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“I place more stock in perspective,” he argued settling beside her. She gripped the lip of the table. “Look at the Earl’s esteemed guests. Whatever you see of them is not what they see of themselves. The woman over there,” he pointed to a lady with bright auburn hair who was clearly chastising her daughter, “One might look at her and think she’s a common tyrant. For all we know her daughter is as unbridled as a French courtesan, chipping away at the family reputation one tryst at a time.” He pointed to a set of men. “Those lordlings over there, twittering away by themselves in the corner. You might assume they’re discussing racing, trade, or court affairs—why not violent delights?”
“I think it says more of your character than it does of theirs—that you look at them and see only sinners.”
Benjamin shuffled a little closer. He wanted to push the woman, to see what it would take for her to break and reveal all she knew. “And when I look at you…” he trailed off, staring deep into her eyes.
“What do you see when you look at me?” She beamed sarcastically. “A fool?”
“I see a woman out of her depth, who is, from top to bottom, a work of artifice. A pretender.”
The woman,Charlotte—the name was soft on the voice inside his mind—looked back at him, and it almost swept him off his feet. “There is only one pretender between us, and it is not I.”
Benjamin glanced over her shoulder. The man and woman Pollock had pointed out as her siblings were looking to make their way back to her. Without saying another word, he nodded lowly at her and turned on his heel—surprised to find he was not relieved when he left… but aching for her instead.
Clearly, Pollock had made quite the impression on Singberry’s guests since Benjamin had been up on the stage. When he returned to the man, he was surrounded by a flock of women. They gaggled like a pack of geese, dangling on a hook of his making. The Baron’s son smiled wide, and the women fawned over him—like clay in a molder’s hands. He shot a knowing look at Benjamin, making space for him in his wreath of admirers, and patted him on the back.
“Ah, the man of the hour!” he announced. Then, he quickly turned to whisper to Benjamin, “It turns out being friends with a poet has its advantages.”
Benjamin chuckled quietly. “We’re friends, are we?” he whispered back in jest. Pollock shrugged.
“May I introduce, my ladies,” he began, quite the showman, “Mr. Charles Huxley. Poet extraordinaire, wordsmith of the season—and if I may be so brazen, charming bachelor.”
The women cooed and laughed amongst themselves. One bright-haired filly even flicked her ivory fan before her face, batting her blonde eyelashes at Benjamin from above its lace trim. He might have feigned a blush had he not been so disconcerted by their blatant flirting.
“Er, right,” Pollock continued, shaking his head. “Lady Lacks-on-Avon and her daughters, Lady Amandine, Lady Delphine,” he introduced, “Lady Hayne, Miss Sophie Hayne…” and so on and so forth until he had presented all ten women in their circle.
Benjamin suckled at his lip, not quite sure where to begin. He was certain he had suffered dreams of this sort before, being corralled like a pig set for slaughter surrounded by a harem of women, but those dreams had been rather exciting. Long had he aspired to be the sort of man young ladies would line up for, eager for him to take his pick. Now, he found the whole affair rather crude.
Perhaps he was simply too distracted by the recent memory of Lady Charlotte, who was no longer at the drinks table—for he had been keeping an eye on it. He worried about where she had run off to, who she might be speaking to if not to him. He couldn’t worry long, as silence blanketed Pollock’s collection of ladies. They were waiting for him to delight them with conversation.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” was all he could offer, looking over their chignons, scarfs, and wraps to where Charlotte had been lost. Pollock nudged him, so he added, “I trust you all enjoyed the show.”
One of the women, who was twirling her dance card in her hand as if to entice him, said, “It was a wonderful display of written talent. There are so few men who know how to capture endearment as experienced by a woman.” Her voice was light and raspy, heavy with lust for him. “How do you find your inspiration, sir?”
“Could it be… love?” one of the brunettes added, with a note of disappointment.
The girl’s mama asked, “Does Mr. Huxley have a muse?” but he knew she meant,Does Mr. Huxley have a wife?
He cocked his head, playing the part of the woolly, wistful poet to the best of his ability. “It would be remiss of me to share my secrets, my ladies. I can only say that there is nothing in this world that fascinates me as much as the…” he fumbled, “precariousness of the female spirit.” Benjamin wasn’t even sure if what he had said made any sense. The ladies lapped it up all the same, the fan-bearer making a great show of her delight.
“The Countess is looking to call the first dance soon,” another chaperone said once the cooing died down, eyeing Benjamin with purpose. She was prompting him to choose a partner.
Benjamin looked around the circle of women. Each one was more beautiful than the last until he circled around again. It was then, out of the corner of his eyes, that he spotted the most marvelous, terrifying sight: Lady Charlotte, whipping across the middle of the ballroom, fast approaching the Countess with her brother.
She means to rat me out, he thought. All dreams of dance cards fell dead at his feet.
“I apologize, my ladies,” he managed to get out quickly. “Regrettably, I am required elsewhere, post-haste. I shall have to leave you in the capable hands of Mr. Pollock.”
He ignored their supplications, of which there were many, and walked quickly in the direction of the Fitzroy duo. Darting through the crowd of prospective dancers, carefully avoiding a blow from a passing footman’s tray, he was just within reach of her as she stepped toward the stage, where Lady Singberry was speaking with the musicians.
By some miracle, he managed to swoop in front of her, blocking her from the steps. She gasped and hopped back… knocking her brother in the jaw with her shoulder.
“Lawks!” the Marquess cried, wrapping his hands below his chin and stumbling back. “Charlotte, what is the matter with you?”
“You,” she grizzled as she realized who was before her. “What do you want, sir?”
Her brother snapped up almost as quickly as he had doubled over, still rubbing his chin. He glared at his sister before looking quizzically at Benjamin. “You are the poet,” he noted, moving his jaw about. He introduced himself as, “The Marquess of St Chett. May I present my sister,” he growled the word, “Lady Charlotte Fitzroy.”
“Charmed,” Benjamin spat. “Mr. Charles Huxley,” he offered back in greeting.
