Whatever she was going to say was cut short by the music ending.
All around them, the fluttering blaze of colors stilled as the other couples began to leave the dance floor. Wrexford released his hold on her and stepped back. “I see Sheffield and Lady Cordelia have arrived and are with Lady Peake and the others. Shall we join them?”
* * *
“Lady Charlotte!” Sheffield greeted her with an appreciative smile and placed his hand on his heart. “On with the dancing! Let joy be unconfin’d—”
“I beg you, Kit,” interrupted the earl. “If you’re going to misquote poetry, at least choose someone other than that arse Lord Byron.”
“You don’t find the baron’s poetry romantic, Lord Wrexford?” asked Lady Cordelia Mansfield, the corners of her mouth giving a telltale twitch. Like the earl, she didn’t suffer fools gladly.
He looked down his long nose at her. “I find any excess unpalatable—to wit, add a cup of sugar to your tea rather than a spoonful, and it will make you gag.”
“I take my tea unsugared, so I quite agree with you,” replied Cordelia.
“I thought all ladies swooned over Byron,” protested Sheffield, though he, too, looked to be biting back a grin. “What about you, Lady Charlotte?” he queried, turning to her.
“I hate to disappoint you, but I’m afraid my sentiments are the same.”
“Thank heavens.” Sheffield expelled a theatrical sigh. “Now I don’t feel quite so intimidated in offering my humble self for the next set.” A mischievous twinkle danced in his eyes. “You see, I could never pen a poem. It takes too much thinking—and thinking makes my head hurt.”
Charlotte laughed and happily accepted his hand. Sheffield had come to be a close friend, and although he was considered a charming fribble by most of Society, Charlotte was well aware that his seemingly reckless behavior masked a sharp intelligence and steadfast loyalty.
“I shall try to make sure that dancing doesn’t make your toes hurt,” she replied. “But I can’t promise.”
“Stop your gabbling and move your feet, Mr. Sheffield,” chided Alison. “The music is starting.”
* * *
Spinning, spinning, spinning.The laughter, the music, the colors—aswirl in the bright blaze of candlelight, the ballroom was beginning to blur. Charlotte blinked as she capered through the steps of a lively country gavotte, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the noise and the crush of the crowd.
It felt as if she had been dancing for hours—after Sheffield and her cousin had come the Duke of Roxleigh and Lord Winchester, two of the most august aristocrats in London, followed by a dizzying procession of more prominent gentlemen....
“Thank, you, sir,” she murmured a little breathlessly as at last the dance came to an end.
Her partner smiled and offered his arm. “Would you care for some champagne before the next set begins?”
Desperately in need of a quiet respite, Charlotte replied with a fib. “Alas, I’ve a tiny tear in my hem, so I’m afraid I must forgo the pleasure of another dance in order to withdraw and have one of the maids help repair the stitching.”
“But of course.” He inclined a gentlemanly bow and escorted her to the side doorway leading out of the ballroom.
After thanking him again, she slipped into the corridor and headed for the rear of the mansion. But instead of turning right for the withdrawing room, Charlotte darted down the darkened passageway to her left, intent on finding a deserted room where she might sit quietly and collect her thoughts.
Spotting a half-open door, she ducked inside and found herself in an unlit foyer. Straight ahead was an archway leading into an alcove. From the faint glow of light illuminating the framed prints on the wall, there appeared to be a main room around the corner.
A game room, perhaps?
Drawn by a flutter of a cool evening breeze—a window seemed to be open—and the thought of a comfortable armchair offering a safe haven from the glare of the ballroom, Charlotte took a few quick steps, her silk dancing slippers moving noiselessly over the Oriental runner. She was about to turn when a sudden muttered huff warned that she wasn’t alone.
“What the devil do you mean by showing up here in such a state and sending a footman to summon me here?”
A lady’s voice.
Ye heavens. Surely it wasn’t . . .
“I-I’m sorry,” a man’s voice answered, sounding slurred and disoriented. “I know I shouldn’t have come here, but . . .” He let out a ragged sigh. “But I’ve had a bit of shock.”
“You look like hell. Sit and pull yourself together while I pour you a glass of brandy.”
