Chapter Two
Charlotte was excessively fond of a musical evening.
To spend an evening listening to those who had great skill on various instruments was a joy indeed.
Unfortunately, Louisa would not be present at the gathering, one held the evening after their discussion in St. James’s Park.
The Selbys were a family of good standing, but the Bowens, who were hosting the musicale, were rather particular about whom they invited to their gatherings.
It wasn’t so much that they were arrogant or looked down on people who hadn’t quite their social cachet, though that did factor a little into their decisions.
The Bowens preferred their musical evenings be very small and intimate, and that narrowed their guest lists significantly.
It was, in terms of social standing, a point in Mr. Vernon’s favor that he was amongst those invited to that evening’s gathering. His inclusion would help Charlotte’s father think more highly of him.
It was on her father’s arm that she entered the grand music room at the Bowens’ London home.
Charlotte’s mother had died many years earlier and her grandmother almost never came to Town.
Her aunt, as far as she knew, had disliked London when she was a younger lady, and there was absolutely no mistaking that she disliked it now.
As such, it fell to Charlotte to undertake the role of the lady of their family in public.
She had been trained from a young age to carry herself with dignity and to accept the drudgery that often accompanied this role, but also to understand the importance of it.
Not everything in life was fun, and not every obligation was a joy to fulfill.
But she deeply liked her father, and, having known a great many young ladies whose fathers did not treat them as kindly as hers, she thought herself quite fortunate.
They were greeted very warmly, the tone employed by all being one of pleasure at being in company with the Earl of Tarrant and Lady Charlotte Duchamps.
There’d been a shift in that perception in the past three years.
During her first Season, she had been appreciated only for her familial connections.
Now, well into her fourth Season, she felt she was liked and respected and valued and welcomed for herself and considered to be a good addition to an evening’s gathering.
Amongst those they paused to exchange words of greeting with were people of her father’s generation and acquaintance, as well as her own. There were a few gentlemen in the ranks she did not wish her father to think too closely on the possibility of a connection with.
Her first Season had been one of both nervousness and joyousness.
Father had not been anxious for an immediate match, so she’d been permitted to simply find her place in Society and make new friends and acquaintances.
As she’d embarked on each successive Season, she’d had to temper her enjoyment with strategy. She did so again now.
Whenever her father would appear to be on the cusp of being pulled into a conversation with someone she didn’t particularly wish to remain overly long in his thoughts, she would have to find a means of redirecting him without giving offense.
Much to her relief, that evening’s navigations proved rather simple.
She led her father away from Sir Duncan before any conversation of any kind could occur.
She offered an “Oh, there is my dear friend. I must go speak with her,” after a few words of greeting to Mr. Casper.
No one would guess she was avoiding interactions as much as seeking them out.
And when their circuit of the room brought them to Mr. Vernon, she breathed a sigh of relief. She could relax for a moment.
“I had hoped to see you here this evening,” Father said once the expected words of greeting were exchanged.
“Were you?” Mr. Vernon echoed the very question that arose in Charlotte’s mind. Perhaps her father had taken more of a liking to him than she’d realized.
“You told me at the soirée last evening that you had recently read The Delicate Distress and enjoyed it. I wanted to tell you that I found a copy of the first volume at the lending library, and I mean to begin it when I have the opportunity to do so.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” Mr. Vernon said. “A good book is an enjoyable thing.”
“It is, indeed,” her father said.
“Indeed,” Mr. Vernon echoed. He turned to Charlotte. “Have you read anything you have enjoyed lately, Lady Charlotte?”
“I have read a great many things over the past weeks and months. London has such a large selection of books.”
“It does, indeed,” her father said.
“Indeed,” Mr. Vernon repeated.
Conversations with Mr. Vernon often went this way. Discussions of perfectly acceptable topics, consisting mostly of statements few people would disagree with, then expressions of agreement with those statements.
She would not be kept on the edge of her seat in her interactions with him in the years to come should her father select Mr. Vernon to be his future son-in-law, but time spent with him was at least easy and basically pleasant.
Mr. Vernon had an understanding of music and could carry a decent conversation on the topic.
It was one of the things she actively liked about him.
That wasn’t a thing ladies were taught from a very young age: one could make one’s peace with a marriage if one at least did not dislike one’s spouse.
But if there was something, anything, which a person truly liked in their intended, that was a reason for celebration.
It was in the midst of that thought that another gentleman arrived.
She knew him, but only vaguely. He was Lord Wesley, only a few years her senior, and a baron.
He was not known to be a rake or a wastrel or any of the other things young ladies were warned about.
But there was something about him that made her shockingly aware of him whenever he was nearby.
She never felt in danger or threatened in any way.
It was more a matter of her heart pounding a bit more than usual and her insides responding by jumbling themselves in an attempt to make room for the pounding.
She knew that, for reasons she could not make sense of, her mind and heart found him intriguing.
Her eyes seemed to struggle not to gaze on his slightly unruly hair with fascination.
His locks were tied back as all gentlemen’s were and powdered, but not to the point that one could not tell that his wavy hair was a sumptuous and rich shade of brown.
And, to her shock, she found herself unable to shake her curiosity about what that thick hair would look like left to hang loose.
Charlotte was fully aware that she was attracted to him.
But she also knew enough of the world to realize that such a thing was rather ill-advised.
Very few ladies were permitted much of a say in the choice of their future spouse, so it was best to keep one’s heart whole and one’s mind focused in more probable and sensible directions.
But there he was, with his distracting hair and a hint of bergamot wafting in the air around him, reminding her that he stood nearby.
“Forgive the interruption,” he said after a quickly sketched bow to all of them.
“I fear Lady Charlotte may have dropped her handkerchief, and I wish to return it to her before she finds herself in need of it.” There was both kindness and a roguish twinkle in his eyes, which were also a deep and rich shade of brown, which, combined with his hair, seemed to her a terribly unfair combination when one was attempting to keep one’s head.
“I did not realize I had dropped it,” Charlotte said. “I thank you.”
She held out her hand. As if his eyes and hair and alluring scent weren’t enough, the light brush of his fingers on her hand as he placed her handkerchief there, even through both their gloves, sent a shiver through her.
Ladies of the upper class were told from childhood that marriage was a matter of business, yet gentlemen had the ability to upend them like this.
It was yet another thing on Charlotte’s growing list of things she found utterly unacceptable.
In an attempt to regain her composure, Charlotte dropped her eyes to her handkerchief.
The shift in focus provided not only a distraction but also a new topic of conversation.
“Please do not think that this will diminish my appreciation of your kindness, Lord Wesley, but this is not my handkerchief.”
“Is it not?” He glanced at it himself. “I do believe those are your initials. That is, in fact, the reason I assumed it to be yours.” He did not move to retrieve the handkerchief, but did begin glancing about the room. “I can think of no one else here who shares your initials.”
“True though that may be,” she said, “it is still not mine.”
“We had best all do what we can to find someone else who would embroider a handkerchief with a C and D.”
But he did not go in search of such a person. He simply stood where he was, looking quite comfortable, while, at the same time, somehow, making things a bit awkward.
“The evening promises to be a fine one,” Mr. Vernon said. “The Bowens always arrange for the most talented of performers.”
“They do, indeed,” Father said.
“Indeed,” Mr. Vernon added.
“Indeed,” Lord Wesley repeated with emphasis. “I hope you will let us hover around your chair, Lady Charlotte. A great many of the gentlemen will be standing, and it is far more pleasant to be standing near someone one already knows.”