Chapter 5
Charlotte sat at the writing table in the drawing room, quill scratching furiously as she committed every detail from her earlier trip to Gunter’s with Jane.
She recorded who had been present, the fashionable shades of their gowns, which gentlemen fawned too obviously over the heiresses, and—most important of all—the snippets of overheard conversations.
It was in these small details that her readers found delight.
Sometimes she almost pitied how easy it was to gather material for her articles. Almost.
“What are you writing?” came Jane’s voice beside her.
Charlotte quickly folded the paper over upon itself. In her haste, she prayed the ink had not smeared. “Nothing in particular,” she lied.
Jane gave her a knowing look. “If I had to hazard a guess, I would say you are drafting your next piece for The Morning Post.”
Charlotte’s eyes flicked to the door, ensuring they were alone, before she sighed. “You would be correct.”
“May I read it?” Jane asked.
Charlotte gave a little shrug, feigning nonchalance. “If you wish. It is nothing more than rough notes of what I observed earlier.”
Jane accepted the paper, her eyes scanning rapidly. Soon her brows arched in astonishment. “You noticed all of this?”
“I did.”
“I confess, I was far too intent on my lemon ice to give heed to anyone’s posture or attire.”
Charlotte’s lips curved faintly. “I have always enjoyed observing people. One can discern so much from the tilt of a chin, the set of the shoulders, or the lift of a brow.”
“You have a talent.”
Charlotte huffed. “Not everyone would agree with you—least of all Alistair.”
“Your brother loves you,” Jane countered, moving to the settee.
“He may love me, but duty governs his every breath. I will not live the same way.”
“And what life do you wish for?”
Charlotte’s quill hand stilled. That was the difficulty since she did not fully know. Only that she craved more. More than the glittering cage of her position. More than being paraded about as the diamond of the Season. She had a mind, a voice, and she intended to wield it.
“I was born into privilege, and I am grateful,” she said at last. “But I tire of the restrictions. I feel caged, Jane. Constricted. Alone.” She turned to the window. “I am more than a pretty face.”
Jane tilted her head. “Have you tried to tell Alistair this?”
Charlotte met her gaze with a grimace. “He would not understand.”
“He might,” Jane urged. “You won’t know unless you confide in him.”
“I cannot endure his look of disapproval. I saw that same look in Father’s eyes too many times.”
Jane leaned forward. “Your brother is not your father.”
“I know,” Charlotte admitted. “But if Alistair knew about my writing… he would demand I stop. And I am not prepared to give up that part of myself.”
Jane raised her hand in surrender. “I won’t argue further. But I think you misjudge him. He is more progressive than you credit him for being.”
“Viscounts are not known for progressive thinking,” Charlotte retorted.
Before Jane could answer, Malone appeared in the doorway. “Lord Amner and Mr. Trotter have requested an audience with Miss Winslow.”
Charlotte smothered a groan. Not those two buffoons again. But diamonds could not groan, nor complain. She forced a smile, slipping the incriminating notes into the desk drawer before rising. “Please send them in.”
A moment later, the pair entered, bowing with exaggerated flourish.
“You are looking lovely, Miss Winslow,” Lord Amner began.
“Yes, quite lovely,” Mr. Trotter echoed. “Would you take a turn about the room with me?”
“I was going to ask her that first, you arse,” Lord Amner muttered under his breath.
Charlotte fought the urge to bury her face in her hands. Dear heavens, must they squabble like schoolboys?
“I believe I arrived first,” Lord Amner said loftily.
“You are merely slow in speech,” Mr. Trotter taunted.
Jane interrupted. “Gentlemen, there will be no tours today. You are welcome to join us for tea.”
Mr. Trotter’s expression fell, disappointment flickering across his face before he composed himself with a stiff smile. “Very well,” he murmured, stepping towards the settees as though he were approaching the gallows.
Charlotte glided across the carpet to sit beside Jane, grateful for the anchor of her sister-in-law’s steady presence.
Mr. Trotter lowered himself onto the opposite seat with the weight of a man already wounded, while Lord Amner hesitated before settling beside him, the reluctance in his posture almost comical.
Neither gentleman looked particularly pleased with the other, and Charlotte braced herself for the inevitable clash.
Reaching for the teapot, she felt both sets of eyes upon her. Mr. Trotter cleared his throat. “Have you been enjoying the Season thus far?”
“I have,” Charlotte replied, her hand steady as she poured four cups of tea.
“You pour remarkably well,” Lord Amner remarked, his tone as solemn as if he were praising the artistry of Raphael.
Charlotte resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of all the compliments in the world, he chose that? Still, she summoned a polite smile. “Thank you.”
“Do you enjoy music?” Lord Amner pressed, leaning towards her. “Do you play the pianoforte or sing?”
She distributed the cups, deliberately careful not to brush against either man’s gloved fingers. She had no intention of encouraging either of these men. “I do enjoy music, and I can sing and play pianoforte, my lord.”
“I hope I can witness that soon enough,” he replied, sipping his tea as though sealing the promise.
Mr. Trotter seized the opening. “Do you ride, Miss Winslow? Hyde Park is so lively this time of year.”
“I do ride,” she said, “though most often with my brother.”
“I have been told I am an excellent riding partner,” Mr. Trotter declared with the air of one bestowing a rare treasure.
Lord Amner smirked over the rim of his cup. “By whom—your mother?”
Charlotte’s eyes widened a fraction, but she quickly dropped her gaze to her saucer, hiding the bubble of laughter that threatened to escape.
Mr. Trotter stiffened. “My mother and I do ride together, yes, but only because I am a dutiful son.”
“A dutiful son,” Lord Amner echoed, his words edged with mockery. “Is that what you call it?”
Mr. Trotter’s voice sharpened. “Our close bond is not inappropriate, if that is what you are suggesting.”
“I implied no such thing,” Lord Amner countered. He set his cup down with a decisive click. “But I must say, you are being overly sensitive. And it is not a good look.”
Mr. Trotter’s eyes narrowed. “You are a pompous—”
“Gentlemen!” Jane’s voice rang out. “Please remember yourselves and where you are.”
Lord Amner looked chastened, though only just. Mr. Trotter, however, lifted his chin in defiance. “I have had enough of Lord Amner’s company for one day. Good afternoon.” With a bow that barely brushed the line of civility, he strode from the room.
Charlotte set her cup down, silently thanking heaven for his departure. But her reprieve was short-lived.
Lord Amner turned back to her with renewed eagerness. “Will you allow me to take you on a carriage ride tomorrow?”
Her entire being screamed no. The very thought made her stomach clench. Yet how could she refuse without sounding ungracious? She searched desperately for an excuse, but nothing arrived. Just as she was about to yield, fate intervened.
“I’m afraid Miss Winslow has already granted me that privilege.”
Charlotte’s head snapped towards the doorway. There stood Lord Luca, one shoulder propped lazily against the frame. A sigh of relief almost escaped her lips, but she schooled her features into polite composure.
Lord Amner frowned. “Then I suppose I should have called upon you sooner. May I call upon you tomorrow instead?”
Charlotte inclined her head with practiced grace. “Yes, my lord.”
He rose and bowed. “Good day, Miss Winslow.”
The instant he departed, Lord Luca strode forward, his smile insufferably smug. “I am not surprised to find you surrounded by admirers.”
“I do not have admirers,” Charlotte said quickly, though the denial sounded weak even to her own ears.
He arched a brow. “You are the diamond. Gentlemen write sonnets about you and your beauty.”
“I daresay you exaggerate.”
Without asking, he sank onto the settee across from her. “You need to mask your reactions better,” he murmured. “They are far too easy to decipher.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, I think you do. You looked as if you nearly swallowed a bird whole when Amner asked you for a carriage ride.”
“That is not true,” she responded.
“So you were eager to go, then?” His eyes glinted with challenge.
She pressed her lips together. “Lord Amner is a kind gentleman—”
“I am not asking about his kindness.” He leaned closer. “Did you want to go? And I should like the truth, if you please.”
“I do not answer to you.”
His smirk deepened. “Which means no.”
“It means I do not have to explain myself to you,” she snapped.
“I would be happy to fetch Lord Amner back and tell him you are available for that carriage ride, after all,” he teased.
She exhaled sharply. “Why are you here?”
“I missed you.”
With an exasperated look, she asked, “Do you ever give a straight answer?”
“Where is the fun in that?” he asked, winking.
She narrowed her eyes. “Do not wink at me.”
“Oh, did I?” He winked again, deliberately.
Fine. Two could play at that game. She winked back. “I can do that, too. It means nothing.”
“Mine does,” he replied. “It means I am fascinated by you.” Another wink.
“And mine means I find you intolerable.” Wink. Wink.
Jane’s laugh tinkled behind her gloved hand. “You two are being utterly ridiculous.”
“It is not me—it is him,” Charlotte insisted.
Jane turned to Luca, amusement bright in her eyes. “Would you care to join us for supper?”
Charlotte nearly choked at her sister-in-law’s invitation. “That is impossible. Lord Luca has a meeting tonight.”
His brow quirked. “Do I?”
“Yes,” she said firmly, pinning him with a warning look. “A very important meeting.”