Even a bucket of ice water could not have chilled her more quickly. The flutter of attraction she had felt died instantly, replaced by righteous fury.
How dare he? And after I just saved his life! Heavens, what an odious man. Perhaps the poisoner was not a villain after all, merely performing a public service.
‘You chose incorrectly,’ he went on coldly. ‘You should have done your research, miss. You will have no luck with me. I am impervious to female charm and fortune hunters.’ His insolent gaze travelled down her coffee-stained, now crumpled, and thoroughly unflattering gown, lingering upon its garish colouring. ‘Not that you possess any charms to recommend you.’
That was the final straw.
‘I will have you know that coffee was poisoned!’ she snapped. ‘I just saved your life, my lord! That man—’ she jabbed a finger towards the Stag’s chair, ‘was the culprit!’
The chair was empty.
Charlotte froze.
Her stomach dropped as she whipped her head around, scanning the room frantically. The Stag was gone.
Oh no.
She had done it again—blurted out the truth when she really ought not to have. The lingering effects of the spirits had clearly not worn off.
Yet, who would believe her? Even to her own ears, the whole thing sounded ridiculous.
A few gentlemen chuckled; one woman gasped behind her fan; a footman stifled a laugh. The air quivered with ridicule.
Then the room erupted into laughter—loud, raucous, merciless.
Lord Stanley gave her a long, cool look. ‘I must give you marks for novelty, miss. I have not heard that one before. Now run along and find your mother. Tell her you fell wide of the mark this time.’
‘You arrogant brute,’ she muttered under her breath.
His eyes flickered, momentarily surprised, before turning to ice once more.
Charlotte could bear no more.
She turned and fled, cheeks aflame, wishing the floor would open and swallow her whole. Laughter chased her through the doorway. She did not stop until she reached the corridor, where she pressed a trembling hand to her chest and tried to remember how breathing worked.
Aside from becoming the night’s laughingstock—and likely tomorrow’s gossip column headline—she had a far graver problem.
She had very possibly exposed herself to the Odd Fellows.
And heaven help her if they had eyes in that room, because she had just painted a target squarely on her back.
Chapter 3
Charlotte was reeling, her thoughts knotted and muddled; she did not know what to do next. As she walked along the passage leading back to the ballroom, bodies closed in around her.
Aside from the humiliation in the card room, she could not shake the awful sensation of being watched. She glanced repeatedly over her shoulder, convinced someone was following her. But aside from a few debutantes spilling out after her—keen to spread the newly minted gossip—there was no one there.
As she neared the ballroom, she felt free from any immediate physical harm—for now—but she could not escape the scandal. She caught a few snickers as she passed a group of women near the corridor.
And to top it all off, she could still feel the press of his hands at her waist, the heat of his body as he caught her—the mortifying memory replaying every time she blinked. His words, harsh and clipped, struck harder than the sting of spilt coffee.
A fortune hunter, indeed!She snorted.
After all the effort she had taken to trip so convincingly, what had he said to her? That if it were a genuine fall, then he was the Prince Regent. Another most inelegant snort escaped her.
What could have possessed him to think she—or any other woman—would endure his royal haughtiness for more than a minute? Even if he possessed such hauntingly good looks.
If only he knew the truth: that she had no talent for seduction, no cunning schemes, only a cursed ability to stumble headlong into disaster. And yet, somewhere between fury and shame, a spark of indignation flared. She would not spend the rest of the evening cowering in the shadows. Not when she had been right.
