by Julia Quinn
“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 realm. Xavier, Earl Matson, meant to call on her. On her.
If it was a tease, it was the cruelest 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?”
Oops. She’d forgotten; she wasn’t supposed to know. “Of course I am, Alice. Where did Boscoe put him?” she asked, though she assumed the butler had shown the earl to the morning room, the usual place guests were asked to wait. Not that she’d ever had any male guests except for Herbert.
“He’s in your father’s office. Lord Birling didn’t look at all pleased. I’m sure I don’t know why, because your visitor is very…pleasant-looking, but it’s none of my business, anyway.”
It wasn’t, but Charlotte was so grateful for the news that she didn’t complain. She needed to hurry; if she couldn’t get downstairs quickly, her father might very well send Lord Matson away before she had a chance to see him.
Finally, with Alice still practically hanging off the back of her hair, Charlotte sprinted downstairs to the first floor. The butler stood at his usual post in the foyer, but even stoic Boscoe couldn’t quite mask his curiosity at their visitor.
“Boscoe? Alice said I have a caller.” Practically vibrating with nervousness, she couldn’t resist a glance toward the closed door of her father’s office.
“Yes, Miss Charlotte. Your father requests that you wait in the morning room with your mother.”
Until those last three words, Charlotte had been almost hopeful. Her mother, though, would have questions, and she had no idea what to answer. “Thank you,” she said anyway, slipping through the half-open door.
“Did you plan this?” the baroness demanded, not pausing in her swift pacing.
“To have a caller?” Charlotte asked, keeping in mind that she supposedly didn’t know who her father had trapped in his office.
“To have Lord Matson call on you.”
Thankfully, hearing the name spoken aloud shook her enough that she didn’t have to fake her reaction. “N-no. How could I plan such a thing?”
“I’m sure I have no idea. But you did stare at him out the window the other day, and he approached you at the Hargreaves’ Ball.”
“Mama, you’ve made it clear that I should concentrate my efforts on Lord Herbert, since no other gentleman has called on me in a year. Why would I think I could plan something like this?”
“But why is he here?” her mother persisted.
“He’s here to call on Charlotte.” Her father stood in the doorway, his expression tight and clearly displeased. “He wishes to court her.”
The baroness sank into a chair. “What? Charlotte?”
Through the roaring in her ears, Charlotte was asking the exact same questions. Even so, her mother’s reaction pained her. Yes, she was quiet and reserved and not vibrant and beautiful like Helen, but it hurt to know that her parents really did think of her as…small, that Herbert was the best match for her.
“Yes, Charlotte. So please collect yourself, Vivian, and I’ll show him in.”
“But—”
“I can’t very well throw him out when he came to ask my permission to call on our daughter,” the baron interrupted in a lower voice. “And quite respectfully.” He turned his assessing gaze to Charlotte. “Do not encourage him. His reputation is less than snowy, and yours can only be harmed.”
“Yes, Papa.”
Lord Birling vanished, only to reappear a moment later with Lord Matson on his heels. The earl looked as easy as if he’d been sitting about playing whist, and Charlotte could only envy his composure. Of course, it was beginning to seem very likely that Lord Matson was completely insane. She could think of no other explanation as to why he would wish to broach Birling House to see…her.
As his gaze found her, however, he smiled. “Good morning, Miss Charlotte, Lady Birling.”
“My lord,” the baroness returned with a curtsy, “what in the world brings you here?”
“As I told Lord Birling, I’ve found myself somewhat at loose ends here in London, not knowing many people and beginning to fall in with the wrong crowd. Your daughter’s kind words and obvious decorum caught my attention.”
Charlotte blinked. Good heavens, he sounded almost…tame. If not for the twinkle deep in his blue eyes, she would have thought a duplicate of dull Lord Herbert had strolled into the room. A duplicate with wits and a sense of humor, of course.
“In light of that,” he went on, “I have asked Lord Birling’s permission to call on Miss Charlotte. I had thought we might take a ride in my phaeton, since it has a covered top and will protect us from the drizzle.”
A phaeton? She’d never ridden in such a sporting vehicle in her life. Charlotte practically clapped her hands together before she could stop herself and clasp them demurely behind her back instead.
“And a chaperone?” her mother pursued, her reaction much more skeptical than her daughter’s.
“My tiger, Willis, is holding the team for me now. He will accompany us on horseback.”
The baroness’s brow lowered. “Another man? I don’t—”
“I’ve given my permission,” her father cut in. “For today. As I said, my lord, she is to be home by noon.”
Matson sketched an elegant bow. “She will be.” His gaze still on Charlotte, he held out one hand. “Shall we?”
It was a good thing her father had given permission, because she wasn’t about to pass up the prospect of riding in a racing phaeton with Lord Matson, no matter the consequences. She nodded, trying to stifle her excited smile. “As you wish, my lord,” she managed in a calm voice.
Alice appeared with a warm wrap, and Charlotte shrugged into it. Both parents followed her out the front door like vultures looking over a fresh kill, so she didn’t dare take the earl’s proffered hand, and instead let her father help her up into the high seat. Lord Matson tucked a blanket around her feet under the close gaze of the baron and baroness, and in a flash they were off down the drive.
Charlotte sighed, her breath fogging a little in the cold air. “You actually came.”
“Of course I did. I said I would.” He looked at her. “Why do you let them talk about you like that?”
“Like what?”
“Your mother acted as though she couldn’t conceive of why I would come calling on you, and your father seemed to think I meant to escort you somewhere for the sole purpose of abandoning and embarrassing you.”
“Oh, dear,”
she muttered. “It’s just…well, you’ve seen how concerned they are about proprie—”
“It wasn’t that.”
She kept her gaze on the street. “What do you wish me to say, my lord? That they don’t understand why someone with your attractive physical appearance and your considerable income and reputation would be interested in courting their daughter? I don’t quite understand it, myself.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Why not? What’s wrong with you?”
Charlotte flushed. She couldn’t help it. “What do you mean, ‘What’s wrong with me?’ You aren’t supposed to ask questions like that.”
“I’m merely trying to understand why I’m not supposed to be seen in your company.” He shifted so he could face her more fully, flicking the reins from his right hand to his left. “Do you squint?”
“No, my lord. Not unless the sun is very bright.”
“Not a problem today, then. Stutter?”
“Not generally.”
“Missing a finger or a toe?”
Despite her efforts, a smile tugged at her mouth. “Not as of this morning.”
“Are your teeth false?”
“No, my lord.”
“Two ears, approximately level with one another, one—”
“Do stop teasing.”
“I’m not. I’m looking for your defect. There must be one, for them to be so nervous about exposing me to you. One nose,” he continued, “slightly upturned at the tip, one mouth, with lips above and below, two eyes, which we discussed yesterday.” His gaze flicked the length of her and back again. “It’s nothing I’m not currently seeing, is it?”
“For goodness’ sake, my lord. That is too much,” she protested, not certain whether to be scandalized or terribly amused. “You’re looking precisely at part of the problem, I daresay.”
“Then it must be that you’re wearing a wig. You’re bald, aren’t you?”
Finally she chuckled. She couldn’t help it. “No, my lord. My hair is my own, firmly attached.” She drew a breath before he could question her eyelashes or her bosom or something. “I’m not beautiful or ebullient, and you’re quite handsome and wealthy, with your choice of any single female in London. That’s what they don’t understand. And frankly, neither do I.”