Miss Charity's Case (11 page)

She could not keep from glancing around the room. The twinge became an ache when she saw Oliver—no, she must think of him as Lord Blackburn—laughing with Lady Thyra. Handing her great-aunt the glass, she walked away without explanation.

“Miss Stuart?”

At the deep voice, her heart thudded, but it slowed when a blond man smiled and asked if she would like to dance. She truly wished to flee. That was impossible, so she might as well enjoy the music.

Letting him take her hands, she walked with him to the dance floor. She thought he said his name was Gregory, but she had no idea if that was his first or last name or title, for a swell of music swept them into a country reel. When her sister passed along the line with Lord Glynnford, a joyous smile on her face, Charity could not return it.

The country dances, which followed one after another in quick succession, grew as gay as the laughter in the room. Charity could not be immune to the merriment as she was twirled until she was out of breath. Finally she begged off from the next dance. A glass of chilled champagne would be perfect now.

Easing through the press of the guests who awaited the next melody, she paused when she saw one man watching her. Lord F was the only name Leatrice had given him. Charity did not respond to his smile. If Leatrice's bibble-babble held even an inkling of the truth, Lord F was gaining a reputation that brought nightmares to mothers with eligible daughters, a reputation that made Lord Blackburn look like a saint.

No, she would not let her thoughts dwell on Oliver Blackburn! He deserved nothing but her contempt.

The crowd shifted, and a person stopped in front of her. Charity took an involuntary step backward.

“Good evening, Charity.”

This time, the pounding of her heart did not play her false. She clutched her feathered fan more tightly as she stared up at Lord Blackburn's smile. It grew icy cold when she said, “Good evening, my lord.”

“How distant that sounds. I thought we had agreed to be more informal,
Charity.”

She flinched at the stress he put on her name. “This is a more formal occasion. It behooves us to act accordingly. As I said before, good evening, my lord.”

His hand closed around her arm, keeping her from walking away. “Why have you been avoiding me tonight?”

“You are mistaken. I have been avoiding no one this evening. I have been sitting with Lady Eloise or dancing.”

“But not with me.”

“You have not asked me.”

“Then I shall. Will you dance with me?”

Although every fiber urged her to agree, she shook her head. “I thought to enjoy some champagne with my great-aunt.”

He lifted a glass of champagne from a passing tray and offered it to her before choosing one for himself. “And then?”

“I do not have my evening planned so thoroughly. If you will excuse me …”

Again he put his hand on her arm. When his fingers brushed her bodice, she swallowed a fevered gasp. It had been nothing but a chance caress; yet it threatened to undo her completely.

“Why are you rushing away, Charity? Can it be that you continue to believe the rattle told about me? While you may look ravishing this evening, I can assure you that I have no intention of ravishing you.”

Pressing her hand to her breast, she shivered. It was almost as if he could sense her thoughts. “I do not heed gossip. I choose to make my opinions myself.”

“Then dance with me.” He offered his arm, and his eyes narrowed. “Or, mayhap, Charity, you are afraid to think for yourself.”

She looked from his proffered sleeve to his face. Aware of the quiet surrounding them, she was sure a full half the guests had paused to stare as they had when he arrived with Lady Thyra on his arm. “Lady Thyra—”

“Is dancing with our host.”

As she glanced across the room to confirm that, Charity put her fingers on Oliver's strong arm. His fingers settled over her hand after he had set her untouched glass on a nearby tray.

He led her onto the floor, and the music changed to a melody she had heard at Lady Eloise's
soirée
while dinner was served. A waltz! Many of the dancers were stepping aside, for the waltz hinted at impropriety.

Charity moaned silently when she saw Joyce in the middle of the floor with Lord Glynnford. Where was Lady Thyra? This was becoming more of a jumble.

“Charity, shall we?”

She looked from Oliver's smile to Joyce's glowing face. If she left the floor now, she was announcing she did not condone her sister's behavior. She could not risk Joyce's reputation. Yet to dance in Oliver's arms …

Impatience honed his voice. “I trust you waltz.”

“I know the steps, but I have not danced it save with Papa.”

“Then let us see how good a teacher he was.”

As Charity raised her hand to his shoulder, she saw her great-aunt coming to her feet, her bristle quite set up. Oliver grasped her gloved hand just as Joyce rushed from the floor to Lady Eloise. Before she could protest, he had whirled her into the dance. At her waist, his hand's warmth seeped through her thin gown to delight her skin as he twirled her about the nearly deserted floor.

Charity did not look at Joyce as they passed. Lady Eloise had sat again, her face colorless with shock.

“I think she shall survive us dancing a single dance,” Oliver said.

“Lady Eloise is strong-hearted.”

“I spoke of your sister.” He chuckled. “She has taken a most unbecoming abhorrence of me.”

“She thinks you shall be my ruin.”

“And you, Charity, do you think I shall ruin you?”

“Mayhap you have already.”

“Then you have nothing to lose, so you may as well enjoy this dance with me.” When he laughed again, she found herself laughing, too.

The music flowed around and through them. He was a superb dancer. Although he held her no closer than propriety suggested, she was conscious of his shoes brushing her silk slippers on each step.

“This is much better,” he murmured when she relaxed to savor the flow of the music. “Your father taught you as well as any caper-merchant, Charity. Your mastery of the waltz surprises me. I had thought a minister would disdain such a scandalous dance.”

“Papa's ways were not always the ways others followed. He learned to waltz and insisted that we do as well.” Charity smiled as tears filled her eyes. “He said more than once the waltz would one day become as common in England as tax collectors.”

He laughed. “A shrewd man.” His hand stroked her waist as he said, “Alas, I do not share that intuition. I have done something to disturb you, but I cannot tell what.” He held her gaze with his. “Will you enlighten me, Charity, so I may atone for this misdeed and wipe away its memory?”

“I fear that memories refuse to be wiped clean.”

“So sadly true.” He frowned for a moment, then his scintillating smile returned. “I own to thinking often of a pretty lady who waited so anxiously by a fire which burned no more brightly than her russet locks.”

When she would have halted in mid-step, he brought her back into the pattern of the dance. “My lord, your words are not appropriate when you have escorted another lady to this dance.”

“Thyra?” His smile and the soft stroke of his fingers against her side urged her to soften in his arms. “Thyra is a dear friend.”

“A very dear friend, I have heard.”

“I am sure you have heard much, but, despite the gabble-grinding of the
ton
, she has no wish to wed me. All her thoughts are for Myles Hambleton.”

Charity's eyes widened. “The Duke of Rimsbury?”

He laughed. “One and the same.”

“But why?” Chagrin seared her cheeks. “I did not mean to belittle the duke, but Thyra is so beautiful and he is—”

“A bumpkin of the first order. Who can say why? I tell her she has made herself muzzy over Rimsbury, for he has paid her no more mind than he would a gnat. Yet she can think only of him.”

“And you, my lord?”

“Oliver, if you will,
Miss Stuart.”

She could not keep from smiling. “Are you evading my question,
Oliver?”

“Do I think of Thyra? I wish to see her settled with a husband who will accept her dominating ways, but I fear that she shall continue to appear on my arm if she will set her cap on no one but Rimsbury.” His eyes narrowed again as he asked, “And have you selected your prey for the Season?”

Charity laughed. “Is that how you see yourself? Prey for eager
mademoiselles?”

“Does that mean you have selected me as your prey?”

She let a light laugh cover her dismay. He was wrong. He was deeply insightful, perceiving meaning in her words beyond what she had seen herself. “I hope I do not offend you when I tell you that Lady Eloise considers you unsuitable.”

“No offense taken from you, although I daresay I would not say the same about Lady Eloise. So whom has your great-aunt chosen for you, Charity, now that Hoyle—who is so obviously absent—is not good enough for you?”

“It matters little. I have no wish to marry.”

“You are a unique woman.”

“I have always thought so.”

He laughed as he whirled her even more deeply into the dance. With an answering laugh, she followed. She was want-witted, she knew, but, for the length of his dance, she wished to flout everyone's expectations and enjoy the company of the one person among the Polite World who was honest with her.

Joyce Stuart stared at her sister who was still dancing with Lord Blackburn. What could be worse than this? She clenched her fingers at her sides and reminded herself that the dance soon would be over.

“What a turn of events,” murmured a woman behind her. “Who is she?”

“That's Lady Eloise's grandniece, I believe,” answered another.

“Most peculiar.”

It is nothing but a dance
, Joyce wanted to shout. She prayed the ones watching would find something else to speak of.

“You would be wise to say something to soothe your great-aunt,” Leatrice said softly as she came to stand beside Joyce. “She is quite put out by your sister's hoydenish behavior.”

“Even Lady Eloise must own this is not Charity's fault.”

“Charity is dancing with
him.”

“But he must have asked her.” She sighed. “Dear Charity is so sweet. She would not have said no unless she had a good reason.”

“No, I would say it is Lord Blackburn's manipulation.”

Joyce stared at Leatrice's baleful smile. “I know how much you dislike Lord Blackburn—and I can assure you that I share your sentiments—but this waltz is nothing more than an unfortunate happenstance.”

“You are wrong.” She raised her chin as her most superior smile plied its way across her lips. “Mayhap you did not see, because you were intent on both Lord Monthorpe and our host.”

She refused to take insult when other matters were more dire. “See what?”

“Lord Blackburn went to speak to the orchestra leader just before he approached Charity. Do you wish to guess what dance he might have requested?” When Joyce stared at her in horror, Leatrice continued, “But you must own how lovely they look together, Joyce dear. One would think they are quite besotted with one another. Of course, Charity is a ninnyhammer if she thinks anything but disaster will come of this. Even if she could persuade Lady Eloise to allow Lord Blackburn to call on her, he will destroy her name, as he has so many others.”

“Be silent!” cried Joyce. She lowered her voice when eyes turned toward her. “My sister is and always will be of the first respectability. She is being no more than gracious to dance with Lord Blackburn.”

“If such delusions comfort you, dear Joyce, then, by all means, cling to them.” She toyed with the ribbons hanging from her fan. “Mayhap Charity is the wiser of you. After all, she has an earl dangling after her—even if it is Blackguard Blackburn. What of you, Joyce? Where is the viscount? Can it be that you cannot convince even a viscount to court you?”

Joyce forced a smile. “That, my dear Leatrice, is none of your bread-and-butter. And, I can assure you, Charity shall survive a single dance with Lord Blackburn.”

“Then why do you appear so distraught by the sight of her in his arms?”

Joyce was saved from answering—although she had no idea what she might have said when the appalling truth must remain within her heart—by the appearance of Lord Glynnford.

He was a handsome man who fit well within his grand country home. Yet, when she looked up into his dark eyes, she could think only of other dark eyes which had glowed with love when they met hers. How she wished that earl could be here this evening! She kept her sigh silent.

He smiled. “Miss Stuart, would you honor me by standing up with me for the next waltz?”

Next waltz!
Joyce stared past him. Charity was still with Lord Blackburn on the dance floor. Surely she could not be planning to dance with him again! Surely not to another waltz!

“I am needed by Lady Eloise,” Joyce said faintly. The thought of dancing when she was nearly prostrate with fear for her sister might lead to disaster. “Miss Hoyle need not sit with us. If you wish …”

He bowed to Leatrice. “I would be honored, Miss Hoyle, if you would partner me.”

With a giggle of excitement, Leatrice put her hand on his. She flashed Joyce a victorious smile as he led her toward the dance floor. Joyce resisted laughing. Obviously, the waltz was not an evil thing when Leatrice was dancing it.

She sobered as she heard a voice to her left. “Lord Blackburn may have no more designs on Lady Thyra. How perfectly matched he is with Miss Stuart!”

She swallowed her gasp. Never had she seen her sister dance as lightly as when the black-hearted earl twirled her, laughing at some sally and setting her eyes to dancing as joyously as her feet.

“You say she is only just arrived in London?” continued the voice. “Odd, for it looks as if they have danced together often in the past. Lord Blackburn must know her well.”