“I shall see you tonight,” Alex said in a velvety deep voice, his eyes on hers.
Charlotte didn’t trust herself to say anything, so she drew her hand from his, nodded silently, and walked up her stairs. At the top she stopped, struck by a sudden thought. She turned about, her eyes pleading.
“You won’t get back up on that horse, will you, my lord?”
Alex looked at her and then at Pippa.
“No,” he said. “No, I won’t take Pippa on Bucephalus again.”
He smiled at her in such a way, Charlotte thought as she slipped past Campion at the door. It made his eyes crinkle; it spoke of … oh, kisses. Kisses and more.
Chapter 9
Eloise York, the Marchioness of Brandenburg, slowly descended the stairway of her husband’s town house, irritably smoothing her elbow-high gloves. She was displeased, she thought. Highly displeased. Eloise was a woman who understood her own consequence. She had an acute sense of propriety, a quality of which she was very proud. And somehow, through the cruelty of God, she had been given a wanton, silly chit for a daughter. When she was Sophie’s age she dressed only in white and bent her head docilely whenever a parent entered the room. She never met her father’s eye until she married. But Sophie! Had there been a moment when she didn’t boldly meet her mother’s eye and refuse to do whatever small thing her mama requested?
Take this afternoon, for example. When she, Eloise, had announced that they were to attend a tea party given by the Honorable Lydia Bingley, Sophie flatly refused, saying that she had scheduled an appointment with her tutor in Portuguese. Eloise couldn’t even think how many times she had pronounced that a young lady need only study how to find a husband. But Sophie obstinately kept refusing offers of marriage, and learning new languages.
The marchioness took a large, calming breath. Her eye skittered over her ensemble. At least she looked perfect. A trifle old-fashioned, perhaps, but she did not approve of the new French fashions. She felt sure her own dear mother—so stern and unyielding in her moral convictions—would forgive her disloyalty to the latest French garments. No, she would never accept these waistless dresses. And she would never exchange her sturdy corset for one of the newfangled light corsets. Not that Sophie appeared to be wearing even a light corset! There wasn’t room under that nightdress she was pleased to call a gown. Eloise’s eye kindled again.
She had reached the entranceway and stood there impatiently, one slipper patting the marble floor under her wide taffeta skirt. Where was Sophie? The girl insisted on visiting the theater—Drury Lane too, where all the world was sure to see her—and since she apparently planned to attend the theater half-naked, she might as well present herself on time.
George emerged from the library, and Eloise cast a sharp eye over him. She knew what he was doing. Tossing off a bit of brandy, no doubt. Well, Shakespeare was difficult, and he’d been good enough to change his plans when she realized just how much attention they were going to receive tonight. Drat that girl! She didn’t even know what made her feel the more annoyed—that silly chit upstairs, dressed in a transparent napkin, or her sillier friend Charlotte, entertaining the courtship of a thoroughly ineligible earl. A shame, that’s what it was. A real shame. If there had been any other impediment, she would have advised marriage. But with no chance of children, there was no point to marrying. No, it was the twin brother who was the interesting target now. As soon as he emerged from wherever he’d gone—Borneo, wasn’t it? or India—she intended to make Sophie marry him. It was his child who would inherit the title, obviously. Goodness sakes, she thought a bit complacently, if I were Adelaide I’d get my daughter away from Alexander Foakes as fast as might be.
There was a whisper of silk and Sophie was standing beside her. “Lud!” her mother said peevishly. “I didn’t hear you coming. Undoubtedly because you aren’t wearing enough clothing to wake a mouse. You are wearing a petticoat, aren’t you?” Luckily Eloise turned away before seeing Sophie’s grin. In fact, Sophie was wearing a chemise, but it was made of the finest muslin, and she had dampened it as well.
Her father loomed up behind her shoulder as their butler helped Sophie into a velvet evening cloak. “No antics tonight, girl,” he said, his eyebrows curling fiercely.
“Oh, no indeed, sir,” Sophie responded demurely, twinkling up at her father.
Despite himself, George relaxed. His wife always took things so seriously. Perhaps she was blowing all of this gossip business out of proportion.
It was only when they entered their box, George ushering his daughter and her beautiful friend, and then his wife, to their seats, that he realized just how correct his wife actually was. It had been quite a while since he heard a true hush fall on the audience at Drury Lane. But it fell like a cool snow over all the upturned faces, and was instantly replaced by a rising tide of whispering voices and shuddering fans. Lord, he thought. It was going to be a long night. He couldn’t stand Shakespeare in the first place—he didn’t care how many ballads they added; it made him deuced sick to his stomach. And now he foresaw a very ugly interval as well. Probably be swamped by beaux, he thought gloomily. Well, looking at his daughter and Lady Charlotte, seated in the front of the box, certain to be. And then there’s that earl. Bound to be here. It looked as if the whole world had decided to see this blasted play on the same night.
Charlotte sat quietly in the front of the box, trying not to furl and unfurl her fan too many times. She was wearing Madame Carême’s white gown with the black ribbons. Somehow since she bought it—was it only a few months ago?—it seemed to have become smaller, or her bosom had become significantly bigger. She felt as if she were falling out of it. And the white! Why didn’t she notice how delicate the fabric was when she ordered the gown? Even now she fancied she could see the pink of her leg through the cloth and her petticoat, which was itself made of handkerchief cloth.
She looked over at Sophie and a small smile crept to her mouth. Sophie might be petite but she wasn’t small on top, and she too was wearing a very daring empire-style gown. The bodice was made of midnight blue fabric and appeared to be about two inches at the widest spot. Sophie caught her glance and impudently winked at her.
“Don’t you love making an uproar?” she murmured behind her fan.” I vow, Charlotte, if I didn’t love you so much anyway, I would insist that we become friends, because we must sit together. If only out of kindness, so the gossips don’t gain a crick in their necks by turning from your box to mine!”
“Oh, Sophie!”
“Of course they are really all looking at you, not at me. I am only gaining celebrity by association,” Sophie said sadly. “Oh, where is an earl for me?” She rolled her eyes up to the heavens. “Send me a notorious lover—please!”
“He is not my lover!”
“Oh, yes? After you walked down the street holding his child and looking at him with your heart in your mouth? Then you are leading him astray, and woe betide the woman who leads that particular man into a blind alley.” She nodded down to their right.
Charlotte watched, fascinated, as Alex strode into the Sheffield box, bowing to his acquaintances. He appeared to be accompanied by a small party; she recognized the Marquis de Valconbrass and his sister. She felt a sudden stab of jealousy as Alex escorted Daphne to a place at the front of the box.
Sophie’s strong, small hand descended on her wrist. “Stop watching him, Charlotte!”
Charlotte settled back in her chair, fanning her suddenly pink face.
“Pooh!” Sophie said. “I can’t trust you for a minute! Even a fourth part of French blood would have stopped you from being so obvious.”
Charlotte glared at her fiercely. Sophie wrinkled her nose at her. “Don’t you carp at me, Charlotte Daicheston!” She lowered her voice. “You want him, don’t you?”
Startled, Charlotte nodded.
“Well, you can’t have him if he isn’t capable,” Sophie said practically. “It would not be a successful marriage.”
“I don’t think, I m
ean, I think he is,” Charlotte said equally softly.
“Well, you have to find out,” Sophie said. “You have to know, and then you can go ahead and accept him. I assume he has proposed?” She waited, one eyebrow raised.
Charlotte nodded.
“What a woman! You have two earls after you, and what else—a score of mere counts and barons, and a few lowly sirs.”
Charlotte laughed. She was keeping her eyes fixed on Sophie in order to avoid meeting the eyes of all the people who seemed to be staring in her direction. And to stop herself from stealing another glance at Alex.
The noise of tuning fiddles finally stopped and Richard Sheridan, the proprietor of the Drury Lane Theatre, walked out before the red velvet curtain. There was a faint dimming of the audience’s chatter.
Charlotte’s mind wandered as Sheridan talked on, boasting of the wonderful changes he had made to King Lear… now fit for a modern audience … fit for modern propriety, love of gaiety, blah, blah. She kept her eyes fixed on the railing in front of her. She had the strong sense that Alex had no plans to attend the theater until Sophie dropped the name of the play they were seeing. She had never seen anyone in the Sheffield box except Alex’s aunt, Henrietta Collumber.
At the moment she felt as if he must be looking at her. Every nerve in her body signaled that his eyes were on her. The blood was not dancing in her veins—it was racing. Insanity, Charlotte said to herself. Insanity! And just how was she supposed to ascertain whether Alex was impotent or not? She raised her head as the curtains of the theater swung open. Willy-nilly her eyes slid to the right. Alex was sitting perfectly easily, his long legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles. He actually had his back to her, and his head was bent close to Daphne Boch’s smooth blond locks. It wasn’t jealousy Charlotte felt; it was hatred. She jerked her eyes away. The last thing she wanted was for Alex to catch her glaring at his—friend.
She straightened her back. Two could play at that game. She leaned forward slightly and glanced about the theater. There was Braddon … but Braddon wasn’t anyone to make Alex jealous, unfortunately. Her eyes slid over a number of men whom she might summon in an instant, and then her eyes brightened. Will Holland, looking like a great blond giant, was sitting in a box down to the left. He raised his head and she threw him a slight smile, an enchanting, beckoning smile.
Unfortunately that was the moment when Alex finally allowed himself to throw a glance over his left shoulder at the Brandenburg box. He stared for a moment, his eyes hard. Damn it!
Will’s reaction was about the same. He had spent the last week setting up a useful flirtation with a rich tradesman’s daughter, and she wasn’t even too unattractive. But looking up at the unbelievably sensual duke’s daughter, her black curls deliberately tousled as if she just emerged from bed, he felt all his resolution of the last week fade away. Perhaps Charlotte’s parents had warned her away from Alex. He cast a sapient eye at his old friend, who appeared to be whispering into the ear of that French miss, Daphne Boch.
If he went up to Charlotte’s box during intermission, it might spoil the game with Miss van Stork. And she wasn’t bad; he might never find another heiress this bearable. Chloe van Stork sat quietly next to him. She had russet hair, not a bad color, and a slim body, he thought. Her clothing was abominable—she was wearing some kind of thick stuff that looked durable. Will shuddered slightly. She was probably even wearing one of those huge old corsets made out of whalebone, given the stiffness of her upper back. Nothing could be further from Charlotte’s gossamer French gowns.
Suddenly Miss van Stork turned her head and looked straight at him. “Are you going to go?” She nodded up toward the Brandenburg box.
Will gaped at her. She has lovely white teeth, he thought irrelevantly.
“I saw that woman—it’s Charlotte Daicheston, isn’t it?—I saw her smile at you. I think she would like you to visit her box.”
Will just stared back, nonplussed. Chloe van Stork turned her attention back to the stage, where two tumblers and a juggler had just left, clearing the way for the play itself. Will studied Chloe’s calm, serious profile, trying to decide what she thought about Charlotte’s smile. Did she even understand what conclusions would be drawn by society if he disappeared from her father’s box and reappeared next to Charlotte? He felt strangely reluctant to drop the flirtation now, when it seemed to be bearing fruit. He had had dinner with Chloe’s parents and herself that evening, and this was the first time he had accompanied them to a public event. He’d be a fool to let a Golden Fleece slip through his fingers because Charlotte Daicheston whimsically decided to smile at him.
Suddenly Chloe turned back to him. “Go! Go!” she said fiercely. Will gaped again. She waved her hand impatiently.
Feeling like a chastised puppy, Will courteously drew himself to his feet and bowed to her and her parents, murmuring something about greeting some acquaintances. A few minutes later he appeared in the Brandenburg box, to the great satisfaction of the audience. There was a rustle of chatter. This was going to be an even more interesting evening than anyone had anticipated.
Charlotte sweetly held out her hand to him, and even the stiff marchioness greeted him kindly. To her mind anyone was better than that abominable earl. Will pulled up a chair and sat just behind Charlotte, whispering a few quips that made her laugh. She laughed overmuch, he thought, given the quality of his jokes. He looked over at Sophie. She had her delicate eyebrows raised and was looking rather amused. Will felt suddenly impatient.
He looked down at the box he had just left. Really, Miss van Stork had a very sweet, upturned nose, especially given the fact that her father’s nose was rather large. The candlelight was catching her hair, making its red highlights gleam. She looked at the stage, not at him. He wouldn’t mind going back, he thought. Except she had shooed him out of their box as if she knew that he was just fortune-hunting…. Well, of course she does, a voice said in the back of his mind. Look at her! She’s an intelligent woman, dressed like a dowdy in the midst of London’s most elegant women. She knows you only want her fortune. I wonder why she’s wearing that gown, Will thought. He caught himself. What the devil was he doing? He was sitting next to the most beautiful women in the ton and he didn’t even feel like being amusing. He couldn’t think of a single seductive metaphor. He was thinking about a frumpy woman in a corset. Charlotte’s pearly shoulder gleamed next to him, a soft expanse leading the eye irresistibly down to the creamy mounds rising from her slight bodice. His breathing quickened. Will banished the thought of Miss van Stork, sitting alone in her box. The hell with it! Didn’t he vow to stop fortune-hunting?
Down in his box Alex’s fists curled with rage. He had risked one more look at Charlotte only to find his old friend Will Holland hovering behind her and leering down at her breasts, unless he was grossly mistaken. He turned to Daphne Boch and, leaning intimately over to her, complimented her fan. Daphne looked at him a bit ironically. She had no particular aversion to flirting with this so-handsome earl, even if he was really just interested in that tall beanstalk of an Englishwoman.
The play was starting, trumpeters blowing an entrance, signaling the presence of the king—King Lear, that is. Charlotte’s thoughts were tumbling over each other, but she felt calmer now that Will had joined their box, as if he were camouflage somehow. She didn’t feel so naked, so certain that everyone in the audience knew that her eyes kept straying to the right.
Slowly she was drawn in to the story of an old king gone foolish, demanding that his daughters swear they love him more than anyone or anything else in the world or they would inherit no money, no land, no part of the kingdom. She didn’t pay much attention as the two elder sisters hysterically barked their inability to love anyone beside their father, even with their husbands standing right beside them. That was life, life in London anyway. People would do anything for money. Look at Will. She’d summoned him from a tradesman’s box, unless she was greatly mistaken. Charlotte’s eyes wandered do
wn to that box. A young woman sat in the front, staring directly at the stage. From where she was sitting, almost directly above her, Charlotte could see that her hands were clenched into fists in her lap. She studied her profile for a second, but then her attention was jerked back to the stage.
The king’s youngest daughter was flouncing about, refusing to answer her father. Or perhaps she said something he didn’t like? Charlotte started to listen, her ear first rejecting the old musical lines as too difficult. Then they suddenly fell into place and became easily intelligible. The audience calmed, listening intently, and when the first act ended and a buxom Spanish singer began singing of cherries and lemons, there was a moment of silence before chatter rose into the rafters.
Charlotte looked back into the box below. There was something she liked about that tradesman’s daughter’s face.
“Will,” she said softly, turning her head a bit. She gave him her most charming smile. Will visibly softened. Really, Charlotte thought. Men are such boobies. “Why don’t you ask your friend to join us?” She nodded down toward the woman in the box. “It must be most uncomfortable down there alone with just her parents for company.”
Will’s spine grew suddenly cold. He didn’t want Chloe laughed at, or mocked in a way she didn’t understand by seasoned society women. His mouth tightened.
Charlotte put a hand on his sleeve. “I would truly like to meet her, Will.”
Will’s deep blue eyes met hers and he relaxed. He had never heard of Charlotte Daicheston doing anything shabby or cruel … so why not? He stood up and a minute later reappeared in the van Storks’ box. Chloe’s parents courteously moved out of the way for him, although he knew that unless they were totally impervious they must be seething at the affront dished out to their daughter when he visited another woman’s box.
He stooped next to Chloe’s chair. “Would you like to join the Brandenburgs?”
Chloe turned astonished eyes on him. Her eyes are blue, he thought, as blue as mine. “Why?” she said bluntly.