The Captivating Lady Charlotte (Regency Brides: A Legacy of Grace #2)(3)
“Your namesake, your majesty,” Mama asserted.
“I rather believe I am hers.”
Charlotte swallowed the giggle at the chagrined look on Mama’s face.
“Only daughter of the marquess?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Very pretty.”
Charlotte could almost feel Mama’s relief at such queenly approval. The tightness encasing her chest eased a fraction. She hadn’t failed. She hadn’t disappointed—
Oh, but wait. Now to exit according to tradition.
Taking the tiny nod to be the sign of dismissal, Charlotte executed another heart-pounding deep curtsy, then backed away from the throne. One tiny careful step after another, praying desperately that she’d not step on the ridiculously long train the dress contained. She could not look behind her; to turn one’s back on the Queen was an act of such rudeness one might never live it down.
Another step, then another, and finally a page gestured to the door on the right. With an inner sigh of relief, Charlotte exited the drawing room to find herself facing another door. This one opened to a room filled with men.
Her heart thumped, and she smiled, imagining the prospective candidates.
Now that she was presented, it would only be a matter of time before she found her husband. Perhaps she might even find him at the ball tomorrow night!
And with a quick prayer—let him be someone young and exciting, handsome and brave—she stepped across the threshold.
Bishoplea Common, London
The evening air held a thousand tiny water droplets, a dankness that filled his lungs and beaded across his skin. The starkness of the barren field stretched before him, echoing the cold emptiness inside. He shouldn’t be here. He knew better. Taking vengeance like this was wrong. The only solace was that the remote location meant discovery was unlikely. Lord, keep us from discovery …
“Gentlemen? Are we ready?”
“Yes,” William Hartwell, ninth Duke of Hartington, muttered, though he felt far from prepared. Pride bade him stand straight, to remain expressionless, to not show fear, but already he could not but regret the folly that had led him here.
The madness of his vows four years ago rose again in all its ugly glory. Why hadn’t he followed his head instead of his heart, instead of seeking approval from the dead? Such depths of stupidity, stupidity he now recognized as having been engendered by a heart made vulnerable by pain, when he’d exchanged the dignity of his parents for the sweet nothings of a jade. How could he have ever believed his wife’s lies? His finger twitched on the trigger.
“One. Two …”
Jerked from his contemplation, William forced his legs to move, to pace accordingly.
“Four. Five …”
Fear churned inside. Peripheral vision found Lord Ware, his brother-in-law and reluctant second, looking anxiously on.
“Seven. Eight …”
He gritted his teeth. Honor demanded justice. His pride demanded the truth. But—
“Ten.”
He stopped.
But what if he had made a mistake, after all?
Shaking off the disquieting thought, he turned and faced his foe.
Nausea slid through his belly. Tall, blond, blue-eyed Lord Wrotham owned a handsome mien she had preferred. Disgust mingled with outrage, swelling hotly within until his chest banded and he could barely see.
Slowly he lifted the gleaming pistol, a relic from his father’s day, something he’d thought he’d never need. But then, he had a bad habit of being wrong about things. Wrong about others. Wrong about himself.
Regrets churned inside. He studied the other man’s face. Too handsome, but now holding a trace of fear in the puckered, glistening brow. Too handsome, but forever filled with lies. He still denied things. But William had seen him, had seen his figure depart from his wife’s bedroom at an hour that could only mean one thing.
The last of his hesitations fled.
And at the word, he fired.
CHAPTER TWO
Exeter House
Grosvenor Square, London
“LADY CHARLOTTE, MAY I request the honor of dancing with—”
“Lady Charlotte, you look enchanting—”
“So beautiful tonight, my lady!”
“Lady Charlotte! Please leave me the quadrille!”
Charlotte laughed as the men standing two—no, three!—deep clamored and jostled for attention. Her heart filled with the delightful sensation of being sought and admired. With so many guests, the receiving line had taken over an hour before Mama had finally propelled her toward the ballroom. “For you know they cannot begin until you commence the first dance.”
Papa had the opening dance, and Henry was obliged for one, too. And while Mama said those of higher rank must be accepted when they offered an invitation, so far she had not had to consent to dance with anyone monstrously ugly or old.
Viscount Carmichael stepped adroitly between two gentlemen who were glaring at each other. “I believe the cotillion is mine, my lady?”
She met his laughing hazel eyes and curtsied. “Of course.”
He bowed before shooting a grin at the two men whose squabbling had rendered them unable to offer an invitation, as if to say, “There, that’s how it should be done.” She smiled to herself. To have one of London’s most eligible bachelors request her hand; surely Mama would be pleased!