Once Again a Bride

Ten



The following Thursday, Charlotte tripped down the stairs of the Wylde town house to find Lady Isabella waiting for her in the drawing room, making desultory conversation with Frances Cole. Charlotte suspected that she had come in from her carriage because she wanted to check Charlotte’s appearance, and smarten her up if necessary, before shepherding her into society. For the first time in more than a year, however, Charlotte was feeling confident. Frances’s high-toned dresser had not only taught Lucy to do her hair in a becoming new way, but she had also directed them to shops and markets where everything from hats to slippers could be bought on the cheap. Charlotte had used a small amount of money to great effect, so that even though she had on the same velvet gown she’d worn to the play, she was pleased with the result. She was also very grateful for the warmth of the April evening. It allowed her to carry a new shawl rather than the embarrassment of her tired old cloak.

Lady Isabella, in a floating gown of sea green satin that matched her eyes, surveyed her from top to toe. She gestured. Obedient, Charlotte turned in a circle. She felt thoroughly evaluated, from the knot of silver ribbons in her hair to the new evening slippers on her feet, and briefly, her nervousness returned.

“Very nice,” said Lady Isabella finally. She sounded a bit surprised, and Charlotte couldn’t blame her. Her dreadful blacks had probably given the impression that she had no fashion sense at all.

“You look lovely,” added Frances, who had stood aside for the examination.

Charlotte gave her a broad smile, knowing that Frances wished her well despite whatever frictions existed with Lady Isabella. “Will we be late?” Charlotte worried as they went out to the carriage.

“My dear, only nobodies turn up before nine.”

The invitation had said eight; left to herself, Charlotte would have arrived with the nobodies. Of course, she was a nobody, she reflected. But being of little importance in society’s scheme of things had its advantages. It was one reason she could ignore the conventions of mourning dress. Too, she didn’t expect to be much noticed tonight; she would keep to the sidelines and learn about how to go on at a first-rank ton party.

Their destination proved to be a huge house in Grosvenor Square. The buzz of conversation rose and rose as they climbed the stairs—exhilarating and intimidating. The atmosphere positively crackled. It was just as she had dreamed when she first knew she would be living in London. It was gaiety and color and life—all the things she had been missing because of Henry.

Lady Isabella greeted the formidable woman at the top of stairs, and they exchanged uneffusive smiles. She murmured a name, which Charlotte missed, then said, “And this is my sister-in-law, Mrs. Charlotte Wylde.”

The name jarred. She’d somehow forgotten that she must be presented in that way, but there was no help for it. She bobbed a curtsy under the hostess’s raised brows—whether at her youth or her existence or some other cause, Charlotte didn’t know. “Very pleased to meet you.”

Passing that first hurdle, they moved into a spacious reception room full of chattering people, servants gliding through the crowd with trays of goblets filled with golden champagne. This was to be a musical evening, no dancing. Not that Charlotte cared. It was all just as she had imagined—the rainbow of silks and satins, the glitter of jewels, the rise and fall of sophisticated talk. She followed Lady Isabella into the press, watching her nod right and left as they passed acquaintances, envying her sure knowledge of this new geography.

She seemed to have a clear destination in mind, and did not stop to speak to anyone. Her goal turned out to be two ladies of around her own age and equally fashionable, posted in a corner, scanning the room. They greeted her with airy kisses and murmurs of, “Bella, dear. You look stunning.”

She returned the compliments and introduced her friends to Charlotte as Mrs. Reverton and Mrs. Prine, not making it clear which was which. Both had crimped brown hair, solid figures under their modish ensembles, and the eyes of raptors. They scanned Charlotte like canny shoppers considering a purchase, and immediately turned their attention back to the party.

“I declare, if Sara Lewis continues to damp her gowns in that shameless way she’ll catch a chill and expire one day soon,” said either Mrs. Reverton or Mrs. Prine.

Following their gaze, Charlotte observed a young woman whose gauzy pink gown clung to her like a second skin, revealing a surprising lack of… anything underneath.

“She imagines it will bring young Thornton up to scratch,” replied either Mrs. Prine or Mrs. Reverton. “A peek at the goods, so to speak.” She tittered. “Look at him, practically drooling on her.”

Her companion nodded, and Charlotte gave up trying to differentiate them. There was a gawky young man bent over the girl in pink. He was nearly a foot taller and so thin he looked like a scarecrow in evening dress. He also looked as if he could scarcely believe she was smiling at him.

“She underestimates his mother,” Lady Isabella commented.

“Don’t they always?” The three exchanged knowing looks. “How often does a girl without money or connections have any wits?”

“Very rarely.” Lady Isabella’s tone was bone dry. “Oh, my, there’s Teddy Symmes.”

The others gave small gasps. “No, where?”

“Over there, near the garden doors.”

Their heads swiveled. “He has the cheek to appear in public?”

“There weren’t any charges filed,” Lady Isabella pointed out.

“But, my dear, everyone knows. Caught with his footman! How can he show his face?” They stared at a stocky man near the French doors as if he were a bizarre zoo animal. Charlotte almost asked what was so shocking about being in the company of one’s servant, but decided not to reveal her ignorance. She didn’t want that battery of eagle eyes turned on her.

The three women’s conversation continued in this vein. They had forgotten all about Charlotte, seemingly, and she learned much more than she wanted to know about a number of people in the crowd. She began to wish that the musical part of the evening would begin, so that they could turn their attention to something else. It took her another half hour to understand that the quartet playing on the small balcony was the promised entertainment. An occasional run of notes threaded through the din of conversation, never enough to decide what they were actually playing.

She grew just a little weary of standing in one place. Lady Isabella was clearly too occupied to introduce her to some lively young people, as she had promised. Edward did not seem to be present, as she had thought he would be, and she didn’t know anyone except the Danforths. One couldn’t just speak to people without an introduction, even if she’d had the nerve. Of course, she was enjoying herself immensely; she took care to show it with a bright smile. She sipped from a glass of champagne. It made her cheeks even hotter in the rising heat of the room, and then she was left with the empty glass and no servant in sight.

“May I take that for you?”

Charlotte started, turned, and found Sir Alexander Wylde at her side. Surprise made her blurt the first thing that came into her head. “How did you find me?”

“I had my own invitation for this evening.”

Charlotte’s cheeks grew hotter still. Of course he didn’t inquire where she was and follow her to this gathering. Why would he? He belonged to the ton, belonged at this party, whereas she was here on sufferance.

He looked very elegant in evening dress, with an air, a way of holding himself, that was quite different from his manner at home. Charlotte was reminded, suddenly, of the moment when he had rescued her from Holcombe in one slashing sentence.

He drew her a little away from Lady Isabella and her friends. They were so deep in their dissection of some hapless deb that they didn’t notice. He took her empty glass and somehow made it go away. People passing nodded cordial greetings, and he acknowledged them. “You are enjoying yourself?”

“Of course.”

He bent closer. “What?”

Like Lady Isabella and her friends, he seemed to know how to pitch his voice to be heard above the cacophony. Charlotte felt she was practically shouting when she repeated, “Of course.”

“Good.”

The single word, his expression, made her feel defensive for some reason. “It is a lovely party, is it not? Very interesting to see a bit of society.” She was aware of a stubborn set to her chin, but she didn’t care. His green eyes met hers with what looked like sympathy, but she must be mistaken. There was no reason for that.

“Has Aunt Bella been helpful, told you something of the ton?”

“Oh, yes.” Charlotte prayed he wouldn’t ask for examples.

One corner of his mouth curved up, as if he heard much more than she’d said, but he merely turned toward the crowd. “You see the fellow by the entrance, the one with the striped waistcoat?”

Charlotte’s heart sank. Did people in London society talk nothing but scandal? She looked and had no trouble picking out the man he meant. The stripes were inches wide, and of a truly startling yellow and green.

“Percy Gerard, a prime example of the dandy set,” he added. “Padded coat, you see, and rather a lot of… ornamentation.”

The young man seemed in danger of choking on his massive neckcloth. His coat was so pinched in and padded out that he looked rather like a frog, one with a gleaming array of fobs and chains across its stomach.

“Quite a few Pinks of the ton here tonight,” Sir Alexander pointed out, without of course actually pointing. Now that she knew what to look for, Charlotte discovered a liberal sprinkling of similar, extreme ensembles in the crowd. “Most of their attention goes into their tailoring. And outdoing one another in setting new fashions.”

“What is that… instrument Mr. Gerard is holding?” He was surveying his fellow guests through a sort of lens on a stick.

“Quizzing glass. Meant to make you wonder if you have a smut on your nose or an outmoded gown. But I’ve always suspected the fellow can’t see two yards without it.”

Charlotte laughed. Sir Alexander’s comments felt different from Lady Isabella’s spiteful snipes; this was more like a road map for unfamiliar territory.

“Now, Lord Wraxton there is an altogether different type.”

Charlotte followed his subtle nod and discovered a tall, saturnine gentleman leaning against the wall. His coat was plain and dark, his waistcoat and neckcloth austere.

“One of our leading Corinthians,” Sir Alexander said. “His set goes in for athletics, boxing, hard riding, and expert driving, an ostentatious lack of excess. Chancy tempers, too. Wraxton is famous for his crushing set-downs.”

“Of whom?” said Charlotte, fascinated.

“Just about anyone who crosses his path.”

“So, they’re rather alike then—dandies and… Corinthians.”

He raised his eyebrows. “How so?”

“They both have an inflated opinion of themselves.” He laughed. “And what are you, Sir Alexander?”

He looked startled. “I? I… hope I am simply a gentleman.” He went on before Charlotte could reply. “You can spot young ladies in their first or second seasons by their…”

“Age, surely,” she interrupted, wanting to show that she had good sense, at least.

“Not necessarily. A young woman may be married…” He paused briefly at this near approach to her own unfortunate situation. “The debs wear simpler gowns, no satin or velvet, plain jewelry and not much of it.”

“I wouldn’t have expected you to notice fabrics,” Charlotte joked, to cover the brief awkwardness.

“A man on the town must learn to recognize the difference.”

“Between…?” For a moment she was confused. “Ah. Married and unmarried young women,” she concluded. The married ones had far more freedom and far more… possibilities, if they chose to see it that way. If she hadn’t already known that, Lady Isabella’s conversation would have made it perfectly clear.

“Indeed. The debs come with dragons, which…”

“Dragons?”

Sir Alexander looked down at her and seemed to recall himself. He reddened. “Got carried away, picking apart a situation. Anne says it’s one of my besetting sins.”

“But what do you mean, dragons?”

“Mother, duennas, chaperones,” he muttered quickly. “The hovering tribe who makes certain the debs don’t get into trouble.”

“Unlike the young married women, who can get into as much trouble as they wish?”

“No. I didn’t mean… Nothing of the kind!”

She couldn’t resist. “So, you gentlemen need these clues to sort out who you can get into trouble with?”

Sir Alexander glowered at her. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

It was true; she didn’t—precisely. But she wanted to. And it turned out to be such fun teasing him. There was a heady freedom in the knowledge that she didn’t have a host of critics watching, eager to tell her how to behave. She was so very tired of being told what to do. “I suppose the dragons would be the ladies in the chairs,” she said to divert him. Gilt chairs lined the walls, nearly all occupied by older women. They looked as if they were chatting, but Charlotte had noticed that their sharp eyes swept the room like lighthouses above rocky shoals.

He gave one brief nod. “You have misunderstood me if you think…”

Charlotte felt a hand brush her arm. In the next moment, it was drawn into Edward Danforth’s. “Hullo, cuz,” he said to Sir Alexander. “I believe this young lady is promised to me.” His tone made it a jest, almost. “Said I’d make her known to a few friends of mine,” he added carelessly.

Sir Alexander looked thunderous as Edward pulled Charlotte away. “Wasn’t that rather rude?” she said. It had been rather exciting as well.

“Cousins, no need to stand on ceremony,” he replied.

Which was nonsense, but Charlotte let it go. “You are very late to the party.”

“On the contrary, I am precisely on time.” He gave her a smile to melt hearts.

“Fashionably late?”

“Timed to a nicety.” He laughed at himself, and she had to laugh with him. “Come and meet my friends.”

“You might have invited Sir Alexander.”

“And share your attention? Never.” With a speaking glance, Edward put his free hand over his heart.

Charlotte felt a small flutter in the region of her own. This was flirting. It was like the champagne; it bubbled.

“Cousin Alec is so very worthy, you see,” Edward added. “Sterling fellow, of course, but he tends to put a damper on things.”

Charlotte didn’t know how to answer. His tone made her uncomfortable, though she’d had similar thoughts. Sir Alexander Wylde could be gruff and dismissive and vastly infuriating. He’d been quite pleasant tonight, though, made her feel so much more at home in this buzzing room.

“Here we are.” They’d reached the far corner of another large reception room, opening at the left of the first. A group of young people had rearranged gilt chairs into a loose circle near the doors to the garden, open for the air. A table that looked like it had come from outside sat in the middle, and two young men were setting food on it.

“George and William raided the supper room,” one of the women told Edward. “Had to overpower a footman guard. But you know George can’t go two hours without eating.”

“Here now, you were the one claimed you were perishing from hunger,” the stockier of the two men replied.

“Attention all, this is Charlotte Wylde,” said Edward.

“The one who was married to your fusty old uncle?” asked the same woman. Charlotte flushed. She hadn’t realized that Edward had talked about her.

“The very one.” No one seemed to think anything of it. Edward began to point. No one seemed to mind that either. “And this motley crew is George and Celia Elliott, William and Margaret Billings, Richard Taylor-Smythe, Sally… er…”

“Beaton,” supplied Margaret, the woman who had spoken first.

“Right. And…”

“Lydia Trent,” said Celia.

“Very pleased to meet you,” said Charlotte, frantically trying to imprint the names on her memory, attached to the right faces. Edward stepped away, and she nearly panicked. But he was back in a moment with another chair. The circle shifted, opened, and he offered her a place in it with a flourish. She sat down, still reviewing the names in her mind.

The stockier man—George, brown hair and round face—gestured at the tabletop. The second man—William, thin, black hair—had taken a chair on the far side of the circle. “We have lobster patties, some promising Stilton, some sort of filled pastry, lemon tarts,” George announced.

“My angel,” put in the plumpish blond woman. Celia, Charlotte reminded herself, who seemed to be George’s wife rather than a sister or some other relation.

“Would I return to you without lemon tarts, my darling?” George teased.

Definitely wife.

A handsome dark young man, with two champagne bottles under each arm, joined them. “Ah, here’s the last of us,” Edward said.

“And the best of us,” the newcomer responded, to a hail of catcalls.

“Tony Farnsworth,” Edward finished.

“Fall to, fall to,” declared George. “Descend like the ravening hordes. I can get more. No mere footman keeps me from sustenance.” He popped a lobster patty into his mouth. “Umm, not bad.” Celia Elliott took two lemon tarts. The rest of the group reached for whatever tidbit tempted them. Tony opened the champagne; someone found Charlotte a glass.

Most of the group had obviously known each other for years. At least, all the men had, Charlotte concluded. They teased each other mercilessly, with references to school and previous Seasons that they all found hilarious. She decided that Margaret had merely married into this melee, while Celia might be Richard Taylor-Smythe’s sister. After a while, Edward shifted into the seat next to Charlotte and gave her a running commentary, which he seemed to think explained their arcane jokes. It didn’t really, but she didn’t care. The laughter was exhilarating, and she seemed to have been effortlessly accepted as part of the group.

At one point, a frowning older woman came by and extracted Lydia Trent, leading her away like an erring child. Everyone seemed to find this hilarious. Charlotte’s glass never emptied, somehow, no matter how often she sipped. The food was exotic and delicious. This was the kind of evening she’d imagined, Charlotte thought, years ago in Hampshire, stuck miles from any sort of true society. Here were people with a sense of fun, ready to enjoy themselves and happy to welcome others with the same bent. She grew giddy with the sheer joy of it. She laughed along with them at the jokes she didn’t understand and joined the numerous toasts that Tony proposed. He seemed to have a penchant for toasts.

Much later, driving home, very correctly, with Lady Isabella, she found it hard not to giggle at everything she said. Fortunately, her hostess was preoccupied by some juicy anecdotes she had picked up during the evening. She dropped Charlotte at the Wylde house without lengthy farewells, departing as soon as she saw the front door open.

Charlotte danced in and stopped dead when she discovered that Sir Alexander was the doorkeeper. “Where’s Ethan? Or the other one—what’s ’is name? James. That’s it. Same as your father.” She giggled.

“I sent them to bed. It’s very late.”

“So late it’s gone to early,” she agreed. This had been a phrase of her father’s. “You’re playing footman?” She giggled again.

“I take it you had a pleasant evening?”

“Wonderful!” Arms outstretched, she spun. “If only there’d been dancing. Can’t dance, though. Must mourn for Henry. Stupid!” She twirled faster, loving the way her velvet skirt belled around her, feeling her shawl slip, and letting it. The floor seemed to tilt suddenly; she missed her footing.

Sir Alexander caught her, held her effortlessly upright. She gazed up at him. “You’re frowning. Why frown so fierce?”

She swayed, and his arms tightened. They felt very right around her. Somehow her arms moved of their own accord. Her hands slid over his broad shoulders and laced behind his neck. The evening had been a mere taste of life and happiness. She wanted more.

“You’re… drunk.” Sir Alexander sounded strange.

“Not used to champagne,” Charlotte admitted. She giggled yet again. “It’s lovely, though. All those bubbles.” Moved by hope or impulse or desire, she stood on tiptoes, tugged him down, and kissed him.

It was sheer lunatic experiment at first. She wanted to know what it was like—a proper kiss, and a kiss from this particular man. Her only previous such experience had been with an awkward young man at a country assembly, and it had not gone very well. Charlotte knew there must be more to it, the way people spoke of passionate embraces.

Before she could think any more, Sir Alexander jerked her tight against him and took control of the enterprise with a demand and heat that melted her bones. No, she’d never been kissed before, hadn’t understood the meaning of the word. His mouth educated her, and she rushed to learn with every fiber of her body. This was lightning; this was glory.

Then it was over. He pushed her away, balanced her at a distance with a hand on each shoulder. Bereft, she reached for him. He let her go completely and stepped back. Charlotte swayed a little, mainly from disappointment.

“Can you get to your room without help?” He sounded furious. “Or must I ring for a servant?”

“Of course I can! I am not… drunk.”

“You’re giving a fine imitation of it then.”

Charlotte’s buoyant mood collapsed at his critical tone. He’d begun to sound like his uncle again. “Don’t you ever have fun? Just forget about everything and… and… revel in the moment? You’re so…”

“Unwilling to speak with you in this condition,” he interrupted.

“The condition of enjoying myself?” she taunted.

“I hope you enjoy tomorrow’s headache as much!” He turned on his heel and walked away, heading toward his study despite the hour. The door closed with a censorious snap behind him. Charlotte gathered her skirts and marched up the stairs, refusing to accept the possibility that they were tilting, just a little, now and then.

After a few minutes, Ethan eased through the swinging door at the back of the hall, walked quietly to the front door and shot the bolts. He hadn’t meant to spy; he’d only stayed up, despite the master’s permission to retire, to be sure everyone was safely home and the house locked up. It was his duty, after all, and if the place was wide open in the morning—as it might have been left seeing Sir Alexander’s current mood—they’d look to him for the reason. And so he’d seen what he shouldn’t have, and quite a surprise it’d been, too. For the master as well, if he was any judge—though hardly an unpleasant one. No harm in a kiss, o’ course, as he would tell Lucy if she ever spoke to him again. Even a kiss like that. That had looked like a scorcher, for sure, and who would have thought it? Their guest was a widow lady, he reminded himself. Lucy might call her Miss Charlotte, but she was really Mrs. Wylde, and it seemed she knew what she was doing when it came to kisses. Whew!

House secured, Ethan moved quietly to the back stairs and made his way up. At the first landing, he heard footsteps above him. It had to be Lucy, her mistress safely abed. He went faster and caught up to her in the narrow attic corridor that housed the servants’ quarters. “Lucy,” he whispered, very conscious of people sleeping on either side of the hall.

Lucy gasped and whirled, one hand clutched to her chest.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he murmured hurriedly. “I’ve been locking up.” Lucy merely backed toward her room. “Wait. Just talk to me for a…”

“Leave me be,” Lucy hissed.

“I’ve told you I meant no offense.”

“Doesn’t matter what you meant, or what you mean now, I’m having none of it.”

“Shh.” Ethan glanced at the rows of closed doors.

“You’re a vain, lecherous rogue, and you can just stay away from me,” said Lucy between clenched teeth.

“I’m no such thing. Lucy, it was just a kiss.”

“Something that don’t mean nothing,” she replied fiercely. “Something you do all the time. I know it.” Her mouth trembled.

She looked so forlorn. Ethan wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and assure her that it had meant something. But this wasn’t the time or place. His hands curled into fists; there never was a time or place. That was the damnable thing.

“I’m not like that,” Lucy continued. “I don’t go about…” Her voice shook. “What Miss Charlotte would think of me if she ever heard what I done.”

She didn’t need to regret it quite as much as that, Ethan thought. He’d be damned if she hadn’t enjoyed it at the time. “Your ‘Miss Charlotte’ would understand better than you think, seemingly. She was just kissing Sir Alexander in the front hall.”

Lucy gaped at him. “That’s a dreadful lie.”

“Full as she could hold of champagne, too. That’s not the kind of goings-on we’re used to in this house.” The look on Lucy’s face immediately made him sorry he’d said it.

“Is someone out there?” James’s voice came through the door panels. “Ethan?” Bed springs creaked.

With a whisk of skirts, Lucy hurried down the hall and disappeared into the room she shared with Susan. Seething with frustration, Ethan went into his own.

James was sitting up in bed. “Were you talking to somebody?” he asked sleepily.

“Who would I be talking to at this hour? Go back to sleep.” Blearily, James obeyed. But it was quite a time before Ethan was able to do the same.