Chapter
Three
In the grand ballroom, the peerage peacocks beneath twinkling chandeliers.
Laughter bellows and conversation sparkles as Lizzie and I make our way across the dance floor toward William and his pregnant wife, Imogene. They’re gathered at the bottom of the staircase talking with another man and woman, and when I see the gentleman’s short brown hair, I know it must be?—
George turns, and his familiar features—the long slope of his nose, the cleft in his chin—snap into profile like a thunderclap.
William notices me, grins like the oblivious idiot he is, and beckons Lizzie and I over to join their quartet. Which includes Jane Spencer, of all people.
“Come. Let’s go show her up.” My cousin hooks an elbow around mine and drags me toward the staircase. She slows as we pass Temperance Houghton, her chief rival, and aims a brittle smile at the raven-haired beauty before whispering to me, “You look brutally gorgeous this evening, Charlotte.”
Lizzie is rarely this nice. If I hadn’t had eyes on her since our arrival scant minutes ago, I might suspect she was already drunk.
“Charlotte!” George’s cheeks pink as we approach. Is he reliving our powder room tryst, too? “What a delight to see you.”
Jane regards me coolly, her polite grin melting as she places a hand on George’s forearm. He glances at her briefly before returning his attention to me. Mine has snagged on that familiar freckle above his upper lip. I must not think about how many times I’ve kissed it.
Jane doesn’t bother to mask her sneer as she surveys my gown. Dotted with seed pearls and a lace belt, it’s the most extravagant I’ve ever owned—a swan song commissioned from the modiste by Aunt Teddy. “You’re looking well,” Jane drawls.
I want to say,I wish I could say the same about you.Then tear her hand from my soon-to-be husband’s arm before staking my claim by tongue-kissing him on the dance floor.
But she will know where she stands by evening’s end.
The chime of a bell saves me from inventing a response to Jane’s half-hearted pleasantry, and the ballroom’s attention turns to a white-waistcoated footman.
“Ladies and gentleman,” he announces in a pinched voice, “his royal majesty, King James VII!”
The King, a striking man in his late fifties, glides into the room donning an elaborate gold silk uniform. Beneath his snowy wig, razor-thin black brows twitch as his attention snags on several of the debuting socialites, my cousin included.
“A blessed equinox eve to you all,” he begins. “I am so pleased to kick off another exciting Season. I see a number of fresh beauties vying to be dubbed Favourite tonight”—his eyes brush across me—“as well as some ripened offerings.”
A small snort echoes behind me—Jane, the hypocrite—but I school myself to stillness.
A waiter delivers a coupe of champagne to His Royal Highness, and the guests raise their drinks at the same moment I realize I’ve yet to acquire one.
A nudge at my back reveals George, who presses a short glass of scotch whiskey into my hand. My drink of choice. He’s so thoughtful.
“To the future,” he murmurs beneath King James’s toast, low enough that I am the only one who can hear him.
My exuberant laughter threatens to expose us. I mask it by clinking his glass, then sipping my scotch. It burns down my throat, intensifying the heat smoldering there since this morning.
The musicians strike up a lively mazurka—a perfect match for my mood. Which soars further when George requests my first dance of the evening.
He twirls me into the crowd, and I smile prettily at Jane’s sour expression.
This isthe best ball I’ve ever attended.
Four spaces on my dance card were filled.Four.I can scarcely believe it. And even though three were filled by George and one by William—who doesn’t really count—I’m not letting those specifics tarnish my excitement.
I’m so buoyant, I don’t even mind that George is taking Jane Spencer for a turn around the room. God knows the poor woman needed a win tonight. She hasn’t left her table since King James’s toast.
I nurse another scotch, peering at them from behind a large potted fern and debating whether to raid the food tables.Mushroom tarts and candied walnuts, sheep’s milk cheese and wafer crackers are calling to me.
Unfortunately not as loudly as Aunt Teddy’s voice in my head.
Control your appetites, Charlotte. Marriageable young ladies do noteatin front of their suitors.
