didn’t even think about the steps.
It was like floating, or flying. Like the
Gossamer Wing
, without the nausea.
For that reason, Charlotte could not feel at ease. Dreams rarely ended well for her, and she didn’t trust herself when life felt too ethereal or pleasant. She tried to remind herself that people were never what they seemed, and this was all make-believe. But Dexter felt so real, so solid, from the deft grip of his hand on hers to the uncompromisingly hard muscle of his shoulder. Based on the dimensions she’d been able to glean thus far, Charlotte thought Dexter must have the approximate build of a Greek god as depicted in early marbles. Not one of the youths, but somebody fully ripened into manhood. Poseidon, possibly.
“Charlotte?”
The sound of her name drew her attention back to her partner, away from inappropriately specific thoughts of his body. She tipped her head back—and back, and back—to look up at him.
“Dexter.”
They had been practicing, the better to lend an air of genuine affection to their engagement.
See
, her tone of voice told him,
I can say your first name with no hesitation at all, because I have taught myself to say it as part of my duty to the Crown
.
“Are you feeling quite well?”
She tried to think how to explain what she was feeling, but decided against it and went with a shrug instead.
“I’m not used to being back among so many people yet, I suppose.”
“Steam car outings and salons aren’t really adequate preparation for this, it’s true,” he sympathized. “I’d much rather be in my workshop. I’ve always hated these things.”
His voice was mild, pleasant. He seemed to be enjoying himself well enough. Perhaps he was simply as good an actor as he was a dancer.
Charlotte allowed herself the luxury of a slightly longer look at her partner while he steered them around a tricky knot of fellow revelers. In the gleam of the gaslight, she could see the russet tint that softened the black of his hair and brows. Clean-shaven in the current fashion, hair neatly trimmed. The dark gold figured brocade of his waistcoat played up a golden hue she hadn’t noticed before in his complexion. The Chen influence, she supposed, recalling Dexter’s Chinese ancestry. His features were pure Hardison, however, elegant but just a bit boyish. It would have made an ideal face for a rake, had he chosen to wield it that way.
He didn’t, of course. As far as she knew, he had never dallied indiscreetly, never played the cad, never so much as publicly sullied the reputation of the local barmaid her father had informed her was the occasional companion of the Baron’s nights. The Viscount had had a man check on that sort of thing, apparently.
Dexter had given the young woman a generous settlement the day after Charlotte demonstrated her airship to him. That was before he had even spoken with the Viscount and given his official pledge of participation in the charade. He hadn’t been seen in the barmaid’s company since, her father had reported.
“It’s time,” Dexter whispered in her ear as the last few bars of the waltz drew the crowd to a halt. While the others applauded, Dexter led Charlotte quickly out to the terrace. As they descended the steps and headed for a secluded corner of the garden, she told herself that her shiver was only a result of the late April evening’s gathering chill.
He pulled her to a halt around a corner formed by a boxwood hedge and an overflowing herbaceous border. A starlit fountain surrounded by low-growing white roses greeted them with charming sound and scent. There was a bench, of course, placed advantageously for courting couples. The Vanderbilts’ townhouse was somewhat infamous for the convenience of its gardens when trysting was on the agenda.
“Shall I kneel?”
“Whatever for?” She looked back toward the house, to the relative safety of the lights and crowd, visible in twinkling glimpses through the spring
It was like floating, or flying. Like the
Gossamer Wing
, without the nausea.
For that reason, Charlotte could not feel at ease. Dreams rarely ended well for her, and she didn’t trust herself when life felt too ethereal or pleasant. She tried to remind herself that people were never what they seemed, and this was all make-believe. But Dexter felt so real, so solid, from the deft grip of his hand on hers to the uncompromisingly hard muscle of his shoulder. Based on the dimensions she’d been able to glean thus far, Charlotte thought Dexter must have the approximate build of a Greek god as depicted in early marbles. Not one of the youths, but somebody fully ripened into manhood. Poseidon, possibly.
“Charlotte?”
The sound of her name drew her attention back to her partner, away from inappropriately specific thoughts of his body. She tipped her head back—and back, and back—to look up at him.
“Dexter.”
They had been practicing, the better to lend an air of genuine affection to their engagement.
See
, her tone of voice told him,
I can say your first name with no hesitation at all, because I have taught myself to say it as part of my duty to the Crown
.
“Are you feeling quite well?”
She tried to think how to explain what she was feeling, but decided against it and went with a shrug instead.
“I’m not used to being back among so many people yet, I suppose.”
“Steam car outings and salons aren’t really adequate preparation for this, it’s true,” he sympathized. “I’d much rather be in my workshop. I’ve always hated these things.”
His voice was mild, pleasant. He seemed to be enjoying himself well enough. Perhaps he was simply as good an actor as he was a dancer.
Charlotte allowed herself the luxury of a slightly longer look at her partner while he steered them around a tricky knot of fellow revelers. In the gleam of the gaslight, she could see the russet tint that softened the black of his hair and brows. Clean-shaven in the current fashion, hair neatly trimmed. The dark gold figured brocade of his waistcoat played up a golden hue she hadn’t noticed before in his complexion. The Chen influence, she supposed, recalling Dexter’s Chinese ancestry. His features were pure Hardison, however, elegant but just a bit boyish. It would have made an ideal face for a rake, had he chosen to wield it that way.
He didn’t, of course. As far as she knew, he had never dallied indiscreetly, never played the cad, never so much as publicly sullied the reputation of the local barmaid her father had informed her was the occasional companion of the Baron’s nights. The Viscount had had a man check on that sort of thing, apparently.
Dexter had given the young woman a generous settlement the day after Charlotte demonstrated her airship to him. That was before he had even spoken with the Viscount and given his official pledge of participation in the charade. He hadn’t been seen in the barmaid’s company since, her father had reported.
“It’s time,” Dexter whispered in her ear as the last few bars of the waltz drew the crowd to a halt. While the others applauded, Dexter led Charlotte quickly out to the terrace. As they descended the steps and headed for a secluded corner of the garden, she told herself that her shiver was only a result of the late April evening’s gathering chill.
He pulled her to a halt around a corner formed by a boxwood hedge and an overflowing herbaceous border. A starlit fountain surrounded by low-growing white roses greeted them with charming sound and scent. There was a bench, of course, placed advantageously for courting couples. The Vanderbilts’ townhouse was somewhat infamous for the convenience of its gardens when trysting was on the agenda.
“Shall I kneel?”
“Whatever for?” She looked back toward the house, to the relative safety of the lights and crowd, visible in twinkling glimpses through the spring
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