The Marquis and I (The Worthingtons #4)(53)

Yet, were Kenilworth’s attentions real? If they were, could she love him, and could he love her? Why did he wish to wed her in the first place? Perhaps, for her, there was another gentleman entirely.

She gave herself a shake. No matter what happened or failed to happen, she was getting a new wardrobe. That was something to be happy about.

“What do you think of these?” Grace asked.

Charlotte looked at a carriage gown in Spanish brown—a color that looked well on her—and a walking gown in damascene, a deep plum. They would be perfect for autumn. Although, whether she would be allowed to wear them if she did not wed was another question. “They are lovely.”

Madam showed her several other designs, including evening gowns, ball gowns, and day dresses. By the time she and her sister left, the order exceeded what had been purchased for the Season.

Deciding to simply enjoy the excess, Charlotte took out her list as Grace gathered up swatches. “The milliner next, then the shoemaker.”

Later that morning when they returned home, Charlotte’s spirits were much restored. She walked into the hall and stopped. Flowers filled the round walnut table, and both front parlors. “Where did these come from?”

Royston held out a silver salver with two cards, one from Lord Kenilworth and the other from Lord Harrington. The butler cleared his throat. “Lord Kenilworth arrived shortly after you left this morning. There is a note on the back of his card.”

Picking it up, she turned it over.



Will you do me the honor of saving me two waltzes at Lady Pennington’s ball, to include the supper dance? Please.

C.





She would send him her response later. “What does this have to do with the bouquets?”

“Lord Kenilworth brought the first bouquet.” He pointed to a lovely arrangement of Provence moss-roses, which were her favorites, mixed with nigella and ivy. “Lord Harrington arrived before his lordship departed.” She took the other card.



I would like to stand up with you for the supper dance at Lady Pennington’s ball tomorrow.

G. Earl of Harrington





This was an easy decision to make. Kenilworth had asked first, and more politely. “Let me guess, Lord Harrington sent a bouquet as well.”

“Indeed, my lady. The red roses are from him.”

“Well, that accounts for two of the arrangements, but there must be at least ten of them.” As well as the marigolds, delphiniums, and lupus. He was obviously guessing as to what she liked, yet how had Kenilworth known . . . Of course, the children had told him. More importantly, he had obviously inquired. “Fifteen, my lady. Thus far, Lord Kenilworth has the advantage by one. They have been arriving every hour. Mrs. Pennymore has run out of vases.”

“Poor Pennymore. What a position for a housekeeper to be in.” Grace collapsed onto one of the chairs, and began to laugh. A few moments later, she took out her handkerchief and mopped her eyes. “The flower war,” she gasped before another peal of laughter erupted. “Matt was right. They are vying for you.”

“Yes.” Charlotte dropped into the other chair, unable to believe a rivalry was occurring over her. “But what are we going to do with all these bouquets?”

*

Other than their ride in the Park, this evening would be the first time Con and Charlotte would appear together in public. During the past few years he’d shunned these types of events—where young ladies and gentlemen expected to find matches—but now found himself looking forward to the evening.

He looked once again at the reply to his request to stand up with her tomorrow evening. It would be the second time, tonight being the first, that he would have two dances with her.



Dear Lord Kenilworth,

I would be pleased to grant you the supper dance and one other waltz.

Regards,

Lady Charlotte Carpenter





Or, perhaps, he was merely looking forward to having Charlotte in his arms during the waltz, and on his arm for as much of the rest of the evening as he was able. A thought that pleased him more than it would have a few days ago.

What would please him even more was to have her in his home and in his bed. In some ways it was a pity that she was not a more biddable lady. It would save him from the worry that she might still actually jilt him.

Then again, he would probably not like and admire her as well. Hadn’t that been his complaint against every year’s crop of ladies who were just out? That they were all insipid and boring?

He looked in the mirror one last time as Cunningham made some last-minute adjustments.

“Very fine, my lord.”

“I believe you are right. I expect to return before one o’clock.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Con went down to the drawing room and poured himself a brandy. A few moments later, he heard the rustling of his mother’s silk skirts in the corridor and stood as the door opened.

She glanced at his goblet.

“Would you like a sherry?” He held up the decanter.

“If you please.” He gave her a glass of the wine, and she took a sip. Her forehead pleated softly.

Had the sherry gone off? “Is anything wrong?”

“Not at all, dear.” She smiled. “My, you look handsome. I wanted to remind you that as a betrothed gentleman you may dance more than twice with Charlotte.” Mama tapped her finger against the glass. “In fact, you may live in her pocket this evening if you like and no one will think you rude for not dancing with the other young ladies.”