Silver and white swags of silk curled and flowed around the Pomona-green walls, cosseting the many portraits in its embrace. Holly, rosemary and laurel burst from vases while hothouse roses of white floated in crystal bowls, the many candles setting the ballroom to a glistening paradise. And the final flourish… “Wansfell Pike, I noticed, had a dusting of snow this morning.”
“Bugger,” she thought to hear him mutter, so Charlotte gazed to the dance floor, a riot of shades and gaiety.
Along with the magical décor, there was also a jovial informality to this ball as the Westmorland district gentry and their families all knew one another. She’d spied Fitzwilliam’s young son snaffling rum butter crackers from the refreshments table.
Yet there was no informality to Marcus. He endured at her side with a nigh bored expression, still and taciturn, although…
The stiller he appeared, the more a…tension seemed to resonate from him. It was akin to being stood next to a tuning fork.
Charlotte wondered at its cause and if–
“Miss Webster! What a pleasure! And why have we not seen you here for so long?”
Charlotte’s gloved hand was seized, kissed, and she smiled at their host, Mr Fitzwilliam. A handsome gent, his blue eyes twinkled with merriment. Now a widower of five years, it was rumoured he was on the hunt for a wife.
“Mr Fitzwilliam. A pleasure also. But nowadays I am only a gov–”
“She’s my guest,” Marcus cut in silkily, thrusting forth his hand. “How are you, Fitz?”
“Exultant to see you, Shawdale, it’s been too long. I was just telling my boy about the Christmas you persuaded me to gift my tutor with a frog.”
Charlotte was sure Marcus’ lips had twitched. “A toad, I think you’d find.”
“Well, of the amphibian class. And if you don’t mind, I would be most delighted to whisk yourguestoff for a waltz.” He proffered an arm. “Miss Webster?”
For all of a moment, she hesitated, wishing Marcus had asked her first. But his face held that expression of ennui oncemore and, if Dinah was correct, he disliked dancing now, so with the broadest smile she had within her repertoire, she took Mr Fitzwilliam’s arm and wended to the dance floor without a backwards glance.
BALLING HIS FISTS,Marcus glowered as Charlotte whirled within Fitz’s embrace. They suited one another – forever smiling the both of them. If they popped offspring, the whelps would be born with upturned lips.
But the thought of them indulging in such coital behaviour in order to beget said offspring caused him to grab a glass of champagne from a passing tray and glug it down in one.
Damnation, what was the point to all this?
Why had she brought him here?
To drive him to Bedlam?
Charlotte’s slender body was garbed in a gown of the most exquisite silk – the colour of autumn leaves. He wondered how she’d afforded it as it looked costly. Had some other fellow gifted it to her?
He recalled the last time they’d danced. At this Christmas Ball when hosted at his own estate, some eight years past.
And how he had ached to kiss her.
Plunge his hands through her silken hair and touch her.
Yet she’d had but seventeen years and even though he’d been a young lad full of raging desire, he’d also known she was too young, too innocent.
And then he’d gone to Lond–
“Oh, that was too much fun.” And Charlotte tumbled back into his sphere and being, her leaf-green eyes bright. “And Fitz has such stamina.”
Marcus grunted. “Also had his lips nigh at your ear and his hand on your derriere. A governess must be heedful of her reputation and ascertain ways to mitigate such advances.”
Her smile dropped and he felt an utter dullard.
“Your Grace…” She sniffed. “I have worked in many households of theTonand am not innocent–”
“What!” he roared, causing a countess to drop her champagne.
