The Captivating Lady Charlotte (Regency Brides: A Legacy of Grace #2)(39)

“I … I find I do not care overly for it,” she admitted.

“Then tell me at once what you do, and I shall get some.” He bowed. “I’m at your command.”

“I prefer lemonade, sir.”

Surprise crossed his features, mingled with not a little amusement. “Then lemonade it shall be. I’ll be but a moment.” He disappeared in the crowd, his place taken by a clutch of young men, whose flatteries and flirting faded at the arrival of another, at first unseen, gentleman.

“Lady Charlotte.” The gentle voice accompanied a glass of lemonade.

She looked up, strangely unsurprised to find the dark eyes watching her. “Th–thank you.”

His lips curled to one side. “I’m always glad to render you a small service.”

Confusion filled her. What should she say? She glanced across the table. Mama was watching, nodding approvingly. But if she was too appreciative, he might get the wrong idea. But if she simply accepted his help without offering any interest in his concerns, how selfish would she appear? She cringed. How selfish did that thought make her?

She swallowed. “I … I was sorry to hear about the fire.”

“Thank you.”

“But pleased to hear there was no loss of life.”

“As was I.”

Silence stretched into awkwardness. She glanced away. How could Mama wish her to marry a man of such stilted conversation? Surely it was his turn to ask a question. If nothing else, he could say how nice she looked!

She glanced back. Sure enough, the dark eyes still watched her. Fighting frustration, she asked desperately, “Have they discovered the cause?”

“Yes.” His face clouded. “My servants discovered a pile of rags on fire in a corner.”

“Rather careless of someone.”

“Yes.” His gaze touched hers, veered away. He shook his head. “Tell me”—he straightened, his smile wry, as if determined to throw off his worry—“are you enjoying being back amongst the social scene?”

“I am, sir. It is most diverting.”

A trace of something like disappointment crossed his features before his face assumed its usual gravity. “I am … that is, I wish—”

“Hartington!” Charlotte turned to see a flash of annoyance fill Lord Fanshawe’s eyes before he smiled thinly. “Imagine, seeing you here.”

“Fanshawe.” The bow the duke offered was small, even by his standards.

“Thank you for looking after Charlotte while I was engaged in important matters.” He turned to her, holding out the glass. “Forgive me, it took an age—oh! I see my efforts have been supplanted.”

“The duke was kind enough—”

“I bet he was.” Lord Fanshawe’s smile faded, his eyes glittering as he faced the duke. “You are such a helpful sort of person, aren’t you, Hartington?”

“I try.”

Charlotte swallowed a giggle at the uncharacteristic reply, noting with satisfaction Lord Fanshawe’s discomfort at the dry response. How rude to speak so to someone who had shown her only kindness! She might not wish to become affianced to the duke, but neither did she desire to see him hurt by others. She smiled at the shorter man. “Thank you again, sir, for your kind attentions.”

She didn’t mean it for a dismissal, but he bowed and was soon swallowed up in the crowd.

“Kind attentions,” Lord Fanshawe muttered. He shook his head, drawing near, saying in an undertone, “That man is always watching you. I confess I cannot like it.”

So it wasn’t just her imagination. “He watches me?”

“Yes.” He drew nearer still. “I know such a man is not to your liking—”

“How do you know?” A spark of annoyance at his presumption bloomed. “You cannot know my feelings on the matter.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Well! Perhaps I have mistaken things. I’m surprised you would entertain the suit of such a man.”

“Such a man? You keep saying that, but what do you mean?”

“Surely you have heard the rumors. That he killed his wife’s lover, and keeps the by-blow locked in an attic.”

She laughed. “You really should leave off reading such Gothic tales, my lord.”

He shook his head. “It is not fiction but fact. He is cursed.”

“Cursed? Now you are being ridiculous.”

“Am I? How else do you explain the runaway coach, and a fire that threatened the Abbey? And a wife, of whose actions I shall not sully your ears.”

She ticked off her fingers. “Accident, accident, and poor judgment.”

“Forgive me, Charlotte, but you are not experienced in the world.”

His condescension heated her chest as much as his over-familiar use of her name. “And I suppose you are?”

He stared at her. “But of course. I am a man.”

She drew in a breath. Exhaled slowly. “Forgive me, Lord Fanshawe, but I did not think being born female automatically precluded me from a measure of good sense.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yes, you should! You should beg my pardon for casting slights upon my intelligence, and then you should plead for the duke’s pardon for casting such aspersions against him! I did not think you so unkind.”