Chapter Seven
Devil’s breeches, in all his life, Charles hadn’t encountered a more unremarkable set of people as the company here tonight.
The men—ranging from puppyish young bucks eager to demonstrate their prowess to foppish old fools even more eager to convince the rivals that their virility was as potent as their younger rivals’—were nothing more than foxes, prowling the dance floor as if it were a field, looking for the tastiest hens to devour.
The women were no better, parading about like bitches in heat, flicking their fans in an attempt to entice and seduce.
And the conversation! Did they have nothing better to discuss than the number of doxies they’d seduced during the Season, or the number of names on their dance cards?
Beasts and whores, the lot of them, no different to the lowest creatures residing in the slums of London, save for their titles and their wealth.
Which meant that Charles was no different to them. Or worse—he was already in possession of a title, and he had come to London with the express objective of obtaining wealth.
And not just obtaining it—marrying it.
But coming to Lady Fairchild’s ball to parade himself among the braying members of Society was a waste of an evening when he could have been…
Been what? Rutting that painted doxy with the faux-Italian accent who’d screamed his name with false ecstasy then pouted in a fit of temper when he failed to scream hers in return?
A footman approached bearing a tray of champagne glasses.
Fighting the temptation to steep himself in liquor, Charles thrust his hands into his pockets and glared at the man.
If he were to seek a bride among these people, he needed a clear enough head to protect himself against the wiles of women seeking a titled partner.
One false step while under the influence of too much champagne and a man could find himself in the clutches of an ambitious young harpy desperate for a husband claiming that he’d compromised her, followed by an overly aggressive male relative calling him out.
The footman smiled and raised his eyebrows, offering the tray.
Charles gritted his teeth and took a step toward him.
The footman stepped backward, his eyes glistening with fear, and almost collided with one of the dancers—a painted harpy with the name of Miss Peacock, a name that suited her strutting, conceited demeanor.
She admonished him, and the footman mumbled his apology and scuttled off, his jacket now covered in a dark stain where one of the champagne glasses had toppled over on the tray.
Doubtless Lord Fairchild would insist the cost of cleaning the jacket come out of the poor boy’s wages, but his fate would have been worse had he spilled champagne on Miss Peacock’s gown. A woman with such spite in her eyes would have insisted the boy be whipped…
Charles caught his breath as the memory pushed itself to the fore—the searing pain on the skin of his back, his father’s insults filling the air.
He fisted his hands and focused his attention on the dancing, the brightly colored silks moving together.
Or almost together. A poor young lady was partnered with Viscount De Blanchard, a man who moved his body as if he were in the middle of relieving himself.
He’d bumped into several of the other dancers already but, his being a viscount rather than a footman, any transgression was instantly forgiven.
Charles cast his gaze over the unpartnered, unwanted women sitting around the perimeter.
One of them might make a suitable bride.
The less beautiful the woman, the less attention and devotion she’d expect from a husband.
Provided the dowry was large enough, he cared not how pretty his future bride was, given that he had no intention of actually spending any time with her.
A stallion didn’t take a mare because of what her face looked like.
His gaze settled on a lone woman—another unremarkable creature with insipid pale-brown hair and a dark-green gown, which, though accentuating her curves, lacked the brightness of color of the dancers, as if she wished to be overlooked.
A diamond necklace, elegant in its simplicity, lay about her throat, the gemstones twinkling in the light as she turned her head.
She seemed to dislike being here almost as much as Charles.
Her whole body vibrated with discomfort, and she was moving her hand about her left wrist in a repetitive gesture.
Charles observed her for a moment, then caught the flash of gold about her wrist. It was a bracelet, and she was rotating it, her body moving slightly as she did so.
Charles lowered his gaze to his own left hand and the signet ring on the little finger, which he was rotating in a similar gesture.
Did she, too, strive to drive away an unknown fear, to restore the balance of temper when in a hostile environment, such as a Society party filled with noise and people?
Then she glanced up, and he caught the intense expression in her dark eyes. What color were they? Green? Brown? They were narrowed so much that he couldn’t tell.
She lowered her gaze once more, focusing her attention on her bracelet. But, as Charles watched, she glanced in his direction once more, before frowning and resuming her attention on her hand.
A misfit as much as Charles, she’d be lucky to find a dance partner.
Then a gentleman approached her and Charles recognized Whitcombe, the fortunate blackguard who now owned his horse. He tempered the little spike of resentment. Where was Destriero? All alone in some stable in the middle of the country? Was he being well looked after?
Whitcombe took her hand and her lips curved upward. Her eyes widened to reveal a rich emerald color, shining with joy and love. Whitcombe, wearing a similarly besotted expression, kissed her hand then sat beside her.
So that was Whitcombe’s duchess!
Charles tempered the little twinge of regret.
Perhaps he should have taken up Whitcombe’s offer to be introduced to her when he’d had the chance.
Her expression spoke of a depth of character not to be found among most ladies of Society.
Perhaps that explained why Whitcombe, who possessed more discernment than most, had chosen her, despite her outwardly plain appearance.
You’re getting more ungallant with the passing of each day, sir.
Charles succumbed to the voice of his conscience, which sounded uncomfortably like his valet.
Were John with him tonight, he’d have admonished Charles for not placing himself in front of the prospective brides, offering his title for a dowry.
But, given the unpalatable array of choices before him, his objective was not to seek the most favorable woman he could find, but the least objectionable.
The dance came to an end and the couples dispersed.
Charles cringed as the noise increased, the ladies exclaiming over the prowess of their partners’ dancing and the gentlemen bestowing shallow compliments in reciprocation.
One couple approached the Whitcombes—a puppyish youth with hunger in his eyes and yet another unremarkable female specimen.
Dressed in a plain pale-blue gown, she lacked the elegance of the other ladies, in that she waddled across the room rather than glided and fidgeted where she stood.
In short, she looked like a chambermaid attempting, and failing, to masquerade as a lady.
Now, sir, you’re being unkind.
Curse his bloody valet! John wasn’t even in the room, yet he lived in Charles’s mind, ready to point out his every fault.
The young man bowed before the duke, who gave him a curt nod. Then the duchess patted the seat beside her. The young woman sat and glanced across the room, stiffening as she met Charles’s gaze before looking away.
Yes—unremarkable in every way, save for her eyes, which were the exact same shape as Whitcombe’s. But rather than an expression of confident superiority, they carried a note of misery and inadequacy, as if she believed that she did not belong.
Perhaps, given the likeness to Whitcombe, she was a relation, maybe an impoverished cousin whom he’d chosen, as an act of charity, to sponsor for the Season.
Which meant that she’d be desperate to bag herself a husband. Whitcombe would be equally desperate, given that charity only lasted so long, particularly if it incurred the expense of a young woman’s Season.
“Oh, I say! Is your dance card not yet full, Aurora?”
Charles cringed as the sharp, nasal tones cut through his senses, and he glanced to one side to see two ladies approach—Miss Young and Miss Peacock.
“I’ve partners enough, Louise.”
“Nonsense! You want to dance every dance tonight, do you not? I cannot imagine anything worse than being overshadowed by that Whitcombe brat.”
“That’s unlikely, given that she’s spent most of the evening seated.”
“She managed to persuade Mr. Arnott to dance with her. Some men are clearly not so fastidious as to—”
Miss Peacock broke off as she met Charles’s gaze, and the slyness in her eyes morphed into hunger.
“Is it not a fine evening, sir?” she said. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly…”
He turned his back and walked away. No dowry was large enough to tempt Charles to saddle himself with one of those two for the next dance, let alone the rest of his life.
“Well, really!”
He headed for the terrace doors to escape their indignation, then another pair of young ladies blocked his path. Their eyes widened in unison, and they giggled, fanning themselves vigorously, presumably in an attempt to look alluring.
Devil’s breeches, they hunt in pairs!
A true hunter ought to blend in with his surroundings, all the better to approach his prey undetected. But these two creatures were bedecked in eye-watering shades of pink and orange.
He strode toward them, his boots clicking against the polished marble floor.
Wide-eyed, they continued to stare, the frank desire in their gazes turning to astonishment, then Miss Pink Gown tugged at the sleeve of Miss Orange.
Charles made no move to swerve, and they darted to one side as he strode past, Miss Pink letting out a low cry as he clipped her with his shoulder.
Good. Perhaps she might think again before throwing herself into the path of a man she set her cap at. Without a backward glance, he reached the terrace doors and slipped outside.
He crossed the terrace toward the balustrade, breathing in a lungful of cool air.
Then he surveyed the vista before him. Though in London, where the residents lived cheek by jowl compared to the country, the Fairchilds’ house had a garden large enough such that no other buildings were visible, save a handful of chimney pots above the tree line.
But he could still tell they were in London.
Even if one were blindfolded, the stench of dust, dirt, and people sat heavy in the atmosphere.
The moonlight bathed the terrace, picking out the outlines of the plants lining the perimeter.
Charles approached one and ran his fingertips over the leaves, relishing the feel on his skin—the smooth upper side, and the rougher underside covered in veins.
He closed his eyes and ran his fingertips over the bush until they reached something softer, more delicate, with the texture of silk—the petals of a flower.
The music struck up once more, and he caught the sound of laughter as the fools inside resumed their hunt.
So many people crammed together, reeking of cologne and sweat as they pranced about for no other purpose than to outdo each other in terms of prowess, availability, and desirability.
What shallow creatures they were, stifling the world!
Why could they not be more like plants—the flowers, shrubs, and trees that gave air to the world rather than sucking the life out of it for their own gratification?
Too many were wont to bully a tree or a bush into a shape they deemed suitable to meet their notion of aesthetics—or to cut down a tree altogether merely for the purposes of convenience, not caring for the tree itself or for the need to live in harmony with nature.
Most of the trees lining this very garden had been alive years before the people inside the house were born, and doubtless would live for years after those people were buried.
Perhaps you should marry a tree, sir.
Charles smiled to himself at the notion of what John might say. But trees were considerably less trouble than brides. And at Penham Park he could live in harmony with nature, living alongside it rather than attempting to conquer it.
It was a pity, then, that to achieve such an objective, he must stoop to the practices of Society and pander to some conceited little miss who—
A rattle at the terrace door interrupted his thoughts, then it opened, and Charles caught sight of a blue skirt in the moonlight.
Damn. He retreated into the shadows. The last thing he needed was company, particularly female company.
Perhaps if he told her to go to hell, she’d leave him in peace. Or he could shock her into silence by telling her to fuck off.
If only I could.
He glanced over the edge of the balustrade.
The drop wasn’t too far—six or seven feet at most. He’d spent most of his childhood falling out of trees, scaling walls, and running from his tormentors until he was large enough to stand his ground and fight back, so a mere six or seven feet was a trifle, the only likely damage a tear or two to this damned expensive jacket.
But that was what John was for—to launder and mend his clothes.
It was John, after all, who’d persuaded him to stand and be tortured by that pin-pricking tailor in Saville Row in the name of “bringing my master up to the latest fashions so that he might live in the manner that befits the Devereaux name”—or whatever nonsense he’d spouted at the man.
His mind made up, Charles lifted his leg over the balustrade. Then he paused as the newcomer stepped onto the balcony, shut the door, and promptly burst into tears.
Bugger.
There was nothing more guaranteed to draw a crowd than a sniveling woman. And the last thing any man wanted was to be caught climbing over the balustrade in an attempt to get away from one.
That sort of encounter never ended well for the man.