“Not at all. I’m looking forward to a bit of music, though not as much as you are, I’m sure. Your Lord Jeffcoat seems a good sort.”
“I think so, too. It’s strange though, not knowing his past. When you’re in a ballroom, you need but lean over and ask the female next to you, and they all are willing to tell the entire story of every single man there, especially a viscount. I suppose his peers know whom he’s escorted around town before, and whether he’s ever been engaged. It’s not as if one begins life the moment someone else meets them.”
Delia stopped fussing with Charlotte’s hair and looked at her in the mirror until their eyes met.
“What’s troubling you?”
“He’s about five or six years older than I am. He’s a viscount, and a handsome one. Why isn’t he attached to some appropriately upper-class lady? And why is he interested in me?”
“You’re a pretty young woman,” Delia said.
Charlotte dismissed her words with a shrug. “He can have many a pretty face, I’m sure. London is filled with them, either in the nobility, fluttering around Amity’s parties, or even some actress on the stage. But why me suddenly, do you think? I hope I’m not being led down the garden path.” Her judgment was obviously terrible, after all.
“Led down the—?” Delia repeated, her cheeks going pink. “Oh, no, he doesn’t seem the type.”
“I don’t knowthe type, Delia. What if he’s a rogue?” Charlotte recalled Amity’s husband once warning her about such a fellow, yet despite such a warning, she’d let Lionel kiss her twice a week.
“For one thing, your parents wouldn’t have let you go out with him before they went away. And for another, he’s a good friend of the Duke of Pelham’s, isn’t he? That fine gentleman wouldn’t be friendly with a rogue.”
“That’s true.” Charlotte considered a moment. “I suppose I could simply ask Lord Jeffcoat why he wants to be with me? Is that too forward and strange? Maybe even ask him about his previous lady friends.”
“I don’t know, Miss Charlotte. He’s a member of the nobility, and they are not for the likes of me to understand.”
Delia finished setting her hair, then stepped back to admire the coiled braids and soft ringlets. “Honestly, my girl, I don’t think it’s proper for you to pry into his past. Men don’t like to talk of such things.”
Charlotte sighed. “Which is probably all the more reason women want to know.” They smiled at each other.
“You look lovely tonight, too,” she told Delia, who was wearing a demure gray gown with pale cream trim to act as chaperone.
Again the maid’s cheeks pinkened. “Oh, go on with you! I don’t, but you’re a sweetie for saying so.”
Charlotte stood up. “Let’s wait in the parlor. Who knows where Mr. Finley is, and we might not hear the door.”
CHARLES COULDN’T RECALL the last time he had butterflies in his stomach when going to pick up a woman. It felt good to be excited at the notion of seeing her. Even better when he knocked on the door and she answered. He almost laughed at the refreshing absurdity of going to a home where the person he wanted to see actually opened the door.
She didn’t have a chance to prepare her features into a polite expression while a butler or maid showed him into a drawing room. Nor was she busy posing on a sofa, nor arranging her hair over her shoulder for the best possible impression. Charlotte simply welcomed him into the foyer, her deep-brown eyes sparkling and a generous smile on her soft lips. She looked genuinely happy to see him. He was enchanted.
Taking her ungloved hand — which in itself, seemed shockingly sensual — he lifted it to his lips and kissed the back of it. It was an impulsive, formal gesture, but it felt right. He felt the urge to make some kind of contact with her as soon as he saw her.
After he released her, she looked at her own knuckles a moment, then back at him. He nearly blurted how pretty her hands were. And they were! Not limp and useless, pale and overly soft. They were delicate and clean, to be sure, but he knew them to be capable and artistic hands, too. Moreover, he had the insane desire to feel them roaming his bare skin, in the same way as he wanted to run his fingers over her body.
“Good evening, my lord,” she said, and he realized his gaze had been roaming her, head to toe. She looked to be perfection in a silvery blue gown that fit her like the glove she ought to have on for propriety’s sake.
Cautioning himself to tamp down his sudden longing for more, he removed his hat and bowed slightly. “Good evening, Miss Rare-Foure. Are you ready?”
“I am.” And she gave two quick claps of her hands, startling him. “My apologies,” she muttered, turning away to reveal her maid behind her holding an evening mantle. “I am simply excited.”
He liked her enthusiasm and her honesty. And he wanted to take the black cloak from the maid — Delia, he recalled — and drape it over Charlotte’s shoulders himself, merely for the excuse to touch her again. Instead, he kept his hands by his sides.
Belatedly, she drew on black satin gloves and retrieved a small blue reticule from the hallstand while her maid donned her own cloak and gloves.
With all three of them settled in his carriage, and Delia tucked in the corner looking out the window, Charles could finally talk to her.
“How did it go with your landlord?”
He was practically scorched by the brilliance of her smile and happy visage.
“It went well,” she said unnecessarily for he could see that. “And it was on the heels of a particularly trying day. I nearly sent burned toffee to the queen!”
