eyes goggled. A
duke
had just asked her to dance, and Denbigh had turned him down! And unless magic elves had been at work, her dancecard most certainly was not filled. Denbigh had been picky about the sprigs of fashion he allowed to pay court to her. But what was wrong with
this
man? The duke looked fine to her, even if he was at least ten years older than Denbigh, maybe even old enough to be her father—at least thirty-seven or eight.
She perused her dance card and looked up at the duke with a twinkle in her eye. “It seems there is one dance—”
That was as far as she got before Denbigh’s hand clamped tight on her wrist. He tugged her from her seat and, when she glared mutinously at him, settled her hand on his arm with an unspoken dare to try removing it. Charlotte was rebellious; she was not stupid. She left her hand where her guardian had put it.
“Excuse us, Your Grace,” Denbigh said. “This dance is promised to me, and the set is about to begin.” He turned and began leading Charlotte onto the dance floor.
“But, Your Grace, Lady Olivia, the earl’s sister, would love to dance with you,” Charlotte called back over her shoulder.
Charlotte felt Denbigh’s arm go rigid beneath her fingertips as he stopped abruptly. He gave her a narrow-eyed look that would have kept a Gunter’s ice chilled for a week. Charlotte wrinkled her noseat him and heard him growl as he turned his attention back to the duke.
Well, it was his own fault for leaving his sister sitting there all alone like a wallflower, when she should be enjoying herself, Charlotte thought.
Olivia sat stiff as a buckram hat brim in the chair next to the one Charlotte had vacated, her hazel eyes lowered modestly in a way Charlotte’s never were.
Charlotte watched the duke’s eyes and saw them settle on her friend. Charlotte knew the duke was seeing a rather plain, rather shy woman, her oval face surrounded by mousy brown curls topped by a lace-edged spinster’s cap. Under his perusal, Olivia’s face turned crimson and then, as the duke’s heels snapped together and he bowed over her hand, faded to a ghostly white.
“My lady?” the duke said in a flinty voice. “Will you do me the honor?”
“You’ve done it now, Charlie,” the earl muttered.
Though his features remained as immovable as one of the Elgin Marbles she had snuck out to see, Charlotte was certain Denbigh was furious. He had never,
ever
called her by her American nickname.
Charlotte watched as the blond Adonis reached out a gloved hand to the earl’s sister and held it there, waiting for her hand to be laid in it. “I am Braddock,” he said.
Olivia gasped. Braddock was an infamous rake.
Charlotte would have gasped, too, if she hadn’t been afraid a too-deep breath would cause her bosom to fall completely out of her gown. Her nearly naked—though charmingly exposed—bosom was another of her plans to upset Denbigh that had gone awry.
She had instructed the
modiste
to lower the bodice to a level she was sure would leave Denbigh howling with outrage and then pranced down the stairs of the town house in London where they were staying, confident that her guardian would be forced to leave her at home this evening. She had no desire to be paraded on the Marriage Mart like a filly for sale.
Denbigh had taken one shocked look at her décolletage and roared, “Charlotte! You will go right back upstairs and—”
That was when she had made the mistake of smirking in triumph. Denbigh recognized the trap she had set, snapped his jaws shut, swallowed hard, and in a remarkably calm—if cold—voice said, “Get a scarf. It will be chilly this evening.”
In spite of Denbigh’s black looks, she had refused to wear the scarf once they arrived at Almack’s. But she feared she had suffered more than Denbigh. It was like dangling a worm before trout. The gentlemen simply couldn’t resist. Now it seemed she had attracted a very big, very dangerousfish indeed. Braddock, as in
duke
had just asked her to dance, and Denbigh had turned him down! And unless magic elves had been at work, her dancecard most certainly was not filled. Denbigh had been picky about the sprigs of fashion he allowed to pay court to her. But what was wrong with
this
man? The duke looked fine to her, even if he was at least ten years older than Denbigh, maybe even old enough to be her father—at least thirty-seven or eight.
She perused her dance card and looked up at the duke with a twinkle in her eye. “It seems there is one dance—”
That was as far as she got before Denbigh’s hand clamped tight on her wrist. He tugged her from her seat and, when she glared mutinously at him, settled her hand on his arm with an unspoken dare to try removing it. Charlotte was rebellious; she was not stupid. She left her hand where her guardian had put it.
“Excuse us, Your Grace,” Denbigh said. “This dance is promised to me, and the set is about to begin.” He turned and began leading Charlotte onto the dance floor.
“But, Your Grace, Lady Olivia, the earl’s sister, would love to dance with you,” Charlotte called back over her shoulder.
Charlotte felt Denbigh’s arm go rigid beneath her fingertips as he stopped abruptly. He gave her a narrow-eyed look that would have kept a Gunter’s ice chilled for a week. Charlotte wrinkled her noseat him and heard him growl as he turned his attention back to the duke.
Well, it was his own fault for leaving his sister sitting there all alone like a wallflower, when she should be enjoying herself, Charlotte thought.
Olivia sat stiff as a buckram hat brim in the chair next to the one Charlotte had vacated, her hazel eyes lowered modestly in a way Charlotte’s never were.
Charlotte watched the duke’s eyes and saw them settle on her friend. Charlotte knew the duke was seeing a rather plain, rather shy woman, her oval face surrounded by mousy brown curls topped by a lace-edged spinster’s cap. Under his perusal, Olivia’s face turned crimson and then, as the duke’s heels snapped together and he bowed over her hand, faded to a ghostly white.
“My lady?” the duke said in a flinty voice. “Will you do me the honor?”
“You’ve done it now, Charlie,” the earl muttered.
Though his features remained as immovable as one of the Elgin Marbles she had snuck out to see, Charlotte was certain Denbigh was furious. He had never,
ever
called her by her American nickname.
Charlotte watched as the blond Adonis reached out a gloved hand to the earl’s sister and held it there, waiting for her hand to be laid in it. “I am Braddock,” he said.
Olivia gasped. Braddock was an infamous rake.
Charlotte would have gasped, too, if she hadn’t been afraid a too-deep breath would cause her bosom to fall completely out of her gown. Her nearly naked—though charmingly exposed—bosom was another of her plans to upset Denbigh that had gone awry.
She had instructed the
modiste
to lower the bodice to a level she was sure would leave Denbigh howling with outrage and then pranced down the stairs of the town house in London where they were staying, confident that her guardian would be forced to leave her at home this evening. She had no desire to be paraded on the Marriage Mart like a filly for sale.
Denbigh had taken one shocked look at her décolletage and roared, “Charlotte! You will go right back upstairs and—”
That was when she had made the mistake of smirking in triumph. Denbigh recognized the trap she had set, snapped his jaws shut, swallowed hard, and in a remarkably calm—if cold—voice said, “Get a scarf. It will be chilly this evening.”
In spite of Denbigh’s black looks, she had refused to wear the scarf once they arrived at Almack’s. But she feared she had suffered more than Denbigh. It was like dangling a worm before trout. The gentlemen simply couldn’t resist. Now it seemed she had attracted a very big, very dangerousfish indeed. Braddock, as in
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