Page 8 of A Perfect Engagement
“Never mind, Mr. Brewster, I can escort Lord Hawksridge to the drawing room.” A feminine voice came from behind him.
“As you wish, Miss Charlotte.” Brewster bowed.
Daniel turned, and his breath stalled in his chest as Miss Charlotte Grisham approached. She walked across the hall wearing a pale yellow gown, her arms full with pink peonies. Dark green eyes observed him from under the wide brim of a straw bonnet. Her porcelain complexion was attractively flushed the same pink as the blooms she carried. Damn if Miles’s bland description hadn’t done any justice to her beauty.
“Lord Hawksridge, I see you’ve made it safely from London.” She bustled forward across the polished marble floor. “Do you mind holding these for a moment?” He automatically accepted the flowers from her.
“The drawing room had no fresh flowers, so I seized the opportunity to escape outside for a few moments to collect some.” She reached up to pull the pin from her hat as she spoke.
Daniel drank in her voluptuous figure, admiring the curve of her bust and generous flare of her hips as she handed her bonnet to the butler. Then she ran a long, elegant hand across her dark mahogany coiffure, smoothing stray hairs. He wondered briefly if the tresses would feel as soft and silky between his fingers.
“Here, I’ll take those back.” She reached for the peonies. Again, those green eyes studied him. Miss Grisham tilted her head slightly, assessing him carefully.
Say something, you idiot.Remember, you are Miles. Her fiancé. He mentally shook himself and forced a smile. You are supposed to be the charming one.
“It’s so nice to see you again, Miss Grisham. You look exceedingly fetching in yellow.”
“Thank you, Lord Hawksridge. Shall we go into the drawing room?”
He held out his elbow. “Why did you need to escape?”
She bit down on her plump bottom lip as she placed her hand delicately on his forearm. “I have to warn you, my mother and your aunt have conspired to invite quite a large number of people to this week’s festivities. I needed a few moments to myself after a long morning of constant conversation. The garden is my sanctuary.”
His concurrence was on the tip of his tongue before he remembered Miles had never been one for traipsing around outside unless he was on a horse in the midst of a hunt.
“I’m here now. Perhaps we can successfully navigate the room together?”
She graced him with a wide smile, which made his heart trip double time in his chest.
A footman opened the door. They entered a well-appointed drawing room filled with people. The walls were covered in dark pink silk printed with gold paisley. There were two seating areas. One cluster, a settee and gold leaf painted chairs, sat in front of the fireplace, and farther down the room a large pianoforte graced the space with a collection of upholstered chairs nearby. At least two dozen guests dotted the room. An older gentleman crossed to them; he had the same dark hair and piercing green eyes as his daughter.
“Father,” Miss Grisham greeted him. “Lord Hawksridge has just arrived.”
“The man of the hour! Didn’t have any trouble on your journey I hope.” Lord Markham shook his hand with a firm grip. He didn’t even glance at his daughter. “Here, let me offer you a drink.” Daniel found himself guided away with a firm hand on his shoulder. He glanced back and caught Miss Grisham’s look of disappointment. It was fleeting though. Her lips curved into a bland, polite smile, and she tilted her chin up just a bit as she braced to approach the room full of guests.
*
Charlotte made herway to the pianoforte where a green porcelain vase sat on top. Laying the armful of peonies down carefully, she began to arrange the flowers. The task gave her an excuse to observe her fiancé, who stood talking with her father and mother. He seemed different somehow today. He was dressed impeccably as usual, although his hair fell onto his forehead instead of being ruthlessly styled. His demeanor was open and friendly as her parents introduced him to their friends. He grinned at Lady Hornsby, and a charming dimple appeared on his right cheek. She didn’t remember seeing that dimple before. Although, she had only witnessed Hawksridge smile twice in their short acquaintance. Both times it had seemed forced, like he had ordered himself to appear approachable.
She slid another stem into place, stopping to assess the symmetry of her arrangement. Perhaps Hawksridge was just more relaxed in the country, away from the stresses of London. The thought lifted her spirits a bit. She hadn’t confided in her friends her doubts about her engagement. She didn’t want them to worry. But Charlotte hoped this week would allow her to get to know Miles Weston better. He had thus far appeared to be a decent fellow if a bit aloof. Her father and mother did so approve of the match, and her duty as a daughter was to marry for advantage. Secretly, she hoped she and her future husband could grow to love each other. She placed the last bloom into the vase. Maybe her mother was right, and she was reading too many foolish love stories.
As though she had conjured her with her thoughts, Lady Markham appeared at her elbow.
“There you are!”
“Hello, Mother. What do you think of the flowers?” Charlotte replied.
Her mother’s eyes darted to the peonies. “Very pretty. Now that you are finally back, I think it would be nice if you played some music. I don’t believe Lord Hawksridge has heard how accomplished you are on the pianoforte.” She patted Charlotte’s arm.
“Right now?” Charlotte glanced around at the room full of people.
“Yes, of course.” Her mother nudged her toward the bench.
Charlotte sat down with reluctance. She loved playing music for her own pleasure but loathed having to play in front of such a large group. She poised her fingers above the keys and closed her eyes for a moment. What shall she play? Her mind instantly thought of the catchy Irish ballad she heard in the town square last week. The gentleman who sang it had played it on the fiddle, but it was a simple tune. The words had been soulful and just a bit bawdy.
Her mother pinched her on the arm. When Charlotte met her mother’s eyes, she was scowling down at her. No, best not provoke her mother when the lady was already wound tight with worry about this week. Instead, Charlotte played the third movement of “Gypsy Rondo” by Haydn, a lively piece she and her brother, Lucius, used to play together when they were younger. She let the familiar notes carry her along, her fingers moving across the keys with confidence. Then her mother wandered away, leaving Charlotte to bear everyone’s scrutiny by herself. She dared to glance around the room. Dozens of eyes had turned to watch her play. The weight of their gazes, their opinions, blanketed Charlotte until all the air in the room seemed to disappear. Her fingers slipped, and she missed a note. She tried to take in a calming breath.
Just as the old panic surfaced, as it always did when she was forced to perform, the hairs on the back of her neck rose, and a warm presence materialized next to her. Instinctively Charlotte scooted over as Hawksridge settled next to her. He played the lower harmony, sliding effortlessly into the piece even though she played without sheet music. She glanced up at him in surprise. He winked at her, and the ball of nerves in her belly melted. Ducking her eyes back to the keys, she began to play again.
