her smile warm. “It never does to look as if you are waiting for something,” she agreed. “Which is good. Women who are waiting are so tiresome. Who have you met?”
“The wife of the Portuguese ambassador,” Charlotte replied. “I liked her immediately. There is something unusual in her face. I’m sorry I shall probably never see her again.”
“Isaura Castelbranco,” Vespasia said thoughtfully. “I know little of her, thank heaven. I know too much about so many other people. A little mystery lends such charm, like the softness of the late afternoon or the silence between the notes of music.”
Charlotte was turning the thought over in her mind before replying when there was a sudden commotion a dozen yards away from them. Like those around her, she turned toward it. A very elegant young man with a sweep of fair hair took a step backward, raising his hands defensively, a look of disbelief on his face.
In front of him a girl in a gown of white lace stood alone, the skin of her bosom, neck and cheeks flushed red. She was very young, perhaps no more than sixteen, but of a Mediterranean darkness, and already the woman she would become was clear in the curves of her body.
Everyone around the two fell silent, either in embarrassment or possibly out of confusion, as if they had little idea what was happening.
“Really, you are quite unreasonable,” the young man said defensively, his voice light, trying to brush off the incident. “You misunderstood me.”
The girl was not soothed at all. She looked angry, even a little frightened.
“No, sir,” she said in slightly accented English. “I did not misunderstand. Some things are the same in all languages.”
He still did not seem to be perturbed, only elaborately patient, as with someone who was being unintentionally obtuse. “I assure you, I meant it merely as a compliment. You must be used to such things?”
She drew in her breath to answer, but obviously could not find the words she wished.
He smiled, now openly amused at her, perhaps just a little mocking. He was good-looking in an unusual way. He had a strong and prominent nose and thin lips, but fine dark eyes.
“You’ll have to get used to admiration.” His look swept up and down her with just a fraction too much candor. “You’ll receive a great deal of it, I can promise you.”
The girl was shaking now. Even from where she stood, Charlotte could see that she had no idea how to deal with such inappropriate appreciation of her beauty. She was too young to have learned the necessary composure. It seemed her mother was not close enough to have overheard the exchange, and the young man, whom she now recognized as Neville Forsbrook, was very confident. His father was one of London’s foremost bankers and the family had wealth and status, and all the privilege that came with it. He was not used to being denied anything, most especially by a girl who was not even British.
Charlotte took a step forward, and felt Vespasia’s hand on her arm, restraining her.
The color had drained out of the girl’s face, leaving her ashen. “Leave me alone!” Her voice was shrill and a little too loud. “Don’t touch me!”
Neville Forsbrook laughed quite openly now. “My dear young lady, you are being ridiculous, and making something of a spectacle of yourself. I’m sure that is not what you wish.” He was smiling, and he took a step toward her, one hand out in front of him, as if to soothe.
The girl swung her hand wildly in an arc, catching his arm with hers and knocking it aside roughly. She swiveled around to escape, lost her balance and almost fell against another young woman, who promptly screamed and flung herself into the arms of a startled young man close to her.
The girl managed to untangle herself and fled, sobbing now. Neville Forsbrook remained where he was with a half smile on his face, which quickly changed to a look of bewilderment. He shrugged and spread his hands, elegant and strong, but the shadow of a smile remained. Was it out of embarrassment, or was there still the faintest hint of mockery there? Charlotte wasn’t sure.
Someone stepped forward and began a polite conversation about nothing in particular. Others joined in gratefully. After a few moments the hum of voices resumed, the rustle of skirts, distant music, the slight sound of feet moving on the polished floor. It was as if nothing had happened.