Dare didn’t blend into the ton, either. If she were an outsider, at least she was not alone.

Swallowing back the aching sob, she moved down the long ballroom until she reached her husband. Dare, stopped by an acquaintance, turned to her as she placed her hand on his arm.

“Enjoy your dance?”

“Not in the least,” she said with a slight shudder. Swallowing her unhappiness, she dimpled prettily at the man Dare was speaking with, waiting patiently until he turned back to her, a question in his eyes.

“I wish to go home,” she said simply.

He examined her face, concern darkening the deep blue of his eyes. “Because of Lady Brindley? I told you, if you act as if nothing she said mattered, you’d give people less to talk about.”

She rubbed her arms through the thin material of her overdress. “I don’t think I can pretend not to mind much longer.”

She lowered her eyes from his to look at the simple but elegant neck cloth that graced his neck. There was something compelling in his gaze, something almost magical in the way his eyes on hers made her want to confess every thought she had, every fear, and what was worse, every desire. She had a great number of desires where he was concerned, and she’d no doubt shock him with not only their sheer volume, but the quality of some of them. Vyvyan La Blue’s guide had been most thorough in examining the many connubial calisthenics possible, and although Charlotte had misgivings that some of the positions might not physically be possible without the aid of two or three strong footmen, not to mention a winch and tackle, still, they piqued her interest and she very much looked forward to discussing with Dare the relative merits of the Antics of a Burrowing Crane calisthenic versus the equally fascinating but more involved Eruption of Magma From Vesuvius on a Late Summer’s Eve.

“I will get Patricia,” Dare said quietly. She could feel his eyes still studying her face.

“No, it would be cruel to make her leave so early.” Charlotte twisted the wedding ring beneath her glove, reminding herself that she was responsible for her sister-in-law for the following few days. “There is no need to ruin her evening. We…we will stay.”

“Are you sure?”

She glanced up at his eyes and raised her chin. “Yes, of course I am. Patricia is enjoying the evening.”

“And you are not?” he asked, his fingers briefly caressing her chin.

“No. I was earlier, but now…” Her voice trailed off as his eyes burning into hers had its usual effect of wiping all thoughts from her mind.

“Now?” he prompted, his voice pitched low, intimate, wrapping around Charlotte with a soft blanket of warmth and comfort. The noise and music and chatter of the bodies around them faded as she gazed into her husband’s eyes and saw only him.

“Now it does not seem to be as enjoyable as earlier,” she admitted, rather against her will since she clung firmly to the notion that her triumphant return to Society was everything. She felt frail, as if she had been ill for a long time, and only just now had the fever broken. Mayhap the fever analogy was more true than she knew—she must be feverish to be even thinking that she no longer fit into Society.