This one's about my Victorian-era NejiTen AU. Neji's Nathaniel Hyland, the future Duke, and Tenten's Charlotte Hartwell, a Baron's daughter. It's my second favorite AU ^^
Every time London entered a new Season, the drawing rooms of the ton grew livelier than ever. Over afternoon tea, beside cups of steaming Earl Grey, conversation invariably settled upon the same subject: the young ladies newly come out into society and the advantageous marriages that awaited them. To every ambitious mother with a marriageable daughter, there was but one name of consequence that year.
The only heir to the Dukedom of Ashford, Nathaniel possessed nearly every quality a distinguished family could desire in a prospective son-in-law. He was tall and remarkably handsome, blessed with an exceptional education and a keen intellect for politics and affairs of state. There was about him the quiet composure of a man born to shoulder great responsibilities, as though a Duke's coronet had been destined for his brow from the very hour of his birth.
Yet, to the astonishment of many, Nathaniel held very little affection for grand balls. While most young gentlemen delighted in glittering chandeliers, the strains of a waltz, and the promise of flirtation across a crowded ballroom, he far preferred to spend his evenings at one of Mayfair's gentlemen's clubs. He did not frequent them for cards, gaming, or idle diversion, but to settle before a roaring fire with a glass of Scotch, engaged in spirited debate with his two closest friends—Edmund Ashcombe and Percival Blackwood—on newly proposed legislation, the proceedings of Parliament, or the ever-shifting balance of power across Europe. It was often said, half in jest, that the three of them were the only young gentlemen in London who visited a club merely to discuss politics.
Even so, duty seldom indulged personal preference.
As the future Duke of Ashford and heir to one of England's most illustrious titles, Nathaniel was expected to attend every notable assembly, receive each introduction with grace, and observe every courtesy that society demanded of a gentleman of his rank.
There were many evenings when he longed to disappear quietly into an empty library or an unoccupied morning room, escaping the endless succession of polite conversations. Yet the breeding instilled in him from childhood would never permit so discourteous a retreat. Thus it was that London's most sought-after bachelor was often the last gentleman to leave the ballroom. One debutante after another waited patiently to be presented to him, each hoping to secure a single waltz—or, failing that, a few minutes of conversation worthy of becoming the proud topic of the following afternoon's tea.
Nathaniel had always believed that every Season would pass in much the same fashion.
Until the night he met Miss Charlotte Hartwell.
Charlotte Hartwell's name surfaced with remarkable frequency in the conversations of society ladies, though rarely accompanied by praise. Brows would furrow at its mention; some exchanged knowing smiles, while others sighed with genuine regret over a young lady whom Providence had blessed with extraordinary beauty, yet who seemed utterly unwilling to conduct herself according to the expectations of polite society.
Charlotte had never resembled the typical young lady of London society.
She did not spend hours before her looking glass experimenting with fashionable coiffures or selecting ribbons to complement the gown she intended to wear the following evening. Nor did she find much pleasure in afternoon calls, leisurely rides through Hyde Park, or endless hours at the pianoforte until her fingertips ached.
Instead, Charlotte rode to hounds. She practised archery. She fenced.
Pursuits long regarded as the exclusive province of gentlemen delighted her far more than any waltz ever could, or even the most exquisite nocturne by Chopin.
Indeed, Lady Weatherington, the Viscountess, had once witnessed Charlotte attempting to enter the Windsor Club—a gentlemen's establishment whose doors had never been opened to ladies. Naturally, the porter had stopped her with impeccable courtesy. Yet that single incident proved sufficient for the tale to spread through London's drawing rooms before the following morning was out, giving rise to no shortage of malicious gossip.
Charlotte, however, paid such talk no mind.
Partly because she had never regarded the pursuit of a husband as life's greatest ambition. Partly because her mother had never expected it of her.
After the death of the Baron of Ravenswood—a man who drank himself into an early grave, leaving behind little more than an insurmountable mountain of debt—the Hartwell family had been stripped of nearly everything. The estate was sold. The livestock disappeared one by one. Their loyal servants sought employment elsewhere. In the end, only an elderly butler and the family cook, who had cared for Charlotte since she was a child, remained.
Mrs. Hartwell accepted their quieter life in the village of Bibury with remarkable serenity, perhaps because no one understood better than she the cost of a loveless marriage. Never had she dreamed of securing a grander title or a greater fortune for her daughter. Her only wish was that Charlotte might one day find a gentleman who loved her for the woman she truly was—and that she should never be condemned to the same life of quiet regret her mother had endured.
And so Charlotte was raised exactly as she wished to be.
She rode across open meadows rather than spending long afternoons bent over embroidery frames. She practised fencing until faint calluses marked the palms of her hands. She spent more hours in the saddle than nearly any young lady of fashionable society, and never once did she believe such pursuits made her any less feminine than her peers.
That evening marked only the second ball Charlotte had attended since making her formal debut into society.
The first had been held at Hawthorne House, immediately following her presentation to Her Majesty at Buckingham Palace—a ceremony from which there could be no honourable excuse. Mother and daughter had remained only long enough to satisfy every requirement of propriety, and no sooner had the opening dance concluded than Charlotte quietly slipped out of the ballroom before anyone had the opportunity to detain her.
Tonight, however, Beaumont House glittered beneath the warm glow of countless candles as it welcomed the guests of the Earl of Beaumont.
Officially, it was the first grand ball of the Season.
In truth, everyone understood its real purpose: to present Lady Caroline Beaumont, the Earl's only daughter, to the most eligible families of the ton.
Caroline was Charlotte's dearest friend.
If Charlotte was a wild wind that refused to be tethered, Caroline was the very embodiment of the accomplished young lady every mother hoped her daughter would become. Her golden hair was always dressed to perfection, her taste in fashion beyond reproach, and her effortless wit made her the centre of every conversation she joined.
Charlotte often joked that the evening had not been arranged for Caroline to find a husband, but rather for Caroline to decide which gentleman she wished to marry. After all, the number of suitors eager to seek her hand was surely enough to form a queue stretching from the ballroom to the gates of Beaumont House.
To tell the truth, Charlotte had had no intention of attending at all.
Caroline and Rose Bennet, however, had given her very little choice.
The two young ladies devoted the better part of an afternoon to transforming Charlotte into what they declared to be a proper lady. When Rose finally guided her before the great cheval mirror, Charlotte very nearly failed to recognize the reflection staring back at her.
A gown of deep crimson velvet, fashioned in the very latest style, embraced her figure to perfection. Its neckline was cut just low enough to reveal the graceful line of her shoulders and the generous curves of her bosom—a beauty that had spent years concealed beneath plain riding shirts and practical country attire.
"I cannot breathe," Charlotte murmured, frowning as her fingers instinctively reached for the corset cinched mercilessly about her waist.
"Then you've become a true lady at last."
"Do ladies truly endure this?"
"For a few hours, at least."
Charlotte let out a mournful groan, provoking laughter from both Caroline and Rose.
"If this is the price of fashion," she declared, "I believe I much prefer my riding habit."
Her protests, however sincere, proved entirely futile. Before long, the two ladies had bundled her into their carriage.
Fifteen minutes later, it drew to a halt before the broad white stone steps of Beaumont House.
Hundreds of candles illuminated the stately façade, their golden light glimmering against the tall windows. Music drifted from the ballroom, mingling with the rumble of carriage wheels over gravel and the polished greetings exchanged by newly arrived guests.
Charlotte descended from the carriage.
The moment the footman threw open the great doors, she became acutely aware of countless eyes turning in her direction.
It was not the Hartwell name that drew their attention.
It was the simple fact that no one had ever seen Charlotte Hartwell looking quite like this.
The crimson velvet set off the fairness of her complexion to exquisite effect. Candlelight shimmered upon her elaborately dressed chestnut hair, while the gentle rise and fall of her porcelain décolletage accompanied each measured breath she drew.
For one fleeting moment, the conversations throughout the ballroom seemed to soften into an almost tangible silence.
Charlotte immediately sensed that the evening was about to go terribly wrong.
Her intentions had been perfectly straightforward: greet Caroline, greet Rose, remain just long enough to satisfy the demands of good manners, and then make an unobtrusive departure.
Unfortunately, those plans unraveled with astonishing speed.
Barely had she entered the ballroom before one gentleman after another requested the honour of an introduction. Polite exchanges gave way to invitations for a waltz, then a quadrille, followed by a cotillion, and finally the Lancers. One name after another was inscribed upon the dance card fastened to her wrist.
By the time the Lancers had concluded, Charlotte's head was spinning—from the endless succession of smiles, compliments, and impeccably courteous conversations that seemed determined never to end.
The moment the orchestra paused and the dancers began to disperse between sets, Charlotte wasted not a second.
Gathering the skirts of her gown, she slipped quietly through the doors leading into the corridor.
Once she was beyond the notice of the crowd, her pace quickened at once. The heavy velvet skirt forced her to clutch its folds in one hand, while the other still held her fan and a dance card now nearly filled from top to bottom. She all but fled down the long hallway until, at last, a pair of glass doors appeared before her. The instant they were opened, the cool night air rushed to greet her.
Charlotte stepped into the gardens of Beaumont House and drew a long, grateful breath, as though she had at last escaped a gilded cage.
Behind her, the music faded into the distance. Before her lay a garden bathed in tranquil moonlight.
It was Caroline's greatest pride. Charlotte had heard her friend speak countless times of its rare roses, fragrant lavender borders, and lilac walks, each tended with meticulous care throughout the year.
Though flowers had never held any particular fascination for Charlotte herself, even she could not deny the extraordinary beauty of the place. By daylight, it resembled a painter's masterpiece.
...it was so enchanting that one could quite forget the passing of time.
She wandered slowly along the white stone path, allowing the delicate fragrance of blossoms to mingle with the evening breeze, entirely unaware that elsewhere in the same garden another guest had sought its quiet solitude for precisely the same reason.
After nearly an hour of being detained by an endless procession of eager young ladies—and even more eager mothers—Nathaniel had finally discovered the rarest of luxuries: a moment in which no one appeared to be looking for him.
He slipped quietly from the ballroom, leaving the music behind.
The cool night air eased the tension that had settled across his shoulders throughout the evening.
He had intended to take only a brief turn through the gardens before returning to his duties.
Yet as he rounded a neatly clipped yew hedge, he stopped.
At the far end of the moonlit path stood a young lady, motionless amid a sea of flowers.
For one suspended instant, he could almost believe he had stumbled into one of the great oil paintings displayed at the Royal Academy.
She stood with her back to him, her hands resting lightly against the folds of her gown. The evening breeze wandered gently through the garden, teasing loose a few chestnut curls from the elegant arrangement of her hair. Her gown of deep crimson velvet blazed against the silver glow of the moon, leaving her slender shoulders and the flawless ivory of her neck and collarbones luminous beneath the night sky.
She seemed to have come in haste. Her breathing had not yet steadied, and the gentle rise and fall of her bodice betrayed the lingering rhythm of exertion.
Nathaniel had no notion who she was.
Nor did he know why she stood there alone.
He knew only that he could not look away.
For all of his three-and-twenty years, he had dismissed love at first sight as the invention of sentimental novelists. A rational man, he had always believed, could not possibly surrender his heart to a lady after a single glance.
Yet in that very moment, the certainty of that conviction began to waver.
It was not merely the gown she wore.
Nor solely the beauty that seemed to lend even the moonlit garden a brighter radiance.
There was something about the young lady herself—something impossible to explain—that gave him the strange and irresistible impression that she belonged here, as though she had been born beneath the very moonlight that now rested upon the gardens of Beaumont House.
A faint smile touched Nathaniel's lips.
Fate, it seemed, possessed a curious sense of humour. He had come into the gardens in search of a few moments' peace, only to discover something infinitely more precious.
Charlotte, meanwhile, remained blissfully unaware that she was no longer alone.
She wandered leisurely between the flowerbeds, her gaze lingering upon the white roses in full bloom. The Beaumont gardens were beautiful enough beneath the sun, but beneath the veil of night they possessed an almost ethereal serenity.
A smile stole across her face.
Caroline would talk about this for an hour if she were here, she thought to herself.
The notion had scarcely crossed her mind when a deep, composed voice spoke from somewhere behind her.
"It is generally considered unwise to allow a lady to wander alone in a garden at this hour."
Charlotte started, turning so quickly that the hem of her gown swept gracefully with the movement.
A few paces away, beneath the spreading branches of an old elm, stood a tall gentleman. The moonlight fell across his features just enough for Charlotte to recognize him almost at once.
The very gentleman whose name had occupied the conversations of nearly every ambitious mother in London since the opening of the Season.
Surprise flickered across Charlotte's face.
She had imagined that a man such as he would still be surrounded in the ballroom by an endless procession of introductions and eager dance partners.
The astonishment lasted only a moment.
Her customary composure quickly returned.
"So long as the lady is not accompanied by a gentleman she has never met," she replied evenly, "I daresay there is little cause for concern."
The corner of Nathaniel's mouth lifted.
"And if the gentleman happened to be an honourable one?"
He took a single step forward.
Not so near as to intrude upon her comfort—only enough for the moonlight to illuminate Charlotte's face more clearly.
It was the first time Nathaniel had seen her from such a distance.
He found himself making a deliberate effort to keep his expression unchanged.
The word arrived unbidden.
Not the sort of beauty fashioned by cosmetics or adorned with jewels, but something altogether more vibrant—healthy, spirited, and unmistakably alive.
The fitted corset accentuated the graceful narrowness of her waist, lending elegant definition to the gentle curves of her figure. The modestly lowered neckline of her crimson gown revealed the smooth ivory of her skin and the soft rise and fall of her bosom, her breathing still not entirely steady after her hasty escape from the ballroom.
Moonlight washed over her in a silvery glow, giving her at once the dignity of a lady born to society and the untamed freedom of someone who seemed far more at home beneath an open sky than beneath crystal chandeliers.
In that instant, Nathaniel understood why he had been unable to look away.
Charlotte, for her part, fared little better.
She had never paid much attention to the endless admiration society ladies lavished upon Nathaniel Hyland.
What if he was the future Duke of Ashford?
At the end of the day, he was still only a gentleman.
Yet standing before him now, Charlotte realized that the rumours had not been exaggerated in the slightest.
He towered nearly a head above her. Broad shoulders, a trim waist, and long, well-proportioned limbs gave him a figure of uncommon balance and strength. His evening coat, tailored to perfection, followed the powerful lines of his frame without the least hint of ostentation, yet revealed enough for any observant eye to recognize the athletic build concealed beneath the finest wool.
Charlotte suddenly became aware of her own heartbeat.
She had faced spirited horses without flinching. She had crossed blades with opponents far larger than herself and never once lost her composure.
...one look from this gentleman had left her breathing ever so slightly unsteady.
Nathaniel remained where he was, his ivory eyes never leaving her face.
"Perhaps," he said at last, his voice measured and unhurried, "that depends upon whether the lady is willing to allow the gentleman an opportunity to prove he is not quite so dangerous as she imagines."
Charlotte tilted her head.
The faintest smile touched her lips.
"If a gentleman finds it necessary to assure a lady of his own trustworthiness, I should think she has every reason to be even more cautious."
It was a quiet, low laugh that blended almost seamlessly with the gentle murmur of the fountain at the heart of the garden.
"I do not recall making any such claim."
"I merely proposed a hypothesis."
Charlotte folded her hands lightly before her.
"Then I am afraid your hypothesis has failed to persuade me."
Nathaniel regarded her with unconcealed amusement.
For years, nearly every young lady he had met had responded to him in one of two ways. They either blushed and stumbled over their words, or they searched tirelessly for excuses to prolong the conversation by a few precious minutes.
She answered him with perfect composure, without the slightest attempt to flatter him or the least sign of intimidation by his rank.
It made Nathaniel unexpectedly reluctant to bring the exchange to an end.
He took another step forward.
Almost instinctively, Charlotte took one back.
The distance between them remained exactly the same.
Now close enough to study him properly, she allowed herself a careful appraisal.
His impeccably tailored evening coat only emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the clean line of his waist. The ease with which he carried himself, his straight posture, and the steady, balanced stance of his feet upon the stone path suggested a man who was no stranger to physical exertion.
Charlotte frowned thoughtfully.
Perhaps he fences as well.
A physique like his was not earned by books alone.
Quite without thinking, she began to calculate.
If matters were somehow to take an unfortunate turn...
Should she shove him first and run?
Or pivot to her left and slip past him?
Blast this wretched gown.
The heavy layers of velvet and the infernal corset rendered every movement slower than she liked.
Had she been wearing her familiar riding habit, she might even have attempted to throw him to the ground.
Rose and Caroline had left her almost entirely defenceless.
Nathaniel seemed to read the unmistakable caution in her eyes.
"Do I truly make you so uneasy?"
Charlotte met his gaze without hesitation.
"I simply believe," she replied evenly, "that every lady ought to exercise a measure of caution where every gentleman is concerned."
"And does that caution extend to me?"
Nathaniel raised an eyebrow.
"That is the first time anyone has said such a thing to me this evening."
"Then perhaps everyone else is rather too trusting."
A laugh escaped him before he could suppress it.
The sound softened the habitual gravity of his features, transforming his expression in a way Charlotte had not expected.
He has a beautiful smile, she thought.
The realization struck her so suddenly that she was immediately irritated with herself.
Good heavens, what on earth am I thinking?
She retreated another step.
This time, the heel of her slipper met the marble rim of the fountain.
There was nowhere left to go.
Behind her shimmered the moonlit water.
Before her stood Nathaniel Hyland.
He realized it at the same instant she did and immediately halted, lifting both hands in a small, conciliatory gesture.
"My apologies," he said. "I had no intention of cornering you."
Charlotte did not relax in the slightest.
She met his gaze steadily.
"But I have no intention of lowering my guard just yet."
"Then it seems I shall have to earn your confidence."
No sooner had the words left his lips than Charlotte instinctively shifted sideways in search of an escape.
The hem of her gown caught unexpectedly beneath her heel.
Everything happened in an instant.
She felt herself falling backwards toward the icy basin of the fountain.
Without thinking, she reached for the nearest solid object.
Her fingers closed firmly around the lapels of Nathaniel's coat.
Nathaniel reacted just as swiftly.
One arm swept around her back, catching her slender frame before she could fall. The force of her desperate grip and the strength of his instinctive movement drew them together until scarcely an inch remained between them.
For a single heartbeat...
...time seemed to stand still.
Nathaniel's ivory eyes were only inches from her own, so arrestingly beautiful that, for one impossible moment, she forgot she ought to regain her footing.
Nathaniel was equally motionless.
At such intimate proximity, he could see every delicate detail: the faint tremor of her eyelashes, the warm tea-brown eyes widened in surprise, the soft flush blooming across her flawless complexion, and lips still parted as she struggled to steady her breathing.
Once again, it was the only word that entered his mind.
He had to remind himself that the young woman in his arms was a lady.
And that her reputation mattered far more than whatever unfamiliar emotions had begun to stir within his own heart.
Almost at once, he eased his hand away from her waist to the more proper support of her elbow.
His voice emerged lower than before.
A fleeting smile touched his lips.
"I believe we ought to stand upright before someone happens upon us."
The spell, if such it had been, shattered at once.
She released his lapels as though they had suddenly become too hot to touch and hastily stepped back.
Heat flooded her cheeks so fiercely that she was certain he must notice it.
Only then did she see the small crease her fingers had left upon the front of his impeccably tailored coat.
Mortified, she immediately reached out to smooth the fabric.
"I—I am so terribly sorry..."
She brushed over the crease once.
As though enough care and determination might persuade the stubborn fold to disappear altogether.
The exquisite broadcloth refused to yield so easily.
Charlotte bit lightly upon her lower lip.
Had it been her own riding habit, she would scarcely have given a wrinkle a second thought.
But this belonged to Nathaniel Hyland.
His coat had almost certainly been cut on Savile Row from the finest cloth money could procure.
The thought only deepened her embarrassment.
"Is an apology all I am to receive?"
Nathaniel's voice was soft, touched not with reproach but with the faintest hint of amusement.
Charlotte looked up at him.
For one alarming moment, she genuinely believed he was about to ask her to compensate him. After all, the fault had been entirely hers.
"...If you wish," she said after a brief hesitation, "I should be happy to pay for the cleaning."
Charlotte, perfectly earnest, continued,
"Provided, of course... that you could tell me what the minimum charge would be."
Nathaniel laughed outright.
The deep, warm sound carried through the quiet garden, utterly unlike the composed reserve he had maintained throughout the evening. Charlotte stared at him in bewilderment, unable to fathom what she had said that could possibly be so amusing.
Nathaniel lifted a hand to the bridge of his nose, attempting to recover his composure, though the smile still lingered unmistakably about his lips.
"My apologies," he said at last.
"I had no intention whatsoever of asking you for compensation."
A brief silence settled comfortably between them.
The distance separating them had returned to one that propriety could scarcely object to, yet he could still detect the delicate fragrance that surrounded her.
It was nothing like the rich perfumes so fashionable in London's ballrooms.
Charlotte's scent was so subtle that it seemed almost to dissolve into the night itself, perceptible only to someone standing close enough to notice.
Interwoven with the gentle freshness of white camellia.
It made no effort to command attention, nor to linger deliberately in one's memory.
Nathaniel found himself wishing, quite inexplicably, to remain where he was just a little longer.
He dismissed the thought almost at once.
"If you truly insist upon making amends," he said, "I believe there is a far more reasonable way."
Charlotte regarded him curiously.
"And what might that be?"
"Would you grant me the honour of knowing your name?"
Charlotte was momentarily speechless.
She had braced herself for any number of peculiar requests.
He wished only to know her name.
Perhaps she remained silent a fraction too long, for Nathaniel simply waited.
He neither hurried her nor betrayed the slightest impatience.
At last, Charlotte dipped into a graceful curtsy.
"Miss Charlotte Hartwell."
She raised her eyes to his.
"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord."
Nathaniel repeated the name almost under his breath, the final syllables scarcely louder than the whispering leaves above them.
A quiet smile touched his face.
"It is a beautiful name."
For the first time that evening, Charlotte found herself entirely at a loss for words.
She had never been particularly adept at accepting compliments.
And there was something so unmistakably sincere in Nathaniel's expression that she could not dismiss his remark as mere social politeness.
"...Thank you," she murmured softly.
Nathaniel inclined his head in return.
Nathaniel looked at her with mild surprise.
The corners of Charlotte's lips curved into a teasing smile.
"My lord... if there is one gentleman whom every mother in London has spoken of throughout this Season, it is undoubtedly you."
Nathaniel sighed with theatrical resignation.
"Then I can only offer you my sincerest sympathies."
The reply drew a soft laugh from Charlotte.
It was little more than a quiet ripple of amusement, yet it was enough to give Nathaniel the curious satisfaction of feeling he had accomplished something rather worthwhile.
He extended his right hand.
"Now that we have been properly introduced..."
Charlotte's gaze fell to the hand waiting patiently for hers.
Observing every rule of good breeding, she placed her ungloved hand lightly in his.
He had not expected her to be without gloves.
Her skin was softer than he had imagined, and wonderfully warm against his own.
Slowly, with unhurried courtesy, he lifted her hand.
His eyes never once left Charlotte's face.
Then, with all the grace expected of a gentleman, he bowed and pressed the gentlest of kisses against her slender knuckles.
It was, after all, nothing more than a formal courtesy.
...it ought to have been.
Yet Nathaniel allowed the kiss to linger for the briefest fraction longer than custom prescribed.
No more than a single heartbeat.
Too fleeting for any observer to condemn.
Yet just long enough for Charlotte to become acutely aware of the warmth of his lips.
A sudden shiver travelled from the tips of her fingers all the way down her spine.
For one impossible moment, she forgot how to breathe.
Only when she realized Nathaniel had not yet released her hand did the spell finally break.
She withdrew it so quickly that even Nathaniel looked faintly surprised.
Charlotte immediately turned her face aside, hoping the moonlight might conceal the warmth blooming across her cheeks.
Nathaniel merely glanced down at the hand that had slipped from his grasp.
A quiet smile found its way to his lips.
Perhaps, he reflected, this Season would prove far less tedious than he had ever imagined.
Charlotte cleared her throat softly, trying in vain to banish the lingering sensation still dancing across her fingertips.
"I... believe I ought to return."
She deliberately avoided looking at him.
If she remained another moment, she feared she might betray emotions she did not yet understand herself.
Nathaniel made no attempt to detain her.
Instead, he inclined his head.
"Allow me to escort you back."
"There is no need, my lord. I know the way."
"I have no doubt of that."
"But it would be most improper for me to permit a lady to return to the ballroom alone after we have met together in the gardens."
She understood him immediately.
If anyone were to see her emerging from the gardens unaccompanied after a private encounter with a gentleman, tomorrow's gossip would travel through London with remarkable speed.
Nathaniel was safeguarding her reputation.
The realization softened her expression.
Side by side, they walked along the white stone path without another word.
Yet the silence between them was anything but awkward.
The gentle murmur of the fountain, the whisper of leaves stirred by the night breeze, and the lingering fragrance of roses seemed to speak well enough in their stead.
When they reached the glass doors leading back into the house, Nathaniel paused.
With quiet courtesy, he opened one of the doors and stood aside, allowing Charlotte to enter before him.
It was the smallest of gestures.
Yet Charlotte could not help noticing that this gentleman always seemed to know precisely what ought to be done, no matter the circumstance.
Together they made their way along the long corridor, the strains of violins growing steadily clearer as the golden light of the ballroom spilled across the polished marble floor.
The instant they stepped through the great doors, several nearby guests turned to look.
Conversations gradually faltered throughout the room.
Not because of Charlotte.
But because the gentleman walking beside her was Lord Nathaniel Hyland.
Charlotte immediately felt the weight of curious eyes settling upon her.
Well, she thought with a silent sigh, that settles it.
By tomorrow morning, all of London will have something new to gossip about.
Nathaniel, however, appeared entirely unconcerned.
He calmly escorted her back to where Caroline and Rose were waiting.
Caroline was the first to notice them.
Her blue eyes widened in astonishment.
"We've been searching everywhere for you!"
The exclamation escaped before she remembered herself well enough to observe proper decorum.
Beside her, Rose stared in equal disbelief, her gaze darting from Charlotte to Nathaniel—and back again.
Nathaniel inclined his head politely.
"You must forgive the delay. I happened upon Miss Hartwell in the gardens and thought it only proper to escort her safely back."
"How thoughtful of you, my lord," Caroline replied with a graceful curtsy.
Nathaniel merely smiled before turning once more to Charlotte.
"I hope we shall have the pleasure of meeting again, Miss Hartwell."
With another courteous bow, he took his leave.
Within moments, his tall figure had disappeared into the sea of guests.
Charlotte had scarcely drawn a breath of relief before Rose seized her gently by the sleeve.
"Charlotte Hartwell," she whispered urgently, lowering her voice. "Do not tell me you were in the gardens with Lord Nathaniel Hyland."
Caroline's fan fluttered so vigorously in her excitement that it seemed in danger of slipping from her fingers.
"I swear," Charlotte said at once, "we merely talked."
"...And one other thing."
"I very nearly fell into the fountain."
Caroline and Rose exchanged astonished glances.
They both understood that Charlotte had found herself in a predicament.
What neither of them yet realized was that an even greater one had begun unfolding on the opposite side of the ballroom.
Near the refreshments table, Edmund Ashcombe and Percival Blackwood looked up just as Nathaniel returned.
Percival lifted an amused eyebrow.
"So. You decided to reappear after all."
Edmund took an unhurried sip of his whisky.
"I had begun to think you'd ridden back to Ashford."
Nathaniel offered no reply.
Instead, he accepted a glass of Scotch from a passing footman's silver tray.
Percival followed the direction of his friend's gaze.
"You're looking at Miss Hartwell."
Nathaniel made no attempt to deny it.
After a brief silence, he observed with perfect calm,
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Edmund slowly swirled the amber liquid in his glass.
"...he's fallen for her."
Both of his friends turned to stare at him.
Nathaniel, meanwhile, never once took his eyes from Charlotte.
His voice remained so calm that he might have been stating the most ordinary fact in the world.
Percival nearly dropped his glass.
Edmund, on the other hand, merely smiled.
"I daresay London is about to acquire an entirely new subject for conversation."
Nathaniel raised his glass almost absentmindedly.
His gaze remained fixed upon the young lady in the crimson velvet gown.
"What London chooses to discuss is no concern of mine."
A quiet certainty settled into his voice.
"...is persuading Charlotte Hartwell to become my wife."
