Page 40 of Tamed By a Duke
Thankfully, there was another voice to speak for her.
"Apologise."
"Eh?" Charles twirled around at Penrith's command, and his face paled as he registered—after a drunken moment's delay—the fierce mien of the Duke of Penrith glaring down at him.
"Apologise to the lady this instant," Penrith repeated, his voice low and deadly.
"Lady?" Charles cast Charlotte a rather disparaging glance, as if to say he thought her no lady. A menacing step forward from Penrith, however, soon changed his tune.
"My apologies, Miss Drew," he said with a slight bow.
Charlotte, who still could not speak, simply nodded in return. Thankfully, Charles took the slight bob of her head as an acceptance of his reluctant apology and disappeared quickly into the crowd.
"I should have called him out," Penrith growled, as his eyes followed Deveraux's progress.
"I'm very glad that you didn't," Charlotte replied, suddenly weary. "There is little call for using violence against a man like Mr Deveraux. His own pitiful existence is punishment enough."
Her words were heavy and the heady, flirtatious tension, which had existed between the pair before Charles' interruption, had vanished as quickly as coin from Prinny's coffers.
"Would you care for a dance?" Penrith queried, as the orchestra began to play a lively tune.
The music filled the ballroom, drowning out the sound of the chattering crowd, but Charlotte could not be tempted.
"I rather think that I might go home, your Grace," she said, forgetting his earlier edict that she should call him Penrith. "I fear I have a migraine coming on."
If Penrith was suspicious, he did not show it. Instead, he gallantly offered her his arm and escorted her to her grandmother's side.
Lady Everleigh, who would normally try to disabuse Charlotte from leaving any event early, was quite compliant when it was a Duke of the Realm making the request.
"How kind you are, to care for Charlotte's wellbeing, your Grace," Lady Everleigh simpered.
"Miss Drew's well-being is of the utmost importance to me," Penrith replied, though his eyes were not on the countess, but Charlotte.
"Well," her grandmother whispered, once Penrith had taken his leave, "It seems that you might marry a duke, my dear."
Charlotte made a noncommittal sound in response; the idea of marriage to Penrith had once been an anathema to her. Now, she could only hope that should he discover the secret she guarded, that he would still accept her hand—for Charlotte knew quite keenly, that she had already given the duke her heart.
Chapter Twelve
"Miss Drew is hiding something from me and I have every intention of finding out what it is."
As a declaration, it was quite dramatic, but Hugh's companions—both lost in their thoughts—failed to react appropriately.
Both Orsino and Montague, who were seated at their customary table in White's, were present in the room in body only. Their minds, Hugh thought darkly, were clearly elsewhere—and he could hazard a guess as to where that was.
They were thinking of women. Only the female of the species could render two of England's finest men so contemplative. Though that was no excuse for their poor show of manners.
"I'm going to strip naked and run down Bond Street at two, if either of you would care to join me," Hugh ventured, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Sounds good, old man," Orsino replied, his eyes glassy as he stared out the bow window onto James' Street.
"Capital idea," Montague added, before turning to both men with a frown, "I say, have you ever heard of Lord Pariseau?"
"Good chap," Hugh replied, recognising the name. "He inherited the title from his father just last year. He's quite the sportsman, if I recall correctly. He once knocked Gentleman Jackson out with one blow, and when hunting it's said that he can shoot ninety-nine pheasants out of a bag of one-hundred."
"Lud. You might as well write a sonnet for the man, if he's that impressive," Montague groused in return. The young marquess, Hugh noted, appeared pained by Hugh's summation of Pairseau's many attributes.
"Has he done something to you?" Hugh queried mildly, for Montague was not the sort of man to take umbrage with a man for no reason. In fact, the affable marquess rarely took umbrage with anyone—reason or no.
