Patricia patted her shoulder. “I shouldn’t fret over it, Char. I think if you’re not in love with him now, you soon will be. Dare is very lovable.”

“I hope so.” Charlotte slumped in the chair as she sighed forlornly, then stiffened and rose to her feet. “Drat. There’s that odious Mrs. Mead. She is Lady Bridgerton’s sister and one of the biggest gossips in the ton. No doubt she is going to torment me with the happenings of last night. Smile, Patricia. As your brother says, it doesn’t do to let them see you care.”

Patricia nodded and curtsied politely when the lady in question sailed up to them, her maid and a down-trodden companion in tow. “Miss McGregor, I am surprised to see you out only two days before your wedding. What can the earl be thinking?”

Charlotte knew to a very fine distinction the level of her abilities and charms. She was under no mistaken belief that she was the least bit bluestocking—she had never been a very deep thinker, unlike her cousin Gillian, and she had no intention of starting now. Being intelligent sounded exceedingly unpleasant. She knew that it pleased men to look upon her, and that many women were insanely jealous of her because of the circumstances of her breeding, birth, and appearance. Because of the last, she had often been the recipient of catty comments, snide asides, and slights that other less pretty women did not suffer.

She filed the cut she had just received from Neela Mead under the heading Jealous Acts and determined to ignore it just as she had ignored other such pettiness. With a lift of her chin that she knew would mark her as obstinate, she smiled. “My husband and I both feel there is nothing unseemly in the least in Patricia making an appearance in public with me. She is, after all, to be married, not bound for a harem where she will be secreted away from men’s gazes.”

The older woman gasped and turned eyes the color of boiled steel upon her. “You dare speak in public of that poor man you wed? For shame, Lady Charlotte. Your mother would die of mortification if she knew what a scandal you have brought upon your family name.”

“I am now Lady Carlisle,” Charlotte answered, gritting her teeth just the tiniest bit. “I don’t see anything the least bit shameful in my marriage.”

“A marriage in name only, or so I understand from Minerva Wentwater.”

Charlotte was unable to keep from flinching at the name tossed at her. It was said that Minerva Wentwater was an even bigger gossip than Mrs. Mead, and Charlotte knew from sad experience with the sharp side of Miss Wentwater’s tongue that such a thing was indeed the truth.

Mrs. Mead leaned forward as if to say something privately, but spoke in a trumpeting voice that was well pitched to carry down the length of the store. “Do you fear he will annul the marriage, dear Lady Charlotte? I confess that were I in your shoes, I would very much worry about finding myself once again unmarried. One cannot help but wonder if the tragic circumstance is due to a failing on Lord Carlisle’s part, or”—her cold eyes raked Charlotte from toes to crown—“due to a distaste of engaging in intimate acts with you. Do you know that they are taking wagers on which it is at many of the gentlemen’s clubs? I’m sure it will please you to be the object of speculation of so many gentlemen; you always did strike me as a little desperate in your attempts to attract their attention.”