And he certainly had never paid any heed to anyone other than his most recent flirts, all of them stunning beauties. A plain old maid such as Charlotte Spenser would never qualify as the type of woman to interest someone like Adrian Rohan.
He was still holding her hand, she realized with horror. "Where is your dance card?" he persisted.
"I told you, I don't dance," she said through gritted teeth. Lina had long ago ceased insisting she carry a dance card, knowing it was a lost cause. In addition to never being asked, she had two left feet. She tugged at her hand again, but he held fast, stronger than she would have guessed. "Release me. Now. "
Her peremptory tone wasn't the wisest choice, she realized as his eyes narrowed. "I think not. "
Her slippers were light and soft, made for the dancing she refused to participate in. She gave him a deceptive smile, moving closer, and stomped on his foot with all her weight.
With her light slippers she couldn't have done nearly the damage she would have wished for. Had it been up to her she would have broken his foot—but it was enough of a surprise to have him momentarily loosen his grip, and she pulled free, whirled around and escaped.
She was half-afraid he'd follow her past the green baize door to the servants' passageway, but she'd overestimated her fascination. By the time she dared look back he was gone.
She'd made it up to the servants' narrow staircase when she heard the music start. She was three times a fool, but there was a spot from the second-floor staircase with a perfect view of the ballroom. She'd done just that in her own house with Lina when they were both young girls, fascinated by the workings of society and the behavior of their shallow parents.
At that point the two of them had judged it deadly dull.
Lina had changed her mind, sailing through a glittering first season, capped with an extravagant wedding to the aging but extremely wealthy and still-handsome earl of Whitmore.
Charlotte, on the other hand, had retreated in abject failure. Her ordinary looks, lack of fortune and unhappy tendency to speak her mind had made her part of a commodity that society had no value for, and she retired back to her family's ramshackle estate, her parents' only child a total failure.
She remembered Viscount Rohan from that disastrous first season, though she'd presumed he'd forgotten entirely. He'd been presented to her as a suitable partner by one of the well-meaning hostesses, and bored though he was, he'd done his duty, standing up with her and displaying barely the trace of a martyred air.
She had never been a good da
ncer—her family had had no money for a dancing master and she'd had to rely on Lina's lessons. Her nervousness at being in the presence of her secret crush had completely undone her. She'd trampled all over his elegant shoes, missed her cues, throwing the complicated country dance into total disarray.
He'd said nothing, his elegant mouth growing grimmer as he tried to rescue the figure, to no avail.
When the supreme torture was finally over she'd curtsied to him, and he'd bowed politely.
And then he'd murmured, "I hadn't realized dancing was a blood sport. Miss Samson. You might consider warning prospective partners that they're taking their lives in their hands if they dance with you. " His light, casual words were accompanied by a faint glint in his eye that she couldn't read.
She hadn't tried, as her shame overwhelmed her. The fact that he didn't know her name was a relief rather than an added insult, and shed never danced again. At least never in public, and never with a partner.
There were times, after Lina had chosen to retire to the countryside, that Charlotte would find herself alone in the sprawling manor house. She'd find an empty hallway or a deserted field, and she'd realize she was humming a melody beneath her breath, and it had naturally evolved into a carefree dance, moving with the wind, free and happy.
Still, even Rohan's cruel, casual words hadn't managed to give her a disgust of the man. On the rare occasions when she accompanied Lina to evening parties her eyes would hungrily seek him out, and when he left for the continent her relief had been faintly tinged with disappointment.
She'd come face-to-face with him twice since his return, and his blue eyes had swept over her with the same bored disinterest he evinced toward all and sundry, with the occasional exception of the great beauties. Charlotte Spenser was just a part of the anonymous horde of plain virgins desperately seeking a husband.
Not her, though. Not ever. Her parents were dead, the ramshackle estate had passed on to the nearest male relative, a distant cousin she'd never even met. Evangelina had been widowed, and begged her to move in with her, and Charlotte had done so quite happily. She'd managed lo assiduously avoid any social occasion that smacked of the marriage mart, and in truth she'd been happier than she'd ever been in her life. She had her dearest friend and cousin for companionship, the Bluestockings to keep her busy and Adrian Rohan had been abroad.
Author: Anne Stuart
She knew it couldn't last. Rohan had returned unexpectedly as Europe once again braced for war. Charlotte's peace of mind was destroyed. She had no doubt that Lina would marry again, and despite her inability to give Whitmore an heir, Charlotte was certain a second, happier marriage would provide offspring. Perhaps she could become a helpful honorary aunt, if Lina's new husband would tolerate her.
She looked down at the ballroom for the last time. Adrian Rohan had already moved on, forgetting her, as he leaned over a buxom young beauty. Forgetting her, as he always did. Which was the only consolation her pride could find. She hated the thought of appearing ridiculous or needy. Rohan's attention was elsewhere, and she didn't have to worry about being mocked.
She moved slowly up the back stairs, ignoring the curious looks of the servants as they passed her. She reached the lavish apartments Lina had insisted she use and began to undress herself. There was no telling where Meggie had gotten herself to, but it didn't matter. Charlotte had made certain she had clothes that she could do and undo herself—the advent of a lady's maid had been a recently reacquired luxury. Though whether Meggie's rough ministrations could be called a luxury was something worth debating.
She let down her long, thick hair and brushed it, then fastened it in a braid to keep it from tangling too badly as she slept. The water in the basin was cool, blessedly cool, against her flushed face.
The sheets were cool as well as she slid beneath them. The spring air had been chilly, and a fire had been laid but not lit. She blew out the candle and burrowed deep under the covers, pulling the blankets up to her nose.
She could still feel his hand on her arm, strong, restraining her. She was a woman who couldn't bear to be forced, bullied, cowed. So why was she tenderly stroking the place where he'd held her?
She was moon-mad. Calf-brained, addlepated.