“You called?” the lady asked.
“What?” the Marquess said, then sighed. “I apologize on her behalf. My sister hasn’t been quite herself this evening.”
“Haveyoubeen quite yourself this evening, Mr. Huxley?” she poked again, and Benjamin was quickly losing his patience.
He needed to find a way to quiet her. No doubt the Earl and his wife would laugh Charlotte off, and she clearly couldn’t count on her brother for support. She was alone in the world, with only his lie for company. However, a small part of him—a tiny, minuscule part—felt quite bad for her. The least he could do was not let her ruin herself on his account, and if he could convince her of her delusion in the meantime—
“My lord,” he uttered, emulating the man’s verbiage, “I rushed over in hopes of securing a dance with your sister before our gracious host calls the dancing.” He peered down at the card dangling from her wrist. It was completely empty. “Would you reserve the first dance for me, Lady Charlotte?” he asked and extended his hand.
To his complete surprise, she took it—and a simple touch had never been so venomously sweet.
CHAPTERFIVE
The man who was set on ruining her life was leading her to the dance floor. She could not believe it. Every fiber of her being had screamed in protest as she had accepted his proposal—every fiber, expect one. She needed to know who this man was. She needed to set aside her anger for one dance so she might have a chance at finding out why he’d gotten his large, gorgeous,grubbyhands on her work and taken it for his own.
Lady Singberry called the first set—an English country dance. She headed the line with the Earl of Singberry, who looked anything but pleased to be there. Near twenty couples came stampeding over, their heels clicking against the painted hardwood floors of the hall. To Charlotte’s surprise, her sister was positioned a little up the right line, speaking with a man she recognized—the imposter poet’s dark-haired friend. She hoped he had not set the man purposefully upon her sister, adding insult to injury.
Charlotte and the charlatan settled in the last sets, which meant there was time to talk before the top couple made their way down to them and sparked their group’s dance. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him as he stood before her, keeping her at arm’s length. She turned instead to spy her brother and father, who were watching with keen interest. They must have thought Charlotte quite talented for swiping the ball’s most curious bachelor. If only they knew.
The music sounded, and Charlotte almost hopped out of her skin. She watched her partner eye the top of the dance ardently, as though he hadn’t a clue what to do and needed to be shown. So, he was not only a thief, but a liar who had wormed his way in—he did not belong.
He snapped his head back to Charlotte as though he had heard her thoughts and grimaced. “What had you sought to ask the Countess before I so rudely interrupted you?” he queried and then, as a second thought added, “my lady.”
Evidently, this had been his plan as well as hers—lure her to a place where they might hash things out in plain sight. Clearly, he underestimated her. “I only meant to warn her against vipers in our midst.”
“Vipers? Are there vipers this far south? I was under the impression London only played host to grass snakes—unless you have spied something I have not in the garden.”
“You know I make no inference to real snakes. This is not a menagerie, but a circus,” she huffed. “Tell me your name, sir,” she asked again, loud enough to be heard over the jig but not quite so loud the couples beside them could hear.
“I told you—I am Charles Huxley,” he professed with his usual, dark smirk. “What has given you cause to doubt me, my lady?”
Charlotte tapped her foot impatiently against the ground. They had seven minutes, if that, before the Countess reached them. “Because,” she declared, “I know Mr. Huxley most intimately, andyouare not him.”
“Intimately, you say? If not for your iron grip on your skirts, I would think you were teasing me,” he lilted, and Charlotte unfurled her hands from the silken fabric of her gown. “I could picture you a lover—I could picture you quite misbehaved indeed.”
Charlotte flushed, and she loathed herself for it. He was equally base and charming. “That is rather uncouth, good sir. One might think you were not a gentleman at all.”
“Not a gentleman, no.” He smoothed down the fabric of his double-breasted overcoat. His candor was infuriating. “Perhaps you might try again. Tell me why you are so convinced I am not who I say I am, why I am not Huxley.”
Charlotte had suffered enough. She edged forward just a step to make sure she was heard, then said through gritted teeth, “BecauseIam Charles F. Huxley! Your poem was mine!”
Suddenly, a delighted laugh sounded from the second set, where the Countess was reeling between the gentlemen. The music picked up its pace, and the dancers before them started clapping. Charlotte was momentarily distracted. She turned back to Benjamin, expecting to find him folded over, pleading, or vomiting. He was not. He was grinning like a schoolboy.
“Do you think this is quite a joke, sir?” she cried above the shouting, and her head began to spin. “I find no amusement in this at all.”
Mercifully, their fellow dancers quieted down, focused instead on their footwork. The imposter took the chance to speak again, each word of his dripping with dark glee. “I am only surprised, my lady—or should I say,impressedandmy lord. You hide your manhood so aptly.”
“Mywhat?” Charlotte echoed in disbelief. “You deny it still, then? Even after my admission?”
The dancing was so close, like an approaching tide. Charlotte looked over. They were twirling in the third, which meant her square was soon to be swallowed up.
The man scoffed, then he said, “I do. I can’t imagine the daughter of a duke would risk the reputation of her family by entertaining such perverse hobbies as the writing of salacious poems.”
Charlotte’s blood froze in her veins. Was he… blackmailing her? It was not so inconceivable. What was blackmail to a man who could commit fraud? He was not wrong, either. The gossipmongers and socialites of the Ton would gorge themselves silly if they were to find out—the unmarried daughter of a duke, a writer of lurid poetry. She would be compromised, as would Eleanor and Matthew, not that her brother needed any help scandalizing himself. Her poor, fragile Papa might not survive it.
But this was her life, herraison d’etre. If she was not a writer, she was a drop in the bucket—one more peerage daughter who could not overcome her fate. Her secret was not worth her misery. She needed to live her truth, damn what might come next. If the world would not move for her,shewould moveit.
“I will not let you intimidate me into submission,” she declared, and the music roared. The dance was upon them. “The poems you claim to have pen came from my quill, and I will do everything in my power to out you, for I know who you are.”