The Captivating Lady Charlotte (Regency Brides: A Legacy of Grace #2)(41)
Charlotte made her farewells and hastened after her mother.
“I’m sorry, Mama, but I could not find Lord Carmichael anywhere.”
“No matter, we have found you a new partner.” Her mother headed past a woman wearing bright red sateen and a majestic turban of orange silk, shot with purple. “My goodness,” Mama murmured. “The things some people think fit to wear in public.”
“Who wishes to dance with me, Mama?” Please Lord, not Lord Fanshawe! She held no wish to speak with him, let alone stand so close as a dance required.
“Someone who has been quite anxious for this opportunity, I believe.”
Her mother drew her forward, then gently pushed her toward the man standing next to her father.
The man whose countenance lit at the sight of her. The man around whom circled so much gossip and speculation. The man whom she’d thought she would never see dance.
The Duke of Hartington.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHARLOTTE’S LOOK OF shock stripped away the courage William had felt earlier. A prize he was not, not to this young lady, however much he might be considered one by her parents. William swallowed a sigh, pushed his lips into a smile. “Lady Charlotte, I hope you will do me the honor of standing up with me for this dance.”
Her eyes flashed, and he knew in that moment she did not feel like she would be bestowing an honor, rather succumbing to an obligation. She slid a look at her parents, which only confirmed his suspicions.
His heart sank. Despite her mother’s assertions, clearly Charlotte had little desire to dance. Was he such a fool to persist in this ridiculous hope?
Lady Exeter seemed aware of this as she said, “Charlotte?”
Her daughter’s posture straightened, her chin lifted, yet she looked no higher than his neckcloth. “Thank you, sir. I’d be delighted,” she said in a flat voice that suggested anything but.
Fighting dismay, he held out his hand and led her to join the set that had already formed. Around them, dancers responded to the lilting melody with laughter and smiles, but she said nothing, her manner as uncompromising as her posture.
“Thank you for not embarrassing me with a refusal.”
Now her gaze met his. “Sir, I—” Her lips parted, closed again.
The dance progression parted them, preventing conversation momentarily, before she returned to his side. “Are you enjoying your season?”
“You asked me that earlier.”
“Forgive me. You said it proved most diverting?”
“Yes.”
He cleared his throat. “Is time spent with Fanshawe so diverting?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“At supper before, I assumed …”
Her eyes flashed; she said nothing, but two bright spots of color suffused her upper cheeks.
He had offended her.
Censure twisted within as the music separated them again. What kind of fool was he? How could he hope to win her—with slights and offenses?
When the dance finally returned her to him, he could think of nothing more to say. Were his assumptions about Fanshawe incorrect? He had wondered earlier, her look of relief at her cousin’s intervention enough to lend wings to his hope. He opened his mouth. Closed it. What could he say that had not been said to her enough already tonight? He’d heard the young bucks tonight, heard their compliments; he needed something more original than flattery. But charm had always proved elusive, and as much as he admired her openness, found her youthful presence refreshing to his soul, and her looks very diverting indeed, he could not help but be aware that she did not feel so about him.
He glanced down at her. The top of her head reached to his eyes, and from this vantage point he could see the lovely lines of her neck, the creaminess of her skin, catch the flash of diamond drops in her perfect little ears. What could he say but the truth?
“Lady Charlotte?”
She glanced up, and their gazes held.
His pulse throbbed. He could drown in those eyes: so clear, so entrancing, so beautiful. “You are most lovely.”
A rosy pink suffused her features, and she glanced down modestly.
His heart tripped. Heavenly Father?
Charlotte barely knew if she was to move or stand still. This man kept her off-kilter with his awkwardness and admiration, with those deeply lashed, deeply dark eyes.
“You dance very well, Lady Charlotte.”
“Thank you.”
So she should. Mama had engaged the redoubtable Mr. Finetti, whose command of the elegancies of all the proper dances had given him the reputation of London’s foremost dancing master. But she could not say this.
Neither could she look at his eyes, risk sinking into their fathomless depths. Up close, his eyes held a myriad of specks, as if a fairy from a French tale had scattered golden dust while he dreamed. She, who had never considered him attractive save when he smiled, had suddenly become captive to his eyes.
She ducked her head, unwilling to see the dowagers sitting on the room’s perimeter. Her cheeks flamed. She knew what they were saying behind their painted fans and painted smiles. The duke’s singling her out in such a manner, dancing with her when he’d not danced with any others, would only set tongues flapping, and—her spirits sank—no doubt a heavy exchange of wagers in the card room next door.