Page 7 of The Deceptive Earl

“Apparently,” she said. “I must bow to her opinions.”

“Of course you must,” Miss Macrum interjected. “The opinion of a countess must be obeyed.”

Lord Wentwell gave her a look, and then turned back to Charity. “I am not generally interested in other’s opinions,” he said and Charity was aware of a sudden coldness in his voice.

Miss Macrum seemed stunned to silence.

“She is my Mother,” Charity said into the gulf, but she was not at all sure her mother was still the topic of conversation. “Her opinions are important to me.”

“Of course they are,” Miss Macrum said, reaching out to pat Charity’s hand indulgently. “I am sure she is doing her very best for you. In fact, I have never seen a more stunning depiction than the one you present this evening, the picture of ingenuous charm.”

Charity was not sure why Miss Macrum suddenly found her interesting. A moment ago, her eyes were all for Wentwell. Nonetheless, Charity was gracious. She expressed her gratitude for the complement and groped for one of her own in return. Unfortunately, Miss Macrum’s garments were quite obviously a remake of last season’s style. No doubt the lady was saving the best for when the rest of the Ton arrived in Bath. Charity latched onto the topic of the dress, which although not quite the height of fashion, was expertly sewn, and Charity did so often need the services of a good seamstress.

“I must say, your dress fits you perfectly,” Charity said. “I must have the name of your dressmaker. She is a miracle worker.”

“Indeed,” Wentwell intoned.

Miss Macrum’s eyes narrowed momentarily, whether for Wentwell’s comment, or suspecting that Lady Charity was making fun of her outdated dress, Charity did not know, but Charity’s bright smile caused her to reconsider and her lips stretched into a smirk.

Wentwell looked away seeming somewhat distracted, and Charity took the moment to answer Miss Macrum’s silent question.

“Truly. You have no idea how often I need the services of a good seamstress.” Charity leaned in to speak softly to the woman, while Lord Wentwell stood, his shoulders stiff and still. “The dressmakers so often misjudge my size and that of their tape,” Charity said.

Miss Macrum tittered as if Charity had shared secret of worth, and Wentwell turned back to them, his eyes appraising Miss Macrum for a moment. She preened in the attention. “I take it you like my gown,” she said, her voice honey sweet, and her hands passing slowly down the front of her dress, and playing with the buttons along the bodice.

Charity thought that Miss Macrum’s fishing for a complement gauche, but expected Wentwell would accommodate her.

He paused, giving her another slow appraisal which Charity thought might be uncouth, but that was before he spoke and proved himself a rogue.

“It looks a fair bit of muslin to me,” he said, his voice flat and matter of fact.

Miss Macrum sputtered and blushed, at his crude comment and then pursed her lips, but before she could respond, he continued, his commentary in a cold and businesslike manner. “I should think that the buttons on the front of the dress, should be a great time saver, Miss Macrum,” he said. “In the event that you do not have a lady to attend you.”

Charity very nearly asked when she would possibly lack such service, but she was so appalled by the comment that she bit her lip and the hush extended between them like the calm before a storm. Charity felt herself color darkly in embarrassment.

Wentwell laughed aloud, breaking the awkward silence. The sound was sharp and entirely false but Miss Macrum joined him with her own shrill twitter. “You are so very droll,” she said, laying her hand back on his arm.

“And you Miss Macrum. Are simply unbelievable.”

Charity threw a glance to her mother to see if she was still watching. She felt so out of her depth. She knew she was meant to be flirting, but somehow she could not summon the same lightness that she had before Miss Macrum joined the conversation. She did not think Wentwell droll. She thought him a callous, full of artifice and insensitivity.

Wentwell smiled at the ladies, but the light did not reach his eyes. He gave a short bow, and excused himself with barely concealed haste. “I see some friends I must speak to before the night ends. Excuse me.” The excuse was so flimsy as to border on rude and Charity wondered what she might have done to remedy the matter.

“Of course,” Charity murmured. She wondered if she done something wrong at his abrupt departure. She was supposed to hold the gentleman’s attention. She tried not to notice that her mother was frowning at her. She discovered that she did not care.

Charity felt soiled by the conversation. Both Miss Macrum and Lord Wentwell had such counterfeit personalities that Charity told herself she was glad to be rid of all their intrigues, but she found her mind going back over the conversation to try to figure out where she lost her way. It was all pretense. How could anyone follow it? And yet she had for a moment. For a moment, she thought that she and Wentwell shared…something. Tonight perhaps, or perhaps during their dance last summer.

No, she reminded herself. All of his charm is fake, it is simply hard to remember such things when dancing with him. One must wonder what it is that he seeks so hard to hide beneath the mask. Although the thought intrigued Charity, she decided that she really did not want to know what lie beneath Lord Wentwell smooth façade. She did not care. I am sure it is something horrible, or perhaps it is nothing at all, she thought. Perhaps he is just empty.

She just did not notice how empty until Miss Macrum joined the conversation, but Charity thought, when she watched the dialogue, rather than participating in its exaction, she saw a different side of him, a side that was coarse and biting. Yes, she decided. Miss Macrum had revealed his cruelty. His rakish façade may hide some true decadence, and if that were so, she would have nothing to do with him. Still try as she might the Lady could not quite convince herself the smile Lord Wentwell had given her was entirely false.

~.~

Chapter Four

“Shall we stroll,” Miss Macrum asked, looping her arm with Lady Charity, and startling her out of her reverie. Charity felt trapped at once, but she could not deny the offer now. “I see that The Earl of Wentwell has caught your eye,” Miss Macrum said.

A flutter went through Charity’s midsection at the thought. Had he? Were her thoughts so transparent? “I haven’t surely. Or he hasn’t,” she said glancing over her shoulder at the man.