Grace snickered and looped her hand through Aubrey’s. “Oh, I do love spending time with the Wright family.”
“Happy to oblige,” Charlotte muttered, moving over to the waiting maids for her cloak. “If nobody minds, I’ll ride over with the Ingrams. More room for us all.”
“Don’t impose, Charlotte!” her mother protested. “And don’t invite yourself! Lord Ingram, forgive her…”
Aubrey chuckled with some warmth and bowed. “Mrs. Wright, I can assure you that I rarely see a need to forgive Charlotte for anything. I am well aware of her nature and her antics, and I have no qualms about allowing her to ride with Lady Ingram and myself to the Prestons’ home this evening.”
“You’re a better man than I,” Charles informed him as he retrieved his hat for the evening.
Charlotte glared at him. “That was never in question.”
Before the siblings could properly spat, they were all ushered out to the carriages and loaded in, and then they were off.
There was not much conversation in the Ingram coach, as Charlotte preferred to look out of the window in anticipation of what the evening could bring. She did not anticipate finding her husband and falling in love in one night, but she hoped that she could make a good start, at the very least. She could not properly set a true plan in motion without these first steps.
She’d accept anything as a beginning. Finding one of the men on her list intriguing. Dancing more than once with him. Flirting mutually. Catching scattered looks throughout the night.
Anything more than the unknown would be of great comfort.
“Do you need me to function in any sort of assisting capacity this evening, Charlotte?” Aubrey offered kindly, as though he could sense her inner nerves and turmoil. “Or protective?”
Charlotte smiled at him, shaking her head. “Only if you see me suffering from boredom or unable to escape someone tiresome. I would be most grateful for a rescue under those circumstances, but I think I should be quite able to manage otherwise.”
“Good,” he said simply, “because we are here.” He quirked his brows and scooted to the edge of his seat, preparing to disembark as the carriage rolled to a stop.
Heavens. Charlotte looked up at the house, nothing too fine by appearances, but certainly lit up enough to be inviting. So why should her pulse begin to race, and her throat dry up?
“Oh, and Charlotte…”
She swallowed. “Aubrey?”
He grinned in his usual mischievous manner. “The Prestons have a son, you know. He is back from the Continent, and apparently very keenly interested in finding a wife.” With that, he pushed out of the coach and held out a hand for his wife.
Grace scowled at him, but placed her hand in his, giving Charlotte a meaningful look. “Are you ready, dear?”
Charlotte nodded even as Grace was pulled gently from the coach, then nodded privately to herself. “Yes,” she told herself, jumping in near fright as Aubrey’s hand reappeared for her.
She cleared her throat and took it. “Yes,” she said again, this time for their benefit. “I am ready.”
Chapter Eight
Avoidance is not always cowardly.
-The Spinster Chronicles, 15 October 1816
Charlotte was a vision.
It was the worst possible luck.
Michael knew she would attend the Prestons’ ball, but the sight of her struck him more powerfully than any sight of her ever had.
She was going to marry someone else, he reminded himself. Anyone else, really. Any eligible man in this ballroom could become her husband one day.
He suddenly hated them all.
It was not fair, seeing her so elegantly arrayed, increasing the effort she put into her appearance and apparel right when he had decided to give her up. But this was never going to be easy nor comfortable, so it might as well be acutely painful from the start.
“Stop glowering, Sandford,” Tyrone muttered, shoving a drink in his hand. “That’s an obvious sign to anyone in the vicinity, and questions will be asked. If you wish to illustrate a natural distance between the pair of you without anyone questioning an actual rift, you need to master your expressions.”
Michael turned away from the entrance to the ballroom, facing Tyrone while trying to adjust his features appropriately. “Why does she look like a goddess, Tyrone? Why? I was prepared for her usual appearance, what I am much accustomed to, but this…?”
Tyrone cut him off, shaking his head and looking almost disgusted. “If I had any question about why you were doing this, I do not now. Love for Charlotte Wright is your downfall. Can we move past it now? I do not intend to discuss this for the rest of the Season.”
“Please,” Michael begged. “I would very much enjoy not discussing her. Sterling is still tied to her through his wife, so cannot be my true ally, though he may try.”
“I thought we were simply finding you a life to live,” Tyrone said with a suddenly halting hand. “I am not committing to wage war against Charlotte Wright. I would like to live to see Christmas, if you don’t mind.”
Of course Michael didn’t mean to wage war against Charlotte. Why would he do such a thing? He adored her, still wanted her with an intensity that made his teeth ache, and though she could not see him as any different from the eight-year-old boy who interrupted her tree branch swinging, he had no desire to punish her in any way, shape, or form. Hurting her would kill him.
No, war was not the plan, nor was it the aim.
Feeding his resentment, however…
An odd wave slowly rolled over him, starting from the crown of his head and unfurling down his body. A cool, crisp composure he had never known in his entire life but had seen in the face of every bored gentleman forced to stand in ballrooms and drawing rooms and music rooms for ages of time. A distance that neatly
