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“Indeed, we had no idea that you made house visits!” Lord Danbury said, turning toward the gentleman and the two ladies in the group. “Mr. Conolly is a barrister. He even makes house visits!” He guffawed, then remembered himself. “Let me introduce you—Mr. Conolly, this is Lord Greyfield, his wife, Lady Greyfield, and Lady Catsmore.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Charles said, bowing to them.
“With whom are you staying, Mr. Conolly?” Lady Greyfield asked. She was a golden-haired lady, dressed in cool grey silk. She had an ostrich feather, arching over her head grandly, and diamonds dripped from her neck. In her hand, she held a white lace fan.
“I am a guest of the Duke and Duchess of Tiverwell,” he replied.
“They are our nearest neighbors!” Lady Catsmore, a plump lady in a peach silk gown, said. She narrowed her eyes, turning toward Lady Greyfield. “They have always allowed their daughter to run amok.” She pursed her lips in disapproval.
“We thought for certain that once she debuted, she would give up wearing the breeches,” Lady Catsmore added.
“It’s unseemly, for a Lady,” Lord Greyfield stated. Like his wife, he was golden-haired. His chin receded into his neck, making him seem much older than Charles believed him to be.
“She’s the most fascinating lady of my entire acquaintance,” Charles remarked, feeling it absolutely necessary to defend Lady Arabella.
They all looked at him, as though he were a traitor. His anger was at a low boil. He had no patience for gossip. Especially when it was nasty. He didn’t care that they were of the ton or not.
“Yes, well, I imagine that you do not know very many ladies, Mr. Conolly,” Lady Catsmore said, snapping open her silk fan.
Charles smiled. He was well aware, however—he was not one of them, nor would he ever be. Regardless, he kept his chin raised, pretending that he didn’t know the cruel intent of her words.
“While that may be true, I do know that Lady Arabella has a good heart. Not to mention, she fences better than most gentlemen of my acquaintance. Excuse me,” he said, bowing to them, then walking toward the refreshments table.
His ire had risen, in the manner in which they spoke, reminding him of his place, as well as attempting to gossip about and defame Lady Arabella.
Let them talk. Fifty of them are no nearer to her equal than they are to becoming an angel.
He watched Lady Arabella as she curtsied to her dance partner. She turned toward him, her eyes casting about the room. She spotted him, there, amongst the crowd. Her face lit up.
It was the first time that he truly regretted that he was bourgeoisie and not of noble birth. She walked in his direction, fanning herself as she walked toward him. He held her gaze, his heart beating.
“My Lady,” he said, bowing. Desire for her was a dark wave, closing over his head. He felt both ecstatic and devastated.
“Mr. Conolly,” she replied, waving her fan to cool herself.
“You seem as comfortable on the dance floor as you are in the fencing salle.”
“Of course,” she replied. “Did you not know that dancing and fencing are nearly the same?”
“Indeed not.”
“Tonight, Mr. Conolly, I am wearing armor of a different sort,” she replied, holding one hand out, as if to tell him to look. He kept his eyes on hers.
“I’ve never thought of it that way,” he mused. Her white dress with the delicate lace would never have struck him as armor. Not in the usual sense.
“It’s often unknown to our supposed better halves,” she replied. “Yet, we ladies do battle on the dance floor.” She turned, so that they were both looking out over the room.
“With whom are you doing battle?” he asked. A cursory glance around the room made him see that none of the ladies were even looking at them. The Viscount of Drysdale was frowning a little in their direction, however.
“You’re presuming that the other ladies are my opponents,” she said. “But that’s an entirely wrong assumption. I want nothing to do with the gentlemen upon whom they have their eyes on.”
“My Lady,” he said. “Are you meaning the gentlemen?”
“Indeed, Mr. Conolly.” She exhaled, fanning herself.
“And what are you battling them for?” he asked.
“My independence,” she whispered, leaning in toward him. He could smell her perfume—rosewater.
