Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Two weeks later

"I have tickets to the theatre this evening," Uncle Elliot said as they ate breakfast together. "Would you care to join me? Your Aunt Lydia has a prior engagement, so it will be just the two of us."

Charlotte smiled warmly at her uncle. "That would be lovely. What inspired you to buy the tickets? I always thought you hated the theater."

Uncle Elliot looked at her sheepishly. "Hate is a strong word, Charlotte. You have been so distracted since we returned home, a s if nothing brings you joy any longer. I thought you could do with a little cheering up, and I know you've always enjoyed the theatre, regardless of my personal feelings on the matter."

Charlotte looked away, embarrassed that even her uncle had noticed. He was not normally such a perceptive man.

It was true, though. If Charlotte had thought getting back to London would perk her up, she had been very wrong. If anything, she had been more depressed since arriving home than she had been when she left. She missed Chelsea terribly. They'd always been close, but in the run up to the wedding, they had been inseparable. Now, Charlotte felt as though she had lost part of herself. She was bereft.

"Really, I'm fine," she insisted, "though I shan't turn down a chance to see a play. Thank you."

"Excellent," he replied, beaming at her. "Then we shall leave at seven pm sharp."

Though a little brighter thanks to her uncle, the rest of Charlotte's day passed as they all had since her return—clouded with grayness she couldn't quite see through. She didn't know what was wrong with her. She and Chelsea had been separated for stretches of time before, yet she had never felt this way. Perhaps it was because Chelsea was married now—if Charlotte knew anything about marriage, it was that it changed everything.

The play itself was enjoyable enough. Charlotte supposed it was nice to be out in public again, though all the conversations felt tarnished somehow. Uninspired and uninspiring. She had selected a bright daffodil-yellow gown in the hopes of brightening her mind, and it worked, to an extent, but the colors all around her seemed dulled.

"Goodness, I have no idea how they are going to get themselves out of this pickle," Uncle Elliot said with a laugh as they stepped down into the foyer for the intermission.

"They will find a way, Uncle," Charlotte replied softly. "That's the thing about protagonists. They always win."

"If only life were so simple, ey?" he replied with a raised eyebrow. "I do believe a glass of wine will go down wonderfully."

The play was engaging, peppered with just the right amount of humor and just the right amount of drama. Under normal circumstances, Charlotte would have found it a sufficient distraction for the whirring noise in her mind, but today her heart still felt heavy. She felt as though something was missing from her life, though if anyone were to ask her, she would not be able to say what.

She accepted Uncle Elliot's proffered glass of wine gratefully then took a sip as she looked around at the theater-goers. Dressed in their finery, they spoke to one another in delight, leaning over half-finished glasses of wine and fingers pinched around nibbles.

She recognized a great many of those in attendance, but she supposed that was no surprise. These were the same people who attended the same seasons she had for so many years. It was no wonder she stopped attending. If it wasn't for the want of a husband, the season itself was a terminable bore. Always the same people, always the same topics of conversation.

But as Charlotte looked out of the sea of faces, one stood out, and not only because he was a good head taller than many of the others. He seemed ethereal, not truly there. Like a mirage or a ghost from her past.

Alexander.

He must have sensed her staring for he raised his head. Their eyes met and though he held her gaze, he continued talking to the person he was with. It was, as always, an intense stare, one that set her heart thrumming against her chest. He had a way of snatching her breath away, even when he was across the room and nowhere near her.

Is he real?

All around her, the sound dimmed to a murmur against the scream of her thoughts, of her heart. Would he speak to her? Would he, perhaps, apologize for leaving without saying goodbye?

No, surely not.

He didn't think her that important, or he would have made the effort in Hampshire. She was nothing to him and that was all right with her. That was how she wanted it. She had made it perfectly clear, after all, that she never wanted a husband, and what was a love interest if not a precursor to marriage?

No, she had been a plaything to him, a little entertainment while out of the city. And that was how she would think of him, too. As nothing but a light-hearted distraction. And yet she still couldn't pull her eyes from him.

"Charlotte? Are you listening?"

"What? Oh!" She turned as she giggled at Uncle Elliot. "I am sorry. I don't know where I was then."

"Away with the fairies," he replied with a disapproving grimace. "As you have been so often of late. I do wish you'd share your woes with me. As your guardian, I am here to help."

"I know but I promise, it is nothing. I miss Chelsea, that's all."

Her full attention was on her uncle once more, though something seemed to radiate from where the duke stood, some heat or force that called to her, begging her to turn around and see him. She didn't dare glance at him again. For one thing, she was furious at him for his rudeness. For another, she was furious at herself for wanting to see him again. For craving his attention. She had been such a fool in Hampshire.

"Is it only that or something more?" he asked, ducking his head as though to capture her attention. "You can tell your old uncle, you know. Perhaps I can help."

"Honestly," she insisted, though her heart warmed at his kindness, "it is nothing."

He smiled. "I do wonder whether it is a little jealousy that your friend is married yet you remain a spinster."

Horrified, Charlotte opened her mouth to reply but before she could, another voice spoke from behind her.

"Who is a spinster?"

She froze, her body still and her eyes wide. It was the duke! He was right behind her! She would know that voice anywhere. That heat she had felt from across the room now burned into her back. She could feel him as clearly as if he had pressed his body against hers—and her own body responded as if he had.

"Ah, Your Grace! How good to see you again," Uncle Elliot said, beaming up at him.

Knowing she had no choice left to her, Charlotte turned around and offered him a weak smile.

"And you too," the duke replied. He lowered his gaze until his eyes met Charlotte's. "I must admit, I was a little surprised to see you both here. I hadn't realized you were back in London so soon."

"What was there to stay in Hampshire for?" Charlotte retorted. "Lord and Lady Leming are traveling for their honeymoon, and any friends I may have made while at the house are certainly no longer there."

Or no longer friends.

The attraction she had felt had morphed into anger, though heat still thrummed beneath the surface. She wanted to rage at him for using her, for enjoying her company and then leaving her without saying goodbye.

She wanted to accuse him of toying with her, to denounce him for the rake that he was for he had surely led her on. But she could do none of that because he was not hers to rail at, and what wrong had he truly done? He had promised her nothing, and she had made it perfectly clear that she wanted nothing.

"Charlotte," Uncle Elliot said, clearly shocked by her harshness.

"It's all right," the duke said with a chuckle. "In the weeks we spent together, I learned to no longer feel shock at Miss Charlotte's way with words. She is so different to the other ladies of the ton ."

Charlotte's scowl deepened. How wretched this man was, leaving her wanting and now teasing her. If he thought her that uncouth and unladylike, then perhaps he shouldn't have been friends with her at all.

"I do believe I owe you an apology, though," he continued.

Charlotte's heart jumped again. Perhaps he wasn't so bad after all. Or perhaps he could see the fury flame within her.

"Whatever for?" she asked, her tone somewhat tempered but her chin jutting out in her determination to stay angry at him.

"For leaving without saying goodbye. The four of us became something of friends, did we not?"

"We did." Charlotte could feel the hard ice in her chest beginning to melt. It was so easy for him to reach her, and try as she might to now allow it, her heart refused to listen to her head. "I must admit that I was surprised you would do such a thing. I had thought you a gentleman."

"Charlotte," Uncle Elliot said again, and again, the duke chuckled.

"It's all right. I deserve it; she is quite correct. I feel bad for leaving so suddenly, but I assure you that it wasn't my choice. Lord Stanhope had some urgent business to attend to, and neither of us had time to say proper goodbyes."

"And do you always do what Lord Stanhope tells you to?" she demanded.

"Only when I am his guest," the duke retorted.

"As is quite correct," Uncle Elliot said.

Charlotte stared up at him. Her whole body seemed to vibrate in his presence, like some inner part of her was driving her forward. She did everything she could to hold herself back, to not reach out and touch him. She lowered her eyes, for his gaze was too much, and instead she settled on his clavicle, just visible beneath the collar of his shirt. It was in desperate need of a kiss, of the gentle caress of a lady's lips.

My lips.

"Are you enjoying the play?" the duke asked.

Again, pulled out of her thoughts, Charlotte looked up in surprise, licking her lips as the inappropriate thoughts died away. "It is… yes," she replied. She couldn't for the life of her remember what the play was about. She could remember nothing.

"And yet it does not instill a great deal of emotion in you," he teased, "for otherwise you would have more to say."

"It is… I have no idea how they are going to get themselves out of this pickle," she said, echoing Elliot's earlier words in the hope that neither gentleman would notice. She had no such luck, for they both laughed—her uncle as he recognized his own words, the duke as he recognized her lack of anything of substance to say.

"I'm sure they will," he replied. "Isn't that a protagonist's lot?"

She pressed her lips together to prevent herself from smirking. It felt, at times, like they were one and the same person, their thoughts entwined and matching. She went to say so, to note their similarities, when the gong sounded, announcing the beginning of the second act.

"Ah, I suppose we must return to our seats," he said.

"I suppose we must." She did not break her stare.

"But, one question, my lady."

"Go on."

"I wondered if it might be all right if I called on you this week at some point."

She bit down on her bottom lip, but her smile grew all the same.

He wants to call on me!

"Yes," she said. "I suppose that will be acceptable."

"She means agreeable," her uncle said, stepping in. That was indeed what she had meant, but she had definitely not intended to say it. She didn't want the duke to think she actually invited his company, no matter how much she craved it.

"I know," the duke replied with a wink before disappearing through the crowds.

Charlotte and her uncle returned to their seats and for the second act, Charlotte found herself enjoying it immensely. Even Uncle Elliot noticed.

"Your mood seems so much lighter," he said with a mocking eyebrow raised. "I wonder why that could be."

"It's that the second half is better," Charlotte barked back in a whisper so as not to disturb the other guests. "The acting is much improved."

"And nothing at all to do with a handsome duke we just happened upon in the intermission."

"Nothing whatsoever."

She kept her eyes firmly forward, her lips pursed with a tickling annoyance. Because her uncle was right. The play seemed richer, the actors more talented, the scenery brighter. But as she laughed along to the jokes, she began to wonder whether it had been Chelsea she was missing or someone else entirely.