Chapter Fifteen
IT WAS A testament to how tragic a prospect turning twenty-five without a husband was considered, that Nora—who usually disappeared at the first sign of work—had volunteered her services to help Charlotte dress for the assembly.
“Just the buttons on your gown and your hair, mind,” she grumbled as she followed Charlotte up the stairs. “I don’t get paid to help you step into your drawers.”
“That’s two of us horrified by the very idea, Nora,” Charlotte replied lightly—touched, nonetheless, by the offer despite the muttering that followed it.
Having bathed in scented water, slathered herself in cream, and stepped neatly into her drawers without incident, Charlotte was at last ready to don the gown she had borrowed from Mary’s wardrobe—if she could only stop stroking it long enough to put it on.
“Cor,” Nora breathed appreciatively as she caught sight of it hanging on the wardrobe door.
“Indeed,” Charlotte agreed, with an excited giggle.
The gown was a masterpiece of festive elegance: deep robin-red velvet trimmed with gold beads that winked even in the dim candlelight.
“Is it a bit daring for a village assembly?” Charlotte wondered, studying the dress one last time.
“She who dares, wins,” Nora assured her, with alarming authority for a girl of eighteen. “Now stop your fretting, Miss Charlotte. I’ve my own toilette to attend to once you’re done.”
“Oh, of course.” Charlotte nodded, oddly comforted by Nora’s refusal to entertain her anxieties. She shrugged off her robe and slipped quickly into the gown, then turned so Nora could fasten the row of satin-covered buttons that ran down the back.
“He won’t be able to take his eyes off you,” Nora said as Charlotte examined her reflection. Before she could scold the girl for speculating about her love life, the maid pointed to the chair and ordered her to sit.
“I’m afraid dressing’s the easy part,” Nora warned, advancing with a hot iron in hand. “Those locks won’t hold a curl without something of a battle. Now—do. not. move. an. inch.”
Charlotte froze as Nora lifted a lock of her hair and wound it round the iron. A faint sizzle followed, accompanied by the unmistakable scent of singed hair. Charlotte briefly feared that the Comte might overlook her lovely gown entirely if she arrived sporting a bald patch.
“Perfect,” Nora declared at last, unwinding a shining ringlet that bounced obediently into place.
“One down, seven hundred to go,” she sighed, selecting another strand. “Just remember—”
“Don’t move an inch,” Charlotte finished dutifully.
An hour later, she was ready. Her hair was dressed in a high, charming disarray of curls, with a few well-chosen ringlets framing her face.
Nora had insisted she dab powder on her nose and apply a touch of Spanish paper to her cheeks and lips.
The combined effect of hair, cosmetics, and gown left Charlotte staring at her reflection in wonder.
She turned to Nora with a sincere smile. “Thank you, truly—for all your help.”
The girl shrugged, trying and failing to look nonchalant.
“Let’s just say I’m invested in the outcome of tonight,” she grinned, sheepishly. “I want you to dazzle—but if he looks like he’s going to propose, ask him to hold off until New Year’s Day. I could use the extra sixpence.”
With that—and a saucy wink—Nora swept from the room to prepare for her own evening.
Charlotte stared after her for a moment, torn between laughter and disbelief. The entire village, it seemed, had now placed bets on her future.
There was no time to dwell on being the subject of speculation, however, for Mrs Mifford’s voice rang up the stairs announcing that the carriages had arrived.
“They’ve brought two,” Mrs Mifford observed as she harried Charlotte—still tying the strings of her cape—toward the door. “I suppose the Comte takes up so much room that he needs one of his own. You stay close to me, dearest; I’ll protect you.”
She swept outside, ready to battle the Comte, but Lord Crabb was prepared for her.
“Allow me,” the viscount said, offering his mother-in-law his arm. When she hesitated, he took her hand and placed it firmly upon the sleeve of his coat, all the while delivering a stream of compliments on her attire.
Confused—for she did love a compliment—Mrs Mifford allowed herself to be helped into the first carriage.
Which left Charlotte alone with the Comte.
Dressed all in black—save for the white cravat at his throat—she almost hadn’t noticed him standing in the shadows.
“You look beautiful,” he said quietly, stepping forward.
Her first instinct was to deflect, to make a quip about hot irons and powder being akin to smoke and mirrors—but she’d risked actual baldness for this evening. The least she could do was accept a compliment for her efforts.
“Thank you,” she managed, wishing she could return the compliment; but he looked so dashing that she feared she might frighten him with her enthusiasm.
He offered his hand and she took it, grateful that the darkness hid her blushes. Inside the compartment she found Jane, their chaperone for the brief ride to the village.
In an act of self-preservation, Charlotte chose to sit beside her cousin—so she wouldn’t be squashed against the Comte on the bench, thighs touching. Alas, as he took the seat opposite, she realised with alarm that she would now be facing him for the entire journey.
It was terribly awkward, really, Charlotte thought as the carriage lurched forward.
One could hardly stare at the wall for ten minutes without seeming peculiar—but looking at him seemed equally dangerous.
The lamplight kept catching on the sharp line of his jaw, the dark sweep of his hair, the white of his cravat against his unfashionably tanned neck—
“Charlotte?”
She blinked. Jane was watching her with barely suppressed amusement.
“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” Charlotte stammered, praying she hadn’t been staring with her mouth open.
“I asked if you have your ticket—or if Mama is holding it for you?”
“I think it’s in my reticule,” Charlotte replied, glad for an excuse to focus her gaze on her lap. She rummaged through her bag until the carriage slowed, then stopped. Through the window she saw a large crowd milling outside The Ring o’ Bells, waiting for admittance to the assembly rooms above.
Gabe stepped out first to assist the two ladies down. Jane went first, followed by Charlotte—though he did not release his warm, steady grip on her hand until they were joined by the rest of their group.
“We mustn’t dally,” Mrs Mifford cried, urging them forward. “The music shall start soon, and we want to hear the fiddlers before they imbibe too much festive spirit.”
Charlotte took Gabe’s proffered arm and they followed the others inside. The Comte’s sheer size drew a few stares; several gentlemen tugged at their collars when they spotted him, and one man even took an involuntary step back as they passed.
Even Mrs Canards—who normally guarded the ticket desk like a dragon—seemed to shrink slightly as she caught sight of him. She waved them through with only a cursory glance at their vouchers, which had to be a first in the history of Plumpton’s assemblies.
Though Gabe’s presence silenced her momentarily, it did not still her tongue for long. As the group made their way toward the stairs, Charlotte heard her snidely greet another guest.
“Taking time off from entertaining aristocratic callers, Miss Weaver?” she called. “I heard there was quite an impressive carriage outside your cottage a few weeks ago.”
Charlotte winced, turning her head slightly to better catch the exchange—ready to intervene if Miss Weaver required assistance.
“The high quality of my work attracts high quality clients,” she heard Miss Weaver reply sweetly. “You’ve never patronised my business, have you, Mrs Canards? I had wondered why… but now I see.”
Charlotte broke into a grin; the seamstress clearly needed no defending.
She turned back toward the stairs, where the rest of their party had already begun to ascend. Gabe gestured for her to go ahead, and she gathered her skirts—acutely aware of him following close behind.
Inside the assembly room, the great and good of Plumpton mingled merrily beneath garlands of holly and mistletoe, and paper-chains fashioned from old newsheets. It was hardly Almack’s, but Charlotte felt a thrill nonetheless.
“Refreshments, Charlotte,” Mrs Mifford called, nodding toward the heaving table at the back of the room—the usual haunt of village spinsters.
“An excellent idea, Mama,” Jane interjected smoothly, swooping in to take her mother’s arm and steer her in that direction.
An awkward pause followed. Charlotte was quite certain it must be obvious to the Comte that her cousin had contrived to leave them alone.
She risked a glance his way and was relieved to see he did not appear in the least perturbed.
In fact, he looked positively pleased with how matters had unfolded.
“Have you a dance card, Charlotte?” he asked lightly.
She shook her head. She rarely bothered with one; when one was only invited to stand up once or twice in a night, there was little danger of forgetting one’s partners.
“Excellent,” Gabe said, his eyes warming. “Then I should like to reserve every one of your dances exclusively for my pleasure.”
“Lovely,” Charlotte managed faintly—wishing he wasn’t watching her quite so intently so that she might pinch herself unseen. Had he said all of her dances?
“I am afraid,” he went on with a sigh, “That you may find me a difficult partner, Miss Mifford. For I do not like to share.”
His dark gaze caught hers, and for the first time in her life, Charlotte understood the meaning of a smouldering look. A delicious thrill of longing coursed through her—accompanied, most serendipitously, by the first notes struck by the fiddlers in the corner.
“I believe this dance is mine, Miss Mifford,” Gabe observed, a glint in his eye.