fourteen when we were first acquainted, so we had talked very little back then. But when we had been first introduced and I had addressed her as Miss de Mayes, she had corrected me with a smile, declaring she would rather be referred to as Mademoiselle .
“ Oui , Monsieur Ashby,” Charlotte said with a rewarding smile, as if letting me know she approved of my memory; then she took my offered hand. Madeleine gave me a brief look as if to question my sudden interest in dancing. Thierry winked at me when he caught my eye. My mother beamed, probably hearing wedding bells in her mind.
As I led Charlotte away from the group, once back in the dance room she leaned in close to me and added, “I must warn you, though; I am a terrible dancer.” Her voice was melodious, and her slight French accent was like a purring in my ears.
“Ah! We are doomed, then, because Mrs. Ashby lied; I do not dance well. In fact I do not even know this dance.”
She laughed. “Well, then. Would you like to sit with me instead? I am a little tired from the previous four dances.”
“As you wish,” I said. Her invitation rattled me; it was not the custom for a lady to ask a gentleman to sit with her. But her eyes were sparkling with charm; she did not seem forward. “Where would you like to sit?” I asked. It was, after all, her house.
“Follow me,” she said with that arch smile of hers that made me feel sweet things I had never felt for a girl before.
She led me outside and we walked side-by-side in the warm summer night. I glanced at her when she wasn’t looking, smiling at my luck.
I had of course known that Baron de Mayes had three daughters; and I had more recently learned through my brother and his wife that the eldest, Charlotte, had grown to be a pretty girl. I had not seen much of her when I had first met her, so the fact that she was pretty now had been of no special interest to me when my brother and his wife told me. I had a few rules, and one of them was Do not consort with the ladies of the house . I had not come to this party to start a fling with any of the Misses de Mayes.
That was, until I laid eyes on this one.
I further knew that Charlotte was the daughter of the baron’s first wife, a woman whose name I could not remember, and who had died during childbirth. And that the baron’s second wife, Charlotte’s adoptive mother Pauline, loved her like a real daughter, because Charlotte was so pretty and sweet-tempered.
The baron had been a widower for a short time only. He had remarried Pauline and had had two more daughters: Marie and Louise, Charlotte’s half-sisters. He had moved his family from France to England when the girls were young, escaping the French Revolution. Raised in England most of her lives, in a society where the beauty of a girl was given such importance, Charlotte was considered a favorite over Marie and Louise. The younger sisters just weren’t as beautiful as the eldest Mademoiselle de Mayes. Rumor was that even Pauline preferred sweet, pretty Charlotte over her own daughters.
In our short walk around the garden outside, Charlotte and I talked about whatever I could remember from when we had first met, when her family visited my father’s summer home in the town of Bath. As we talked, I was painfully aware of the profound attraction I had developed towards her, which kept increasing with each minute I spent at her side. The more she talked, the more she pulled me in. In less than ten minutes alone with her I was ready to declare my hand. I didn’t though, but only out of fear that my hurried declaration would frighten her.
But she was so responsive, encouraging my words with her laughs and the coquettish look of those beautiful dark eyes. I even forgot what I was saying, just staring at her lips as she giggled heartily at whatever I had just said.
“You tease me so, Monsieur.”
What had I just said? Ah, that I had barely seen her two years before because she had spent the entire
“ Oui , Monsieur Ashby,” Charlotte said with a rewarding smile, as if letting me know she approved of my memory; then she took my offered hand. Madeleine gave me a brief look as if to question my sudden interest in dancing. Thierry winked at me when he caught my eye. My mother beamed, probably hearing wedding bells in her mind.
As I led Charlotte away from the group, once back in the dance room she leaned in close to me and added, “I must warn you, though; I am a terrible dancer.” Her voice was melodious, and her slight French accent was like a purring in my ears.
“Ah! We are doomed, then, because Mrs. Ashby lied; I do not dance well. In fact I do not even know this dance.”
She laughed. “Well, then. Would you like to sit with me instead? I am a little tired from the previous four dances.”
“As you wish,” I said. Her invitation rattled me; it was not the custom for a lady to ask a gentleman to sit with her. But her eyes were sparkling with charm; she did not seem forward. “Where would you like to sit?” I asked. It was, after all, her house.
“Follow me,” she said with that arch smile of hers that made me feel sweet things I had never felt for a girl before.
She led me outside and we walked side-by-side in the warm summer night. I glanced at her when she wasn’t looking, smiling at my luck.
I had of course known that Baron de Mayes had three daughters; and I had more recently learned through my brother and his wife that the eldest, Charlotte, had grown to be a pretty girl. I had not seen much of her when I had first met her, so the fact that she was pretty now had been of no special interest to me when my brother and his wife told me. I had a few rules, and one of them was Do not consort with the ladies of the house . I had not come to this party to start a fling with any of the Misses de Mayes.
That was, until I laid eyes on this one.
I further knew that Charlotte was the daughter of the baron’s first wife, a woman whose name I could not remember, and who had died during childbirth. And that the baron’s second wife, Charlotte’s adoptive mother Pauline, loved her like a real daughter, because Charlotte was so pretty and sweet-tempered.
The baron had been a widower for a short time only. He had remarried Pauline and had had two more daughters: Marie and Louise, Charlotte’s half-sisters. He had moved his family from France to England when the girls were young, escaping the French Revolution. Raised in England most of her lives, in a society where the beauty of a girl was given such importance, Charlotte was considered a favorite over Marie and Louise. The younger sisters just weren’t as beautiful as the eldest Mademoiselle de Mayes. Rumor was that even Pauline preferred sweet, pretty Charlotte over her own daughters.
In our short walk around the garden outside, Charlotte and I talked about whatever I could remember from when we had first met, when her family visited my father’s summer home in the town of Bath. As we talked, I was painfully aware of the profound attraction I had developed towards her, which kept increasing with each minute I spent at her side. The more she talked, the more she pulled me in. In less than ten minutes alone with her I was ready to declare my hand. I didn’t though, but only out of fear that my hurried declaration would frighten her.
But she was so responsive, encouraging my words with her laughs and the coquettish look of those beautiful dark eyes. I even forgot what I was saying, just staring at her lips as she giggled heartily at whatever I had just said.
“You tease me so, Monsieur.”
What had I just said? Ah, that I had barely seen her two years before because she had spent the entire
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