The Captivating Lady Charlotte (Regency Brides: A Legacy of Grace #2)(6)
“And I hope the man you wish to charm will realize just how much of his life will be spent in flattery and cajolery in order for you to be happy.”
“I don’t require flattery, Henry,” she murmured as the elegantly dressed Lord Fanshawe drew near. Tall, handsome, impeccably attired in a dark dress coat and white neckcloth with a diamond winking in its folds, he was worth seven thousand a year, and known to be on the lookout for a bride, or so Mama said.
He bowed. “Lady Charlotte, are you ready now for our dance?”
“I am, thank you.” She released her brother’s arm and grasped the viscount’s outstretched hand.
“May I say you appear the epitome of springtime loveliness tonight?”
“You may.” She smiled, before staying her brother with a white-gloved hand, and saying in an undertone, “I don’t require compliments, but I certainly can appreciate them.”
“Careful, else you’ll be known as the biggest flirt this side of Paris.”
He chuckled, bowing, as the viscount drew her into the dance.
Such a whirl, such a heady delight these past hours had been. Round she twirled, as the ballroom echoed with the thud of skipping feet, and the musicians played a merry song. Her heart lifted as jewels glistened and candlelight flickered from three enormous candelabrum overhead. How joyous she felt, almost like flying—
“And that is why I believe the pumpkin flavor is the best.”
She blinked, slanting a glance at her partner, who smiled.
“I’m ashamed to discover my conversation about Gunter’s ices lacks the power to engage my fair companion’s attention.”
“Oh, forgive me! My head is awhirl with so much tonight, I can scarcely take it all in.”
“Then I shall not be so ashamed, and shall venture to say something more to your liking.”
“You tease me.”
“No.” Blue-gray eyes sparkled. “I simply wish to say how beautiful you appear tonight.”
She smiled, even as the cynical part of her, the part recently fostered by Lavinia, paused to wonder if he would say the same to a young lady who was not titled, nor known to have a dowry in excess of fifty thousand pounds. How would she know whether he was being genuine or not? How would she know if any man was being genuine or not? She bit her lip.
“Pardon me, my dear lady, but you seem displeased. I trust it is not your partner that concerns you?”
“No.” She smiled widely. “I simply wonder if your conversation extends to anything beyond compliments.”
He mock-gasped. “Such wounds from one so young!”
She raised her brows.
“Now I have offended you. A thousand apologies.”
She dipped her head, and his smile stretched, causing a little jolt to her heart, before the dancing led him away, and his place was claimed by another young man, somewhat more rotund; a marquess, so thus more titled—and more acceptable to her mother, whose loudly voiced desire that Charlotte dance with him had been met with a swift request she’d been unable to refuse.
The nature of the dance meant there was far less opportunity for conversation, which she did not mind, as the marquess was not quite as adept as her previous dancing partners. A crony of her father’s, he had little to offer in the way of conversation either, save more compliments, which, while nice to hear, offered little in the way of ingenuity.
She fought a wince as he stepped on her toe for the third time.
“So sorry.”
“So am I,” she muttered, as the music led him away, leaving her at the bottom of the set.
“Lady Charlotte?”
She glanced up.
Her breath caught. Here was the man of her dreams. Dark-haired, chiseled features, blue eyes piercing from under brows so smooth they looked painted on. So angelically lovely, so impossibly handsome—yet not so impossible, for he stood before her now.
“I … sir, we have not been introduced.”
“I know Henry from university. Lord Markham at your service.” He bowed, and her heart fluttered anew. “I have come to save you from your partner.”
She glanced at the red-faced marquess, lumbering toward them. “Oh, but I cannot—”
“Cannot permit your toes to be crushed by such a bore as he, yes, you are right.” He picked up her gloved hand. “Shall we?”
She barely heard her answer, barely heard the marquess’s words of protest as she floated off into this new lord’s arms. Was barely aware of anything save the way his dark blue eyes captured her, caressed her, made her feel like she was dancing on air.
“Who are you?”
“Besides a knight in shining armor?”
A chuckle escaped. “Besides that.”
“Besides a man who wishes himself a poet to do justice to your eyes?”
She blinked.
“Would you permit I should steal words from a poet? ‘Around her shone the nameless charms unmarked by her alone—the light of Love, the purity of Grace, the mind, the Music breathing from her face …’”
“Who wrote that?”
“Byron.”
Her gaze lowered, her cheeks heating. “Mama does not permit me to read his work.”
“I hope she won’t mind you hearing his work.”
“Why do you say that?”