“Then the game is rigged?” Charlotte said, oddly pleased by the sense of control Hermia’s declaration instilled in her.
“Of course, it is. Now go.” Hermia gave Charlotte a tiny shove with her gloved hand.
Charlotte stepped forward and began to walk in the direction of the handsome young man she and Hermia had been observing for the past fifteen minutes. Although several veiled women moved about the room clutching roses, Charlotte felt as though she’d been pushed onto a stage by some cruel prankster and now stood in front of an audience that eagerly awaited a stellar performance. She swallowed her fear and fought the urge to turn and seek courage from Hermia. It turned out that she didn’t need to because Hermia’s words echoed in her mind.Confidence!Emboldened, she straightened her shoulders andcontinued moving toward her handsome target. And despite the fear that writhed in the pit of her stomach, each step that brought her closer to him sent her nerves dancing with excitement, giving her a delicious sensation of feeling truly alive. She could not quite believe what she was about to do—and with her mother’s permission, no less. This was far more exciting than sitting around like a dressed-up doll, waiting for the next man on one’s dance card. Tonight, she was in control.
She stopped in front of Hugh Warsham, and upon seeing his face up close almost lost all her courage. His features were remarkably flawless, as though Michelangelo’s David had been transformed from a marble statue to a flesh-and-blood Englishman. She swallowed as he looked up at her, his hazel eyes a beautiful mixture of green and brown, a perfect complement to the lush chocolate waves that crowned his head. Grateful that she did not have to speak, she forced herself to set the rose in front of him.
His full lips creased into a smile. Charlotte’s heart faltered.
Then the moment ended. His companion, a ruddy-cheeked, overly joyful young man, slapped Mr. Warsham on the back and bellowed, “Looks like the lady wants to spend some time alone with you, lucky dog! Unless this lovely rose is meant for me?” He looked hopefully at the rose on the table and then up at Charlotte, who thought she might sink right through the floor. But she needn’t have been embarrassed because no one else seemed to have heard the bellowing fool’s comment and the surrounding ruckus continued without interruption. Mr. Warsham, on the other hand, evidently felt as uncomfortable by his friend’s uncouth behavior as Charlotte because his cheeks colored slightly, and he stood up in a great hurry as though he wanted to distance himself from his companion.
“It would be my honor, Miss—” He hesitated.
Charlotte’s mind went blank. The rules of the game dictated that the women were not to give out their names or lift their veils—at least not until well into the night. So, Mrs. Dove-Lyon had told her to invent a name.In the Lyon’s Den, the rules are different, she’d said.You can pick any name you choose; the more inventive the better. Something from Greek mythology, so the gentleman in question will know it is not your real name.
Charlotte had thought of a name to use, but now it was lost to her. She simply could not remember anything, so she blurted out the first female Greek goddess who came to mind. “Circe.”
Mr. Warsham raised his eyebrows. “Circe? I hope you don’t intend to turn me into a swine by the night’s end.” He frowned at her.
“That depends on whether or not you give me cause,” Charlotte said, mentally wincing. How could she have chosenthatparticular name?
“Right,” he said. “Well, then, I must assume the evening will go one of two ways—either you will turn me into a swine, or you will bewitch me with your charms and hold me captive for years to come.”
Heat spread across Charlotte’s cheeks and once again she was grateful for the concealment of her veil. “I’m sorry,” Charlotte said. “It’s part of the game. We aren’t supposed to reveal our true names just yet.”
Why was Circe the first name that had entered her mind? Why hadn’t she thought of Artemis, the protector of virgins? Or Hera, the goddess of marriage? Why the name of Odysseus’s notorious seductress?
Concealing her face and identity seemed to be bringing out a side of her she never knew existed.
Intriguing,Hugh thought.But I mustn’t put my head in the lion’s mouth.He knew these games were set to entrap wealthy men into marriage, and there was no doubt in his mind that word of his pending inheritance had reached Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s ears. The young lady on his arm, along with the other veiled women who were partaking in the game, had probably paid a hefty sum to the widow for her services. He glanced around the room and saw that Lord Bishop, a recent widower who was worth a fortune, also escorted a veiled lady on his arm.
Be wise.He warned himself.One dance—two at the most—and then I will make my escape. A small inconvenience, and maybe even an enjoyable experience—one never knows—either way, I will commit to one dance only.
But Hugh was surprised how quickly his thoughts changed once he’d slipped his arm around his companion’s slim waist, taken her gloved hand in his, and began their waltz. She was a practiced dancer and that made him wonder if she was a rejected debutante who’d tried and failed to secure a husband season after season. No, that didn’t make sense. She was no wallflower with an empty dance card. This woman knew her way around the ballroom floor. Perhaps, then, she was the daughter of a peer who’d squandered his fortune, and so she’d been forced to pay the Black Widow of Whitehall to secure her a husband. Or worse, perhaps, she’d been caught alone with a gentleman and had been compromised.
“Do you enjoy dancing?” he asked, to garner some insight.
“That depends,” she said.
“On what?”
“On with whom I’m dancing. Quite often, I have found it an interminable chore.”
“We can stop if you wish,” he said, somewhat taken aback by her forthright answer.
“No, I’m quite liking it at the moment.”
Hugh smiled. He liked her spirit. She didn’t seem desperate to please like so many women seeking husbands, nor did she appear to want to trap him in place. In fact, she appeared to be doing just the opposite.
Moreover, there was something intriguing about her. It was the veil that teased him, he decided as they twirled around the floor. He found himself longing to know the face that went with the petite body his arm encircled and with the elegant white throat that smelled like rose water. He wondered about her hair, its scent, its color, its texture. Was it dark like a good brandy, or a sun-kissed gold? And her lips. He imagined them to be soft and plump beneath the purple veil.
All around them, men danced with veiled women, and Hugh wondered if they too were consumed by the same thoughts he was. Yes, he was certain of it. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was indeed a genius.
“Shall we go again?” Hugh asked as the waltz ended. Rather than wanting to make his escape as planned, he found that he was quite desperate to hold on—half-afraid she might snatch her rose, disappear into the night, and offer her flower to some other man. Then he would never discover her secrets.
But his fears were unfounded. The lady nodded her consent and one dance turned into another, and then a third. Hugh became lost in the essence of his partner as they moved in unison. He could not remember a time when he’d enjoyed dancing as much.
“I’m afraid I’m going to get dizzy if we carry on,” she said after their third waltz.
