Chapter Fifteen #2
He held out his hand and led her to the floor, where they took their places among the line of villagers for the country set. It was hardly a waltz, yet Charlotte could scarcely breathe as they moved through the lively figures.
The Comte’s gaze followed her as she moved down the line, his brow furrowing whenever the steps required they part, easing only when she was returned to his side.
It was exhilarating, she thought, as she nervously tucked a ringlet behind her ear—to be looked at as though she were something precious.
Charlotte dropped into a curtsy as the music ended on a bright, decisive chord. Her heart raced, her cheeks were flushed, and she was certain she had undone all of Nora’s hard work with her whirling and twirling.
Applause rippled through the room as the dancers left the floor, but every eye, Charlotte noted, followed her and Gabe closely.
The entire village, she thought peevishly, ought to purchase one of Miss Morton’s instructive samplers—especially the ones warning of the perils of vice.
Plumpton was clearly in the grip of a gambling epidemic.
“Perhaps a glass of lemonade?” she suggested lightly, desperate for a reprieve from their curiosity.
“Whatever my lady desires,” the Comte replied gallantly, leading the way to her old spinster’s haunt by the refreshment table. The crowd parted easily for him, and within seconds they were safely tucked away by the wall, sipping on weak lemonade.
“What did Lord Crabb say about Mr Cleeve?” she ventured, conscious that she should attempt to make conversation.
“That he and Mr Marrowbone will interview him tomorrow,” the Comte replied—then gave a rueful grin. “Or the day after, depending on how deeply the constable celebrates tonight.”
“Oh, very good,” Charlotte nodded seriously.
She felt his amused gaze on her and took a determined sip of her lemonade. Why had conversation suddenly become so difficult?
“You put me to mind of a robin redbreast in your gown,” the Comte said suddenly, almost shyly. “I think of you as a little robin, actually.”
“Because I always defend my territory and peck at plates of crumbs?” Charlotte teased mischievously, one brow arched.
It was his turn now to blush, and as he bashfully lowered his gaze for a moment, a dozen other questions ran through Charlotte’s mind—the most pressing one being just how often he thought of her.
“It’s because when I first saw you, in Mr Postlethwaite’s shop, you were admiring that little ornament,” he said at last, a boyish smile tugging at his mouth.
“You were curious, and bright, and—” he paused, his voice softening as he regarded her.
“When you are confused about something, you cock your head like this.”
To Charlotte’s delight, he obliged her by demonstrating.
“I think of you as a bear,” she confessed, since they seemed to be sharing secrets.
Gabe gave a low grunt of approval. “At home, they called me l’ours,” he said with a grin. “The bear.”
“L’ours,” Charlotte echoed softly.
Though inside, she secretly thought—not ours…mine. The Comte was not the only one who didn’t like to share, she realised with a smile.
The fiddlers struck up another tune, and Gabe bowed slightly.
“Shall we chance another?”
Charlotte nodded, unable to stop the smile spreading across her face. She knew she ought to appear calm and poised, as a London lady would, but she couldn’t even pretend to hide her excitement at his invitation to dance again.
As they joined the set, she was acutely aware of his every touch and glance.
The brush of his gloved hand at her waist as they turned sent warmth flooding through her; her skirts brushing his legs as she twirled felt scandalously intimate, and when he caught her hand to lead her down the line, she was certain her heart would launch itself clean out of her chest and land on the floor.
Which would be dreadfully embarrassing—not to mention a nuisance for whoever had to clean it up.
By the time the final chord sounded, Charlotte’s carefully arranged curls had begun to escape their pins, but she didn’t care in the slightest.
They left the floor arm in arm, to rejoin their group. Northcott immediately commandeered the Comte into helping him fetch lemonade for the ladies, leaving Charlotte alone with Jane and Mary.
The duchess looked so excited that Charlotte feared she might spontaneously go into labour there and then.
“If he doesn’t propose before midnight, I shall eat my hat,” Mary declared as the men left, not even bothering to lower her voice.
“I don’t think you’ve room in there for a hat,” Jane said with a smile, nodding toward her sister’s bump. Then she turned to Charlotte, her expression knowing. “Though she’s right, Charlotte. The Comte appears most smitten with you.”
Charlotte felt her cheeks warm at their words. “You can’t know what he’s thinking,” she protested weakly, as hope bloomed traitorously in her chest.
“I can,” Mary said simply. “The way he looks at you. A man does not look at a lady like that unless he intends to marry her.”
There was a pause as Mary frowned, visibly debating her words.
“Well,” she conceded, “Some men do look at women in that way without wanting to marry them. But those sorts of men are best avoided, Charlotte. I don’t know if Mama has forewarned you, but some men—”
“My aunt has already briefed me on the perils of the devil’s staff,” Charlotte rushed to assure her cousin, as Jane hid a snort of laughter behind her hand.
“Good,” Mary replied, mollified. “Not that I think the Comte is thinking only of that, of course. He seems quite smitten, as Jane said—and if I were the wagering sort, I’d place money on your being engaged by morning.”
“Please don’t,” Charlotte whispered. She’d had quite enough of people betting on her fragile heart. “I think I need a moment to compose myself,” she added, pressing her hands to her warm cheeks. “Before I expire right here on the assembly room floor.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t want that—especially not before he’s proposed,” Mary said with a grin, shooing her away with a gloved hand.
As Charlotte turned to go, she almost collided with the Comte, returning with Northcott from their expedition to procure refreshments.
“Are you leaving, Miss Mifford?” he asked, a faint furrow creasing his dark brow. His concern was both touching—and a little exhilarating. Her absence was not, after all, something that usually troubled anyone.
“Only for a moment,” she assured him. “I’ll be back for the next set.”
“Then you will find me here,” he said, with a slight bow and a smile that quite undid her composure, “Anxiously awaiting your return.”
Not trusting herself to reply, Charlotte nodded and turned on her slipper, fleeing the room.
How strange, she thought as she hurried down the stairs, that being near the Comte could stir such a riot of happiness that she needed a little solitude just to comprehend it.
The ladies’ retiring room was blessedly quiet when she entered. Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment, drawing a few deep breaths of cool air before crossing to the mirror.
The Charlotte in the looking glass was a far pinker creature than the one who had left Primrose Cottage earlier. Her curls had mostly held; her eyes shone. Apart from a slightly shiny nose, she looked every inch a woman having the evening of her life.
And why wouldn’t she? She had danced every dance with a dark, handsome man who watched her as though she were something rare and wondrous.
So this is what it feels like to fall in love, she thought dreamily, dusting her nose with powder.
She started as the door opened behind her.
“Miss Morton,” Charlotte said evenly, meeting the other woman’s eyes in the mirror.
Miss Morton’s step faltered—as though she had hoped to find the room empty—but she recovered quickly, her expression settling into something that might have been a smile, had it reached her eyes.
“Miss Mifford,” she said, moving to stand beside Charlotte at the mirror. “My, you’re flushed. Have you been dancing?”
“I have.”
“Oh, yes, of course—with the Comte.” Miss Morton began fussing with her ringlets—unnecessarily, as they were already perfect. “Everyone’s been talking about it. He’s been very attentive.”
“Has he?” Charlotte asked mildly, though her heart gave a pleased little skip.
“Oh, quite remarkably so.” Miss Morton’s tone was light, conversational. “Of course, the French are dreadful flirts, aren’t they? It’s simply their nature. All that continental charm—it doesn’t mean anything, really.”
Charlotte’s hands stilled on her reticule. “I’m not certain I take your meaning.”
“Oh, I’m not suggesting anything untoward,” Miss Morton said quickly, with a grating little laugh. “It’s only that—well, surely you’ve heard about the wager?”
“The betting book in The Ring?” Charlotte resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes, you told me about that the other day.”
“Not that—but the wager in it. The one everyone’s whispering about.” Miss Morton’s eyes widened with false concern. “Oh, did you not know? The Comte placed a bet against his own success. A shilling on there being no engagement at all.”
Charlotte stared at her. The words made sense, but her mind refused to accept them.
Miss Morton must be mistaken—or worse, lying.
This was simply her revenge for Charlotte’s quip about her samplers.
A cruel attempt to…Charlotte exhaled slowly.
Why would she lie about something so easily verified?
The book was downstairs. Anyone could check it.
“I thought you should know,” Miss Morton continued, her voice dripping with sympathy as false as her smile.
“Before you…Well, it would be dreadful to have one’s hopes raised.
Particularly at your age.” She patted Charlotte’s arm.
“But I’m sure he means no real harm. The French are simply so very different from us, aren’t they? ”
And with a flutter of fingers and a swish of skirts, she was gone.
Charlotte stood frozen before the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her—the robin-red gown that had seemed so lovely just moments ago, the carefully arranged curls, the colour high in her cheeks that now felt like the mark of her own stupidity.
He had bet against proposing to her.
The words echoed in her mind, gaining weight with each repetition—though still, she needed to see for herself.
Her knees wobbled as she slipped from the retiring room, past Mrs Canard’s table—mercifully unmanned—to the door that led to the pub.
From upstairs came the sound of music and laughter, though it felt miles away now.
She pushed open the door, wrinkling her nose against the fog of pipe smoke and yeasty ale fumes, and made her way to the bar.
Angus looked up curiously from the pint he was pouring. “Miss Mifford! Everything all right?”
“The book,” she said. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. “The betting book. May I see it, please?”
Angus’s expression shifted—surprise giving way to something that looked horribly like guilt. “Now, Miss Mifford, I don’t think—”
“Please.”
He hesitated, then reached beneath the bar and produced a battered ledger. He set it down carefully, flicked to the relevant page, and pushed it across to her.
Charlotte’s hands shook as she drew it closer; the entries swam before her eyes—dozens of names, all taking a punt on her heart.
And there, halfway down the page, in handwriting she didn’t recognise:
Comte de Roche – 1 shilling – No engagement to C. Mifford.
Charlotte stared at the words. She read them over and over, but they did not change.
“It’s just a bit of fun, love,” Angus said softly, after a moment. “You know how gentlemen are—they’ll bet on anything. The colour of the sky, whether it’ll rain on Tuesday. It doesn’t mean—”
“—It doesn’t mean anything,” Charlotte agreed, lightly. “Just a bit of fun.”
Though her words were composed enough, her voice sounded very far away. The room, too, had gone strange and tilted, and the pipe smoke was irritating her eyes.
She closed the book carefully and stepped back from the bar.
“Miss Mifford, are you—?”
But she was already moving, pushing through the crowd toward the door. Her cloak was upstairs on one of the benches, but she couldn’t go back up. She couldn’t face the assembly, the dancing, the laughter—and the pitying looks. And she most definitely couldn’t face him.
Had he been laughing at her the whole time? When he’d called her his little robin, when he’d looked at her with such warmth, when he’d said he didn’t like to share—had it all been just a game?
The cold night air hit her like a physical blow as she stumbled out of the pub. Snow had begun to fall again—fat, lazy flakes that settled heavily on her ringlets. Poor Nora, she thought; all her hard work has been for nothing.
She paused before setting off, worried that her cousins might fret if she simply disappeared. Luckily, someone emerged from the men's retiring room—the laneway at the side of the pub—whom Charlotte knew she could entrust to deliver a message.
“Tom,” she called, wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the cold. “Would you tell my cousins that I had to return home. I—I don't feel well.”
It was a feeble excuse but luckily Tom—who looked pale and distracted—did not question her.
“Of course, Miss Mifford,” he said with a brief nod. “I do hope you feel better soon.”
He slipped past her and pushed open the door that Charlotte had just escaped through. The poor lad had still not recovered from Mr Postlethwaite's murder, Charlotte thought sympathetically, as she set off for Primrose Cottage.
She shivered as she hurried through the village, eager to be home before the snow settled and seeped through her slippers. Her heart had already been crushed—she didn't need to lose a toe to frostbite as well.
A sob caught in her throat as the faint strains of fiddle music faded behind her. How could she have been so stupid as to believe that someone like the Comte de Roche might truly be interested in a spinster nearing her twenty-fifth year?
But he had seemed so kind, so caring—so genuinely interested in her. The way he’d looked at her, the way he’d smiled, the warmth in his eyes… all of it had felt real.
She pinched her arm hard, hoping she might wake and find it was all a bad dream.
It hurt—though sadly, not nearly enough to distract from the ache in her heart.