Chapter Seven
Devil’s breeches, inall his life, Charles hadn’t encountered a more unremarkable set of people as the company here tonight. The men—ranging from puppyish young bucks eager to demonstrate their prowess to foppish old fools even more eager to convince the rivals that their virility was as potent as their younger rivals’—were nothing more than foxes, prowling the dance floor as if it were a field, looking for the tastiest hens to devour.
The women were no better, parading about like bitches in heat, flicking their fans in an attempt to entice and seduce.
And the conversation! Did they have nothing better to discuss than the number of doxies they’d seduced during the Season, or the number of names on their dance cards?
Beasts and whores, the lot of them, no different to the lowest creatures residing in the slums of London, save for their titles and their wealth.
Which meant that Charles was no different to them. Or worse—he was already in possession of a title, and he had come to London with the express objective of obtaining wealth.
And not just obtaining it—marryingit.
But coming to Lady Fairchild’s ball to parade himself among the braying members of Society was a waste of an evening when he could have been…
Been what? Rutting that painted doxy with the faux-Italian accentwho’d screamed his name with false ecstasy then pouted in a fit of temper when he failed to scream hers in return?
A footman approached bearing a tray of champagne glasses. Fighting the temptation to steep himself in liquor, Charles thrust his hands into his pockets and glared at the man. If he were to seek a bride among these people, he needed a clear enough head to protect himself against the wiles of women seeking a titled partner. One false step while under the influence of too much champagne and a man could find himself in the clutches of an ambitious young harpy desperate for a husband claiming that he’d compromised her, followed by an overly aggressive male relative calling him out.
The footman smiled and raised his eyebrows, offering the tray. Charles gritted his teeth and took a step toward him. The footman stepped backward, his eyes glistening with fear, and almost collided with one of the dancers—a painted harpy with the name of Miss Peacock, a name that suited her strutting, conceited demeanor. She admonished him, and the footman mumbled his apology and scuttled off, his jacket now covered in a dark stain where one of the champagne glasses had toppled over on the tray.
Doubtless Lord Fairchild would insist the cost of cleaning the jacket come out of the poor boy’s wages, but his fate would have been worse had he spilled champagne on Miss Peacock’s gown. A woman with such spite in her eyes would have insisted the boy be whipped…
Charles caught his breath as the memory pushed itself to the fore—the searing pain on the skin of his back, his father’s insults filling the air. He fisted his hands and focused his attention on the dancing, the brightly colored silks moving together. Or almost together. A poor young lady was partnered with Viscount De Blanchard, a man who moved his body as if he were in the middle of relieving himself. He’d bumped into several of the other dancers already but, his being a viscount rather than a footman, any transgression was instantly forgiven.
Charles cast his gaze over the unpartnered, unwanted women sitting around the perimeter. One of them might make a suitable bride. The less beautiful the woman, the less attention and devotion she’d expect from a husband. Provided the dowry was large enough, he cared not how pretty his future bride was, given that he had no intention of actually spending any time with her. A stallion didn’t take a mare because of what her face looked like.
His gaze settled on a lone woman—another unremarkable creature with insipid pale-brown hair and a dark-green gown, which, though accentuating her curves, lacked the brightness of color of the dancers, as if she wished to be overlooked. A diamond necklace, elegant in its simplicity, lay about her throat, the gemstones twinkling in the light as she turned her head.
She seemed to dislike being here almost as much as Charles. Her whole body vibrated with discomfort, and she was moving her hand about her left wrist in a repetitive gesture. Charles observed her for a moment, then caught the flash of gold about her wrist. It was a bracelet, and she was rotating it, her body moving slightly as she did so. Charles lowered his gaze to his own left hand and the signet ring on the little finger, which he was rotating in a similar gesture. Did she, too, strive to drive away an unknown fear, to restore the balance of temper when in a hostile environment, such as a Society party filled with noise and people?
Then she glanced up, and he caught the intense expression in her dark eyes. What color were they? Green? Brown? They were narrowed so much that he couldn’t tell.
She lowered her gaze once more, focusing her attention on her bracelet. But, as Charles watched, she glanced in his direction once more, before frowning and resuming her attention on her hand.
A misfit as much as Charles, she’d be lucky to find a dance partner.
Then a gentleman approached her and Charles recognized Whitcombe, the fortunate blackguard who now owned his horse. Hetempered the little spike of resentment. Where was Destriero? All alone in some stable in the middle of the country? Was he being well looked after?
Whitcombe took her hand and her lips curved upward. Her eyes widened to reveal a rich emerald color, shining with joy and love. Whitcombe, wearing a similarly besotted expression, kissed her hand then sat beside her.
Sothatwas Whitcombe’s duchess!
Charles tempered the little twinge of regret. Perhaps he should have taken up Whitcombe’s offer to be introduced to her when he’d had the chance. Her expression spoke of a depth of character not to be found among most ladies of Society. Perhaps that explained why Whitcombe, who possessed more discernment than most, had chosen her, despite her outwardly plain appearance.
You’re getting more ungallant with the passing of each day, sir.
Charles succumbed to the voice of his conscience, which sounded uncomfortably like his valet. Were John with him tonight, he’d have admonished Charles for not placing himself in front of the prospective brides, offering his title for a dowry. But, given the unpalatable array of choices before him, his objective was not to seek the most favorable woman he could find, but the least objectionable.
The dance came to an end and the couples dispersed. Charles cringed as the noise increased, the ladies exclaiming over the prowess of their partners’ dancing and the gentlemen bestowing shallow compliments in reciprocation. One couple approached the Whitcombes—a puppyish youth with hunger in his eyes and yet another unremarkable female specimen. Dressed in a plain pale-blue gown, she lacked the elegance of the other ladies, in that she waddled across the room rather than glided and fidgeted where she stood.
In short, she looked like a chambermaid attempting, and failing, to masquerade as a lady.
Now, sir, you’re being unkind.
Curse his bloody valet! John wasn’t even in the room, yet he livedin Charles’s mind, ready to point out his every fault.
The young man bowed before the duke, who gave him a curt nod. Then the duchess patted the seat beside her. The young woman sat and glanced across the room, stiffening as she met Charles’s gaze before looking away.
