A Wallflower to Clash with the Dark Duke (Preview)

Chapter One

Charlotte Fairweather had long ago accepted that she was invisible.

It was not a dramatic realization, nor one that arrived with tears and heartbreak. Rather, it had crept upon her slowly, like the morning fog over Hyde Park, until one day she simply understood, in a family that worshiped at the altar of beauty, she was merely adequate. And adequate, in the ton’s estimation, might as well be invisible.

“Charlotte, for heaven’s sake, stop fidgeting with your gloves,” her mother hissed as their carriage rolled to a stop before Almack’s Assembly Rooms. Lady Halifax did not bother to look at her younger daughter as she spoke. Her attention remained fixed on Lady Mary, adjusting a curl that had dared to slip from its perfect arrangement. “Mary, darling, you look absolutely divine. Every gentleman in London will be vying for your hand tonight.”

Mary smiled serenely, as though such pronouncements were her birthright. Which, Charlotte supposed, they were.

“Mama, Charlotte’s gown is quite lovely too,” Mary said with that particular tone of magnanimity that somehow made the compliment feel like charity. “The color suits her well enough.”

Well enough. Charlotte resisted the urge to examine her pale blue gown, knowing she would only find it wanting compared to Mary’s exquisite cream silk confection that probably cost more than Charlotte’s entire wardrobe combined.

“Yes, yes,” Lady Halifax said absently, already gathering her reticule. “Come along, girls. Your father is waiting inside, and we mustn’t keep him.”

Of course, their father had not waited for them. He had gone ahead in his own carriage an hour earlier, eager to escape the tedium of female preparation. Charlotte wondered if he would even notice whether she attended at all.

The assembly rooms blazed with candlelight, casting everything in a warm, golden glow that should have felt welcoming but instead made Charlotte acutely aware of how many eyes would be judging, assessing, and ultimately dismissing her in favor of her sister. The usual orchestra played from the musicians’ gallery, and the dance floor was already filling with couples preparing for the first set.

“There is your father over there.” Lady Halifax announced, though she made no move to join him. Her gaze was already scanning the room, calculating which gentlemen might be induced to dance with Mary, which mothers might be cultivated for future connections. “Mary, I see the Earl of Northumberland near the refreshment table. He has recently returned from his estate and is said to be considering marriage this season.”

“He is also said to be forty-five and missing most of his teeth,” Charlotte murmured.

Her mother’s head snapped toward her with surprising speed. “Charlotte, if you cannot contribute something useful to the conversation, you will oblige me by remaining silent.”

Mary giggled behind her fan, the sound delicate and musical. Everything about Mary was delicate and musical. It was exhausting.

“Yes, Mama,” Charlotte said, the words so practiced they required no thought.

“Now, Mary, if you stand just there, near the pillar…” Lady Halifax was already steering her eldest daughter toward a strategic location, one that would showcase Mary’s beauty to maximum effect while keeping her in the eyeline of every eligible gentleman in the room.

Charlotte watched them go, mother and daughter moving in perfect synchronization, two celestial bodies orbiting the same sun of social ambition. She stood alone for exactly seven seconds before accepting that neither of them would remember to look back.

She had expected nothing different.

Threading through the crowd, Charlotte made her way toward the far wall where the wallflowers traditionally congregated. It was not an official designation, of course. No one announced that this particular section of Almack’s was reserved for the overlooked, the plain, the dowered but dull. Yet somehow, season after season, they all found each other, drawn together by the gravity of their collective invisibility.

“Charlotte!” A familiar voice cut through the noise, and Charlotte’s spirits lifted immediately.

Sarah Pemberton stood near a rather wilting potted palm, her blonde curls slightly disheveled and her cheeks flushed with what Charlotte recognized as the particular frustration of having recently escaped one’s own mother. Unlike Charlotte’s family, the Pembertons at least acknowledged Sarah’s existence. They simply wished that existence came with either a more substantial dowry or lower standards in a husband.

“Thank God you are here,” Sarah said as Charlotte reached her side. “I have been standing here for the past quarter hour while Mama parades my brother before every young lady in London. Apparently, his recent promotion in the Foreign Office has made him suddenly marriageable, though I cannot think what has changed except his salary.”

Charlotte smiled, feeling the tightness in her chest ease slightly. This was familiar ground. Safe ground. “Your brother Edward has always been perfectly pleasant. I am certain some sensible young lady will snap him up.”

“Sensible being the operative word,” Sarah said darkly. “The beautiful ones want titles, and we Pembertons have none to offer. Just enough land to be snubbed by both sides.”

“How tragic for you,” Charlotte said dryly. “At least you have a brother who might improve his prospects. I have only Mary, who will no doubt marry a duke and make the rest of us feel even more inadequate by comparison.”

“Has your mother already chosen a duke, or is Mary allowed some input in the matter?”

“Oh, Mary will be allowed to choose. Between a duke, a marquess, or possibly that very wealthy earl from Northumberland. Mama is nothing if not generous.”

Sarah laughed, the sound bright and genuine, and it was a primary reason she endured those dreadful evenings. Not for the dancing she would never be asked to do, nor for the conversations she would never be invited to join. Rather it was for those few moments, those small pockets of honesty with the one person who understood what it meant to be perpetually not quite enough.

“Speaking of eligible gentlemen,” Sarah said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “do you see that gentleman near the card room entrance? The one in the dark blue coat?”

Charlotte followed her gaze and immediately understood why Sarah’s cheeks had colored. The gentleman in question was tall, with sandy hair and an open, honest face that suggested he had never told a lie in his life. He stood with easy confidence, laughing at something his companion had said, utterly oblivious to the fact that he was being observed by two wallflowers from across the room.

“He is very handsome,” Charlotte admitted. “Do you know him?”

“Mr. Edmund Hartwell, second son of Viscount Ashwood. No title, no estate, but a respectable income and, according to my brother, an excellent character. Edward says he is the sort of man who would never cheat at cards or keep a mistress.”

“Good heavens, what a recommendation. ‘Will neither gamble away your fortune nor humiliate you publicly.’ The poets should write sonnets.”

“Charlotte!”

“I am only saying that ‘respectable’ is rather damning with faint praise. Can you not find something more exciting to recommend him? Does he fence? Ride particularly well? Have any interesting scandals in his past?”

Sarah bit her lip, clearly fighting a smile. “He is kind to his mother.”

“Oh, well, that changes everything. You must marry him immediately.”

“You are terrible,” Sarah said, but she was laughing again. “Besides, it hardly matters what I think of him. Mama wants me to marry a man with a title or significant fortune, and Mr. Edmund has neither. He is a second son, which means he will inherit nothing but his father’s pocket watch and a collection of dusty books.”

“Nothing wrong with books,” Charlotte pointed out. “At least they are more reliable than most gentlemen.”

“True enough. Speaking of unreliable gentlemen, do you see Lord Haverford near the dance floor?”

Charlotte located the gentleman in question, a portly man in his fifties with an unfortunate tendency to stand too close during conversation. “The one who looks like an overstuffed cushion?”

“Charlotte!”

“What? He does.”

“You cannot say such things.”

“I can when they are accurate. What about him?”

“He asked Mama if he might call on me next week.”

Charlotte turned to stare at her friend. “He is old enough to be your father. Possibly your grandfather.”

“He is wealthy enough to tempt my father, which is all that matters,” Sarah said bitterly. “Never mind that he buried two wives already, and rumor has it neither died of natural causes.”

“Rumor has it he worked them to death managing his twelve country estates.”

“Twelve!” Sarah’s eyes widened. “I heard it was only eight.”

“Either way, you would spend your marriage traveling from one drafty manor to another, overseeing servants and mending curtains.”

“How utterly romantic.”

They fell into companionable silence, watching the dancers swirl past in complicated patterns that Charlotte had learned but would likely never execute. The music swelled, chandeliers blazed, silks rustled, and everywhere beautiful people did beautiful things while Charlotte and Sarah stood against the wall like furniture.

“Do you ever wonder,” Sarah said quietly, “what it would be like to be someone else? To walk into a room and have people actually notice?”

Charlotte considered the question, though she already knew the answer. “Every single day.”

“What would you change? If you could?”

“Everything,” Charlotte said honestly. “I would be taller. More beautiful. Charming. The sort of woman who says witty things that make people laugh instead of making them uncomfortable. I would have parents who actually looked at me instead of through me. I would have a sister who was not quite so perfect.” She paused. “No, that is unfair. I would not change Mary. I would simply like to be enough as I am.”

Sarah reached over and squeezed her hand. “You are enough, Charlotte. Your family is simply too foolish to see it.”

“That is very kind of you to say, but—”

“Oh, look at Lord Percy over there, the one with the unfortunate cravat. He looks rather like a trussed goose, does he not?”

Charlotte followed her gaze to a young man whose neckcloth had been tied in such an elaborate style that it appeared to be strangling him. “Good Lord. Did he lose a wager, do you think?”

“Perhaps he tied it himself in the dark.”

“Or perhaps he asked his valet for something ‘fashionable’ and the valet seized the opportunity for revenge.”

Sarah giggled. “You should not make me laugh. People will think we are having fun.”

“Heaven forbid.”

“Do you see Mr. Whitmore near the orchestra? The one attempting to look brooding and mysterious?”

“He is not doing a very good job of it. He looks more like he has indigestion.”

“Charlotte!”

“Well, he does. All that posturing and sighing. If he truly wanted to appear mysterious, he would simply stand still and say nothing. Mystery is in the silence, not the performance.”

“Spoken like someone who has studied the subject thoroughly.”

“I have had little else to do at these events,” Charlotte pointed out. “While you and Mary are dancing, I am conducting anthropological observations on the mating habits of the English aristocracy.”

“And what have you concluded from your studies?”

“That we are all utterly ridiculous.”

Sarah opened her mouth to respond, but something behind Charlotte caught her attention. Her eyes widened slightly, and she gripped Charlotte’s arm. “Do not turn around.”

Of course, Charlotte immediately wanted to turn around. “Why? What is it?”

“There is someone standing behind us. In the shadows, just beyond the pillar.”

“A someone, or a specific someone?”

“I cannot tell. But I am quite certain he has been standing there for several minutes, and…” Sarah lowered her voice even further. “I think he is listening to us.”

A chill ran down Charlotte’s spine that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. She was suddenly, acutely aware that she and Sarah had been speaking rather freely about various gentlemen in attendance, making observations that were, while accurate, perhaps not the sort that should be overheard by said gentlemen or their associates.

“Are you certain?” Charlotte whispered.

“There was movement. I saw it from the corner of my eye. Someone is definitely there.”

Charlotte’s mind raced through their recent conversation, trying to calculate exactly how damaging their words might be if repeated. The trussed goose comment was unfortunate but not ruinous. The indigestion observation was similarly awkward. But the general commentary on the mating habits of the aristocracy, combined with their assessments of various gentlemen’s character and fortune…

Well. That could be problematic.

“Perhaps we should move,” Charlotte suggested, keeping her voice light. “I am rather parched. Shall we visit the refreshment table?”

“An excellent idea.”

They began to turn, slowly, casually, as though they had not just discovered they had been overheard. Charlotte told herself it was probably nothing. Someone retrieving a dropped glove, perhaps, or a servant adjusting the candles. No gentleman would lurk in shadows eavesdropping on wallflowers unless he had nothing better to do with his evening, which seemed unlikely at Almack’s.

And then she saw him.

Just a glimpse, really. A figure in the shadows, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in severe black that made him nearly invisible against the dark paneling. But it was his eyes that caught her. Intense, dark eyes that met hers for a single, electric moment before he stepped back further into the shadows.

Charlotte froze.

Those eyes had seen her. Actually seen her. Not looked through her or past her the way everyone else did, but directly at her with a focus that made her breath catch. In that split second of connection, she felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with her unfortunate commentary on the ton’s gentlemen.

“Did you see him?” Sarah whispered urgently.

“Yes,” Charlotte managed, though her mouth had gone suddenly dry.

“Who do you think he is?”

“I have no idea.”

The shadow moved again, and then he was gone, melting into the crowd with a skill that suggested this was not his first time observing without being observed. Charlotte stared at the empty space where he had been, her heart beating uncomfortably fast.

“Well,” Sarah said after a moment. “That was rather dramatic.”

“Indeed.”

“Do you suppose he heard us?”

Charlotte thought of those dark, intelligent eyes. Eyes that had assessed her in one glance and found… what? She could not say. But she had the distinct impression that whoever he was, he had heard every word.

“Oh yes,” she said quietly. “I rather think he heard everything.”

“Should we be worried?”

Charlotte considered the question. Should she be worried that some unknown gentleman had overheard her making uncharitable observations about his peers? Probably. Would her family care if she caused a minor scandal through unguarded speech? Unlikely. They would be too busy managing Mary’s brilliant prospects to notice Charlotte’s social missteps.

“No,” she said finally. “I do not think we should worry. After all, what is the worst that could happen? He tells everyone that two wallflowers were gossiping? That is hardly news. We are expected to be bitter and catty. It is part of our charm.”

Sarah laughed, though it sounded slightly nervous. “I suppose you are right. Still, I wish I knew who he was.”

“As do I,” Charlotte admitted.

Though she suspected, somehow, that she would find out soon enough. Those eyes had promised something. Whether it was retribution or something else entirely, Charlotte could not say.

But as she and Sarah moved toward the refreshment table, Charlotte found herself glancing back toward the shadows one more time. The space remained empty, but she could still feel the weight of that dark gaze on her skin, unsettling and intriguing in equal measure.

Who was he? And how much, exactly, had he heard?

Chapter Two

Alexander Blackthorne, Duke of Ravenswood, had forgotten how utterly exhausting the ton could be.

No, that was not quite accurate. He had not forgotten. He had simply convinced himself, during his two-year absence from London society, that his memories had exaggerated the awfulness. That perhaps the staring, the whispers, the calculated assessments of his worth based entirely on his title and fortune had not been quite so intolerable as he remembered.

He had been catastrophically wrong.

From the moment he had stepped through the hallowed doors of Almack’s Assembly Rooms, he had been treated less like a man and more like a particularly exotic specimen in a zoological exhibition. Mothers had descended upon him with the predatory efficiency of hawks spotting a field mouse. Debutantes had been thrust into his path with all the subtlety of a broadside cannon. And through it all, the whispers had followed him—like a miasma he could not escape.

“The Duke of Ravenswood returned at last.”

“Two years he has been in mourning. Two years!”

“Such a tragedy about his father. So sudden.”

“And that dreadful business with his mother before that. The scandal of it.”

“Do you suppose he is seeking a wife now?”

“He must be. Why else emerge from his exile?”

“I heard he has refused every dance. Simply refused!”

“How proud he has become. How arrogant.”

Alexander had endured precisely forty-three minutes of this circus before concluding that if he did not remove himself from the center of attention immediately, he would do something regrettable. Something like announcing to the entire assembly that he had no intention of marrying any of their vapid, fortune-hunting daughters and would they please cease treating him like a prize bull at a country fair.

His solicitors would not appreciate that.

So instead, he had done what he did best. He had disappeared.

The shadows behind a large Corinthian pillar near the west wall provided excellent cover. From this vantage point, he could observe the ballroom without being observed himself, a skill he had perfected during his years at Cambridge when avoiding tedious social obligations had been a matter of survival rather than preference.

He had been standing there for perhaps five minutes, contemplating whether it would be considered too rude to simply leave without informing anyone, when two young ladies had positioned themselves on the opposite side of his pillar.

And then they had begun to talk.

“Do you see Lord Haverford near the dance floor? The one who looks like an overstuffed cushion?”

Alexander had very nearly choked on his own breath. The description was not merely accurate. It was devastating in its precision. Lord Haverford did indeed resemble an overstuffed cushion, particularly when attempting to execute a bow, which caused his substantial girth to redistribute in ways that defied both physics and good taste.

He should have announced his presence immediately. Any gentleman would have. But something in the speaker’s voice arrested him. There was sharpness there, certainly, but also a bone-deep weariness that he recognized with uncomfortable familiarity. This was someone who had spent considerable time on society’s periphery, observing rather than participating, noting absurdities with the clinical detachment of a natural philosopher.

He knew that perspective. He lived that perspective.

So he remained silent. And listened.

“He is old enough to be your father. Possibly your grandfather.”

“He is wealthy enough to tempt my father, which is all that matters. Never mind that he buried two wives already, and rumor has it neither died of natural causes.”

“Rumor has it he worked them to death managing his twelve country estates.”

The conversation continued, each observation more cutting than the last, and Alexander found himself increasingly fascinated by the unseen speaker. She was intelligent, that much was obvious. But more than that, she was honest in a way that society rarely permitted. Here, in what she believed was a private conversation with a trusted friend, she was allowing herself to be real rather than performing the empty pleasantries that dominated ton interactions.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be someone else? To walk into a room and have people actually notice?”

The question hit Alexander with unexpected force. Here was someone who felt invisible, overlooked, dismissed by the very society that would not leave him alone. They existed in the same space, suffering opposite afflictions from the same diseased system. She wished to be seen. He wished desperately to be left in peace.

“I would simply like to be enough as I am.”

Something in Alexander’s chest constricted painfully at those words. He understood that sentiment far better than this unknown young woman could possibly imagine.
The young women continued their conversation, moving on to discuss other gentlemen with observations that ranged from merely accurate to absolutely lethal. Alexander found himself torn between amusement at their wit and irritation at how precisely they had identified the various peacocks and fools that populated the ton’s upper echelons.

“Mystery is in the silence, not the performance.”

Now that was genuinely insightful. Most people believed mystery required elaborate artifice, careful staging of one’s persona to create intrigue. But this young woman understood that true enigma came from restraint. From knowing what to conceal and what to reveal. From the discipline of silence.

She would have made an excellent spy, he thought with dark humor.

He had been so absorbed in their exchange that he failed to notice when they became aware of his presence. By the time he realized one of them was turning, it was too late to slip away unnoticed. And then he found himself looking directly into a pair of large brown eyes that widened with shock and something else. Something that looked almost like recognition, though they had never been introduced.

For a single, suspended moment, Alexander forgot to breathe. There was an intelligence in those eyes that matched the voice he had been listening to. But more than that, there was a directness, an honesty that suggested she was truly seeing him rather than simply cataloging his title and fortune like everyone else in this wretched place.

Then the moment shattered. He stepped back into the deeper shadows, using skills honed over years of avoiding unwanted attention. By the time the two young ladies had fully turned, he was already gone, melting into the crowd with the ease of long practice.

His heart was beating faster than it should have been. His hands, usually steady, felt oddly unsteady. And he could not quite shake the image of those brown eyes staring at him with such unexpected clarity.

Absurd. He was being absurd.

Alexander made his way through the crowd toward the card room entrance, where he had agreed to meet Edmund. His friend was already there, looking simultaneously anxious and hopeful in a way that immediately told Alexander exactly what Edmund wanted to discuss.

“There you are,” Edmund said, relief evident in his voice. “I was beginning to think you had fled entirely. Would not blame you, honestly. This place is rather overwhelming.”

“Overwhelming is one word for it,” Alexander agreed, positioning himself so he could still observe the ballroom without being too obviously observed himself. “Torturous might be another. As would hellish, unbearable, or possibly purgatorial.”

Edmund laughed, though the sound was strained. “It cannot be that terrible.”

“A countess cornered me earlier to inquire whether I had all my teeth. Apparently, this is crucial information for prospective mothers-in-law to possess before allowing their daughters within ten feet of me.”

“Good God. What did you tell her?”

“That I was considering having them all removed and replaced with gold as a statement of ducal eccentricity. She has not approached me since.”

“You are going to die alone, you realize. Utterly alone, surrounded by your golden teeth and your reputation as the most difficult duke in England.”

“I can think of far worse fates,” Alexander said dryly. Then, because Edmund looked genuinely distressed, he added, “What troubles you? And please do not tell me it is nothing. I have known you since we were spotty-faced boys at Eton. I can tell when something is eating at you.”

Edmund glanced around to ensure they would not be overheard, then said quietly, “There is a young lady. I wish to pursue her acquaintance with more serious intent, but I fear her family will never approve.”

“Why would they not approve? You are the son of a viscount. You have an excellent reputation, a comfortable income, and impeccable character. Most families would be thrilled to have you court their daughter.”

“Most families do not have their sights set on titled gentlemen with substantial fortunes,” Edmund said with obvious bitterness. “I am a second son, Alexander. I will inherit nothing. No estate. No title. No fortune beyond what was settled on me at my majority. By any rational calculation, I am entirely unsuitable for a young lady whose parents expect her to marry well.”

Alexander studied his friend carefully. Edmund had always been the optimistic one between them. The one who believed in love and honor and all those other noble sentiments that Alexander had dismissed as fairy stories. To see him so dejected was genuinely unsettling.

“What is her name?” Alexander asked.

“Miss Sarah Pemberton.”

“Pemberton.” Alexander searched his memory for any information about the family. “The father has some connection to government, does he not?”

“Her brother Edward serves in the Foreign Office. The family is respectable, well-connected, but their fortune is modest at best. Which is precisely the problem. Miss Pemberton’s parents wish her to marry someone who can elevate the family’s status. A title, or failing that, substantial wealth.”

“And you have neither.”

“Precisely.” Edmund ran a hand through his hair, destroying whatever careful arrangement his valet had achieved. “I know I should not even consider pursuing her. It would be selfish of me. If her parents disapprove, I would be ruining her chances of making an advantageous match. But Alexander, she is wonderful. Truly. Intelligent, kind, with a joy for life that makes even the most tedious events bearable. And I think, I believe, that she might feel similarly about me.”

“You think, or you know?”

“I think,” Edmund admitted. “We have conversed several times this season. Always in company, always perfectly proper. But there is something in the way she looks at me. The way she laughs at my jests, even the terrible ones. The way she seems to light up when I approach.”

Alexander felt an unexpected pang of something that might have been envy. He had never experienced such feelings for anyone. Had never allowed himself such vulnerability. After watching his parents’ disastrous marriage, he had sworn never to subject himself to the chaos of romantic attachment.

“Tell me about her,” he said, surprising himself with the offer.

Edmund’s entire countenance transformed. “She is remarkable, Alexander. Absolutely remarkable. She has this way of making everyone around her feel valued and heard. She does not simper or giggle like the other debutantes. She speaks her mind, but always with such grace that even her most pointed observations seem kind rather than cruel.”

“She sounds like a paragon.”

“She is not perfect,” Edmund said quickly. “She can be stubborn. And she is fiercely loyal to her friends, which sometimes makes her blind to their faults. There is one young lady in particular whom she defends constantly, despite that young lady being somewhat…”

“Somewhat what?”

“Overlooked, I suppose. Dismissed by her own family. Miss Pemberton is terribly protective of her, which speaks well of Miss Pemberton’s character but occasionally leads to awkwardness in social situations.”

“This friend,” Alexander said carefully. “Who is she?”

“Lady Charlotte Fairweather. The second daughter of the Marquess of Halifax. Do you know the family?”

Alexander felt as though he had been struck. Lady Charlotte Fairweather. Of course. The young woman from behind the pillar. The one with the cutting observations and the remarkable brown eyes.

“I know of them,” he managed to say. “The family keeps largely to their country estate, do they not?”

“During most of the year, yes. They only come to London for the season. The elder daughter, Lady Mary, is considered a great beauty. She has been much sought after for the past two seasons. But Lady Charlotte…” Edmund trailed off, clearly uncomfortable.

“What of Lady Charlotte?”

“She is the forgotten one,” Edmund said simply. “The second daughter who exists in her elder sister’s shadow. Miss Pemberton says the family barely acknowledges Lady Charlotte’s existence. All their attention, all their affection, all their resources are devoted to Lady Mary and her prospects. Lady Charlotte is simply expected to… fade into the background. Be grateful for whatever match can be arranged for her after her sister is settled.”

The words struck Alexander with unexpected fury. He thought of the weary voice behind the pillar, speaking of wanting to be enough. Of wishing to be seen. And suddenly, he understood exactly what that young woman had been enduring. Not just at this ball, but for her entire life.

“That is unconscionable,” he said, his voice harder than he intended.

Edmund looked at him with surprise. “I agree, but I did not expect such vehemence from you. You do not even know the family.”

“I do not need to know them personally to recognize the cruelty of favoring one child over another for something as arbitrary as physical beauty.”

“Well, yes. Miss Pemberton says much the same. She is quite protective of Lady Charlotte, actually. They have been friends since childhood, and Miss Pemberton will not hear a word against her, even when…” Edmund paused again.

“Even when what?”

“Even when Lady Charlotte can be rather sharp-tongued. She has a wit that can be quite cutting when she chooses to deploy it. Miss Pemberton says it is merely Lady Charlotte’s way of protecting herself, but I confess it can be somewhat off-putting to those who do not know her well.”

Alexander thought of the observations he had overheard. The overstuffed cushion. The indigestion. The trussed goose. Yes, Lady Charlotte Fairweather’s wit was certainly sharp. But he had not found it off-putting. He had found it refreshing. Honest. Real in a way that society rarely permitted.

“Will they be at the garden party tomorrow?” he asked, keeping his tone neutral. “The Fairweather family, I mean.”

Edmund’s eyebrows rose. “Why do you ask?”

“Simple curiosity. If I am to attend, I should know which families will be present.”

“You are considering attending?” Edmund looked genuinely shocked. “You hate garden parties. You hate all parties.”

“I hate remaining in London doing nothing while my steward handles all the estate business,” Alexander corrected. “If I am to be here, I might as well make use of the time. And you did ask me to provide moral support for your courtship endeavors.”

“I did, but I did not actually expect you to agree.” Edmund studied him with obvious suspicion. “This has nothing to do with Lady Charlotte Fairweather, does it?”

“Why would it have anything to do with her? I have never even been introduced to the woman.”

“True. But you suddenly seem quite interested in her family’s social calendar.”

“I am interested in understanding the various families in attendance so I can navigate the event with minimal social catastrophe. That is all.”

“Of course,” Edmund said, though his expression suggested he did not believe a word of it. “Well, to answer your question, yes, the Fairweathers will likely be there. Lady Halifax is quite determined to secure an advantageous match for Lady Mary this season, so they attend every event of consequence. The Ashwood garden party is definitely an event of consequence.”

“And Miss Pemberton will be there as well?”

“God willing, yes. Her family received an invitation, and Miss Pemberton mentioned that she planned to attend with Lady Charlotte. The two of them are nearly inseparable at these events. I suspect it makes the tedium more bearable for both of them.”

“I can understand that,” Alexander murmured.

“So you will attend?” Edmund asked hopefully.

“I will consider it,” Alexander said, which they both knew meant yes.

Edmund grinned. “Excellent. Perhaps between the two of us, we can make it through the afternoon without committing any major social blunders.”

“I make no promises on that front,” Alexander said dryly. Then, because he was genuinely curious, he added, “Which young lady is Miss Pemberton? Point her out to me.”

Edmund’s expression softened immediately. He glanced around the ballroom, then nodded toward the refreshment table. “There. The young lady in the rose-colored gown. The one with blonde hair arranged in curls.”

Alexander followed his friend’s gaze and immediately located Miss Sarah Pemberton. She was pretty in a conventional way, with delicate features and an open, warm expression that suggested an optimistic disposition. She stood near the refreshment table, laughing at something her companion was saying.

Her companion, who had brown hair and was gesturing animatedly with her hands as she spoke.

Lady Charlotte Fairweather.

Alexander’s breath caught in his chest. She looked different now than she had in that brief moment behind the pillar. More animated, more alive. Her entire face was alight with humor and affection as she spoke to her friend, and there was something magnetic about her animation that drew the eye despite her plain gown and unremarkable position.

She was not beautiful in any conventional sense. Her features were too strong, her coloring too ordinary. But there was an intelligence in her expression, a vitality in her manner that was infinitely more compelling than mere physical perfection.

“She is lovely, is she not?” Edmund said softly, still gazing at Miss Pemberton.

“Yes,” Alexander agreed, though he was not looking at Miss Pemberton at all.

And then, as if she could feel the weight of his attention, Lady Charlotte looked up. Her gaze swept across the ballroom and landed directly on him with the precision of an archer finding her mark.

For the second time that evening, Alexander found himself locked in a stare with this remarkable, infuriating, completely unsuitable young woman. But this time there was no shadow to hide him, no pillar to retreat behind. They were separated by perhaps thirty feet, dozens of dancing couples, and all the rigid rules of polite society that dictated they should not even acknowledge each other’s existence without a proper introduction.

Yet neither of them looked away.

The moment stretched, becoming something more than simple eye contact. It was an acknowledgment of what had passed between them earlier. A recognition that something had shifted, some connection had been forged, whether they wished it or not.

Alexander saw wariness in her expression. Suspicion, certainly. But beneath that, something else. A curiosity that matched his own. A sense that she, too, felt the peculiar inevitability of this moment.

“Alexander?” Edmund’s voice penetrated the strange fog that had descended over Alexander’s mind. “Are you quite all right?”

No, Alexander thought. He was decidedly not all right. Because in that single, extended moment of connection with Lady Charlotte Fairweather, he had felt something shift in his carefully ordered existence. Some recognition that his life, which had been so meticulously controlled since his father’s death, was about to become infinitely more complicated.