3. In Which a Debut Is Made and Rescue Is Required – The Pemberton Ball, Berkeley Square, London #2
"—and I thought to myself, this is exactly the sort of piece that Lady Charlotte would appreciate?—"
"Would I?" My voice came out sharper than intended.
Dunmore, bless him, didn't notice. "Of course! A lady of your obvious refinement and?—"
"I say, Dunmore." A voice cut in smoothly. "Your father's looking for you. Something about the Penworth carriage."
I turned so fast I nearly spilt my lemonade.
Edward stood at my elbow, looking politely apologetic and utterly unbothered. He was taller than Dunmore, I noticed absently. Broader through the shoulders. And he was looking at Dunmore with the kind of patient expression one might use with an enthusiastic but slightly dim puppy.
"Oh!" Dunmore turned. "Retford! I didn't know you were back in town. How splendid. How absolutely?—"
"The carriage?" Edward prompted gently.
"Right. Yes. Of course." Dunmore turned back to me and bowed with enough enthusiasm to be slightly alarming. "Lady Charlotte. A pleasure. I do hope we might continue our conversation later."
"I look forward to it," I lied.
Dunmore bounded off toward his father. Edward remained, watching him go with an expression that might have been amusement.
I stared at him and felt something tight in my chest unwind.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
"For what?" Edward's eyes met mine, and there was laughter in them. "I simply mentioned the carriage."
"There's nothing wrong with the carriage."
"No," Edward agreed. "There isn't."
I felt myself smile—a real smile, not the social mask I'd been wearing all evening. "You lied to Lord Dunmore."
"I prefer to think of it as strategic misdirection."
"That's lying."
"It's rescue." Edward's voice was warm. "You looked like you were being held hostage by snuffbox architecture."
I laughed—actually laughed—and several people turned to look. I didn't care.
"You know him," I said. It wasn't a question.
"Since we were boys. Our fathers are old friends. Dunmore collected beetles then."
"I remember?"
"Extensively. He had a particular fondness for stag beetles and could discuss their mating habits at length."
"Snuffboxes are an improvement, arguably."
"Arguably," Edward agreed, and the smile he gave me made my chest do something complicated.
The orchestra was striking up a waltz. Around us, couples were moving toward the floor.
"Dance with me," Edward said.
It should have been a question. It wasn't. It was an invitation that felt like a dare.
"Yes," I said.
Edward offered his arm. I took it. And as we moved onto the floor, I realised I'd done something I'd never done before: I'd made a decision about my own Season without consulting my notebook.
The waltz began.
Edward's hand settled at my waist, warm and certain through the silk of my gown. My hand found his shoulder—broader than I remembered, solid in a way that made my fingers want to press down and confirm that yes, this was real.
His other hand took mine, and we began to move.
Edward could dance.
This shouldn't have been a surprise. He'd been to Oxford, spent eighteen months on the Continent, presumably attended countless balls and assemblies. But I had expected the bookish boy I remembered, slightly awkward and uncertain.
This Edward moved with confidence. Led with quiet authority. Spun me through the waltz like he'd been doing it his entire life.
"You've improved," I said.
"I've had practice."
"European practice?"
"The Continent has many virtues. Dancing masters are among them."
I, who had spent the last hour making polite conversation with gentlemen who either bored me or patronised me, found myself relaxing for the first time all evening.
"Dunmore," Edward said after a moment. "I'm sorry."
I looked up at him. "You knew. That I needed rescuing."
"You had the look."
"What look?"
"The one you get when you're being polite to someone you'd rather strangle."
I felt my lips curve. "I have a look for that?"
"You've had it since you were eight. You used it on the vicar's wife when she told you young ladies shouldn't be so opinionated."
"I was ten when the vicar's wife said that."
"The look predated the incident."
I laughed again. When had laughing become this easy?
We turned through the waltz. I was suddenly, acutely aware of how close we were. Of Edward's hand at my waist. Of the way he looked at me—not like I was a child, not like I was a project to be managed, but like I was simply... Charlotte.
"How many?" Edward asked.
"How many what?"
"Arranged suitors tonight. How many of those gentlemen were positioned for your benefit?"
I glanced across the ballroom. Caught sight of Marguerite watching us with a satisfied expression. Saw Aunt Mary conferring with Aunt Caroline near the refreshment table. Aunt Margaret was taking notes in a small book.
"All of them," I said quietly. "Every single one."
Edward's hand tightened fractionally at my waist. "Including Dunmore?"
"Especially Dunmore." I heard the bitterness in my own voice and tried to smooth it. "He's a duke's heir. I'm a duke's daughter. On paper, we're the match of the Season."
"And in reality?"
"In reality, I would rather marry his snuffbox collection."
Edward smiled—a real smile, warm and devastatingly attractive in a way that made me forget what I'd been saying.
"They mean well," Edward said. "The family. They want you to be happy."
"They want me to be appropriately settled."
"Is there a difference?"
I looked up at him. At Edward, who was five years older, who had known me since I was six, who should have felt like family and instead felt like something else entirely.
And I realised, with a jolt, that I'd been calling him Edward. Not Uncle Edward. Just Edward.
When had that happened?
"I don't know," I said honestly. "I've spent five years arranging matches for other people. I can see what works for them. But when I try to see what would work for me, I—" I stopped. This was too honest. Too raw.
"You what?"
"I don't know what I want," I admitted. "I know what I don't want. But the rest is just... unclear."
The waltz was ending. We were slowing, coming to a stop in the centre of the ballroom with three hundred people watching, and I was still holding Edward's hand like I had no intention of letting go.
"Charlotte," Edward said quietly. His voice did something to my name, making it sound different. Important.
"Yes?"
"You'll figure it out. You always do."
He released me. Stepped back. Bowed with perfect propriety.
I curtseyed. My hand felt cold where his had been.
I wanted to say something. Thank you felt inadequate. Don't go felt presumptuous.
What I said was: "Edward, will you save me again? If Dunmore corners me?"
Edward's eyes met mine. Something passed between us—understanding, conspiracy, the beginning of a shared joke that belonged only to us.
"Always," he said.
And then he was gone, melting back into the crowd, and I was left standing in the middle of the ballroom with my heart doing complicated things in my chest and the sudden, terrifying realisation that I hadn't called him Uncle Edward once during the entire dance.
I'd just called him Edward.
Like he was someone new. Someone I was only just beginning to know.
Marguerite appeared at my elbow. "Darling! You looked beautiful. And dancing with Edward—how lovely. It's wonderful to see the two of you so close. Now, Lord Dunmore has asked for the next dance, and I said, of course, you'd be delighted?—"
I let myself be steered toward Dunmore, who was indeed waiting with an expression of puppyish eagerness.
I danced. I smiled. I listened to a detailed description of another snuffbox (this one, apparently French, with even more remarkable hinges).
And through it all, I was thinking about Edward's hand at my waist. The way he'd said "always." The fact that when I was with him, I'd felt—for the first time all evening—like myself.
I scanned the ballroom, looking for him.
He was gone.
Lord Dunmore was still talking about snuffboxes.
And I, Charlotte Ashbourne, who had spent my entire life planning other people's happiness, realised I had absolutely no plan for this.
None at all.