Chapter 3 #2
The final performer was Miss Helena Steele once more.
She strode to the center of the room with a natural grace, this time carrying a cello as though it were an extension of herself.
Charlotte couldn’t help but admire Helena’s confidence…
not to mention her style. Helena was short and redheaded, not the fashionable petite blonde that so many young women aspired to be now, yet she carried herself with little self-consciousness.
Of course, Charlotte’s mother thought her brash.
As Helena began to play, the room seemed to hold its breath.
The rich, resonant notes of the cello filled the space, creating a melody that was at once haunting and hopeful.
Charlotte felt her chest tighten as the music rose and fell, sensing the emotion in each note.
If only she had a talent like that; something to make the duke look at her with admiration rather than the easy familiarity that came with being his best friend’s little sister.
Around the room, she noticed other guests dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs. Even Lady Fitzgerald appeared moved, her fan momentarily forgotten in her lap.
When Helena finished, the applause was thunderous. Charlotte clapped until her hands stung, and even Lady Flynn offered a stiff, reluctant clap.
“Too much drama for my taste,” Lady Flynn muttered. “These lowborn upstarts do love to show off, don’t they?”
Charlotte bit her tongue, unwilling to cause a scene, but the comment rankled her. Helena Steele might not have been born into the ton, but her talent and grace surpassed those of many of its members in Charlotte’s opinion.
After the performances concluded, the guests rose to mingle once more.
Helena was quickly surrounded by admirers, all clamoring to compliment her and ask about her music.
Charlotte caught a glimpse of her glowing smile but decided against joining the throng.
Instead, she gravitated toward Genevieve, who was hovering by the refreshments table with a glass of lemonade.
“You were splendid, truly,” Charlotte said, hoping to lift her friend’s spirits.
Genevieve gave a small shrug. “It was adequate, I suppose. Mother will say I should have practiced more.”
“You did your best, and it was lovely.”
Genevieve glanced around, lowering her voice as she said, “Have you heard about Victoria Talbot?”
Charlotte nodded, her expression darkening. “I have. Poor girl. It’s dreadful.”
Genevieve grimaced. “It’s more than dreadful. It’s terrifying. If I don’t find a suitor soon, my mother will see me married off to the first titled man who shows interest, regardless of his age or character. Appearances are all that matter to her.”
Charlotte’s heart ached for her friend, who sounded so miserable. “That won’t happen, I’m sure. You’ll find someone suitable. Someone who makes you happy.”
Genevieve gave a bitter laugh. “Happiness isn’t part of the equation, Charlotte. Not for women like us. We’re bargaining chips in a game we didn’t choose to play.”
Charlotte wanted to argue, to say that Genevieve was wrong, but the words caught in her throat. Hadn’t she said the very same thing at the ball last week?
The two stood in silence for a moment, sipping their lemonade and watching the swirl of the crowd. Charlotte sensed the future looming over them, uncertain and fraught with the weight of expectations they could not escape.
Right on cue, her mother approached, accompanied by a gentleman Charlotte vaguely recognized.
Sir Roger Leonard, the second son of an earl.
Her mother had a resolute look on her face that Charlotte knew all too well, and she forced her face to lift with a polite expression as her mother introduced them.
Sir Roger bowed, his beady black eyes sweeping over her figure as he did so. “I must say,” he began, leaning slightly closer than propriety allowed. “You’re looking particularly radiant this evening, Lady Charlotte.”
Charlotte grimaced. Roger Leonard was the very picture of a man who cared little for appearances—or hygiene, for that matter.
His cravat was askew, his waistcoat bore a faint stain of what looked suspiciously like port, and a faint odor of stale tobacco clung to him.
His ruddy complexion and the slight wobble in his stance suggested he’d had a drink or two more than was strictly appropriate.
“Thank you,” she murmured, taking a small step back.
He didn’t seem to notice—or care. “You know, I’ve always admired a lady of your… poise and refinement. Not like these other chits, fluttering about like a flock of geese.” He waved a hand vaguely toward the room, sloshing the contents of his glass dangerously close to the brim.
Charlotte pressed her lips together, resisting the urge to look around for rescue. Her mother had discreetly sidled off and was talking to Lady Flynn. “That is… very kind of you to say.”
“And yet,” he went on, his tone turning conspiratorial, “it’s a shame, isn’t it? A lady of your breeding shouldn’t have to endure these absurd gatherings, paraded about for the ton like a prize heifer. I dare say I know how you feel—these events are a dreadful bore.”
Charlotte barely stifled a sigh. Leonard’s words might have been marginally more tolerable if he weren’t ogling her in a way that made her skin crawl.
“Indeed,” she said, casting a desperate glance toward Lady Fitzgerald, who pretended not to notice.
“I was thinking,” Leonard continued, oblivious to her discomfort, “that perhaps we might find a quieter corner to continue this delightful conversation. There’s something about these crowds that makes it so difficult to truly connect, don’t you think?”
Before Charlotte could summon a reply—or an excuse—her mother reappeared, her expression serene but her sharp eyes taking in the situation at a glance.
“Charlotte, there you are,” she said, her voice smooth but firm. “Are you feeling quite well, my dear? You look a bit pale.”
Charlotte seized the opportunity with a surge of relief that nearly made her dizzy. “Oh, Mama, you’re right. I think the heat is getting to me.” She pressed a hand to her forehead for effect. “Perhaps we should leave?”
Her mother hesitated for a moment, her gaze flickering between Charlotte and Leonard. Then she nodded. “Of course, my dear. We wouldn’t want you to become unwell. Sir Roger, if you’ll excuse us.”
Leonard’s face fell, but he rallied quickly, offering Charlotte a bow that was more a teetering dip. “Of course, Lady Fitzgerald. Lady Charlotte, I hope to see you again soon.”
Charlotte offered a faint smile and murmured something noncommittal before allowing her mother to steer her away. As they made their way toward the exit, she felt a wave of relief wash over her.
Once outside, the cooler night air was a balm to her frayed nerves. The street was quieter than she’d expected, as most of the carriages were waiting farther down to avoid clogging the main thoroughfare. She took a deep breath, letting it steady her.
It was then she spotted him. Across the street, Henry—no, the Duke of Arundel—stood talking with another gentleman, his dark head bent slightly in concentration. The sight of him, so poised and assured, sent a flutter through her chest that she resolutely ignored.
On impulse, she raised a hand and waved, but the duke didn’t see her. He turned slightly, his profile illuminated by the glow of a nearby streetlamp, before stepping into a waiting carriage and disappearing from view.
Charlotte let her hand drop, the disappointment settling heavily in her chest. She glanced at her mother, who was watching her with an expression that was uncharacteristically soft.
“Charlotte,” Lady Fitzgerald said gently, “it’s quite all right, you know.”
Her throat tightened. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Her mother nodded, a knowing look in her eyes. “Of course you don’t.”
Charlotte turned away, suddenly feeling both transparent and terribly foolish.
The night air, which had felt so refreshing moments ago, now seemed far too chilly.
She wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and climbed into their waiting carriage, wishing she could leave her tangled emotions behind in the dust of the London streets.
Her mother clearly knew about her preference for the duke.
How dreadfully embarrassing.