Chapter 2
Chapter Two
JAMES PLACE, LONDON - JUNE 5, 1816
CHARLOTTE
If I cast up my accounts one more time, I was going to scream. It was not enough that the thing growing inside me was destroying my life, it had to ruin my luncheon as well.
Imogen offered a tight-lipped smile as she wound my hair into a delicate twist with golden ribbons dancing throughout.
My maid hadn’t once verbally acknowledged my condition. But she knew. Everyone knew.
I sighed, considering her efforts in the glass as I swallowed back the nausea. My hair was one of the few benefits of my situation. It was lovelier than ever, shimmering filaments of bronze and gold glinted in the candlelight. The effect was enhanced by the addition of the ruby pins I handed to her one by one.
“Any rouge, my lady?” Imogen held the carmine crepon in one hand and the pomatum in the other.
“I hardly think it necessary tonight.” My cheeks had retained an alluring flush for some weeks now in spite of my regular reckonings with the newly repurposed milk pail, morning, noon, and night. I’d heard rumors that the sickness was supposed to cease at some point, but that hadn’t been my experience.
She nodded and turned to find my gown. The gown . The one that must fetch me a husband.
Tonight was my last opportunity. Every morning my gowns pulled a little tighter, betraying a roundness where once there had been none.
I’d attended every single soirée for weeks—no easy feat. My behavior was unseemly. It was not done, mingling in society a mere seven months after my husband’s passing. As such, the invitations required more than a little scheming to secure. I drew judgmental stares and whispers at every event. I should be grateful that, for once, they weren’t directed at my bosom.
The glass top of my dressing table was cool against my hands as I pressed up. Wordlessly, Imogen moved to assist me into the corset. I turned to allow her access to the laces, my fingers clenching on the walnut post of the bed. The one I once shared with Ralph.
Imogen began to tug gently on the lacings—too gently.
“Tighter.”
“Yes, my lady.”
She commenced yanking. With a soft grunt, she pulled the laces taught. It was tighter than I normally would have worn it, certainly, but not tight enough.
“I said tighter,” I snapped.
She gave a sincere wrench this time, and my breath shoved from my chest. Still it was not enough. The hints of it were still clear as day if one glanced below my bosom.
I resisted the urge to snarl at the girl—again—with a sigh. “Imogen, I need it tighter.”
“Any tighter and the eyelets will rip.”
The curse caught at the edge of my teeth before I could scandalize her. With no other choice, I could only pray the dress would be sufficient.
“Very well. The gown, if you please.”
The gown. My savior or my damnation.
I wore the latest fashions. Always. Even when I had to squirrel away shillings in the cellar with the potatoes to keep Ralph from drinking or wagering. I may have been forced to wed a decrepit spendthrift. But I refused to look it.
Tonight was to be my exception. Because this dress—it predated me.
Blessedly, for once in her miserable life, Lady Juliet Wayland had done something right. She had chosen a masquerade theme for tonight’s fête. And a masquerade allowed for a more dramatic gown—even one a few decades out of date. This frock was one of my late mother’s. It required all the absurd underpinnings of the era and disguised anything that required disguising.
Imogen held the gilded silk aloft for inspection. I suspected Mother was with child—with me—when she had it made. The strategically placed ruffles and panniers concealed exceptionally well.
The creamy golden robe à la francaise was festooned with delicate swirls. They were embroidered, climbing up the split skirt and hem. It was breathtaking.
At my nod of approval, Imogen set the gown aside and helped me into the underpinnings. Not for the first time, I was grateful I had debuted when slender silhouettes were in fashion. In fact, I had remained grateful for that fact up until two weeks ago when it started pulling at my dresses when I moved the wrong way.
Ridiculous underthings donned, I braced against the bedpost as Imogen helped me into the skirts, then pinned the stomacher into place and fluffed the engageantes at my elbow. They brushed distractingly against my forearms when I moved. Good, they would draw the gaze.
I studied the silk taffeta with a critical eye and pressed my hands against the layers of petticoats and panniers, searching for evidence of my condition.
Ordinarily, I would have paused to admire the impeccable stitching and fine weave—straight from Lyon certainly—but that was hardly a concern at present.
While I noted the increased fullness, I was fairly confident it wouldn’t be obvious to all. And I could only hope the men of the ton would be so distracted by the generous display of my assets that they wouldn’t notice anything amiss.
My normally remarkable bosom had grown even more impressive in recent weeks. That alone should have been enough to entice an offer of marriage, but I’d had no interest at all.
Imogen handed me the mask I had commissioned to match the dress. It was impossibly fine, with golden metalwork forged to resemble lace. It covered only my left eye, leaving the other free. It did little to hide my identity but emphasized my whiskey irises and dark lashes in a way I hoped was tempting.
Imogen fretted with the ribbon as she tied it, concerned it would muss my carefully pinned curls.
A last glance in the looking glass gave me hope. Tonight was without a doubt my last chance.
If I did not find a husband at this masquerade, I never would.
Breaking away from my reflection, I dabbed a bit of the lavender-and-orange-blossom perfume behind my ears and in the crevice of my breasts—best engage all of my future husband’s senses while he was admiring. My stomach nearly revolted as the fragrance reached my own senses, and I reached hastily for the—now cold—ginger tea I’d abandoned some time ago on my dressing table.
Imogen gave a sympathetic smile at my wince, but my gut settled.
“Beautiful, my lady.” She handed me the matching gloves. I slid them on and up, up all the way past my elbows.
“Thank you.”
She trailed after me as I set out down the fading crimson carpeted halls and descended the tread-worn staircase.
“Good luck,” she breathed as I slipped out the double doors into the night. Though I didn’t acknowledge it, I appreciated the sentiment.
I would need it.
My insides lurched as yet another gentleman turned away at my approach. This time, the jolt had nothing to do with the leech inside me.
Danforth—a man who once salivated at the sight of me—scurried to request a dance with the nearest insipid spinster.
He has told them.
Wesley had told them all. He couldn’t rest after saddling me with a parasite and leaving me to deal with the consequences. He also had to ensure I found no hope from any quarter.
My corset, too tight, left my breaths shallow and ineffectual. That was the reason the room was dimming—no other.
As soon as he’d arrived, Wesley had commandeered one of the high-stakes tables. Drink after drink, round after round, he toyed with sums large enough to bankrupt anyone else.
He was surrounded by the same four men who’d been at his side that day at the boxing match, along with a few others.
When I finally allowed myself a glance his way, I found him lounging in his seat, legs spilling out in front of him, dark hair tousled and unkempt. He’d forgone a mask in favor of ensuring there wasn’t a soul who mistook him. Confidence hung over him as he rolled the die. Luck must have been his tonight.
It certainly wasn’t mine—and that was his doing.
Christiansen looked up, catching my eyes with something between a sneer and a smirk curling on his lips before he nudged Wesley’s shoulder. A burst of laughter came from the table as I spun away.
My innards churned uneasily and my blood chilled, ice forming along my veins. I pressed my eyes closed, inhaling as deep as my corset would allow before exhaling through my mouth. Desperation, despair, and panic warred for purchase in my chest.
When my lashes flicked open again, I glimpsed Mr. Ellsworth across the room. He was a decent sort, if exceptionally dull. Hope rose in the space of the breath or two it took to catch his gaze across the floor.
As soon as I managed it, he looked away and devastation crashed over me once more.
Another one slipped through my grasp, grains of sand through the hourglass.
I cast another frantic, futile glance around the room, only to be greeted by the sight of a familiar black pompadour by the bar. Clad in his usual sharp black and stark white, the sight of Alexander Hasket, Duke of Rosehill, never failed to cause a pang. Even masked, he was unmistakable.
In my less charitable moments, I blamed him for my situation. If he had simply proposed as he ought during our courtship my first season, none of this would have happened. I wouldn’t have been forced to marry Ralph. I wouldn’t have found my way to Wesley’s side in search of something more. And I would not now, months after my husband’s passing, be in this wretched condition.
Even years later, Rosehill’s rejection stung. That season, I had been perfection. A diamond to be spoken of in reverent tones, I was the very portrait of a proper debutant, demure, accomplished, coquettish without being forward, with a pleasing form and delicate manners.
For one brief moment, I had my pick of suitors. And who better than Rosehill? Handsome, fashionable, and titled with the wealth to support it.
Our very polite courtship lasted three months, during which I was all but certain a proposal was imminent.
And then, without the slightest warning or explanation, he ended our courtship. Days later, my father secured a match with Baron James. Elderly, with a sagging neck and a fondness for drink that bordered on obsession, my husband was no Duke of Rosehill.
After Ralph had rolled off me on our wedding night and his quaking snores began to fill the room, I comforted myself with the knowledge that I had been perfection itself. If Rosehill was not pleased with me, then there was no pleasing him.
The problem was that he seemed pleased with everyone else. Two years ago, he even offered for mousy Juliet Dalton, now Wayland, and only released her in the face of unendurable scandal. Even now, he chatted amiably with her at his side. He didn’t avoid her gaze.
But me, he threw over with no explanation, no apology—nothing.
And now I was in an even more shameful position that grew more precarious every day. The future turned bleaker with each member of the ton who gave me the cut, and my hope dimmed.
My throat tightened uncomfortably. Struggling for breath within the trappings of my underpinnings, the edges of my vision darkened.
Tears threatened to escape but I couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow it. Just before I lost the fight, a flash of black and gold caught my eye from against the nearby wall.
Hope bloomed once again.
The gentleman was impossibly tall—the tallest man here by far—with overgrown dark blond locks. He wore a half mask covering one side of his face.
And I did not know him. I was certain of it. It would be unthinkable to forget a man of that size, even behind the mask.
His shirt was a fine linen, the waistcoat a charcoal brocade, and the overcoat a heavy wool. It was several seasons out of date, but then, so was my gown. The gentleman was at least wealthy enough to have purchased decent, well-tailored clothing this century.
I could not afford to be choosy.
Better still, he was alone, propping up the wall with his tall, broad frame as he observed the play and dancing with a keen eye.
I should find someone, contrive an introduction. That was the proper way to go about these things. But an introduction would give that same someone time to inform him of whatever rumor Wesley had circulated.
This was a masquerade—the rules were relaxed, surely .
Squaring my shoulders, I plucked a single curl free from my coiffure to brush against my neck charmingly. A quick glance at my bosom confirmed it was still there and still magnificent. I glided across the floor with a grace reminiscent of my first season, even as the significant looks and whispers followed me.
A bare patch of off-white wall near his was available. I claimed it, angling toward him in what I hoped was an elegant manner. The ways of a wallflower were unfamiliar to me. If there was an enticing way to hug a wall, I did not know it.
The gentleman, of course, could not see fit to cooperate. His head did not so much as tip in my direction. Again, my heart plummeted deep into my gut, knotting painfully.
A jubilant cheer rose up from one of the high-stakes tables. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a nearly imperceptible flinch from the man, so small it could have been a trick of the candlelight.
His chest rose on a sigh and an—astonishingly large and shockingly bare—hand dipped into the pocket of his coat. Something was trapped in his grasp when his hand emerged. Long fingers tugged on the item, unwrapping it before he popped it into his mouth. A sharp crunch caught my ear before his lips parted in a relieved exhale and appreciative inhale.
The brilliant scent of peppermint wafted my way. It curled around me, hovering in the air. The unending churning in my stomach lessened.
That sensation left me so rarely in recent weeks, I had begun to think it a permanent affliction. Whether it resulted from my condition or nerves was hardly relevant. But now, with a single breath, it dissipated.
Relief filled me and I allowed my eyes to drift closed as I inhaled, reveling in the sensation, or lack thereof.
“Do you want one?” A lilting tenor drifted to my ears.
Startled, my eyes flicked open to find a hand aloft before me. Dwarfed in the palm was a wrapped sweet.
“It’s peppermint,” the voice added. I followed the hand up the finely wrapped forearm along a broad shoulder to meet his gaze. The black-framed mask covering one eye contrasted appealingly against his icy, silver-blue irises.
“Thank you.”
I plucked it from his open hand, allowing a fingertip to brush the meat of his palm. Now empty, his hand remained aloft, waiting. With less eagerness than I felt, I tugged at the wrappings of the mint and freed it, then set the paper in his waiting palm.
The bright burn of mint bit at my tongue and crisped the air. Seconds later, my belly finally, blessedly ceased its endless churning.
“Thank you,” I repeated, grateful to the man in a way he could not possibly know.
“Of course, Lady…”
“Charlotte. Lady Charlotte James.”
It wasn’t strictly my proper title. But I was not particularly interested in explaining my marital status to this unknown gentleman. Dead husbands were not an enticing topic of conversation.
He nodded, his eyes dragging down my form. The gaze was not lecherous, but appreciative.
“And you are?”
“A bit rusty at this.” He chuckled half-heartedly, a hint of self-deprecation to the note. “Leopold Bennet, Earl of Champaign.”
The name lit a spark. I’d heard it before, certainly. But we’d never been introduced. He had been out of society for some time.
An outsider. And a titled one at that. He was absolutely perfect for my purposes.
Finally, for the first time in weeks, it seemed my luck may turn. My heart jumped, this time with hope.