Page 47 of Touched By a Traitor
Wilson cleared his throat, confirming his suspicions. In that moment, Lady Lidia joined them with a bright smile, shyly meeting Andrew’s eyes. “Papa, the dance is starting.”
Andrew bowed over her hand but found himself distracted by the emerald green of Charlotte’s dress swirling around the royal blue of the duke’s suit in perfect synchronicity.
Chatham was an accomplished dancer and expertly concealed Charlotte’s errors, Andrew observed. They laughed together as only close confidants with a special kinship could. Once again, something tugged painfully at his heart.
“Are you not dancing, Carlisle?” Wilson asked, undoubtedly hinting that he ought to ask his daughter for a turn about the room.
Thankfully, Andrew had a perfectly valid excuse.
“I wish I could, but I do not know how.”
The lady and her father gasped, as if Andrew had admitted to lacking the knowledge of proper silverware usage.
“Whyever not? You’re an earl now, my good man. You’d best start learning if you’re to attend balls and maintain your social standing.” Wilson’s brow furrowed in disapproval.
Andrew scoffed at Wilson’s remark, finding the notion of dance lessons utterly ridiculous. “I don’t attend balls, except when I’m hosting. I simply do not have the time for dance lessons, or dancing, for that matter.”
Lady Lidia’s disappointment was palpable, her crestfallen expression mirroring her father’s displeasure. However, Andrew paid them no mind, his attention inexorably drawn back to the woman in green and the duke, their graceful movements captivating him.
As he watched, Andrew’s fingers absently twisted a button on his coat, his mind consumed by the sight before him. Charlotte looked up at the duke and laughed, her face alight with joy. In that moment, Andrew’s fingers tightened, inadvertently tearing the button from his coat.
The sudden realization of his action jolted him back to the present, and he quickly pocketed the errant button, hoping no one had noticed his momentary lapse in composure. Yet, even as he tried to focus on the conversation at hand, his thoughts remained firmly fixed on the dancing couple, their connection both intriguing and unsettling to him in equal measure.
*
The duke wasa graceful dancer, and there was no danger of losing her toes. Charlotte, on the other hand, nearly tripped twice due to misremembered steps. She hadn’t danced in at least a decade, and her face flushed with embarrassment.
“Do not concern yourself,” His Grace said when she apologized. “I was taught to dance from the tender age of three. My dance lessons only ceased when I began to hide away, causing quite a panic. I can dance more easily than I can sleep.”
“You do dance beautifully, Your Grace.”
“And you…” He trailed off, regarding her with soft eyes. “You look positively stunning tonight. I don’t believe I have ever seen you more beautiful.”
“Thank you. You’re very kind and perhaps a little blind,” she said, managing a playful smile.
He tilted his head back and laughed, a rich, melodious sound. “I may be seven and thirty, but I can see well enough to find you beautiful.”
Charlotte tilted her head. “Your Grace? You’ve never spoken to me this way before.”
“True. I’ve always been careful about crossing the line. No matter how much trust you have in me, I felt it was my duty to protect your reputation as anything, even wearing the wrong frock could land you in hot water. It seems Wilson is in a rush to have you disbarred.”
Her visage froze with alarm. “Did you hear something lately?”
The duke did not respond immediately, instead spinning her around before catching her on the other side as the dance continued. “He has an assistant who’s been asking about you. The line of questioning makes his intentions quite obvious.”
“What can I do?”
Chatham paused as they bowed to conclude the dance. “Come. Let us discuss this further.”
Charlotte followed the duke to a secluded corner near the door, her heart racing with anticipation. Chatham rubbed his chin awkwardly, his jewels sparkling impressively under the glow of hundreds of candles. He gazed at her, his eyes searching hers as he spoke.
“We broached the subject yesterday, but I am quite serious. Let us marry,” he said firmly.
She nodded, her breath catching in her throat. When she finally tried to speak, her throat felt as dry as sand, the words struggling to form on her tongue. She glanced around, desperate for a passing beverage tray, and the duke, ever attentive, waved a footman over.
“Champagne for the lady; port for me,” he said.
They faced each other once more, the duke quietly studying her expression. His countenance was solemn, and his usually sparkly eyes darkened with intensity.
