“I am ready,” she said and smiled at the butler again. “Thank you, Matthews.”
Miss Darby’s lodgings with her father were two streets away, so Charlotte gained little silent respite before she was joined by her night’s charge.
“But of course, I had seen Miss Tilbury had worn a similar gown, and so I wondered whether it was quite the thing, but I asked my father, and he said he knew the Earl of Marnmouth well, and so as long as my dressmaker…”
Charlotte could not help but smile. The bright eyes and flushed cheeks of Miss Darby were much easier to absorb in the evening dark of the carriage. She could remember her first time attending an opera, her first balls, the dinners she was permitted to go to by her father. So much excitement, so much promise.
Her smile faded as the carriage jolted around a corner. Those evenings were almost twenty years ago. She had come out to a different type of Season, with different nobility, dances, and novels in fashion. Miss Darby may not even have been born then.
The carriage came to a stop.
“Oh, are we here! Goodness, that was no time at all, and I have barely had the chance to tell you…”
To Charlotte’s relief, the carriage door opened, and a hand with a golden ring extended toward her. It had a swirled letter M around what appeared, upside down, to be a bird. A magpie? Charlotte took the hand but dropped it immediately. Even through her silk gloves, she could feel the heat pouring from the hand to hers.
“Are you feeling well, Lady Charlotte?” Miss Darby’s face was a wash of concern.
Charlotte swallowed. It was her imagination. It was not possible to feel such intensity through gloves! The hand was still outstretched, and she took it again, trying to ignore the rush of warmth that once again filled her. She stepped out—into the waiting smile of William Lennox.
“Good evening, my lady,” he said.
Rarely did Charlotte have no response. She dropped his hand immediately but could still feel the spark of his touch. As though they had held hands for an age.
“I trust you are well?” He was still grinning, almost laughing as if he had told a joke.
Charlotte steeled herself. She would not allow herself to be a joke. The street was busy, teeming with opera lovers excitedly awaiting their turn to enter the building and find their seats, and it was time for a new set of lovers to take their place.
“Here, Miss Darby, let me help you.” Charlotte turned and offered a hand for her young companion, who tripped on her gown as she exited the coach and was caught in the strong arms of the duke.
“Oh, Your Grace, how embarrassing for me!” Miss Darby fluttered her eyelashes.
Charlotte scrunched her nose and tried not to tut aloud. Really! She did not consider herself a prude, but such behavior—and on the street, too, where anyone could see!
She cast a quick glance at the duke to see his response to such a flirtatious move and was surprised to see Miss Darby already out of his arms and standing between the two brothers.
“Shall we?” The duke indicated toward the opera house doors, offering his arm, which Miss Darby gladly took.
As the couple walked, Charlotte fell in behind them alongside the Marquess of Gloucester.
“My, what a wonderful place! And to think, though my father and I have been in Bath a month, we have not been here! It does not seem quite right that we should come all this way for the Season and not even try some of its delights,” Miss Darby began ahead of them.
Charlotte sighed and forced a smile. “Good evening, Lord Gloucester.”
“Good evening, Lady Charlotte, and please call me John. I have had the title for but a short time, and it does not sit well with me,” he said in a low tone. “It was only last year my brother and I even discovered we had a little blue in our veins, and I am just a simple soldier.”
He grinned, and Charlotte nodded. He had the same easy manner as his brother—a consequence, perhaps, of not being raised in the rigor and restrictions of her class.
“Well then, John,” she said lightly, “if you are truly happy for me to speak so familiarly, I will call you by your Christian name, though it is rather shocking.”
He chuckled. “Fear not, I will continue to speak to you as Lady Charlotte, as decorum insists. If I forget, whack me on the nose. It is the only way I will learn.”
Charlotte laughed. She had not expected any merriment this evening, and though he had none of the attraction of his brother, she could not deny John was good company.
His attention was now focused before them. “Have you ever seen anything so lovely as Miss Darby?”
The words could have been taken as an ironic quip, but as they walked into the candlelit entranceway, all covered in red velvet and gold, Charlotte saw, to her surprise, that there was sincerity in his words and the flush of excitement in his cheeks.
She raised an eyebrow.
“You do not need to speak,” John said ruefully, “I know what you will say. It is shameful to say such things about the young lady my brother is courting.”
His jaw tightened as his eyes flickered over to his brother’s companion. Charlotte followed his gaze, and as Miss Darby tilted back her head to laugh at something the duke had said.
Charlotte took the younger man’s arm. “If something is on your heart, John, then you should say it. I would not wish you to miss out on a chance of happiness for an excess of decorum.”
They ascended the steps as Miss Darby leaned closer to the duke, and Charlotte felt the tension in John’s arm.
“If you do not say something, you will regret it,” she murmured so only her companion could hear her.
John turned to her as they were ushered toward the box the duke had reserved. “You are right, Lady Charlotte, and I thank you. Perhaps I will have enough courage tonight.”
Once again, she was the one giving out advice. Four marriages formed through her chaperoning, but had she ever taken her own advice?
No. Embarrassed to put herself forward when young, unwilling to when the family fortunes had disintegrated, unable to when she sacrificed her dowry to restore the family name…any gentlemen callers who had ever considered her received little encouragement.
She could not regret most of it. The Axwick estate was solvent again, and that was all that mattered for those frightening months when sale—sale!—of the Stonehaven Lacey estate seemed not possible, but a probable solution to their problems.
But that had all changed when Richard had married, and she was once again a chaperone.
“Good evening, my lady.”
Charlotte started as an usher bowed low, welcoming her to the box. She had not been attending to her steps nor surroundings.
“Thank you,” she said graciously, inclining her head. There were four seats placed in the box, luxurious and comfortable, quite unlike the shilling seats below, already filling up with a noisome chatter.
She knew the decorum: she would sit on the left with Miss Darby beside her, the duke—she must remember to call him Your Grace—would sit beside her, and John at the other end.
Her gown swished as she moved around to place herself on the left, and before Miss Darby could move, the duke placed himself beside Charlotte.
“Come, Miss Darby, sit by me,” he said jovially as Charlotte attempted to find the words to explain that this was not appropriate. “And John on the end.”
Charlotte frowned. She had to say something; this was highly irregular. The entire point of her presence was to be beside Miss Darby, a check to the courting couple.
Anything could happen, untoward and unbecoming, and she would be totally unaware.
“Miss Darby, I think,” she began, but then caught sight of John’s face. He was happy and glanced at Miss Darby with a reverential look.
Well, she could not have predicted this, but in a way, it made sense. Here was Miss Darby with the duke on one side and the marquess on the other. A place much admired and sought after by the ladies of the ton.
This was Miss
Darby’s chance to talk with both brothers and see which took her fancy. And John’s chance to make himself known to her, to charm her.
Charlotte fought the bitterness rising in her throat. It was unbecoming to be envious of a young woman like Miss Darby. She had committed the crime only of having two men want her.
Charlotte looked out at the empty stage with unseeing eyes. To think such a thing really happened. She would have to swallow her irritation and ensure Miss Darby did not expose herself to any gossip from the ever-present eyes of society.
The curtain rose, and she applauded as the conductor, a man with the most impressive mustache she had ever seen, bowed. The stage was suddenly filled with people, and the opera began.
Charlotte was transfixed. Music always had a special place in her heart, even though she had little talent herself. The melody rose in a crescendo, and her pulse rose with it, utterly captivated by the harmonies. The heat in the building and the copious candles illuminating the stage made the place overwhelming. She absentmindedly removed her gloves, placing them in her lap.
Whispers distracted her from the stage. John and Miss Darby were talking away to each other, their hands impossibly close without touching.
Charlotte smiled. Bad luck, Your Grace, but I think your brother has won this one.
The thought of the duke reminded her he was seated beside her, and a prickle of discomfort moved over her skin. She had been so lost in the music that she had forgotten him. But now she was conscious of his presence, and she could not block it out. He was lounging back in his seat, as though he had never been anywhere more comfortable.
As she tried not to look around, he leaned toward her. “And what are you smiling about, Lady Charlotte?”
She shivered. “Nothing.”
She hoped the sparse reply, along with its icy tone, would dissuade him from continuing the conversation, but it did not.
“My word,” he said with a raised eyebrow Charlotte pretended she could not see, “you must be easily entertained if nothing can make you smile. Why come to the opera at all?”
She glanced at him, a frown beginning to form. It appeared that, despite the entertainment, he wanted to converse with her.
Miss Darby giggled, the sound muffled inadequately by her hands.
Charlotte spoke in her most prim voice, “Why not ask Miss Darby what has made her laugh, Your Grace?”
He leaned closer to her, and Charlotte moved back. It was not right, being this close to a gentleman in public.
“I wish you would call me William,” he whispered. “You call my brother, John.”
If she had been hot before, it was nothing to the new rush of embarrassment. Charlotte turned with her mouth open, ready to defend herself, but all the eloquence of her breeding escaped her.
“I did not—it was not my suggestion. Your brother asked…”
Her splutters were louder than she had intended, and the duke laughed. “We both ascended to these ridiculous titles at the same time, and neither of us are comfortable with them. Come on, William is hardly a difficult name to pronounce or remember.”
She hesitated. It was all very well for a marquess to request the use of his Christian name, and John was so…well, so unassuming.
Not like his elder brother. William was imposing, taller, a stronger presence, something animalistic in the way he looked at her. She could no sooner call him William than call the Prince Regent Prinny, as so many did.
“I-I will agree to Mercia,” she whispered, turning her gaze back to the stage in an attempt to end the conversation.
It did not work. As Miss Darby giggled again, Mercia muttered, “My, John is on form tonight.”
Charlotte knew it was best to bite her tongue, but how could she? She was the chaperone, and it was all going wrong! “You do not care that the woman you invited and are publicly courting is in intimate conversation with your brother?”
“My brother likes her and did not have the courage to speak with her at your brother’s wedding. This way, he does.”
Charlotte glanced over to the pair at the end. The flushed cheeks and bright eyes of John and the matching expression in Miss Darby. She smiled despite herself. “Does this make you the chaperone, Mercia?”
He grinned. “I think it does. Here’s hoping I am able to catch any wicked doings, like hand-holding!”
She joined in his laughter, and her gaze met his. She was flirting. Flirting, and with the Duke of Mercia!
The laughter died in her mouth, and she turned away from him—reluctantly, for the first time—to watch the stage once more. A woman was chasing another with a bright staccato song, and she tried to focus on that and not the thrill of delight, which had overwhelmed her as she laughed with Mercia.
What a man he was. Instantly able to put her at ease, and with all the charm and none of the reserve of most gentlemen in her social circle.
“For a minute there, I saw you.” Mercia had leaned even closer to her, and Charlotte moved her arm into her lap, so intense was the feeling of him. “I saw the real you, Lady Charlotte, and then you crept back into your shell.”
Charlotte stiffened. She did not need this…this upstart aristocrat to speak to her in such a way! Without taking her attention from the stage, she whispered coldly, “I am here to enjoy the opera, Your Grace, and to ensure proper decorum is kept. That is the role of a chaperone.”
Miss Darby burst out with raucous laughter, and there were stares and mutterings from the audience below them. One person even pointed to their box.
Mercia chuckled. “You do not seem to be doing a very good job of it.”
Charlotte fixed him with a knowing smile. “This is hardly my first outing as a chaperone.” Leaning forward, she said archly in a carrying voice, “Goodness, Miss Darby, did you sneeze? If you are unwell, we will have to take you back home.”
She stared meaningfully at Miss Darby and the Marquess. Going silent, they shifted apart in their seats, and as John caught her eye, he had the good grace to look bashful.
Charlotte sat back and inclined her head in a mock bow. It was fortunate the end of the first act occurred at the same time, for Mercia applauded, and though she was not sure, it felt as if he was applauding her, rather than the talent on the stage.
She dropped her gaze to her lap, desperate for something else to look at. “May I see your program?”
Mercia handed it over wordlessly, but as their fingers touched, there was a moment of frisson, of heat and desire, of something uncontrolled and wild. Their gazes met again.
“Lady Charlotte,” Mercia said in a strangled voice with none of the bravado from before.
She nodded, hypnotized by his touch, by his voice, but before he could speak again…
“My word, what an excellent production!” John rose and stretched. “I do not think I have ever seen such a good one. Lady Charlotte, may I beg a favor?”
Charlotte was unsure whether her voice would work, so she nodded as she busied herself with her gloves. It was the interval, and she was saved from whatever magic the duke was weaving.
John smiled nervously and glanced at Miss Darby before continuing. “Miss Darby has kindly agreed to accompany me on a carriage ride. Would…would you be so good as to join us?”
Charlotte’s heart sank. For a minute, perhaps two, she had been the heroine of her story. But she had tricked herself into thinking there was a possibility of a romance between her and Mercia. Now she was back where she belonged, as the secondary character in someone else’s romance.
With a smile plastered on her face, she opened her mouth to agree.
“We would love to,” Mercia said smoothly.
Miss Darby beamed and leaned to speak with John more closely.
Charlotte stared at Mercia. “What exactly is your game, Your Grace? I warn you, I am no chit of the Season to be easily teased.”
But were those words true? His growing smile was doing something strange to her, something she did not quite understand.
“This carriage ride is an excellent idea,” he said in a low voice, “because it will give me the chance to know you better. You intrigue me, Lady Charlotte, and no other woman in Bath has managed that.”
Pleasure rushed through her, but she would not let it overwhelm her. She would be the mistress of her mind and body.
“I shall be Miss Darby’s chaperone,” she said quietly, “not your companion.”
She rose, but Mercia mirrored her, towering over her. “We’ll see.”
Chapter Four
“I tell you, you are wrong!”
The glass of port slammed onto the table, and the remnants sloshed over the side. Several gentlemen who had been sitting in the club quietly, attending to newspapers or dozing in armchairs, looked up with disdain.
John laughed. “By Jove, Mercia! If you had not inherited that title after our great uncle died, you would not be permitted to shout in a club like the York!”
William grinned at his brother opposite him, a bottle of port drained to its dregs between them. They had been there almost four hours, and as the bottle emptied, their volume increased.
“Well then, it is a good thing I was the one to inherit it,” William said, his smile unwavering, “for I have no intention of being quiet!”
A gentleman with a graying beard frowned and opened his mouth to speak. Before he did, his neighbor leaned over and whispered something in his ear. William heard Duke of Mercia muttered, and the first gentleman’s eyes widened. He looked at his companion, received a nod, and looked back at William with a smirk.
William sighed. God’s teeth, he had not been raised to nobility; he had not been raised to anything. A gentleman’s upbringing was all he had been afforded, and it had been more than enough.
Until the letter. Now it was bowing and hierarchy and impressing people without even trying. It was bizarre, this world of pomp and circumstance, and each time he relaxed, something reminded him he was not only an outsider but one with a title that demanded respect from people he did not even know.
Always the Chaperone Page 3
