"Yes?"
"That you were being the unbearable, proud Duke of Penrith, and not his older brother," Charlotte finished.
Well. She had not been lying when she had said that she would speak plainly, Hugh thought with a wince. Though he could see, now that she had pointed it out so baldly, that this was what had driven a wedge between the pair.
Hugh had been too afraid to admit his concerns to his brother, too proud to tell him how much that he cared for his welfare. Too ducal to say 'I love you', even to someone who shared his blood.
"Am I unbearable?" Hugh asked, and Miss Drew flushed prettily.
"Only sometimes," she replied, and to Hugh's surprise she reached out, took his hand and gave it a squeeze.
"Mostly, you are lordly," she continued, adopting a jolly voice in an attempt to break the heady tension which had fallen between them at her touch, "Sometimes arrogant, occasionally snooty...but always kind."
Kind? It was not a word that Hugh would ever use to describe himself, but the softness in Charlotte's eyes when she looked at him, made Hugh long to live up to her vision. He would do anything—wash puppies, rescue kittens, feed the poor—anything to keep her looking at him like that.
"Well," he said, straightening himself in his seat, "I think I know what my next step will be. Thank you for your words of wisdom, Miss Drew, they have been most illuminating."
"It's always good to talk with a friend," Charlotte quipped, and Hugh felt rather touched.
Did she consider him a friend, as well as everything else? For a moment, Hugh had a vision of how upset Charlotte might be were she to find out just why he had pursued her. Panic bubbled within him and Hugh would have blurted everything out, in a bid to right his wrongs, had Charlotte's towering lady's maid not decided to make her presence known.
"Miss Drew," the Valkyrie called, with a disproving glance at Hugh, "We must be leaving now if you are to be on time for your grandmother."
"Lud, I had almost forgotten!" Charlotte cried, as she hopped from her seat, "Good day, Your Grace. I hope that you are feeling much better."
"Much," Hugh stood and offered both Charlotte and her gaoler an elegant bow.
The pair left, and as they disappeared down the stairs, Hugh went to stand by the window. He watched as the two women exited the shop, hurried toward a waiting carriage, and clambered inside, disappearing once more from view.
As Hugh observed the carriage edge its way into the heavy traffic of Piccadilly, he realised that he was more determined than ever to make Charlotte his bride. First, he would try and make amends with Leo, then he would have it from Charlotte just what it was that she was hiding, and then—
Hugh allowed himself a smile as he envisioned just what would happen after he and Charlotte had wed...
Chapter Eleven
As Charlotte followed her grandmother and father into Lord and Lady Jacob's ballroom, she struggled to recall if she had ever felt so nervous. Certainly, during her first season out, she had been skittish with each new event she attended, but that giddy excitement was nothing in comparison to the butterflies which now filled her stomach.
Charlotte idly wondered how so many poems had been written about love, when it left one in a perpetual state of nausea, before she quickly pulled herself up on her mistake.
You're not in love, she told herself sternly, as she followed Papa and Lady Everleigh into the thronged room. Heads turned to watch her progress, for the ton was convinced of Charlotte's love for the duke, even if she was not, and they wished to catch a glimpse of the girl whose name had featured in so many gossip columns.
Charlotte stifled a sigh at their curiosity, and was glad when her father quickly disappeared to the card room and her grandmother to speak with a group of friends, allowing her to seek refuge in a far corner of the room.
A dozen marble columns supported the cathedral-height ceiling of the ballroom, and Charlotte made a beeline for the farthest one. It would, she hoped, be completely deserted of people, but when she finally arrived at the dark alcove, she found that the space was already occupied.
Thankfully, the occupant was a fellow wallflower.
"Violet," Charlotte smiled, as she spotted her friend, "Fancy meeting you here."
"I thrive in the shade, not the light," Violet replied with a grin, her face half hidden in the shadows cast by the towering column.
"Where is Lady Havisham?" Charlotte queried, resting her back against the wall in a mirror image of her friend's pose. This vantage allowed them a view of their fellow revellers whilst remaining unseen, hidden behind a column of marble.
"Aunt Phoebe abandoned me the moment we arrived for a game of Faro," Violet rolled her eyes, "And I soon became quite tired of floating through the crowds like a lost cloud, so I decided to hide."
"Did Sebastian not accompany you? Is he here?" Charlotte wondered aloud, surely Violet's brother could have kept her company amongst so many strangers.
"Pfft," Violet sighed irritably in response, "All I ever hear are questions as to Sebastian's whereabouts. I am not his keeper, I'll have you know. I don't note his every step. How should I know where he is?"
This testy response was so unlike Violet, that for a moment Charlotte was stunned into silence. A pair of dark blue eyes quickly registered Charlotte's confusion, and Violet gave a heavy sigh, before apologising.
"I do beg your forgiveness," she said, "I am afraid that Sebastian has been causing me quite the headache these days and I find that even the mention of his name sets me off like a cannon. Can you pardon my ugly outburst?"
"There's nothing to pardon," Charlotte gave her friend a smile, "I know something of frustrating siblings."
"My thanks," Violet grinned, her usual serene expression restored, "Now, tell me why it is that you are hiding? It can't be from a lack of willing conversationalists, like yours truly, for half the room must be clamouring to gain your attention."
Charlotte bit her lip; she did not wish to trouble her friend with the confusing whirl of thoughts which filled her head. She could not tell Violet that Penrith had called on her every day for a week. That he had sent bouquets of hot-house flowers every morning. That he had taken her riding on the Row three times and that he had—just that morning—promised that he would fill her dance card with his name, and his alone.
Nor could she tell Violet how much this thrilled her. How much she wanted to be held in his arms. How much she longed to repeat their passionate kiss in the rain and that dreams of the duke's embrace kept her awake at night.
No. Charlotte could not tell her friend this because she was stubbornly holding on to the belief that she was not at all in love with the Duke of Penrith. Even though, deep down, she knew that she was.
"Perhaps it is a case of love-sickness which has you hiding here with me?" Violet guessed, in a teasing voice, "Has the pompous duke actually captured your heart?"
"He's not pompous," Charlotte replied, quick to defend Penrith, "He is, I fear, misunderstood."
"Thank goodness he has you to understand him."
There was a definite note of teasing to Violet's voice and as Charlotte caught her friend's eye, she realised that she had seen through her facade of indifference. Though that facade was so flimsy, that Charlotte wondered how she herself had been blinded by it for so long.
"What have I done?" she whispered with a groan, "I was not supposed to fall in love with Penrith. It was not part of the plan."
"The course of true love never did run smooth," Violet replied with a grin and a Gallic-shrug, "So what if you did not intend it? Love has knocked on your door and you must answer its call."
Gracious; Charlotte had not known her friend to be such a romantic. As though sensing her surprise, Violet flushed a little.
"I am an artist," Violet said defensively, "It's almost a legal obligation that I also be a romantic."
"Is it romantic to begin an affair with a gentleman under false pretences?" Charlotte queried glumly, for what was holding her back from p
lunging head-over-heels for Penrith was guilt. Guilt at her deceit.
She had planned to capture his attention—had gone so far as to write a list to find her target—and her treachery was now weighing on her conscience.
"Most affairs begin under false pretences," again Violet shrugged in a pococurante manner, which put Charlotte to mind of Violet's French mama. "In fact, most social interactions are entirely false and contrived. Do men not seek to be seen as affable when they are first introduced? Do women not strive to give the appearance of a winsome coquette when presented with an eligible gentleman? I think you'll find that most everyone is wearing a mask, and the fact that you wish to remove yours and reveal your true self to Penrith, before he is bound to you by duty and law, is admirable."
Gracious. It was not like Violet to be so loquacious, nor was she usually given over to philosophical musings. Charlotte squinted through the dim light at her friend and saw heavy, dark circles beneath Violet's eyes.
"What type of trouble has Sebastian made for you?" Charlotte queried, suddenly suspicious.
"Oh, nothing untoward," Violet replied, pasting a smile onto her wan face, "I am lucky that he is not like most young-bloods, and that he is not making a fool of himself at the gaming tables. He is simply being Sebastian; nothing more, nothing less. Come, let us forget our troubles and go to save Julia—I have just spotted her in Lord Horace's greasy clutches."
Violet linked arms with Charlotte and guided her away from the safety of their hiding place. Charlotte was not quite convinced of her friend's explanation—in fact, she rather thought that Violet was now wearing a mask of her own—but she reasoned that a ball was not the time to press her on matters.
So, Charlotte allowed herself to be led across the room, through the glittering crowd, to where Julia stood. Lord Horace, a stout young man with a florid face, was chattering eagerly to Julia, who gave the appearance of polite interest. Charlotte knew her friend well enough, however, to know that the pretty smile on Julia's face was fixed, and that while she was nodding her head at suitable intervals, she was not listening to a word Lord Horace said.
"Miss Havisham, Miss Drew," Julia called, as Violet and Charlotte approached, "How wonderful it is to see you. Do excuse me, Lord Horace."
"Of course, of course," the young lord blustered, "Perhaps I might call on you soon to continue our discussion on bloodstock, Lady Julia?"
"Perhaps," Julia's reply was an expression of both uncertainty and possibility, and Charlotte had to admire her social nous. Lord Horace, for his part, was left scratching his head as the ice-cool Lady Julia made her escape, for he could not claim any obvious injury or insult, but he knew that he had been deuced.
"What a wonderful word; perhaps," Charlotte whispered, as the trio went in search of refreshments.
"It does go down better than a firm 'no'," Julia agreed, rolling her blue eyes, "Men are such delicate creatures, you see. One must use kid-gloves when handling them, or they are liable to break."
Charlotte could not help but think of Penrith; he was no china-doll. He had weathered many of Charlotte's barbs without even blinking, and his ego was suitably robust enough to stand hearing a firm 'no' from time to time.
"Some men are sturdy enough to handle rejection," Charlotte thought aloud, only to be rewarded with coy smiles from her two friends.
"Hmm," Julia theatrically stroked her chin in thought, "Some men? Or one man in particular? Though methinks that that man has no need to worry about being rejected."
Charlotte flushed pink with indignation, and was about to correct her friend on her ridiculous assertion, when Julia elbowed her—discreetly but sharply—in the ribs.
"And unless my eyes deceive me," she whispered in Charlotte's ear, "That man is fast approaching."
Penrith was here? Charlotte ran a hand self-consciously over her hair, though she instantly regretted it when one of the buttons on her glove became stuck in her unruly mane.
She presented a rather sorry sight when Penrith arrived, accompanied by the intimidating Duke of Orsino. Both men waited patiently, as Julia delicately tugged at the strand of Charlotte's hair, with Charlotte's face getting redder and redder as the minutes progressed.
"Just a moment," Julia trilled nervously, and from the shake in her voice, Charlotte realised that her usually serene friend was becoming flustered.
"I'll just have to rip it out," a voice whispered in Charlotte's ear, and not a second later Charlotte felt a sharp tug as her friend finally freed her.
"Are you alright?" Penrith enquired, as Charlotte saw Julia hastily hide her hand—which contained a clump of red curls—behind her back.
"Perfectly," she replied, hoping that her eyes were not watering too obviously.
As she surreptitiously tried to check for a bald patch, Charlotte introduced Julia to both dukes.
"And this is Miss Havisham," Charlotte continued, turning to her right, only to find that Violet had disappeared into thin air. Dash it. Not only was Charlotte red-faced from pain and possibly bald, but she now looked like she was fit for Bedlam. She had been better off in her hiding place; there was a reason why wallflowers did best in the shade.
"Miss Havisham had to dash," Julia offered apologetically to both men, though only Orsino seemed interested in her excuse.
"I too must be on my way," he said, though he was not looking at either Charlotte or Julia, but over their heads as though searching the crowd for someone, "Please excuse me."
Orsino took his leave, but no sooner had he left than Penrith gave a cry of delight, as he spotted someone approaching.
"Montague," he called, and to Charlotte's surprise, Julia gave a sigh of irritation.
"I am afraid I have just seen my mama beckoning for me," she said, before quickly fleeing the scene, moments before Lord Montague arrived.
The handsome marquess wore a look of confusion, as he registered that the trio he had sought to join was now a duet.
"She went that way," Penrith said to his friend, pointing in the direction that Julia had taken. With a nod of thanks, Montague departed, hot on the tail of his reluctant prey.
It was all—to Charlotte's mind at least—utterly perplexing. Why had Violet disappeared at the sight of Orsino? And what was it about Lord Montague that Julia found so annoying that she felt it pertinent to flee at the very sight of him?
"I rather fear that my friends have scared your friends away," Penrith said softly, once they were alone. "Usually I would apologise on their behalf, but I can't say that I am sorry to have you to myself."
As he waited for her reply, Charlotte found that her mouth had gone rather dry and that she was unable to respond to Penrith's soft words and his intense gaze. Thankfully, the duke was a most solicitous companion and recognised that she was in need of a drink.
With a firm hand at her elbow, Penrith guided Charlotte toward the refreshment table, where liveried footmen were dolling out glasses of sweet ratafia.
"Drink," he commanded, as he handed Charlotte a glass.
"Yes, Major-General," she replied dryly, her lost voice reappearing at his high-handed manner.
"Major-General?" A thick eyebrow was raised in question, so imperious that Charlotte almost laughed aloud.
"Forgive me, your Grace," she retorted lightly, the sweet-punch giving her a jolt of courage, "But you were being rather bossy."
"Yes, I have been told that on occasion I can be somewhat overbearing," Penrith grinned easily in reply, all boyish charm, "And if you might permit me, I have one more demand of you, Miss Drew. I rather think that we are close enough for you to address me less formally."
Charlotte stilled, her heart beating a tattoo in her chest. Was it possible that he wished for her bestow on him a sweeter moniker? Might he actually wish for her to call him Shug?
"You might call me Penrith," the duke said stiffly, causing Charlotte to choke a little on the sip of punch she had just imbibed.
Well, she thought with a grin, it's true that while you can lead
a horse to water you can't make him drink. Penrith, for all that he was trying, was still as fusty as ever.
"Oh," Charlotte feigned innocence, "I dare not address you in such an informal manner, your Grace. What might people think?"
Again, a thick eyebrow was raised, but this time it was with suspicion. The duke stiffened his posture and glowered down at Charlotte from his lofty height.
"Are you poking fun at me, Miss Drew?" he queried.
"Only slightly," she confessed, "It's just that Penrith is the name of your title. It is not your name. To call you as though you were merely a walking-talking title would not be very roma—"
Charlotte bit down on her tongue, before the word romantic could slip from her treacherous lips. She could feel her face burning as Penrith deduced what she had been about to say, but to her surprise his eyes did not show contempt, but rather desire.
Burning desire which set his ice-blue eyes alight.
"It's not very romantic," he conceded, taking a sip of his ratafia and wincing at the taste of it. "I cannot imagine that a wife calls out her husband's title when she performs her marital duties. When we marry, I will demand that you call me Hugh; for now, Penrith will have to do. For I could not be held responsible for my actions if I were to hear my name upon your lips tonight, Miss Drew."
Well. Charlotte nervously gulped down a large sip of her drink. That served her for being impertinent, she thought with a nervous shiver. Penrith's words had not so much been laced with intent, but drowning in it. And had he said when they were married?
Her head was all a muddle, and her body ached with a longing that she had not known existed until now. Dash that man, she thought skittishly, as Penrith smirked at her over the rim of his glass.
If the man was thinking to marry her—amongst other things—then there was no denying it. Charlotte would have to tell him the reason for their union.
"If I am to address you in a more familiar manner," Charlotte stammered, keen to rid herself of guilt, "Then I must confess to something, your Grace."
Tamed by a Duke (Wilful Wallflowers Book 1) Page 12