They entered the stream of people going into the ballroom. Perfumes mingled, ostrich feathers waved, and jewels sparkled. Voices, laughter, good-natured jostling. The Pembertons would be pleased. The debut ball for their daughter would be labeled a “crush” in tomorrow’s paper, all a hostess or debutante could wish.
Charlotte followed her parents through the receiving line, giving her congratulations to Felicity Pemberton on her debut. Felicity was all wide eyes and round cheeks, flushed with excitement and flashing smiles in every direction.
Charlotte felt in the sere and yellow alongside Felicity Pemberton. And from the admiring glances being tossed her way by some of the young bucks, Charlotte knew Felicity would find little trouble garnering her share of offers.
That and the fact that her father was immensely wealthy. Charlotte had no idea whether her own father was wealthy, because according to him, finances were much too far above a female’s ability to comprehend, and also because they were no business of a woman’s to be meddling with. He should be as rich as Croesus since once he had hold of a shilling, he would fight a legion of Romans rather than part with it.
The ballroom was stunning, the floor polished to glass, and everywhere, in spite of the cold February wind outside, baskets and bouquets of flowers brought summer color and fragrance indoors. More than one hothouse conservatory had been raided, by the look of things.
Her own come-out had been much quieter, in the oh-so-distant past. A simple dinner-dance that didn’t really qualify as a ball. A string quartet rather than the orchestra that now played softly, waiting for the debutante to take the floor for the first dance.
Her first dance had been with a distant cousin brought in for the task by her mother. He had fulfilled his requirements and vanished to the card room, leaving her standing on the dance floor like a dumped puppy. The evening had been awkward and painful, and she had been happy when it was over.
Charlotte banished those memories. She wasn’t that maladroit girl anymore. She was a grown woman, veteran of many a society event, capable, sensible.
If she was all those things, why did she feel so small, insignificant, and ready to head for the nearest door? She imagined her own likeness could grace a dictionary beside the word gauche.
Drifting away from the receiving line, Charlotte looked over the guests, not admitting even to herself that she might be looking for anyone in particular.
Bumping into him at the bookshop had been unexpected. That she’d been so pleased about it disturbed her. She fingered the necklace at her throat. Father had eyed it with a frown when she’d come downstairs to go to the ball, and she’d almost regretted wearing it. He didn’t approve of jewelry, and he was capable of taking it from her. The way he’d looked at it, she could almost see him weighing up how much it might be worth and searching out the nearest receiver’s shop to pawn it.
“My dear, you’re looking well.” A bass voice rumbled at her shoulder.
She smiled up at General Eddington. His white whiskers were particularly magnificent tonight, and he took her hand, bending over it with the panache of a man twenty years younger.
“Thank you, sir.” He was resplendent in evening dress, but he wore a medal around his neck to remind himself or everyone else of his former status as a decorated soldier. “You’re looking quite well yourself.”
He preened at her compliment, but he had a look in his eye that made Charlotte uneasy. It was too bright, too intent, and he hadn’t given her back her hand. She tugged gently to remove it from his grasp.
“So nice to get to know you a bit better last night at dinner. You play a heady game of whist for a woman.” He stepped closer, crowding her, his chest brushing her arm. She stepped back.
Inwardly she bristled at the crowding and his qualifier, but she tried to keep her indignation out of her face. For a woman, indeed. She played a heady game of whist, period. Gender need not come into it.
“Thank you. I enjoyed the evening very much.” And she had, though not because she had won. She kept her eyes on the guests, looking for one tall form among the throng, only half listening to the old general.
“I had hoped you did. You see, I spoke with your father earlier today at our club.”
“Did you?” She tapped toe to the music. Would he come? Surely he had been invited. He was much desired as a guest these days.
“Yes, though it has been a very long time since I’ve spoken to a father about his daughter.”
She stopped tapping. “Pardon me?” He had her full attention now.
“You see, I’ve been a widower for some time, and … looking for a bit of comfort in my old age, you know. Not seeking a child bride, but someone a bit more mature.” He gruffed and bumbled, his face florid. “I was hoping you might consider a union between us …”
Was the man actually proposing? Marriage?
He was old enough to be her … grandfather? She must’ve looked as shocked as she felt, because his face reddened further, and he backed up a step.
“I can see that I caught you unawares.” His lips were stiff, his bearing erect.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.” She blinked, her hand coming up to finger the locket at her throat. “I never expected …” She tried to keep the revulsion out of her face, praying she succeeded.
In a flash, he gathered himself, putting on a military bearing. He stiffened, as if on a parade ground, and with a click of his heels, he gave a crisp bow. “Of course. I chose a poor place to address this topic. Perhaps I can call on you tomorrow? We could make things more official at that time.”
No! Her mind shouted the refusal.
When the general flinched and people around her gasped, she realized she hadn’t kept the shout internal.
Why couldn’t the floor just open up and swallow her right now?
She inclined her head to a small alcove, and he marched into it, scowling. She followed, still not sure of what had happened. Lord, what kind of sick joke is this? Is this the answer to my prayer for a way out of my father’s house that doesn’t involve Aunt Philomena and Yorkshire? What are You doing? I know I said any marriage would be better than staying in my father’s house, but … this?
He turned in the small space, crossing his arms, glaring down at her.
“I’m s … s … sorry, sir.” She had to say something, but what? “You do me a great honor, but …” I couldn’t possibly marry a fossil like you, to be the comfort of your declining years. Her mind boggled at the thought. Just how old do you think I am?
Perhaps I should introduce you to Aunt Philomena. The two of you are of an age … An absurd desire to giggle at this ridiculous notion rose up her throat, and with great effort she throttled it.
“Please, excuse me, sir. I do appreciate your offer, but I must decline.”
“Your father led me to believe my proposal would be well received.” His side-whiskers jutted from his jowls. “In fact, he guaranteed it.”
“My father was mistaken. He does not speak for me in this issue.” He’d better not. She would not marry General Eddington no matter how much her father had promised. She had no more books for him to burn. What else could he do to her that would hurt as much?
A flash of being tossed out of the house and having to fend for herself like Pippa crossed her mind. Her skin prickled.