Free The Reluctant Marquess by Maggi Andersen

they?”
    “I believe he wasn’t fond of his own kind. He found some members of the aristocracy self-serving.” Charity opened and closed her fan with a snap.
    Robert took Charity’s arm and drew her away. “You will meet with some opposition, Charity. You must learn to ignore it with grace. It doesn’t do to make enemies.”
    Feeling socially inept and a little bit hurt, Charity longed to leave and the night had not even begun. “I’m not used to being insulted.”
    “I’m sorry if you thought you were.”
    “She looked at you as though she had a prior claim on you.”
    He pulled his arm away. “What!”
    “Does she?” Charity searched his eyes, but he looked away. Aware they were being watched, he tucked her arm back into his.
    “A lady does not ask her husband such things.”
    She raised a brow. “I only wish to learn the truth of things.” He stared down at her and his brows snapped together.
    “Forget about the truth. In this town it is more important to learn discretion.”
    “Then perhaps I shall not like it here.” She drew away from his arm, picked up her skirts to follow him into the crowd.
    “Take my arm,” he said curtly, turning to her. “Do you want to cause gossip before we even begin?”
    Her chin raised and her hand resting lightly on his arm, Charity entered the ballroom. He began to introduce her to those who crowded around offering their felicitations. The women curtseyed and studied Charity from beneath their lashes.
    A few showed genuine warmth and were gracious in their praise, but many held back. She would have to prove herself to become one with them. The clever and often scandalous gossip she overheard made her wonder if she wanted to. Lady Sommerford’s new baby apparently wasn’t her husband’s, and there was conjecture that several men might have fathered it. It mattered not for he had his heir and a spare, and was quite taken with his new mistress.
    The men and women flirted outrageously in the honeyed light of a thousand candles reflected in the mirrors adorning the walls. The air was close and humid, and different scents fought for ascendancy, not all of them pleasant. Ladies whispered behind their fans, their eyes full of laughter. A lady tucked a man’s note into her cleavage when her husband’s back was turned. Charity fanned herself too, not coquettishly, as Brigitte had suggested, but because she was afraid she would faint, not just from the heat but the shock of such an extravagant display.
    The orchestra began to play.
    “Bach. A favourite composer of the King,” Robert said bending low to speak in her ear.
    Couples formed sets for a minuet, moving across the polished wooden floor in slow, ceremonious graceful movements.
    Footmen traversed those standing and seated to watch, offering wine and dainty foods to the guests.
    The jovial King George and the queen sat on straight-backed gilt chairs upholstered in crimson velvet, surrounded by six of their children. Charity was introduced, and the king peered at her nearsightedly. As Robert instructed, she performed a deep curtsey. When the queen smiled, Charity felt her nervousness slip away. Their questions were mercifully brief. They expressed genuine sadness at the marquess’ passing.
    Their eldest son, the Prince of Wales kissed her hand, saying her husband was a lucky fellow. He was considered handsome and known for his charm, but she didn’t find the tall, bulky man with a florid complexion particularly attractive. At two and twenty, he was the same age as Charity, but he appeared much older, like an accomplished rake and his attentions made her feel uncomfortable.
    As soon as he was able, Robert drew her away.
    “I’m not sure I like the prince,” she said quietly into his ear.
    “I’m relieved that you don’t,” he said shortly. He turned to greet someone at his elbow.
    When he turned back to her she asked him why. “He’s been through several mistresses already. I don’t want him adding you to