the thought.
“La, here comes St. Lyon and begad if he ain’t bringin’ that prime bit o—” the Pink of the Ton broke off abruptly. “Er, he has Mrs. Mulgrew with him.”
The Comte St. Lyon sauntered into the box, Ginny Mulgrew at his side. Suavely, he bowed toward Lady Welton and greeted the baron. He was a handsome man, Charlotte thought, no one could argue otherwise. A little above middle height, slender and straight with the heavy Gallic features that somehow only the French can wear with urbanity. Dark, smooth hair swept back from a wide, furrowed forehead. A broad yet elegantly shaped nose separated dark, liquid eyes. He caught her studying him and with a self-satisfied smile approached.
The Pink inclined his head, his gaze sliding indecisively toward Ginny. “Comte,” he said. “Ah…ma’am.”
Ginny ignored him, making her way to the balcony rail overlooking the crush below. The comte cut him directly, too, thereby ending the boy’s miserable uncertainty of whether or not he ought to address a demirep in front of a lady. Mumbling a word of good-bye, the Pink slunk off, leaving Charlotte alone with the comte.
“How delightful to see you again, Miss Nash,” he said.
Falling effortlessly into the role she’d played for so many years, Charlotte’s brows rose, at once winsome and arch. “La, Comte! We meet so often I begin to fear you will find me most commonplace.”
“Never,” the comte declared. Though exquisitely polite, the very manner in which he refused to allow his gaze to stray from her face made Charlotte aware of her daring décolletage and her filmy silver lamé gown.
She resisted the impulse to draw her shawl up from where it gracefully draped her arms and cover herself. Instead, she laughed lightly, snapping open her fan and setting the silk and lace panels fluttering delicately over her bosom.
“No, I insist ’tis true,” she protested. “And I hereby swear off any entertainments where we might meet so that you will be forced to consider me frightfully exclusive.”
“Please, dear Miss Nash, do not deprive yourself of any pleasures on my account,” the comte said. “It is most unnecessary as, alas, tomorrow I leave your fair city.”
Charlotte arranged her features into a believable approximation of dismay. “But whatever for, sir?” she asked. “And might I be so bold as to ask where you are going?”
“Being bold suits you, Miss Nash,” the comte replied.
Charlotte answered by fanning a bit faster, as if he’d set her pulse racing. Oh, she was quite good at this.
“As to why and where,” the comte continued, “ ’tis a dreary responsibility. I am promised to host some of my former compatriots at my castle in Scotland. They are new to these shores and feel the need to rest before they begin their lives in England’s most illustrious city.”
A city the comte would see overrun with Napoleon’s soldiers if the price was right, Charlotte thought. “How kind you are, Comte. But how cruel of your guests to arrive during the height of the season, depriving us of your company!”
“I would that I could forgo it, Miss Nash. Still, ’tis not so great a hardship. The castle has been completely refitted and refurnished and is quite the seat of luxury. You must come and visit me there someday. Indeed, promise me you will.”
“That would be most pleasant,” Charlotte said, tipping her head winsomely while wishing him to the devil. “Don’t you agree, Mrs. Mulgrew?”
Ginny, returned from her perusal of the pits, had remained uncharacteristically silent throughout the exchange. “Yes. Wonderful.”
Around them, the Weltons’ others guests adjusted gloves, fanned themselves languidly in a futile attempt to cool the stuffy atmosphere, and in general prepared to depart. Few made any attempt to speak to the comte, none to his guest. Neither circumstance appeared to worry the comte.
“Did you enjoy the opera, Miss Nash?” he asked.
“Oh, I always enjoy a
“La, here comes St. Lyon and begad if he ain’t bringin’ that prime bit o—” the Pink of the Ton broke off abruptly. “Er, he has Mrs. Mulgrew with him.”
The Comte St. Lyon sauntered into the box, Ginny Mulgrew at his side. Suavely, he bowed toward Lady Welton and greeted the baron. He was a handsome man, Charlotte thought, no one could argue otherwise. A little above middle height, slender and straight with the heavy Gallic features that somehow only the French can wear with urbanity. Dark, smooth hair swept back from a wide, furrowed forehead. A broad yet elegantly shaped nose separated dark, liquid eyes. He caught her studying him and with a self-satisfied smile approached.
The Pink inclined his head, his gaze sliding indecisively toward Ginny. “Comte,” he said. “Ah…ma’am.”
Ginny ignored him, making her way to the balcony rail overlooking the crush below. The comte cut him directly, too, thereby ending the boy’s miserable uncertainty of whether or not he ought to address a demirep in front of a lady. Mumbling a word of good-bye, the Pink slunk off, leaving Charlotte alone with the comte.
“How delightful to see you again, Miss Nash,” he said.
Falling effortlessly into the role she’d played for so many years, Charlotte’s brows rose, at once winsome and arch. “La, Comte! We meet so often I begin to fear you will find me most commonplace.”
“Never,” the comte declared. Though exquisitely polite, the very manner in which he refused to allow his gaze to stray from her face made Charlotte aware of her daring décolletage and her filmy silver lamé gown.
She resisted the impulse to draw her shawl up from where it gracefully draped her arms and cover herself. Instead, she laughed lightly, snapping open her fan and setting the silk and lace panels fluttering delicately over her bosom.
“No, I insist ’tis true,” she protested. “And I hereby swear off any entertainments where we might meet so that you will be forced to consider me frightfully exclusive.”
“Please, dear Miss Nash, do not deprive yourself of any pleasures on my account,” the comte said. “It is most unnecessary as, alas, tomorrow I leave your fair city.”
Charlotte arranged her features into a believable approximation of dismay. “But whatever for, sir?” she asked. “And might I be so bold as to ask where you are going?”
“Being bold suits you, Miss Nash,” the comte replied.
Charlotte answered by fanning a bit faster, as if he’d set her pulse racing. Oh, she was quite good at this.
“As to why and where,” the comte continued, “ ’tis a dreary responsibility. I am promised to host some of my former compatriots at my castle in Scotland. They are new to these shores and feel the need to rest before they begin their lives in England’s most illustrious city.”
A city the comte would see overrun with Napoleon’s soldiers if the price was right, Charlotte thought. “How kind you are, Comte. But how cruel of your guests to arrive during the height of the season, depriving us of your company!”
“I would that I could forgo it, Miss Nash. Still, ’tis not so great a hardship. The castle has been completely refitted and refurnished and is quite the seat of luxury. You must come and visit me there someday. Indeed, promise me you will.”
“That would be most pleasant,” Charlotte said, tipping her head winsomely while wishing him to the devil. “Don’t you agree, Mrs. Mulgrew?”
Ginny, returned from her perusal of the pits, had remained uncharacteristically silent throughout the exchange. “Yes. Wonderful.”
Around them, the Weltons’ others guests adjusted gloves, fanned themselves languidly in a futile attempt to cool the stuffy atmosphere, and in general prepared to depart. Few made any attempt to speak to the comte, none to his guest. Neither circumstance appeared to worry the comte.
“Did you enjoy the opera, Miss Nash?” he asked.
“Oh, I always enjoy a
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