CHAPTER 2
Charlotte slowly turned, the flutter of her fancy silks stirring a pebbling of gooseflesh on her bare arms.
Wrexford was easy to spot in the crowd. Tall and broad shouldered, his Satan-dark hair falling over his collar in unruly tangles, he was dressed entirely in black, save for the touch of starched white linen at his neck.
His evening attire was exquisitely tailored, she noted. However, his scowl—also black—was cut from a different cloth.
He disliked pompous prigs even more than she did.
Feathers bobbing, a gaggle of turbaned matrons scattered at his approach, clucking like helpless chicks whose henhouse had just been invaded by a wolf. A murmur ran through the room—Wrexford was known for his volatile behavior—as the earl stopped and looked around.
Their eyes met.
And a glint of emerald sparkled through his lashes as the scowl softened, allowing his lips to curl ever so slightly upward.
Charlotte drew in a breath, suddenly feeling as if she had just swallowed a flock of butterflies.
What an odd sensation, she mused. It must be the champagne that was making her feel so fluttery.
“Wrexford!” called the dowager, breaking away from her conversation with Nicholas to wave him over.
“Milady.” The earl executed a faultless bow.
“How very naughty of you to cast all the fresh-faced young beauties in the shade.” Looking up with a spark of unholy amusement, he lowered his voice to a mock whisper.
“Intelligence and experience in a lady are far more alluring than simpering smiles and vapid conversation.”
A snort sounded in answer. “What fustian, sir.” Alison waggled her cane. “However, at my age, the prattle of a charming rogue, fustian or not, is rather welcome.”
“Me, charming?” Wrexford arched his dark brows. “God forbid.”
Charlotte shifted as he greeted Nicholas and Jeremy . . . and then went very still as he turned to her.
“Lady Charlotte.”
It took her an instant to realize he was reaching out to perform the usual ritual of bestowing a kiss upon her hand.
She hastily fumbled to place her palm atop his knuckles.
“You look . . .”
Charlotte waited for one of his usual sarcastic witticisms.
“Lovely,” he finished.
Her jaw went slack.
“The color suits you,” he added. “It’s . . . elusive.”
Madame Francoise, London’s most exclusive modiste—and also part of Charlotte’s extensive network of sharp-eyed informants who kept her apprised of all the hidden secrets and scandals of the ton—had chosen a smoky slate-blue hue for Charlotte’s gown, and the watered silk had an intriguing aura of mystery as it subtly shifted shades depending on how it caught the light.
“Elusive,” repeated Charlotte dryly, quickly composing her emotions. “I daresay I’m the only lady here who’ll receive that word as a compliment.” A pause. “Assuming it was one.”
“Surely by now you know better than to expect platitudes from me.”
“I do.” She tugged at her glove, feeling oddly jumpy, and then quaffed another sip of her champagne.
“As a man of science, you’re dedicated to searching for truths through logic and empirical evidence, rather than emotion or wishful thinking.
So, of course you recognize that no matter how costly or alluring the fabric, one can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. ”
Wrexford took her arm and drew her away from the others to a more secluded spot by the doorway leading to the side salons. The musicians, she realized, had left off playing a stately concerto and were tuning their instruments for the start of the dancing.
A spurt of panic rose in her gorge.
“Relax, Lady Charlotte,” counseled the earl.
The steadiness of his hand seemed to still her churning innards.
He watched as the Royal Duke of Cumberland and several of his cronies strolled past them.
“Remember, you know all the deepest, darkest foibles and scandals of everyone in the room. It is they who should be feeling on the verge of puking.”
“How very reassuring, Wrexford,” she drawled. “You certainly know how to calm a lady’s delicate nerves.”
A chuckle rumbled in his throat. “Would you rather I appeal to your mercenary side? Just think of all the juicy little details you’ll gather firsthand for your satirical drawings now that you have entrée into the inner sanctum of the aristocracy.”
The earl had a point. For her, this wasn’t about flirting and frivolities. Yes, her job put food on the table and allowed an independence few ladies of her class ever achieved. But she did it because she had a passion for fighting hypocrisy and the misuse of power and privilege.
Good versus evil. She knew Wrexford thought her pitifully na?ve to believe that light could vanquish darkness....
A none-too-gentle tug roused her from her reverie as he plucked the glass from her hand and set it aside. “Stop woolgathering. They’re striking up the first waltz.”
Charlotte didn’t need to look around to know all eyes were upon her. It felt as if dagger points were dancing over every inch of exposed skin.
“Just imagine they’re all naked,” he murmured.
“Must I?” She let out a ragged exhale, and the knot in her belly suddenly loosened. Leave it to Wrexford to say something so spectacularly outrageous that she couldn’t help but smile. “Now I’m not nervous. I’m merely ill.”
He laughed. And then, as the first notes of the lilting melody began, he swept her into a twirling turn and all rational thoughts went spinning away.
* * *
A sow’s ear? Pulling Charlotte a touch closer, Wrexford guided her through another intricate figure of the waltz.
Is that how she sees herself? To him, she possessed the quicksilver grace of a forest wood sprite, a beguiling mix of dark and light dipping and darting through the shadows, eluding all attempts to cage her spirit.
She confounded him. Challenged him. And yes, infuriated him when she charged into places where angels should fear to tread.
His breath caught in his throat at the memory of their recent investigation. He had never been so frightened in his life as when he had opened the door to a secret chamber, uncertain of whether he would find her dead or alive.
“You’re scowling,” murmured Charlotte.
He shook off his dark thoughts.
“You’re supposed to be helping me make a good impression on the beau monde, and instead they’ll think I’m an ungainly oaf who is squashing your toes.”
“I’m notorious for scowling.” Her silken gown, as ethereal and changeable as a puff of smoke, fluttered around her slender hips as they moved as one in harmony to the music. “And for being a dangerous, mercurial fellow with a hair-trigger temper.”
Her lips twitched. “Your bark is far worse than your bite. But be that as it may, you could be Satan Incarnate, but the fact that you’re an earl adds luster to my first dance in Polite Society.” A pause. “So do try to appear as though I’m not driving you to distraction.”
Wrexford couldn’t hold back a smile. “There. Is that better?”
She nodded uncertainly and looked away. They spun through the next few turns in silence.
“Forgive me if my sharp tongue has caused offense,” he finally said. “As you well know, I see the world through a rather cynical prism.”
“Oh, it’s not you, Wrexford. I’ve become quite comfortable with your sarcasm.” Charlotte sighed. “The trouble lies with me. I . . .” She stepped through a turn with unconscious grace. “I never imagined I’d be here. And I suppose I’m still trying to come to grips with how my life has changed.”
“Change is an immutable part of life,” he said. “We grow, we evolve, and we learn to look at things from new perspective. And we come to feel differently about things than we did in the past.”
His words seemed to surprise her. “When we first met, you claimed you didn’t have any feelings.”
“Perhaps I’ve changed.”
Charlotte met his gaze. A current was swirling in the depths of her eyes, but he couldn’t quite fathom its meaning. “I think we’ve both changed.”
Wrexford held his breath and waited for her to go on.
“But . . .” She allowed a rueful grimace. “I couldn’t begin to say how.” Another spin, another twirl. “Or why.”
“Some things defy words,” he agreed.
“And yet—”
Whatever she was going to say was cut short by the music ending.
All around them, the fluttering blaze of colors stilled as the other couples began to leave the dance floor. Wrexford released his hold on her and stepped back. “I see Sheffield and Lady Cordelia have arrived and are with Lady Peake and the others. Shall we join them?”
* * *
“Lady Charlotte!” Sheffield greeted her with an appreciative smile and placed his hand on his heart. “On with the dancing! Let joy be unconfin’d—”
“I beg you, Kit,” interrupted the earl. “If you’re going to misquote poetry, at least choose someone other than that arse Lord Byron.”
“You don’t find the baron’s poetry romantic, Lord Wrexford?” asked Lady Cordelia Mansfield, the corners of her mouth giving a telltale twitch. Like the earl, she didn’t suffer fools gladly.
He looked down his long nose at her. “I find any excess unpalatable—to wit, add a cup of sugar to your tea rather than a spoonful, and it will make you gag.”
“I take my tea unsugared, so I quite agree with you,” replied Cordelia.
“I thought all ladies swooned over Byron,” protested Sheffield, though he, too, looked to be biting back a grin. “What about you, Lady Charlotte?” he queried, turning to her.
“I hate to disappoint you, but I’m afraid my sentiments are the same.”
“Thank heavens.” Sheffield expelled a theatrical sigh. “Now I don’t feel quite so intimidated in offering my humble self for the next set.” A mischievous twinkle danced in his eyes. “You see, I could never pen a poem. It takes too much thinking—and thinking makes my head hurt.”