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Reggie joined their group, looking for Charlotte, who he’d been told had decided to attend in spite of her headache. Mélisande suddenly realized she hadn’t actually seen the girl for nearly an hour. She looked to where David stood, still in conversation with the same men. How ironic that the one night she actually needed him to misbehave, he’d chosen to do the opposite.
Charlotte was nowhere to be found.
Without it being announced, the musicians struck up the next piece, which was, to everyone’s delight, a waltz. All eyes turned to the ballroom floor to see a couple moving through the steps with fluid grace.
Mélisande caught herself gaping in surprise. Herrington, the disapproving prig who’d lectured her about impropriety, was engaged in what had recently been dubbed “the most scandalous dance ever performed outside a gypsy camp.” That he happened to be dancing with Charlotte only made the reality that much more bizarre—and alarming.
Just as they made the turn, Herrington caught her stare. The malicious triumph in his eyes froze the blood in her veins.
David strode up, rage written in his stiff motions. “Little fool!” he said. “Someone ought to give her a good thrashing.”
Mélisande had never seen him so angry. “David, I—”
“Why did you lie to me and tell me she was ill at home? What have you done?”
“You think I did this? I had nothing to do with that, I can assure you,” she said, pointing at the couple. “I was only trying to help her—”
“Ruin herself?” he cut in.
“This is nothing more than a childish prank on her part, David. She cannot be seriously considering—”
“She looks bloody serious to me,” he interrupted again. “Herrington is only sniffing around her because of you,” he went on, stabbing an accusing finger at her. “Except Charlie doesn’t know it. Once she figures it out, it’ll break her heart.”
I was wrong. He does care for her.
“Now,” he said, taking a deep breath, “I’m going to find Reggie and get her out of here—before I beat Herrington to death on his own ballroom floor.”
Alessandro arrived just as he departed. “What has happened? Where is Pelham off to in such a rush?”
“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” Mélisande answered. Gritting her teeth, she began telling him about her conflict with their host.
STEP INTO MY PARLOR
AMID THUNDEROUS APPLAUSE, the waltz ended. For the past hour, Herrington had been everything a young lady could hope for in a gallant gentleman—kind, attentive, and sympathetic—for Miss Charlotte Stanton was the key to his plan.
He watched as she again glanced in Pelham’s direction. He was leaving. Her eyes began to fill. Quickly, he shepherded her out of the ballroom before she could cause a scene.
The moment the parlor door closed, she burst into hot, angry tears.
Herrington enfolded her in his arms, letting her weep and curse her rage against his chest. When she’d finally spent herself, he sat her down beside him and handed her his kerchief.
“Your Grace, I don’t know what came over me, I must apol—”
“Look at me,” he commanded. When she would not obey, he took her chin in his hand and tipped her face up to gaze into clear, blue-grey eyes brimming with bright tears. The tip of her upturned nose was charmingly pink from crying, as were her cheeks and mouth. The girl was actually quite pretty, he thought, even when weeping. It was something that could not be said of most women.
A strange sort of tenderness filled him, and he felt a twinge of sorrow for what he was about to do. He spoke, barely above a whisper. “I know what it is to love someone, and to be spurned by them. I, too, have loved someone who cares nothing for me. One who detests me, even.”
As he’d intended, his words had an almost hypnotic effect on her.
“Who?”
“Your friend Mélisande,” he answered with a brittle smile.
“Melly?” she blurted. “But you hate her!”
“Hate is a very strong word, Miss Charlotte. I am merely embittered by her disregard.”
“But—I don’t understand. How...?”
