Chapter 6 #2
Her throat tightened. “Those men would’ve killed me, too, if the constable hadn’t walked by when he did.”
“Which only makes your actions braver,” he said. “You didn’t know help was coming.”
She looked up at him then and saw the honesty in his eyes. Flecks of warm brown glinted in the green, and there was something else in his gaze, something pleading and earnest and very nearly tender.
With a slow, reluctant breath, she exhaled. “Very well. I’ll go with you. Only because I want those men to be held accountable for what they’ve done.”
Alistair’s relief was palpable. “Wonderful. I will inform Warwicke.” He glanced over his shoulder towards the townhouse, and a boyish grin touched his lips. “I hope I haven’t come at an inconvenient time.”
“Why would you think that?” she asked.
“Because your aunt is very obviously watching us from that window on the main floor.”
Jane turned her head and there was Aunt Cosima, her face pressed unapologetically against the glass, watching them with all the subtlety of a hawk eyeing its prey.
Jane sighed, already imagining the teasing she’d receive later. “She’s… invested in my affairs.”
“I rather gathered that,” he said with amusement. “Are you attending Lady Devon’s ball tonight?”
“I only just learned that I am,” Jane replied.
“Then may I beg the honor of a dance?” he asked, offering his arm once more.
Jane tilted her head. “Are you quite sure you wish to be seen with me?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation.
“And what of your sister? Does she feel the same?”
He leaned a fraction closer. “Who do you think demanded I ask you?”
Jane laughed. “In that case… I shall save you a dance.”
“Wonderful,” he said, smiling down at her. “I have something to look forward to.”
“So it begins,” Alistair grumbled under his breath as his boots touched the pavement. He stared up at the flood of carriages spilling onto the gravel courtyard. The crush outside Lady Devon’s townhouse was as dense and glittering as one might expect from the event of the Season.
His sister’s delighted laughter cut through his thoughts. “Your aversion to crowds is quite humorous, Brother.”
Alistair didn’t look at her. “I fail to see the humor in suffocating among preening strangers.”
“Lady Devon’s ball is the ball,” Charlotte said, nearly bouncing with excitement as she came to stand beside him. “Everyone who is anyone will be here tonight.”
He flicked his eyes towards the main entrance. “All the more reason I would rather be at home. With a good book. And a locked door.”
She grinned. “And that is precisely where we differ. I want to be out in Society and enjoy myself.”
He turned to her, finally. Her eyes sparkled, cheeks already flushed from the cold air or the anticipation. She looked so young. Too young. “Do not have too much fun.”
She scoffed. “Is there such a thing?”
“Yes,” he said firmly. “There is. This is your first Season, Charlotte. You are very na?ve in the ways of the world.”
Her smile faded slightly. “I know more than you think.”
“That is not something to be proud of,” he replied, not unkindly. He offered his arm. “Come. Let’s get this night over with.”
She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, a grin returning. “That’s the spirit.”
As they stepped closer to the entrance, Alistair could feel the press of bodies tighten around them.
The heat from torches and lamps clung to the air, mingling with perfume and the chatter of overlapping conversations.
His spine went stiff. It always did in crowds.
He needed space. Visibility. Control. These tightly packed gatherings reminded him too much of the battlefield—not in chaos, but in unpredictability.
At least tonight, no one is armed, he thought. Not that I can be sure.
They stepped inside the townhouse, the marble floors echoing beneath their feet as they followed the throng down the corridor to the ballroom. Gold chandeliers glittered overhead, casting warm light over silk gowns and tailored coats. Laughter and music filled the air.
“Champagne,” Charlotte gasped, her eyes darting towards a liveried footman holding a tray.
“You may have one glass,” Alistair responded.
She rolled her eyes. “You are no fun.”
“One should always keep their wits about them,” he said. “Especially when dealing with the ton.”
“Again, no fun.”
He patted her gloved hand. “You will thank me later when you are happily married with a horde of children running underfoot.”
Her expression shifted. The corners of her mouth lowered, and her grip on his arm slackened. “What if I don’t want that?” she asked softly.
Caught off guard, he asked, “Why wouldn’t you?”
Charlotte looked away, tension tightening her jaw. “Because I can do more than be a wife and breeder.”
The word landed like a blow. Breeder. It sounded so harsh on her tongue.
“I never suggested you couldn’t,” he responded.
“No, but Society has,” she said. “I must be perfect. Perfect wife. Perfect mother. But what if I want more out of life?”
He studied her, brow furrowed. This wasn’t the giddy sister he had escorted moments ago. This was a woman—restless, thoughtful, and quietly simmering.
“Where is this coming from?” he asked.
“It’s been on my mind for some time now.”
“And you thought now was the best moment to bring it up?” he asked with a wry twist of his lips.
She waved her hand dismissively. “Forget I said anything.”
“I won’t forget,” he said. “And we’ll discuss it tomorrow. Privately. At home.”
“Wonderful,” she muttered under her breath.
Before he could respond, a voice rang out behind him.
“Alcott.”
He turned and inclined his head at the approaching couple. “Lord Wilton. Lady Wilton.”
Lord Wilton smirked. “I’m surprised to see you here tonight given your well-known distaste for crowds and all that.”
Alistair gestured towards his sister. “Charlotte wished to attend.”
“Well, who could blame her?” Lady Wilton interjected with a warm smile. “It’s the event of the Season.”
Charlotte beamed. “It is, though my brother would much rather be home with a book and a brandy.”
Lady Wilton laughed. “As would mine, but he agreed to escort me.”
Alistair’s attention was stolen by a sudden shift in the atmosphere. A hush rippled across the ballroom like a breeze rustling through tall grass.
His instincts sharpened. He turned his gaze to the entrance.
Lady Jane.
She had entered on the arm of her aunt, Lady Cosima.
She looked radiant in a sapphire gown, the black netting catching light with each step.
Her golden hair had been swept up elegantly, two curls left to soften her face.
Diamonds glittered at her throat and ears, but none of it could distract him from the tightness in her posture.
Her chin was raised, but her eyes held barely concealed vulnerability.
She was putting on a brave face while a ballroom full of jackals prepared to feast on gossip.
Charlotte nudged him. “Go help her.”
He didn’t hesitate. That was all he needed.
He stepped away from the group, ignoring the murmurs, and moved towards Jane. The crowd parted without effort and he came to stand in front of her, offering his hand. “Lady Jane, would you be kind enough to share this dance with me?”
Relief shimmered in her gaze. “I would be honored, my lord.”
Her fingers settled into his, warm and trembling. As they walked towards the dance floor, he leaned in slightly.
“You were brilliant,” he said.
“Was I?” she asked with a nervous laugh. “I felt anything but. I’ve spent the past ten minutes hoping I wouldn’t trip over my hem.”
“I would never let that happen.”
“You’re kind, but you don’t need to keep rescuing me.”
He stopped walking, pulling her gently to a pause. “I do need to,” he said, meeting her eyes. “You saved my life, Jane. I’m only returning the favor.”
She offered a small smile, but her voice was hushed when she said, “I shouldn’t be here. I can feel their eyes on me. Judging me.”
“Let them judge,” he said evenly.
“That’s easy for you to say,” she replied. “You’re a viscount. A war hero. And I… I’m just Jane.”
He held her gaze. “I happen to like just Jane.”
Before she could respond, the music began. Alistair took his place opposite her on the dance floor, ignoring the whispers and the stares. Tonight, he would be her shield—if not in war, then in dance.
They stepped into the opening positions just as the music began, and Alistair immediately noted how stiff Jane’s posture was. Her chin was held a touch too high—as though defying anyone to pity her. She moved with the grace of someone well-trained, but it was rigid, rehearsed.
Still, he matched her steps easily, instinctively adjusting his pace to guide rather than lead too forcefully.
It wasn’t the finest waltz he’d ever danced, but he found he didn’t care.
He was more focused on her. And then—there it was—a smile.
Small. Faint. But real. A glimpse of the girl she had been before Society decided to destroy her.
When the music came to its inevitable close, he bowed with the rest, but unlike the others, he remained close. Straightening, he stepped towards her and said softly, “You dance splendidly.”
Her eyes sparked with dry humor. “I daresay you need spectacles, my lord.”
He allowed a rare chuckle to escape. “No, truly. I usually make it a firm rule to avoid dancing altogether. But I must admit… I rather enjoyed our dance.”
“You are kind.”
“I’m honest.” He offered his arm again. “Shall we?”
She placed her hand lightly on his arm. “I just wish everyone wasn’t staring at me.”
“Us,” he corrected. “They are staring at us, not just you.”
That earned him another smile—this one more private, more grateful. “Thank you,” she responded. “It’s nice to know I’m not entirely alone in this. Most of my friends vanished the moment the scandal touched me.”
“Then they were never truly your friends.”
“No, they weren’t. But if I’m being honest… I suppose I deserved it. I did the same once—to others. I was so afraid of stoking my father’s anger that I stayed silent when I should have spoken. I wasn’t brave.”
“Hindsight is everything. And regret is a heavy burden. But that doesn’t mean you’re beyond redemption.”
She didn’t respond to that, but the way she held to his arm a little more firmly told him she’d heard it.
They had almost reached Lady Cosima when a very familiar giggle drifted above the hum of conversation. His head snapped around, and his stomach sank.
Charlotte.
She stood across the ballroom, a flute of champagne in hand, surrounded by a half-circle of eager young men all vying for her attention.
One leaned in far too close. Another touched the edge of her sleeve.
Charlotte laughed again—charming, radiant, and oblivious to the fact that Alistair was growing increasingly bothered.
“Botheration,” he muttered under his breath.
Jane followed his line of sight. “What is it?”
“Charlotte.”
“Oh,” Jane murmured. “You must go to her.”
“I will. As soon as I see you safely to your aunt.”
But Jane withdrew her hand from his arm. “I’ll be fine. Truly. Your sister needs you more than I do at the moment.”
He paused. He didn’t want to leave her—not like this. But Charlotte…
“Thank you,” he said.
He turned on his heel and stalked across the ballroom, jaw clenched, ready to peel each of those fawning dandies off his sister one by one.
As he approached, he attempted to nudge one particularly bold gentleman aside, but the man stood his ground with a smirk.
“Shove off,” the man said with a laugh that grated on Alistair’s nerves.
Alistair raised a brow. Enough.
He cleared his throat and said, with crisp authority, “Charlotte.”
His sister turned at once, eyes widening as she took in his expression. “Brother.”
The pack of men turned and shifted to make room for him. That was more like it.
“Let’s go,” he said, extending his arm.
Charlotte arched a brow but allowed him to lead her away from the group, her steps graceful and unbothered. She didn’t speak until they reached a quieter corner near the rear of the ballroom.
“That was poorly done on your part,” she said, not even looking at him.
“Was it?” he asked, not feeling the least bit apologetic.
“They were only asking to fill my dance card.”
He turned to face her fully. “What were you thinking, standing alone among a group of unchaperoned men?”
“I was thinking I was being friendly,” she replied.
He groaned. “Why didn’t you remain with Lady Wilton while I was dancing with Lady Jane?”
“I didn’t want to.”
“Charlotte, this is not a game,” he chided. “Your reputation is at stake.”
She smiled faintly, and he knew that look. It was her smug I-know-what-I’m-doing expression. “I assure you, I’m more aware of my reputation than you are. Besides, we were surrounded by people.”
“All it takes is one rumor,” he snapped. “One careless whisper of impropriety and you are ruined.”
She placed her champagne—untouched, thankfully—on a passing footman’s tray. Then she looked at him, her expression unreadable.
“There’s talk the queen may name me the diamond of the Season,” she said.
He stilled. “Is that what you want?”
“It’s what every debutante is meant to want.”
“Then be careful, Charlotte.”
She met his gaze squarely. “I am careful. I know what I’m doing, Alistair. You must trust me.”
Trust. It was such a small word for such an enormous risk. He gave a tight nod, though he wasn’t sure he meant it. Not yet.
“Then don’t give me a reason not to,” he responded.