that about Colin. It had been about Colin, hadn’t it? And me.
It seemed like forever that they tarried in personal grooming, Sally drawing a brush through her hair, Joan frowning critically at her own reflection in the mirror, twitching a hair in place here, adding a dab of lipstick there. But then they were gone, and I sagged against the pink-and-white-papered wall, my trousers going loose at the waist as I let out all the breath I’d been holding in a long sigh of pure relief at not having been caught.
As I let myself out of the stall, I grimaced at the thought of what Colin must be thinking. I just hoped he didn’t mention to the others that I’d been in the loo. Well, only one way to forestall that. Washing my hands in the sink, I dried them briskly on a paper towel and headed purposefully for the door.
It was time that the Plowden-Plugges and I were better acquainted.
Chapter Six
I n her usual spot, on a small gilt chair by the wall, Charlotte could have pinpointed to the second the moment the Duke of Dovedale nodded farewell to Sir Francis Medmenham and set off across the ballroom – directly for her corner.
Charlotte immediately sat up straighter, a move that did not escape the attention of her best friend.
‘Hail, the conquering duke approacheth!’ exclaimed Henrietta, who didn’t need wine to make her dangerous.
‘Shhhhh!’ hissed Charlotte, making an ineffectual batting motion. ‘He might hear you.’
‘I,’ said Henrietta, enjoying herself altogether too much, ‘am not the one your duke is here to see. Or hear.’
Charlotte decided it would be a waste of time and breath to reiterate that she did not, in fact, have a duke. Besides, her – er, the duke – was already upon them, looking painfully dashing in the light of the mirror-backed sconces.
He was wearing the same sort of evening kit as everyone else, with a garnet-toned waistcoat adding colour to an otherwise starkly black and white ensemble, but on him, it looked different. It wasn’t just that his cravat was simply tied rather than being teased and creased into whatever the latest fantasy of fashion demanded. It wasn’t just that his breeches stretched against genuine muscles rather than padding when he walked. Charlotte knew she wasn’t supposed to notice such things, but after years of Penelope, one did, and a very nice view it was.
There was something alive and vital about him that made the glittering stretch of the gallery seem small and fusty. He needed a horse beneath him, a spear in his hand, an expanse of muddy battlefield, with trumpeters following along behind to sound out a triumphant peal as he passed.
‘Charlotte?’ whispered Henrietta. ‘Are you all there?’
‘No,’ admitted Charlotte. ‘Do you think it’s quite normal that whenever I see Robert, I hear trumpets?’
‘I’ve heard of violins, but … trumpets?’
‘I know,’ sighed Charlotte. ‘It’s all the fault of Agincourt.’
There was no time for Henrietta to demand that she explain herself; Robert was already upon them, and the trumpets flared to a final, triumphal fanfare in her head.
It was rather odd to reflect that she had known him even before she had known Henrietta, whom she always thought of, in all capital letters, as her best and oldest friend.
Henrietta, however, seemed determined to make Charlotte re-think that designation.
‘Hello!’ Henrietta popped out of her chair, ignoring protocol with the blithe unconcern of one to the marquisate born. ‘You must be Charlotte’s duke.’
At the moment, Charlotte didn’t want a duke; Charlotte wanted a hole to open in the parquet floor and swallow her up.
‘I’m afraid you have the advantage of me,’ said Robert, although he did not, Charlotte noted with guilty pleasure, challenge Henrietta’s description of him. Of course, he couldn’t very well admit to being a duke but deny being Charlotte’s. So there was really very little to read into it, other than the fact that
It seemed like forever that they tarried in personal grooming, Sally drawing a brush through her hair, Joan frowning critically at her own reflection in the mirror, twitching a hair in place here, adding a dab of lipstick there. But then they were gone, and I sagged against the pink-and-white-papered wall, my trousers going loose at the waist as I let out all the breath I’d been holding in a long sigh of pure relief at not having been caught.
As I let myself out of the stall, I grimaced at the thought of what Colin must be thinking. I just hoped he didn’t mention to the others that I’d been in the loo. Well, only one way to forestall that. Washing my hands in the sink, I dried them briskly on a paper towel and headed purposefully for the door.
It was time that the Plowden-Plugges and I were better acquainted.
Chapter Six
I n her usual spot, on a small gilt chair by the wall, Charlotte could have pinpointed to the second the moment the Duke of Dovedale nodded farewell to Sir Francis Medmenham and set off across the ballroom – directly for her corner.
Charlotte immediately sat up straighter, a move that did not escape the attention of her best friend.
‘Hail, the conquering duke approacheth!’ exclaimed Henrietta, who didn’t need wine to make her dangerous.
‘Shhhhh!’ hissed Charlotte, making an ineffectual batting motion. ‘He might hear you.’
‘I,’ said Henrietta, enjoying herself altogether too much, ‘am not the one your duke is here to see. Or hear.’
Charlotte decided it would be a waste of time and breath to reiterate that she did not, in fact, have a duke. Besides, her – er, the duke – was already upon them, looking painfully dashing in the light of the mirror-backed sconces.
He was wearing the same sort of evening kit as everyone else, with a garnet-toned waistcoat adding colour to an otherwise starkly black and white ensemble, but on him, it looked different. It wasn’t just that his cravat was simply tied rather than being teased and creased into whatever the latest fantasy of fashion demanded. It wasn’t just that his breeches stretched against genuine muscles rather than padding when he walked. Charlotte knew she wasn’t supposed to notice such things, but after years of Penelope, one did, and a very nice view it was.
There was something alive and vital about him that made the glittering stretch of the gallery seem small and fusty. He needed a horse beneath him, a spear in his hand, an expanse of muddy battlefield, with trumpeters following along behind to sound out a triumphant peal as he passed.
‘Charlotte?’ whispered Henrietta. ‘Are you all there?’
‘No,’ admitted Charlotte. ‘Do you think it’s quite normal that whenever I see Robert, I hear trumpets?’
‘I’ve heard of violins, but … trumpets?’
‘I know,’ sighed Charlotte. ‘It’s all the fault of Agincourt.’
There was no time for Henrietta to demand that she explain herself; Robert was already upon them, and the trumpets flared to a final, triumphal fanfare in her head.
It was rather odd to reflect that she had known him even before she had known Henrietta, whom she always thought of, in all capital letters, as her best and oldest friend.
Henrietta, however, seemed determined to make Charlotte re-think that designation.
‘Hello!’ Henrietta popped out of her chair, ignoring protocol with the blithe unconcern of one to the marquisate born. ‘You must be Charlotte’s duke.’
At the moment, Charlotte didn’t want a duke; Charlotte wanted a hole to open in the parquet floor and swallow her up.
‘I’m afraid you have the advantage of me,’ said Robert, although he did not, Charlotte noted with guilty pleasure, challenge Henrietta’s description of him. Of course, he couldn’t very well admit to being a duke but deny being Charlotte’s. So there was really very little to read into it, other than the fact that
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