“Not at all,” he said without airs, which spoke of honesty if nothing else did. “Only the instigator and the motives. I’ll dance with you again next week to prove it is not personal.”
Charlotte had to smile at that, enjoying the frankness in his manner that so few gentlemen employed in Society, let alone around her. “If it’s a waltz, I’ll agree.”
Now he scowled as he looked at her. “Of course, you would be particular. I ought to have been more specific.”
“Indeed, Mr. Demaris, the fault is clearly your own.” The first motions began, and they took hands to follow the pattern of the dance.
“A statement I hear rather frequently in my life,” he told her without much concern. “I’m growing accustomed to the idea.”
Charlotte laughed as she returned to her position. “There are greater sinners than you, Mr. Demaris. Never fear.”
She turned her attention to the corner of the square the dance formed between them and the couple neighboring, and she nearly sagged in misery at the gentleman who was now approaching for the motion.
Michael.
“Speak of the devil, and he shall appear,” she muttered, catching Tyrone’s stifled amusement out of the corner of her eye.
He bowed in the dance and held out his hands.
She waited half a beat longer than she ought, a thrill of satisfaction lighting her chest at his wide-eyed reaction to it.
“Please don’t make a scene,” he asked as they turned.
“Why would I make a scene?” Charlotte replied, releasing his hands to do-si-do. “I have a reputation to consider.” She threw a glower at Tyrone as she faced him, earning a sheepish attempt at a grin in return.
“I need to speak with you,” Michael insisted.
Charlotte harrumphed, shaking her head. “He says as if he were not speaking. This is an extraordinary way to bring it about.”
Michael’s expression turned almost scolding as they turned once more. “I didn’t think you would agree if I approached in any other way.”
“Oh, so he has got some intelligence.” She forced a bright smile she did not feel. “How refreshing.”
The dance sent them back to their corners, and Charlotte looked down at the floor while Tyrone and the woman beside her took their turn in the center.
Why in the world did Michael need to speak with her? What could he possibly have to say after what had passed between them? After what he had proven at Grace’s party, there could be no mistaking the status of their relationship.
It had been neatly terminated, and there was nothing of friendship remaining.
So much for his vow that they would remain friends. The best of friends, if she recalled correctly.
How had they gotten to this point?
She returned to Tyrone’s side as they promenaded down the line and around to the back. “You may owe me more than a copious amount of strong drink for this, Mr. Demaris.”
He hissed under his breath. “I did promise a waltz.”
“Somehow, I don’t find that as satisfactory.” Charlotte gnawed the inside of her cheek as she took up her new position, preparing to face Michael again.
He wasted no time when he came to her. “I apologize for singing.”
That was it? Not for breaking their longest-reigning understanding? Not for breaking her heart? Not for scrubbing her out of his life? Just singing? As if singing alone was a crime?
Charlotte felt a cool composure ripple across her being, and she found a polite, formal smile crossing her lips. “I apologize for singing, as well. It’s a beastly business, singing. Almost nobody does a fair job of it, and it is so mortifying. Such a vulnerable experience, which is why I never do it.”
Michael frowned. “I’m not apologizing for the existence of singing. I’m apologizing that I sang for company.”
She pretended to be surprised. “What’s it to me if you wish to sing for company? You are free to do as you like.”
“Charlotte, that was our secret.”
“Surely not ours alone,” she protested, maintaining wide-eyed innocence. “Your mother knows you sing, yes? Your sisters? Cousins?”
“Well, yes…”
She trilled a merry laugh. “Then it can hardly be our secret. You are a gifted vocalist, why should the world not know?”
She heard his short exhale of frustration. “I only want to say that I am sorry if I hurt you in doing so.”
“You didn’t.”
“I can see that, but the apology stands,” he insisted.
“Then your conscience is clear. That should be enough.”
“Do you accept my apology?” he ground out, evidently growing weary of her game.
“Do I need to? After all, I have told you, I was not wounded.”
Michael retreated to his place, but his attention remained on her with an intensity that was almost unsettling. This time, Charlotte stared back at him, daring him to find something weak, flawed, or wounded in her. What her heart felt was no longer his concern. What hurts she carried would no longer be known to him. What familiarity they shared could no longer be.
He had done this, and he would be the one to feel it.
Wordlessly, expressionless, she watched him, waiting to see him accept the strength she was showing, the detachment from any emotions he could rouse, and the beauty she had worked so tirelessly to array herself in this evening. Let him see Charlotte Wright as she was, not as the girl he’d thought her to be.
At that moment, Michael’s eyes dropped from her own and, starting at what seemed to be the toes of her slippers, slowly examined every inch of her all the way up. An accompanying shiver raced through Charlotte on the exact same path at precisely the same time, as though his eyes had power over her limbs and frame. When his eyes reached hers again, something hot and blinding screeched from the core of her down into each of her toes, curling them in her slippers. Rays of it raced upwards through her, singeing each hair on her head and incinerating her ears.
She watched his eyes shift across her face,
