CHAPTER 2
Charlotte slowly turned, the flutter of her fancy silks stirring a pebbling of gooseflesh on her bare arms.
Wrexford was easy to spot in the crowd. Tall and broad shouldered, his Satan-dark hair falling over his collar in unruly tangles, he was dressed entirely in black, save for the touch of starched white linen at his neck.
His evening attire was exquisitely tailored, she noted. However, his scowl—also black—was cut from a different cloth.
He disliked pompous prigs even more than she did.
Feathers bobbing, a gaggle of turbaned matrons scattered at his approach, clucking like helpless chicks whose henhouse had just been invaded by a wolf. A murmur ran through the room—Wrexford was known for his volatile behavior—as the earl stopped and looked around.
Their eyes met.
And a glint of emerald sparkled through his lashes as the scowl softened, allowing his lips to curl ever so slightly upward.
Charlotte drew in a breath, suddenly feeling as if she had just swallowed a flock of butterflies.
What an odd sensation, she mused. It must be the champagne that was making her feel so fluttery.
“Wrexford!” called the dowager, breaking away from her conversation with Nicholas to wave him over.
“Milady.” The earl executed a faultless bow. “How very naughty of you to cast all the fresh-faced young beauties in the shade.” Looking up with a spark of unholy amusement, he lowered his voice to a mock whisper. “Intelligence and experience in a lady are far more alluring than simpering smiles and vapid conversation.”
A snort sounded in answer. “What fustian, sir.” Alison waggled her cane. “However, at my age, the prattle of a charming rogue, fustian or not, is rather welcome.”
“Me, charming?” Wrexford arched his dark brows. “God forbid.”
Charlotte shifted as he greeted Nicholas and Jeremy . . . and then went very still as he turned to her.
“Lady Charlotte.”
It took her an instant to realize he was reaching out to perform the usual ritual of bestowing a kiss upon her hand.
She hastily fumbled to place her palm atop his knuckles.
“You look . . .”
Charlotte waited for one of his usual sarcastic witticisms.
“Lovely,” he finished.
Her jaw went slack.
“The color suits you,” he added. “It’s . . . elusive.”
Madame Françoise, London’s most exclusive modiste—and also part of Charlotte’s extensive network of sharp-eyed informants who kept her apprised of all the hidden secrets and scandals of the ton—had chosen a smoky slate-blue hue for Charlotte’s gown, and the watered silk had an intriguing aura of mystery as it subtly shifted shades depending on how it caught the light.
“Elusive,” repeated Charlotte dryly, quickly composing her emotions. “I daresay I’m the only lady here who’ll receivethatword as a compliment.” A pause. “Assuming it was one.”
“Surely by now you know better than to expect platitudes from me.”
“I do.” She tugged at her glove, feeling oddly jumpy, and then quaffed another sip of her champagne. “As a man of science, you’re dedicated to searching for truths through logic and empirical evidence, rather than emotion or wishful thinking. So, of course you recognize that no matter how costly or alluring the fabric, one can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”
Wrexford took her arm and drew her away from the others to a more secluded spot by the doorway leading to the side salons. The musicians, she realized, had left off playing a stately concerto and were tuning their instruments for the start of the dancing.
A spurt of panic rose in her gorge.
“Relax, Lady Charlotte,” counseled the earl. The steadiness of his hand seemed to still her churning innards. He watched as the Royal Duke of Cumberland and several of his cronies strolled past them. “Remember, you know all the deepest, darkest foibles and scandals of everyone in the room. It is they who should be feeling on the verge of puking.”
