besides, don’t you wish for Lottie to be happy?”
“I wish for what is best for her! Whether that constitutes her happiness is a matter only she can decide.”
“Happiness as decision?” Henry chuckled. “Well, that’ll be something to think about, Lottie, especially when—”
“Henry!” her mother said warningly.
Charlotte frowned at the pitying expression she saw on her brother’s face. “Henry? Is there something I should know?”
“Of course not, Charlotte,” Mama said, patting her knee.
Henry’s face only deepened in compassion, his lips flattening.
“Ah, here is the duke again. Oh, look! He’s with your father.” Mama’s gift for the obvious remained as sharp as ever.
“So he is.”
“Charlotte, Henry, please behave. It is very import—Oh, thank you, Duke. How kind you are,” Mama said with a big smile and a sideways glance at Charlotte, as if wanting her to recognize his extreme magnanimity in procuring her a glass.
“Lady Charlotte, I trust you are feeling a little better?”
“Thank you, sir, I am.” She glanced at her gloved hands, folded neatly in her lap, doing her best to look maidenly, and not like someone who indulged in sarcastic musings.
“Charlotte,” her father’s voice brought her attention up. “Who is your next partner?”
“I believe it is Lord Bracewell.”
“Forget him. I want you to dance with Hartington here.”
“Oh, but—” At her mother’s elbow in her ribs she swallowed back the protest.
“Perhaps Lady Charlotte is still weary after our previous dance.” The duke smiled at her, causing her heart to quiver a little. “And I would not wish to deprive another soul of such an excellent partner.”
“Doing it rather too brown,” she thought she heard Henry mutter. “Well, I have no desire to see her dancing with anyone other than you, so I guess we’ve come to an impasse, sir.”
Charlotte searched her father’s face, then the duke’s. Why did they appear to have some understanding? A creeping kind of dread crawled across her chest. She glanced at her mother, whose smirk of self-satisfaction was one
Charlotte had witnessed a dozen times before, whenever Mama had beaten a rival and procured the latest French silk or been first to procure the services of an expert like Mr. Finetti. But what did she have to look so smug about now?
Beside her, she heard Henry’s sigh, felt his pat on her shoulder before he stood, shook the duke’s hand, and was soon lost in the sea of people. Why shake his hand? Oh, why did she not know what was going on?
“Charlotte?” Mama said, a softness in her voice as she offered her a smile every bit as wide as the one she’d offered the duke previously. “Seeing as you appear rather warm, perhaps you and the duke might like to take some air along the terrace?”
“I don’t—”
“Madam, I would not wish to presume—”
“Nonsense. Charlotte seems in need of some air, and I’m sure she would only be too happy to further the acquaintance between you both, wouldn’t you, Charlotte?”
This last was said with such a piercing look there could be only one reply.
Charlotte gave it. “Of course.”
She took the duke’s proffered arm, and he led her through the crowd, out to the cooler night air.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE TERRACE AIR held a chill, a cooling bite that sent a tremble t
hrough his spine. Or perhaps that was the effect of being with his companion. He glanced at her. Lights spilling from the upper rooms shafted illumination across her face, revealing the pensive brow, the bottom lip being bitten. She seemed as anxious as he.
He noticed her grasp tighten a little on his sleeve as they descended the steps, still in silence. It wasn’t the done thing for a mother to release her daughter into the company of a young man, but perhaps, he thought wryly, a mother did not care for the niceties when the future of said daughter was so near to being finalized. They reached the gravel path, and her hand quickly released his sleeve, like she was afraid of contamination.
As if conscious he had noticed, she glanced at him, eyes wide in the moonlight, before she shivered.
“Lady Charlotte, are you too cool? Would you prefer to return inside?”
“I …” She licked her bottom lip, the sight entrancing. “We can if you prefer, sir.”
“But that was not my question.”
She blinked. A smile flitted across her features. “That would be a strange question to ask oneself, wouldn’t it?”
Now was his turn to blink. And smile. “Especially aloud.”
“One might have questions asked about one’s sanity, and whether one would be better spent inside Bedlam.”
“Nobody is better inside Bethlem’s Asylum, I assure you.”
“Have you been?”
“Not as a patient, I assure you,” he ventured, gladness rising within as her smile peeked out again. “But neither have I visited as some do, laughing about the inmates as they might the antics of an animal at the Royal Menagerie.”
“Then why?”
“I …” Was it time to share some of his secrets? Oh, what would it matter? “I am on the board of governors.”
“You?”
He nodded. “It is a new appointment, of only a year’s standing or so. But I hope that with time we can see the conditions inside improve for the poor souls who dwell there.”
“But are they not dangerous? Should not such people be locked away?”
“They are no more dangerous than any creature that is forever chained and treated badly when others come near.” Memories surged of his most recent visit. Slipshod walls and damp floors filled with crawling vermin, filthy naked patients chained by iron bars at the neck and feet, physicians and apothecaries in denial that such treatment was inhumane. God help them all. Shaking away the painful recollections, he led her to a garden bench, lit by several golden Chinese lanterns, where he extracted his pocket-handkerchief and laid it on the seat for her to sit upon. Heaven forbid her beautiful gown be soiled.
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