Chapter Twelve
Charlotte nodded her thanks to Hermia before entering Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s office. As expected, the woman was seated behind her desk, dressed in full black with her veil carefully in place.
“Good evening, Miss Dickson,” she said smoothly as she gestured to the chair positioned across from her.
Charlotte took a seat. She’d requested this meeting—nearly two weeks after their first—because she hadn’t gotten any word on the Black Widow’s progress in finding her a husband. Her own efforts in society—the endless introductions and small talk and polite flirtations—were getting her nowhere.
And in the meantime, the Viscount and Viscountess Eastleigh were going on about their selfish, greedy lives without a single hiccup.
It wasn’t right.
“Sherry, my dear?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon inquired with a nod toward the crystal decanter at the corner of her desk.
“No, thank you,” Charlotte answered before continuing rather bluntly, “I’m here to discuss the status of our arrangement.”
There was a sharp pause.
“Which one?”
Charlotte frowned as her belly flipped. “The one in which you are to find me a proper husband.”
The Black Widow shifted smoothly in her chair, softening her posture to lean to one side as she tilted her head.
“Ah, yes. That one. You do understand how such delicate issues can take time to arrange.” Another pause.
“Perhaps you should be grateful to have something to distract you in the meantime.”
Tensing at the blatant reference to the one thing Charlotte truly did not wish to discuss, she asked, “You are aware of the second…incident?”
The other woman chuckled. “My dear, nothing happens within these walls without my express approval.”
Charlotte was confused. “You want me to engage with the marquess in such a way?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon leaned forward. “Do you not enjoy it?”
Silent for a length of time during which Charlotte couldn’t help but recall just how much she did enjoy it, she eventually forced herself to reply stiffly, “I shouldn’t.”
“But of course you should,” the Widow exclaimed. “You’re not na?ve and innocent like so many young ladies of our day. If the two of you are…compatible, why not explore it?”
Aghast at her sudden suspicion, Charlotte also leaned forward. “Are you still trying to present Redington as a potential match?”
The other woman shrugged. “He does meet each and every one of your requirements.”
“But he’s arrogant and rude and—”
“And…” the Widow led with a graceful gesture of her hand, “you’ve proven yourself more than capable of handling such traits.”
Charlotte sputtered, “In a certain context, perhaps. That does not make him a good candidate for marriage.”
“Doesn’t it? There are certainly less enjoyable reasons to marry. At least, once you’ve achieved your plotted revenge, you’ll have something else to occupy your time.”
Despite the twist of truth the Widow’s words inspired in her belly, Charlotte struggled to reconsider Redington. Their first encounter had solidified him as another representation of everything she detested in London’s high society. The arrogance and entitlement and unfettered power.
And yes—she fully realized it was a contradiction to her insistence that her chosen husband have exactly those characteristics. She was also forced to acknowledge that it wasn’t the man she abhorred so much as his position.
Discovering just how seriously he managed his responsibilities had significantly changed her opinion of him personally. Even more so was when she had sensed that he truly wished happiness for his sister. How could she not appreciate that?
And then there was the fact that she desired the man to a shocking, unprecedented degree.
But that, in itself, might be the biggest problem in considering him again as a potential husband.
Her opinion—her feelings—had become much more personal in regard to Redington. And when it came to taking on a husband, she needed to retain a mercenary approach. She would be using the man for his position in society. Coldly and intentionally.
She already knew that she was anything but cold and unfeeling when it came to the marquess.
“I’m simply suggesting you think about it, dear.”
She couldn’t. Not anymore.
But instead of issuing a fervent denial, Charlotte replied, “As long as you continue to seek out a match elsewhere.”
The Black Widow nodded. “Of course.”
Despite her agreement, Charlotte left the Lyon’s Den with an odd sense of foreboding. She felt as though her plan wasn’t hers anymore…that somehow, she’d become more pawn than master.
Standing behind his three young charges at yet another ball, Ralston couldn’t keep his displeasure from fully registering in his manner. As Bridget very helpfully pointed out.
“Goodness, Rals,” the chit quipped with a cheerful smile, “you look as though you’d like to strangle the next person who steps up for an introduction.”
Lydia slid him a sideways glance at the comment and gave a sage nod. “You’ll never catch a bride with that expression.”
Clenching his teeth, Ralston replied, “I’m not looking for a bride.”
“You should be,” Eleanor interjected with firm assurance. “Mother and Father will be back in town next week and they’ll want news of your progress in securing the next duchess.”
He grumbled something noncommittal and defensive, causing his sister to raise her brows. “What has put you in such a wretched mood?”
Ralston clenched his jaw and ignored the query.
He couldn’t exactly admit that he was physically frustrated.
His responsibilities had kept him so busy lately he still hadn’t had a chance to return to the Lyon’s Den.
Yet, he hadn’t been nearly occupied enough to keep from constantly recalling each and every moment of his last visit to that private upstairs room.
He’d never gone for such a long length of time feeling so utterly unsatisfied. Pure sensual need had been building within him. And though he’d taken himself in hand each night since, it had done nothing to ease the pressure.
Since he sure as hell couldn’t say any of that, he stood still and stoic, resisting his desires in order to fulfill his duty.
Finally accepting that he would not answer, Eleanor rolled her eyes and didn’t press him further. A moment later, Bridget suggested the three of them take a turn about the room.
He deserved their desertion. The instant he was left alone, however, the pastel masses started to swarm in.
Couldn’t any of them detect that he was not in a proper mood for their attention?
Looking over the heads of the many debutantes smiling in approach, he searched for any reason to excuse himself.
Almost immediately, he spotted Miss Dickson standing not too far away.
Without pausing to wonder why her caustic company seemed infinitely more appealing than that of the fawning hopefuls, he gave a short bow of his head as he swiftly stepped through the approaching wave to angle straight for the dark-haired woman dressed in a lovely shade of lavender.
Miss Dickson wouldn’t even have noticed his approach if Lady Henmere hadn’t given her a sharp elbow just as he reached her side, causing the young woman to startle and turn in his direction with a dark frown of displeasure.
“Miss Dickson, are you free for the next dance?”
As soon as the words left his mouth, Ralston wished to call them back. He didn’t have to shift his gaze to know that his own shock at the invitation was reflected in the faces of those who’d heard it.
The Marquess of Redington never took a young lady to the dance floor.
Such a thing could start a rash of speculation as to his intentions and before he knew it, he and his erstwhile partner would be betrothed by the gossips which would undoubtedly lead to a scandal of some sort when he had to take action to convince everyone that their rapid assumptions were false.
It was a risk he’d always refused to take.
Despite the ripple of astonishment triggered by his query, the one lady he spoke to appeared less shocked than appalled as she stared back at him without replying.
It was obvious that she wanted to refuse.
And in that moment, he hoped she would—saving them both the wretched consequences of his impulsive and idiotic attempt at escaping what he’d thought would be worse.
Miss Dickson’s mutinous expression made it clear that the crowd of young debs would’ve been a far safer option—easier to handle, anyway.
Ralston almost looked back at them with longing when another pointed nudge of Countess Henmere’s elbow forced Miss Dickson to give a quick nod.
With her obviously reluctant acquiescence, any attempt at salvaging the unfortunate situation he’d created was lost. The young woman slid her hand into the bend of his elbow, her touch surprisingly firm, and he silently led her to the dancefloor as the musicians started up the next song.
A waltz.
Wonderful.
The gossips would be chittering for weeks. He may even have to dance with several other women tonight if he hoped to diffuse whatever story they’d be brewing up about himself and Miss Dickson. Eleanor would likely make a point of bringing it up every time he annoyed her.
This was a mistake.
His companion’s snort made him realize to his horror that he’d muttered the words aloud.
They’d just gotten into position for the dance and she stood stiffly with one of her hands on his shoulder and the other resting tensely in his.
“Don’t you dare,” she threatened under her breath as she kept her gaze pinned fiercely to the center of his cravat.
“You asked. Now you will dance with me. The entire song. I will not have you openly insulting me by walking away. I’d be ruined. ”
Ralston glared down at the dark, glossy twists of her hair, arranged atop her head as he led her into their first turn. “I’d never do something so wretched.”
The soft sound she made was one of disbelief. That she clearly still thought so low of him bothered him much more than it should have. There was no reason for him to be so affected by her opinion. But he was.
“Do you really think me such a villain?” he muttered.
Her body tensed subtly in his arms, but before she could have a chance to reply, he had to quickly guide her around a couple who were doing more stumbling than dancing.
Pressing his hand firmly to her slim back, he effectively spun them out of harm’s way.
And though his body had grown tense with silent frustration, he didn’t loosen his hold on her as they came out of the turn.
“You’ve based your opinion on two very brief encounters,” he said in a curt tone. “In truth, you do not know me at all. I would never intentionally do something that could damage your reputation and risk your…”
He paused, tightening his jaw.
Damn, what exactly was the polite way to reference a woman’s search for a husband?
Her response sounded suspiciously like a soft snort of humor. “My desperate hunt for a wealthy suitor?”
Ralston had nothing to say to such a blunt reply.
She gave a wry chuckle and glanced out at the many couples swirling around them. Then she sighed. “I suppose I do not believe you to be the villain I initially thought you were,” she noted quietly. “But with my advanced age and questionable background, I don’t have much room for error, my lord.”
Questionable background? Was there some scandal already attached to her name?
After being the one who was always tasked with saving his cousins from their endless recklessness for the sake of preserving the family dignity, he could just imagine how they’d all react if he were the one to cause a stir in the gossips.
It would be utter anarchy in the Fairchild family.
Miss Dickson gasped and gave him a quick flash of her gaze before redirecting her focus elsewhere as she whispered fiercely, “I can see the horror in your eyes, my lord. You’re worried about dancing with me. Does your snobbery know no bounds?”
Ralston couldn’t respond. Not because he knew it was pointless to try to explain the complexity of his responsibilities and deny her incorrect claims against his character, but because shock had stolen his voice.
For a swift and sudden moment, he’d found himself looking into dark, honey-colored eyes.
A sharp jolt of recognition instantly brought to mind his last visit to the Lyon’s Den when he’d had wine-soaked, velvet-gloved fingers deep in his mouth and had lifted his gaze to a sultry amber stare surrounded by black satin.