Page 78 of The Art of Theft
He spoke so somberly. The corners of her lips almost quirked. “My goodness, since when is one English divorcé worth a continent-ful of rich, virile bachelors? Miss Yarmouth is shortchanging herself.”
He snorted, then laughed outright.
“Is she in love with you or does she really hate ocean voyages?”
“I have no intelligence on the latter. And we all know I am terrible at judging how women truly feel about me.”
Strictly speaking, he had only been terrible at judging howonewoman felt about him. By using the plural, did he mean to say that he also had no idea how Charlotte felt about him?
“Did Miss Yarmouth offer inducements?”
“Besides not abandoning my children? Just that she will be content with a marriage of convenience.” He looked at her. “Any advice on how I ought to proceed?”
Given that the current impasse between them could partly be attributed to the imminent demise of his marriage, and that with great freedom came great likelihood of regrettable choices, did she want him to go back to being a married man?
And for nothing else to ever come of their friendship?
“You can find better candidates for a marriage of convenience right here at Hôtel Papillon,” she heard herself say. “My sister, for one. She is desperate to leave my parents’ household and adores Stern Hollow. She would be no trouble at all as Lady Ingram.”
“Good God!”
“You are excused for your language, sir. But you know who would be even better? Mrs. Watson. She also adores Stern Hollow, and she loves children. She would make for the world’s best stepmother.”
He glared at her—and laughed again. “Be serious, Holmes.”
Fine, if she must. She sighed. “I think you deserve better than a marriage of convenience.”
His expression turned solemn. “What do I deserve then?”
She had no good answer.
After a few moments, he said, “Shall we start our practice?”
Seventeen
Livia hadn’t danced with Charlotte in ten years, not since they’d been girls preparing for their first season. Charlotte had been slightly uncoordinated as a child. Livia, worried that she would step on gentlemen’s feet, had made Charlotte practice at home, with Livia as the gentleman.
But now Charlotte was the gentleman. She did not wear a wig, but sported her own still quite short hair. Her full beard was correspondingly blond, hiding the otherwise too-smooth skin of her face. Behind a black-and-white harlequin-patterned mask accented with bright teal, her eyes were kind and cordial.
All the space between them was taken up with Charlotte’s stomach, the most protuberant it had ever been. Livia was afraid to bump into it, afraid that she might accidentally nudge it out of place. She leaned back as Charlotte swept her into a turn, even as her hand tightened on the sleeve of Charlotte’s formal jacket, made of a bright teal satin to match her mask.
“You look very lovely tonight,” said Charlotte.
Livia had absolutely no idea how she looked—not that it mattered, with her own gold and blue mask on. She was sick to her stomach, her palms perspiring freely inside her ball gloves. “Thank you,” she managed.
All around them, other dancers whirled and gamboled. So many brilliantly hued masks, wild with feathers and rhinestones, so many diamond necklaces, sparkling in every direction, so many daringly attired ladies, jewel-toned gowns plunging front and back, spinning endlessly on the black-and-white marble floor.
Livia could not look too long at her surroundings—it made her dizzy. So she stared at Charlotte’s right ear, just visible behind her mask. Charlotte hummed to the music. Livia couldhearthe music, but it was only indistinct sound above an underlayer of chatter and laughter and nowhere as audible as the thudding of her heart and the whooshing of blood in her veins.
She didn’t even know whether they were in the midst of a waltz or a schottische. Her body followed along to Charlotte’s lead, while her mind cowered and whimpered somewhere in a dark room.
Charlotte, as ever, seemed immune to the strain that threatened to both crush Livia and cause her to explode. She steered Livia clear of other twirling couples, while scanning the entire ballroom with every turn.
“Mrs. Watson’s friend and Mr. Marbleton aren’t far behind us. She seems taken with him—and I’m sure she’s not easily charmed,” she murmured.
Livia didn’t look for their colleagues. Beyond their immediate vicinity, everything was a kaleidoscopic blur. So much color, so much gaiety. But to her nerve-stricken senses, the gaiety seemed forced, a great deal of froth without any true effervescence.
Perhaps she was correct.
