How could his mother think he could marry Felicity? She couldn’t even look him in the eye much less carry on an intelligent conversation. In a few years maybe, when she’d had some time to mature, but not now. He felt nothing for her, or any of her kind, beyond brotherly concern.
They all reminded him of his younger sister, Sophie. Though she’d probably take him to task for still thinking of her as a child. She was a betrothed woman, after all. Living at her fiancé’s house, caring for his elderly mother until he should return from the war and they could wed.
The music increased in tempo, and he was able to relinquish Felicity to her partner and reclaim Charlotte. She took his hand, allowing him to swing her in the quick circle that signaled the end of the reel. Color rode her cheeks, and a curl had escaped the severe knot at the back of her head, caressing her temple.
Without thinking, he reached out and brushed it back, admiring the sparkle in those green eyes that looked into his without guile or timidity.
She froze at his touch, and he let his hand fall. Around them polite applause from the dancers filled the room, and the orchestra began another tune.
Marcus took a deep breath and offered his arm. “I know I should return you to your mother’s care, but there is someone I would like to introduce to you.”
She took his elbow, her cheeks and eyes bright. The room was warm, what with all these candles and people. Didn’t she have a fan? Perhaps he should offer her some refreshment.
“Good evening, Haverly. Or, should I say, ‘Your Grace’?”
Marcus stopped, turning toward the voice. Ratcliffe … what was his first name? John. That was it.
“Good evening, Lord Ratcliffe.” He went through a mental catalog of what he knew of the man. A favorite of the Prince Regent, a professional courtier and adviser. And a good shot. He’d attended the house party at Whitelock’s last spring and taken part in the target shoot that had immediately preceded the assassination attempt. Came in second. “Do you know Lady Charlotte Tiptree?”
“A pleasure, Lady Charlotte.” With perfect grace he bowed over her hand. His dress and silver-laced dark hair were impeccable, his features as if sculpted from marble. He released her hand, his eyes alert but cold as he turned his attention back to Marcus. “Now that you’ve come into your title, perhaps we’ll see you at court more often?” Ratcliffe asked.
“Perhaps. The duties are many, I am finding.” Though he knew of no reason to be wary, something about Ratcliffe didn’t sit well with him. Maybe it was his punctilious manners or the fact that he had the ear of the Prince Regent, who was easily swayed and given to caprices of temperament.
Or maybe Marcus was being fanciful and skittish when there was no need. He knew nothing ill of the man, and not everyone was a villain.
Then he saw his friends. “Ah, there they are. Good evening again, Ratcliffe.” He led Charlotte away. In the past he would’ve waited for Ratcliffe to end the conversation since Lord Ratcliffe would’ve outranked him, but now he was the one to determine when an encounter was finished. “Whitelock, Diana. So good to see you back in town. You’re looking ravishing as always, Diana, and no worse the wear for your confinement.” He kissed her cheek. “May I present Lady Charlotte Tiptree. Lady Charlotte, this is the Earl of Whitelock and his lovely countess.”
Charlotte dipped her head, offering her hand to Evan and then to Diana. “A pleasure.” She flashed a tremulous smile, eyeing Diana’s hair and dress and jewelry.
In comparison, Charlotte’s dress was plain, no lace, no trim, no ornament. Marcus scanned the room. He hadn’t really noticed before, but Charlotte’s dress looked almost nothing like those of the other ladies. Some women had ruffles, and tiny sleeves, and gauzy material overlaying their skirts. Shiny silks, fabrics that seemed to throw back the light with interest. In contrast, Charlotte’s dress of dove gray seemed … understated? No … drab? Yes, it seemed drab and a bit dowdy. And very concealing. Not that he was particularly fond of the way some women flaunted their charms, but even the matrons of the ton wore more flattering gowns.
Clearly Charlotte had noticed the chasm between her garb and Diana’s, because she edged back a bit, as if not to stand too close and make the differences more apparent. It was the first time he’d seen her lack confidence since first spying her in the Hog’s Head Tavern in St. Giles. Even then she’d tried to bluff her way through, pretending she wasn’t scared.
But now he felt for her. Surprising himself, he put his hand on her lower back, drawing her forward, hoping to instill confidence. She drew in a quick breath, her eyes going to his face, questions in their jade-green depths. He realized he’d broken protocol, touching her so familiarly, and he let his hand fall. What had come over him that he cared what a near spinster thought of her dress? He was losing his mind.
Whitelock noticed the touch and shot Marcus a look, but Marcus shook his head.
“How is the new heir?” he asked Diana. She’d given birth to a son just before Christmas at their estate, White Haven, and Marcus had yet to make the young viscount’s acquaintance, though he had been asked to be the child’s godfather.
Diana beamed. “He’s just perfect. And Cian doesn’t seem jealous in the least. He’s too busy destroying the nursery. I’ve never seen a child so bent on climbing into, onto, and over every obstacle. And all with such an engaging smile. I’m thankful that little William isn’t mobile just yet.” She must’ve realized she was going on a bit, and she blushed, swatting Marcus’s arm. “You don’t want to hear about our domestic bliss. How have you been? It’s been far too long since we saw you.”
Evan nodded. “We heard about your niece’s birth. Tough luck, old man.”
Marcus gave a rueful smile. “I’m trying to get over my disappointment. Honora Mary is thriving, and she’s quite the comfort to Cilla.”
A puzzled look crossed Charlotte’s face, and Evan laughed. “I know it seems barmy, but Marcus was hoping his sister-in-law would produce a son and relieve him of the pressures of being the Duke of Haverly. He’d rather while away his time in the clubs and racetracks and theaters during the Season instead of sitting Lords and overseeing estates and the like. I know just how he feels. Not that long ago, I was a mere soldier, taking the King’s shilling and following orders. Now I own property, a title, and have a family.” He put his arm around his wife’s waist, drawing her into his side, giving her a fond look.
Diana leaned into her husband, her smile communicating how cherished she felt.
A pang hit Marcus’s heart, and for a moment he didn’t recognize it for what it was … envy. He thrust that notion aside. He wasn’t envious of his friends’ relationship. He was happy for them. He didn’t want to be entangled and encumbered. Anyway, even if he was looking for a bride, he would never let those kinds of emotions into his life. It would cloud his judgment and dull his abilities. An agent needed his wits about him at all times, or it could cost him his life. If he married, he would have to maintain clear boundaries emotionally and mentally.
“I was at your investiture, Lord Whitelock,” Charlotte offered. “I’m not certain who was more surprised, you or the guests at the Queen’s Drawing Room.” She smiled to soften her words. “I am glad it all worked out satisfactorily.”