“I did not know you were keeping track of my whereabouts,” he retorted, his tone stiff and somewhat irritable. His cousin had drifted away, engrossed in conversation with a lady nearby, who giggled and offered him her dance card, prompting him to inscribe his name.
“Well, yes, I had been noting your absence. We are here, after all, to demonstrate to all that we are happily wed.”
“You are quite right. Shall we take a turn about the room together?” he suggested. “Smile, if you can, as it will sell our tale to the participants.”
She glared at him. “You know I do not like to be ordered about.”
“I am aware, but in this case, please do as I say,” he replied, extending his arm.
They walked side by side. Many attendees greeted them—most with smiles, courtesy, bows, and other forms of respect—while a few regarded them with what Charity could only assume was suspicion. A woman raised her fan and turned to her companion, engaging in whispered gossip.
Despite this, Charity maintained her composure, smiling brightly as she had been instructed.
“There is something troubling you,” she observed. “You have been remarkably quiet this evening.”
He met her gaze. “Nothing has transpired, nothing beyond the usual strain. One of the tenant pharmacists is ill, and I am concerned. And of course, Lord Markham and his conniving ways trouble me, but nothing beyond that.”
Yet there was something more, a strange feeling that had resurfaced on and off since their marriage. Eager to build on what had—or had not—emerged between them, she decided to ignore it. “Should we not dance?” she inquired.
“Dance?” he replied, as if he had never heard such a notion. “We are married; we cannot dance.”
“At a public ball, surely not,” she urged. “But at a private gathering in your relative's home? Surely we can dance. Look, your uncle is partaking in a dance at this very moment,” she indicated, pointing to the Duke and Duchess of Ashburn engaging with other couples.
“I fear I am not much of a dancer,” he replied. “In fact, if you would excuse me, there is someone I need to speak with.” Letting go of her arm, he turned away. What was the matter with him? Why must he act in such a manner?
“Mercurial” was hardly a sufficient description for her husband.
She paused for a moment, a frown creasing her brow as her hands curled into fists, realizing that all eyes would be on her. Quickly, she composed herself; she pulled back her shoulders, held her head high, and approached a servant carrying a tray of white wine flutes. Taking one, she sipped the bubbly liquid before positioning herself at the edge of the dance floor, awaiting Eammon’s return.
“Lady Charity,” a voice called, and she turned to see a tall gentleman with striking blue eyes, a face she vaguely recognized.
“Yes, though I must beg your pardon; I do not recall your name,” she replied.
“Miles Farnsworth, Lord Barron,” he introduced himself, and her lips formed an “O” as recognition dawned. He was a friend of Lord Markham, someone she had met during a visit to Pembroke. Instantly, her guard rose. What could he want? She scanned for signs of Markham but found none.
“I am quite alone, and Lord Markham is not with me,” he assured her, sensing her hesitation. “In fact, I should inform you that he and I are not closely acquainted.”
“You are not?” she asked in surprise. “He gave me the impression you were when you accompanied him to Pembroke.”
“The impression was misleading,” Miles replied. “We are distantly related—second cousins, in fact. I accompanied him to Pembroke as we were on our way to visit mutual relations. I wished to express my regret over his unkind treatment of you. I am aware of the rumors he spread.”
“Oh,” Charity responded, recalling how much had transpired over the past few weeks. She had somewhat forgotten about the unpleasant stories circulating about her at Stafford House.
“I had my suspicions he was behind it. I thank you for that confirmation,” she said quietly.
“My cousin is never one to take ‘no’ for an answer, especially when he covets something very much,” he added.
Charity bit the inside of her cheek, carefully considering her response. “I lament that he felt the need to fabricate unkind stories about me because I turned him down. I still do not comprehend why he was so determined to claim me as his bride in the first place.”
“Do you truly not?” he asked, sounding genuinely puzzled.
“I would very much like to know,” she replied. “For he continues to cast quite the shadow over this period of my life, which should be exceedingly happy. After all, I am newly wed.”
“I see you are,” he smirked, appearing more at ease. “To the very fortunate Duke of Leith, no less. Good on him.”
Charity wondered why these men insisted on speaking in riddles.
“Pray, would you care to dance? The waltz is next and it is a wonderfully slow dance for making conversation.”
