Chapter 17

The brushing of silks, the brilliant light from the scores of candles hanging on chandeliers, and the hum of chatter filled Charlotte’s senses.

“This way,” Anthony said, guiding her to the right.

Mama, Mrs. Ashby, and Charlotte’s sisters followed behind as they made their way through a sea of people to Mrs. Ashby’s private opera box. Above their heads, wispy feathers from headbands and turbans fluttered gently about, mesmerizing Charlotte.

“Yorke,” a man said jovially, halting their progress. “Didn’t think to see you here, but I’m glad to be wrong.” He dipped in a quick bow as Anthony responded in kind, then urged the others to go ahead without them.

The man’s eyes shifted to Charlotte, and his brows hitched. “Is this the bride I have heard so much about?”

Charlotte willed her cheeks to stay cool. Would she ever accustom herself to being called Anthony’s bride?

“Bride-to-be,” Anthony corrected, as though the distinction was of the utmost importance, which, to be fair, it was. But not to others.

Smiling at the stranger, Charlotte jabbed Anthony with an elbow as inconspicuously as possible and regretted it instantly. She might as well have elbowed a statue. And yet, a statue’s arms could not have held her the way Anthony had held her yesterday. Since their strange embrace in her bedchamber, she had been taking notice of new and unwelcome things about Anthony. The strength of his shoulders, for instance, and the cut of his jaw. Or, just now, the unyielding firmness of his body.

“Allow me to introduce you,” Anthony said. “Charlotte, this is Mr. Whittlesworth. Mr. Whittlesworth, this is Miss Charlotte Mandeville.”

“Well done, Yorke,” the man said as Charlotte curtsied. “When are you two off to church, then?”

“Soon,” Anthony replied noncommittally.

Mr. Whittlesworth slapped Anthony on the back. “What are you waiting for, man? Better shackle that leg to yours before she’s whisked off by someone else.” He winked.

“Your concern is noted,” Anthony said.

“It’s been an age since I last saw you,” the man said, oblivious to the lack of Anthony’s eagerness to pursue conversation with him. “Not since before your brother ran off to France.”

Anthony stiffened, and Charlotte stole a glance at him. She still knew precious little about the Yorke family, but one thing she was beginning to notice: any mention of Silas inevitably made the air feel as thick as gruel. It was certainly maladroit of Whittlesworth to mention the topic as casually as he had.

“If you will excuse us,” Anthony said tersely, “we do not wish to miss the opening.”

Charlotte offered Mr. Whittlesworth a warm smile as she ceded to the insistent pull on her arm.

“That was not very civil of you,” she said.

“Neither was the way you jabbed my ribs.”

“For good reason,” she said. “If you insist on correcting everyone who calls me your bride, no one will believe this a love match much longer.”

“You are not my bride,” he said in a low voice as they threaded through more people in the corridor.

“I am,” she said, matching his volume to prevent anyone from hearing. “It can refer to a woman shortly to be married, you know.”

“Which you are not.”

She shot him an annoyed look, but he was not looking at her. “Thank you, Tony. I am well aware of that. But the entire purpose of this miserable ruse is to ensure no one else knows it.”

They reached the door to the private box, and Anthony opened it for her, forcing his mouth into a smile. “After you, my little kitten.”

Charlotte offered a saccharine smile of her own, then laid a hand over his on the door handle, letting her fingernails press against it through her glove. She could hardly believe she had spent time in this man’s arms yesterday. Agreeable time, no less.

Mrs. Ashby and Charlotte’s family were already seated in the box, and Anthony and Charlotte joined them just as the opening act of Il barbiere di Siviglia began. Charlotte couldn’t decide whether to direct her gaze at the stage or at the equally enticing view of those seated in the other boxes and below.

What would she have thought if she had known a few weeks ago, scraping for gossip about the ton, that she would be rubbing shoulders with them in a place like this? With a quick surveyal of those in the boxes opposite them, she counted three people who had been subjects of past caricatures. Now that she had the opportunity to observe them firsthand, she realized she had not done justice to Lord Muxton’s figure or to Mr. Oteley’s foppishness.

Her gaze settled on a woman in one of the boxes opposite. She was dressed opulently in a gown of violet, with a black gauze overdress and a matching black feather in her golden hair. Her eyes were fixed on—Charlotte followed her gaze—Anthony. It was not a gaze of passing curiosity but intent scrutiny. Familiarity, even, as though she was willing him to look at her.

Beside her, a handsome man in his forties, with streaks of gray near his temples, leaned in to say something and the woman broke her gaze away to respond.

Charlotte’s eyes lingered until her own attention was claimed by the events unfolding on stage.

During the opera, they received more than one visit from people they had met at Mrs. Ashby’s recent dinner party, and Charlotte watched with quiet pleasure as her sisters rekindled friendships with a few of the ladies and gentlemen from that evening.

When she happened to look back to the woman in the box opposite, she found the same steady gaze focused on Anthony again.

Charlotte glanced beside her, trying to understand what could be drawing the woman’s attention.

Anthony’s dark hair had been brushed to the side and his cravat tied in the Mathematical style. His lip pulled up at the corner as the audience laughed at something on stage. Charlotte was forced to admit that he did look more than usually handsome this evening. It might explain the woman’s attention, she reluctantly admitted.

But when Charlotte’s gaze returned to her, it was not Anthony but rather Charlotte herself who was the focus of her gaze. She forced herself not to shy away from it, and after a few seconds, the woman directed her attention to the opera.

“Who is that?” Charlotte asked, too curious to stop herself.

“Who?” Anthony asked.

“The woman across from us in the purple dress. She keeps staring at you. And at me.”

His brown eyes searched until they settled on the woman. The muscle in his jaw jumped.

Charlotte’s curiosity ignited. “Who is she?”

Anthony stared at the woman for a moment, something strange but unidentifiable in his eyes. “My greatest mistake.”

An unfamiliar feeling flashed within Charlotte, and she frowned as she inspected the emotion and tried to put a name to it. But it simply made no sense. Why in heaven’s name would she feel jealous?

She was becoming mixed up by the events of the past weeks. On some level, her mind must truly believe her to be engaged, which was what was making her feel this odd and absurd possessiveness toward Anthony.

His interactions with women were no business of hers, mistake or not.

The words had been bitterly said, though, and Charlotte couldn’t help wondering what lay behind them. Had the woman rebuffed Anthony? Chosen the man beside her instead? Had she broken his heart?

The torture in his expression as he looked at her made Charlotte’s stomach swim and her heart ache for reasons she didn’t understand.

“And the gentleman seated beside her?” she asked.

Anthony’s jaw tightened, and when he spoke, the words were quiet but harsh. “He is no gentleman.”

“Who is he, then?”

“No one you need concern yourself with. I shan’t let you within a dozen feet of him.”

The savage protectiveness in his tone caught her off guard, sending a cascade of butterflies into her stomach. It should have angered her for him to act so managing, but it did not. It pleased her.

“As if you could stop me,” she said, unsure whether she was being defiant for her own sake or because she was curious whether he was in earnest.

The blaze of fire she encountered in his eyes made her breath catch in her chest. “You can be certain I could. And would.”

“Thankfully,” she said, trying to maintain her composure amidst the mishmash of feelings within her chest, “I have no desire to come within a dozen feet of him. Will you not tell me his name, though? Or hers?”

“Enough of this, Charlotte. Did we come to ogle people or to watch an opera?” He turned his head toward the stage, his message unmistakable: the subject was not to be pursued.

Charlotte’s interest was fully aflame now, but she forced her focus onto the man and woman singing at the top of their lungs on stage. Her gaze wandered again and again to Anthony, though.

She knew so little of her betrothed. He was a man full of secrets—secrets Charlotte wished valiantly she could pay no heed to, but her questions buzzed about like a swarm of bees trying to gain entry to a crowded hive.

What had happened between him and that woman? Was his hatred of the man a result of jealousy? And, the most persistent question of all: what had he wanted the diary for?

When it came time for intermission, all six of them vacated the box and made their way for the refreshments. Tabitha linked her arm through Charlotte’s as they left the room.

“You will forgive me, won’t you, Anthony?” she said. “For stealing my sister from you for a bit?”

Anthony chuckled softly as he held the door open. “Impossible.”

And for the flash of a second, Charlotte wished he was serious.

She was carried away on the tide of Tabitha’s conversation, for her sister was eager to discuss the events of the evening thus far. Charlotte glanced over her shoulder and found Anthony engaging Lillian in conversation.

Drink in one hand and a small berry tart in the other, Charlotte listened as Tabitha recounted her interaction with the gentlemen who had come to their box shortly after the opera had begun. Lillian soon joined them, and Charlotte’s eyes searched for Anthony.

They found him with shocking ease, as though they had never truly lost sight of him. Charlotte paused with the drink at her lips at the sight of who he was with.

“Hold this,” she said, handing her drink to Tabitha without even looking. Gaze fixed on Anthony, she picked her way through the crowd, her heart beating quickly.

Whatever Anthony’s flaws, however much Charlotte claimed the blame lay with him for her recent misfortunes, he had come to her rescue when he had claimed they were engaged. He, too, was in an unsought betrothal, and it wasn’t until this moment that she had considered what it was costing him—or who he might have wished to be betrothed to if circumstances had been otherwise.

It cost her nothing to come to his aid just now.

She reached for his hand as she approached, and Anthony’s gaze shot to hers.

She looked into his frowning countenance with all the admiration she could muster. “Here you are,” she said, nestling up to his side. “I was looking for you.”

His gaze searched hers, and Charlotte feared he would humiliate her by pulling away.

Instead, his frown lightened as his eyes stared into hers searchingly.

Charlotte’s heart fluttered at the intensity and wonderment in his gaze, as though he was seeing her properly now.

Taking better hold of her hand, he brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of her glove, his eyes never leaving hers. “Forgive me, darling.”

Charlotte’s knees quivered, but she forced herself to finish what she had come to do. She let out a breathy laugh and looked at their audience. “How very rude of me. I hadn’t realized you were in the midst of a conversation.”

The woman in purple looked at her with those steady, blue eyes.

She looked to Anthony for an introduction, and the frown returned to his brow. “Lord Drayton, Miss Baxter, allow me to present you to Miss Charlotte Mandeville, my bride.”

Charlotte sent a quick glance at him, but there was no time to decipher his motivation for using the word. The women curtsied, and Lord Drayton gave Charlotte a shallow bow.

“If you will excuse us now,” Anthony said, “we only planned to stay until intermission.”

Charlotte did her best to look unsurprised by this blatant falsehood. “It is sad but true. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you,” said Miss Baxter, while the man only nodded.

Anthony guided Charlotte toward the door.

“Are we truly leaving?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“What of your aunt and my family?”

“I shall send the chaise to fetch them home.” He spoke with a servant, instructing him to have their carriage brought around, then inform the people in Mrs. Ashby’s box that Charlotte had gone home with a headache.

“A headache?” Charlotte protested, but when he set her hand back on his arm and guided them to the door, she made no move to resist.

They waited in silence until the carriage was brought around, at which point Anthony handed Charlotte up into the chaise, then followed her in. The moment the door was closed, Charlotte could keep silent no longer.

“I can only assume you forced us to leave early so you could take the opportunity to explain all of that to me.”

Anthony stared through the window, his fist covering his mouth as the light of the passing lamps cast shadows across his brooding features. “You assume wrongly.”

Charlotte watched him, trying to decide what to say and how far to push for answers. She didn’t truly mind being made to leave the opera early, but how could he have known that? And yet, here he was, taciturn and giving every indication he meant to speak of it no further.

The sight of Miss Baxter must have affected him deeply for him to leave so suddenly. She sensed now was not the time for combativeness and conflict. Anthony had comforted her yesterday; perhaps that was what he needed just now.

“Anthony,” she said.

His gaze flicked to her.

She swallowed. Somehow, it was more nerve-wracking to speak kindly to him than it was to say things calculated to ruffle his feathers. “You can confide in me.” She smiled slightly. “We are engaged, after all.”

Anthony held her gaze for a moment, then looked away. “Thank you.”

The silence continued, and with it, her embarrassment and the feeling of rejection grew.

“You think me untrustworthy,” Charlotte said, more as an explanation than a challenge.

He turned toward her finally. “Charlotte, you sell people’s secrets.”

“Not yours.”

The muscles in his jaw shifted. “Truly, it is nothing about you. I do not confide in anyone. Not anymore.”

There was that dashed enigmatic language he insisted on using. Who had he been accustomed to confiding in? Silas? Miss Baxter? “Perhaps you should. I promise you can entrust me with your confidences.”

“And how forthcoming have you been with me about your secrets?” he challenged her.

“You are my only secret.”

His gaze intensified.

She hadn’t meant to say it precisely that way, but when she tried to correct herself, she found her lungs bereft of air. She swallowed, then spoke more quietly. “What I mean to say is that you already know my only secrets. You are the only man in the world who knows them.”

They stared at one another across the dark of the chaise as it rocked from side to side over the cobbled streets. Anthony’s gaze, usually so guarded and resolute, softened as he looked at her, as though searching for something in her eyes.

Whatever he was searching for, he must not have found it, for he turned his head to the window again, and the moment was gone as soon as it had come.

But Charlotte couldn’t give up.

She chose her question with care, not wanting to begin with the subject that was weighing him down most. Heart beating at a clipping pace, she leaned forward and reached for his hand. “Anthony, what happened with Silas?”

His hand clenched inside hers.

“Surely, you know that,” he replied.

“I know what people say,” she agreed, “but I also saw the pain in your eyes when William refused to claim Silas.”

His hand balled even tighter, and he pulled it slowly but firmly from her grasp. “I have no wish to speak of it, Charlotte.”

She stayed where she was for a moment, her chest growing heavy with frustration. She leaned back on the squabs as the chaise came to a stop in front of Mrs. Ashby’s lodgings.

Anthony opened the door and stepped down, then offered her his hand, his expression stern and unyielding.

She took his hand and descended, facing him as the horses pulled the chaise toward the mews. “I am only trying to help.”

“Thank you,” he said. “But I need no help.”

She held his gaze for a moment, then gave a nod and turned away, refusing to let him see her disappointment.