The Captivating Lady Charlotte

by Carolyn Miller

  The madness of his vows four years ago rose again in all its ugly glory. Why hadn’t he followed his head instead of his heart, instead of seeking approval from the dead? Such depths of stupidity, stupidity he now recognized as having been engendered by a heart made vulnerable by pain, when he’d exchanged the dignity of his parents for the sweet nothings of a jade. How could he have ever believed his wife’s lies? His finger twitched on the trigger.

  “One. Two …”

  Jerked from his contemplation, William forced his legs to move, to pace accordingly.

  “Four. Five …”

  Fear churned inside. Peripheral vision found Lord Ware, his brother-in-law and reluctant second, looking anxiously on.

  “Seven. Eight …”

  He gritted his teeth. Honor demanded justice. His pride demanded the truth. But—

  “Ten.”

  He stopped.

  But what if he had made a mistake, after all?

  Shaking off the disquieting thought, he turned and faced his foe.

  Nausea slid through his belly. Tall, blond, blue-eyed Lord Wrotham owned a handsome mien she had preferred. Disgust mingled with outrage, swelling hotly within until his chest banded and he could barely see.

  Slowly he lifted the gleaming pistol, a relic from his father’s day, something he’d thought he’d never need. But then, he had a bad habit of being wrong about things. Wrong about others. Wrong about himself.

  Regrets churned inside. He studied the other man’s face. Too handsome, but now holding a trace of fear in the puckered, glistening brow. Too handsome, but forever filled with lies. He still denied things. But William had seen him, had seen his figure depart from his wife’s bedroom at an hour that could only mean one thing.

  The last of his hesitations fled.

  And at the word, he fired.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Exeter House

  Grosvenor Square, London

  “LADY CHARLOTTE, MAY I request the honor of dancing with—”

  “Lady Charlotte, you look enchanting—”

  “So beautiful tonight, my lady!”

  “Lady Charlotte! Please leave me the quadrille!”

  Charlotte laughed as the men standing two—no, three!—deep clamored and jostled for attention. Her heart filled with the delightful sensation of being sought and admired. With so many guests, the receiving line had taken over an hour before Mama had finally propelled her toward the ballroom. “For you know they cannot begin until you commence the first dance.”

  Papa had the opening dance, and Henry was obliged for one, too. And while Mama said those of higher rank must be accepted when they offered an invitation, so far she had not had to consent to dance with anyone monstrously ugly or old.

  Viscount Carmichael stepped adroitly between two gentlemen who were glaring at each other. “I believe the cotillion is mine, my lady?”

  She met his laughing hazel eyes and curtsied. “Of course.”

  He bowed before shooting a grin at the two men whose squabbling had rendered them unable to offer an invitation, as if to say, “There, that’s how it should be done.” She smiled to herself. To have one of London’s most eligible bachelors request her hand; surely Mama would be pleased!

  The strains of violin grew louder, and her father drew near, parting her suitors as if Moses himself walked through the Red Sea.

  “My dear.” He offered a hand, which she accepted, then drew her to the center of the room. What felt like a million eyes watched as he drew her to the top of the set for the first dance of her come-out ball.

  “It would seem you are quite the success,” Father said, when they finally had a moment to speak.

  “Mama has not been backward in her issuing of invitations.”

  “Nor should she. Not when it is my daughter who is making her come out.”

  Her smile stiffened, as the long ago questions panged again. Why was it so hard for Father to show his affection? How simple would it be to say something of how pretty she looked, or how proud he was of her, especially tonight of all nights? But … no. In keeping with usual, her mother’s call to admire her was met with his half glance and a dismissive “very nice,” an indifference that echoed in the hollow spaces of her heart. She blinked, looked down. Perhaps Henry was right, and she wanted too much, yearning for affection from such a busy man. But ever since Lavinia’s wedding, when she had seen the love with which Mr. Ellison treated her cousin, she had realized not every father was as distant as hers. She lifted her gaze as resolve firmed within. Another point to add to her list for eligible candidates. The man she married would need to be willing to show his affection and emotions as freely as she showed her own.

  The opening dance gave way to a country dance, which was followed by the cotillion. Lord Carmichael, the heir to the Earl of Bevington, had her laughing almost as much as her feet danced, with his smooth patter of compliments and commentary on the other guests.

  “Don’t look now, but I see a dragon.”

  “A dragon, my lord?”

  The muddy green eyes smiled. “While this one does not have a long tail, she’s still well able to scorch with her tongue.”

  “And why should she scorch you, sir?”

  “Oh, no. It isn’t me she wishes at the bottom of the sea. It is every young lady I dance with tonight. She labors under the misapprehension that I will offer for her daughter, but that will never do.”

  “No?”

  “Can you imagine such a dragon as a mother-in-law? I have no wish to.” He smiled. “I much prefer dancing with the loveliest creature here tonight, even if her father warns me away.”

  “Has he?”

  “Not yet, but I’m sure as soon as we finish he is about to. Heaven forbid you are seen to enjoy my company, my lady.”

  The whirl of flattery and praise kept her spirits high, until it was time for the supper dance. Lord Wilmington, a baron from Bedfordshire, whose flattering admiration of her looks soon gave way to dull detailings of his vast holdings and wealth, escorted her into the dining room, where she encountered a vast array of treats. Monsieur Robard had certainly outdone himself tonight.

  Without waiting to learn her preference, Lord Wilmington hurried to load up two plates, then offered her one, before inveigling Mama’s permission for him to join them at the table.

  Henry caught Charlotte’s unspoken plea, rolled his eyes, and drew the baron into conversation about Ascot and whether Pranks stood a chance this year, a circumstance that allowed Charlotte to quietly shift places and move closer to the far more handsome young men at that end of the table. After a satisfying amount of admiration and laughter, there was another exchange of seats, and Lavinia and Lord Hawkesbury joined them.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Charlotte?” her cousin asked.

  “How can I not?” She waved a hand at the room. “Everything is perfect.”

  The dining room, like the ballroom, was filled with laughter and roses. Her favorite flower adorned every available surface; tastefully so, her mother insisted.

  “It appears a veritable garden,” Lavinia said. “You’re very blessed.”

  “Much more appealing than the Egyptian-themed ball we went to last week,” the earl said, with a glance at his wife. “Remember the scimitars?” He grinned. “Not precisely Egyptian to my way of thinking.”

  Her cousin laughed. “Nor was it appropriate for a young lady marking her come out.”

  The tender look she shared with her husband prickled envy in Charlotte. Oh, to be so adored …

  Lavinia dragged her gaze back to Charlotte. “Nicholas and I were saying earlier we’d love for you to stay with us sometime soon.”

  “That would be wonderful! I’ve never been to Gloucestershire.”

  There was another exchange of glances. Then the earl shifted forward. “We were rather thinking Hawkesbury House in Lincolnshire.”

  “Oh! Well, that would be lovely, too. As long as Mama agrees,” she added doubtfully.

  Lav
inia patted her hand. “I’ll talk with Aunt Constance soon.”

  “Thank you.”

  A dark-haired young lady captured Lavinia’s attention, and Charlotte turned her attention to her food, the ice confection garnered by Lord Wilmington now melted, puddling on her plate. She scooped a mouthful in. Nearly moaned. Still tasted as it ought.

  She savored the moment, a bubble of quiet in the midst of so much noise. Lavinia’s words had elicited more than just excitement at the promised visit. She was blessed, immeasurably so, with family, friends, her father’s finances such as to be able to afford almost anything her heart desired. And now, with so many opportunities available to her …

  “I lay you a pony it’s a girl brat.”

  “Fifty pounds.”

  “One hundred pounds!”

  Charlotte studied her plate, ears straining as the conversation continued at the table behind her. Who was laying bets here? She didn’t recognize the voices. Such foolishness, gambling over the birth of a child. Did Papa know? He’d never minded a flutter.

  “Hartington needs an heir.”

  Hartington? Did they refer to the Duke of Hartington?

  “If indeed he claims it.”

  She frowned. Why would a father not claim his own child?

  Apparently this was also a question from one of the unseen party as there was a laugh. “Haven’t you heard?” There was a hush of voices followed by a chorus of sniggers.

  For some reason the mean-spirited gossip threaded sadness through her chest. The poor duke. How horrid to be gossiped over, to have the truth about such intimate family matters be fought over like dogs scrapping over a tasty bone. She was half inclined to interrupt, even though she knew Mama would not approve—

  “Lottie?”

  She glanced up, met her brother’s amused gaze.

  “I did not think the delicacies warranted such rapt attention, but it appears you do.”

  “Forgive me. I was woolgathering.”

  “Really? Why does that not surprise me?”

  She held her retort, still appreciative of his having drawn away the attention of her previous dance partner. “Thank you for … before.”

  “I suppose I should get used to it, now you’re out.” His eyes glinted. “I confess I had little idea how popular I’d suddenly become with so many gentlemen wanting introductions to my sister.”

  “Perhaps some of these gentlemen have sisters as well.”

  He grinned. “I certainly hope so.”

  She laughed, drawing the attention of several passing prospects, one of whom was bold enough to ask what she found so amusing. After successfully parrying him, she turned back to her brother, now eyeing her curiously.

  “What is it, Henry?”

  “It’s funny to see my little sister so flirtatious.”

  “Flirtatious?”

  “Careful.” He inclined his head to their mother, seated a few chairs away. “I’m just not sure I’m ready to see the girl who used to play with her dolls toying so confidently with the hearts of so many young men.”

  “I’m not toying.”

  “Be careful tonight does not mark your come out as a flirt.”

  Her jaw dropped.

  “Charlotte!”

  She closed it hurriedly at her mother’s urgent whisper and met her brother’s laughter.

  “Admit it. Tonight would not be complete without that familiar refrain.”

  A smile tugged at her lips. “Neither of us would know what to do.”

  “But you have enjoyed the evening?”

  “You mean apart from my brother’s insinuations?”

  “Apart from those.”

  “Of course I have. Tonight has been a dream!” A giddy, wonderful, delightful dream.

  “Mama seems to think so, too.”

  Charlotte followed his gaze to where Mama sat, loudly exulting over Charlotte’s success yesterday at the Queen’s drawing rooms. “Two minutes! I’m sure that is far longer than any other young lady presented this year.”

  Mama’s expression looked remarkably smug as she continued on her theme to a group of dowagers who were hiding their boredom moderately well.

  “Two minutes.” Henry gave a low whistle. “I can’t imagine what the old girl would want with you for that amount of time.”

  “Can’t you?” Charlotte reached across and pinched his arm. “You shouldn’t call her an old girl. That is disrespectful.”

  “I’m sure she’s been called worse,” her brother said, rubbing his arm before rising. “Are you ready to return? I believe the dancing has recommenced.”

  She nodded, pushing to her feet, and they moved to the balustrade overlooking the ballroom. Henry’s gaze roved the masses. “Why’d you have to invite so many old biddies, Lottie?”

  “Mama issued the invitations, as you well know.”

  “I feel as though I’ve invited my friends here tonight under false pretenses.”

  “What pretenses were they? You mean to say they did not involve dancing with your sister? How shocking!”

  “I confess I didn’t overly advertise such possibilities.” He coughed. “Some of my friends are not the sort of fellows I wish to dance attendance upon my sister.”

  “Which makes one wonder why they are your friends.” She raised her brows.

  He flushed. “Perhaps Mama is right, and you do spend too much time with our fair cousin.” He jerked a nod at Lavinia, whirling in her husband’s arms in the ballroom below. “You seem to have a way of making a fellow uncomfortable. It won’t do, you know. Not if you mean to snare a husband.”

  “Snare a husband? You don’t really think I need to resort to entrapment, do you?”

  He turned, looked her over, before a reluctant-looking tilt to his lips suggested his approval once more. “You’ll do.”

  She chuckled, looping her arm through his as they walked down the grand staircase. “I do hope when you meet a young lady you wish to charm that you’ll refrain from being quite so economical in your praise.”

  “And I hope the man you wish to charm will realize just how much of his life will be spent in flattery and cajolery in order for you to be happy.”

  “I don’t require flattery, Henry,” she murmured as the elegantly dressed Lord Fanshawe drew near. Tall, handsome, impeccably attired in a dark dress coat and white neckcloth with a diamond winking in its folds, he was worth seven thousand a year, and known to be on the lookout for a bride, or so Mama said.

  He bowed. “Lady Charlotte, are you ready now for our dance?”

  “I am, thank you.” She released her brother’s arm and grasped the viscount’s outstretched hand.

  “May I say you appear the epitome of springtime loveliness tonight?”

  “You may.” She smiled, before staying her brother with a white-gloved hand, and saying in an undertone, “I don’t require compliments, but I certainly can appreciate them.”

  “Careful, else you’ll be known as the biggest flirt this side of Paris.”

  He chuckled, bowing, as the viscount drew her into the dance.

  Such a whirl, such a heady delight these past hours had been. Round she twirled, as the ballroom echoed with the thud of skipping feet, and the musicians played a merry song. Her heart lifted as jewels glistened and candlelight flickered from three enormous candelabrum overhead. How joyous she felt, almost like flying—

  “And that is why I believe the pumpkin flavor is the best.”

  She blinked, slanting a glance at her partner, who smiled.

  “I’m ashamed to discover my conversation about Gunter’s ices lacks the power to engage my fair companion’s attention.”

  “Oh, forgive me! My head is awhirl with so much tonight, I can scarcely take it all in.”

  “Then I shall not be so ashamed, and shall venture to say something more to your liking.”

  “You tease me.”

  “No.” Blue-gray eyes sparkled. “I simply wish to say how beautiful you appear tonight.”

&nbs
p; She smiled, even as the cynical part of her, the part recently fostered by Lavinia, paused to wonder if he would say the same to a young lady who was not titled, nor known to have a dowry in excess of fifty thousand pounds. How would she know whether he was being genuine or not? How would she know if any man was being genuine or not? She bit her lip.

  “Pardon me, my dear lady, but you seem displeased. I trust it is not your partner that concerns you?”

  “No.” She smiled widely. “I simply wonder if your conversation extends to anything beyond compliments.”

  He mock-gasped. “Such wounds from one so young!”

  She raised her brows.

  “Now I have offended you. A thousand apologies.”

  She dipped her head, and his smile stretched, causing a little jolt to her heart, before the dancing led him away, and his place was claimed by another young man, somewhat more rotund; a marquess, so thus more titled—and more acceptable to her mother, whose loudly voiced desire that Charlotte dance with him had been met with a swift request she’d been unable to refuse.

  The nature of the dance meant there was far less opportunity for conversation, which she did not mind, as the marquess was not quite as adept as her previous dancing partners. A crony of her father’s, he had little to offer in the way of conversation either, save more compliments, which, while nice to hear, offered little in the way of ingenuity.

  She fought a wince as he stepped on her toe for the third time.

  “So sorry.”

  “So am I,” she muttered, as the music led him away, leaving her at the bottom of the set.

  “Lady Charlotte?”

  She glanced up.

  Her breath caught. Here was the man of her dreams. Dark-haired, chiseled features, blue eyes piercing from under brows so smooth they looked painted on. So angelically lovely, so impossibly handsome—yet not so impossible, for he stood before her now.

  “I … sir, we have not been introduced.”

  “I know Henry from university. Lord Markham at your service.” He bowed, and her heart fluttered anew. “I have come to save you from your partner.”

  She glanced at the red-faced marquess, lumbering toward them. “Oh, but I cannot—”

  “Cannot permit your toes to be crushed by such a bore as he, yes, you are right.” He picked up her gloved hand. “Shall we?”