26
The ballroom was a crush of bodies.
Mrs. Sutton was likely pleased that her ball would be declared a raging success in drawing rooms across Mayfair tomorrow.
But for now, Lottie simply wished for a breath of fresh air.
It had been six days since Lady Montain’s evening soiree. Six days of contemplating Grandmère’s words and attempting to find a harmonious resolution—to envision a world in which she could marry Alex without injuring Margaret or Freddie.
So far, all she had received for her efforts was a sore heart and tired feet. Ferndown and Lord Frank had insisted that Lottie be seen all over Town, squired here and there by Nettlesby or some other eligible gentleman, all in an attempt to tamp down gossip.
Margaret was unsure if they had been successful.
Lottie simply wanted to return to Frome Abbey.
The ballroom was stifling. The adjoining series of drawing rooms were no better. Doors and windows had been opened to the dark garden behind the house, but as the evening was equally warm, the night air did little to alleviate the heat.
Once again, Lottie was fanning herself slowly, listening to the rumble of male voices around her. She was surrounded by men, all jockeying for her attention—Lord Nettlesby, Mr. Peterson, and others.
Men who had never worked. Who had never held a patient’s hand as they lay dying. Who had never given a needed crutch to a poor tenant. Who had never welcomed a baby into the world with efficiency and tenderness.
How had she ever thought she would be content to marry a gentleman whose values were so disparate from her own?
The room swirled with silks and satins and perfume. Grandmère sat across the way, ensconced in the middle of a row of dowagers, chatting amiably with an old acquaintance while keeping an eye on Lottie. Frank and Margaret had disappeared into the crowd, currying favor for Freddie’s case.
Two gentlemen, whose names she had already forgotten, were saying something to Lord Nettlesby. His lordship laughed and looked at Lottie.
“Whose side do you take, Lady Charlotte?” he asked her. “Mine or Carlton’s here?”
Lottie blinked, turning her gaze to Lord Nettlesby.
“Pardon?” she said.
Nettlesby repeated himself, but Lottie was already distracted.
Her gaze flicked over the room and landed instinctively on a man who had stopped just inside the door.
Alex.
He was here.
He had come.
He surveyed the room, leaning on his cane with casual elegance, looking devastatingly handsome in a finely tailored evening coat and breeches.
As if seeking home, his head swiveled and his eyes unerringly found hers.
He gazed at her with an almost possessive interest. As if she were Laidronette, the fairy-tale princess from the story she had read him months ago. And he was the dragon prince, determined to claim her for his own. He even looked dragon-like; the green satin of his waistcoat glittered in the candlelight.
The walls tightened around her.
She needed to look away.
Lottie knew this.
But her treacherous heart pounded and leaped, desperate to reach him.
“Charlotte?” A hand touched her elbow.
