“I need to speak with you,” Michael insisted.
Charlotte harrumphed, shaking her head. “He says as if he were not speaking. This is an extraordinary way to bring it about.”
Michael’s expression turned almost scolding as they turned once more. “I didn’t think you would agree if I approached in any other way.”
“Oh, so he has got some intelligence.” She forced a bright smile she did not feel. “How refreshing.”
The dance sent them back to their corners, and Charlotte looked down at the floor while Tyrone and the woman beside her took their turn in the center.
Why in the world did Michael need to speak with her? What could he possibly have to say after what had passed between them? After what he had proven at Grace’s party, there could be no mistaking the status of their relationship.
It had been neatly terminated, and there was nothing of friendship remaining.
So much for his vow that they would remain friends. The best of friends, if she recalled correctly.
How had they gotten to this point?
She returned to Tyrone’s side as they promenaded down the line and around to the back. “You may owe me more than a copious amount of strong drink for this, Mr. Demaris.”
He hissed under his breath. “I did promise a waltz.”
“Somehow, I don’t find that as satisfactory.” Charlotte gnawed the inside of her cheek as she took up her new position, preparing to face Michael again.
He wasted no time when he came to her. “I apologize for singing.”
That was it? Not for breaking their longest-reigning understanding? Not for breaking her heart? Not for scrubbing her out of his life? Just singing? As if singing alone was a crime?
Charlotte felt a cool composure ripple across her being, and she found a polite, formal smile crossing her lips. “I apologize for singing, as well. It’s a beastly business, singing. Almost nobody does a fair job of it, and it is so mortifying. Such a vulnerable experience, which is why I never do it.”
Michael frowned. “I’m not apologizing for the existence of singing. I’m apologizing that I sang for company.”
She pretended to be surprised. “What’s it to me if you wish to sing for company? You are free to do as you like.”
“Charlotte, that was our secret.”
“Surely not ours alone,” she protested, maintaining wide-eyed innocence. “Your mother knows you sing, yes? Your sisters? Cousins?”
“Well, yes…”
She trilled a merry laugh. “Then it can hardly be our secret. You are a gifted vocalist, why should the world not know?”
She heard his short exhale of frustration. “I only want to say that I am sorry if I hurt you in doing so.”
“You didn’t.”
“I can see that, but the apology stands,” he insisted.
“Then your conscience is clear. That should be enough.”
“Do you accept my apology?” he ground out, evidently growing weary of her game.
“Do I need to? After all, I have told you, I was not wounded.”
Michael retreated to his place, but his attention remained on her with an intensity that was almost unsettling. This time, Charlotte stared back at him, daring him to find something weak, flawed, or wounded in her. What her heart felt was no longer his concern. What hurts she carried would no longer be known to him. What familiarity they shared could no longer be.
He had done this, and he would be the one to feel it.
Wordlessly, expressionless, she watched him, waiting to see him accept the strength she was showing, the detachment from any emotions he could rouse, and the beauty she had worked so tirelessly to array herself in this evening. Let him see Charlotte Wright as she was, not as the girl he’d thought her to be.
At that moment, Michael’s eyes dropped from her own and, starting at what seemed to be the toes of her slippers, slowly examined every inch of her all the way up. An accompanying shiver raced through Charlotte on the exact same path at precisely the same time, as though his eyes had power over her limbs and frame. When his eyes reached hers again, something hot and blinding screeched from the core of her down into each of her toes, curling them in her slippers. Rays of it raced upwards through her, singeing each hair on her head and incinerating her ears.
She watched his eyes shift across her face, felt the fire of them in each place, and her lungs began to quiver in panicked anticipation.
Of what? What did they expect? What did they fear? What did they want?
What did she want?
Her fingers shifted anxiously against each other at her side, the sensitive skin of each feeling abraded by the smooth fabric of her gloves. Everything was heightened somehow, everything on edge, and staring at Michael made her better and worse in equal measure. Equal burning, searing, breath-stealing measure, and she could feel her composure unraveling with each beat of her rampant heart.
She blinked and recollected the dance, turning to promenade with Tyrone again, trembling in his hold.
“Steady,” he murmured, no hint of sarcasm in his tone. “You all right?”
“In a manner of speaking,” she whispered. “Would you care very much to douse me in a glass of port?”
“Douse you? In what way?”
“Over my bloody head,” she managed to say, her voice hitching on the words.
Tyrone tsked softly. “Sorry, pet. Port does not do well on silk, and I’ve a valet that will summarily execute me for marring such exquisite fabric.”
“More’s the pity.” She parted from him with a tight squeeze of hands and prayed she could finish the dance without embarrassment.
This time as Michael came to her, Charlotte wished she could have fled. She would have run from the ballroom, out onto the terrace, and into the gardens. She’d have run all the way home, into the house, up the stairs, and flung herself under the bedcovers in her room until she felt more herself.
At the present, she barely felt human.
Her hands reached out for Michael’s the moment they were able, and her eyes locked with his. He said nothing this time, and neither did she. Neither could she. There were no words for such an experience, such a captivation with one person whose touch was the breath of life to her. There was only the feel of his hands in hers, the heat of his body as she passed it, brushed her back near it, passed it again to face him once more, a delicious friction with nothing touching at all.
It was a dizzying, drowsy feeling, weakening her knees and squeezing her lungs until each breath took more effort than it rightly should. Yet the pace of all was as it should have been, her heart a cadence for the dance, her lungs natural in their rhythm. A cacophony of sensations in and around her, with only her eyes to tell her which way was forward.
Forward was Michael.
Forward was right.
Michael was right?
She blinked unsteadily, the spell breaking as she resumed her position, her mind reeling. What had just happened? What had she felt, what had she realized? Something had been decided, she felt sure, but there was no insight into what that might have been. Only that it was Michael.
Michael…
Charlotte couldn’t look at him, not the rest of this dance, not the rest of this evening. Could not be clouded when she needed clarity. Clarity and certainty.
And a glass of port.
Chapter Nineteen
Denial is not a powerful defense. When it is gone, a person is rather exposed. Better, then, to choose something else for one’s fortress. You won’t want to be in denial when it comes tumbling down around you.
-The Spinster Chronicles, 29 December 1818
“Michael, what are you doing?”
“Reading. Why?”
“There’s a card party going on, and the people are out there.”
“Which is why I prefer to be here.”
Elinor Sterling plucked the book out of his hand and gave him a severe look.
Michael peered up at her. “What?”
“I hardly think it was that extreme,” Michael scoffed, waving a hand.
Elinor’s expression showed she was not amused. “I heard them, Michael. You were watched the entire evening. Your jaunt into the card room after a few dances was noted. Your reentry was praised. Your return to dancing gave them hope.”
At least the dance with Charlotte wasn’t mentioned. Or the dance where Tyrone danced with Charlotte. Michael hadn’t danced with her.
Officially.
He couldn’t explain what had happened, but it rather felt like their experience in the square room of the theater. The same breathlessness, the rush of energy and feeling while being powerless to resist, the inability to think or comprehend anything but her. Yet they had been constrained by the dance, by the parts they had to play there, and by the company they were in, feeling so much while being unable to act as instinct demanded.
It had been somehow more powerful than kissing her. Then again, he’d only kissed her the one time. Several times, but the one occasion. One occasion, but one much repeated in his mind.
Resisting such thoughts was getting rather old.
“And you danced a second time with Diana Palmer,” Elinor went on, completely ignorant of the content of his thoughts. “And had my husband dance with her so you could have additional moments in the dance with her.”
Michael smiled as she brought that up, given he’d done the exact same thing so he could dance with Charlotte, yet it was not remarked upon.
“People are wondering about a proposal,” Elinor pointed out, her arms folding before her. “Are you engaged?”
“No,” Michael told her easily. “Not yet, at any rate.”
Her eyes narrowed at him. “Is there an understanding?”
“That is between her and I, thank you.” He batted his lashes, knowing it would irk her, as it would have his own sisters.
“Are you bound to her in any way at this present time?” Elinor demanded, not put off at all by his lack of answer.
He frowned at that. “No…”
“Then come with me and attend the card party,” she insisted, gesturing to the door. “I did not invite you to keep my books company.”
“I thought your husband invited me,” he suggested ruefully.
He really should not test her further; she was beginning to look like Eliza did when she was about to hit him over the head. “Hugh made suggestions, but I approved all invitations. So come with me now and pretend that you are pleased to be here. Or have you given up on actually appearing in Society as an individual?”
Muttering to himself, Michael pushed up out of the chair he had been occupying pleasantly since his escape. Not that the card room had been so very dreadful, he’d only lost interest in participating in the conversations occurring there. Diana had pleaded a headache, so she had chosen to remain at home to rest. He’d grown used to only appearing to further their courtship, but he hadn’t cried off himself purely for the sake of Hugh and Elinor and this first informal event they had hosted.
Much of the company was filled with people he admired well enough; he was simply not feeling the thing. Was that so wrong?
“Thank you,” Elinor chirped, taking his arm.
“Does your brother feel so badgered by you at times?” Michael inquired with a tilt of his head as he led her down the corridor.
Elinor nodded once. “Of course. He has four sisters, after all. And just so you are aware, Eliza wrote to me and bade me to keep you out of mischief.”
Michael coughed in mock effrontery. “I never make mischief! She had best mind what she says to people, given the favors I have agreed to do for her while in London. I’ve a mind to tell her she can come fetch her own fabrics.”
“She doesn’t care about fabrics,” Elinor laughed as they reentered the card party. “It’s all about the… Never you mind. Send me her demands for the modiste, and I’ll see to that in exchange for your good behavior tonight.”
“Done.” He patted her hand, giving her a smile. “See? It wasn’t for naught that I went to the library.”
Elinor nudged him hard before stepping away to return to her guests.
Michael chuckled and began to amble about the room, forcing himself to look as pleasant as he could. Several people smiled, returning his nods of greeting, and some of the young ladies, he did note, lingered in their smiles.
Intriguing. Was this because Diana was not in attendance, and they knew no engagement had been set as yet? Perhaps Elinor hadn’t been exaggerating after all.
He smiled further still when he caught sight of Mrs. Partlowe, Elinor’s sister, sitting alone nearby. He moved in that direction, feeling some sage conversation with her would be preferable than forcing politeness elsewhere. Emma had always been a creature of sense, not carried away by fancy like her sister or some of her friends, yet she was also one of the originators of the Spinster Chronicles. She had left the fold to marry her husband, choosing not to continue with the column, which had injured some to a degree, though no one had taken it harder than Charlotte. He remembered well the rant Charlotte had made over the comfortable marriage and departure, but he had not felt the same.
On the contrary, it had made perfect sense to him that Emma had chosen such a course.
“Mrs. Partlowe,” he greeted, bowing when he reached her. “May I take the seat beside you?”
She smiled up at him, and for the first time he noted faint lines in her features that had not been there only a few years ago. Yet they suited her, and her loveliness was not diminished by them. “Please, Michael. It would be a pleasure.”
He sank down, sighing in relief and at once as comfortable with her as he had ever been. “You look tired, Emma. Can I say such a thing?”
She laughed softly. “Perhaps only to me. And I feel tired, thank you. The twins are anything but content these days, and I find myself in an interesting condition at an inconvenient time.”
“Congratulations, and my condolences?” he suggested with a wince, chuckling to himself.
“Yes, quite.” She sighed, shaking her head. “It is a blessing, of course, and many women have dealt with such a condition inconveniently, but I think I shall need another version of myself in addition to manage it all.”
He smiled with some sympathy. “We’d only be so fortunate.”
Emma’s smile quirked crookedly. “Flatterer.” She turned her attention across the room, and her smile deepened. “Now there is a pairing for us.”
Michael followed her faint gesture and saw Lieutenant Henshaw and Kitty Morton sitting in a pair of chairs near each other, deep in conversation, both seeming on the edge of their seats.
“At last,” he said on an exhale, crossing one knee over the other. “I wasn’t sure they would ever get there.”
Emma laughed to herself. “Should I warn Izzy that her sister-in-law is sitting too close to him? Or that they are holding each other’s hand?”
“Absolutely not,” Michael retorted. “Miss Morton looks delighted with her present situation, and Henshaw might burst. Leave them. That’s as it should be.”
“Is that how it is for you?” Emma’s question was much softer, and while it carried the same inquisitive direction her sister had used earlier, he felt none of the impertinence or prying of it.
More than that, he needed to think about the question.
“I couldn’t say,” he eventually replied, considering his feelings for Diana and the relationship they were cultivating. “It’s… different.”
“I can understand that,” Emma murmured, looking down at her fingers. “I never had the frantic part of love. The breathle
ss, unable to sleep, romanticized and publicized version of it. I did not even marry for love, but I found it all the same.”
Michael took her hand, squeezing gently. “I hoped you would.”
She smiled up at him, her eyes and smile warm. “There is more than one way to love, and to feel love; even romantic love. Some feel it loudly and cannot contain it. Others find it quietly, deep into their souls. And all can be everlasting.”
He released her hand and sat back, nodding. “I’m beginning to see that. But it makes me glad to hear that you found love in your own way.”
“My sister thinks you’ll propose within the week.” Emma turned her body to face him more. “Will you?”
Now he laughed, finding the prying edge that he was accustomed to with the Asheley sisters. “Not this week.”
Emma snickered beside him. “What, do you have a previous engagement?”
“As it happens, yes,” he replied with a jaunty smile. “I’ve an errand to see to in Derbyshire this week. Very important, very secret.”
“To whom and for whom?” Emma pressed with a grin. “Yourself, I hope.”
Michael pretended to consider his answer. “In a way, I suppose it is. It has more impact on another person’s happiness, however, but their happiness should promote my own.”
“Very gallant.” Emma nodded her approval, then leaned forward just a little. “You won’t give me a further hint, will you?”
“I cannot,” he said firmly, still amused by her interest. “Far too much work has been done with my solicitors and other important men to risk word getting out before all is settled.”
Emma shook her head in apparent disappointment. “Very well. Shall we see if one of the card games is free? My husband, bless him, is still in conversation with Mr. Chadwick, and I am in need of a partner.”
Michael rose and offered a hand to help her up. “Yes. Let’s.”
“Mama, have you seen my blue spencer?”
“Lottie, my lamb, you have at least three. Which one are you seeking?”
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