well tell a roomful of Pure Blooded that Frederick had taken liberties with her against her will, and that it had been revolting, outrageous, and humiliating.
Because it hadn’t.
She couldn’t take her great-aunt aside and privately reveal how Frederick had deceived her and gone against her express wishes, resulting in her utter disgrace at Lady Mettle’s ball, ruining her reputation forever.
Because he hadn’t.
Quite the opposite. Last night her pride had choked her, preventing her from admitting that she’d had a wonderful time, a uniquely pleasant experience after a string of boring, staid social events. In the clearer light of morning, the words rose up and off the tip of her tongue with disarming ease.
“Freddy’s indispensible,” Charlotte said. “I don’t know what I would do without his extraordinary efforts.” Of course, she only meant his efforts toward improving her social graces. His efforts in other areas were none of her concern.
Aunt Hildy’s face lit up. When a footman arrived with the morning’s letters, the Viscountess bestowed such a dazzlingly happy smile upon him that he took a step back in surprise.
Lady Balrumple sorted the letters, her cheerful glow undiminished. “Oh, Charlotte. Here’s one for you.” She passed the square of paper down the table.
With a sinking heart, Charlotte recognized the glyph of Sylvia’s sealing-spell on the envelope. She surreptitiously stuffed the envelope into the pocket of her morning gown.
“Who is that letter from, my dear?” Aunt Hildy interrupted herself again, “ No . I shall not ask who is sending you correspondence you evidently want to keep secret. I shall only observe. Don’t mind me.”
Charlotte felt her cheeks flare scarlet. It was all very well to joke about secret letters and torrid affairs when one was already married, widowed, and wealthy. The only thing secret and torrid about her life at the moment was Frederick, and he wasn’t even a gentleman. The most significant gentleman in her life had been Mr. Peever, and he had always asked her permission to hold her hand, begged leave to drop a kiss upon it, and mouthed only the most polite and positive of platitudes. Frederick didn’t mouth or beg anything—he told , he took , he touched . No, Frederick Snow was not a gentleman.
Chapter Nine
“All you all right, Freddy?” Tall John asked, his voice muffled by the handkerchief tied around his face. He shut the door to the still-room, but threads of purple smoke continued to leak out underneath.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t breathe too much of it in,” Freddy replied, coughing.
“That’s not what I meant,” Tall John said. He waved to Ellie, one of the stricken-looking still-room maids. “We’ve opened the windows inside, but we need to stuff something under the door.”
Ellie nodded, her face sprinkled with lavender freckles. She gave Frederick a small smile. “I’ll look for the spare linens.”
Patricia, the other still-room maid, stood next to Lady Leighwood and tried to pat her hand in a comforting manner. “It’s all right, milady. There’s no harm done.” Both women appeared unhurt, although the countess’s hands were stained violet all the way up to her elbows and Patricia’s hair approached the shade of a ripe plum.
Lady Leighwood sniffed. “I was close to obtaining the perfect recipe. I know I was. The Benine glyph for ‘restoration’ combined with the Kelock symbol for ‘color’ should have worked, but I neglected to calculate how the sorrowroot in the mixture would react with the spells.”
“New recipes take time,” Patricia said in a soothing tone. Relatively new to the Dowagers’ staff, she’d replaced a girl who’d quit after having her eyebrows singed off one too many times.
“I know perfectly well how potions are concocted!” Lady Leighwood snapped. Several frizzy, gray curls had slipped out of her tight chignon.
“Shipley said you had a rough night,” Tall John said,
Because it hadn’t.
She couldn’t take her great-aunt aside and privately reveal how Frederick had deceived her and gone against her express wishes, resulting in her utter disgrace at Lady Mettle’s ball, ruining her reputation forever.
Because he hadn’t.
Quite the opposite. Last night her pride had choked her, preventing her from admitting that she’d had a wonderful time, a uniquely pleasant experience after a string of boring, staid social events. In the clearer light of morning, the words rose up and off the tip of her tongue with disarming ease.
“Freddy’s indispensible,” Charlotte said. “I don’t know what I would do without his extraordinary efforts.” Of course, she only meant his efforts toward improving her social graces. His efforts in other areas were none of her concern.
Aunt Hildy’s face lit up. When a footman arrived with the morning’s letters, the Viscountess bestowed such a dazzlingly happy smile upon him that he took a step back in surprise.
Lady Balrumple sorted the letters, her cheerful glow undiminished. “Oh, Charlotte. Here’s one for you.” She passed the square of paper down the table.
With a sinking heart, Charlotte recognized the glyph of Sylvia’s sealing-spell on the envelope. She surreptitiously stuffed the envelope into the pocket of her morning gown.
“Who is that letter from, my dear?” Aunt Hildy interrupted herself again, “ No . I shall not ask who is sending you correspondence you evidently want to keep secret. I shall only observe. Don’t mind me.”
Charlotte felt her cheeks flare scarlet. It was all very well to joke about secret letters and torrid affairs when one was already married, widowed, and wealthy. The only thing secret and torrid about her life at the moment was Frederick, and he wasn’t even a gentleman. The most significant gentleman in her life had been Mr. Peever, and he had always asked her permission to hold her hand, begged leave to drop a kiss upon it, and mouthed only the most polite and positive of platitudes. Frederick didn’t mouth or beg anything—he told , he took , he touched . No, Frederick Snow was not a gentleman.
Chapter Nine
“All you all right, Freddy?” Tall John asked, his voice muffled by the handkerchief tied around his face. He shut the door to the still-room, but threads of purple smoke continued to leak out underneath.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t breathe too much of it in,” Freddy replied, coughing.
“That’s not what I meant,” Tall John said. He waved to Ellie, one of the stricken-looking still-room maids. “We’ve opened the windows inside, but we need to stuff something under the door.”
Ellie nodded, her face sprinkled with lavender freckles. She gave Frederick a small smile. “I’ll look for the spare linens.”
Patricia, the other still-room maid, stood next to Lady Leighwood and tried to pat her hand in a comforting manner. “It’s all right, milady. There’s no harm done.” Both women appeared unhurt, although the countess’s hands were stained violet all the way up to her elbows and Patricia’s hair approached the shade of a ripe plum.
Lady Leighwood sniffed. “I was close to obtaining the perfect recipe. I know I was. The Benine glyph for ‘restoration’ combined with the Kelock symbol for ‘color’ should have worked, but I neglected to calculate how the sorrowroot in the mixture would react with the spells.”
“New recipes take time,” Patricia said in a soothing tone. Relatively new to the Dowagers’ staff, she’d replaced a girl who’d quit after having her eyebrows singed off one too many times.
“I know perfectly well how potions are concocted!” Lady Leighwood snapped. Several frizzy, gray curls had slipped out of her tight chignon.
“Shipley said you had a rough night,” Tall John said,
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