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“Mywhat?” Charlotte echoed in disbelief. “You deny it still, then? Even after my admission?”
The dancing was so close, like an approaching tide. Charlotte looked over. They were twirling in the third, which meant her square was soon to be swallowed up.
The man scoffed, then he said, “I do. I can’t imagine the daughter of a duke would risk the reputation of her family by entertaining such perverse hobbies as the writing of salacious poems.”
Charlotte’s blood froze in her veins. Was he… blackmailing her? It was not so inconceivable. What was blackmail to a man who could commit fraud? He was not wrong, either. The gossipmongers and socialites of the Ton would gorge themselves silly if they were to find out—the unmarried daughter of a duke, a writer of lurid poetry. She would be compromised, as would Eleanor and Matthew, not that her brother needed any help scandalizing himself. Her poor, fragile Papa might not survive it.
But this was her life, herraison d’etre. If she was not a writer, she was a drop in the bucket—one more peerage daughter who could not overcome her fate. Her secret was not worth her misery. She needed to live her truth, damn what might come next. If the world would not move for her,shewould moveit.
“I will not let you intimidate me into submission,” she declared, and the music roared. The dance was upon them. “The poems you claim to have pen came from my quill, and I will do everything in my power to out you, for I know who you are.”
The Countess had arrived. She whisked up the gentleman at the top of their group, and the rest followed like puppets on a string. The charlatan stepped forward, grabbing Charlotte by the arm, and turning her around as per their reel, her petticoat whipping at her ankles.
His hold was commandeering; the woody smell of him was strong. She forgot how tobreathe,let alone dance. The steps flowed through her from memory alone, and she had never been more grateful for her dance lessons. She could not feign enjoyment, not even with their hostess so close, not while the man glared at her with a look of brooding, obstinate challenge.
Before Charlotte knew it, he leaned in close, preparing to let her go again, purring into her ear. “I would like to see you try.”
He released her, and she felt boneless. Off he went, skipping away with another lady of their set—a copper-haired ninny, the third daughter of a northern earl. He dared to smile at the girl, the pink crepe ribbons in her hair flitting about, and it drove Charlotte mad. This woman had no idea who her partner was; not one of them did, but she looked utterly enthralled by him.
“Like a moth in a spider’s web,” she mumbled as she waited for his return. She looked over to her father, who shot her a discreet wave and a proud smile. Hewasproud of her, she realized. She was doing as was expected of her at last. “For you, Papa,” she whispered as the charlatan came sauntering back to her, one stiff sidestep at a time.
She groaned as she set off with another dancer, a knight or a baronet, or some other man of forgettable nature. He was like wet cotton where the charlatan was crushed velvet, and she loathed that truth more than the plagiarizer himself. They turned in a round before he gave her back toHuxley.
The dance shifted suddenly, reaching its midpoint. Her daemon of a partner grabbed her by the hand for the next move. His touch was like an open flame against her kid-gloved fingers, and its echo rippled up her arm and down her spine. She reeled from the surprise of it, and he seemed equally perplexed, pulling his hand away a beat before their next move.
They found each other again a few moves later, reeling toward one another. He was quite elegant, despite the stiffness of his moves. She couldn’t decide whether it was forced or not, whether it was simply another part of his act.
Each time they met on the dance floor, soon to be parted again, the room seemed a little brighter, the music a little crisper. Her sense was heightened for his presence—she picked up the smell of tallow and syrups, the staleness in the air. And then he was gone again, and the room dimmed for lack of his body close to hers. There was no anger, only curiosity, and music—something akin to poetry between them, too.
Charlotte’s heart thundered in her chest, and it did not calm until, at last, their dance came to an end. She shot a look at him wordlessly as the dancers formed two neat rows. For some reason, he dared not return it. He gave an unconvincing bow, and she curtseyed back. Then, he reached his hand for her to take before snatching it away and angling his elbow toward her instead.
As though she might dissolve at his touch, she pressed her hand atop his angled arm. Slowly, they ambled back to her brother. “You are as talented a dancer as you are a liar,” she allowed herself as they trailed across the dance floor. The man did not bite back.
Whatever had happened as they danced, it had moved him to silence.
“Beautiful display, Poppet,” her father said as they returned to him, shuffling in his seat. “You were the belle of the dance, the one shining star.”
Matthew cleared his throat as Eleanor was escorted back by her own partner. “Aside from Eleanor, you mean,” he corrected, and Charlotte was thankful. Her father’s favoritism was the thing she liked least about him—even greater in its annoyance than his attempted matchmaking.
“Your Grace, my lord,” she heard from beside her.Huxleywas speaking, his deep voice cutting through the pleasantries like gunfire in the dead of night. “Mr. Charles Huxley,” he said to Charlotte’s father, and she rolled her eyes at his performance. “Thank you for lending me your daughter’s hand. She is a,” he hesitated, “spirited young lady indeed.”
Her father seemed rather impressed. His chops lifted in a smile as he replied, “She is a treasure,” before turning away when Eleanor’s partner began to speak.
His distraction granted Charlotte a moment to press the charlatan further, but before she could part her lips to speak, she felt a new presence creep up behind them. The Duke of Gamston stood beside her suddenly, his hand wrapped atop his cane.
He arched a silver, bushy brow at her. “That was a wonderful show indeed, my dear,” he voiced with an arch tone. “Shall we find you a new partner for the next dance? Unless you are quite content with your lot.”
Charlotte retreated inwardly. Heaven forfend he meant himself. She had not seen the Duke dance inyears, not since his lower body atrophy. Either he was desperate for her hand ordesperatelytrying to match her off to someone else.
Huxleyintroduced himself, throwing her a life jacket. He seemed out of sorts by the Duke’s sudden appearance. A little cooler, more reserved. Next, he turned to Charlotte. “Thank you for this most revealing evening, my lady,” he pronounced as way of parting, and then he tapped his friend on the shoulder to signal they should leave. They did, walking away laughing, thick as thieves.
There was something in his laughter that made the hairs on Charlotte’s neck stand to attention. She thought, perhaps, she had heard it somewhere before. She thought, perhaps, they had—
“Oh, Charlotte!” Eleanor cried, throwing her arms around her sister. “I really don’t know what I was getting myself in a hobble over before we left. This night has been such fun!”
Charlotte shook her head quickly, casting aside all suspicion. All that must matter now was her sister’s delight. She seized her hands in her own and brought them to her lips. “I am so glad you enjoyed the dancing, my darling sister.”
Eleanor nodded and stared off after the retreating men. It gave Charlotte an idea.
