Chapter Twenty-One
Charlotte was unsure what to do with his sudden candour.
In all actuality, it was a simple gesture.
If they had been engaged in a real courtship, it would even be expected—a matter of course.
But Charlotte found herself taken aback by the sweetness of it.
This man had arranged a lovely evening for her because he thought she would like it.
She could not think of another time someone had done something for her simply because she might like it—she was not sure there had ever been one.
She placed her hand on his, his fingers turning and twining through hers as if it were second nature to him.
Looking at their clasped hands, she felt something well inside of her.
She opened her mouth to speak but was not sure what she wanted to say.
There was something important to be said, but when she looked up from their hands, she met his gaze, which then flitted to her mouth, and all rational thought was lost.
A muted knock came from the door at the back of the box.
“Damn it.” Benjamin released her hand and stood, muttering further expletives under his breath. There was something delicious and intimate about the way he seemed to forget the courtesies owed to a lady in her presence.
∞∞∞
“Yes, Carons?” Benjamin tried to curb the annoyance in his voice at being torn from the spell in which Charlotte’s warm, low voice and smiling eyes had caught him.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir. There’s a man here who says he wants to see you.”
“I say, Wells! What is it with this guard dog you have out here? Can’t a man drop into a fellow’s box without having to answer these riddles three?” A grating, self-aggrandising laugh followed the man’s overly-loud comment—likely intended to be heard by neighbouring opera-goers.
Benjamin recognised the foppish, affected accent of Clarence Nisbet, Marquess of something or other—Benjamin was sure he knew but did not really care.
The man owed a considerable sum at gaming establishments all over London, including his own, and had the tragically common trait of men of the aristocracy, believing himself to be above both reproach and consequences.
He was also a miserable social climber, touting his own title as a means to rub elbows with those titled above him—like the Duke of Wells.
Benjamin stepped out into the hallway, hoping to deter the young insipid Marquess from his course—likely aiming to be seen in a duke’s box on opening night.
“The Duke of Wells is not attending tonight.” He kept his voice polite but stern, hoping the fop would see the absence of social cache available to him and leave.
“Scarsdale? That you? Oh, you sly fox. Using your connection to our esteemed friend tonight, are we? Well, I cannot fault you there. Best box in the house. And what a place to be seen, eh?”
Benjamin had to clench his jaw. Best not to engage with the man; he would wind himself and adjust course soon enough.
“Betty, darling?” A woman’s voice sounded from the dim corridor, her cultured accent drawing her words out lazily in the luxurious way only the truly rich and fashionable did.
“Oh, there you are. Where did you get off to? You left me with that droll woman, Lady Effing. I cannot say I understood a word that came out of her mouth. That headpiece was truly a monstrosity. Feathers spewing in a most alarming way.” The woman finally appeared from around Nisbet, and Benjamin’s stomach dropped.
Lady Catherine Beaumont was the beautiful young widow of a French count, who had conveniently died only a year into their marriage.
She was a relaxed, confident woman with shining black curls and hooded grey eyes, which enticed any man to imagine her in considerably more intimate surrounds.
More to the point, she had once—not very long ago—been Benjamin’s lover.
“Benji, darling. How good it is to see you.” Catherine held out her slender hand for him and gave him a lazy smile that could drive a man mad—as she well knew.
“Betty and I were speculating about who was occupying the duke’s box this evening.
Of course, he thought it must be Wells himself, it being opening night and all, but I was not convinced.
His shadow reads much differently than yours.
Much more prim and upright.” She trailed her eyes over his form as she would a physical caress.
“You have a predatory lounge about you.”
“Indeed. Indeed.” Nisbet seemed put out by the direction of the conversation and Catherine’s clear preference for the other man in their company. “Well, who is it, then? Who do you have hidden away in there?”
Benjamin gave him a steely glare, hoping to compel the man to sway from his curiosity.
“Yes, do introduce us to your guest, Benjamin. Spare our craning necks this long second act.” She waved a hand as if it were a passing request born of idle curiosity and not the sole purpose for their presence outside the Duke of Wells’ box.
Benjamin ground his teeth. He did not want to let them into the box and expose Charlotte without a word of warning.
Denying them, however, would ensure the gossips fixated on the matter, ferreting the truth out eventually and making it all the more sensational for it. This night had been a colossal mistake.
After another beat of silence, during which Catherine and Nisbet watched him with barely concealed curiosity, Benjamin gave a single nod and turned toward the door of the box, opening it but preceding them into the dim room.
Charlotte stood from her seat, where he had left her, and gently shook out her skirts as if she were not already a perfectly pristine image of sophisticated beauty.
She met his eyes and arched a delicate eyebrow, but other than that, acted fully composed and unruffled at the entrance of the two unannounced guests.
“Lady Charlotte, may I present to you, Countess Jean-Beaumont and Lord Clarence Nisbet…”
“Marques Lagsten.” Nisbet filled in his title proudly, eyes roving Charlotte’s form.
“Right.” Benjamin clenched his fist at his side. “This is Lady Charlotte Aston.”
Charlotte executed a polite nod and curtsy, her shimmering gown catching the light of the small table lamps and the wide chandelier suspended above the audience behind her.
After the requisite pleasantries were exchanged, Catherine turned to Benjamin with a new glint in her eyes. “Oh, but there is no need to introduce Charlotte and myself. We have known each other for quite a while, have we not?”
She turned back to Charlotte with an overly sweet smile that put Benjamin’s teeth on edge. Standing there beside Charlotte in the dim booth, he was suddenly at a loss for what charms had attracted him to Catherine to begin with.
Her beautiful face seemed cold and jaded beside Charlotte’s intelligent sparkle. And though both women had likely seen more of the truths of life than their peers, Charlotte carried none of the calculating bitterness that hid behind Catherine’s lazy, seductive stare.
“The countess and I made our debuts the same season,” Charlotte spoke politely in her low, cultured tones, and Benjamin was struck by the thought of young Charlotte, just eighteen, full of hope and promise that a first season may bring.
He wanted to go back in time and protect that girl from the future of hard truths that filled the eyes of the woman staring back at him.
“Yes, what fun that was. Such a whirlwind of a time. I felt I could hardly keep my head on straight with all the excitement. I could not even imagine how you fared.” She turned conspiratorially towards Nisbet and Benjamin.
“Charlotte had a number of beaux following her around like lost puppies. She was quite a hit. I always imagined your father barricading his study to keep them from beating down the door.” She gave a tinkling laugh and touched her fan to his sleeve.
He was unfairly gratified to see Charlotte tense at the action. But then, he realised, the proud confidence of her posture had transformed ever so slightly. She was uncomfortable—more so than one flirtatious tap would engender. Still, she gave them all a serene smile.
“The countess is merely deflecting the truth of the matter. It was she who was the true success. Her marriage to the Count was quite the coup de gras for the rest of us young ladies. None could hope to outshine her stunning victory.”
Benjamin watched the ladies exchange smiles. There was another battle being waged here, right in front of him.
“I was ever so sorry to hear of your father’s passing. My condolences. Your brother is now the earl, correct?”
Charlotte gave a tight smile. “Yes, he is. And my condolences for your loss. The Count seemed a…commanding man.” Something in that comment had another meaning.
It could have even been sympathy. Did Charlotte know of the Count’s heavy-handedness with his young wife?
There was no way for her to have known the truth of Catherine’s life on the continent.
It had taken Benjamin a while of concerted digging to find the proof of the Count’s treatment of women.
Although having met him during their debut, he would not rule out the possibility that Charlotte had seen the man’s viciousness firsthand.
The relief at knowing she had not been the one to fall into the man’s clutches was as overwhelming as it was ungenerous.
Judging by the iciness of Catherine’s gaze, she did not appreciate the note of empathy in Charlotte’s voice.
“Thank you, Lady Charlotte. That is ever so kind of you. Though I must say, I find the life of a widow suits me now. I could not imagine returning to the days of the starry-eyed debutante flanked by dour chaperones.” She flicked a smug glance toward Lady Elsie’s still-sleeping aunt.
“To have one’s own home. One’s own place in the world.
It is a joy of its own. Though I miss my husband dearly. ”