He’d rescued her from Lionell’s taunts and, in the process, made her worthy of attention from London’s most highly admired. Charlotte felt fine about that.Absolutely fine.
It was a kind and courageous and admirable thing that he’d done to put himself in a situation where he was awfully uncomfortable simply to help a stranger. And it was for that reason that the fizzy, bubbly feelings she’d always had for him were settling into something more tangible. She’d always thought him kind, but to see that kindness and selflessness in action only made her admire him more.
But of course, it had to be a dratted waltz he was dancing with Miss Ashby. She was not jealous. Not jealous at all. So what if his shoulders were broad and his arms promised strength and they encircled another woman?
So what if his bearing was perfectly tall and proud? So what if his legs were long and lean and his skin-tight pantaloons molded to thighs and calves that needed no padding and those same legs pressed against another woman’s skirts?
“Excuse me,” she said to the girls around her who were also standing, mouths agape, watching the most beautiful man in the room dance with their friend.
She went to the retiring room for a moment of peace to gather all the threads of her emotions and wrap them back up, but she was only there for seconds when the door swung open, cracking against the wall with a bang. The attendants flinched and stood at attention.
Charlotte turned slowly, fixing an unfazed aspect to her expression, suspecting who it was before she even laid eyes on them.
“What are you up to?” Luella hissed at Charlotte.
Ever mindful of who was watching, Charlotte smiled sweetly. “Lady Luella, how lovely to see you again.”
The smile Luella returned was as fake as her own had been. She threaded her arm through Charlotte’s and towed her toward a corner where they couldn’t be overheard.
“I repeat, what are you doing?”
“I’m dancing and talking and trying to relieve myself, which you are interrupting.”
Luella’s eyes narrowed. “With Lord Harrow. What are you doing with the viscount?”
“Nothing,” Charlotte snapped. “We have not even danced together.”
“And yet all the talk is of how the reclusive viscount is spending his time with a certain duke’s sister. He ismyfiancé. There is a contract.”
Frustration boiled up inside her. “A contract that he didn’t sign. That he had no part in. That he doesn’twant.” Luella truly was the devil.
“If that’s the case, then why hasn’t he cried off? Why hasn’t he come to see my father or sent word to our solicitor to say that he will not honor Walter’s commitment?” Luella’s voice wavered at the fourteenth Viscount Harrow’s name.
Walter.Luella had been on a first name basis with him. It had been more than an arranged match then. A courtship, maybe? Regardless, it didn’t excuse Luella’s attempts to trap John now.
“Perhaps the temptation of your dowry is proving difficult for Lord Harrow to break from. That was the purpose of your father offering such an obscene amount, was it not? To encourage men to overlook their distaste for you?”
They were cruel and hurtful words, and Charlotte regretted them the moment they were out of her mouth. Whatever enmity there was between the two of them, she had never before said something so bitter. Not to anyone. Not to a person’s face, anyway. A Wildeforde was better than that. Charlotte went to apologize, but Luella’s expression was so full of hatred that she recoiled.
“You are jealous,” Luella spat. “Walter loved me, and now his brother will marry me and you’ll still be the duke’s little sister on the shelf.”
A wash of shame crept over her. Luella was right. Charlottewasjealous. Luella could solve John’s problems in a way that Charlotte couldn’t. If John’s creditors got impatient, there was still a very good chance that Luella would end up married to the man whom Charlotte cared for.
She hadn’t known that Walter and Luella had loved each other, but had she been aware, she would have been sick with envy that her nemesis had found love first.
She couldn’t bring herself to deliver a retort, though. Her insult had been an unkindness borne of ill-feeling, and she deserved the insult she received in return. Both of them lost this battle.
“Good night” was the only thing she trusted herself to say before returning to the party.
***
An hour later, she’d barely said two words to John. He’d danced three times with other women, and every time he and she stood together and the strains of a new song started, another lord would ask Charlotte to dance. And a Wildeforde did not turn down a dance if she was free.
John would sometimes follow, sometimes not. Either way, he ensured the wallflowers were the subject of envy. Not that he was enjoying the attention. He seemed coiled tight, as though ready to flee at the slightest provocation. His head kept turning toward the gaming room, where they’d yet to make an appearance.
Charlotte tried to keep her attention where it should be—on her dance partner, Lord Mallen—but her gaze kept returning to John, whose audience was billowing in size as the night wore on and more people arrived.
Lord Mallen kept up his usual stream of conversation and it was a good thing Charlotte could talk under water if she needed to because she, hopefully, carried the conversation forward without him being at all aware that her focus was elsewhere.
