Lady Whistledown Strikes Back (25 page)

“It has been,” Charlotte affirmed quickly, hoping there was no one in the neighboring boxes to dispute that. “The weather’s probably kept some of them away.”

Her father shook out his greatcoat and tossed it over the chair at the rear of the box. “I wish it had kept

us away,” he grumbled, taking the seat behind his wife.

“You like the theater, Papa.”

“Ordinarily, yes. With Easterly in Town, however, I prefer that we keep a low profile.”

If her profile was any lower, she would completely disappear. “Sophia doesn’t seem to mind much that he’s returned.”

“I believe Sophia wants to have the entire marriage annulled,” the baroness countered in a lower voice, looking about as her husband had done. “And with Lady Neeley’s accusations, who can blame her?”

With difficulty Charlotte kept her silence, instead lifting her play book so she could peer around the

edges at the boxes on the far side of the theater. She could defend Lord Easterly and Sophia until her breath ran out, but her parents had obviously already made up their minds about the entire episode.

Truth be told, she barely remembered Lord Easterly, anyway, except that he’d been quite tall and had

had a pleasant laugh.

Melinda and her family were in their seats several boxes closer to the stage.

Giving her a quick wave, Melinda went back to gazing at the crowd much as Charlotte was. They were, of course, looking for the same man—and at least Melinda had reason to do so. If Lord Matson braved the weather and made an appearance, it would be because he wished to see Miss Edwards.

“Charlotte?” her mother said quietly, patting her hand. “You look sad. Are you feeling well?”

She shook herself. “Yes, I’m fine. I was only thinking of Sophia.”

“Hopefully your cousin will be able to put this unpleasantness behind her. She certainly did when

Easterly abandoned her before.”

Charlotte wasn’t so certain that Sophia had put anything behind her, but her cousin had become adept

at convincing people that was so. At times Charlotte wished she could look as calm and elegant and composed. She’d never had much luck with that, but at least she did have the advantage of being able

to go virtually unnoticed.

Even her parents succumbed to her near invisibility at times, though not as often now that she’d come

of age and needed to be introduced to Society and a potential husband. Her older sister, Helen, had married by the end of her first Season, but then she’d been bubbly and giggly and possessed of large brown eyes and a talent for both the pianoforte and the waltz.

All of which left Charlotte with Lord Herbert. She’d attempted to complain about his lack of animation, but to no avail. Her parents wanted her to marry; she wanted to marry. In her dreams, though, it would be to someone who found her interesting and exciting—and to someone to whom she could at least say something humorous and have him laugh. In her parents’ eyes, she would settle for Herbert because,

well, how could she expect anything more?

“It’s a shame we didn’t think to ask Lord Herbert to join us,” her mother said, sitting back as the curtains slid open. “Is he fond of the theater?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Charlotte whispered back. She tended to think not, because enjoying the theater required an imagination, and she didn’t believe he had one.

She took one last look around her as the play began and abruptly spied Lord Matson. He sat in the shadows toward the back of the box owned by Lord Halloren, which was otherwise crowded with several overdressed females.

Demi-mondaines, her mother would call them. She leaned forward a little to see better. He seemed to be ignoring the rest of the box’s occupants, instead gazing toward the stage.

“Charlotte, stop gawking at people,” her mother muttered.

“Everyone else is.”

“You are not everyone else.”

Charlotte sat through the first and second acts, very conscious that the earl sat somewhere back over

her shoulder. Fleetingly she wondered whether she should ask for permission to visit Melinda’s box at intermission, because Lord Matson would probably be doing the same thing. Oh, she was so blasted obvious.

As the curtains closed she joined in the applause. Now everyone would leave their boxes to mingle and gossip and be seen, and she and her parents would sit where they were so no one could possibly think they were anything but the height of propriety.

“Charlotte, would you have a footman fetch me a glass of Madeira?” her mother asked. “This weather

is going to be the death of me.”

Blinking, Charlotte stood. “Of course. I’ll be just outside the curtain.”

Her mother smiled. “I don’t expect you to run away. We do trust you, darling.

We just wish you had better judgment.”

It wasn’t her actions they needed to concern themselves with; it was her thoughts. Settling for a nod,

she slipped around her father’s chair and out through the heavy black curtains. The upstairs hallway

was packed with people and light and noise, and she leaned back against the wall for a moment to get

her bearings.

“Are you enjoying the play?” a male voice said softly from beside her.

She recognized the voice immediately, and while a low thrill ran through her body she faced Lord Matson, looking up to meet his faded blue gaze. “I am.

And you?”

He gave a short smile. “I can barely hear it. Halloren seems to have invited every opera singer in

London to join him in his box.”

“They are … colorful,” she offered.

His smile deepened. “You were looking at me.”

Drat.
“Well, I— You see, I— You said you would attend tonight.”

“So I did.”

Oh, she could just gaze at him forever. In the chandelier light his amber-colored hair seemed a rich gold, faintly wavy, with a strand across one eye.

Realizing she was staring, Charlotte cleared her throat. “I believe Melinda Edwards is in attendance, as well. You should find her in that direction.” She gestured

up the hallway.

“I know where she is,” he answered. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

For the first time in their short acquaintance he looked uncertain. Charlotte could sympathize. When she saw him from a distance, nervousness flooded through her. When they actually spoke, however, she felt… heightened, but calm, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Herbert Beetly,” the earl continued, his voice even softer. “Are you betrothed?”

She blushed. “No. Not yet, anyway.” “So you expect a proposal from him.” His voice sounded tight, but no doubt he was thinking of his own future proposal to Melinda. Charlotte forced a smile. “Most likely. He has been my only suitor for the past year.”

Matson’s brow lowered. “Your only suitor?” he repeated. “Why is that?”

“Why …” Her blush deepening, she edged in the direction of the nearest footman. She needed to do as her mother asked and get back before her parents came looking for her. “There’s no need to be mean, my lord,” she said stiffly.

He caught her arm gently, but firmly enough to keep her there. “I merely asked you a question. Is it a family agreement? Have you been promised to one another since birth or something?”

“No. Don’t be ridiculous.” He didn’t seem to be teasing her; in fact, he seemed perfectly serious. Well, he’d asked a question, and she’d never been one for illusions, no matter how painful the truth might be. “I’m … not the sort of female that men clamor over.” Charlotte shrugged. “My father and Herbert’s are acquaintances, and when no one expressed an interest in me, they came to a mutual understanding.”

“So Beetly doesn’t own your heart,” he pursued, still gripping her arm.

Her unowned heart jumped at the serious look in his eyes. “No, he doesn’t own my heart. He does

make sense, though.”

To her surprise, he tugged her a breath closer. “Make sense how?”

“My lord, shouldn’t you be chatting with Miss Edwards?” Charlotte ventured, wondering whether he could feel her pulse beneath his fingers.

“I’m chatting with
you,
Charlotte. How does you marrying the dullest clod in London make sense?”

“We’re very similar.” She’d never confessed aloud how dull and ordinary she seemed to be. Until now, apparently.

“And who in God’s name told you that?” he snapped, his voice rising a little.

One or two of the closest theatergoers turned to look at them.

Charlotte wished she could be made of stone so she wouldn’t blush and couldn’t be tempted to sink to

the floor and fade away. “I have a mirror, my lord,” she said stiffly. “And ears.

Now if you’ll excuse

me, I have an errand.”

He started, looking around as though he’d just remembered that they were in a crowded hallway.

“Will you be at home in the morning?”

“Why?”

“Because I intend to call on you. Will you be at home?”

She blanched. “You … why?”

Brief humor touched his faded blue eyes. “Yes, or no?”

“I suppose … yes. But my parents—

“Leave that to me.” He ran his hand down her arm to grasp her fingers. His eyes holding hers, he lifted her hand and brushed her knuckles with his lips.

“Until tomorrow.”

A thousand questions flooded her mind, but she couldn’t think of one she could utter aloud without sounding like a complete idiot. But still… “I don’t understand,” she whispered.

The earl smiled. “You have very fine eyes,” he whispered back, and then retreated into the crowd.

She needed to sit down. The world had just spun into an entirely new rearm.

Xavier, Earl Matson,

meant to call on her. On
her.

If it was a tease, it was the crudest thing she’d ever heard of. But rakish reputation or not, it didn’t seem in his character to be cruel. In their few encounters, she’d certainly never sensed any such thing in him. And if she was good at anything, it was reading people. When no one noticed you, it was easy to study them.

Charlotte concentrated on breathing as she pushed aside the curtains and returned to her chair. Now

that she thought about it, when he’d encountered her and Melinda yesterday, he had seemed to spend a majority of the time talking with her. It had been politeness, though—or so she’d thought.
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

“My dear?” Her mother’s voice made her jump. “You’re red as a beet. What happened?”

Blast. “I
looked everywhere for a footman, but I couldn’t catch anyone’s attention,” she managed, wishing she could escape somewhere to gather her wits.

With a sigh her father climbed to his feet. “I’ll see to it,” he rumbled, exiting out the back of the box.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” the baroness said. “I wasn’t going to send you into such a crush, but your father and I worry that we’re being too restrictive. You must be aware of how delicate our position is right now.”

“I’m aware,” Charlotte returned. But perhaps her parents weren’t being restrictive enough—if they’d kept her in the box, she wouldn’t have encountered Lord Matson, and he wouldn’t have been able to inform her that he intended to call on her.

On the other hand, she couldn’t ever recall being so excited and nervous and … hopeful. Whatever his reasons, if he did call on her tomorrow she meant to be there, and she meant to see him. Charlotte gave a small smile. He thought she had fine eyes. Even if it only lasted for an evening, she actually felt alluring. It was a sensation, she believed, that only a mirror or Lord Matson’s failure to appear tomorrow could dispel. And tonight she wasn’t going to look in a mirror.

Charlotte couldn’t avoid looking in the mirror the next morning as she dressed.

Neither could she ignore the high color in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes. “He might not make an appearance,” she reminded herself sternly. “He probably won’t.”

Behind her, Alice paused as she pinned up Charlotte’s hair. “Beg your pardon, Miss Charlotte?”

“Nothing. I’m just talking to myself.”

“If I may say, you seem a bit unsettled this morning. Shall I have Mrs.

Rutledge make you up some peppermint tea?”

Alice wouldn’t be the only one who noticed her behavior, because since intermission last night she’d

been veering between panic and euphoria. Perhaps admitting to a touch of a cold would keep everyone’s suspicions away, until Lord Matson arrived.
If Lord Matson arrived. “Tea would be lovely. I’ll have it with breakfast.”

Her maid curtsied and hurried from the room. Sighing, Charlotte finished untangling last night’s hair ribbon and laid it across her dressing table. If she thought about it logically, it didn’t matter whether she had a caller this morning or not. Her parents would never allow her to see him.

They would think he must have an ulterior motive; of course he wouldn’t come by just to see her.

From her window, mingling with the tap of the rain, she heard a coach turn up the drive. Her heart seized into a tight, pounding ball. He hadn’t been teasing.

She wanted to rush to the window to look out. “No, Charlotte,” she told herself sternly. “You’ll seem like a rabid dog.”

Instead she went about finishing her hair, a difficult prospect without Alice to assist her. With one more pin to go, she abruptly stopped.

Why was she so infatuated with Xavier Matson? Yes, he was handsome and confident and athletic, but how much else did she know about him? His schedule: The way he went boxing at ten o’clock every morning when he didn’t have Parliament; his preference for luncheon at White’s or Boodle’s; the afternoon rides in Hyde Park, weather permitting. Other than that, he was a stranger. And that was partially what she liked about him. He could be handsome and romantic and mysterious, and safely unattainable.

But now he was at her front door.

Alice burst back into the bedchamber. “Beg pardon, Miss Charlotte, but you have a caller.” She tiptoed closer. “It’s a gentleman, miss.”

“Oh,” Charlotte said noncommitally. “Help me finish my hair, will you?”

“Right away, miss.” Alice swiftly repinned the work Charlotte had done. “Aren’t you curious as to who it might be, miss?”