Lady Gordon and Charlotte gracefully entered the drawing room, the picture of civility and grace. Lady Gordon perched herself near her husband, who nodded imperceptibly to his wife before turning his attention to his daughter.
"Charlotte, Lady Gordon --" A slight grimace here, the Duke hated to be reminded of his wife, "has most graciously arranged a fantastic match for you. Using her connections from when she, ah, dallied with his Majesty, she asked that you be entered into consideration as Prince George IV's wife. After viewing your performance as a debutante, the Prince himself declared that he would take you on."
The Crown Prince! Charlotte was shocked, her head spinning. The prince regent himself!
Her mother and father looked at her expectantly, obviously expecting Charlotte to break down in gratitude, maybe even fall to the floor in a clear faint.
"I...I can scarcely believe it." Charlotte managed to force out while she felt the ground fall out from under her feet, dreams of unwatched carriage rides, whole nights to herself, maybe a country estate where she could ride her steed freely flying out of her grasp. “It’s a great honor.”
“A great honor?” Her mother repeated incredulously. “It’s a miracle that his Majesty didn’t ask for that insipid French princess or, god forbid, yet another Princess of Wales!”
Yes, I wonder what kind of strings you had to pull to arrange this one, Mother? Charlotte thought bitterly. It had only been a few short years since her mother had been his Majesty’s favorite mistress and Handmaiden to the Queen, and her exile from the court was a disgrace that still haunted their family.
A marriage to the Prince Regent would mean power, status, people fawning left and right, never having to lift a finger again. Everything her mother, not Charlotte, was interested in. She didn’t care for political intrigues or power games or the constant surveillance she’d be under and, dear god, she was about to suffocate.
Suddenly, Charlotte felt an irrepressible need to run, run run run right out of this mansion. She stood abruptly, cutting off her mother’s diatribe of the Prince’s many accomplishments.
“Apologies, I...I dropped my glove outside. I won’t be but a moment.”
Her mother looked vaguely horrified at her rudeness, but refrained from saying anything in front of her husband to Charlotte’s utter relief. Her father also frowned but waved her off. “Go on then. The Prince will be at the ball tonight -- you’ll need both gloves to impress him, I’m sure.”
Charlotte thanked her father and hurried off, fighting the need to run until she was clear of the parlor. As soon as she was away from the watchful eyes of her parents, she hitched up her skirts and flew through the grand halls, past a flurry of maids and out the stately front door.
Her lungs begging for air and her side in stitches, Charlotte was forced to shamble to a stop somewhere in the sprawl of London. She had no idea where she was or where she wanted to go, but the tightness in her chest loosened with every step she took away from that accursed gilded cage.
Here on the streets of London she could entertain fanciful ideas of escape. Of selling her dress, buying a pair of slops and a coat with the money before stowing away onto a departing ship. She mapped the route she’d take in her mind while she wandered aimlessly, too engrossed in her thoughts to notice the streets slowly emptying of respectable folk as she turned onto one alley after another.
When she snapped back to reality, she was the only one heading down a slowly darkening, unfamiliar street.
“Oi there!” A gruff male voice called from behind her, accompanied by a chorus of wolf-whistles and low snickers. “Who’s this fancy little chit then?”
Charlotte sped up, heart hammering in her chest as the footsteps behind her drew closer. This is what you get for being foolish, she scolded herself to distract from the fear that was rising in her throat like bile. Why would you ever think you could handle a bit of adventure?
The street seemed to stretch on for miles, with no end in sight and her pursuers gaining on her by the second. No matter how fast she walked the pack of men -- sailors from the sound of it -- seemed to move faster, each sneer and taunt sticking to her skin and covering her in their filth.
One of the men finally got close enough to grab her arm, tugging her in his vice-like grip towards his friends. She breathed in, deep, before leaning close to the man’s head and letting out the highest, loudest, most alarming scream she could muster straight into his ear.
He howled and let her go, leaving her free to leap away. She took off like a shot, veins singing with adrenaline and heart pumping harder than it had ever worked before. It was like all her senses, dulled from countless evenings of useless conversation and routine, had suddenly sharpened. She could see the seams of every brick, the signs of every shop, the ginger cat that crossed the street in front of her. She could taste the wind in her mouth, feel it in her hair. And under the cacophony of shouts and cries of “Get her!”, she could hear...laughter?
Good God, was she laughing?
She barely had time to think about it before she saw a hidden alleyway the cat had sprung into and she followed it mindlessly, too intent on getting away from the scoundrels to think about what lay ahead of her.
A strong hand gripped her waist as soon as she entered the shade of the alley and swung her back, stepping in front of her just in time to meet the sailors in hot pursuit.
“Mate, move outta the way. We gots some business with this li’l broad…” The man she’d deafened visibly paled as her protector stepped out into the dusky early evening light. Likewise, the rest of the pack scrambled backwards as the mystery man stood calmly in front of them, suddenly so quiet you couldn’t hear a squeak from any of the bunch.
Who was this man? Charlotte knew that he couldn’t be part of high society -- his coat, though obviously made from expensive material, was too large on him and wasn’t in any discernible style or shape that Charlotte could recognize -- and being the trendsetter she was, that was saying something. Besides, it was weather-beaten and battered, and no respectable man would be caught dead in such attire.
Yet his outfit was far too expensive for anyone else but the haut monde to afford. A merchant perhaps?
When the man finally spoke, his voice sent shivers down Charlotte’s spine. It was deep, rough in a way that reminded Charlotte of tobacco smoke and the stormy sea. Hypnotic, with a gravity of its own, and before Charlotte could stop herself she had taken a step towards his broad back.
“Well, boys, seems like this little lady doesn’t want to play.” He said with a tinge of amusement. “Why don’t you go find yourselves some decent toffers in the rookeries?”
The men left as one, slinking away without even a word of protest. A couple of the bunch even muttered some apologies before leaving. Them gone, the man turned around to face Charlotte, who met his scrutinizing gaze head-on.
“I can see why they chased you,” was the first thing he said after what seemed to be an eternity. “How’d the daughter of…”
“The Duke of Gordon.” Charlotte finished for him. Rather than seeming impressed, he snorted derisively.
“...the Duke of Gordon end up in this part of town?”
Charlotte felt a bit sheepish, and worried the edge of her glove. "I was...wandering."
"Wandering? I've heard the Duke of Gordon was a dodding old fool, but surely even he must disapprove of his famed daughter wandering around rookeries. Is this a habit for you then?" Charlotte could feel the man watching her, his dark eyes taking in her dress, her hair, even her missing glove. She shuddered.
"Hardly," Charlotte replied hurriedly, if only to distract the man's attention. "And I must thank you for --"
The man impatiently waved away the thanks. "Isn't saving a beautiful lady any man's dream?"
He flashed her a smile then, and proffered his arm. "If the lady wishes, would she take a walk with this poor soul?"
Charlotte hesitated, horror stories of strangers and murders and kidnappings running through h
er head. Her common sense shrilled at her to stop, to find a police station or some such respectable institution, but the adrenaline still flowed in her veins from her earlier encounter and she felt reckless. Stupid, even. What did she care if she made it back home? Nothing was waiting for her but a life she'd rather leave behind.
The mystery man waited for her patiently, seemingly reading her every emotion as if she was transparent. Charlotte reached out and slid her arm in his, her hands wrapped around a hard bicep.
None of the dandies back at the ton had arms like this. They were thin, often flabby, and her fingers had always sunk into their skin. With this man, though, she felt like she was caressing rock.
A heady feeling of being safe, of being protected flowed through her despite the shady district and the undoubtedly questionable characters that occasionally peered into their alleyway. She was excited, energized, truly alive for the first time -- all the while remaining completely safe in this man's arms.
The man was watching her with an inscrutable expression, snapping his face away from her when he realized Charlotte had caught him.
"Well, little Duchess, shall we go?"
Charlotte nodded, and the man set off at a brisk pace. The two glided down the street, Charlotte securely tucked into the man's side. Speaking of which...
"It's hardly fair that you know my name but I have no idea what to call you, sir."
The man chuckled, and when he looked down at her for a moment Charlotte could see a light shining in the dark depths of his eyes. "Call me Drake."
"Drake? Is that your name? Sir?"
"Drop the sir, it gives me the hives," Drake turned into a sharp corner, and the street they joined was much busier and bustling with people in respectable dress. The two slowed down to match the pace of the crowd, and Drake weaved in and out, walking resolutely to a clear destination. Charlotte followed.
"No, it isn't my name. I don't believe any God-fearing mother would dare name her child Drake."
"Then what is your name?"
"That's hardly important, is it little Duchess?" Drake gave her an enigmatic smile before coming to a stop in front of a very familiar pair of gates. He'd brought her home.
Charlotte must have looked incredibly crestfallen, because Drake's expression twisted. He reached for her but stopped short of touching, letting his arm fall.
"What's wrong, doll? Is this not your home?"
"It is." Charlotte looked at it, but the sight of her gilded prison and thoughts of her scheming mother only filled her with revulsion. She turned back to Drake, at his solid presence and the whisper of adventure that seemed to surround him.
The same recklessness that had driven her all day seized her once again.
"Can you take me with you?" Charlotte blurted out before she could lose her nerve, her face reddening at her own gall.
Drake seemed rooted to the spot with surprise, a towering statue, before his shock broke and he doubled over in gales of laughter.
"Is this what the ton is teaching their girls these days, little Duchess?" Drake wiped tears of amusement from his eyes before reaching into his pocket. "No, mon chere, I can't take you with me. This is where you belong."
He reached for her again, taking her hand this time in his right and placing a kiss on it, delicately. Electricity seemed to spark where they touched, spreading to the rest of her body and making her knees go weak from where she could feel his chapped lips on her skin.
With his left, he pulled a small white glove from his pocket and slipped it on her bare hand slowly, sensually. The silk was cool against her and she shuddered in his grasp.
"I saw it fall from a certain Duke's house." He said huskily, his voice suddenly hoarse. "To think I'd return it to the famed 'Flower of Galloway' herself."
He straightened, letting her hand slip from his rather reluctantly. "You'll need it for the ball tonight, I wager. Which is rather soon, so if I were you I'd slip back inside."
Charlotte, still trembling, managed to open the gate. Tapping into her courage one last time, she turned back to Drake. "Will I see you again?"
A mischievous grin spread on his face. "Perhaps, if you look closely enough."
Then he was gone, and she let the gate to her cage slide shut.
Chapter 2
Her mother would have screamed at her for hours, but she departed in a huff and a threatening, "we shall discuss this later" when she realized her daughter's hair was in desperate for a touch up.
Charlotte, too giddy from her excursion and Drake, hardly heard her or noticed the maid returning to yank her hair back into the proper shape.
Before her mother left, however, she gave Charlotte a little box.
"From the prince," she sniffed, "to wear to the ball tonight. Apparently he asked it to be a masquerade."
The curt reminder of the prince -- her betrothed -- was like a sharp slap to the face. Charlotte opened the box with shaking hands, revealing an intricate mask with real jewels that must have cost a pretty penny.
It was tastefully flashy and intricately designed, a lovely piece that threatened to outshine everything else Charlotte was wearing. But the fact that it was undoubtedly chosen for its price rather than with Charlotte in mind -- well, Charlotte much preferred her slightly smudged glove that still smelled of Drake. Charlotte raised the mask to her face anyway and slipped it on, happy that the prince wouldn't be able to read her real emotions on her face tonight.
The ride to the ball was uneventful, if tense. Her mother had apparently deemed her unworthy of her esteemed company and spent the entire carriage ride sniffing and ignoring Charlotte. Which suited Charlotte just fine.
When they were ushered into the grand ballroom, Charlotte very nearly gasped. The Duchess of Devonshire was known to throw lavish parties, but she had truly gone above and beyond anything she had ever done before. The entire room was covered in shades of rich red and gold, jewels matching those on guests' masks glittering on tables, the light from numerous candles glinting off their curved sides.
An air of mystery, of intrigue, of deep sensuality seemed to permeate the room.
"Do you approve?" From behind Charlotte, a quiet, calm voice spoke. Charlotte knew that voice -- it belonged to Helen, the daughter of the Duchess of Devonshire. The girl was a perpetual wallflower, even at her own parties.
"It's very well done."
Charlotte looked around nervously for her mother -- she'd be massacred if she was seen with the daughter of her sworn enemy -- and Helen chuckled.
"Don't worry, the dragon lady isn't here. I think we can talk like civil people, yeah?"
Helen stepped closer to Charlotte and was caught in the light of the nearest chandelier, and Charlotte was surprised at how well the deep red became her. Though she wasn't a traditional English beauty, Helen had a unique charm all to herself; in some lights, she was almost ethereal.
For a fleeting second, Charlotte was almost envious of Helen's quiet ease, the unwavering calm of being completely comfortable in her own skin. The way she looked right now, Helen could easily be something more than human, untouched by the earthly influences of the ton.
"Did you design this?" Charlotte asked, gesturing to the decor. Helen nodded.
"Good, isn't it? I'm quite proud of it myself -- I've never liked balls, but I must admit, they're good fun to prepare for." Helen gestured to Charlotte's elaborate mask. "I actually helped design your mask as well."
"Really?" Charlotte marveled for a second at Helen's hidden workmanship. She'd thought that it had been made by the artisans of Paris, at least. "Oh, Helen, you should show everyone! The whole ton would die for a piece like this."
"That's exactly why I don't design things very often," Helen said, face suddenly bitter as she watched the swirling colors of the ton as they danced. "I would hate the ton to love me -- can you imagine how constricting it would be to always be watched?"
Helen must have seen something in the twitch of Charlotte's jaw, because she hurriedly added, "Not th
at being respectable doesn't come with benefits."
Charlotte stayed silent for a moment, then asked, "Why didn't you talk to anyone our debut year? You have all the advantages in the world you know. If only you made the effort, talked to a couple suitors, included yourself in the appropriate circles...you could rule the ton!"
"You mean, like my mother does?" Helen stared directly into Charlotte, giving her the uncomfortable feeling of being read like an open book for the second time in a day. "Like your mother tries to?
"I've seen what a strain it is to be beloved by the ton, Charlotte. My mother...her every waking thought is about status, power, fashion trends -- and when she dreams, she only thinks of how to get more of it. No, that's not the life I want for myself. And, excuse me for my rudeness, but I don't think that's necessarily what you want either."
There was something to Helen's forthrightness, the acceptance in her gray-eyed gaze that made Charlotte want to tell her everything that had built up over the years: her need to please her impossible mother, her frustration with the nonsensical conversations of the ton, the suffocation that came with the endless corsets, afternoon teas, and parties. That her run-in with a mysterious stranger was the first time she'd been truly alive in years.
"I met a mysterious man today-- obviously not a part of the ton --" was all Charlotte could get out before a smooth, courtly voice interrupted her. She turned around and met face-to-face with a masculine mask that matched hers, down to the last gem.
"Lady Gordon, it's a pleasure to meet you at last. And He-- Lady Devonshire, you've really outdone yourself with this...party." The man greeted the both of them, drawing out the last word as condescendingly as he could.
Helen stiffened, but curtseyed deeply. "Your Highness does me high praise. I hardly deserve it."
The two of them glared daggers at each other, as if there was an undercurrent to this conversation that Charlotte was not invited to share. At the moment though, Charlotte was far too distracted to notice.
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