Genevieve glanced around, lowering her voice as she said, “Have you heard about Victoria Talbot?”
Charlotte nodded, her expression darkening. “I have. Poor girl. It’s dreadful.”
Genevieve grimaced. “It’s more than dreadful. It’s terrifying. If I don’t find a suitor soon, my mother will see me married off to the first titled man who shows interest, regardless of his age or character. Appearances are all that matter to her.”
Charlotte’s heart ached for her friend, who sounded so miserable. “That won’t happen, I’m sure. You’ll find someone suitable. Someone who makes you happy.”
Genevieve gave a bitter laugh. “Happiness isn’t part of the equation, Charlotte. Not for women like us. We’re bargaining chips in a game we didn’t choose to play.”
Charlotte wanted to argue, to say that Genevieve was wrong, but the words caught in her throat. Hadn’t she said the very same thing at the ball last week?
The two stood in silence for a moment, sipping their lemonade and watching the swirl of the crowd. Charlotte sensed the future looming over them, uncertain and fraught with the weight of expectations they could not escape.
Right on cue, her mother approached, accompanied by a gentleman Charlotte vaguely recognized. Sir Roger Leonard, the second son of an earl. Her mother had a resolute look on her face that Charlotte knew all too well, and she forced her face to lift with a polite expression as her mother introduced them.
Sir Roger bowed, his beady black eyes sweeping over her figure as he did so. “I must say,” he began, leaning slightly closerthan propriety allowed. “You’re looking particularly radiant this evening, Lady Charlotte.”
Charlotte grimaced. Roger Leonard was the very picture of a man who cared little for appearances—or hygiene, for that matter. His cravat was askew, his waistcoat bore a faint stain of what looked suspiciously like port, and a faint odor of stale tobacco clung to him. His ruddy complexion and the slight wobble in his stance suggested he’d had a drink or two more than was strictly appropriate.
“Thank you,” she murmured, taking a small step back.
He didn’t seem to notice—or care. “You know, I’ve always admired a lady of your… poise and refinement. Not like these other chits, fluttering about like a flock of geese.” He waved a hand vaguely toward the room, sloshing the contents of his glass dangerously close to the brim.
Charlotte pressed her lips together, resisting the urge to look around for rescue. Her mother had discreetly sidled off and was talking to Lady Flynn. “That is… very kind of you to say.”
“And yet,” he went on, his tone turning conspiratorial, “it’s a shame, isn’t it? A lady of your breeding shouldn’t have to endure these absurd gatherings, paraded about for thetonlike a prize heifer. I dare say I know how you feel—these events are a dreadful bore.”
Charlotte barely stifled a sigh. Leonard’s words might have been marginally more tolerable if he weren’t ogling her in a way that made her skin crawl.
“Indeed,” she said, casting a desperate glance toward Lady Fitzgerald, who pretended not to notice.
“I was thinking,” Leonard continued, oblivious to her discomfort, “that perhaps we might find a quieter corner to continue this delightful conversation. There’s something about these crowds that makes it so difficult to truly connect, don’t you think?”
Before Charlotte could summon a reply—or an excuse—her mother reappeared, her expression serene but her sharp eyes taking in the situation at a glance.
“Charlotte, there you are,” she said, her voice smooth but firm. “Are you feeling quite well, my dear? You look a bit pale.”
Charlotte seized the opportunity with a surge of relief that nearly made her dizzy. “Oh, Mama, you’re right. I think the heat is getting to me.” She pressed a hand to her forehead for effect. “Perhaps we should leave?”
Her mother hesitated for a moment, her gaze flickering between Charlotte and Leonard. Then she nodded. “Of course, my dear. We wouldn’t want you to become unwell. Sir Roger, if you’ll excuse us.”
Leonard’s face fell, but he rallied quickly, offering Charlotte a bow that was more a teetering dip. “Of course, Lady Fitzgerald. Lady Charlotte, I hope to see you again soon.”
Charlotte offered a faint smile and murmured something noncommittal before allowing her mother to steer her away. As they made their way toward the exit, she felt a wave of relief wash over her.
Once outside, the cooler night air was a balm to her frayed nerves. The street was quieter than she’d expected, as most of the carriages were waiting farther down to avoid clogging the main thoroughfare. She took a deep breath, letting it steady her.
It was then she spotted him. Across the street, Henry—no, the Duke of Arundel—stood talking with another gentleman, his dark head bent slightly in concentration. The sight of him, so poised and assured, sent a flutter through her chest that she resolutely ignored.
On impulse, she raised a hand and waved, but the duke didn’t see her. He turned slightly, his profile illuminated by the glow of a nearby streetlamp, before stepping into a waiting carriage and disappearing from view.
Charlotte let her hand drop, the disappointment settling heavily in her chest. She glanced at her mother, who was watching her with an expression that was uncharacteristically soft.
“Charlotte,” Lady Fitzgerald said gently, “it’s quite all right, you know.”
Her throat tightened. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Her mother nodded, a knowing look in her eyes. “Of course you don’t.”
