“Alex? At a ball? Oh, I assure you I have no wish to see my husband tonight.”
Charlotte frowned. Almost all she’d thought about since Lucia had led her away was Freddie—what he was doing, where he was, with whom he was dancing. She didn’t want to think of him, but no matter how hard she tried, each time she heard a man’s voice or a laugh, she turned in search of her golden angel. But wherever he was, it was not where Lucia had taken Charlotte.
“All I wish to do at a ball,” Lucia was saying, “is dance and laugh and drink champagne. All Alex wants to do is grumble and drink gin. He is a far better companion in the country.” Lucia popped the last small cake on her plate into her mouth.
“But if you wish to dance, then you should do so,” Charlotte said. “You mustn’t let me stop you.”
“Oh, you’re not,” Lucia assured her. “In fact, I have a confession to make, Charlotte.”
Charlotte raised a brow. What deep, dark secret could this sparkly blond doll be hiding? Lucia looked around her, and apparently seeing no one she need worry might overhear, said, “You see, I had not realized how distracting having an American at the ball would be to Mama. She is so busy worrying what everyone is saying about you that she’s had no time to think of me.”
“I don’t think I understand. Why don’t you want your mother to think of you?”
Lucia sighed and looked at her hands, folded in her lap. “Because I cannot bear another conversation about the prospect of grandchildren. You know that my mother has actually started trying to give me . . . hints. It’s absolutely mortifying.” Lucia’s gaze did not meet Charlotte’s as she spoke, and she’d linked her fingers together now.
“You don’t have any children then?” Charlotte asked gently.
“No, and I’m beginning to think that we never will. And I am coming to terms with that possibility, Charlotte, really I am.”
“And Lord Selbourne?”
A shadow of pain bruised Lucia’s porcelain face. “Alex says I am enough. We have three nephews and a niece we see quite often, but my mother . . .” Lucia sighed.
Charlotte took her hand and held it tightly. “You want children, don’t you?”
Lucia wiped a tear away and glanced around to see if any lingering guests had observed her. “Desperately sometimes,” she whispered, her eyes watering a little. “I love my niece and nephews, but I would so much like one of my own.”
Charlotte squeezed her hand. “Do not give up hope yet.”
“But how can you say that when it’s been seven years?”
“Because my father and mother had difficulty conceiving, and even after my mother bore my brother, it was another thirteen years before I was born. Addy, that is the woman who raised me, always says that ‘God didn’t put salt in the sweet pie.’ ” Lucia’s brows furrowed, and Charlotte explained. “That means that everything happens for a reason. If it’s meant to be, it will be.”
Lucia’s lips curved in the shadow of a smile. “I don’t know that I’m a great believer in fate.”
“Neither am I.” For the most part, Charlotte believed in making her own destiny. “But what is the creation of life if not a roll of the dice? Boy or girl? Blond or brunette? For once, matters are taken completely out of our hands.”
Lucia nodded, and her engaging smile was back. “How did you become so wise, Lady Dewhurst?”
“Oh, it’s not me. It’s Addy.”
“God didn’t put any syrup in the pie. Is that it?”
“No, it’s ‘God didn’t put salt in the sweet pie,’ ” Charlotte corrected, playing up her accent. “And as Addy would say, ‘You’d best remember that.’ ”
“Oh, I will—”
“Lady Selbourne?” a harried servant interrupted apologetically. “I’m sorry to interrupt ye. A ’undred apologies.”
“What is it, James?”
“Lord Brigham, my lady. He’s looking for ye.”
“Thank you.” She rose. “Well, Charlotte, are you ready to meet my father?”
Charlotte wasn’t sure she liked the twinkle in Lucia’s eye.
Like his daughter Lucia, Lord Brigham was tall and handsome. A prominent member of the House of Lords, he took politics quite seriously, as Charlotte discovered when he blustered a quick greeting and turned back to argue heatedly with another peer—a rather rotund gentleman twirling a quizzing glass about one finger.
