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Wales?
    As soon as possible, she promised herself, she would go to Wales. She could just imagine her mother’s horror if she suggested such a thing now (the trip! the dirt!), but perhaps in the fall … with a chaperone, of course.
    And the season was better because it seemed to Charlotte that her mother was becoming more comfortable with her rejection of eight worthy suitors. Adelaide stopped looking at her with a pained expression. They even began speaking again without sorrowful innuendoes underlying every conversation.
    In fact, Charlotte didn’t notice immediately that her mother was no longer prodding her into attending social events. One night she walked into the dining room and realized the room was bare.
    “Where are my parents, Campion?” she asked the butler.
    “I believe the duchess is attending a fête de champagne given by Lady Bridgeplate, and I am not cognizant of the duke’s location,” Campion replied, holding out her chair with a flourish.
    Charlotte looked at the table. “What are we eating tonight, Campion?” she asked.
    Campion brightened. He loved to talk about food, although this family simply didn’t appreciate it as they ought to. “Poulet à la diable, crab rémoulade , and fraises à la Chantilly.”
    “Oh,” Charlotte said flatly.
    She sat down and stared at the steaming consommé that Campion placed tenderly before her. The solitary life was, well, so solitary …. Perhaps she should find a companion. She thought of an elderly lady with a cap, and pursed her lips. Perhaps not. Two old maids, she thought. She didn’t feel bitter, but it did seem tedious.
    Perhaps she had made an error. In the course of fending off eight marriage proposals, Charlotte had discovered that, in fact, she didn’t have a wanton sexual response to each and every man who tried to kiss her. When the Earl of Slaslow offered his well-phrased and elegant proposal, she responded in dulcet tones; when he refused rejection and hauled her into his arms, kissing her fiercely, she didn’t respond at all. Instead she stood with her mouth tightly closed and except for grinding his teeth against her lips, there was nothing he could do about that. So Braddon gave up and backed away, even pouting a little.
    On the other hand, when the well-known fortune hunter William Holland—an impoverished baron but so good-looking!—pulled her against his chest, she did open her lips, and she did enjoy the kiss. She even felt a little swooning feeling in her stomach. But it was nothing like the raw emotion that had flooded her at the masked ball.
    Now, three years later, she didn’t remember the footman’s face very well (for that was what she had decided he was), but she definitely remembered her own reaction. And she’d grown rather tolerant of herself. While it was true she probably shouldn’t get married, given her lack of a maidenhead, she had heard lots of stories about maidenheads that never existed, especially if one was active and rode horses.
    Perhaps she should take more interest in the whole process, now that her mother seemed to be relinquishing control. Charlotte even found herself wondering whether Will Holland had found the rich wife he needed.
    Campion entered the dining room and removed her untouched consommé and gently placed a half chicken, à la diable , before her. Charlotte didn’t like eating alone. It made her low, in fact. She liked painting alone: Her mother had turned over a large room on the third floor, which had good light in the morning and excellent light in the afternoon. She loved entering her studio, putting on her apron, and mixing paints.
    At the moment she was copying paintings. One after another, she took down paintings from all over the ducal estates and carried them up to her room, keeping them for a month or two, even (in the case of the duke’s only Rembrandt) for six months.
    “Why, darling?” her mother had asked hopelessly that afternoon, looking at Charlotte’s third copy of