CHAPTER 1
London
June 1813
As soon asthey arrived at the ball, Lady Charlotte Fitzgerald wanted to go home. For a self-confessed wallflower, even the most anticipated event of the season—especiallythe most anticipated ball of the season—held little attraction.
The carriage came to a halt outside the summer residence of the Earl and Countess of Wembley, and Charlotte turned imploring eyes upon her brother.
“William, must I really go in? I have the beginnings of a terrible headache.” She put the back of a silk-gloved hand to her forehead and adopted an expression she hoped made it appear that she might be about to swoon.
Her brother, William Fitzgerald, who’d become the Marquess of Ensley following their father’s death several years ago, raised a dark eyebrow at her. “The Wembleys are expecting us. As is everyone else. I promised Henry that I would see him here.”
Charlotte lowered her hand and reached for her fan to disguise the sudden tremble in her fingers. “Oh, the Duke of Arundel is coming? I thought he had only just returned from his country estate and would be busy getting his affairs in order to attend the House of Lords.”
“Of course Henry’s here.” William stepped down from the carriage and offered Charlotte his hand. “This is the most important ball of the season. Anyone who is anyone in thetonwill be here.”
As if she needed reminding ofthat.Suppressing a sigh, Charlotte placed her hand in William’s and exited the carriage, squaring her shoulders under her light silken shawl, which the modiste had declared was just the thing for a midsummer ball.
As though Charlotte cared about fashion. The shawl, a softly muted pale green that matched her gown, was practical and thus suitable for a young lady who most emphatically didnotappreciate being trussed up and put on display for all the marriageable young men of the season.
She told herself that the fluttering low down in her stomach was entirely due to her dislike of large social gatherings and most definitely not anything to do with the impending presence of the Duke of Arundel, her brother’s best friend and a man she’d long admired.
They walked inside through an ornate arch flanked by gilded columns and were greeted by the footman, who took her brother’s jacket and Charlotte’s shawl. He ushered them over to the countess, who was greeting guests before they could descend the stairs into the ballroom. A tall woman with tightly pinned black hair and the sharp, dark eyes of a hawk, she gave William a wide smile, her gaze barely sliding over Charlotte.
“Countess,” Charlotte murmured, dipping her knees as William swept into an exaggerated bow that made the countess flutter both her fan and her eyelashes.
Charlotte was used to being ignored at these events—she preferred it, even—but some acknowledgement of her existence would be nice.
As her brother exchanged pleasantries, Charlotte looked down and sucked in her breath. The Wembleys had transformed their ballroom into an exquisite scene. Maroon velvet curtains hung at the windows, and a huge crystal chandelier sparkled overhead. Shrubbery had been brought inside to create a fresh atmosphere, boasting colorful blooms that Charlotte had never seen in her own gardens, and the oak floor had been polished until it shone.
The chatter and laughter of the assembled ladies and gentleman floated up to her as William finished conversing and started down the stairs. Still holding her breath, she followed him, concentrating on not tripping while looking through the crowd for her friends.
Not the Duke of Arundel, of course; that would be highly improper.
“Lord Fitzgerald!” a woman exclaimed.
Charlotte scarcely had time to brace herself before she and William were surrounded by a selection of marriageable young ladies and their mothers, who were all eager for their daughters to marry a dashing young lord.
Charlotte found herself standing off to the side while William, after giving her an eye roll that betrayed his real feelings, greeted and flirted with an easy grace that she had never been able to master. When one of the mothers nearly trod on the hem of her new dress, Charlotte excused herself and made her way over to the lemonade table.
She moved through the crowd of gossiping, giggling young ladies and flirtatious men as though invisible, a state that usually suited her but tonight made her feel despondent. This was her fourth season out. If she did not secure a suitable husband thisyear, it would surely be her last, and she would be doomed to spinsterhood.
Honestly, that didn’t sound half bad, Charlotte admitted to herself, if only she had a decent inheritance to live on. She loved her brother, but she had no wish to be the poor dependent spinster aunt for the rest of her days, playing old maid—and no doubt unpaid nanny—to her brother’s future spouse and offspring.
At least she was not alone at the lemonade table. Her friend and fellow wallflower, Miss Felicity Doherty, had quite the same idea as her.
“Oh, Charlotte, I’m so glad you’re here,” Felicity whispered, hiding her words behind her fan. “Lady Wembley keeps trying to get me to take a turn on the pianoforte, and you know I hate being stared at. I’ll only play everything wrong and make an utter fool of myself.”
Charlotte gave her friend a sympathetic squeeze on her arm. Felicity, although possessed of a sweet nature and an even sweeter face, was terribly shy—a fact that certain overbearing ladies seemed to think could be rectified by pushing her toward center stage as often as possible.
Felicity was poorly looked after by her guardian, and so some of the older ladies in theton, at various intervals, had attempted to make a project of her.
“Let’s take a turn around the room, deep in conversation, and that will deter her,” Charlotte suggested, trying not to think of the fact that doing so would bring her closer to the Duke of Arundel, whose dark head she had spotted across the crowd.
“Good idea. Oh, look; here comes Miranda.” Felicity’s dimpled face lit up as Miss Miranda Sutton strode toward them.
Miranda was tall and with striking good looks, but, as usual, she had pinned her dark hair up in a practical, serviceable style and had not bothered with rouge. Her reading glasses hung ona delicate chain around her neck, and Charlotte knew that her friend would much rather be in her library, reading the latest books on astronomy and botany, than at any ball held by any member of theton.
