Charity by Deneane Clark

couldwander guests who desired a breath of fresh air. She and her sister strolled to a quiet spot and stopped.
    Charity fanned herself vigorously. “My goodness! I hadn’t expected such a crush of people!” But her eyes glowed with happiness.
    Amity nodded in agreement. “Grace says it is far worse than during her debut, when nobody really knew our family. I suppose the possibility of a connection to a marquess and an earl makes us all the more desirable.”
    Charity frowned. “How does one know, then, if the interest is genuine? In us rather than our connections.”
    “I guess one doesn’t straightaway.” Amity’s voice was soft. “I’d imagine it becomes evident over time, however.” She stared out into the garden with a dreamy smile, her eyes reflecting the dancing light from torches placed at intervals along the walkway.
    Charity gave her sister a long, slow look. “Good lord, Amity. You’re going to go all sheep-eyed over the first man who figures out to act like a stray dog. That’s all he needs to do to worm his way into your heart, isn’t it?”
    “Most certainly not,” protested Amity, but she laughed, knowing the accusation wasn’t entirely unfounded. She had filled their household with rescued pets from the time she could walk far enough to find them. All any animal, including those of the human variety, had to do was look at her with wide, soulful eyes, and she was instantly lost.
    Charity opened her mouth to continue, but she was stopped as someone opened a door nearby and the muffled sounds of the ball grew louder. She turned to see who had come out on the terrace, a bright smile of greeting on her face.
    The smile slowly faded. Walking toward them, his steps slow, measured, and deliberate, was the Marquessof Asheburton. He was dressed all in black, unlike most of the other male guests, who preferred styles more flamboyant and colorful. Where the other men mostly wore breeches, Lachlan Kimball chose unfashionable trousers. His coat was of a dark superfine instead of a more garish embroidered satin, and his cravat was tied in a loose, simple style at his throat.
    It was a style of which Charity found she reluctantly approved, until she realized he’d stopped before them and that she was staring. Embarrassed, she scowled. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
    Amity poked her in the side in silent admonishment for her rudeness.
    “Well,” Charity said crossly to her twin. “Trevor said he hates London, he hates balls, and I’m pretty sure, given the way he acted at Faith’s wedding,”—she swung her gaze back to Lachlan—“that he hates me.”
    Lachlan bowed slightly from the waist, but his eyes never left Charity’s and he did not deny her accusation. “How fortuitous, Miss Ackerly. You’ve spared me the awkwardness of trying to identify one twin from the other.”
    Despite there being no specific insult in his wording, the obvious indication that he felt he could tell them apart based purely on demeanor was not lost on Charity. She colored and drew herself up as tall as she was able, her eyes spitting blue fire. “I think I’ll go back into the ball, Amity. It has become quite crowded out here.” She brushed past Lachlan without addressing him and disappeared inside.
    Lachlan gave Amity a rueful look. “Your sister and I seem to have difficulty communicating,” he said, a note of apology in his voice.
    Amity’s eyes, unlike her sister’s, were alive with fun. “Oh, I think you both did fairly well. You managed to sayprecisely what you think of one another in very few words.” She grinned.
    Lachlan let that go. He smiled at her instead. “How are you enjoying the Season, Miss Ackerly?”
    She smiled back. “It’s the first ball for me and Charity, and it’s been very nice. A bit more active than I expected.”
    “Quite a change from Pelthamshire, yes?”
    She nodded. “As it is for you from Scotland, my lord.”
    His eyes, which had been a flinty gray seconds