The dance had been glorious, and now it was over. The evening was not supposed to be spent swirling in the arms of a duke. It was a strange variation from joining the other wallflowers, where the most exciting part of the evening was nibbling on the stale cake the patronesses offered and discussing fish with Miss Louisa Carmichael.

Charlotte departed from the duke. No need for him to continue to make conversation with her. The man was engaged, and his fiancée was present, somewhere, at this ball. The duke wasn’t the first man who felt compelled to dance with some wallflowers. When he wasn’t hopping into carriages which didn’t belong to him, the man could behave quite nobly.

She spotted her mother’s feathered turban in the throng of people and headed toward her. Perhaps Mama could distract her. Even though she despised dancing, memories of the man’s hand on her waist and of his masculine scent still rushed through her mind.

“Did you see the duke dancing with that vicar’s daughter?” a female voice behind her asked.

Tension sprang through Charlotte’s body, as if attempting to transform her to stone, and the act of walking became difficult. She didn’t recognize the sound of the voice. Whoever was speaking about her was no friend.

“Is that who she was?” asked a new, equally unpleasant voice with a slight Scottish burr. “I wonder she was allowed into this ballroom.

“This is hardly Almack’s,” the first woman said. “The baronet is happy to fill the ballroom with any guests. We are speaking about someone from Yorkshire.”

“Evidently, even that county is vastly superior to wherever that girl was from. She was so dreadful at dancing.”

The two women laughed, seemingly pleased in their open contempt.

Charlotte wrapped her arms against her chest. Her gloves scratched her, and her shift seemed too tight.

She glanced toward her mother. She had no desire to make conversation now. Where was Georgiana? Not that she could confide in her. Her sister had the habit of acting without thinking, and Charlotte wouldn’t be surprised if Georgiana marched up to those despicable women and admonished them, turning the whole event into something even more unpleasant.

A slight flutter of wind brushed against her as she passed velvet drapes. I can go outside. It might be cold, but it would be private.

And privacy was exactly what she required.

Charlotte slipped behind the velvet curtain. The brocade pattern scratched against her face. Its sumptuousness did not extend to its texture.

The space behind the curtain was dark, and she felt frigid glass beneath her gloves. She fumbled for a door knob, but there was no handle. Just a partway opened window, and one with no view.

Heat prickled her cheeks, even though no one was around to witness her. Had people seen her duck behind the curtain? They would think her ludicrous.

They already do.

She should leave now, but her chest tightened. At any moment, her breaths might come overly rapidly, and she would utterly humiliate herself. She shut her eyes. I cannot remain here.

“There you are, Vernon,” one of the unpleasant women said. Her alto voice sounded impossibly loud. She must be standing on the other side of the curtain.

Charlotte shrank back. Any urge to step from the curtain vanished. She couldn’t provide more gossip fodder. Her poor dancing and unfashionable attire had already sufficed in making this woman think herself superior.

“Lady Isla.” A tenor voice with a slight Scottish accent sounded.

Charlotte didn’t have to peer around the curtain to know whom the voice belonged to; it was the duke’s.

“You disappeared. Is that how you treat your betrothed?”

The duke was engaged to this woman? Who criticized Charlotte within hearing difference? Who laughed about her with a friend? Who evidently belonged to the very highest strata of the ton?

Charlotte stiffened.

She felt ridiculous for pondering the symmetry of his facial features and the broadness of his chest. She felt ridiculous for contemplating the manner the golden candlelight hit his strands, making it gleam, and she certainly felt ridiculous for spending any amount of time with him. He was the cream of the peerage and she was...not.

“You do know you could have danced with me,” Lady Isla said.

“A second dance in a row?” the duke asked. “I would not want to be scandalous.”

“Nonsense. Our betrothal is no secret,” Lady Isla said. “Not even the most etiquette conscious person would object to a second dance.”

The duke was silent.

“You rushed toward that vicar’s daughter with such speed. Anyone would think you’d decided to take up exercising in our dear host’s ballroom.” Lady Isla laughed, and the sound was melodic, even though nothing else about her seemed pleasant. “And after all, she is so plain.”

This was a private conversation.

This was not meant for her to hear.

Charlotte’s stomach twisted, and she stepped closer to the window. The condensation prickled her sleeves. No doubt her puffed sleeves were turning a different color.

Fiddle-faddle.

She stepped away, and hoped no one noticed the curtain moving.

“Perhaps slenderness is fashionable,” Lady Isla continued, “but she is skinny, and that height—it’s not the least impressive. She scarcely fit into her gown.”

“I don’t take my lessons on beauty from what some magazine happens to say is fashionable.”

“Hmph. Let’s discuss our wedding instead of the tiresome women at second-rate balls,” Lady Isla said. “We could have an August wedding.”

“Is that your wish?” The duke’s voice was collected, but even through the curtains, Charlotte could hear his voice wobble. The man seemed to radiate tension and unease.

Charlotte drew back. Her heart sped, sending blood through her body frantically, as if it thought itself some mill near a waterfall.

This was an imperfect hiding spot. The proper thing of course would be to saunter past Lady Isla and the duke. But sauntering past them might lead to questions as to why she’d been there in the first place, and that was something she had no desire to do.

“Yoo-who! Charlotte dear!” Her mother’s voice sailed through the air, undeterred by Sir Seymour’s curtains.

Charlotte stiffened and resisted the urge to inhale a deep breath, even as her heartbeat quickened, and even as thoughts of the general frailness of her heart assaulted her.

She would not permit herself to be discovered behind the curtain. Not when the duke and Lady Isla were on the other side. She didn’t want to ponder the duke’s possible reaction to evidence of her eavesdropping.

“Charlotte, dear! I have someone for you to meet!” her mother’s voice exclaimed.

Footsteps sounded, and Charlotte hoped they didn’t belong to her mother. Unfortunately, the precise rhythm of her steps did seem to indicate the presence of her mother.

“I can see your slippers, dear,” her mother said. “I know you’re behind that curtain.”

“How very curious,” Lady Isla murmured.

“What an odd location for you to stand,” her mother continued.

“Are you Mrs. Butterworth?” the duke asked.

“Oh, yes, I am,” her mother said gaily.

Ice shot through Charlotte, and she hurried from the comfort of the curtain. She blinked into the bright light.

She wished the face of her mother would not look nearly so startled.

Charlotte was afraid to look at the other faces.

She wasn’t going to permit the duke to tarnish her mother’s evening. She was still functioning. She hadn’t succumbed to her illness yet.

“Oh, there you are, Charlotte.” Her mother composed herself and beamed. “It would have been most embarrassing if I was speaking to someone else’s slippers.”

“Sneaking behind the curtains? How terribly quaint.” Lady Isla laughed, and Charlotte turned her gaze to the direction of the voice.

She was beautiful.

Charlotte didn’t use that word lightly, even in her mind, but the fact remained unmistakable.

The woman moved toward her, obviously not beset by clumsiness or some other affliction. Emeralds glimmered from her throat. The jewels were popular with some of the older women, but this woman did not seem to be using them for their throat wrinkle disguise purposes. Her skin appeared smooth and dewy. The waistline of Lady Isla’s gown was lower, in the very newest style, bestowing her with a doll-like appearance men most likely adored. Even her slippers were jeweled, and they sparkled against the black and white tile of the floor.

Charlotte stiffened. Her pink dress seemed unsophisticated. One never spent long observing a single pale-colored flower.

Lady Isla continued to assess her, though she’d lifted one brow. Charlotte had the distinct impression she was the reason.

The woman narrowed the distance between them. “Your hair is messy, my dear. That curtain could not have been good for it.”

Charlotte reached toward her hair, but the woman tilted her head, and her eyes glimmered ice. “Oh, dear. That is your normal updo.”

Charlotte felt like a three-year old who’d wandered into the wrong wading pool, to discover not only was she in the wrong location, but she couldn’t even swim.

“Why were you hiding there?” The duke’s eyes rounded. “Did you feel faint? Perhaps the dance was too much exertion for your health...”

She jerked her head toward her mother. “I-it was quieter.”

“Who wants quiet at a ball?” Lady Isla asked.

Charlotte was silent, and she scrunched her handkerchief together.

“Let me introduce you to the baronet’s son,” Mama said. “He’s most important.”

Lady Isla widened her eyes. Mama hadn’t recognized the duke.

“Oh, you should hurry then,” Lady Isla said, her lips twisting imperiously again. “It must be so special when people who lead quiet country lives attend a ball. I can’t imagine how dull their lives must otherwise be.”

Charlotte’s chest hurt, and she allowed Mama to drag her toward the baronet’s son. They moved across the ballroom floor.

“Where did that man go?” Mama mused.

“I met Sir Seymour,” Charlotte said.

“Well, you can’t marry him,” Mama said. “He’s already got a wife.” She peered about the ballroom.

Charlotte looked about the ballroom, half-expecting to see a squat man in attire that wouldn’t look amiss in a hunting field, with hair with rather less gray than Sir Seymour’s.

When Mama squealed and pointed, the man in question, though he was squat, didn’t appear like he’d been anywhere near a hunting field. He wore an amethyst waistcoat of such vibrancy it gleamed even from his distant location. His blond hair was carefully coiffed, and he was surrounded by a bevy of elegant gentleman.

“He appears occupied,” Charlotte said.

Mama sighed. “He does, doesn’t he?”

“Charlotte!” Georgiana squealed, and Charlotte turned her head to see her sister and father approaching. “You were dancing! With the duke!”

Mama’s eyes rounded. “Truly?”

“Indeed,” Charlotte said.

“Why how ever did you manage that?” Mama asked.

“He asked me.”

“My dear, I cannot believe you danced with a duke.” Mama fanned herself. “How marvelous! I wish I had seen it. It would have been the most incredible thing.”

“Apart from your daily visions of me.” Papa smiled at Mama.

Delicate pink spread across Mama’s face, and she giggled in a manner that made it very easy to imagine what they would have been like in their youths.

Mama and Papa seemed so happy now. How could Charlotte tell them she was going to die? She didn’t want to cause them anguish. Would her last days be of hearing them wail and despair?

She couldn’t permit the duke to share her secret. She’d have to convey the importance to him at once.

“Was that the man near the curtains?” Mama asked. “He was most handsome.”

Charlotte smiled. For once, Mama was absolutely correct.

“Though I did wonder why he was inquiring about your health,” Mama continued. “He did seem most concerned.”

“He was?” Georgiana frowned.

Mama blinked. “I suppose that was odd. It is not an eccentricity commonly attributed to dukes.”

“Oh?” Charlotte tried to laugh, and Georgiana’s eyes narrowed.