Dukes Prefer Bluestockings (Wedding Trouble, #2)

by Blythe, Bianca

  Callum sighed. “Are you feeling well?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He scrutinized her. She didn’t look fine. Her face was pale, and sweat shone on her brow.

  “You should be in bed,” he said.

  “N-nonsense.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m quite capable of walking.”

  “I should speak with your parents,” he grumbled.

  Her pale blue eyes widened.

  “They’re not taking care of you properly. Do they even know about your condition?”

  She averted her eyes, and anger burst through him.

  “Damnation.”

  “People are looking at us,” she said.

  “Let’s dance then.”

  She blinked.

  “You’re at a ball. You mustn’t look so surprised. It is rather what one does here.”

  “It’s never been what I do there,” she said softly.

  He assessed her. “You’re a wallflower.”

  She nodded.

  “You know that doesn’t mean you should be actually trying to blend in with the wall?”

  A pompadour color flooded her cheeks. “Naturally I’m aware that’s only an expression...”

  “Come, let’s dance,” he said gently. Dancing was something he knew how to do. Conversation was not required when dancing.

  “I’m not very good,” Charlotte said.

  He gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m sure you’re plenty good. You just have to follow the music.”

  “That’s what everyone says,” Charlotte said, and her voice seemed almost mournful.

  “You look very pretty.”

  The words failed to dismiss the growing look of horror on her face.

  “You’re supposed to say ‘thank you.’ And perhaps even ‘yes.’” Callum gave her his arm and led her onto the dance floor.

  Chapter Six

  The duke gazed at her in a strange manner, and she shivered. Men like him weren’t supposed to gaze at women like her. Men like him were with the very finest women, who’d gone to the most immaculate finishing schools and who never appeared like they were drowning in their attire. Such women wore immaculate gowns with lace made by multiple workers over months that were embroidered with jewels mined from minerals in faraway caves over vibrantly colored fabric taken from similarly precious dye, exported from faraway countries.

  No.

  Men like the Duke of Vernon were not supposed to pay any attention to women like Charlotte.

  The countryside might be known for rosy-cheeked milkmaids, but Charlotte was too thin and pale to resemble them. Other women fretted over the unbecomingness of empire waist gowns, and the propensity of the high waist line to give the impression of impending motherhood. Charlotte never had those fears, though even in those gowns she was too short to conjure the visions of Grecian regality that the designers intended.

  Charlotte might have technically attended balls, but no matter her mother’s ability to procure invitations, and no matter her mother’s lineage, the fact remained Charlotte was not only the daughter, but also the second daughter, of a vicar.

  It was the sort of occupation one might not truly be able to criticize, not like that of a fisherman or some other laborer, but she was certain it was an occupation they could hardly respect. After all, they were independently wealthy.

  Finally the duke swept into a deep bow. “May I have this dance?”

  She stared at him, unaccustomed to this new formality.

  He leaned closer to her. “This is a ball, Miss Butterworth. The prospect of dancing can’t be entirely baffling.”

  “B-but you’re a duke,” she stammered.

  His lips twitched. “You seemed to indicate earlier you found that less than impressive.”

  He led her to the row of finely attired people waiting to begin the dance, and she took his arm again, conscious of the startled expression on people’s faces as they saw them together.

  “I’m a terrible dancer,” she warned.

  His lips twitched again. “I rather much doubt it.”

  “You are a man of entirely too much optimism.”

  “Is that a quality I should be worried about?”

  She assessed him. “I think it’s a quality you should pride yourself in.”

  The duke blinked, obviously surprised, and she averted her gaze.

  The dance needed to begin.

  At any moment, she was going to transform into a perfectly simpering woman, whose every word to him was a compliment, and he’d think her despondent once he shifted his attention elsewhere.

  MISS BUTTERWORTH WAS a terrible dancer.

  The thin material of Callum’s dance slippers was not an effective barricade against the frequency of her habit to step upon his toes.

  “I told you I was dreadful,” Miss Butterworth said.

  “So you did,” he said, doing his best to maintain a placid expression as his large toe throbbed with pain.

  “I’m not in the habit of lying,” she declared.

  “Most admirable of you.”

  The music was particularly jaunty, but Miss Butterworth’s lips were pursed in obvious concentration. Every now and then her lips would move, like some medieval witch about to utter a spell.

  “Are you counting?” he asked.

  “Doesn’t everyone count when dancing?”

  “I suppose at one time...”

  “You must speak quickly,” she said. “In fourteen seconds we are to be divided.”

  “I suppose you don’t love dancing.”

  “I rather implied that,” she said, and they separated.

  No one stepped on Callum’s foot when he joined a new pattern of dancers, but he was relieved when he rejoined her. “I thought you were being modest.”

  She shrugged. “Then you were mistaken. It’s happened before with you. I imagine it is one of your characteristics.”

  “Being mistaken?”

  “Logic is a subject with which some people struggle.

  But do not worry, there are subjects with which I struggle.” She stepped on his toe again.

  “I believe you.”

  Her face was grave and serious. She hadn’t once mentioned ribbons or hinted at her strong capabilities for manor house management.

  She’d been acting bravely, coming here. The fact intrigued him. Bravery was something which he’d associated with troops in battle, but most of the women of his acquaintance were squeamish over something as trivial as a stray spider that ventured inside the house.

  He wished the musicians had not just played a waltz. He wouldn’t have been entirely disinclined to twirl about with her, and he was sad when the dance ended.

  “How honorable of you to dance with our most incorrigible wallflowers,” a man’s voice said.

  Sir Seymour.

  Callum tried to temper the wave of irritation that rushed through his body.

  “Your slippers must be in a sorry state,” Sir Seymour continued, and Miss Butterworth’s face pinkened. “His Grace is most kind, do you not feel? Especially when his own betrothed is at this ball?”

  A pained expression appeared on her face.

  Blast.

  The point of asking Miss Butterworth to dance had not been to embarrass her.

  “My slippers are fine,” Callum said tightly.

  “Ah,” Sir Seymour said. “I imagine they are, given their ducal quality. You must share the name of your cobbler. Your taste is magnificent.” He gave a quick glance at Miss Butterworth, and Callum doubted the baronet thought Miss Butterworth’s taste magnificent. “But you are perhaps too noble, Your Grace. Perhaps it is a Scottish inclination. Your people never did manage to win wars.”

  Callum stiffened. “War is not the only thing worth winning.”

  “Ah, but does one desire to live in an occupied country?” Sir Seymour mused. “All those times France tried to attack us, they never managed to, did they?”

  “With the exception of the Norma
ns conquering England in 1066,” Miss Butterworth said tersely, and Callum gave a short laugh.

  “It has been a pleasure dancing with you, Miss Butterworth.” Callum swept into a deep bow, noting that Sir Seymour’s face took on a purple shade.

  Perhaps Callum’s bow had been lower than absolutely necessary, but he had enjoyed their dance.

  Miss Butterworth gave a not-particularly-elegant curtsy, but Callum expected Sir Seymour’s glower might be unnerving. Callum had the advantage of being the subject to Sir Seymour’s awkward attempts at adulation.

  Even though his valet might complain when he saw Callum’s slippers, Callum felt almost a sense of regret when Miss Butterworth left.

  Chapter Seven

  The dance had been glorious, and now it was over. The evening was not supposed to be spent swirling in the arms of a duke. It was a strange variation from joining the other wallflowers, where the most exciting part of the evening was nibbling on the stale cake the patronesses offered and discussing fish with Miss Louisa Carmichael.

  Charlotte departed from the duke. No need for him to continue to make conversation with her. The man was engaged, and his fiancée was present, somewhere, at this ball. The duke wasn’t the first man who felt compelled to dance with some wallflowers. When he wasn’t hopping into carriages which didn’t belong to him, the man could behave quite nobly.

  She spotted her mother’s feathered turban in the throng of people and headed toward her. Perhaps Mama could distract her. Even though she despised dancing, memories of the man’s hand on her waist and of his masculine scent still rushed through her mind.

  “Did you see the duke dancing with that vicar’s daughter?” a female voice behind her asked.

  Tension sprang through Charlotte’s body, as if attempting to transform her to stone, and the act of walking became difficult. She didn’t recognize the sound of the voice. Whoever was speaking about her was no friend.

  “Is that who she was?” asked a new, equally unpleasant voice with a slight Scottish burr. “I wonder she was allowed into this ballroom.

  “This is hardly Almack’s,” the first woman said. “The baronet is happy to fill the ballroom with any guests. We are speaking about someone from Yorkshire.”

  “Evidently, even that county is vastly superior to wherever that girl was from. She was so dreadful at dancing.”

  The two women laughed, seemingly pleased in their open contempt.

  Charlotte wrapped her arms against her chest. Her gloves scratched her, and her shift seemed too tight.

  She glanced toward her mother. She had no desire to make conversation now. Where was Georgiana? Not that she could confide in her. Her sister had the habit of acting without thinking, and Charlotte wouldn’t be surprised if Georgiana marched up to those despicable women and admonished them, turning the whole event into something even more unpleasant.

  A slight flutter of wind brushed against her as she passed velvet drapes. I can go outside. It might be cold, but it would be private.

  And privacy was exactly what she required.

  Charlotte slipped behind the velvet curtain. The brocade pattern scratched against her face. Its sumptuousness did not extend to its texture.

  The space behind the curtain was dark, and she felt frigid glass beneath her gloves. She fumbled for a door knob, but there was no handle. Just a partway opened window, and one with no view.

  Heat prickled her cheeks, even though no one was around to witness her. Had people seen her duck behind the curtain? They would think her ludicrous.

  They already do.

  She should leave now, but her chest tightened. At any moment, her breaths might come overly rapidly, and she would utterly humiliate herself. She shut her eyes. I cannot remain here.

  “There you are, Vernon,” one of the unpleasant women said. Her alto voice sounded impossibly loud. She must be standing on the other side of the curtain.

  Charlotte shrank back. Any urge to step from the curtain vanished. She couldn’t provide more gossip fodder. Her poor dancing and unfashionable attire had already sufficed in making this woman think herself superior.

  “Lady Isla.” A tenor voice with a slight Scottish accent sounded.

  Charlotte didn’t have to peer around the curtain to know whom the voice belonged to; it was the duke’s.

  “You disappeared. Is that how you treat your betrothed?”

  The duke was engaged to this woman? Who criticized Charlotte within hearing difference? Who laughed about her with a friend? Who evidently belonged to the very highest strata of the ton?

  Charlotte stiffened.

  She felt ridiculous for pondering the symmetry of his facial features and the broadness of his chest. She felt ridiculous for contemplating the manner the golden candlelight hit his strands, making it gleam, and she certainly felt ridiculous for spending any amount of time with him. He was the cream of the peerage and she was...not.

  “You do know you could have danced with me,” Lady Isla said.

  “A second dance in a row?” the duke asked. “I would not want to be scandalous.”

  “Nonsense. Our betrothal is no secret,” Lady Isla said. “Not even the most etiquette conscious person would object to a second dance.”

  The duke was silent.

  “You rushed toward that vicar’s daughter with such speed. Anyone would think you’d decided to take up exercising in our dear host’s ballroom.” Lady Isla laughed, and the sound was melodic, even though nothing else about her seemed pleasant. “And after all, she is so plain.”

  This was a private conversation.

  This was not meant for her to hear.

  Charlotte’s stomach twisted, and she stepped closer to the window. The condensation prickled her sleeves. No doubt her puffed sleeves were turning a different color.

  Fiddle-faddle.

  She stepped away, and hoped no one noticed the curtain moving.

  “Perhaps slenderness is fashionable,” Lady Isla continued, “but she is skinny, and that height—it’s not the least impressive. She scarcely fit into her gown.”

  “I don’t take my lessons on beauty from what some magazine happens to say is fashionable.”

  “Hmph. Let’s discuss our wedding instead of the tiresome women at second-rate balls,” Lady Isla said. “We could have an August wedding.”

  “Is that your wish?” The duke’s voice was collected, but even through the curtains, Charlotte could hear his voice wobble. The man seemed to radiate tension and unease.

  Charlotte drew back. Her heart sped, sending blood through her body frantically, as if it thought itself some mill near a waterfall.

  This was an imperfect hiding spot. The proper thing of course would be to saunter past Lady Isla and the duke. But sauntering past them might lead to questions as to why she’d been there in the first place, and that was something she had no desire to do.

  “Yoo-who! Charlotte dear!” Her mother’s voice sailed through the air, undeterred by Sir Seymour’s curtains.

  Charlotte stiffened and resisted the urge to inhale a deep breath, even as her heartbeat quickened, and even as thoughts of the general frailness of her heart assaulted her.

  She would not permit herself to be discovered behind the curtain. Not when the duke and Lady Isla were on the other side. She didn’t want to ponder the duke’s possible reaction to evidence of her eavesdropping.

  “Charlotte, dear! I have someone for you to meet!” her mother’s voice exclaimed.

  Footsteps sounded, and Charlotte hoped they didn’t belong to her mother. Unfortunately, the precise rhythm of her steps did seem to indicate the presence of her mother.

  “I can see your slippers, dear,” her mother said. “I know you’re behind that curtain.”

  “How very curious,” Lady Isla murmured.

  “What an odd location for you to stand,” her mother continued.

  “Are you Mrs. Butterworth?” the duke asked.

  “Oh, yes, I am,” her mother said gaily.

>   Ice shot through Charlotte, and she hurried from the comfort of the curtain. She blinked into the bright light.

  She wished the face of her mother would not look nearly so startled.

  Charlotte was afraid to look at the other faces.

  She wasn’t going to permit the duke to tarnish her mother’s evening. She was still functioning. She hadn’t succumbed to her illness yet.

  “Oh, there you are, Charlotte.” Her mother composed herself and beamed. “It would have been most embarrassing if I was speaking to someone else’s slippers.”

  “Sneaking behind the curtains? How terribly quaint.” Lady Isla laughed, and Charlotte turned her gaze to the direction of the voice.

  She was beautiful.

  Charlotte didn’t use that word lightly, even in her mind, but the fact remained unmistakable.

  The woman moved toward her, obviously not beset by clumsiness or some other affliction. Emeralds glimmered from her throat. The jewels were popular with some of the older women, but this woman did not seem to be using them for their throat wrinkle disguise purposes. Her skin appeared smooth and dewy. The waistline of Lady Isla’s gown was lower, in the very newest style, bestowing her with a doll-like appearance men most likely adored. Even her slippers were jeweled, and they sparkled against the black and white tile of the floor.

  Charlotte stiffened. Her pink dress seemed unsophisticated. One never spent long observing a single pale-colored flower.

  Lady Isla continued to assess her, though she’d lifted one brow. Charlotte had the distinct impression she was the reason.

  The woman narrowed the distance between them. “Your hair is messy, my dear. That curtain could not have been good for it.”

  Charlotte reached toward her hair, but the woman tilted her head, and her eyes glimmered ice. “Oh, dear. That is your normal updo.”

  Charlotte felt like a three-year old who’d wandered into the wrong wading pool, to discover not only was she in the wrong location, but she couldn’t even swim.

  “Why were you hiding there?” The duke’s eyes rounded. “Did you feel faint? Perhaps the dance was too much exertion for your health...”