“Not precisely. What I really mean, I suppose, is that it would be nice to have a place to be free from the usual strictures imposed upon the female sex. So, for example, if I wished to slouch on the sofa…” She let her back rest against the sofa before sliding forward on the seat, and letting her head loll to one side. “…like my brothers do sometimes, I could. Or having the freedom to say what I’m really thinking, and not be confined to those sorts of topics considered suitable for a lady. Or maybe…” She came upright again and animatedly leaned forward. “Maybe we wouldn’t just have the freedom to talk about unsuitable topics, we could learn about them, too. There’s nothing more frustrating than asking a question about something and not receiving an answer because whatever the answer might be it’s deemed too inappropriate for a young lady’s ears. Or too complicated for the female brain. Or too unfeminine for a lady to be concerned about.”
There was a moment of silence as they all looked at one another. Finally, Edwina spoke up. “From the mouths of babes. Now I’m a bit embarrassed that a similar idea never occurred to us.”
Serena nodded as she idly traced the rim of her teacup with a forefinger. “Phoebe raises some interesting possibilities. It would certainly expand the idea of the group beyond merely a philanthropic one.”
“If we’re going to be a group that casts aside social conventions,” the duchess chimed in, “I vote we allow breeches be worn during the meetings.” She smiled at her niece, who looked surprised at her aunt’s suggestion. “What? Before I became a duchess, I was, much to my mother’s chagrin, an incorrigible hoyden. I frequently borrowed castoff breeches from one of my brothers for riding about the countryside.”
“Brandy, breeches, and taboo topics. It sounds as if the only convention will be an adherence to unconventionality,” Charlotte said. “So count me in, please.”
“We’ll have to be circumspect, though,” Serena warned. “I like these suggestions, but we don’t want to put our main goal at risk.”
“That’s true,” the duchess said. “And we don’t have to decide anything today. Let’s all give it some thought.”
“Why don’t we reconvene here next week at this time?” Edwina suggested.
They all agreed to this plan, and for the next three quarters of an hour the conversation drifted among a variety of topics, until the lateness of the hour brought an end to their gathering. Serena and the duchess were attending a ball that evening, and needed to get home to begin getting ready.
“Will we see you at the Vandeveres’, Charlotte?” the duchess asked.
“I’m afraid not. I’m attending a poetry reading with William,” Charlotte replied.
“Well, I expect our paths will cross again before long. I’ll see you here next week, if not sooner.”
“Oh, absolutely. I’ll be at the next Wednesday Afternoon Social Club,” Charlotte said, referring to the name they’d jokingly dubbed the group.
Chapter Fourteen
Well, you’re going to have to do something,” Charlotte said.
Her maid, Sally, shrugged. “Unless you wish to wear a damp chemise, you must don this one. Or one of the others in those parcels over there.” She gestured toward the boxes sitting on the foot of Charlotte’s bed, part of the order from Madame Rochelle.
Charlotte felt a throb starting in her temple. She hadn’t arrived home from the tea at Red Lion Square until nearly four o’clock, and she hadn’t even had a chance to divest herself of her bonnet before Hopkins handed her a note. Recognizing William’s writing, she’d torn it open.
My dear Charlotte,
I apologize for the last-minute nature of this note. I’m expected to attend the Vandevere ball tonight; it’s a long-standing engagement, but one which had slipped my mind until I received a note from Lady Vandevere this afternoon. I know we’d planned to attend a poetry reading tonight, and while I like poetry as well as the next person, I’d far rather have the chance to waltz with you. Besides, Lady V is my godmother, so I can’t back out at the last minute. She is, according to her note, most eager to meet you. I’m sure you see where this is going…
Lydia and Chatworth are also attending. We’ll come for you at half-past seven.
Your devoted servant,
William
P.S. Since I’ll obviously be in your debt, I won’t blame you a bit if you extract the promise of a dozen driving lessons from me.
She’d turned to the butler. “Hopkins, please have a light repast sent to my bedroom, and instruct a maid to draw a bath for me.”
Then Charlotte had hurried upstairs where she’d found Sally unpacking the newly arrived parcels from Madame Rochelle.
She’d apprised her maid of the change in plans and the need to rush if she was to be ready on time. Sally helped her out of her day dress, and Charlotte went to take her bath while her maid readied a ball gown.
And now, still flushed from her warm bath, she was having a standoff with her maid.
“You put all my old chemises in the wash?” Charlotte asked with no small exasperation. “All of them?”
“I did, even the one you took off before your bath,” Sally said. “How was I to know, miss, you’d want to wear an old one? With the arrival of the garments from Madame Rochelle’s, I decided to give those older chemises an overnight soak in water mixed with lemon juice to brighten them.”
“Oh, very well.” Charlotte slipped off her robe and Sally lifted a new chemise over her head, helping Charlotte thread her arms through the armholes. The material was soft and feathery light against her skin.
A maid arrived with a plate of cheese and fruit, a slice of buttered bread, and a pot of tea. Charlotte would have to eat while Sally helped her get dressed. She nibbled on a piece of cheese while her maid fetched a pair of pale blue silk stockings from the dresser. Sally helped Charlotte put them on, before kneeling in front of her to tie on a pair of delicately embroidered garters. Next Sally fastened her into her stays, then helped her into a new petticoat. Charlotte refrained from asking if her old petticoats had also been sent downstairs to be laundered.
“All right,” Sally said. “Now let’s tackle that hair of yours, miss.” Charlotte seated herself at her dressing table and popped a slice of apple into her mouth. Sally plucked the hairpins from Charlotte’s hair, brushed it, and then stepped back, studying the long brown strands in much the same manner a painter studies his canvas. She glanced at the mantel clock and muttered, “Yes, yes, I think I can do it.”
Charlotte finished eating while Sally braided and coiled sections of her thick hair, pinning them into an elaborate coiffure, before she heated the curling tongs to create a fringe of loose curls framing Charlotte’s face.
“And now the dress,” Sally said. She helped Charlotte into an ice-blue satin ball gown. The silvery spangles sewn onto the gauzy overskirt of net twinkled in the light whenever she moved.
Finally, as the mantel clock struck seven, her maid spritzed her all over with a light spray of rosewater.
“And now the final touch,” Sally said as she clasped a strand of creamy pearls around Charlotte’s neck. “He won’t be able to keep his eyes off you.”
“If that’s the case, you’ll deserve all the credit.”
Sally blushed with pleasure. “You’d best go on down.” She bustled over to the bed and began putting away the items from Madame Rochelle’s. “You can tell me all about it later.”
* * *
Their arrival at the Vandevere ball was much like their arrival at the theater the other night—a blur of faces and names. The only ones who stood out were their hosts, Lord and Lady Vandevere, whom Charlotte found charming.
Lady Vandevere was an older version of Lydia, a sweet-natured lady you couldn’t help but like, and who obviously regarded her godson with a great deal of affection.
“Oh, my dear,” Lady Vandevere said, taking Charlotte’s hands in her own for a moment. “I can’t tell you how happy we are at this news. Why, I positively shrieked with delight when I rea
d about it in the Morning Post.”
“A very piercing shriek,” Lord Vandevere cut in with a twinkle in his eye. “It startled the footman, who dropped a pot of jam. I thought my wife had found an insect in her eggs or something equally disastrous.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. As if Cook would allow bugs in our food,” Lady Vandevere declared, lifting one haughty brow to underscore the point.
“Of course not, dear, but I couldn’t think of anything else that would provoke such an earsplitting sound from you.” He smiled and bowed over Charlotte’s hand. “Delighted to meet you, Miss Hurst. I wish you both every happiness.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said.
Lady Vandevere playfully tapped her godson on the arm with her fan. “Now, William, I’ve instructed the musicians to lean heavily toward waltzes tonight, so don’t squander one of your dances with Miss Hurst on a country dance.”
“Your thoughtfulness is appreciated.” He glanced at Charlotte with a roguish look that set off a flutter of anticipation.
Once past the receiving line, they slowly made their way to the edge of the dance floor. Just like at the theater, they encountered a steady stream of William’s acquaintances who wished to meet Charlotte.
The musicians began tuning their instruments for the opening dance. “If this is a waltz…” William murmured, giving her a meaningful glance.
But it quickly became apparent that they were opening with a country dance, so when a young viscount, a cousin of Lord Chatworth’s, requested her hand for the first dance, Charlotte accepted. She took her place opposite Viscount Hall in the line of couples. William joined a different group of dancers, but while he was tall enough to be seen through the crowd, his partner was not. She spied Chatworth standing on the perimeter and wondered if William’s partner could be his sister Lydia. She hoped so, because when she’d first seen he was dancing, she’d been seized with an irrational pang of jealousy.
The Sir Roger de Coverley was a lively dance, and Charlotte was a little breathless when the viscount returned her to the sidelines where Lord Chatworth chatted with a gentleman as he waited for his wife to come off the dance floor. He introduced her to his companion, a tall, dark-haired marquess by the name of Farrars. As the musicians began the familiar three-quarter tempo of a waltz, Charlotte looked around for William but didn’t see him anywhere. So when the marquess asked her to dance, she couldn’t refuse unless she wished to refrain from dancing for the rest of the evening.
Lord Farrars was an excellent dancer, though he admitted he rarely frequented balls if he could help it.
“I’m only here tonight at the request of my sister,” he said. “Although with Caroline, you could probably use the word request interchangeably with the word command.”
Charlotte thought him quite amusing and she enjoyed waltzing with him, even though she couldn’t stop herself from looking to see if William was also out on the dance floor. She thought she spotted him on the far side of the ballroom, but she wasn’t sure, since it was only a fleeting glimpse.
Lydia and Chatworth waltzed past. Lydia wore a dreamy look as she danced in her husband’s embrace, and Chatworth gazed at his wife with undisguised adoration. A pang of regretful longing shot through Charlotte at seeing them so blissfully happy together.
It was silly of her, she knew. At twenty-three, she’d accepted the idea of a comfortable marriage, if she even married at all. Ladies her age were flirting with spinsterhood, and pining for a marriage like Lydia’s was setting oneself up for disappointment.
The waltz had barely ended when the musicians swung into a quadrille. Lord Farrars led her back to the edge of the ballroom where a rakishly handsome gentleman requested an introduction. The marquess obliged, and Charlotte gained a new dance partner.
Mr. Miltner was the younger son of the Earl of Ryland, an inveterate flirt and quite amusing, although Charlotte didn’t put a great deal of stock in the flattery and compliments with which he plied her during their dance. But if she was unaffected by Mr. Miltner’s chatter, she was very much affected by the sight of William standing on the side lines.
He watched her with what could only be called a brooding look, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his heavy-lidded eyes following her progress through the dance with an intensity that belied his casual posture.
It was a very convincing show of jealousy, and although she knew it was only for appearance’s sake, she couldn’t help feeling a strange thrill at his possessive gaze.
As soon as the music ended, he pushed off from the wall and stalked toward them. Charlotte’s heart thumped hard in her chest. They were still on the dance floor when he reached them.
“Miltner.” He nodded at the man, then turned to Charlotte. “I believe this dance is mine.”
Mr. Miltner looked surprised at his curt manner, but he smiled good-naturedly. “Of course, Norwood. Miss Hurst, it was a pleasure.”
“Shouldn’t you have waited to see if it was a waltz?” Charlotte asked, lightly gripping his arm as they waited for the music to start again.
“It will be,” he assured her. One corner of his mouth tipped up slightly and his gaze contained hints of emotion that sent shivers racing along her skin. “I made sure of it. I was determined to have a waltz with you. Do you know how interminable a quadrille can be when viewed from the side lines? Especially when I have to watch Miltner plying you with those charming smiles of his, blast the man. He knows you’re taken.”
Of course, she wasn’t. Not really. But she loved hearing him say it.
Moments later the musicians began to play again—a waltz, just as he’d predicted. He took her into his arms and it was a far cry from what she’d experienced earlier with Lord Farrars. Every part of her thrummed with awareness. The small of her back where his hand rested, her gloved hand clasped in his, the front of her body mere inches from his, everywhere they touched, or almost touched, tingled and burned with a sweet, aching desire.
You are on a dance floor in the middle of a crowded ballroom, Charlotte. Pull yourself together!
An impossible task when he held her like that, and his eyes, darkened to the blue of a midnight sky, studied her with an intensity that melted her insides and took her breath away.
They danced in silence. Charlotte couldn’t think of anything to say. Her brain didn’t function much better than her lungs when he watched her like he was starving and she was a morsel he wished to devour.
“Actually, I do know how long a quadrille seems from the edges of a ballroom,” she said at last, finally bringing her rioting emotions under control, “since I’m usually among the ranks of the wallflowers. Becoming your fiancée has had a miraculous effect upon my popularity, even though the truth is I’m just as unremarkable as I ever was.”
“Men are idiots,” he said. “And I find you quite remarkable.”
A warm wave of pleasure washed over her at the way he leaped to her defense. “I won’t argue that men are idiots,” she said.
He laughed. “Of course you won’t.”
“I will concede, however,” she said, glancing up at him through her lashes, “that both genders have their fair share of idiots.”
“Very generous of you.”
“Isn’t it?” she teased.
His gaze dropped to her mouth and once again he looked hungry. Desirous. Predatory.
She turned away, looking over his shoulder to distract herself. It was a matter of self-preservation. He slipped past her defenses too easily. With one look, he could turn her all fluttery again, a quivering mass of feminine sensibilities, her hard-won calm disappearing like dew on a warm summer morning. Avoiding his gaze was her only defense at the moment.
And that’s when she saw the gentleman from Red Lion Square who had stared at her and now was staring at them.
* * *
William had been forced to wait far longer than he liked to finally waltz with her. But the jealousy he’d felt watching her with Miltner, and before that Farrars, faded when he’d
clasped her hand in his and placed his other hand on the small of her back. Some primal sense of male possessiveness was satisfied by holding her in his arms, feeling her body sway in time to his.
Even so, he still wished he could defy conventions and pull her tight against him and kiss her rosy mouth well and thoroughly.
He frowned. Something had caught Charlotte’s attention. She tensed in his arms, her eyes narrowed in concern, and a crease appeared between her brows. For one second, he thought she’d spied Lady Jane or her waspish aunt, but he’d had the foresight to ask his godmother if they planned to attend, and been told they hadn’t been invited. Which didn’t prevent someone else of their ilk from making her uncomfortable, but by damn, they’d answer to him if they did.
“There’s a man wearing a heavily embroidered yellow waistcoat standing beside the middle set of French doors,” she said, her voice tinged with urgency. “Can you see him?”
William looked in the direction she described. The movement of the waltz now placed him in a position that allowed him to look in the direction she’d faced moments earlier.
“Yes,” he said. “I see him. What’s more, I know him. His name is Pemberton. Why do you ask?” The man in question was no friend of William’s, but he knew him tolerably well.
“He was staring at us, and not a curious stare. I don’t know exactly how to describe it—not malevolent exactly, but definitely not friendly either. When I caught his eye, he looked away. But the odd thing is he directed a very similar look at Serena and myself when we went to Red Lion Square this after—”
“What were you doing in that part of town?” he asked. That area wasn’t quite genteel anymore and not a place he wanted her to frequent without some sort of protection. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that you were accompanied by a pair of brawny footmen.”
She lifted her chin slightly. “It’s not that sort of neighborhood. And we had the coachman with us.”
Not the Kind of Earl You Marry Page 19
