10. In Which a Gentleman Stops Pretending – Various locations throughout London
IN WHICH A GENTLEMAN STOPS PRETENDING
EDWARD
VARIOUS LOCATIONS THROUGHOUT LONDON
Ihad become Charlotte's personal Dunmore-deflection service.
This was not a role I'd applied for. It was not a role anyone had assigned me. It was simply the role I'd taken on because watching Charlotte endure another snuffbox monologue was physically painful.
For her, I told myself. This was for Charlotte.
I was lying spectacularly.
The garden party at Waverly House was Caroline and Alexander's attempt at "intimate outdoor entertaining," which meant approximately eighty people scattered across the grounds, elaborate refreshments, and enough romantic atmosphere to make Caroline weep at least twice.
I'd arrived late—deliberately. Scanned the crowd from the terrace.
Found Charlotte immediately.
She was near the fountain, trapped between Dunmore and a rosebush. Dunmore was gesturing enthusiastically. Charlotte had the look—the one that meant she was calculating escape routes and coming up empty.
I was across the lawn before I'd consciously decided to move.
"Dunmore." I arrived at his elbow with a glass of champagne I'd acquired somewhere between the terrace and the fountain. "Excellent timing. I was hoping to get your thoughts on the Test match. You follow cricket, don't you?"
Dunmore's face lit up. "I do! Though I must confess I prefer discussing?—"
"The batting strategy in the last innings was fascinating," I continued, smoothly steering him away from Charlotte and toward the other side of the fountain. "Do you think Thornbury's assessment was correct? Because I had quite a different read on?—"
Charlotte, freed from the rosebush, caught my eye. Mouthed "thank you" and disappeared in the direction of the refreshment tables.
Dunmore, oblivious, launched into an analysis of cricket that was actually quite intelligent. He wasn't stupid. He was just monomaniacal about his interests and completely unable to read social cues.
I kept him talking for twenty minutes. Long enough for Charlotte to find Mary and Caroline. Long enough to ensure Dunmore couldn't corner her again.
When I finally extracted myself, Caroline appeared at my elbow.
"That was kind of you," she said.
"What was?"
"Rescuing Charlotte from Lord Dunmore. She looked rather trapped."
I tensed. "I was just discussing cricket."
"Of course you were." Caroline's smile was knowing but not suspicious. "It's sweet, really. How protective you've become. Juliet mentioned you've been attending far more events this Season."
"I'm being social."
"You hate being social. You spent a season hiding in libraries." Caroline patted my arm. "But it's lovely to see you looking after Charlotte. She needs someone in her corner with all this Dunmore business."
She drifted away, already tearing up about something to do with the roses.
I stood by the fountain and tried to convince myself that "sweet" and "protective" were accurate descriptions of what I was doing.
Failed spectacularly.
The Warthington ball was two nights later.
I shouldn't have gone. I'd already attended three events this week—more than I'd attended in the entire previous Season. But Juliet had mentioned at breakfast that Charlotte would be there.
So I went.
The ballroom was crowded. The usual parade of London Society dressed in their finest, performing their elaborate social ballet. I hated everything about it.
Except Charlotte was there, which made it bearable.
I found her dancing with Eastmore. She looked beautiful and bored in equal measure. Eastmore was undoubtedly discussing drainage systems or crop rotation.
The set ended. Eastmore bowed. Charlotte curtseyed.
And Dunmore appeared, moving toward her with the determination of a man on a mission.
I intercepted him halfway across the floor.
"Lady Charlotte," I said, arriving at her side before Dunmore could. "I believe this is my dance."
It wasn't. We hadn't arranged anything. But Charlotte's eyes met mine—understanding, relief, something else I couldn't name—and she smiled.
"Of course."
Dunmore, bless him, looked confused but accepting. "Oh! Of course. Family prerogative. I'll just—I'll wait for the next one, shall I?"
"Excellent idea," I said, and led Charlotte onto the floor before he could reconsider.
The orchestra struck up a waltz.
Of course, it was a waltz.
Charlotte's hand settled in mine. My other hand found her waist. We began to move.
This was the third time we'd waltzed together. The third time I'd held her like this, moved with her like this, been close enough to catch the scent of whatever perfume she wore.
Each time was more dangerous than the last.
"You're avoiding Dunmore again," I said.
"He found me during the interval and told me about a snuffbox shaped like a ship. For fifteen minutes."
"A ship."
"With tiny cannons that actually fire."
"Good God."
Charlotte's lips curved. "He wants to demonstrate the firing mechanism. Personally."
"That's—" I stopped. "Actually, that does sound mildly interesting."
"It would be interesting once. For approximately thirty seconds. Not for fifteen minutes. Not with Dunmore describing every detail of the spring-loaded mechanism while standing close enough that I can smell his pomade."
We turned through the next movement. Charlotte was an excellent dancer—precise, graceful, completely in control. Except when she looked at me. Then something in her expression shifted. Became less controlled.
"How many times has he cornered you this week?" I asked.
"Six. That I'm counting. Probably more that I've blocked from memory."
"And the family?"
"Marguerite mentioned St. George's again. Aunt Caroline has started collecting fabric samples for wedding clothes—not for me specifically, she claims, just 'inspiration.' Aunt Mary asked if I'd given any thought to settlements."
My hand tightened fractionally at her waist. "You haven't agreed to anything."
"I haven't refused anything either."
"Charlotte—"
"I know. I know I need to. But every time I try, Marguerite looks so pleased, or Grandpapa mentions Penworth, or Caroline starts talking about family, and I—" She stopped. "I don't know how to disappoint them."
"They'll survive disappointment. You won't survive marrying Dunmore."
Charlotte laughed—the real laugh, not the Society one. Several people turned to look. "You make it sound very dramatic."
"It is dramatic. You'll die of boredom within a month. They'll find you face-down in a snuffbox collection, having lost the will to live."
"What a way to go."
"Tragic. The scandal sheets will have a field day."
We were both smiling now. The waltz pulled us through another turn. We were closer than was strictly proper. My thumb brushed against her waist, just once. Charlotte's breath caught.
"Edward," she said quietly.
"Yes?"
"Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"This. Coming to events you hate. Intercepting Dunmore. Dancing with me for the third time this Season when you know people are watching."
Because I can't help myself. Because watching you with Dunmore makes me want to put my fist through something. Because you're the only person in this entire ballroom I actually want to talk to.
"Someone has to save you from snuffbox demonstrations," I said instead.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
The waltz was ending. We were slowing. The music faded. Around us, couples were separating, bowing, curtseying.
Neither of us moved.
"Charlotte." My voice was rough. "We should?—"
"I know."
We separated. Finally. I bowed. She curtseyed. Perfect propriety.
Except my hand still remembered the shape of her waist. And Charlotte's eyes were doing something that made it very hard to remember she was supposed to be my niece.
I walked away before I did something catastrophic.
Found Juliet at the edge of the ballroom, watching with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Third dance," she observed.
"Yes."
"People are noticing."
"I'm aware."
Juliet was quiet for a moment. "Edward. What are you doing?"
Everything I shouldn't be doing.
"Helping," I said.
"Are you?"
I didn't have an answer for that.
The Thornbury dinner was Mary and Matthew's contribution to the Season's social calendar. Intimate by Mary's standards—only thirty people, which meant strategic seating and careful guest management.
I arrived to discover Mary had positioned me between Charlotte and Dunmore.
Actually, between them. Dunmore to my left. Charlotte to my right.
Mary caught my eye across the table and smiled. She thought she was being helpful. Putting me next to Charlotte because we were family. Putting Dunmore nearby to facilitate the courtship she was helping orchestrate.
She had no idea she'd just created a perfect opportunity for interference.
"Lord Retford!" Dunmore greeted me with genuine warmth. "Excellent. I was hoping to discuss the Prussian snuffbox I mentioned at the Warthington ball. It has the most remarkable?—"
"I'd love to hear about it," I said. Which was possibly the first time anyone had ever said those words to Dunmore with any sincerity.
Dunmore beamed and launched into a description of Prussian metalwork techniques.
I listened. Asked questions. Kept him thoroughly occupied.
To my right, Charlotte relaxed fractionally. On her other side, Waverton, who had learned not to patronise her after Charlotte had eviscerated his arguments at Hatchard's.
She was safe. Protected by my strategic absorption of Dunmore's attention.
The first course arrived. Dunmore continued. Prussian techniques gave way to comparisons with French craftsmanship. Then Italian. Then, a brief digression into the history of tobacco in Europe.
I made appropriate noises. Nodded at intervals. Let Dunmore's voice wash over me while focusing my actual attention on Charlotte.
The way she laughed at something Pemberton said—polite but not genuine. The way she argued with Waverton about something political—engaged but guarded. The way she glanced at me occasionally, checking I was managing, and each time her expression did something that made my chest tight.
"—don't you think, Retford?"