4. In Which a Gentleman Retreats and Immediately Regrets It – The Pemberton Ball, Berkeley Square, London
IN WHICH A GENTLEMAN RETREATS AND IMMEDIATELY REGRETS IT
EDWARD
THE PEMBERTON BALL, BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON
Iretreated after the dance. Heart pounding.
The sensible thing would have been to stay. To make conversation. To dance with other young ladies and prove to myself—and to anyone watching—that Charlotte was simply my niece, that the waltz had been nothing more than a family obligation dressed in three-quarter time.
Instead, I found myself on the terrace with a glass of champagne I didn't want and thoughts I absolutely should not have been thinking.
The terrace was less crowded than the ballroom, but not empty. Couples strolled past, stealing moments in the shadows. I stood near the balustrade, looking out at Pemberton's gardens, and tried to convince myself that what had just happened on the dance floor was manageable.
It was not manageable.
Charlotte's hand in mine. The particular way she'd looked up at me when she laughed. The fact that when I'd said "always," I'd meant it in a way that had nothing to do with avuncular duty and everything to do with?—
No.
I drained the champagne. Set the glass on the balustrade with more force than necessary.
She was seventeen.
She was Juliet's daughter.
She was Charlotte, who used to order me out of trees.
She was also the woman who had looked at me during that waltz as if I were the only person in the room. Who had called me Edward—not Uncle Edward, just Edward—and made my name sound like something new.
I should go back inside. Dance with someone else. Prove to myself that I could be in the same ballroom as Charlotte without my entire world narrowing to the point where she stood.
Through the glass doors, I could see into the ballroom. The orchestra was playing something light and forgettable. Couples whirled past in a blur of silk and candlelight.
And there, near the refreshment table, I saw Charlotte.
With Dunmore.
Again.
She had the look. The one that meant she was being polite to someone she'd rather strangle. Her smile was fixed in place. Her posture was perfect. And Dunmore—oblivious, earnest, well-meaning Dunmore—was gesturing enthusiastically about something, probably another snuffbox.
I watched Charlotte's eyes glaze slightly. Watched her nod at appropriate intervals. Watched her scan the room, looking for escape.
I should leave it alone.
She wasn't my responsibility. Her Season, her suitors, her future—none of it was my concern.
I walked back inside anyway.
The ballroom was hot, crowded, and loud. I moved through the crush with the kind of purpose that made people step aside. Reached Charlotte just as Dunmore was describing what appeared to be the hinges on yet another French enamel piece.
"—absolutely exquisite craftsmanship, you see, because the spring mechanism requires such precision, and I was telling Father just this morning—oh!
Retford!" Dunmore turned with genuine pleasure.
"Back again! Splendid. I was just telling Lady Charlotte about the Sèvres piece I acquired last month.
Have you ever seen Sèvres enamelwork up close? The detail is quite?—"
"Extraordinary, I'm sure," I said smoothly. "Charlotte, I believe your grandfather was asking for you. Something about the family carriage."
Charlotte's eyes met mine. There was relief there. And something else. Something that made my chest tight.
"Was he?" Charlotte said, perfectly innocent. "How odd. We came in Papa's carriage."
"Nevertheless, he seemed quite insistent."
"Then I should go at once." Charlotte turned to Dunmore with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Lord Dunmore, if you'll excuse me?—"
"Of course, of course! Family matters, naturally. Perhaps we could continue our discussion later? I have several other pieces I'd love to tell you about. There's a Chinese one with the most remarkable?—"
"I look forward to it," Charlotte lied magnificently.
I offered my arm. Charlotte took it. And as we moved through the crowd toward the corridor, I felt her fingers tighten on my sleeve.
"There's nothing wrong with the carriage," she said quietly.
"No," I agreed. "There isn't."
"And Grandpapa wasn't asking for me."
"Also no."
We reached the corridor. It was quieter here, cooler, away from the press of bodies and the relentless orchestra. There was a small alcove near the music room—I'd noticed it earlier—and I steered Charlotte toward it.
The alcove was empty. Private. Probably not entirely proper, but I was past caring about proper.
Charlotte turned to face me, and for a moment we just looked at each other.
Then she started laughing.
Not the polite Society laugh. The real one. The one that made her eyes light up, and her shoulders shake, and made me want to do absolutely inadvisable things.
"Snuffboxes," she gasped. "He has several other pieces. Russian ones. With remarkable—" She dissolved into laughter again.
I felt myself smile despite everything. "You did agree to continue the conversation later."
"I was being polite!"
"You were lying."
"I prefer to think of it as strategic diplomacy."
"That's lying."
Charlotte laughed harder. "You can't use my own words against me."
"I absolutely can."
We were standing very close. Close enough that I could see the particular grey of her eyes. Close enough to catch the scent of whatever perfume she was wearing—something light and floral that suited her. Close enough to be completely inappropriate.
I should step back.
I didn't step back.
"Thank you," Charlotte said quietly. "Again."
"For rescuing you from snuffbox hinges?"
"For seeing it. That I needed rescuing." She looked up at me. "How do you always know?"
Because I can't stop watching you. Because every time Dunmore corners her, I want to put my fist through something. Because the idea of her spending the rest of the Season—the rest of her life—with someone who doesn't see how extraordinary she is. makes me want to?—
"You have a tell," I said instead. "Your left eye twitches slightly."
"It does not!"
"It absolutely does."
"I have no such—" She stopped. Narrowed her eyes. "You're lying."
"Am I?"
"Yes. I would know if my eye twitched."
"Would you?"
Charlotte looked like she wanted to argue. Then her lips curved into that particular smile that meant she knew exactly what I was doing.
"You're distracting me," she said.
"Is it working?"
"Annoyingly, yes."
We stood there in the alcove, looking at each other, and I was acutely aware that we were alone. The corridor was empty. That Charlotte's hand was still on my arm, and neither of us had moved.
"Edward," she said quietly.
Not Uncle Edward. Just Edward.
The way she'd said it during the waltz. The way that made everything feel different.
"Yes?"
"Why did you really come back inside?"
Because I saw you with Dunmore and couldn't leave you there. Because watching you smile at men you don't want is unbearable. Because you asked me to save you again and I will, every single time, even though I shouldn't.
"Your grandfather?—"
"Wasn't asking for me," Charlotte interrupted. "We've established that. So why?"
I looked at her. At Charlotte, who saw through everyone and everything, who had spent her entire life managing people and was now demanding that I be honest when honesty was the most dangerous thing I could offer.
"Because you looked like you needed rescuing," I said finally. "And I?—"
"There you are!"
Marguerite's voice cut through the moment like a knife. I stepped back immediately—too quickly, probably, in a way that would look suspicious if she noticed.
Charlotte's hand dropped from my arm.
Marguerite swept into the alcove with the kind of timing that suggested she'd been looking for Charlotte specifically. Her expression was warm, pleased, and completely oblivious to the fact that she'd just interrupted something.
"Charlotte, darling! I've been searching everywhere. Lord Dunmore was hoping for another dance, and I thought—" She stopped, looking between us. "Edward! How lovely. You've been keeping Charlotte company?"
"Just escorting her from the ballroom," I said. "She was looking for her grandfather."
"Was she?" Marguerite's eyes gleamed with something I couldn't quite read. "Well, you're a dear for helping. Now, Charlotte, Lord Dunmore is waiting, and he really is such a charming young man. Come, let's not keep him waiting."
She linked her arm through Charlotte's with the kind of gentle force that brooked no argument.
Charlotte looked back at me. Her expression was complicated—frustrated, resigned, something else I couldn't name.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For the rescue."
"Always," I said, without thinking.
Marguerite led Charlotte back toward the ballroom.
I watched them go. Watched Charlotte's shoulders straighten as she prepared to face Dunmore again.
Watched Marguerite beam at her with grandmotherly pride and absolutely no idea that she was marching Charlotte directly back into the trap I'd just rescued her from.
I stood alone in the alcove and felt hollow.
This was the pattern, then. I would rescue Charlotte. We would have a moment—stolen, private, belonging only to us. And then someone would sweep her back to Dunmore, or Eastmore, or whatever other perfectly suitable gentleman the family had decided she should marry.
And I would watch her go.
Because I was her uncle. Because she was seventeen. Because wanting her was inappropriate and pursuing her was impossible, and I had no right to feel this possessive about a woman who wasn't mine and never could be.
Through the archway, I could see into the ballroom. Charlotte was dancing with Dunmore now. Smiling. Nodding. Performing the role of perfect debutante while dying inside every time he mentioned another snuffbox.
And I was standing in an empty alcove like a coward.
I should go back to Ashford House. Leave the ball entirely. Put distance between myself and Charlotte before I did something monumentally stupid.
Instead, I found myself walking back toward the ballroom.
Because Charlotte had asked me to save her again.
And I had said always.
And apparently, I meant it.