Page 10 of Always the Chaperone

He leaned closer to her, and Charlotte moved back. It was not right, being this close to a gentleman in public.

“I wish you would call me William,” he whispered. “You call my brother, John.”

If she had been hot before, it was nothing to the new rush of embarrassment. Charlotte turned with her mouth open, ready to defend herself, but all the eloquence of her breeding escaped her.

“I did not—it was not my suggestion. Your brother asked…”

Her splutters were louder than she had intended, and the duke laughed. “We both ascended to these ridiculous titles at the same time, and neither of us are comfortable with them. Come on, William is hardly a difficult name to pronounce or remember.”

She hesitated. It was all very well for a marquess to request the use of his Christian name, and John was so…well, so unassuming.

Not like his elder brother. William was imposing, taller, a stronger presence, something animalistic in the way he looked at her. She could no sooner call him William than call the Prince RegentPrinny, as so many did.

“I-I will agree to Mercia,” she whispered, turning her gaze back to the stage in an attempt to end the conversation.

It did not work. As Miss Darby giggled again, Mercia muttered, “My, John is on form tonight.”

Charlotte knew it was best to bite her tongue, but how could she? She was the chaperone, and it was all going wrong! “You do not care that the woman you invited and are publicly courting is in intimate conversation with your brother?”

“My brother likes her and did not have the courage to speak with her at your brother’s wedding. This way, he does.”

Charlotte glanced over to the pair at the end. The flushed cheeks and bright eyes of John and the matching expression in Miss Darby. She smiled despite herself. “Does this make you the chaperone, Mercia?”

He grinned. “I think it does. Here’s hoping I am able to catch any wicked doings, like hand-holding!”

She joined in his laughter, and her gaze met his. She was flirting. Flirting, and with the Duke of Mercia!

The laughter died in her mouth, and she turned away from him—reluctantly, for the first time—to watch the stage once more. A woman was chasing another with a bright staccato song, and she tried to focus on that and not the thrill of delight, which had overwhelmed her as she laughed with Mercia.

What a man he was. Instantly able to put her at ease, and with all the charm and none of the reserve of most gentlemen in her social circle.

“For a minute there, I saw you.” Mercia had leaned even closer to her, and Charlotte moved her arm into her lap, so intense was the feeling of him. “I saw the real you, Lady Charlotte, and then you crept back into your shell.”

Charlotte stiffened. She did not need this…this upstart aristocrat to speak to her in such a way! Without taking her attention from the stage, she whispered coldly, “I am here to enjoy the opera, Your Grace, and to ensure proper decorum is kept. That is the role of a chaperone.”

Miss Darby burst out with raucous laughter, and there were stares and mutterings from the audience below them. One person even pointed to their box.

Mercia chuckled. “You do not seem to be doing a very good job of it.”

Charlotte fixed him with a knowing smile. “This is hardly my first outing as a chaperone.” Leaning forward, she said archly in a carrying voice, “Goodness, Miss Darby, did you sneeze? If you are unwell, we will have to take you back home.”

She stared meaningfully at Miss Darby and the Marquess. Going silent, they shifted apart in their seats, and as John caught her eye, he had the good grace to look bashful.

Charlotte sat back and inclined her head in a mock bow. It was fortunate the end of the first act occurred at the same time, for Mercia applauded, and though she was not sure, it felt as if he was applauding her, rather than the talent on the stage.

She dropped her gaze to her lap, desperate for something else to look at. “May I see your program?”

Mercia handed it over wordlessly, but as their fingers touched, there was a moment of frisson, of heat and desire, of something uncontrolled and wild. Their gazes met again.

“Lady Charlotte,” Mercia said in a strangled voice with none of the bravado from before.

She nodded, hypnotized by his touch, by his voice, but before he could speak again…

“My word, what an excellent production!” John rose and stretched. “I do not think I have ever seen such a good one. Lady Charlotte, may I beg a favor?”

Charlotte was unsure whether her voice would work, so she nodded as she busied herself with her gloves. It was the interval, and she was saved from whatever magic the duke was weaving.

John smiled nervously and glanced at Miss Darby before continuing. “Miss Darby has kindly agreed to accompany me on a carriage ride. Would…would you be so good as to join us?”