“Of course, I—”
She stopped, gasping as Harriett thrust her glass at her and cold liquid slopped over the rim and down the front of her gown.
“Oh, dear. How clumsy of me. Do forgive me, Charlotte. I only meant for you to hold it for me.”
Harriett set the glass on a passing waiter’s tray and held out her hand for Mr. Helden. He took it and she swept toward the dance floor with a swish of her skirts.
Charlotte blinked after them.
“Here you are.” Aunt Bernadine pressed a kerchief into her hands. “Spiteful cat,” she muttered.
“She doesn’t want him,” Charlotte said indignantly. “She just doesn’t want me to have him.”
“She’s just like her mother,” her aunt sighed.
“Harriett is Harriett and we must deal with her,” Charlotte said, low. “But he—” She stopped and grimaced.
“I know. Good heavens, but the man does not improve upon further acquaintance.” She squeezed Charlotte’s hand. “Go and clean yourself up, darling. We’ll find someone else.” She smiled. “You are entirely too pretty and too kind to continue unseen.”
“I don’t think the gentlemen are looking for my sort,” she said in despair.
“Some of them surely must be. And if they are not . . .” Aunt Bernadine shrugged. “We will contrive.” She straightened her shoulders. “We will be fine, dear Charlotte. We’ve done well enough so far.”
They had indeed contrived, so far. But they wouldn’t for much longer. Anne, Charlotte’s younger sister, would be fifteen soon. She was a darling. So sweet and bookish and smart and kind. If Charlotte didn’t marry someone well connected, Anne would never meet anyone beyond their village of Hoverstoke. Anne needed a scholar, or at least someone who could look beyond the borders of their small hamlet. Someone to stimulate her mind as well as her heart, to carry on conversations about the subjects that fascinated her. And George! Her brother had an always-empty belly and two hollow legs beneath it. Feeding him was worry enough, but what of his future? He was an active, curious boy and starting to go a bit wild. But there was no money to send him to school, or to perhaps buy him a commission when he grew old enough.
No, they would not be able to contrive forever. Charlotte needed to marry well—and that meant someone kind and willing to interest himself in her family.
She doubted Mr. Helden was that gentleman. “We’ll keep looking,” she told her aunt. “There is still time.”
“Plenty of time,” Aunt Bernadine said encouragingly. “In fact, I’ll go and speak to Lady Tremaine and make sure we are invited to attend her riverside garden party next week, while you go and get yourself in order.”
They parted ways and Charlotte started toward the ballroom doorway. As she squeezed through the crowd along the wall, Mr. Helden and Harriett danced past. Her cousin sent her a look of malice—and victory.
And Charlotte was suddenly filled with hot, molten fury. Harriett! That girl had everything that she did not—a doting mother, an indulgent father with the family title, wealth, a fine wardrobe, an accepted and expected place in London society—and still, she begrudged Charlotte’s every crumb of success or happiness.
Wicked girl!
Her fists clenched. Her color must be high. Abruptly, she turned on her heel and headed for the door to the terrace. Her bodice could dry just as well in the clear, fresh air as in the retiring room.
She realized her mistake the moment she opened the door and a couple pushed in past her, frowning and coughing and waving their hands before their faces. Still, she stepped out, too irritated to face anyone inside.
She immediately began to cough.Ugh. What was that vile smell?
She stopped, frozen.
It was Lord Whiddon. He stood at the far edge of the terrace, blowing clouds of evil smelling smoke from a cheroot.
She nearly choked on it. She should follow the couple back inside before her gown took on the horrid scent, but her blood was up and so was her temper. She crossed to the far side of the open terrace, as far away as she could contrive. Whipping out her fan, she waved it to direct air away from her.
He glanced over, smirking, and turned away to ignore her.
She tried to do the same, but good heavens, he was hard to ignore. Even in the filtered light from the ballroom, his figure loomed large. Long, long legs, slender hips and a torso that broadened considerably into a fine set of wide shoulders. Standing there, strong and aloof, he seemed the embodiment of this house, of Mayfair, of London Society itself.
Ideal. Yes. But also hard and possibly dangerous.
At first, she only cast quick glances in his direction, but he paid her no mind, and she began to watch him in earnest. He kept his gaze turned skyward. Until he took a long drag on his cheroot and then held it out before him, frowning at the thing.
Fascinating.
