“Ah-ha.” He raised a finger as if he’d proved a point.
That did make her smile. “Where shall we go?”
“What do you like?” he asked. “The ballet, a concert, a play?”
No one had ever asked her before.What could she say?She had been to each of those things with her family, and perfectly content to do so, but never with a man.
“What wouldyouprefer?” she asked, wanting to be amiable.
“I would prefer your honest answer as to whatyouwish to do.”
Gracious!They could go on being polite forever and never get anywhere.
“A play, then,” she decided. “I like seeing the actors recite their lines, pretending to be other people so convincingly that I just about believe it. My sister, Beatrice, is very gifted at recitation. It takes an astonishing memory to do so.”
“Agreed. Then we shall see a play. Naturally, we shall need a chaperone.”
“Naturally,” she said. In truth, she hadn’t thought about that for a second. Having served as the chaperone to Beatrice and Mr. Carson before their marriage, it seemed strange that she would need one herself. Nevertheless, he was right.
“Would our maid, Delia, do?”
“Fine by me but entirely up to you,” he said. “Shall we say tomorrow night?”
Truly?She’d barely had a chance to get used to the idea. “Very well. I look forward to it.” And strangely enough, she was.
HER PARENTS SEEMED as surprised as she’d been when Charlotte told them about the arrangement to go out with the Viscount Jeffcoat.
“That’s a peach stone in the plum jam,” Felicity said. “Most unexpected. I thought that dashing Lord Waverly might come to show an interest in either you or Beatrice, but then the American snapped up your sister so quickly, and now the more serious Lord Jeffcoat has come calling.”
“In any case,” her father added, “our girls attract them like bees to flowers. And rightly so.”
Normally, that would make Charlotte chuckle, but it seemed an effort to laugh when somewhere in the middle of her chest, she felt a tightness all the time.
“I didn’t know you were thinking of either of these men,” she said, “for me or for Bea.”
For her own part, Charlotte regretted how much time she’d wasted thinking of one man. And she was fair sick of her own sadness, which lingered despite each passing day since Lionel had left. Moreover, having given up her twice weekly art class, unable to bear the reminder of having spent hours merely watching the way his long fingers held a paintbrush, she had little to occupy her evenings.
Losing the class didn’t bother her as she’d never had a passion for painting, but she’d also lost the excitement in her life. She’d even lost the remaining tattered friendship she’d shared with Viola. They had exchanged a few missives since Lionel’s departure, and even met for tea and scones, but Charlotte had found it too distressing. Viola’s incessant talk about the pain of losing her brother, not knowing about Charlotte’s own heartache, left her feeling ragged.
And then Viola had begun to receive letters. While at first, with almost morbid fascination Charlotte had wanted to hear them, after a few weeks, the narration of his new life abroad, so happy and carefree, so mindless of any responsibilities to his parents and what he’d left behind — including her — had become too painful. Even after she’d learned he and the artist’s model had parted company somewhere in Rome.
Besides, he had never once asked after Charlotte. And while her first feelings were those of betrayal and having been duped, eventually, she was glad he didn’t mention her. Her humiliation if Viola had known she’d let him kiss her would have been unbearable.
While Charlotte didn’t expect her heartache to heal overnight, she did hope to enjoy an evening at the theatre and was looking forward to Lord Jeffcoat’s distraction.
Thus, she and her parents were in the parlor, her parents seated while Charlotte stood by the fireplace, dressed in one of her favorite gowns from the prior Season, keeping it from getting creased.
While awaiting Lord Jeffcoat’s arrival, she felt strangely calm, an entirely different sensation than the unsettling anticipation she used to feel before each art class.
“You look very pretty tonight, dear daughter,” her father said. Then finished with the conversation, Armand picked up the book he’d been reading on sugar manufacturing in the West Indies and buried his nose in it.
Charlotte smiled at her father’s words and smoothed her gown yet again — a pale-green color with black lace trim. She had dressed with care, hoping Lord Jeffcoat thought her pretty, too, for she thought him a decidedly attractive man, in or out of his Robin Hood hose. Not in a dazzlingly swank way, like the famed Beau Brummel, or even like Lionel, with his overly long hair and tendency to flamboyant clothing. No, the viscount was more the dark, brooding, but elegant type. She felt her cheeks warm, thinking of him.
“Hehasbeen in the back room!” her mother suddenly declared, echoing the question she’d asked her days earlier.
With astonishment that somehow her mother knew — and the realization that Lord Jeffcoat had, in fact, been in the back — Charlotte burst out laughing. It felt good to do so, despite knowing her mother thought there was some connection between men going into the back room and marrying her daughters.
Armand Foure snapped his book closed and leaned back with his pipe in his hand.
