Blessedly, the family box was situated near one of the square rooms in the theater. It was generally reserved for use by members of the peerage or members of Parliament, but Charlotte did not care enough to avoid it. She needed a space to breathe and recover, and she refused to hunt for an alcove. Every story of poor behavior at a theater occurred in an alcove, which struck her as odd, as alcoves were not nearly so plentiful for such things, nor did they allow for necessary privacy in most cases.
A square room, however…
Charlotte entered and moved directly to a chair, sinking into it and slumping forward, stripping her gloves off and pressing her hands against her face. Her breath came slowly and unsteadily, each inhale painful and each exhale draining. She had never been particularly skilled at playing a part, and here she was, acting a role while burying her natural inclination and disposition at the same time.
She was incapable of doing so.
Until she found some control over her emotions, she would not be able to maintain the necessary façade for the evening.
Once this evening was over, she’d be able to create a strategy to avoid seeing Michael more often than society would dictate, and especially in a more direct setting such as this. She had enough connections and allies to inform her of guest lists, so planning would be easy and essential. All she had to do was survive the evening, uncomfortable and unplanned though it was, and then she need never experience this again.
She slid her hands to her mouth, swallowing hard, shuddering another exhale as she sought control.
“What is it?”
Charlotte closed her eyes, fighting the wild inhale that would completely undo her and forcing her breathing to find a steadier pace, limited though it would be.
She opened her eyes and lowered her hands to her chin, allowing herself to smile at Michael as he stood in the doorway of the room, his hands at his side. “You needn’t have followed me, you know. You’re here with guests, you should go back to them.”
Michael did not react but for the fingers of his right hand rubbing together. “What is it?”
She ought to have known he would see through her politeness. Still, she was not about to confess her pain to satisfy his curiosity. “My dress,” she lied easily, just as she had to Georgie. “The bodice is particularly fitted, and I feel rather trapped in it. Nothing drastic, just my lack of fashionable training to give me the proper stamina.”
His brow wrinkled, and he took four steps into the room. “Why do I not believe you?”
Charlotte managed to quirk a brow and dropped her hands to her lap, elbow at her knees, still slumped over inelegantly. “Because you’ve never worn a gown that requires a tighter setting of your stays than is reasonable.”
He blinked once. “I generally don’t wear stays at all, so I can agree with you there.”
She grinned without meaning to, his usual dry quip doing more to set her to rights than anything else could have, even if his voice lacked an encouraging tone. Quickly, she sobered and straightened in her seat.
“I like Miss Palmer, Michael,” she told him, the words nearly choking her, true though they were.
Michael almost smiled but didn’t quite manage it. “That’s because she’s nearly obsessed with you and the Spinsters.”
“Well, that does help her win more favor,” Charlotte admitted with another smile, this one more controlled. “It shows her excellent taste.”
“It certainly shows something, I grant you.” He moved further into the room, watching Charlotte.
That searching look, the eyes that could see more than she wanted, was more than she could bear. She rose and turned her back to him, rubbing her palms together. “She seems rather lovely,” she told him, her voice perhaps a touch too loud. “Sensible, intelligent, and good-natured. Have you known her long?”
“Charlotte, we’re not going to talk about Diana in here.”
His use of her Christian name slashed through Charlotte painfully, seizing her chest with a chill that took a number of heartbeats to recover from. “I’m trying, Michael,” she whispered harshly, glancing over her shoulder without actually looking at him. “As your friend, I’m trying.”
“Don’t,” he said, the word almost a bark. “Don’t try to enjoy this. Don’t try to make it better that I’m doing this, that you’re here with Riley, that we can’t avoid each other here.”
Charlotte closed her eyes again, her throat moving on a lump she simply could not swallow. “I didn’t know we were avoiding each other. I didn’t know you were shutting me out. I didn’t know we were ending our friendship as we pursued love for ourselves.”
Michael didn’t respond, which prompted Charlotte to turn to face him.
His expression was hooded, his fingers now fists at his sides, his eyes on her.
Anger roared within Charlotte, and she took two steps forward. “I didn’t know,” she snapped, “that my best friend was replacing me with a pretty girl ten years his junior. I didn’t know that, in spite of cutting me off, you still feel entitled to ask my family for favors.”
Michael’s mouth opened as though he would retort something, but Charlotte wasn’t finished.
“I didn’t know,” she went on, “that you wouldn’t be laughing with me anymore. That we couldn’t even look at each other anymore. That I would begin to lose years and years of memories with you because you could not stand to be near me during one of the most terrifying times of my life.”
“What else am I supposed to do, Charlotte,” Michael cried, his hands splaying out before him in an almost desperate gesture, “when I am still madly in love with you?”
Whatever Charlotte had been about to say vanished,
