Charlotte was keenly aware of the newcomer to their circle. Ms. Briggston had pulled every eye, including Lord Jamison’s. Mrs. Smithers was patting her hand, as if in sympathy, and several of the gentlemen in attendance were giving her appraising sideways looks. Charlotte had heard of her—who hadn’t?—but had not anticipated her presence, or expected her to be vying for the same prize. Did she want him for the same reasons? Valentina Briggston was supposed to be fabulously wealthy; it seemed unlikely that she was after the lord’s riches like Charlotte was. Charlotte couldn’t imagine what she might see in the man, who had proven more boring and spoiled than Charlotte hoped. But there could be no doubt that Ms. Briggston had her sights fixed on Lord Jamison, with her artfully shy glances and the way she announced her availability.
She was so dainty and demure that Charlotte thought she must be insipid, but her slow, dark-eyed glance suggested a wit more cunning than her hat. She was turned out like a fashion bookplate, everything about her feminine and fit, every line of her makeup perfect, every pleat just where it should be on a woman. Careful dark brown curls framed a face that might have been quite plain if it weren’t so oddly interesting.
Charlotte wondered what she’d be like with her hair down loose, her expressions unguarded. Would she be demure in bed, or would she live up to the stereotype of a vixen in velvet gloves?
But Charlotte was not going to let herself be distracted. “I couldn’t very well stab the man,” she said dramatically, pausing for a little gasp from her audience. “It would be entirely too messy,” she added with a wink, “and bloodstains are so challenging to get out of white gloves.”
The men guffawed and the women tittered, exactly as she’d meant them to, and Charlotte was glad to see that they were watching her again, not Ms. Briggston.
“So I kissed him, of course,” she said boldly, looking first at Lord Jamison, with a daring lick to her lips, then around to glance last at Valentina, who briefly glared daggers back. “Naturally, he conceded the duel to me!”
Everyone gasped and laughed and clapped, even Valentina, with a masterful mask of her anger.
Charlotte’s triumph was short-lived, as Valentina suddenly touched her hat, then swept her hand over her eyes as if dizziness or grief had unexpectedly overcome her. She gave Lord Jamison’s knee a swift squeeze—barely within the bounds of propriety, but definitely not an accident—and shot him a look of entreaty, then stood and stammered an apology, fleeing the room for one of the balconies surrounding the ballroom.
All of the momentum of Charlotte’s story was lost in Valentina’s melodrama. Lord Jamison looked around helplessly, as if he might rise and follow her but wasn’t sure he should.
That was the last thing Charlotte wanted, so she quickly declared, “Poor dear, I’ll go after her,” and beat him to the punch by virtue of already being standing. She managed a backwards quip, “It was unkind of me to upset her.” She gave the words just a little scorn, reminding her audience that Valentina was the weak one.
This would give her a chance to assess her upstart rival in private and decide on her plan of attack. She had known that her bid for Lord Jamison’s hand wouldn’t go unchallenged, but Ms. Briggston might be more than she had bargained on.
Charlotte paused at the doorway and took in the tableau that Valentina had carefully made, leaning on the railing overlooking the dark ocean. There was a little color left in the sky, and she was standing just past the pool of gas lamplight, looking wistfully off into the wake of the cityship. Charlotte took note of how she managed to stand at the railing; if she attempted such a pose, she would only appear to be slouching, but Valentina looked like she was modeling for an artist attempting to paint noble suffering, if rather more windswept. The brisk ocean breeze and the slow forward momentum of the groaning cityship made eddies of wind that blew Charlotte’s hair into her face. She wasn’t sure how Valentina managed to make it look romantic when Charlotte was having to drag locks from the corners of her mouth every time she opened it. The moon was newly full, giving Valentina an ethereal edge, like she was frosted in silver light.
Charlotte had a moment of doubt. She was hopelessly outclassed in this competition and she had no hope of winning Lord Jamison against such a contender. She should count her losses and fold while she still had any chips before her.
When Valentina glanced back and saw Charlotte, the lines of her posture turned to defiance. “Miss Jones,” she said flatly.
“Not who you were expecting?” Charlotte teased her, enjoying the flash of disappointment and anger that livened Valentina’s face. She had never been able to resist a challenge; that was part of the reason she needed so desperately to win this one. “I told Lord Jamison you were having female problems.” She hadn’t, of course, but it was worth the white lie to watch Valentina’s eyes widen in horror. She had to come quite close, almost unseemly so, in order to speak to the milliner without shouting.
“How crude,” Valentina said coldly.
“It wasn’t terribly sporting of me,” Charlotte said. “But all is fair in love and horse racing.”
“You’re in love with Lord Jamison?” Valentina scoffed.
“No more than you are,” Charlotte said confidently, taking a wild guess. “But I have a need for a wealthy husband. Good horses are expensive and I like a certain standard of life that my trust won’t provide. Lord Jamison has an established tolerance for independent women; his late wife was a senator in the parliament.”
Valentina blinked at her and licked her lips, as if surprised by her frankness, though Charlotte suspected that none of the information was new. Charlotte still wasn’t sure how Valentina managed to keep the loose locks of her hair from sticking to her mouth. “He is...a desirable candidate for many practical reasons,” she said slowly.
She didn’t mention love, either.
“But you don’t need his money,” Charlotte pointed out. “I do.” She knew about Valentina, of course. Everyone had heard of Mrs...Ms. Briggston’s stunning hats. Even Charlotte, who shopped defiantly at men’s hatteries, knew about Valentina’s fashions. Royalty clamored for her hats, ladies bragged of having her custom work on their heads. She was considered the very model of a successful tradeswoman and there had been several profiles in respectable magazines.
“I do not need his money,” Valentina conceded. “I make the finest hats on the mainland, and my business is sought by all the cityships of the world. But I am in need of a husband, and I have settled on this one.” She let a flavor of ice-edged warning flow into her words, but Charlotte only grinned. Games were more worth winning against players of skill.
“Then we are in agreement,” she said merrily, settling her hat upon her head again after a particularly good gust of wind. “It is to be a battle for the hand of Lord Jamison.”
“I couldn’t possibly duel with you,” Valentina said. She managed to look both shocked at the idea and just a little intrigued.
“Duels don’t have to be with swords,” Charlotte said with a wink.
“In a contest of wit, you will not have the advantage of a sharp blade,” Valentina said viciously.
Charlotte felt herself flush in outrage and detested Valentina in that moment for being as clever as she was beautiful. It wasn’t that she minded a challenge, but that she hated the idea she might lose.
Charlotte drew her chin up and gave a tight, brief bow, deliberately masculine. “On the battlefield, then?”
Valentina tipped her head the barest amount. “For the prize,” she agreed, settling herself back over the railing like a waif waiting for rescue.
“He won’t come for you,” Charlotte pointed out. “Not and leave the comfort of the warm ballroom. Whatever qualities our quarry has, putting himself out for others is not among them.”
“Maybe he wouldn’t come for you,” Valentina said off-handedly, but Charlotte thought she looked a little doubtful.
Charlotte turned on her heel, feeling garish in her high-heeled men’s footwear next to the petite and effortlessly-feminine Valentina, but reminded herself that pride had never helped a horse win a race.
She let her feet fall a little harder than she otherwise might have, re-entering the ballroom, to make a point to herself, and to bring the attention of the crowd back to her.
Her footsteps, however, were quiet compared to the unexpected sound of hooves on the ballroom floor. She was just in time to watch a smoky black horse materialize in the center of the room.