Charlotte ran her eyes over Hawley’s excessively padded figure and snorted. “You are neither the mythical beast nor the privateer. You’re a man in a costume with pistols likely borrowed from more illustrious ancestors.”
Hawley yanked down his half mask. “I am Viscount Hawley as you well know, and I demand that you apologize immediately.”
“No.” Charlotte loved saying the word so much that she repeated it. “No! I will not.”
“Yes, you will. I demand it,” Hawley said, his voice lethal.
From the corner of her eye, Charlotte noticed that Matthew had moved to her side. She sensed that he wanted to grab her arm and pull her to safety. But he refrained, and she had never loved him more.
“This is the beginning of you not getting whatever you desire,” Charlotte announced, and chuckles rose from the crowd. Hawley spun around, furious to see all the masked faces staring at him.
“Apologize,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I won’t,” Charlotte said and then ripped off her mask. “And I won’t marry you either. Consider this my official rejection of your—or rather, your father’s proposal on your behalf.”
Gasps filled the ballroom. Despite having just eviscerated her carefully cultivated social position, Charlotte found herself standing on remarkably steady legs. It was scandalous enough for an unmarried miss to attend a bacchanalian ball, but she had just revealed herself to all and sundry. To make it worse, she’d insulted a man of the noble class and thrown him over. Her parents would likely disown her the moment that they learned of this spectacle.
Charlotte was free.
She wasn’t naive enough to think liberty would come without costs and hardships. But she was more than willing to face them. If the past two months had taught Charlotte anything, it was that she was capable of handling adversity. She might not approach every pitfall with aplomb, but she always attacked a problem with fierce doggedness.
“Charlotte.” Matthew inched even closer to her as if he could ward off the social calamity that she’d brought her way.
Charlotte’s mission had been to tease Hawley with some thinly, but still veiled, quips. No one had meant for her to openly antagonize the viscount, not even Charlotte herself.
Charlotte didn’t regret deviating from the original scheme as she stared at Hawley, whose chest heaved with suppressed rage. The man would surely follow her now, eager to mete out his revenge. He’d have no caution left and would overlook even the most obvious trap.
Hawley moved forward, his arm raised to strike her. Surprised cries filled the room, as open violence toward a noblewoman was unacceptable. Matthew leapt to intercept any blow, but Charlotte was prepared. She quickly withdrew a gold-painted plaster scepter from her pocket. When Hawley’s fist contacted with the cheap fake, the piece shattered. Glittering shards exploded onto Hawley’s doublet and hose. More laughter burst through the assembly. Men,including Friar Tuck, surged forward to restrain the gold-flecked Hawley.
Charlotte had thoroughly and utterly humiliated the viscount. Already, gossips were reevaluating the vaunted status he’d enjoyed through the years. Titled young men with family fortunes did not get unceremoniously discarded. As an heir apparent to a dukedom, Hawley would not remain an outcast, but snickers might covertly follow him for years.
“Are you trying to accost one of my female guests, Hawley?” The Duke of Blackglen’s drawl broke through the chaos. Blackglen was dressed in the flowing robes of Bacchus with no pretense of propriety. The belted white fabric gaped open to reveal a rather finely formed male chest. Most would look ridiculous with a wreath of wax grapes around his head, but the purple complemented the duke’s dark brown curls.
“She is the one at fault!” Hawley blustered.
The Duke of Blackglen’s voice was as lazy as ever as he spoke. “You cannot mean to claim that this lady tried to attack you with a plaster scepter, Hawley. Really, I don’t expect much from you, but that explanation is absurdly childish.”
“I—I am the—” Hawley began, but Blackglen cut him off.
“Yes, Hawley, we all know who you are. Everyone does, just like they know me. I, however, do not have the constant urge to announce my rank. But as a duke whose title is older than both your father’s and your paltry courtesy one, I am telling you to leave my premises. You have broken one of the few rules I have.”
“No need to toss him out, your grace. I was just leaving.” Charlotte reached for Matthew’s arm. They had meant to slip away quietly, but that would no longer work. Charlotte had already destroyed her reputation, and Matthew’s would only improve if she boldly departed with him. Charlotte could think of no clearer wayto declare that she did not give a fig about being associated with Matthew.
“You’re leaving with Mat?” Hawley demanded.
“Yes,” Charlotte said. “I am.”
“Mat?” Lord Blackglen asked with mild interest. “Are you Hawley’s brother—Dr. Matthew Talbot?”
“Yes,” Matthew said carefully, slowly lowering his golden mask.
Lord Blackglen grinned. “My sister has been regaling me with stories of your exploits in the Colonies. I even went so far as to purchase your book,The Curious Animalia and Flora of the New World. Come again to one of my masques. I want to hear more about your adventures. And bring Lady Charlotte. She is an utter delight. I am only sorry we haven’t met sooner.”
With that, Blackglen strode away, his robes swishing, his comically large goblet aloft in the air. As if he were truly the Roman god of revelry, the orchestra once again began playing, and people returned to their carousing as if they had never been interrupted.
Holding on to Matthew’s arm, Charlotte walked with him, unmasked, through the silk-clad throng. Her blood thundered through her veins, and a glorious power filled her. She had publicly seized authorship of her own story, and she had no intention of giving the pen back to anyone.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
