The Captivating Lady Charlotte (Regency Brides: A Legacy of Grace #2)(32)

The upper-story room, whose large windows afforded an excellent view of proceedings, had a number of sofas positioned to capture the scenes below. To the back of the room, a long table held a variety of victuals, including savory and sweet pies, fruit, ices, and jellies.

“Well, you have done things in style, my dear,” Mama said with a pleased look at Father.

He harrumphed, muttering something about not being willing to put their distinguished guest to the blush.

Henry filled a plate as if he hadn’t eaten two hours ago, prompting Charlotte to steal a small pastry. Her mouth filled with an explosion of creamy sweetness mingled with the tart tang of berries. How delicious!

“The Duke of Hartington,” the footman announced.

Charlotte quickly wiped her mouth, chewing hastily. Why did he have to be so punctual? She eyed his outfit, even as he made his bows to the room. Dressed soberly as always, he still presented a neat, elegant figure, which she could only approve.

The duke turned, forcing her to gulp a too-large mouthful. “Lady Charlotte.”

Pain trembled down her throat at the pastry’s slow descent. She curtsied, hoping that would suffice, but Mama’s whispered, “Charlotte!” forced her to mumble around stubborn flaky flecks of pastry, “Duke.”

A tiny piece flew from her mouth. Mortification heated her cheeks.

But rather than the disgust she felt sure to see, his eyes seemed to lighten with unholy amusement, as if he found her a particularly silly creature at the Royal Menagerie.

She swallowed, lifted her chin. Not that it mattered what he thought. She only had to behave respectfully enough to satisfy Mama; then she would be free to go on as before.

Finally released from Mama’s rapid chatter, the duke moved forward. “I gather you would recommend the creamy buns?”

“How did you—?”

He motioned to the side of his mouth, and she mirrored his actions, as if she were in a trance. Removing her finger, she found a spot of cream on her glove’s fingertip. Oh …

She turned hurriedly away, desperately wiping at her face before Mama’s eagle eyes became aware of her faux pas.

The duke moved nearer, murmuring, “There is nothing more.”

She nodded, his kind tone drawing moisture to her eyes. Offering him a tight smile but refusing to meet his gaze, she returned to the settee near the windows.

“Charlotte?” Mama said in a startled whisper. “What is the matter? Why are your cheeks flushed?”

“I—”

“You do not want to give the duke a bad impression, remember?”

Too late for that.

Fortunately, further enquiry was cut short by the footman’s announcement of Lord Fanshawe.

“Fanshawe, at last. We had begun to give up hope that you’d make it,” Henry said.

“It’s busier than I anticipated,” Lord Fanshawe said, his round of bows far more elegant than the previous arrival’s. His eyes rested warmly on Charlotte. “But I would not have missed this opportunity for the world.”

Her heart fluttered. Lord Fanshawe was truly a gentleman, suavely exchanging politenesses while moving to her side. He would never laugh at her!

“Dear Lady Charlotte! May I say, you look divine.”

“Indeed, you may.”

He smiled, bending over her hand, pressing a kiss, then looked up, his blue-gray eyes watching her carefully.

While no Lord Markham, Lord Fanshawe was eligible, and more importantly, available. Charlotte drew in a deep breath as she removed her hand, removing her gaze to see the duke avert his attention, a crease in his forehead suggesting he did not like what he saw.

She shrugged mentally. The sooner he knew he’d never hold her heart, the better. She drew closer to the window, watching the spectators below, working to ignore her inner unease.

The streets were crowded now, so crowded in fact it seemed impassable. She shuddered. How awful to be squeezed amongst so many strangers. Indeed, the press of bodies and the day’s heat meant every so often a spectator collapsed. “Oh!”

“Lady Charlotte?” Lord Fanshawe moved to her side. “Is something the matter?”

“That lady, there”—she pointed—“she just fainted.”

“Silly widgeon,” Henry said with a laugh. “She won’t be the last.”

“How long do you think until the next swoon?” Lord Fanshawe said. “I’ll lay you a pony it’s not more than ten minutes.”

“You’re on.”

Charlotte bit her lip. It seemed uncommonly cruel to be placing wagers on other people’s misfortunes. She peeked across at the other guests. Father and Mama seemed indifferent, but the duke’s frown had deepened. Rumor had it he disliked gambling, no doubt due to his wife’s reputation for reckless deep play. But really, did he need to show such antipathy? Did he ever enjoy himself?

His gaze shifted, meeting hers. Her skin prickled. But now the dark eyes seemed almost sad.

She hastily returned her attention outside, where the hum from the crowd had intensified, along with the commentary from her brother and his guest.

“I think the procession will take awhile yet—oh, look! Another one down. You owe me twenty-five pounds, Feather.”

As Henry grumbled something, Mama sighed, the disconsolate lines of her face smoothing as she smiled at the duke. “Well, if we must wait longer, I suppose we should do justice to some of Monsieur Robard’s fare. I hope you like glazed ham, sir. One of Robard’s special sauces which he refuses to share, even when I’ve had the likes of the Regent himself request the recipe.”