John couldn’t be comfortable. He was a man of few words, and the crowd he was surrounded by would demand more than a few from him. He slipped a hand into his pocket and Charlotte could imagine thetap, tap, tapof his hidden fingers.
She circled her dance partner, ducking beneath the arms of the couple next to her.
John pushed his spectacles up his nose.
She circled again, holding Lord Mallen’s hand high as a couple ducked beneath.
John crossed his arms.
She circled again.
John was gone.
As Lord Mallen escorted her down the middle of the line, she scanned the crowd. She only had to follow the ripple of turning heads to find him. Some of the younger women ducked behind their fans, hiding their blushes. Older women—married, widowed, spinsters—did not even bother to hide their ogling. The elusive viscount, more handsome than they’d expected and just as intriguing.
He escaped the ballroom through the door that led to the main house. Was he leaving? What had been said? They still had a job to do.
Despite the urge she had to follow him immediately, she kept on dancing. There were only a few refrains left, not worth the gossip that would ensue if she left the floor midway through. So she smiled and laughed and looked for all the world as though she weren’t deeply concerned. When the music ended, she didn’t wait for Lord Mallen to escort her.
“Excuse me, my lord. I have a pressing matter to attend to.” She wove in and out of the crowd, avoiding those who would want to engage her in conversation, smiling apologetically as she navigated her way around groups.
Once she reached the foyer, there were two paths he might have taken. The first led outside to where the carriages were, but she didn’t think that he would have left before they’d visited the gaming rooms.
The other path led down the hall. There were sitting rooms in that direction and an orangery. He might have gone into any of them.
The first three were locked; clearly their hosts did not want to risk the scandal of inappropriate liaisons. The door to the orangery was not. As she pushed it open, the sweet scent of citrus hit her.
Lamps were lit along the paved path that ran the perimeter of the room. Another path meandered through the potted garden. She took it, knowing a bench seat sat in the middle of the sanctuary. As she turned a corner around an old and large bergamot, she saw him there, lying on the bench, his legs hooked over one end, his head propped up against the other. He was staring up through the glass ceiling to the sky beyond, where the moon, hidden by heavy clouds, cast a silver glow to their edges.
He was beautiful like this. The tension that had infused his expression since they’d arrived at the ball had vanished. “You look thoughtful,” she said.
He lurched upward at the sound of her voice. “Charlotte,” he said, his shoulders relaxing as he realized who had intruded on his space. He stood immediately. “This is not the most effective of hiding places, then.”
“Not one I would rely on, no. Are you well?” That he had come in here to hide suggested he was not. She clasped her hands firmly together to keep from brushing back the lock of hair that had flopped into his eyes.
“I’m well. I simply needed a moment to breathe.” He gestured to the bench, and she sat at one end, spreading her skirts so that they folded in neat waves.
“I needed a break from all the…fawning,” he said as he sat, leaning with his back against the side of the bench so that he faced her.
“Much to the chagrin of the ladies. You seem most popular.” She hoped her jealousy hadn’t escaped into her tone.
John grimaced. “Popularity is not my preference. I’d much rather we go straight to the gaming room. Small talk is exhausting.” He took off his spectacles and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.
It was interesting, this idea that people exhausted him, though it explained his absence from society. “I find the opposite true,” she said. “Nothing energizes me like a crowd. When the season ends, I count down the days until it begins again.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t find the conversation vapid and superficial?”
She cocked her head. “No.”
His lips pressed thin and he tapped them with his fingers, a sign that he was mulling things over. “How often can you talk about the weather before you feel as though you’re a parrot?”
She rolled her eyes. “I rarely talk about the weather, at least not with friends, and I’m friends with almost everyone.”
John shook his head. “It’s not possible. You cannot have that many friends.”
What a bizarre statement. “Why not?”
“Because friends are those who you can trust completely, who are there for you, regardless of time or distance, who truly know every aspect of you.”
