* * * *
At Chapford Manor, Charlotte followed her parents and aunt across the expansive grounds toward the house. Reilly accompanied her, with his elbow cocked politely that she might drape her hand against his sleeve. Servants took their coats and Charlotte’s muff in the front foyer, and they were swept into a parlor where they were promptly surrounded by a massive crowd of guests. Charlotte immediately recalled why she despised social engagements. Between the din of overlapping laughter and conversations, the jockeying for ample space with other ladies’ panniers, and the endless barrage of unfamiliar, powdered, and painted faces, she was soon shied fiercely against her brother, clinging to the broad, embroidered cuff of his justicoat sleeve lest she be jerked away from him and lost forever in the throng.
“Lieutenant Engle, by my boot heels, here you are!” someone bellowed with almost deafening good cheer from behind them. Charlotte turned in tandem with Reilly, and her brother laughed.
“Lieutenant Fairfax, you bloody bastard! They will let anyone pass for society these days!” he cried.
Charlotte blinked as Reilly pulled away from her, clasping hands with a tall, burly young man behind them. Though his face was vaguely familiar to her, it was his voice, the resounding, booming measure of it, that registered first. Lewis Fairfax had always been very loud and good-humored.
“Look at you!” Lewis exclaimed, his mouth extended in a wide, handsome grin. He was a strapping man, with thick limbs, a broad chest, and large hands. When he clapped one of his palms against Reilly’s arm, he nearly sent Reilly stumbling. “I almost did not recognize you, what with you dressed all prissily like a proper nobleman!”
His gaze settled upon Charlotte, his brows rising. “Surely, this is not your little lamb sister?” he asked. “It cannot be! She was only hock-high to a pony when last I saw her.”
“You are old, Fairfax, and she has grown,” Reilly told him, making Lewis shudder the floorboards beneath them with laughter. “This is Charlotte indeed. Charlotte, do you remember Lord Woodside?”
“Not likely as Lord Woodside,” Lewis said. He offered Charlotte a quick, courteous bow. “Splendid to see you again, Charlotte, to discover a rose has bloomed in the Darton garden in my absence.”
Charlotte laughed, feeling color stoke in her cheeks as she dropped a curtsy. He was flattering her, which normally aggravated her witless; however, there was something so endearing in his smile, she could not help but be charmed. “And to see you again, Lord Woodside,” she said. “I am terribly sorry to have learned of your father’s passing.”
“Good men go to good places in the end,” Lewis said, his smile faltering slightly. “I find comfort in that, if not some hope for the rest of us.” The dimples cleaving his cheeks broadened again, his momentary sorrow gone as quickly as it had come. “Reilly, you remember my cousin, do you not?” He pivoted to look behind him, flapping his hand. “Kenley, come here. Look what I have found.”
He drew a young man forward, disengaging him rather rudely from a conversation by hooking his hand against his sleeve and pulling him in tow. The young man blinked at Reilly and smiled. At the sight of him, Charlotte felt her breath draw to an abrupt and unexpected halt.
She remembered Kenley Fairfax by name, but not by face. As recollection of Lewis’s features had dawned on her with their reintroduction, she had assumed that as his cousin, Kenley would be of similar form and feature. To her surprise, he was not.
He was tall, like Lewis, but as lean in his build as Lewis was broad. He was not handsome in the conventional, haughty fashion of noblemen; he had delicate features framed in unusual contrast by a long brow, strong jaw line, sharp cheekbones and tapered chin. His large, dark eyes were framed by angular brows; his nose was long and narrow, his mouth delicately shaped.
His clothing was well tailored to his form; the long, embroidered flaps of his justicoat and underlying waistcoat accentuated his long legs and slim hips, while the arrangement of his cravat, the lapels of his jacket drew one’s gaze to notice the length of his neck, the full measure of his shoulders. He wore a fashionable campaign wig dyed a few shades of brown lighter than his own true hue, to judge by his brows.
He was quite possibly the most striking man Charlotte had ever seen.
“Lord Theydon,” Reilly said, offering his hand. “You look marvelous. My God, it has been… what? Five years?”
“Six, sir,” Kenley said, accepting Reilly’s proffered clasp. “You are looking splendid yourself. Lewis has written fondly of you and often, sir.”
Though he addressed Reilly, his gaze had averted to Charlotte and remained fixed there. When Reilly declared, “Lies. Naught but lies. Do not believe a word that bloody yob wrote,” Kenley laughed, but kept his eyes upon Charlotte, his expression softened as though with wonder.
“And what is this ‘sir’ nonsense?” Reilly asked. He hooked his hand against the back of Kenley’s neck and drew him close in a brief but fond embrace. “You have run off to Italy and learned manners on us, rot you. How was your trip?”
At last, Kenley looked away from Charlotte, and as he did, she nearly stumbled. His gaze had held her immobilized, like a line had been drawn taut between them. She felt her breath sigh from beneath the confines of her stay and she blinked, as though emerging from a reverie.
“It was splendid for the time spent, Reilly, but wearisome besides,” Kenley said. “I have never been more grateful to be home once more.”
“Do you remember my sister, Miss Charlotte Engle?” Reilly asked, sidestepping to present Charlotte. “Charlotte, this is Kenley Fairfax, Baron Theydon.”
“I remember the name, but not her face,” Kenley said, looking at Charlotte. “I must be daft, surely. How do you do?”
He bowed before her, and as he straightened, she held his gaze, affecting a slight curtsy. “I…I am well, my lord,” she said. “And pleased to meet you.”
“Oh, the pomp and circumstance of social introductions,” Lewis said, clapping Reilly and Kenley on the shoulders, jostling them both. “Dropping nods and bending over. I am aching already, sorely out of practice. Where is the brandy? That would help.”