“I’m quite fine,” Charlotte protested.
At least, it wasn’t her parents who caused her distress.
“Of course she is,” Mama said. “She’s going to a ball.”
Mama’s lips were fixed into a wide smile others might reserve for visiting a beloved, seldom-seen relative. Though they’d been in London for the entirety of the season, balls remained a special occasion. Despite Mama’s birth and the lofty positions of her relatives, much of the ton seemed suspicious of Charlotte and Georgiana.
Mama seemed so happy.
How could Charlotte confide in her?
I won’t.
Not now. Not when Mama seemed to think there was a possibility Georgiana or Charlotte would marry well.
I’ll have my normal day.
“Whose ball are we going to?” Charlotte asked.
“Lady Amberly’s!” Mama clapped her hands, and the ribbons on her lace cap swung, as if held by some exuberant Maypole dancer.
Georgiana blinked. “The Duchess of Alfriston?”
Mama shook her hand. “No, no. That would be quite impossible. The Duchess of Alfriston is no longer an Amberly. She is a Carmichael now. But Lady Amberly is her aunt, and her husband is a baronet,” Mama said.
“So not so impressive.”
“She has an unmarried son of eligible age,” Mama said.
“I rather expect there will be more than one unmarried man of eligible age in attendance,” Papa said dryly.
Mama clapped her hands again. “Oh, indeed! But think, one of our daughters could become the wife of a baronet, could become the mother of a baronet.”
“The grandmother of a baronet?” Papa suggested, and Mama’s eyelashes fluttered.
Papa set down his Hegel. “Your mother went to school with Lady Amberly.”
“Truly?” Georgiana asked.
“Indeed,” Mama said. “So you’ll be sure to get an introduction. I believe a duke will be there as well, but I didn’t go to school with him.”
“That would have been quite scandalous,” Papa said. “Imagine her wearing one of those top hats and sneaking into Eton?”
Charlotte crossed her legs. She’d once dreamed of doing just such a thing, and her skin warmed at the memory of the girlish daydream.
“Charlotte, you must wear pink,” Mama said. “Pink is the very best color for you.”
“I’ll resemble a giant flower,” Charlotte said.
Mama scrutinized her, and the ribbons on her cap halted their ceaseless movement. “That is exactly the point, my dear.”
“Men are not known for delighting in flowers,” Charlotte said.
Her sister Georgiana adored flowers and gardens, but conversations on the merits of wisteria and willow trees seemed unlikely to draw most men from their discussions on army maneuvers. Men weren’t known to go about plucking wildflowers, and they didn’t spend all afternoon creating their likenesses in needlepoint.
“Such naivety, my dear,” Mama said. “Everyone adores flowers, even though not all of them might admit it. Besides, your skin is so fair, but when you wear pink, your cheeks and lips manage to look becoming. For a woman who is as intelligent as you are, you do not know very much.”
“It doesn’t matter what I wear,” Charlotte said finally. “It’s my first season.”
“And Georgiana’s third,” Mama said quietly.
Charlotte turned her head toward her mother.
Mama wasn’t in the habit of expressing anything but the most jubilant enthusiasm about the virtues of her children, but she must be cognizant of the gossips. Charlotte had not paid much attention to their chit-chat. She was the second daughter of a vicar. Her mother had married inappropriately, and her relatives on her mother’s side were determined Charlotte not make a similar mistake.
“Still.” Mama beamed. “Perhaps you will meet a duke.”
Charlotte stiffened, remembering the duke she’d met that morning.
“That would be unlikely,” Charlotte said. “Statistically improbable.”
“I imagine you’re correct, dear. Though he’s tall, blond and handsome.” Mama’s eyes gleamed. “And his accent has a Scottish burr.”
Is it...him?
She frowned. She’d never expected to see the duke again. The man knew far too much about her. If only he hadn’t wrangled that information from Dr. Hutton’s apprentice.
Not that it would matter if they attended the same ball. He was certain to be beset by matchmaking mamas and desperate debutantes. Even Mama would admit dukes were rather too grand for someone like Georgiana or her to consider, especially ones in possession of all their teeth.
Charlotte rose. “I’ll work on Papa’s books.”
“Numbers aren’t feminine, my dear,” Mama said.
“I wasn’t aware soldiers carried abacuses to war,” Georgiana said.
Mama adjusted her hair in the mirror. “You haven’t been to war, my dear.”
Charlotte turned away. She couldn’t compete with her mother and sister. They sparred all day. Their dialogue was quick and witty. Even though her sister would make exasperated noises around her mother, their similarities were evident.
“Ah, let her do them,” Papa said, smoothing a cream colored pages of his tome. “Saves me the trouble.”
“Thank you, Papa,” Charlotte said.
She needed something with which to distract her mind. Charlotte was good at numbers. Numbers made sense. One could add and subtract them. Multiply and divide them. And they always acted predictably.
People were much less predictable. Mother frequently wailed about something, and though Father tended more toward quiet, with the exception of those days in which he was preaching at his pulpit, she was not truly similar to him. Philosophy books held no interest to her—not like numbers.
People seemed to expect her to say the right words to them. They would ask questions and then not like her answers. People were confusing.
Charlotte had learned early on that not saying what was on her mind was almost certainly the appropriate thing to do. She was reserved.
Numbers, with their propensity for behaving in an orderly fashion, while often arranging themselves into new combinations, were beautiful.
Chapter Five
Callum Montgomery paced Sir Seymour’s ballroom. The ball succeeded in encapsulating everything he most abhorred about London and the ton. At least he was not at Almack’s and forced into a ridiculous outfit, mandated by the patronesses’ allegiance to anything out-of-date, as if their guests had joined a large monkey zoo.
“Ah, Your Grace!” Sir Seymour dashed toward him, elbowing his way through the throng of guests. His high heels clattered against the polished floor. The shoes were less likely an adherence to outdated fashion than a desire to make himself taller. The baronet stopped before Callum and gave a deep bow. “I am most honored you would join us.”
“It is my pleasure,” Callum said.
In truth, he hadn’t wanted another night at the club. His concerns with Wolfe seemed trifling after meeting Miss Charlotte Butterworth. At least he hadn’t been told he suffered a fatal illness.
“My wife will be most delighted,” Sir Seymour said. “We have invited a special guest for you.”
“Bagpipe entertainment?” Callum jested, uncertain what precisely the baronet would consider a special guest for him.
Sir Seymour flushed. “Not bagpipe entertainment. I-I hadn’t realized your great interest. But you’re Scottish, so of course I see I should—”
Callum took pity on the man’s stammering. “Please do not worry.” He leaned closer to the baronet. “I haven’t visited Scotland in years.”
Sir Seymour beamed and he straightened. “And the noise bagpipes produce is horrendous.”
“That is not true,” Callum said tersely.
Even though Callum hadn’t returned to Scotland since the war and was considered English by many, he despised listening to the English mock his homeland. His wariness of Scotland derived f
rom his childhood memories of his guardian, not any lack of affection for the place itself, no matter what others assumed.
Callum exhaled and reminded himself that the baronet was attempting to be pleasant, even if Sir Seymour’s effort resulted in rudeness.
Memories of Miss Butterworth drifted through Callum’s mind. She’d been so much herself, unbeholden to anyone and without any vanity. She’d been...refreshing.
Her family must be devastated. Most likely she was tucked away in her bed.
He forced himself to listen to Sir Seymour. Death happened. He’d learned that early.
“I’ll give you a tour of the townhome,” Sir Seymour said. “I have many guests, but you, Your Grace, exceed them in importance.”
“I’m certain all of them are important.”
“Nonsense. You’re the only duke.” Sir Seymour grinned and waved to a footman, who swiftly approached. “Give His Grace a drink.”
The footman lowered his silver platter of coquelicot colored drinks, and Callum took one.
“Now be off, young man,” Sir Seymour said to the footman. “No dallying here.”
The footman’s complexion took on a ruddy tint, and he strode backward, as if he’d mistaken Sir Seymour for the mad king.
“Please, Your Grace, allow me to show you some paintings I snapped up for a steal,” Sir Seymour said, once again jovial. “My neighbor, the esteemed late Lord Mulbourne, was a great art collector. After his death, his heir sold me some of his art for a very good price.”
“I gather you do not appreciate the finery of paintings,” Callum said.
“I do not,” Sir Seymour said. “How a man could spend time creating something that does not exist is beyond me. Utter waste of time.”
“Perhaps landscapes appeal to you more,” Callum said.
“Landscapes are the creation of people who do not have the sense to look out the window,” Sir Seymour huffed. “Complete frivolity.”
“Not everyone is as fortunate as you are to have a home in the countryside,” Callum said.
“But do those people matter? They don’t even belong to the House of Lords.” Sir Seymour shook his head. “But my dear son Cecil assures me art can be most valuable. I am fond of good investments. Nothing brings pleasure like money.”
Callum resisted the urge to ask why Sir Seymour spent so much time gambling in Hades’ Lair.
Sir Seymour’s musicians played country dances, though the dancers moved stiffly. The punch had a decidedly nonalcoholic taste and was hardly conducive to festivity.
“I should mingle with other people,” Callum suggested. “I would not like to occupy all of your time. You are the host and you have a great many guests.”
“I have, haven’t I?” Sir Seymour grinned and leaned closer to Callum. “I didn’t serve real alcohol. All about economizing, that’s what I say. If it’s good enough for Almack’s, it’s good enough for me.”
Callum almost smiled.
In fact, he was certain he might have, but the scent of a certain perfume wafted near him, and he stiffened. “Sir Seymour? Who exactly is the surprise guest?”
“Ah,” Sir Seymour beamed. “She is standing behind you.” The baronet leaned closer. “I am quite romantic. When I learned she was in town, I said to myself, ‘Seymour, you have got to invite her to your ball.’”
Callum turned his head and Lady Isla stood before him.
“Is any woman more beautiful than your betrothed?” Sir Seymour said appreciatively. “Not my wife, that’s for certain. You’re a lucky man, Your Grace.”
Lady Isla gave a slow smile,
She was beautiful; anyone could see that, and people remarked on the fact frequently. Her dark hair was shaped into an immaculate chignon, and every lock was coiled. Her green eyes gleamed, accentuating the emeralds that adorned her throat. Her gown must be Parisian, and the navy color emanated sophistication.
“Lady Isla.” He bowed deeply. Callum supposed he was lucky, but perhaps because he’d been practically raised in her nursery, he felt no passion toward her.
“My dear Duke.” Amusement tinged her alto voice, and he wondered if his discomfort was evident. “I’d expected to meet you earlier.”
“A ballroom is more appropriate than a gaming hell,” he said.
“And it’s my ballroom,” Sir Seymour said, interrupting with the conversation with a gleeful clap of his hands. “I hope this earns me a wedding invitation.”
“I’m certain that could be arranged,” Lady Isla said smoothly.
Blast.
Lady Isla shouldn’t be giving out invitations to their wedding. There had to be some confirmation process. Her father couldn’t simply declare them engaged when they were seven.
“You should have a large wedding,” Sir Seymour said. “St. George’s Chapel is most convenient. I always tell my boy Cecil he should marry there when he finally becomes betrothed.”
“Large weddings are typically the habit of royalty.”
“And you, Vernon, are a duke.”
“I quite agree,” Lady Isla said. “Large festivities are so much more momentous.”
Callum gave a tight smile.
The strains of a waltz played, and Lady Isla looked at him expectedly. “I do enjoy dancing.”
“Then you must ask the lady to dance,” Sir Seymour exclaimed. “A man with such a beautiful woman should be displaying her. I assure you, your attire will look very becoming against these marble floors.”
Callum descended quickly into a bow. Perhaps that way Lady Isla would not see the manner in which his face was tightening. Lord McIntyre had assisted his family, and he should not be so open in his reservations against marrying Lady Isla. There could be far worse wives than her. Everyone said so.
“May I have this dance?” he murmured.
Murmurings sounded, and every gaze seemed directed at them.
Lady Isla smirked and stretched out her hand to him. “We’re a magnificent couple.”
Callum nodded. People had been marveling at the appropriateness of their match since they were children. Lady Isla had exuded perfection then, mastering each melody on the pianoforte with grace.
He led her effortlessly about the ballroom, and they glided together. She’d been his first ballroom partner, though their dance tutor no longer shouted advice from the corner of Lord McIntyre’s great hall.
“You left abruptly this morning,” Isla said.
“I had an appointment,” he lied.
“Where did you go?”
“The doctor’s.”
She blinked. Evidently, she hadn’t expected that answer. “You’re unwell?”
“Me?” He squeaked. “No, no. I’m healthy. Fit as a fiddle.”
Her perfect eyes narrowed, and he busied himself with covering more space on the ballroom floor.
“I’d rather you hadn’t invited him to the wedding,” Callum said.
“You desire more privacy?”
Callum hesitated.
For a moment, he considered telling her he didn’t want to marry her, and that he had no desire to honor the old earl’s wishes.
Would she understand? Or would she simply defend her father and tell him Callum had indeed killed his parents by giving them the pox? Would she laugh and call him childish for still being upset? Would she even repeat her father’s claim that Callum had dreamed his aunt’s presence?
Perhaps no one would believe him and she would tell all the world he was displaying lunatic tendencies.
He darted his gaze about the ballroom, sweat prickling his brow, but the waltz did not make it convenient for him to wipe it away.
A flash of blond hair caught his eyes.
Miss Charlotte Butterworth.
The chit was bravely sipping Sir Seymour’s punch, even though she should be in bed. Instead, she was attired in a pink gown in which her slender figure seemed lost.
“You missed a step,” Isla interrupted his musings.
“I’m—er—sorry,” he said.
He squared his shoulders and forced himself to concentrate on the dance. Their bodies soon swayed in rhythm. No woman was more confident on the ballroom floor, and some of the other dancers had paused their waltzes to gaze at them.
“They’re looking at us,” Isla murmured.
The ballroom thinned, and Callum’s view of Miss Charlotte Butterworth improved. She was all by herself. What would compel her, in her state, to go to a ball and stand in a corner? The inner workings of the woman flummoxed him.
“Callum,” Isla whispered. “You’re not focused.”
“I—er...” Callum always danced well. That was one of his good qualities. Everyone remarked on it. Men couldn’t hide imperfect steps behind long gowns. Their legs were always on display.
Isla narrowed her eyes and craned her head behind her. “But that’s only a room corner with a single wallflower in it.” She returned her gaze to him. “I thought the regent must have wandered in.”
“I believe he’s in Brighton. Maybe you could see him there.”
“At least he tells interesting stories,” Isla said.
“Which he makes up,” Callum said.
“Hmph.” Isla might have said more, but the dance ended. She gave him an elegant curtsy, and he remembered to bow.
“Excuse me,” he told Isla, vaguely conscious of her eyebrows rising in surprise, before he wove through the room.
He brushed past middle-aged women sporting turbans and their daughters. On another occasion, Callum might have asked them to dance. This time he moved swiftly past them.
Finally, he found Miss Charlotte Butterworth. She’d managed to drink half her punch, a progress which could only have been unpleasant.
“What on earth are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Your Grace?”
“You should be in bed,” he continued. “Where are your parents? I should speak with them. Your heart—”
“My heart is none of your concern,” she said quickly. “I beg you to lower your voice.”
The chit should be grateful he’d expressed concern, but instead her eyes were flashing with something resembling anger.
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