Chapter Two #2
He found himself, without having intended to, tracking where in the room Lady Charity was.
She had barely moved from near the bay window, and did not appear to be involved in any of the conversations around her. He almost laughed as he realised that, in that moment, he envied her – if he had been able to avoid conversation, he would have done so.
Perhaps later, he might find a chance to speak with her, to discover if she was truly as different as she seemed – and, if he could, to discover what that expression of apparent fear had been about.
*****
When the Duchess had performed the introductions, Charity had wished, for a moment, that the floor might open up and swallow her. Fear had filled her – fear that he might remark on their early morning meeting, revealing that she had been out unchaperoned, or that he might treat her with disdain.
When neither thing happened, and she had instead found her gaze locked to his, she had been hard pressed to look away, even as the silence extended.
She did not understand what she saw in his expression – he studied her, as if she was a puzzle that he needed to unravel.
She only hoped that the other young women present had not noticed that moment between them.
He had looked away at the same moment she had, and made polite conversation, ending with that hope that they would enjoy their stay at Oakmoor Chase.
She had responded automatically, without pausing to think first, and then horrified embarrassment had filled her when she had realised what she had done, and that he had actually heard her!
He had met her eyes again, and she had braced herself for an expression of scorn, but instead had seen only curiosity in that gaze, before she had looked down.
Now, as he moved around the room, talking to everyone, but to no one for very long, she could not help but watch him.
Blessedly, the other women near her became caught up in various conversations, including her mother, and Charity was able to simply sit on the bay window seat and sip at her tea, without needing to deal with the exhausting process of polite conversation.
Exhausting because it required her to weigh every word before she spoke, lest she blurt out something blunt and inappropriate.
Not far from her, Lady Anne Brooks and the Misses Woodfield were talking to each other quietly, their voices coming clearly to Charity where she sat.
“Have you heard what is being said about this house party, Miss Woodfield?”
Lady Anne’s voice was lowered in that manner which people used when discussing things secret or scandalous.
“What is being said, Lady Anne?”
Miss Woodfield leant close to Lady Anne, her eyes alight, and her sister pressed closer too.
“It is rumoured that the Duke has made a vow to choose a woman to be his bride – from those present at this very party!”
“Oh! Then… perhaps there is some pattern to who has been invited? For we seem an interesting mix of people – some from the first stare of fashionable society, and some who are far less commonly seen about in London. Do you think… do you think that the Duke has already considered others, and come to a narrowed range of choices? That perhaps we are here because we are strong contenders to be his Duchess?”
“That is an exciting thought, Miss Woodfield, is it not?”
“It is. Although… given the… variety… of those present, if that is the case, then the Duke has remarkably… eclectic taste in women!”
“You are correct there. I must say, there are some people here whom I would not have expected… but perhaps they are here so that his gentlemen friends will have young ladies to consider as well?”
“Possibly…”
They moved off at that point, going to stand near the fire, and Charity was left alone to consider what she had heard.
Above her, across the top of the bay window, a string of tiny Christmas bells hung, twined with ribbon and sprigs of holly.
Every so often, the movement of the air in the room caused them to ring softly, as they did at that moment.
Charity looked up, and smiled when she saw the holly – it reminded her of that morning, of the huge hedges of it, and the feather… and the Duke.
The Duke, who might be specifically intending to choose a bride in the next week, from amongst the women here. If she had thought her mother’s hope was improbable before, now Charity knew it to be so unlikely as to be laughable.
The chance of Charity attracting the Duke’s courtship was vanishingly small.
She studied all of the young women present, sipping her tea, and pretending to be completely at ease.
They were uniformly beautiful – more so than she – and their appearance was polished to perfection.
They wore gowns from the best modistes, jewels from the most skilled goldsmiths, and delicate bejewelled slippers.
They conversed with perfect ease, about the inconsequential nothings which comprised polite discussion, and moved elegantly.
No doubt they also played the pianoforte to perfection, painted exquisite watercolours of boring subjects, and embroidered such fine stitches that one would need a quizzing glass to see them properly.
Charity was not even one of those things – except perhaps for the quality of her sewing – but her stitches were done on prosaic things like repairing her gowns, or stitching the feathers onto a headdress, not on pointless but pretty handkerchiefs and the like.
She sipped her tea again, and watched as the Duke moved to yet another cluster of young ladies, always smiling, and obviously at ease joining them in speaking of polite nothings.
No matter what her mother hoped for, Charity had best resign herself to invisibility, and be thankful for it. There was not the slightest possibility of the Duke being interested in her, especially not after the manner of their first meeting.