Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

NEVER STOP DANCING

T he night of the Christmas ball, Charles and his father stood downstairs, awaiting their wives. Henry, too, was present; he, however, paced rather impatiently. "Why is it that women always take so long to get ready?" he grumbled under his breath, casting an annoyed look up the stairs.

Though not saying a word, their father rolled his eyes at Henry's flippant remark, and Charles chuckled under his breath. Indeed, he did not mind waiting, knowing the trouble women went through to look their best. According to his new wife, she, too, loathed the time it took to make herself presentable, often wishing it were unnecessary. Only the other day, they had talked at great length about things in life that bothered them, that they wished they could change.

Heaving a deep breath, Charles swept his gaze upward over the enormous staircase, imagining Beatrice standing there. It had been only a week since their wedding day in Scotland, and yet he already felt as though he knew her. Of course, there were still many delightful details to discover about her every day, and yet she was no longer a stranger. And more than that, he thought she felt the same way.

"You look happy," his father remarked with an amused twinkle in his eyes. "It suits you."

Charles could not help the smile that came to his face. He had never known he could smile as much as he had over the past week. He had always been happy; now, though, what he felt went beyond simply being happy. "I suppose I am," he murmured, still dumbfounded about how abruptly everything had changed and how unexpectedly these emotions had found him. "Was it the same for you," he asked his father, "when you met Mother?"

A faraway look came to his father's face. "Yes," he said simply, a deep sigh moving his shoulders. "One moment, I had no notion she even existed, and in the next, she was all I could think about." He grinned at his son. "Is that how you feel about Beatrice?"

Charles nodded. "You know, I always thought it odd whenever people described finding love like taking an arrow to the heart." Frowning, he shook his head, remembering how he had always puzzled over this description. "Now, though, I suppose it is merely a way of describing this… abruptness, for lack of a better word, a change one did not see coming."

His father was about to reply when he stopped and lifted his head, his gaze moving toward the top of the staircase. Charles turned, his eyes traveling upwards as well. There was not only his mother, dressed in her favorite Christmas gown, a deep maroon color with white pearls around her neck, but also Beatrice.

All grace, Beatrice standing at his mother's side, looked resplendent in her shimmering emerald gown. The glistening fabric clung to her body, accentuating her curves and stature while the delicate lace trimmings around the collar and cuffs made her glow as though snowflakes clung to her. Her golden-brown hair had been carefully coiffed into an elegant updo, and her deep blue eyes shone with anticipation… as well as a touch of nervousness.

Charles knew precisely how she felt, for his own heart seemed to trip in his chest the moment he beheld her. She had always been beautiful to him; yet now that one look into her eyes showed him a person he had come to know, now that he could read those subtle signs of her nerves upon her face, Charles thought her breathtaking.

More than ever, he prayed that, with time, he would win her heart.

"You look…" Words failed Charles when Beatrice finally stood before him, lifting her chin to look into his eyes.

"Yes?" she prodded with a teasing smile upon her face.

Charles chuckled. "There is no word to do you justice," he said solemnly, meaning it. "I am so…" He exhaled a deep breath. "Having you here with me tonight, it… it is a dream come true."

The smile faded from Beatrice's face, and he could see a touch of discomfort in her eyes. He knew she cared for him, that she saw a friend in him, and that any reminder that he loved her brought her pain. Charles cursed himself, making a mental note not to speak like this to her again. She needed time, and she would have it.

As the first guests began to arrive for their impromptu Christmas ball, Charles and Beatrice stood alongside his parents and brother, welcoming them all and gracefully accepting their well-wishes and congratulations. Charles was well aware that most people believed theirs to be a love match, and it suited him just fine. He did not wish Beatrice's reputation besmirched, people whispering about her behind her back. No, he wanted her happy and free of any rumors. He wanted the same for their child.

Truthfully, in the very beginning, after learning that Beatrice carried Lord Strumpton's child, there had been a moment when Charles had been uncertain if he could accept the child as his own. At only one-and-twenty years of age, Charles had never spent much time around children, especially young children. He had never even held a baby in his arms. The only child he knew was his sister, and Lizzie was already twelve years old. Yet when he had met Francine, Charles had been instantly dazzled by the little girl, his heart opening to her so easily that all his doubts of being able to love their child had vanished. He had remembered then what his parents had said from the moment he had been born: Love is all that matters.

Charles knew without a doubt that he loved Beatrice, that he would always love her. Now, when he looked at her and thought of the child, he imagined a little boy or girl, with wide eyes, full of trust and eagerness and his to protect, and it warmed Charles's heart immediately.

All would be well. He was certain of it. And not even the slightly disgruntled expression on the faces of Beatrice's parents could dissuade him. Of course, they had come to accept the match. How could they not? Yet they still seemed to hold a bit of a grudge, the smiles upon their faces not quite genuine and the words that fell from their lips as they spoke to their daughter, not quite reflecting their well-wishes.

"If you feel a need for rest," Charles whispered to his wife as he leaned in, "I shall spirit you away."

Instantly, the slightly forlorn expression upon Beatrice's face disappeared, and a dazzling smile appeared… and it made Charles's knees go weak. "Are you my knight in shining armor, then?"

Charles held her gaze, oblivious to all the other people in the room. "I shall be yours if you promise to be mine."

For a moment, she looked surprised; however, the glow in her eyes never dimmed. "I like that," she whispered, shifting upon her feet and moving closer to him. "I've always wanted to be a knight. It always seemed more preferable than a damsel in distress, wouldn't you agree?"

Charles chuckled, nodding. "Odd that the stories never speak of gentlemen in distress," he remarked with a grin. "Even in my limited experience, gentlemen do get into trouble quite a lot."

Beatrice's eyes danced with laughter. "Do tell."

Together, they endured the long receiving line, and both were breathing a sigh of relief when they could finally step into the ballroom, alive with the cacophony of conversation, music, and laughter. Everywhere they looked, couples danced, flirted, and enjoyed themselves.

"May I have this dance?" Charles asked, holding out his hand to her.

For a moment, Beatrice simply looked into his eyes, and Charles felt his heart tense in apprehension. Was something wrong? Did she not wish to dance? He remembered their dance in the library the other night as well as the way they had twirled through the swirling snowflakes out in the garden. She had been quite enthusiastic then.

"Yes," Beatrice said a breathless touch to her voice. It was only a single word, and yet suddenly it gave Charles pause. It made him look deeper into her eyes, and as he did so, the hope he held in his heart for the future grew in spades. Something more than friendship suddenly shimmered there, and Charles blinked, wondering if he was merely imagining it.

Arm in arm, they drifted onto the dance floor. Charles settled one hand upon Beatrice's waist while the other cradled hers within his own. Their eyes locked, and they moved to the music with ease—spinning and twirling—as though they had been dancing together for years.

When the dance finally ended, Charles held on to her for a moment longer, and he leaned in to whisper in her ear. "Promise me we'll never stop dancing."

"I promise," Beatrice whispered, her warm breath tickling the side of his neck. Then her blue gaze sought his, and Charles found himself mesmerized.

Abrupt applause ripped away the magic of the moment, and they both stepped apart. Her hand, though, remained within his.

"What is going on?" Beatrice asked, the expression in her eyes whispering of shyness once more as she looked around, not quite meeting his gaze.

Charles shrugged before his attention was drawn to a corner of the ballroom where a small crowd had gathered. A handful of guests were pointing upward at a small green branch dangling from the ceiling. "Mistletoe," he murmured, suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to pull Beatrice forward and claim a kiss as well. Yet it was too soon for that. He needed to win her heart first, and he would not risk losing what they had simply to steal a kiss.