Yes—unremarkable in every way, save for her eyes, which were the exact same shape as Whitcombe’s. But rather than an expression of confident superiority, they carried a note of misery and inadequacy, as if she believed that she did not belong.
Perhaps, given the likeness to Whitcombe, she was a relation, maybe an impoverished cousin whom he’d chosen, as an act of charity, to sponsor for the Season.
Which meant that she’d be desperate to bag herself a husband. Whitcombe would be equally desperate, given that charity only lasted so long, particularly if it incurred the expense of a young woman’s Season.
“Oh, I say! Is your dance card not yet full, Aurora?”
Charles cringed as the sharp, nasal tones cut through his senses, and he glanced to one side to see two ladies approach—Miss Young and Miss Peacock.
“I’ve partners enough, Louise.”
“Nonsense! You want to dance every dance tonight, do you not? I cannot imagine anything worse than being overshadowed by that Whitcombe brat.”
“That’s unlikely, given that she’s spent most of the evening seated.”
“She managed to persuade Mr. Arnott to dance with her. Some men are clearly not so fastidious as to—”
Miss Peacock broke off as she met Charles’s gaze, and the slyness in her eyes morphed into hunger.
“Is it not a fine evening, sir?” she said. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly…”
He turned his back and walked away. No dowry was large enough to tempt Charles to saddle himself with one of those two for the next dance, let alone the rest of his life.
“Well,really!”
He headed for the terrace doors to escape their indignation, then another pair of young ladies blocked his path. Their eyes widened in unison, and they giggled, fanning themselves vigorously, presumably in an attempt to look alluring.
Devil’s breeches, they hunt in pairs!
A true hunter ought to blend in with his surroundings, all the better to approach his prey undetected. But these two creatures were bedecked in eye-watering shades of pink and orange.
He strode toward them, his boots clicking against the polished marble floor. Wide-eyed, they continued to stare, the frank desire in their gazes turning to astonishment, then Miss Pink Gown tugged at the sleeve of Miss Orange. Charles made no move to swerve, and they darted to one side as he strode past, Miss Pink letting out a low cry as he clipped her with his shoulder.
Good.Perhaps she might think again before throwing herself into the path of a man she set her cap at. Without a backward glance, he reached the terrace doors and slipped outside.
He crossed the terrace toward the balustrade, breathing in a lungful of cool air. Then he surveyed the vista before him. Though in London, where the residents lived cheek by jowl compared to the country, the Fairchilds’ house had a garden large enough such that no other buildings were visible, save a handful of chimney pots above the tree line. But he could still tell they were in London. Even if one were blindfolded, the stench of dust, dirt, and people sat heavy in the atmosphere.
The moonlight bathed the terrace, picking out the outlines of the plants lining the perimeter. Charles approached one and ran his fingertips over the leaves, relishing the feel on his skin—the smoothupper side, and the rougher underside covered in veins. He closed his eyes and ran his fingertips over the bush until they reached something softer, more delicate, with the texture of silk—the petals of a flower.
The music struck up once more, and he caught the sound of laughter as the fools inside resumed their hunt.
So many people crammed together, reeking of cologne and sweat as they pranced about for no other purpose than to outdo each other in terms of prowess, availability, and desirability. What shallow creatures they were, stifling the world! Why could they not be more like plants—the flowers, shrubs, and trees that gave air to the world rather than sucking the life out of it for their own gratification? Too many were wont to bully a tree or a bush into a shape they deemed suitable to meet their notion of aesthetics—or to cut down a tree altogether merely for the purposes of convenience, not caring for the tree itself or for the need to live in harmony with nature. Most of the trees lining this very garden had been alive years before the people inside the house were born, and doubtless would live for years after those people were buried.
Perhaps you should marry a tree, sir.
Charles smiled to himself at the notion of what John might say. But trees were considerably less trouble than brides. And at Penham Park he could live in harmony with nature, living alongside it rather than attempting to conquer it.
It was a pity, then, that to achieve such an objective, he must stoop to the practices of Society and pander to some conceited little miss who—
A rattle at the terrace door interrupted his thoughts, then it opened, and Charles caught sight of a blue skirt in the moonlight.
Damn. He retreated into the shadows. The last thing he needed was company, particularly female company.
Perhaps if he told her to go to hell, she’d leave him in peace. Or he could shock her into silence by telling her to fuck off.
If only I could.
He glanced over the edge of the balustrade. The drop wasn’t too far—six or seven feet at most. He’d spent most of his childhood falling out of trees, scaling walls, and running from his tormentors until he was large enough to stand his ground and fight back, so a mere six or seven feet was a trifle, the only likely damage a tear or two to this damned expensive jacket.
