The room fell silent. Finally, Charity spoke up. “Oh, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like anyone in this room is going to marry him, anyway.”
“I’ll be in Town once or twice a month during the Season. Other than that, you have the place to yourself.” Sebastian walked into the downstairs study. “Brandy?” he asked over his shoulder.
Lachlan nodded. “With any luck, I won’t be here the entire Season.”
Sebastian made a snorting sound that could, by a great stretch of the imagination, have been considered a laugh. “You’ll find yourself beset by matchmaking mamas the moment you step inside that ballroom.” He handed his cousin his drink, and they sat down.
“Well, as inconvenient as that sounds, at least it will allow me to come up with a list of prospects fairly quickly.”
The two men sat in silence a moment, and then Sebastian cleared his throat. “I’m afraid most of my staff is at Blackthorne. Feel free to hire whomever you need.”
“Thank you. Given the temporary nature of my stay in London, both Roth and Hunt have offered to send competent help from their own staffs.”
Sebastian raised a brow. “Is that so? Don’t be surprised to see a rather short footman in Huntwick livery show up.”
“Oh?”
“A favorite of Grace Caldwell’s. The man actually made it inside the doors at White’s under her orders. Have Roth tell you that story sometime.”
Lachlan smiled. “So the wives will plant spies?”
Sebastian finished his drink and stood. “You can be certain of it. Now, shall we go see what my valet left in my wardrobe? We can’t have you looking for a wife without making sure you are properly turned out.”
Seven
Stop fidgeting, Charity.” Cleo Egerton glowered from across the coach.
“I can’t help it. Something’s poking me.” She tried reaching around to the middle of her back with no success and wriggled some more.
The twins were clad in gowns borrowed from Grace for the occasion, as they hadn’t anticipated going out until the Season officially began, which wasn’t for another week. When the men returned from their afternoon of cards, however, the wives learned Huntwick had invited the Marquess of Asheburton to meet them at the Corwins’ ball, and that he had specifically mentioned Amity and Charity would be there. At this point, the sitting room had erupted into a flurry of frenzied activity. The men quickly and wisely retreated to Gareth’s study.
Grace dispatched a footman to the Caldwell town house to have her maid send a selection of gowns, as Faith was far too tall to lend any of her own. While they waited, hair, jewelry, and other accessories were fussed over. When the gowns arrived, Grace spread them across the bed in which Faith was now comfortably ensconced, leaning on a collection of freshly fluffed pillows. After some deliberation, two gowns were chosen and the rest sent back.
Amity had handled it all with her usual quiet good humor. Charity, however, was cross.
“I don’t even like the Marquess of Asheburton. He’s unpleasant,” she muttered as the carriage rumbled along. Her twin hid a smile and managed, just barely, to keep from pointing out that Charity was being rather unpleasant herself. “And this dress is too frilly.”
“Nonsense,” soothed Amity. “There’s only one bow on the whole dress, tied in the back, and you won’t feel it anymore when we get out of the coach. Just sit forward a bit until we get there.”
Aunt Cleo, who had picked them up in her carriage since Grace still had to go home and get dressed, shook her head. “I hope you’re not going to be this much trouble all Season.”
Charity bit her lip, instantly apologetic. “I’m sorry, Aunt Cleo. I don’t mean to be trouble.”
Her expression was so contrite that her relative couldn’t remain put out. “I know you don’t, child,” she said, then reached over to pat Charity’s knee. “Just try not to say everything that pops into your head before you think it through.”
Charity nodded and looked out the window, wondering again why she had wanted so badly to have a London Season. The stories Grace and Faith told had seemed so glittery and fun. She’d had no idea there were so many rules and standards, or that everything one did was so closely watched and, worse, commented upon.
Amity slipped an arm around her shoulder and gave a squeeze. “It’ll be fine,” she whispered. “We’ll simply stick together.”
The smile Charity gave in response was grateful, if a trifle wobbly.
Before the twins knew it, the carriage slowed and then came to a stop. The doors opened and a footman appeared to help them down. They joined Grace and Trevor, who had also just arrived, on the walk outside a large town house teeming with activity.
Charity tilted her head back and stared in wonder at the building’s sparkling facade. Her eyes filled with awe and she instantly forgot her trepidation from moments before. “It’s so magical,” she murmured.
And it was. Couples floated like bright tropical birds by the bank of windows at street level. Others strolled in groups, ladies laughing gaily behind ornate fans. The men were just as colorfully garbed, in satin breeches, embroidered waistcoats, and intricately tied cravats, some starched to such stiff points Charity feared they might nick the undersides of their chins.
“Come on, Charity!”
The group had started up the wide marble steps to the entrance. Reluctantly, Charity tore her fascinated gaze from the view and hurried after them.
An hour later, her most recent dance partner returned her to her family, breathless and flushed with laughter. A group of young men was gathered around Grace and Aunt Cleo, waiting for an introduction to one of the twins and the chance to add his name to their dance cards. In mock desperation she held up a hand.
“No, please,” she protested with a smile. “I need a few moments to rest.”
Amity, no less besieged, linked an arm through her sister’s. “Perhaps a short stroll on the terrace is in order.” When instant offers of accompaniment were offered, Amity laughed. “Alone,” she clarified.
Charity tossed an apologetic glance in the general direction of the assembly but allowed her sister to pull her toward the row of double French doors through which could wander guests who desired a breath of fresh air. She and her sister strolled to a quiet spot and stopped.
Charity fanned herself vigorously. “My goodness! I hadn’t expected such a crush of people!” But her eyes glowed with happiness.
Amity nodded in agreement. “Grace says it is far worse than during her debut, when nobody really knew our family. I suppose the possibility of a connection to a marquess and an earl makes us all the more desirable.”
Charity frowned. “How does one know, then, if the interest is genuine? In us rather than our connections.”
“I guess one doesn’t straightaway.” Amity’s voice was soft. “I’d imagine it becomes evident over time, however.” She stared out into the garden with a dreamy smile, her eyes reflecting the dancing light from torches placed at intervals along the walkway.
Charity gave her sister a long, slow look. “Good lord, Amity. You’re going to go all sheep-eyed over the first man who figures out to act like a stray dog. That’s all he needs to do to worm his way into your heart, isn’t it?”
“Most certainly not,” protested Amity, but she laughed, knowing the accusation wasn’t entirely unfounded. She had filled their household with rescued pets from the time she could walk far enough to find them. All any animal, including those of the human variety, had to do was look at her with wide, soulful eyes, and she was instantly lost.
Charity opened her mouth to continue, but she was stopped as someone opened a door nearby and the muffled sounds of the ball grew louder. She turned to see who had come out on the terrace, a bright smile of greeting on her face.
The smile slowly faded. Walking toward them, his steps slow, measured, and deliberate, was the Marquess of Asheburton. He was dressed all in black, unlike most of the other male guests, who preferred styles more flamboyant an
d colorful. Where the other men mostly wore breeches, Lachlan Kimball chose unfashionable trousers. His coat was of a dark superfine instead of a more garish embroidered satin, and his cravat was tied in a loose, simple style at his throat.
It was a style of which Charity found she reluctantly approved, until she realized he’d stopped before them and that she was staring. Embarrassed, she scowled. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
Amity poked her in the side in silent admonishment for her rudeness.
“Well,” Charity said crossly to her twin. “Trevor said he hates London, he hates balls, and I’m pretty sure, given the way he acted at Faith’s wedding,”—she swung her gaze back to Lachlan—“that he hates me.”
Lachlan bowed slightly from the waist, but his eyes never left Charity’s and he did not deny her accusation. “How fortuitous, Miss Ackerly. You’ve spared me the awkwardness of trying to identify one twin from the other.”
Despite there being no specific insult in his wording, the obvious indication that he felt he could tell them apart based purely on demeanor was not lost on Charity. She colored and drew herself up as tall as she was able, her eyes spitting blue fire. “I think I’ll go back into the ball, Amity. It has become quite crowded out here.” She brushed past Lachlan without addressing him and disappeared inside.
Lachlan gave Amity a rueful look. “Your sister and I seem to have difficulty communicating,” he said, a note of apology in his voice.
Amity’s eyes, unlike her sister’s, were alive with fun. “Oh, I think you both did fairly well. You managed to say precisely what you think of one another in very few words.” She grinned.
Lachlan let that go. He smiled at her instead. “How are you enjoying the Season, Miss Ackerly?”
She smiled back. “It’s the first ball for me and Charity, and it’s been very nice. A bit more active than I expected.”
“Quite a change from Pelthamshire, yes?”
She nodded. “As it is for you from Scotland, my lord.”
His eyes, which had been a flinty gray seconds before, softened to a liquid silver, his love evident for his homeland. Amity caught her breath and then felt her heart warm as he spoke, his voice low, vibrant, and resonant. “Yes, very different,” he agreed.
Silence fell. After a few moments Lachlan cleared his throat. “Would you care to dance with me, Miss Ackerly?”
“Why, I think that would be lovely,” she replied, and placed her gloved hand on his proffered arm.
He escorted her inside and returned her to her family for a proper, public introduction. To his relief, Charity was nowhere to be found. Lachlan grasped Trevor’s hand and gave it a hearty shake, and then he clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Hunt. I encountered Miss Ackerly on the terrace, and hoped to gain permission to dance with her.”
Trevor grinned broadly. “Barring any disagreement from the ladies, I think that’s a capital idea.” He stepped to the side and swept a hand toward Aunt Cleo. “I believe you’ve met Lady Cleo Egerton?”
Lachlan bowed over the older lady’s extended hand. “My lady,” he said. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”
When he straightened, she was giving him a probing, assessing look. “So it’s to be Amity, then? I can’t say I expected that. I suppose it is fine, though it won’t be nearly as entertaining for me.”
Lachlan raised his brows, not quite sure what to say to this harridan’s odd and outrageous statement.
Grace choked back a gasp of horrified laughter. “And, of course,” she said hastily, stepping forward and extending her hand, “there’s no need to introduce me. I’m very happy to see you again, Lord Asheburton.”
“Likewise, my lady,” Lachlan replied. He turned to face Amity, and held out his arm once more. “Shall we?”
Hundreds of eyes followed them to the dance floor, all speculating about the unusual appearance of the Marquess of Asheburton at a Town event. Even those who had never made his acquaintance knew him by description and reputation. Most came to the immediate—and correct—conclusion that he sought a wife. And, it was noted with narrowed eyes by the matchmaking mamas, it appeared for the third Season in a row an Ackerly sister was well on her way to knocking the Most Eligible off the list of prospects.
One particular set of eyes widened in surprise and then immediately narrowed. Charity Ackerly watched her twin sister step into Lachlan Kimball’s arms, and felt a surge of . . . what? She furrowed her brow, unable to identify the curious feeling that was making her stomach twist itself into an ever-tightening knot. She gripped the railing of the balcony that encircled and overlooked the teeming ballroom below. Her sickened feeling increased until she finally looked away, her eyes skipping over the crowd. They collided with those of her aunt, who stood just outside the circle of people that comprised Charity’s family. Cleo Egerton was looking up at her niece with unconcealed glee.
The gnawing feeling in her gut forgotten, Charity lifted her chin and stared back until the older lady looked away, only to lean over and whisper something to Grace, who glanced up at Charity and laughed. She gave her younger sister a wave.
Instead of waving back, Charity pushed away from the railing and walked along the balcony until she reached the curving staircase that led to the ballroom. She lifted her skirts slightly and began a swift, graceful descent. Once she’d gained the main floor, she crossed the ballroom, making her way through the milling throng with quick, dainty steps. She stopped when she reached her destination and frowned as she glanced from one smiling face to another.
Aunt Cleo laughed. “You’ll never find a husband if you intend to stand around on balconies looking like a thundercloud instead of dancing, my dear.”
Charity opened her mouth to respond but then bit back the retort. Behind her assembled family she saw Anthony Iverson, the young and dashing heir of the Earl of Endlecourt, making his way toward them, an inviting smile on his handsome face.
“Excellent advice, Aunt Cleo. I shall dance with the very next gentleman who asks.”
With Lachlan Kimball’s mocking grin and her aunt’s words prominent in her mind, she turned a bright, dazzling smile on the approaching young man. She waited while he requested an introduction from the Earl of Huntwick, then curtsied gracefully and accepted his invitation to dance. The couple glided off to the dance floor just as Lachlan was returning with Amity.
Amity smiled in her sister’s direction. “Who is that dancing with Charity?”
“Anthony Iverson,” Grace replied in a distracted voice. She looked troubled, and turned to Aunt Cleo. “Wasn’t there some rumor last Season about Iverson and someone’s wife?”
Cleo furrowed her brow. “A duel, if I recall correctly,” she mused, then lifted her cane to point it accusingly in Trevor’s direction. “Why in the world did you introduce Charity to that blackguard?”
Trevor eyed the end of her ebony walking aid with understandable trepidation, having been its target on more than one occasion. “I know his father. Good man,” he replied. “Don’t you think ‘blackguard’ is a trifle harsh for someone you only think ‘may have been involved in something or other with someone’s wife’?”
Grace ignored that bit of logic and glared at him. “How could you not know better than to send my sister off to dance with someone of questionable reputation?”
Trevor snorted. “In the first place, finding anyone with an unblemished reputation in Society verges on the impossible. In the second place, it is entirely likely that I missed large chunks of gossip from last Season, since I spent the bulk of it trying to keep you from interfering in Gareth and Faith’s marriage.”
Grace colored and looked a bit sheepish. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing to be done about it now,” she said, “except to wait for their dance to end.” She watched the couple glide around the floor with anxious eyes. If Charity’s bright eyes and animated face was any indication, she was enjoying the dance very much indeed.
Lachlan listened to the exchange for a
moment, but his eyes weren’t on the dancing couple like everyone else’s. Instead, they swept the crowd that ringed the dance floor. Women were nudging one another and whispering, some with obvious malice. It had not escaped his notice during his dance with Amity that the young ladies in attendance had a less than favorable opinion of the twins. And while he knew it was largely due to jealousy because of the matches their older sisters had made, he also knew that something had to be done to distract the crowd, and quickly. The only way he could think to accomplish that was to give them something else to watch and discuss.
He turned to the eldest member of the group. “Lady Egerton?”
Cleo didn’t even spare him a glance. “Not now, young man.”
Lachlan almost smiled at her impatient dismissal. “Oh, but I really feel as though this cannot wait.”
She gave him an irritated look. “What is it?”
“Well,” he began, and sketched her a gallant little bow, “I hoped you might honor me with a dance.” He straightened and sent her a speaking look, his eyes willing her to accept.
Surprised, Grace glanced away from Charity and her partner. “Aunt Cleo doesn’t dance!”
At that, Cleo snorted. “I most certainly do!” She thrust her cane at Trevor, who took it from her with a wide grin.
“Yes, Grace,” he said solemnly. “She most certainly does.”
Lachlan hid a smile at the old lady’s indignation. He extended an arm, which she took more firmly than he would have imagined possible, and then walked along beside him with surprising agility. Lachlan had to shorten his strides only a little, and he found himself wondering at the actual depth of her need for the cane.
When they reached the dance floor, she turned to face him and they fell quite neatly into step. “That was brilliantly handled, young man.” She looked reluctant to part with the compliment.
He smiled. “What was, my lady? Managing to convince a beautiful woman to dance with me?”
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