Chapter 4
Charlotte didn’t mean to gasp like a fish, but she lost the ability to breathe at her mother’s announcement.
For a good ten minutes, all she could do was lean against the ballroom’s lavender-and-gilt walls and open and close her mouth, until Lady Margot threw up her hands, told Charlotte once more to go home, and fled the party herself.
Fifteen thousand pounds!
It was a sum to make even barons and viscounts go cross-eyed. Dash it, Charlotte could buy a lesser baron for that amount and still have a fortune left over.
Charlotte was an heiress, but her allowance would make no dent in a problem so big.
It was well beyond her means, beyond even what she’d generated with the horse-racing ring she’d run with her best friend, who’d married Charlotte’s brother.
And, of course, now Anna and Julian were both off in North Africa where Charlotte couldn’t reach them for help.
There’s always the silk, Charlotte thought, rather desperately.
She’d used her share of the gambling money on a long-held ambition to open a silk mill, but it was only just getting started.
She couldn’t sell it, because that would be a complete betrayal of her partner and also, damn it, it wasn’t worth anything yet.
She had to get home and think.
But first she might vomit.
What the hell was she going to—
The thought was interrupted by a stir from the nearest corner of the ballroom, conversations stuttering to a halt and guests scurrying out of the way. Charlotte looked over and gasped like a fish again.
Good God! Could the night possibly get any worse?
Because stalking toward her was the most infernal man in all of England.
Candlelight from a nearby torchère flickered across the planes of the Duke of Warrick’s face, leaving half his features dark and the other half molten.
His hair looked bronzed, not quite brown, blond, or red, but some gleaming, burnished version of all three, as if it were living metal.
Even with no costume at all and dressed in his customary badly cut dinner jacket, he commanded attention.
I doubt he’s looking for me? It was an optimistic thought, given that his eyes were locked on her and his expression thunder.
Charlotte tossed the duke her sunniest smile. You don’t scare me! she said, with the curve of her lips.
I damned well should, he replied with his scowl.
She spun away into the crush. Of all the people her brother could have selected to “keep an eye on her,” whatever that meant, did he have to choose such a mountain of a man?
It was one thing to avoid someone like Marby—all she had to do was find a portly old alderman and duck down behind him.
But there was no potted palm Warrick couldn’t see over, no chorus of pardons and excuse mes!
and oh, dash it, was that your foot? to let her know when he drew near.
Poor Marby had to fight for every inch of progress, but Warrick was a duke and a war hero.
The crowd melted away at his smallest frown.
Charlotte eyed her options. She’d intended to leave the party, but Warrick was blocking the main exit. Should she sneak out through one of the other rooms, or blend in with the cluster of black dominos near the refreshment table, or—an idea sparkled at her, a little gem of mischief.
Should she turn around and confront him?
There had been so much drama that evening, and none of it the amusing kind. Perhaps what she needed was a good, rousing fight?
Charlotte stopped abruptly and leaned back against the nearest column, crossing her arms loosely over her chest in order to annoy Warrick with her perfect indifference.
Indifference. A voice inside snorted. Is that what you call it?
She frowned as Warrick stalked closer.
It was true she’d once had fonder feelings for the man, had even thought of him as hers for the whole of one summer before he dropped her flat on her face.
Even now, it bothered her that she noticed the wide set of his shoulders, and how his long sable eyelashes went red at the tips, as if they’d been kissed by a fox.
Worse, she was still rather charmed by the fact that she knew he’d have peppermints hidden on him, wrapped up in little paper twists.
Perhaps you should pat him down and find them? offered the voice. You should pat all up and down his chest, with extra patting on those massive arms of his.
She frowned even harder as he drew alongside her.
“Good evening, Your Grace. Shall I guess your costume?” Charlotte cocked her head. “I know! You’re dressed as a man whose tailor doesn’t like him.”
His jaw ticked but he didn’t respond. Instead, he propped himself against the pillar next to her, so close that his flank pressed into her and she could feel his heat.
“Here’s what happens next,” Warrick growled softly. “You’ll turn to leave and I’ll follow close behind you.”
“Oh?” Charlotte arched an eyebrow at him. “Very close?”
Warrick’s jaw ticked again, the muscle at the corner flicking on and off like a little warning. “Do you take nothing seriously?”
Her mother’s debt flashed immediately to mind, but she smiled. “Do I take things seriously at a party? Not often. I leave the misery to you.”
“Damn it, you must know you can’t be here.”
“Oh yes! What a scandal for a young woman to be alone in a room full of people. Do you know how tired I am of being tied down by these petty rules? I often wonder what good we might do in the world if we forgot all about them and concentrated on real problems.”
Warrick flicked a derisive glance down at her dinner jacket. “I see. You’re out at a masquerade and dressed as a man for the benefit of mankind?”
Oh dear. She’d rather walked into that one, but Charlotte knew how to recover.
“It does feel odd to wear breeches.” She kicked out a leg to bring his attention to it. “They cling so, you see.”
Warrick flicked his eyes down briefly and up again, his cheeks suspiciously dark. “Christ, you have so much and this is what you do with it? Are you here trying to ruin your reputation, or are you so damned frivolous that you simply don’t care?”
Charlotte’s face flamed. She knew what her detractors said about her—too rich, too spoiled, altogether too pleased with herself. Normally when confronted with these opinions, she found it best to nod in sympathy and say, “Too true!”
But Warrick had a way of crumbling the mortar in her castle wall defenses. A strange bolt of longing shot through her, and Charlotte found herself wondering how it would feel to stop fighting him, or to count him as a friend, as she once had.
What an impossible idea.
He shifted uncomfortably beside her. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean… That was uncalled for.”
Charlotte managed a laugh. “Please. We’ll be here for hours if you intend to apologize every time you say something rude. In any case, I was much too distracted by the sultana’s necklace to pay you much attention. Pink diamonds! Wouldn’t they look well on me?”
Warrick pushed himself off the pillar. “That’s it. You’re heading home immediately.”
Charlotte considered.
She’d already intended to leave, and Warrick was more than capable of frog-marching her out or even tossing her over his shoulder, and yet it galled her too badly to obey such a man. Was there a third option?
The crowd provided one, parting behind Warrick to reveal a pair of flaring nostrils and cherub cheeks. You’re dead! Marby mouthed at Charlotte as he struggled to push his way past a pair of chatty Hungarians.
Sparks lit in Charlotte’s head.
Yes! That’s it. Come get me, Marby.
“You have three seconds to start walking,” said Warrick.
“A countdown!” said Charlotte. “What a waste you were in the military, when you were born to be a governess. Shall we tick off the numbers together?”
Warrick’s eyes darkened, as she knew they would.
“One,” Charlotte said, to make sure Warrick’s attention was on her and not on Marby, who had cleared the Hungarians and was now trying to make his way around a drunken baroness.
“Two.”
Marby executed a rather clumsy twirl, but he edged closer.
“Three!” said Charlotte, and she stepped neatly to the side.
Warrick reached for her at the same time Marby lunged, and the two men collided, with Marby barking out a series of startled yips.
A perfect exit.
Charlotte smiled sweetly and melted into the crowd. It was past time to head home. Outside the wide French doors, the sky was fading from black to smudgy gray, and—
A hand closed around her wrist, heavy as a manacle.
“For God’s sake, Warrick! I’m leaving al—”
But the words died on her lips, because the sweaty face leering down at her made her heart kick with fear.
Major Dumbarton pulled her tight against his paunch. “There you are, bitch. You broke my toe.”
Charlotte smiled again, this time showing teeth. “Only one? I’m sure I can do better if I only try.”
She lifted her boot, but the night was all wrong or she was simply too angry to be accurate.
Instead of crunching down on the major’s foot, she caught her heel in the swishy folds of her own domino.
When she stumbled, the major clutched her close and wormed his hand under her jacket, ripping open her waistcoat and fine lawn shirt to grab for her—
Damn it, no!
She bit him hard, and the major yowled and staggered backward, but the damned domino tripped him up, too, and together they crashed to the floor.
I can still sneak away, thought Charlotte rather desperately, and perhaps she could have if the musicians hadn’t heard the ruckus and brought their violins to a screeching halt.
If her black mask hadn’t come off in the fall.
If Marby hadn’t chosen just that minute to roll up and shout, “Dash it, Charlotte, I’ve got you now!”
But unfortunately, her famous luck deserted her, and a ballroom’s worth of revelers turned around to stare.
Whispers of Is that…? Could that be…? climbed the walls and swirled across the ceiling, rumbles of her name building into a roar. Charlotte’s face flamed and her brain howled as she shoved Major Dumbarton away to reveal her ripped shirt and his hands inside it.
There was only one course of action left.
Charlotte pushed herself to her feet, plastered on her widest smile, and curtsied to the crowd.