Page 2 of Unmasking the Diamond
As though summoned by the mention of him, Alistair appeared, Jane on his arm, his expression stern. “Gentlemen,” he said, voice tight with disdain, “you may disperse now.”
“May I escort Miss Winslow on a tour of the gardens?” Lord Amner dared, attempting bravado.
Alistair’s gaze sharpened into a blade. “No, you may not. Now leave before I lose my patience.”
The men melted away, though Mr. Trotter reminded her of their set with a quick bow before retreating.
Relief washed over her, though she refused to let it show. “That was poorly done, Brother,” she chided lightly.
“I will not stand by while men fawn and paw at you,” Alistair replied, his gaze softening as he looked at her. “Not one of them is worthy of you.”
“You say that about every gentleman who approaches me,” she countered.
“It makes it no less true,” he said. “I want you to marry a man who deserves you.”
Charlotte fell silent. The words sounded so simple on his lips, but she knew better. If her father had taught her anything, it was that she was unlovable. Ignored, dismissed, made to feel inconsequential for years—those scars did not fade. Thetonmight adore her as their shining diamond, but she knewthe truth. Her sparkle was a mask she had polished herself, a disguise to hide the fear that beneath it all she was worthless.
Jane’s hand brushed lightly over Charlotte’s sleeve. “Is something troubling you?”
“No,” she said quickly, brushing away the concern before it could dig too deep. “I was merely woolgathering, thinking about how beautifully the ballroom has been decorated.”
Jane tilted her head, skepticism flickering in her gaze. She looked away, surveying the room as though granting Charlotte a reprieve. “The flowers are rather exquisite,” she observed.
“That they are,” Charlotte replied.
A servant glided past with a silver tray of champagne, and Charlotte reached for a glass—anything to occupy her hand, to busy her mouth, to keep from thinking about the gnawing emptiness she’d felt watching her brother and his bride waltz across the floor.
“Charlotte.” Alistair’s voice carried that familiar warning edge, the one he had used since they were children. “I think you’ve had enough champagne for the evening.”
“This is only my second glass,” she protested.
But Alistair plucked it neatly from her fingers and returned it to the tray without so much as a blink. “Perhaps you should try a glass of lemonade.”
She pouted, though the expression was half-performance, half-genuine petulance. “But lemonade is boring.”
A deep voice sounded just behind her. “How can a drink be boring?”
Her spine stiffened. She did not even need to turn around to know who had spoken. Lord Luca. Of course. What else could the evening heap upon her?
“If lemonade were a dog,” she said archly, keeping her gaze fixed forward, “it would be a terrier. A snappy creature, but nothing special.”
“And champagne?” he asked, that thread of amusement tugging at his words.
Charlotte flicked an annoyed glance over her shoulder. “A poodle. Exotic and stylish, and rare in England.”
“But common enough in France,” he countered.
She batted her lashes, though with no trace of warmth. “Must we spar about this?”
He tilted his head, utterly unruffled. “Not sparring. Merely bantering. Some might even call it flirting.”
Her huff of indignation escaped before she could stop it. “I am not flirting with you, my lord. Quite frankly, you are the last person I would ever consider flirting with.”
“You wound me, Diamond.”
Turning to face him, she said, “Do not call me that.”
“Does it bother you?” he asked, studying her as though cataloguing every twitch of her expression.
