Who had the duel that killed Charlotte’s husband been meant to rid Vivian of? Charlotte swallowed back the bitter ire that thought sparked. Vivian had many times assured her she hadn’t meant for that duel to take place. After all, it wasn’t as if she could have married Charlotte’s husband. Not with her alive. “Truly, though, you are not Lord Edward’s sort,” Charlotte temporized.
Vivian’s smile turned coy. “I’m every man’s sort, dear.”
Charlotte shook her head, aware arguing would cause nothing but strife. “I’ll send ‘round to my new acquaintances and tell them you’ve arrived. Perhaps that will spur them into a dinner, or a dance.”
Vivian gestured toward the manor with one elegant, gloved hand. “Why not hold your own affair?”
“All of the rooms suitable for a large gathering are locked, save one parlor.”
A line creased Vivian’s brow. “Locked?”
Charlotte shrugged. “An affectation of Lord Edward’s. Likely to prevent me from throwing bawdy soirees.” She frowned as the words left her mouth. The rooms had been locked before she arrived, and he’d thought her doddering.
“So, we’ll unlock them.”
Charlotte could only imagine his scowl then, and the growl that would accompany the expression. “Let’s see what my new neighbors offer us before we go violating the terms of my lease, shall we?”
“Your trouble, Charlotte Fairhaven, is that you are too considerate.”
“Be that as it may, we’ll try it my way first.”
In short order, Charlotte’s way proved effective, at least for the following evening. Hearing of another newcomer to Caithness, the Nevilles felt dutybound to open their doors to the community once again. Apparently, the elderly couple was the social hub of the region.
For the event, a dance, Charlotte dug an old, stately gown from the back of her wardrobe. The fitted bodice and wide skirt were more suited to the Nevilles’ manor, which she looked forward to sharing with Vivian. She hoped her friend would enjoy the storybook feel of the place.
A feeling that extended to Lord Edward’s manor. As Charlotte descended the broad staircase amid the glitter of light cast by the sconces and chandelier, the fairytales of her childhood once again came to mind. Snippets of half-forgotten daydreams surfaced. She could all but hear the voice of her nursemaid reading of knights who rode off to save lovely maidens from dire torment. In her antiquated gown, sweeping down that staircase, Charlotte felt like a princess of old.
Vivian would not be dissuaded, of course, from the high waisted, low cut, bosom-proffering gowns she favored. She teased Charlotte the entire drive to the Nevilles, calling her attire archaic, obsolete, and, perhaps worst of all, sycophantic. Charlotte tipped her chin in the air and endured, knowing Vivian’s interest in the topic would soon wane.
Fortunately, they reached the Nevilles in good time, and Vivian’s chatter stilled as they walked up the stone steps and into the flickering candlelight of the foyer. Unfortunately, the space was crowded with locals, all awaiting the two women from Edinburgh. When Vivian removed her cloak, Charlotte had to contain a wince at the gasps. Under the weight of so many eyes, Charlotte felt the odd inclination to blush on behalf of her friend.
Tamping down embarrassment, she turned to Vivian. “What do you think?” A gesture encompassed the lovely, ancient foyer. Dark, ornately carved wood abounded. An elegant, wax-caked iron candelabra hung high above. Similarly ornate and stately sconces decorated the walls.
Vivian’s blue-eyed gaze skimmed about the space. She sniffed once. “Quaint.” Her fan snapped open to flutter before her, giving every man present repeated, tantalizing glimpses of her décolletage.
To hide her disappointment, Charlotte turned toward the front of the line, where their smiling hosts waited. Vivian had dismissed the grand old manor with a glance. Charlotte looked about again. To her eyes, the space remained just as lovely.
Vivian’s sentiment toward the foyer was her oft repeated theme for the evening. The gowns were adorably passé. The refreshments charming. The folk of Caithness endearingly artless. She kept a running catalogue of these sentiments, dutifully whispered into Charlotte’s ear. By the time the dancing was about to begin, Charlotte was exhausted from pretending to find her friend’s snobbery witty.
Her only solace was that Lord Edward remained in his position on the terrace. This was seemingly normal, for no one mentioned it or made any effort to bring him in. Charlotte could only discern his darkly-clad form because she knew, from the previous event, where to seek him. As much as it pained her to admit as much, she had the notion Vivian would embarrass her when presented to the baron, and, callow though it was of her to be ashamed of her dear friend, Charlotte was weary of enduring Lord Edward’s judgement.
As she and Vivian made their way from the grand parlor toward the ballroom, Hetty came skipping toward them, a wide smile on her face. Charlotte answered with a smile of her own, trying to ignore Vivian’s whispered criticism of the girl’s manners. Charlotte was pleased to see Hetty so cheerful.
“Missus Fairhaven, Missus Lamont,” Hetty cried, eyes bright with excitement. “The musicians have learned a waltz, and Missus Neville says you may demonstrate it for us, if you like. Please?”
On her heels came Mister MaClagan, expression smug. With certainty, Charlotte realized he would be the only man in Caithness who knew the steps well enough to partner them. His grin said he knew as much.
Charlotte hadn’t been avoiding him, but also hadn’t given in to Vivian’s inclination to remain by his side. Whenever she looked at him, all Charlotte could see was his disdain for the lovestruck girl in the portrait. Enjoy rakes though she did, his callousness robbed her of any desire for his company.
“Which of you lovely ladies would care to demonstrate the waltz with me first?” Mister MaClagan asked. His sapphire eyes raked over Charlotte, then moved on to Vivian.
“Oh, but Missus Neville said one waltz.” Hetty’s expression filled with disappointment as she looked back and forth between Charlotte and Vivian. “You can’t dance one waltz with two ladies, Mister MaClagan.”
“I daresay if I exerted myself, I could occupy two ladies at once.” MaClagan had the audacity to follow his words with a wink.
“I know,” Hetty exclaimed, expression clearing. “Papa can waltz. He can dance with Missus Lamont and you can dance with Mister MaClagan, Missus Fairhaven. I’ll make him agree.” She had the words barely out before she raced away.
Vivian turned to follow Hetty’s progress down the hall toward the parlor. “The vaunted Lord Edward Waverly, Baron of Gaoth, shall finally make an appearance, then?”
Mister MaClagan snorted. “To dance? Unlikely. They say he hasn’t danced in ten years.”
Since his wife died, Charlotte realized. He must have loved her very much. She looked in the direction Hetty had gone. Had Lord Edward been happy once? When his wife was alive, had he been one for scowls and growling, or laughter and smiles?
“I’m sure I, however, can persuade them to play the waltz two times this evening, despite anything Missus Neville has declared.” Mister MaClagan leered down at them. “I wouldn’t wish to leave either of you lovely ladies unsatisfied with your night.”
Charlotte suppressed the desire to roll her eyes.
Vivian issued a throaty chuckle and slapped Mister MaClagan on the arm with her closed fan. “What a delightful pup you are, sir.”
Shocked, Charlotte realized he was a pup to Vivian. At three and thirty, she was over ten years his senior. Charlotte swiveled to look at her friend, taking in the fine lines about Vivian’s eyes and mouth. She hadn’t realized Vivian was growing so old.
Mister MaClagan caught one of Vivian’s hands and brought it to his lips. “I think you’ll find me much better trained than a pup, madam, though I am possessed of the considerable stamina of youth.”
“It’s decided then,” Lord Edward’s voice rang out along with his footsteps as he strode into the hall. “Mister MaClagan
will dance with Missus Lamont and I shall partner Missus Fairhaven.”
“No, Papa.” Hetty all but ran to keep up with her father. “I told you, Missus Fairhaven is to dance with Mister MaClagan, because they’ve already been introduced. Missus Lamont is our newest guest and so must dance with you. You’re lord of the region and it’s your duty to welcome her.”
Vivian’s hand slipped from Mister MaClagan’s as she turned avaricious eyes on the baron. She dropped into a low curtsy. “My lord, what a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Missus Lamont.” Lord Edward halted before them and offered a bow. To his credit, his eyes didn’t once stray from Vivian’s face. “Welcome to Caithness.”
Vivian reached out a hand, eyes gleaming.
Charlotte stepped between them. “In truth, there’s something I should like to discuss with Lord Edward. Given his general reclusiveness, this may be my only opportunity for some time.”
Vivian shrugged and turned her smile back toward Mister MaClagan. “Would you very much mind that arrangement, sir?”
“I would very much enjoy it,” he said and proffered his arm.
Vivian placed her hand on his sleeve, all but snuggling up against him.
Hetty let out a lingering sigh, her eyes on the couple. “I wish I knew how to waltz.”
“Oh, I’m certain you’ll learn,” Mister MaClagan said. “Your sister danced well, after all.”
Behind Charlotte, a menacing hiss left Lord Edward.
MaClagan shot him a smirk. “Perhaps, Lady Hetty, once you’ve learned the waltz, I may partner you.”
“You may not,” Lord Edward’s growl was the most menacing Charlotte had yet heard.
“But Papa, Marian always—” Hetty began.
“I said no,” the baron’s tone could have frozen ice.
Mister MaClagan’s smile broadened. “Lady Marian was a delightful partner.”
“As am I, sir,” Vivian said. She squeezed his arm.
Mister MaClagan’s attention returned to her décolletage. “I’m certain you’ll prove to be, Missus Lamont.”
“Let’s find out, shall we?” Vivian said, and drew him away.
Hetty looked after them with a frown as they headed toward the Nevilles’ ballroom.
“You will never dance with that man, Hetty,” Lord Edward said.
Her shoulders sagged. “Of course not, Papa.” A smile chased off her melancholy. “I may watch, though. I’m excited to see a real waltz. I’ll go tell them to play one next.” She slipped away.
The hall seemed suddenly quite silent. Charlotte turned to find Lord Edward regarding her with a frown, made all the more menacing by his domineering height. She tipped her head back and returned his ire.
He folded his arms across his chest. “You wish to speak with me?”
Charlotte blinked, having all but forgotten her lie. She opened her mouth to bolster it, but found herself unwilling to layer deception. “I do not. I simply didn’t wish you to dance with Vivian,” she admitted.
His eyes narrowed over a sudden intensity. “Oh?”
Charlotte shrugged. “She’s… Well, she is not right for you, at all, my lord.”
“From our three previous encounters, you have formed an opinion of who is right for me?”
He needn’t be so sarcastic. She was trying to help. If he didn’t care for Charlotte and her ways, he would loathe Vivian. “You are correct, of course, my lord,” Charlotte snapped. “I know next to nothing of you. By all means, go dance with her.”
“I believe I requested a dance with you, Missus Fairhaven.” Uncrossing his arms, he held out a hand.
Charlotte eyed his gloved palm in mild trepidation. Mister MaClagan’s words came back to her. The baron hadn’t danced in ten years. “Do you know how to waltz, my lord?”
He arched an auburn eyebrow. “I’m perfectly competent, madam.”
“Only, it’s a new dance, and…” Looking into those hard, gray eyes, she trailed off.
“And?”
“It’s a new dance,” she reiterated.
“Contrary to what you think of me, I do not dwell under a stone.”
She stared at him, uncertain what to say.
“Marian’s dance master came up from London,” he snapped. “He instructed her on the steps, under my supervision.”
“Oh.”
“I will not press you to stand up with me, if you are so disinclined, Missus Fairhaven,” he all but snarled.
She’d reawakened his growl. Well, the evening wouldn’t be complete if he didn’t growl at her. As he started to lower his hand, Charlotte placed her fingers in his gloved palm. Warmth spread through her, suffusing her face. “I should be honored to dance with you, Lord Edward.”
He gave a sharp nod. Instead of placing her hand on his arm, he closed large fingers about hers and turned to tug her toward the ballroom. As he led her through the arched doorway and into the glittering light of the crowded, domed room, she felt like an errant child being dragged before her elders for judgement. Not pausing, for the crowed parted to let him pass, he brought her through the throng to where Vivian and Mister MaClagan already danced.
A large hand settled on Charlotte’s waist. Lord Edward placed her hand on his shoulder, as if she did not know her role, then captured the other in his warm grip. With a yank, he pulled her close. Charlotte was aware of the ripple of murmurs that washed across the room as his strong legs set them dancing.
Heart pounding against her ribs, Charlotte looked up at his square jaw. Her face was suffused with heat, but she forced an even tone as she said, “If your London dance instructor held Lady Marian this close, I hope you fired him.”
“I assumed this is the way you prefer to waltz.”
Held against him, she could feel his deep voice rumble through his chest. Her own breathing was shallow, the pace lending the whirl of the dance even greater dizziness, but his words sparked her ire. How could he condemn her for a lightskirt one moment, yet take advantage of her person the next? “That depends on my partner,” she snapped.
He loosened his hold. “I see.”
Though her body protested the change, she gritted out a moderately civil, “Thank you.”
“I suppose, were you dancing with Mister MaClagan, he should hold you as close as he liked.”
“Then you suppose incorrectly, my lord, as I find you often do.”
A glance showed his expression baffled. His grip further eased. They fell into a more stately, elegant step, and silence. After several turns, she acknowledged he was more than perfectly competent. He was an exemplary dancer. She would, in truth, be happy with him as her partner all evening, if they could keep from arguing.
Too soon, the waltz ended. Charlotte barely heard the applause offered by the community. Lord Edward released her. His face a mask, he bowed, turned on his heels, and vacated the ballroom.
Chapter Seven
Charlotte crossed the dark paneled library and placed Taming of the Shrew back on the shelf. She’d spent the whole of the morning pretending to read it, and contemplating Lord Edward’s behavior of the evening before. Trailing her fingers over the row of spines, she considered her next choice of book. More Shakespeare? Or philosophy, perhaps? Something to awaken her mind, so she could better comprehend Lord Edward.
What had he meant by dancing with her? He, who hadn’t set foot on a dance floor since his wife died. It simply could not have been an effort to proposition her. Lord Edward didn’t seem the sort of man for a casual liaison. There was nothing easy in his nature.
His was a heart that loved, and strongly. She could tell that from his obvious pain whenever something must remind him of his late wife. A pain that was still sharp after ten years. Ten years of devotion to a dead woman, when Charlotte’s husband couldn’t remain devoted for two years, while she was very much alive.
A soft tap sounded at the library door.
“Come,” Charlotte called. She turned and watched one side of the arched, double doors lea
ding into the room crack open.
The widening gap revealed Cuthbert. “Lord Edward is here to speak with you, missus.”
“By all means, send him in.”
“Not to the parlor?” Cuthbert asked, expressionless. “Shall I send for Missus Lamont?”
Charlotte raised her eyebrows. That was Cuthbert’s way of saying he felt she required a chaperone, but she couldn’t imagine what prompted the notion. “Vivian is in the garden recovering from her indulgences of yesterday evening. You know it’s not wise to disturb the process. I’ll be perfectly well with Lord Edward.”
“Yes, missus.” Cuthbert bowed and pulled the door closed.
Charlotte frowned, the expression aimed at a heavy, dark-green upholstered sofa. What could Lord Edward want of her, and why was Cuthbert, a fair judge of men if ever there was one, worried? Had the lord of the keep come to expel her for her wicked waltzing the evening before, even though he’d partnered her? That seemed the type of contradictory, highhanded idiocy in which he would engage.
Hard footfalls rang down the marbled corridor without. The thick double doors were thrown wide. Lord Edward, divested of overcoat, gloves and hat, strode into the library. Did he enter every room as if the space was his, she wondered, or only ones he truly owned?
His eyes found her at once. His stride didn’t slow as he crossed the room, though the inlaid wood floors and thick carpets muted his tread. Before she could issue a greeting, he stood before her.
Cuthbert’s concern was readily apparent. Lord Edward’s form seemed almost to vibrate with tension. In his gray eyes a tinge of madness lurked. His gray-touched auburn locks, normally precise, were in disarray. His whole mien was that of a man approaching some catastrophic event.
“Lord Edward, are you well?” Charlotte asked, concern for him edging out worry over why he’d come.
His lids lowered to hood his eyes, which dropped to her lips. He sucked in a deep breath, straining the exact tailoring of his jacket. “I must know the truth of something.”
Charlotte frowned, baffled. “The truth of what?”
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