Of course she searched for him as soon as she entered the ballroom. Why wouldn’t she? He was likely to be the loveliest thing she’d see that evening, including the dessert tray, and she did like to gaze upon lovely things.
She couldn’t resist a chuckle as she thought of how he’d looked if she told him he was lovely. His eyebrows had practically reached his hairline when she’d dubbed him beautiful.
But he was. So, so beautiful. She wished she were an artist, so she could attempt to capture his perfection in art. Even though she doubted anyone truly could—there was something so effortlessly masculine in the way he moved, how he spoke, and goodness, how he looked at one when he was interested.
Even if he was in the midst of saying one was “not ugly.”
“Lady Charlotte, how lovely to see you.” Was Lady Anne a mind reader, to know she had the word “lovely” in her brain?
“And you, Lady Anne.” The two ladies smiled at each other, Charlotte feeling a warmth of pleasure at the possibility of having a new friend. She and Anne seemed to share a view of the world, one colored by their sometimes difficult mothers and their own desire for independence.
Although being independent together seemed somewhat like a contradiction in terms.
“Any possibilities for your new venture this evening?” Anne said in a soft whisper.
In addition to getting to ask Anne what her version of the EB was—it was Tarnished, a very clever play on Anne’s last name, Silver, that Charlotte had laughed about for at least five minutes—Charlotte had confided in Anne about the fashion column, knowing she would keep her secret. She didn’t know how she knew that, she just knew.
Just as she knew that Lord David was the loveliest thing she was likely to see, this night and every other.
Now, if only she could just write about Lord David. Of course, she doubted her new editor would appreciate so many uses of the word “lovely.”
“I am not certain. Besides me, of course.” Both ladies glanced at Charlotte’s gown. Lady Anne blinked and swallowed.
“It is definitely noteworthy,” she said in a monotone.
Charlotte nudged her in the ribs. “You can be honest. You hate it. As most people do.”
Lady Anne shook her head. “Not precisely. It suits you, even though it catches the eye in a particular way. I cannot imagine you in any other clothing.”
Charlotte remembered Lord David’s reaction to her normal attire the previous evening. It seemed others also felt as he did. Mr. Goddard had not commented on it at all; had he not noticed, or was he hoping this was a permanent change?
She doubted he’d even noticed, actually. If she wore her fortune as a gown, perhaps then he would remark on it.
“Thank you. But I don’t think the Abomination would make for a good topic. Not with me writing it, at least.”
Lady Anne’s gentle expression turned fierce. “That is an abominable nickname.”
“So to speak,” Charlotte said, grinning at her friend.
The two ladies chuckled together as they watched more and more of Society’s finest members enter the room. A profusion of brightly colored gowns, studded with the gentlemen’s more sober garb.
And then she saw him. And, as usual, he took her breath away. He wasn’t wearing anything different from what the other gentlemen wore—a black jacket, a grey waistcoat, dark trousers—but in every other aspect he was totally arresting.
What would he look like if he wore something like what she liked to wear?
“He does just seem to make you want to look at him, doesn’t he?” Lady Anne said, noting who Charlotte was gazing at. Charlotte felt herself blush.
“Oh, it’s not—”
Anne put her hand on Charlotte’s sleeve. “Please. You needn’t say anything. If we cannot look at beautiful things, then what is the point of having eyes?”
“Not to fall down when we are walking?” Charlotte replied in a dry tone of voice. And then she sighed. “And he is also very nice. It’s not really fair that he should look like that and not be stupid, or have an annoying laugh, or a bad sense of humor.”
Anne patted her arm. “Perhaps given time you will discover something unpleasant about him. Meanwhile, enjoy the discovery process. And speaking of discovering …”
He had spotted her—how could he not?—and was making his way over to her with that delicious lopsided smile on his lips.
Anne squeezed her arm one last time and slipped away, leaving Charlotte alone in the crowd.
“Good evening, Lady Charlotte.” His blue eyes twinkled as he took in her gown. She thought she saw him close his eyes, as if in pain, but he opened them to stare into her eyes. “It is lovely to see you.”
Was “lovely” the word for the evening?
“Lovely to see you as well, Lord David. How are you finding London Society after being in India for so long?”
“It is—well, it’s complicated, and honestly”—his eyes raked down her figure again, and then returned to her face—“it is difficult to form a coherent thought at this moment. Would you like to step outside and onto the terrace where it’s cooler?”
“And darker, of course,” Charlotte said, feeling a grin curl her mouth up. She liked that she could be so honest with him; not that she wasn’t honest with everyone, that was definitely her failing, but he didn’t seem to mind it. In fact, she might almost say he liked it, judging by his answering grin.
He put his hand on her back and steered her through the crowd, past demure debutantes and gossiping ladies, past gentlemen who glared at him as if it was his fault he was so good-looking, past women who looked at him as if they’d never seen anything like him before.
Likely they hadn’t.
At last they stepped through the doors to the terrace. It was blessedly cool out there, and Charlotte gulped a few deep breaths.
She turned to face him, making sure he was in the light cast by the candles in the ballroom so she could see him more clearly than he could see her. It was only as a kindness, she reassured herself. Not because up close he was just so damned … lovely.
“What did you ask? Oh, how I found London Society after India.” He paused. “Well, I—I still can’t think. I would be happy to answer your questions, it’s just … I need to ask you something.”
“Of course.” After asking her why she was wearing what she was wearing, then demanding to know what she was thinking when she got dressed, not to mention implying she had vision troubles, she doubted he could say anything that would surprise her.
“Can you remove your clothing?”
Except that.
Charlotte’s mouth dropped open. “Pardon?”
He ran a hand through his hair. Even rumpled, he was gorgeous. Lovely, even.
“I am saying this all the wrong way. Let me start again.” He pressed his lips together and blew out a breath. “It is hard to think, much less speak, when confronted with …,” he said, and gesticulated at her.
Not that she could speak at the moment, either.
He plucked her shawl from her shoulders and draped it on the stonework at the edge of the terrace. “It’s just that I can’t seem to think straight when confronted with all of this.” He took her gloved hand in his and began to work at the buttons. “Perhaps it would be easier if I were less distracted.”
His fingers touched her arm, and the contact sent shivers down her spine. And other places as well.
How much clothing did he mean? She should be slapping his face and marching back into the ballroom.
Not standing here watching as his hand continued to work at her glove. Wondering if he would next wish to remove her stockings, or her gown, or …
Oh, goodness. And them out here on the terrace.
He spoke as he slid each button through the hole. There seemed to be quite a lot of buttons. Many, many buttons.
And she was still not slapping him. Interesting.
Perhaps she wanted to see how far he would take this. Perhaps she wanted to see how far she would let him take this.
Either way, she wanted to see.
“Finally,” he said as he slid the last button through. “Now I can think properly.”
He held the edge of the glove in one hand and gently slid the glove down her hand with the other.
So it was to be just her shawl and gloves. She tried not to acknowledge that she felt disappointed.
Had the slightest touch of his fingers sent shivers through her? She felt now as though she were ablaze. The heat of his hand on her bare skin made her feel as warm as she had in the ballroom. Imagine if he did the same thing there—she might very well spontaneously combust.
He held her glove in one hand and held her hand with his other. Both of them stared down at their entwined fingers—his darker, with coarse black hair on the back of his hand, her hand soft and pale and white, as though all she’d ever done was wear gloves and gesture. Which, until she’d started writing the column, would have been the case. Now she could add “writing furiously” to the list of things her hands had done.
She had to restrain her hands, in fact, from doing more—from coiling in his hair, to smoothing down one curl that he’d disturbed with his constant raking.
“Does this help, you think, then?” Charlotte prompted, knowing he should get to the point. And answer her question, if he was so determined to that he was doing all this.
Because she knew well enough that if anyone saw them out here on the terrace doing all this, her nickname would change from the Abomination to How-Dare-She-Presume-with-the-Most-Lovely-Lord-David, though that might be hard for some of Society to say.
But not hard for any of them to think.
He gripped her hand tighter. “Yes.” His other hand swept through his hair again, and he cleared his throat. Had he not heard that throat clearing was bound to lead to some sort of pronouncement?
“You were asking about India, were you not?”
She nodded. He still held her hand. At this point, she didn’t think she would blink if he told her India’s trees were upside down and its people spoke backward. She just wanted him to keep holding her hand, to look at her the way he was, as though she were the most important person in the world, as though he could sense her breath, her feelings, her heartbeat.
It was intoxicating to be the object of his scrutiny. Imagine if he told her he was attracted by her beauty or wanted to kiss her. Even just thinking of it made Charlotte feel a little weak.
He’d only told her she wasn’t ugly. Not quite the same thing.
He still had his mouth open, prepared to speak, when she quite suddenly did not want him to do so. She put her other hand, the one he wasn’t holding, up to his mouth, pressing her fingers against his lips.
She felt his warm breath over her skin, and she shivered.
“Lord David, I wonder if you would do me a favor. Will you kiss me?”