3. In Which a Debut Is Made and Rescue Is Required – The Pemberton Ball, Berkeley Square, London
IN WHICH A DEBUT IS MADE AND RESCUE IS REQUIRED
CHARLOTTE
THE PEMBERTON BALL, BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON
Ihad imagined my debut a thousand times.
I'd imagined the presentation—the curtsey that must be perfect, the weight of every eye in the room, the moment when I would step forward as Lady Charlotte Ashbourne and claim my place in Society.
I'd imagined the gown (ivory silk with Brussels lace, Mama's pearls at my throat).
I'd imagined the orchestra, the candlelight, the careful choreography of a Season's opening ball.
What I had not imagined—what no amount of planning could have prepared me for—was how utterly exhausting it would be to perform myself for four straight hours.
The Pemberton Ball was a crush. Three hundred of London's finest packed into the Pemberton residence in Berkeley Square, all glittering with jewels and ambition.
I had been presented, admired, complimented, and catalogued by every matchmaking mama in attendance.
I'd danced the opening set with Papa, which had been lovely.
I'd danced the second set with Lord Eastmore, which had been the social equivalent of watching paint dry.
Now, halfway through supper, I was discovering that my carefully ranked list of seventeen eligible gentlemen had somehow become a parade of candidates being rotated through my orbit with the precision of a military campaign.
I suspected the aunts.
I was certain of the aunts.
"Lady Charlotte," Lord Eastmore was saying, from his position at my elbow where he had been stationed for the past twenty minutes, "the weather this spring has been remarkably fine, don't you think?"
"Remarkably," I agreed, and took a bite of lobster patty to avoid further commentary.
"Indeed. I was remarking to my steward just yesterday that the conditions are ideal for?—"
I stopped listening. I'd perfected the art of appearing attentive while mentally updating my notebook.
Lord Eastmore was handsome, titled, wealthy, and possessed the conversational skills of unseasoned porridge.
He was exactly the sort of gentleman my aunts would consider "suitable," which told me everything I needed to know about how little they understood what I actually wanted.
The question was: what did I want?
I'd spent five years arranging other people's happiness.
I could look at a couple and see, with near-perfect accuracy, whether they would suit.
I'd matched Aunt Mary with Uncle Matthew despite her initial resistance.
I'd recognised that Aunt Caroline needed someone steady who wouldn't be swept away by her emotional intensity, and Uncle Alexander had been perfect.
I'd seen that Aunt Margaret required a partner who could match her intellectually without competing with her, and Uncle Edmund had fit exactly.
But when I tried to apply that same instinct to myself, the image went fuzzy.
I knew what I didn't want. I didn't want boring (Lord Eastmore).
I didn't want to be patronised (I could see Mr Waverton approaching and was already bracing myself).
I didn't want performative romance that valued the gesture over the genuine (Lord Philip Ashby had sent me poetry this morning that rhymed "eyes" with "skies" and made me want to set something on fire).
What I wanted was?—
"Lady Charlotte!" Aunt Mary appeared with the strategic timing of a general. "How delightful. Have you met Mr Waverton? Mr Waverton, my niece, Lady Charlotte Ashbourne."
Mr Waverton bowed with the kind of precision that suggested he’d practised in a mirror. "Lady Charlotte. I've heard a great deal about you."
"Have you?" I kept my smile pleasant. "All terrible, I hope."
He laughed, but it was the laugh of a man who thought I was joking. "Your aunt tells me you have an interest in political philosophy."
"I have an interest in many things."
"As do I. In fact, I was just discussing the Corn Laws with Lord Pemberton?—"
"Were you?" I interrupted, because I could see where this was going and had exactly zero interest in being lectured about economics by a man who had clearly decided I needed educating. "How fascinating. What's your position on the repeal question?"
Mr Waverton blinked. "I—well, the matter is complex?—"
"It isn't, actually. The laws benefit landowners at the expense of the working poor, inflate food prices artificially, and have created a system where?—"
I saw his expression shift from surprise to condescension and knew, with absolute certainty, that Mr Waverton had just decided I was charming but misguided. He was about to explain, slowly and carefully, why I was wrong.
I was going to eviscerate him.
Aunt Mary, reading the room with her usual precision, physically steered Mr Waverton away mid-sentence. "Do excuse us, Charlotte. I've just remembered—Mr. Waverton, if you could help me locate?—"
They disappeared into the crowd.
I took a breath, smiled at no one in particular, and wondered how many more hours of this I would be required to endure.
"Lemonade?"
I turned. Lord Philip Ashby stood before me, holding two glasses and wearing an expression of earnest hopefulness that would have been endearing if I hadn't already read his poetry.
"Thank you," I said, taking the glass.
"I was hoping," Lord Philip said, "that you might have received my verses this morning."
"I did. They were very... lyrical."
"I'm so pleased." He moved closer, which was a mistake because I was already calculating escape routes. "I was inspired, you see, by the particular shade of your eyes. Like storm clouds over?—"
"The Thames?" I suggested sweetly.
"—the moors," he finished, looking wounded. "I thought them rather beautiful."
"The moors or my eyes?"
"Both. Either. You have a gift for making a gentleman forget his words."
I, who had several responses to this ranging from cutting to devastating, settled for a polite smile and a tactical retreat toward the refreshment table.
This was unbearable.
Every gentleman I'd spoken to tonight had been arranged.
I could see it now—the way Aunt Mary positioned Mr Waverton, the way Aunt Caroline had steered Lord Philip into my path, the way Marguerite had orchestrated Lord Eastmore for the second dance.
They were managing my Season the way I had managed theirs, and they were doing it badly.
And then I saw Marguerite.
My step-grandmother stood near the entrance, practically vibrating with suppressed excitement, watching as a tall figure entered the ballroom with the kind of commanding presence that made people turn and stare.
The Duke of Penworth had arrived. And with him, his son.
Lord Dunmore.
My stomach sank.
I'd met Dunmore once, years ago, when I was perhaps eleven, and he'd been a round-faced boy visiting Ashford Hall with his father. I remembered very little except that he'd shown me his beetle collection and talked about thorax structures for what felt like hours.
The Dunmore who entered the ballroom was no longer a boy. He was tall, broad-shouldered, expensively dressed, and drawing attention from every mama in the room like iron filings to a magnet.
He was also, I realised with dawning horror, headed directly toward me.
Marguerite was beaming.
The Duke of Penworth was with Grandpapa, both older men looking pleased in a way that made my instincts scream danger.
And Lord Dunmore was smiling at me like I was the most interesting thing he'd seen all evening.
"Lady Charlotte!" His voice carried. Several people turned. "What extraordinary good fortune. I was hoping I might find you."
My social smile locked into place. "Lord Dunmore. What a pleasure."
"The pleasure is entirely mine, I assure you." He was standing very close. Too close. "I was just telling Father—you remember my father, the Duke of Penworth, of course—I was just telling him that I had heard the most remarkable things about you."
"Were they all terrible?" I tried the line that had worked with Mr Waverton.
Dunmore laughed—a booming, genuine laugh that made people turn again—and I realised with sinking certainty that he thought I was being charming rather than desperate.
"Not at all! Quite the opposite. Absolutely first-rate, from all accounts. I said to Father, didn't I, Father, I said Lady Charlotte Ashbourne is supposed to be absolutely first-rate, and now having met you I can confirm...”
"You're very kind," I managed.
"Not kind. Honest. Now, I must tell you about the most extraordinary acquisition I made just last week. French enamel, eighteenth century, with the most remarkable hinge mechanism?—"
He was describing a snuffbox.
He was describing, at length, in the middle of a ballroom, with three hundred people around us, the hinge mechanism of a snuffbox.
My smile was beginning to hurt my face.
"—and the detail work is quite extraordinary, you see, because the enamelling on the lid depicts a pastoral scene, but if you look closely—and I did look closely, I assure you—you can see that the artist has included?—"
"How fascinating," I said, in the tone I used when something was the exact opposite of fascinating.
Dunmore didn't notice. He was still describing the snuffbox. He had moved on to discussing the provenance.
I scanned the ballroom desperately. Where was Aunt Mary when I needed rescue? Where was literally anyone who could extract me from this conversation before I did something unforgivable like pretending to faint?
Marguerite caught my eye from across the room and gave me an encouraging smile.
Grandpapa was nodding along to something the Duke of Penworth was saying, both men looking satisfied in a way that made my blood run cold.
They wanted this.
They thought Dunmore—Lord Dunmore, heir to a dukedom, wealthy beyond measure, and currently describing the artist's signature on the bottom of a snuffbox—was the perfect match.
A ducal heir for a duke's daughter. It was symmetrical. It was appropriate. It was exactly the kind of match that made sense on paper and would make me want to throw myself off a balcony in real life.