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The duke gazed at her in a strange manner, and she shivered. Men like him weren’t supposed to gaze at women like her. Men like him were with the very finest women, who’d gone to the most immaculate finishing schools and who never appeared like they were drowning in their attire. Such women wore immaculate gowns with lace made by multiple workers over months that were embroidered with jewels mined from minerals in faraway caves over vibrantly colored fabric taken from similarly precious dye, exported from faraway countries.
No.
Men like the Duke of Vernon were not supposed to pay any attention to women like Charlotte.
The countryside might be known for rosy-cheeked milkmaids, but Charlotte was too thin and pale to resemble them. Other women fretted over the unbecomingness of empire waist gowns, and the propensity of the high waist line to give the impression of impending motherhood. Charlotte never had those fears, though even in those gowns she was too short to conjure the visions of Grecian regality that the designers intended.
Charlotte might have technically attended balls, but no matter her mother’s ability to procure invitations, and no matter her mother’s lineage, the fact remained Charlotte was not only the daughter, but also the second daughter, of a vicar.
It was the sort of occupation one might not truly be able to criticize, not like that of a fisherman or some other laborer, but she was certain it was an occupation they could hardly respect. After all, they were independently wealthy.
Finally the duke swept into a deep bow. “May I have this dance?”
She stared at him, unaccustomed to this new formality.
He leaned closer to her. “This is a ball, Miss Butterworth. The prospect of dancing can’t be entirely baffling.”
“B-but you’re a duke,” she stammered.
His lips twitched. “You seemed to indicate earlier you found that less than impressive.”
He led her to the row of finely attired people waiting to begin the dance, and she took his arm again, conscious of the startled expression on people’s faces as they saw them together.
“I’m a terrible dancer,” she warned.
His lips twitched again. “I rather much doubt it.”
“You are a man of entirely too much optimism.”
“Is that a quality I should be worried about?”
She assessed him. “I think it’s a quality you should pride yourself in.”
The duke blinked, obviously surprised, and she averted her gaze.
The dance needed to begin.
At any moment, she was going to transform into a perfectly simpering woman, whose every word to him was a compliment, and he’d think her despondent once he shifted his attention elsewhere.
*
MISS BUTTERWORTH WAS a terrible dancer.
The thin material of Callum’s dance slippers was not an effective barricade against the frequency of her habit to step upon his toes.
“I told you I was dreadful,” Miss Butterworth said.
“So you did,” he said, doing his best to maintain a placid expression as his large toe throbbed with pain.
“I’m not in the habit of lying,” she declared.
“Most admirable of you.”
The music was particularly jaunty, but Miss Butterworth’s lips were pursed in obvious concentration. Every now and then her lips would move, like some medieval witch about to utter a spell.
“Are you counting?” he asked.
“Doesn’t everyone count when dancing?”
“I suppose at one time...”
“You must speak quickly,” she said. “In fourteen seconds we are to be divided.”
“I suppose you don’t love dancing.”
“I rather implied that,” she said, and they separated.
No one stepped on Callum’s foot when he joined a new pattern of dancers, but he was relieved when he rejoined her. “I thought you were being modest.”
She shrugged. “Then you were mistaken. It’s happened before with you. I imagine it is one of your characteristics.”
“Being mistaken?”
“Logic is a subject with which some people struggle.
But do not worry, there are subjects with which I struggle.” She stepped on his toe again.
“I believe you.”
Her face was grave and serious. She hadn’t once mentioned ribbons or hinted at her strong capabilities for manor house management.
She’d been acting bravely, coming here. The fact intrigued him. Bravery was something which he’d associated with troops in battle, but most of the women of his acquaintance were squeamish over something as trivial as a stray spider that ventured inside the house.
He wished the musicians had not just played a waltz. He wouldn’t have been entirely disinclined to twirl about with her, and he was sad when the dance ended.
“How honorable of you to dance with our most incorrigible wallflowers,” a man’s voice said.
Sir Seymour.
Callum tried to temper the wave of irritation that rushed through his body.
“Your slippers must be in a sorry state,” Sir Seymour continued, and Miss Butterworth’s face pinkened. “His Grace is most kind, do you not feel? Especially when his own betrothed is at this ball?”
A pained expression appeared on her face.
Blast.
The point of asking Miss Butterworth to dance had not been to embarrass her.
“My slippers are fine,” Callum said tightly.
“Ah,” Sir Seymour said. “I imagine they are, given their ducal quality. You must share the name of your cobbler. Your taste is magnificent.” He gave a quick glance at Miss Butterworth, and Callum doubted the baronet thought Miss Butterworth’s taste magnificent. “But you are perhaps too noble, Your Grace. Perhaps it is a Scottish inclination. Your people never did manage to win wars.”
Callum stiffened. “War is not the only thing worth winning.”
“Ah, but does one desire to live in an occupied country?” Sir Seymour mused. “All those times France tried to attack us, they never managed to, did they?”
“With the exception of the Normans conquering England in 1066,” Miss Butterworth said tersely, and Callum gave a short laugh.
“It has been a pleasure dancing with you, Miss Butterworth.” Callum swept into a deep bow, noting that Sir Seymour’s face took on a purple shade.
Perhaps Callum’s bow had been lower than absolutely necessary, but he had enjoyed their dance.
Miss Butterworth gave a not-particularly-elegant curtsy, but Callum expected Sir Seymour’s glower might be unnerving. Callum had the advantage of being the subject to Sir Seymour’s awkward attempts at adulation.
Even though his valet might complain when he saw Callum’s slippers, Callum felt almost a sense of regret when Miss Butterworth left.