“It is a costume ball, so exaggeration is fashionable, not that I am defending the man,” Mr. Powys said.
“He doesn’t look satirical but more like an utter jackanapes,” Calliope chimed in.
Hawley would be horrified at their reaction to his carefully cultivated costume, but Matthew could not feel even a glimmer of satisfaction at their scathing descriptions. Instead, slick fear slid through him.
“Do not mistake his absurdities for a lack of lethalness,” Matthew warned. “There is nothing remotely comedic about the viscount.”
“Matthew is right,” Alexander said. “Hannah and Sophia may be accustomed to dealing with more deadly-looking men, but Hawley isn’t a buffoon. He has power—financial and political.”
“Matthew and I should join the dance to draw his attention.” Charlotte’s resolute statement caused fear to twist through Matthew. He wanted to protest as Charlotte handed her golden robes to Hannah, but he knew it was a necessary part of the plan. At least her arm had healed enough that she wouldn’t reopen her wound during any intricate steps.
As they entered the main ballroom, Hawley spotted them. With a swagger, he also moved to join the dancing as the orchestra finished the last chords of a spirited, high-stepping rigaudon. The dark tension swirling through Matthew was in direct contrast tothe sweet, delicate notes of the next country dance. He should have felt joy standing across from the woman he’d imagined as his partner during his long-ago lessons. Instead, suffocating dread filled Matthew.
Their palms pressed together momentarily as the dance required. Heat merged with the firestorm already raging inside him. He felt enflamed from within and without, his skin pulled tight. His entire body seemed to balk at the measured steps, so light and precise, when he just wanted to grab Charlotte and run.
But he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. This was Charlotte’s choice, her risk.
And so they danced, their movements deceptively bright and serene as they set a trap for a monster.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Charlotte would not recommend dancing with a former sweetheart while trying to entrap an unwanted fiancé. It did terrible things to one’s nerves and absolutely shredded the heart.
“You do look wonderful tonight,” Matthew said awkwardly when the dance forced them to lace their arms together behind their backs and circle around each other. Charlotte wished that she wasn’t acutely aware of how very dashing he appeared in his gold-trimmed coat and high boots.
“I would prefer if I were dressed as a Fury with Hannah and Sophia,” Charlotte replied with a flippancy she did not entirely feel but that suited her mood. “I feel like an Erinyes, not an Elizabeth.”
She wanted to flay Hawley for what he had done to Matthew. It was no longer enough for Charlotte to escape the vile excuse for a man; she planned on destroying the viscount.
“Queen Elizabeth was a bit of a Fury in her own right, was she not?” Matthew pointed out. “But she was a mortal who didn’t need supernatural powers to wreak vengeance.”
“No, just a navy and a convenient tempest,” Charlotte shot back.
“You command a small army tonight,” Matthew reminded her.
“I have precisely two dragoons who are only agreeing to stay in Mr. Belle’s carriage with Mr. Stewart because Sophia has brought a growler of her best coffee creation.”
“I did not mean the actual military men,” Matthew said, “but theeclectic lot that you have assembled from the Black Sheep’s patrons and me, your ever-humble servant.”
“I don’t desire an ever-humble servant,” Charlotte told him tartly before she could stop the words. “I want a partner.”
The choreography of the country dance allowed her to whirl away from Matthew before he could answer. He glanced back at her, but she ignored him as she focused on the next man down the line, a cheerful fellow dressed as Friar Tuck. His footwork was more than competent, and he seemed like a pleasant chap, the perfect partner before having to deal with Hawley next.
“I see you have finally found your way into the arms of your correct El Draque,” Hawley whispered into Charlotte’s ear as soon as the steps moved them together. He should have been looking the opposite direction, but he was hardly likely to follow the rules of a mere dance. Even if this wasn’t a masque, he was a man and a bloody heir apparent to a dukedom. He could take such liberties. But she—she would be blamed for permitting a breach of etiquette.
Anger—hot and swift—swept through Charlotte. She was so blasted tired of the hypocrisies that not just protected men like Hawley but let them thrive.
She no longer wanted this glittering world of false pretenses that held her prisoner. No matter the outcome tonight, she was done with it. This was her last ball. Her last mincing dance. The last time she would hide behind a mask—any mask. She was seizing her freedom now, even if it meant living in a hovel near the Black Sheep until her interest in the coffeehouse made enough coin for a more comfortable residence.
“You’re not my El Draque,” Charlotte practically spat at Hawley. “In fact, you’re nobody’s bloody dragon. You’re a lizard with illusions of grandeur.”
Hawley abruptly stopped moving. The genial Friar Tuck slammed into him with enough force to make the viscount jumpa half step. He did not, however, remove his eyes from Charlotte’s face. “Did you compare me to a lizard?”
“I did not merely compare you to one. I called you one.” Charlotte stood still herself, and a strange power pulsed through her as the other dancers ceased their twirling. She, the elegant, demure Lady Charlotte Lovett, was about to cause a scene, and she was bloody well going to enjoy it.
“I. Am. El Draque!” Hawley roared out each word.
By now, everyone in the ballroom was craning to gaze at the viscount and Charlotte. The music faded away as each musician froze. One violinist halted so abruptly that he accidently screeched his bow across his strings.
