Chapter 12
Dressed in a rich, deep-blue ballgown embroidered with delicate silver flowers, Charlotte descended the grand staircase with measured grace.
Each step felt heavier than the last. The gown shimmered under the chandelier’s light, her diamond-encrusted bandeau catching the glow and scattering it across the marble floor below.
Outwardly, she looked every bit the serene, genteel young lady.
But inwardly, her stomach twisted itself into knots.
Tonight would not be like the other evenings of the Season.
She was no longer just the diamond to be admired or envied; she was the betrothed of Lord Luca Dexter.
Every whisper, every glance would weigh her, measure her, and speculate about her match.
The idea of pretending to be a doting fiancée made her want to laugh—and perhaps cry.
Still, she reminded herself, she had spent her entire life performing for Society.
This was merely another act upon the same stage.
At the base of the stairs, her brother and Jane waited for her, both with bright smiles on their faces.
“You look lovely,” Jane said, genuine warmth in her voice.
“Let’s get this over with,” Charlotte replied, stepping onto the cool marble floor.
Alistair chuckled. “You look as though you’re being led to your execution.”
“Perhaps I am,” she said dryly. “We all know this engagement is a sham. There’s no need to pretend otherwise among ourselves.”
“True,” Alistair agreed, “but the ton does not know that, and more importantly, the Duke of Brackenford does not. So, for everyone’s sake, let us keep up appearances.”
Charlotte adjusted the sleeves of her gown and lifted her chin. “You need not worry. I am more than capable of playing the part.”
“Just smile and everything will be all right,” Alistair advised, offering his arm to Jane. “Shall we?”
As they crossed the entry hall towards the waiting coach, Jane asked, “How was your nap?”
“It wasn’t awful,” Charlotte muttered, which earned her a knowing grin from Jane.
“Do try to enjoy yourself this evening,” Jane encouraged.
Charlotte doubted enjoyment would be possible. Still, she climbed into the coach, seating herself opposite her brother and sister-in-law, and turned her gaze towards the window, hoping to discourage further conversation.
No such luck.
Alistair cleared his throat. “Your carriage ride with Lord Luca must have gone well. You were gone quite some time.”
Charlotte shrugged. “Well enough. I didn’t have the overwhelming urge to throw myself in front of his horses.”
“Such high praise,” Alistair teased. “You are in an exceptionally pleasant mood tonight.”
Jane swatted her husband’s arm. “Leave Charlotte alone. She’s merely preparing herself for what’s ahead.”
“Thank you, Jane,” Charlotte murmured, meaning it. She wished that would end the matter but Alistair was relentless.
“Just remember,” he said with mock solemnity, “you are expected to dance with your fiancé at least twice this evening.”
“Wonderful,” Charlotte responded, forcing a smile.
In truth, she would rather not dance with Luca at all.
The thought of standing in his arms, of feeling the warmth of his hand against her back and the steady rhythm of his breath near her ear, unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
What was wrong with her? She was behaving like a love-crazed debutante, fawning over her intended. Heaven forbid.
Mercifully, the coach slowed and came to a stop in front of Lady Benson’s townhouse—a grand, three-story structure of whitewashed stone, its entrance framed by tall, imposing columns.
Charlotte descended, the night air cool against her flushed cheeks. The townhouse glowed with candlelight, and strains of violins drifted into the street. Drawing in a steadying breath, she followed her brother and Jane up the steps.
The moment she entered, she felt the shift in the room.
Heads turned, fans fluttered, and whispers sparked like flint in the corners.
Once, such attention had felt like triumph.
Tonight, it felt like scrutiny. They weren’t admiring her anymore; they were studying her.
Weighing her engagement, her demeanor, perhaps even her worthiness.
She pretended the scrutiny wasn’t bothering her and stepped forward with practiced poise, the perfect picture of composure—while deep inside, her heart pounded against its cage.
They waited in line to greet the hostess, and Charlotte could feel her pulse quicken with every step closer to the front.
Lady Benson’s gatherings were always the talk of the Season and tonight would be no exception.
The matronly hostess stood beside her tall, humorless-looking son, greeting each guest as if she presided over court.
Charlotte smoothed her gloved hands over her skirt, careful not to wrinkle the delicate muslin. When her turn came, she curtsied gracefully. “What a lovely home you have, my lady,” she said, her voice polite and practiced.
Lady Benson inclined her head in approval, her expression one of smug satisfaction. “You are looking well this evening, Miss Winslow. Dare I ask where your fiancé is?”
“I… um…” Charlotte’s mind went blank. Drat. She had not anticipated that question. Before she could conjure an excuse, a familiar voice cut in smoothly.
“Sorry I am late, darling,” Luca said, appearing at her side as if summoned by sheer will. His tone was rich with easy confidence, and before Charlotte could react, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek.
For one awful moment, she forgot how to breathe. Every muscle in her body screamed to step away, but she forced herself to remain still—serene, composed, the perfect fiancée. “I am so glad you are here,” she managed, proud that her voice did not tremble.
Luca turned his charming smile upon Lady Benson. “You are looking robust this evening, my lady, and might I add, a touch scandalous in that red gown.”
Lady Benson’s laughter was immediate and genuine. “You do flatter shamelessly, my dear boy. It is always a pleasure to see you. How is your father?”
“He is well, though still at the House of Lords. He should arrive shortly,” Luca replied.
Lady Benson gestured towards her son. “I had to drag mine away from the same tiresome proceedings, though he is ever so happy to be here.”
Lord Benson’s jaw ticked. “Yes, absolutely thrilled,” he said, his tone as stiff as his cravat.
Luca offered his arm to Charlotte. “We mustn’t hold up the line.”
Knowing her role, Charlotte placed her gloved hand lightly upon his sleeve. “Of course, my dear,” she said sweetly, though the words nearly choked her.
Once they were a safe distance from the receiving line and out of immediate earshot, she turned to him with a narrowed gaze. “Was that kiss truly necessary?”
He grinned. “How else was I to greet my intended?”
“That is the last kiss you will ever get from me,” she insisted.
“I doubt that,” he replied with a smirk. “I suspect you want to kiss me, but are too afraid to admit it.”
“That is not the least bit true.”
“Pity. I’ve been told I’m an excellent kisser.”
Her eyes darted towards him. “A gentleman does not kiss and tell.”
“I can’t help it if women fawn over me.”
“You are positively delusional.”
“And yet, you are the one engaged to me,” he teased.
She halted, forcing him to stop beside her. “If this is to work tonight, we must at least appear enamored with one another.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “People are staring. Say something funny.”
Her brows furrowed. “Something funny?”
He chuckled, and in an exaggerated voice loud enough for a nearby couple to hear, declared, “You are such a delight, darling.” Then lowering his voice so only she could hear, he added with a grin, “Do try harder. I can’t do all the work myself.”
His mockery lit something inside her—a spark of challenge. He wanted a performance? Well, she would give him one.
Charlotte took a deliberate step closer, and rested her hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his waistcoat.
Tilting her chin up, she smiled—not the practiced, charming smile she gave to other gentlemen, but a softer, truer one.
“You are looking very handsome this evening.”
His lips curved. “Don’t I always?”
She should have looked away, but didn’t. Their eyes held, locked in a silent contest neither wished to end. For one dizzying moment, the laughter and music around them blurred. Something unspoken passed between them. Feelings, real and deep, that could not be named or denied.
Luca’s hand rose, covering hers, his voice low. “Charlotte…”
But before he could finish, Alistair’s voice broke through. “Perhaps you two should tone down the show.”
Charlotte blinked, snatching her hand back as her cheeks flamed. She hadn’t meant to look like a fool, or worse, like a woman besotted. She had only meant to win their little battle of wits.
And yet, as she stepped back, she couldn’t shake the uneasy truth. Somewhere between pretending and playing the part, her heart had begun to forget which was which.
Luca leaned closer, his breath brushing her ear as he murmured, “You could have a career on the stage if you so desired.”
Charlotte shot him a sharp look, knowing his words struck too close to the truth.
She hadn’t been acting just now, not really.
That had been the mortifying part. Everything she’d said, every glance she’d held, had come far too easily, too sincerely.
And that realization left her feeling terribly exposed.
The orchestra struck up a new melody, the lilting notes of a waltz sweeping across the ballroom. Luca extended his hand towards her, a half-smile playing on his lips. “May I have this dance, darling?”
“Will you stop calling me that? I have a name.”
“And what a lovely name it is,” he replied.
Reluctantly, she placed her gloved hand in his. “I am going to start calling you Dunderhead if you persist.”
His grin widened. “You may call me whatever you wish. It seems to please you.”
“It doesn’t please me—it vexes me.”