“Or there is to be a country dance following, I believe. I should be happy to accompany you in that, if you prefer. I quite enjoy the lively nature of country dances.” Charlotte tipped her head and gave him the full benefit of her blue-eyed attention.
Dare felt an absurd sense of admiration for a woman who thought nothing of pouring a bowl of punch over a rival. Still, a saner voice pointed out that it would probably be best to smooth over Phylomena’s upset. He looked around for a familiar face. “Lady Beverly, if you would be so kind as to escort Lady Brindley to a room where she might receive attention…”
Caroline gave a little squeak of dismay, but obediently hurried forward and attempted to take Phylomena’s arm. The latter snatched it back, snarling at the assembled crowd as a piece of garnish slid down the end of a soggy feather and fell with an audible wet plop on the floor before her. “I won’t leave until she’s taken by the watch! I will prefer charges against her! No one treats me in this manner, NO ONE!”
“I do hope the Prince Regent comes soon, so we might have the windows opened. I’m finding it a bit noisome in here,” Charlotte said with a ladylike hint of boredom as she fanned herself. Only Dare saw the tense line of her mouth.
“NOISOME!” Phylomena shrieked.
Enough was enough. “Lady Brindley, you will retire now,” Dare said firmly, his blue eyes steely in their resolve. He sent a silent message to Phylomena’s escort, who nodded and took her arm. Caroline took her other arm. With only a moderate amount of cursing on Phylomena’s part, they managed to steer her out of the crowded dinner room.
Almost.
“Do not think this is over,” Phylomena dug in her heels long enough to warn over her shoulder as she was led out the door. “It is not! I shall make sure that everyone will know the truth! Everyone will know that you are bound to a deranged wife, a woman you find so repugnant you have yet to consummate your marriage. Everyone will know how you pine with love for me! Be assured I will have my vengeance!”
Dare heard the quick intake of breath behind him at Phylomena’s words and wondered with a brief rush of irritability why Charlotte had mentioned something so private to the other woman. Surely she was aware of his past relationship with the twice-widowed Phylomena; he had been keeping her company when he met Charlotte, and he was under the impression that she would have rather died than condescend to even notice the older woman, let alone speak to her of something so intimate. But when, he wondered wearily as he rubbed the blossoming headache away, had his wife ever acted in a manner that made any sense?
An excited babble started up immediately. People moved away quickly, forming small groups to discuss this latest tidbit of thrilling gossip, tittering and casting periodic glances their way. No doubt it would be the topic of conversation for many months to come. Thank God they would have nothing to do with the ton after Patricia’s wedding.
“I hope you’re happy with the results of your actions,” Dare growled to his wife. Her eyes were wide with surprise, but it was the flash of pain in them that stopped him from continuing. He couldn’t chastise her, it would be senseless. She was simply being Charlotte. She could no more change than the sun could keep from rising each morning. The sooner he became resigned to her, the easier his life would be.
“I believe I would very much like to go home now,” Charlotte said in an unusually subdued voice. Dare took a closer look at her. Her eyes weren’t just wide, they glistened with tears, tears of mortification. He took her hand and pulled her after him toward the dance floor where couples were just taking their places for a waltz. As he swept her into his arms, he said, “Don’t let them see you care, love. Smile at me as if none of them matter.”
“But they do matter,” she protested gently, her tears threatening to spill over. “They’re the ton. They represent everything I have sought to return to. They represent success and achievement and every good thing. Even you must acknowledge that.”
He couldn’t help but laugh. “If you really cared for what any of them thought of you, my dear wife, you would not have accidentally lost control of a punch bowl while it was over Lady Brindley’s head. The only achievement and success they represent has to do with the sheer luck of having been born into one of the noble class.”
“But—”
He whirled her into silence for a moment. “Charlotte, they are only people, not gods. They have sins and failures and bad habits just as everyone else does.”
She thought about that for a moment. “That may be, but they look perfectly elegant while they are sinning and failing and indulging in bad habits.”
His gaze softened upon her lovely face as he noted the tears had disappeared unshed. “Appearance is not everything, my lady.”
“Is it not?”
Her eyes were bright, brilliant as the summer sky, her lips parted slightly, beckoning him with a siren song to taste them just once, her curls tipped with molten gold by the candlelight, her skin not the pale, flawless alabaster so popular with ladies of the ton, but a darker hue, honey-warm and flushed with life, as if she had spent time unprotected in the sun. “No,” he said softly, almost without realizing he was speaking aloud. “I do not suppose you can understand what it is to look beneath an appearance when yours is so perfect.”
She even blushed beautifully, her cheeks brushed with dusky rose. “I’m not perfect. My nose is exactly one quarter of an inch too long. My left eyebrow is unruly in the morning, and often requires a strict hand to conform it to the standards set by the right. One of my bosoms is larger than the other, too,” she added with a morose sigh. “I was lopsided for an entire year when I was sixteen. I feared they would never match, and although they are more equitable, they are still not identical. I cannot begin to tell you what a trial it is to have unequal bosoms. It weighs upon my soul quite heavily.”
Dare tried to hold onto a dignified mien, but it was a lost cause. He laughed again, shaking his head at his own folly, knowing that she did not see things as he did, that for her, appearance would be all. Inside him, deep inside where he kept his secret dreams, he mourned the dying hope that she would one day learn to value the things he did—honor, determination, strength in the face of adversity. He was honest enough to admit he didn’t want to change her, just to help her to look beyond the obvious. Perhaps sometime in the future she might be able to see what he saw, but until then… “Charlotte, you are the only woman I know who has a soul made heavy by the state of her breasts.” He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “As an unbiased witness to them, I am happy to reassure you that any imperfections you might perceive are not visible to my eye. Or hands. Or…mouth.”
She gasped, her eyes heated with passion before she hid her gaze behind the down sweep of her lashes, her dimples flashing despite her attempt at modesty, her color still high. What a lovely contradiction she was—trying so hard to present an appearance of propriety, but her innate boldness and passion for life guaranteed she would never be like the other pattern-card women so cherished by Society. He held her closer than he should, the scent of her stirring him, the memory of her soft, warm, inviting flesh calling to something deep inside him, forcing him to fight to keep from answering it. He had to give her time; he owed her that much. When she came to him, he wanted all of her, her heart and soul as well as that deliciously lush body.
He was contemplating just what he’d like to do to that very same body once she saw reason and fell in love with him when his thoughts—and their waltz—were interrupted.
“Matthew!” Charlotte gasped, the color fading from her face as she looked at the man who had tapped on Dare’s shoulder.
A short, fleshy man with a washed-out version of Charlotte’s glorious eyes bowed to him. “Carlisle, if you would allow me the pleasure of finishing this dance with my sister?”
Dare was surprised by the ferocity of his wife’s grip on his arm, but he had no real grounds to refuse Lord Collins??
?s request other than a general dislike of the man. Despite his lack of concern for what the members of the ton thought of him, it obviously mattered to Charlotte. It behooved him to bite back the refusal on the edge of his tongue and accede gracefully.
“Lord Collins,” he acknowledged as he pried Charlotte’s hand from his arm and presented it to her brother with a little bow. “I shall entrust my lady to your care for the rest of the dance.”
His words were a warning, which Collins’s narrowed eyes showed he understood. Dare smiled at the glare his wife was bestowing upon him and stepped out of the circle of dancers. Given the visions of mayhem that were all too evident in her eyes, he felt it best to make sure there were no more punch bowls at hand.
Nine
“I see you haven’t wasted the four years of my absence,” Charlotte said as her brother took her hand and, after counting under his breath, managed to move them into the waltz. “You look more than ever like Father.”
She meant, of course, his portly figure, jowls, and huge muttonchop whiskers—a fashion she found ridiculous to the extreme—but Matthew, as usual, missed the finer nuances of conversation.
“No, certainly not. I never waste time, unlike some I could mention,” the earl sneered, his eyes darting around at the other dancers.
Charlotte disliked dancing with her brother. He was neither light on his feet nor graceful (as Dare was), and he had no sense of rhythm, which meant they were often moving against the flow of music.
“How are Eleanor and the children?” she asked, not in the least bit curious about her haughty sister-in-law and their three children, but driven out of politeness to ask.
“In the country, where they belong,” he snapped, his pale blue eyes returning to her. “So you trapped Carlisle good and proper, eh? Silly bitch, you probably think you’re clever, but you’ll soon learn better.”
“Ah, Matthew, you always have had such a grasp on the gentle art of social niceties. I’m glad to see that you haven’t lost that talent while I’ve been away.”
“Should have stayed in that damned country,” he spat, muttering an apology when he collided with another couple. “Any other woman would have been too ashamed to show her face in Society after she ran off with a foreigner, but not you. As proud as they come, and just as wild as ever, I’ll wager. Father should have beaten some humility into you. Then perhaps you’d have the decency to stay away from where you’re not wanted. But no, you must return and air the family’s dirty linen in public. Well, you’re getting your own now, ain’t you? I understand your husband hasn’t even bedded you. What a slap in the face that must be for you, eh? To know the man you trapped into marriage can’t harden his rod for you?”
“Lower your voice, brother,” Charlotte hissed through her teeth, forcing a smile to lips made stiff with anger. How dare he chastise her? How dare he judge her? What right did he have to say such odious things about Alasdair? “I will not debate this issue with you. I will not discuss my marriage or my husband with you.”
A slow, evil smile stole over his face. “Oh, I think you will. When the time is right.”
Charlotte shivered under the influence of his cold eyes on her, but smiled just because she knew it would irritate him. “What, exactly, do you mean by that melodramatic statement?”
His smile transmuted to a harsh bark of laughter that had many heads in the room turning to them. “You’ve made your bed, you stupid chit, now you’ll have to lie on it. By yourself, since you married a man milliner, but lie on it you will. Carlisle impotent, who would have thought? Ah, well, hear me, sister—it’ll do you no good to come to me for help when you discover the truth about the man you’ve married, no good a’tall.”
She knew Matthew was a swaggering braggart, a cowardly bully who preyed on men weaker than he, but she also knew well he had a cruel streak that would not bode well for either her or Dare if he should take it into his head to do them some harm. Despite her inclination to answer insult with insult, it was best for Dare that she should swallow her brother’s slurs and try to get to the bottom of his vague threats. Clearly the situation called for her to handle Matthew with the softest touch. She would be clever and very, very subtle. “Brother, you great boob, what are you blathering about? I know exactly the sort of man I married—one who is handsome and honorable and unlike you, can dance without stepping on his partner’s toes—so unless you have something specific to tell me, please cease with these shadowy immuendos.”
Matthew rolled his eyes. “The word, you stupid slag, is innuendos.”
“Since I suspect the word ‘slag’ is neither nice nor used in a loving, brotherly manner, I shall forgo discussing your use of it and repeat my request—if you have something particular to say against my husband, please do so, but be aware that nothing short of Alasdair turning out to be the sort of man who eats small children for breakfast would induce me to turn to you for help or assistance. Even then, I would rather deal with a child-munching man than place myself in your power.”
Matthew gave another cold bark of laughter, sending a little frisson of worry skittering across the somewhat sparsely furnished hallways of Charlotte’s mind. “Oh, you’ll find out in good time, my dear sister. And before too long, I’d wager.”
What was he up to? she wondered as the dance came to an end. Rather than escort her back to where her husband waited, he simply dropped her hand and turned on his heel. It was a cut, and Charlotte knew it. Normally a cut from her brother would not have bothered her, especially not on her evening, the evening that should have been such a glorious triumph. But the cold shadow of worry about Matthew’s words had joined with the shame of having her intimate marital details shouted to everyone. The evening was ruined.
She thought of bursting into tears right there, but Dare’s softly whispered words echoed in her head. Don’t let them see you care. Lifting her chin, she looked out at the figures around her, strolling, talking, laughing as if nothing life-shattering had happened.
But something life-shattering had happened—she had changed. She blinked for a moment, stunned by that unwary thought, then pushed it aside to examine it later. No doubt it was just a rogue thought, one of those pesky, troublesome thoughts that really had no place in her mind, but which were, to her dismay, appearing with a worrisome frequency.
It wasn’t to be, however. The thought returned, and for the first time since she had come out, Charlotte felt herself distanced from the tightly woven threads of Society. She stood outside it, able to see the strands of etiquette and manners that bound everyone together, blurring them until individuals could no longer be seen, and only the whole—a bright, glittering braid that made up the haut ton—was visible. She shook her head and tried to blink the fanciful thoughts away, but as her eyes roamed over the crowded room, she realized that her first thought was true: Time had changed her. She was no longer a part of Society. She was alone, an outcast, not part of the whole, but separate.
Her eyes filled with tears, blurring the image before her even more until all she saw was a swaying blur of color and lights, and for a moment she had an inkling of what Dare had said about looking beyond appearances. She truly was an outsider if she could see the flaws beneath the shining veneer of the ton. A sob of self-pity gathered in her throat, but stopped there as a tall blond man in black evening clothes emerged from the blur and strolled toward her.
Dare didn’t blend into the ton, either. If she were an outsider, at least she was not alone.
Swallowing back the aching sob, she moved down the long ballroom until she reached her husband. Dare, stopped by an acquaintance, turned to her as she placed her hand on his arm.
“Enjoy your dance?”
“Not in the least,” she said with a slight shudder. Swallowing her unhappiness, she dimpled prettily at the man Dare was speaking with, waiting patiently until he turned back to her, a question in his eyes.
“I wish to go
home,” she said simply.
He examined her face, concern darkening the deep blue of his eyes. “Because of Lady Brindley? I told you, if you act as if nothing she said mattered, you’d give people less to talk about.”
She rubbed her arms through the thin material of her overdress. “I don’t think I can pretend not to mind much longer.”
She lowered her eyes from his to look at the simple but elegant neck cloth that graced his neck. There was something compelling in his gaze, something almost magical in the way his eyes on hers made her want to confess every thought she had, every fear, and what was worse, every desire. She had a great number of desires where he was concerned, and she’d no doubt shock him with not only their sheer volume, but the quality of some of them. Vyvyan La Blue’s guide had been most thorough in examining the many connubial calisthenics possible, and although Charlotte had misgivings that some of the positions might not physically be possible without the aid of two or three strong footmen, not to mention a winch and tackle, still, they piqued her interest and she very much looked forward to discussing with Dare the relative merits of the Antics of a Burrowing Crane calisthenic versus the equally fascinating but more involved Eruption of Magma From Vesuvius on a Late Summer’s Eve.
“I will get Patricia,” Dare said quietly. She could feel his eyes still studying her face.
“No, it would be cruel to make her leave so early.” Charlotte twisted the wedding ring beneath her glove, reminding herself that she was responsible for her sister-in-law for the following few days. “There is no need to ruin her evening. We…we will stay.”
“Are you sure?”