ago, and had annoyed her everyday self at the most inconvenient moments ever since. Now the silly idiot clearly yearned to become the sort of female who could exchange languishing glances with a gentleman in search of more sophisticated amusements, and lure him to heaven knew what wanton and forbidden rendezvous that a true lady shouldn’t even know about, let alone consider in her wildest fantasies. She was rather foggy about how a femme fatale behaved once she had lured her quarry into her perfumed lair, of course, but that other Charlotte was quite willing to improvise, at least if the shortness of breath she suddenly suffered at the very idea was anything to go by. It was all utter nonsense, of course, sensible Miss Wells informed her fiery secret self, and met Mr Shaw’s eyes with chilly resolution.
‘I, sir, am a chaperon. It is my duty to watch over Miss Alstone and make sure nobody can level the accusation that she was so laxly chaperoned that her reputation might be in danger. That is my purpose and my destiny,’ she finished rather wistfully and quite spoilt the effect of her first chilly statement.
‘Now you are being ludicrous, Miss Wells. Those young cubs wouldn’t even blink the wrong way with your stern eye on them, even if they were intent on mischief, which I doubt as they’re clearly besotted with the little minx and have sickeningly honourable intentions. Besides that, I dare say young Shuttleworth is so upright and respectable he could chaperon Kate himself, if you weren’t here to play the watchdog so determinedly, and nobody would raise an eyebrow,’ he asserted outrageously.
Such a foolish notion appealed to the sense of humour she usually managed to conceal in mixed company and she couldn’t help smiling at such a revolutionary notion. Lord Shuttleworth was indeed a very virtuous and earnest young man, but he would look very odd indeed sitting with the dowagers, frowning at Kate’s many admirers and shaking his head over the more rakish of their number. Come to think of it, he would probably perform the role far too diligently, and make sure Kate only danced with himself.
‘You are most certainly mistaken in that notion, sir, and I still wish you would go away,’ she informed him forthrightly, having long ago discovered there was no point in wrapping up her meaning in the polite conventions where Mr Shaw was concerned—and almost as useless as trying to carve rock with embroidery scissors, in her experience.
‘And there I was hoping you’d take pity on me and grant me a dance. You must admit it’s a confounded nuisance for a tall man to stoop over his partner like a grazing crane every time he’s fool enough to take to the floor with the usual run of female,’ he teased, doing his best to look as if he needed her sympathy when he was the least deserving case she had come across.
Despite his lowly upbringing, or maybe even because of it, Mr Benedict Shaw had succeeded in cutting a swathe through the more sophisticated beauties of the ton, and Charlotte suspected his great wealth had very little to do with that success. He was very much a man among the shallow youths who usually clustered about Kate, and even those gentlemen who were his equal in years faded to insignificance in his vibrant company. She couldn’t currently recall another single gentleman who matched him in either height or presence herself, which was very annoying of them now she came to think of it. No, hardship and sheer bull-headed stubbornness had honed him from an illegitimate waif from the slums into a subtle and dangerous man of power, and only a fool would underestimate Mr Shaw.
If she had ever been among their number, the ease with which he moved among the finicky ton would have opened her eyes to his dubious talents. And he had even done his best to conceal rather than reveal the fact that some very aristocratic blood indeed came to him on one side of the wrong blanket he was born under. He cheerfully admitted to being the son of a seamstress on the other, and still the rigid rules of society had first bent and then broken under the impact of his peculiar brand of charm, and the weight of his lifelong friendship with the current Earl of Carnwood, of course.
Charlotte surveyed Ben Shaw surreptitiously, while pretending to watch the dancers as if utterly absorbed in the figures of the dance. He made few concessions to the outward conventions, she decided, with a sniff of disapproval she hoped would be drowned out by the music. In this day and age, a gentleman did not go abroad with his unruly blond hair allowed to grow so overlong that he had to tie it back in an old-fashioned queue, which she absently noted was tied with black velvet rather than leather tonight, and really rather becoming. Giant that he was, he cut a magnificent figure in a superbly cut black tailcoat and restrained grey silk waistcoat. To herself, she could admit to feeling incredulity that he had donned the meticulously correct knee breeches and stockings of a gentleman’s evening dress as well.
He must be very fond of Kate to have forced himself into such a concession for her sake, she conceded, as Charlotte could never recall seeing him in such garb before. Mr Shaw usually claimed to be far too big for such refinement, but secretly she thought he looked magnificent. It was a demanding fashion to carry off, and some of the dandy set padded their puny calves to make them look shapelier, but he certainly had no need for such artifice. Long, strong and muscular, his limbs were honed to perfection by his energetic lifestyle and, if she secretly compared every gentleman she had seen tonight to his mighty form and found them not only wanting but almost invisible, there was no reason on earth why anyone should know it, least of all Ben Shaw himself.
Charlotte allowed her silly heart to flutter just the tiniest bit as she forced her gaze back up to his perfectly tied cravat, and told herself she should have the experience to hide her thoughts and feelings from him and the rest of the world by now. His face was rather memorable as well, she decided distractedly, trying hard to disapprove of the ridiculous hairstyle he habitually adopted and failing as she finally met his amused grey gaze and realised he had known exactly what she was thinking all along.
‘Am I to have an answer at all, Miss Wells, or do you consider me unworthy of one?’ he asked brusquely and she thought she caught a lightning glimpse of a much younger and surprisingly sensitive Ben Shaw under that pose of indifference to the world and his wife.
‘I thought you merely jesting, Mr Shaw, for you know as well as I that chaperons don’t dance,’ she informed him flatly, even as her heartbeat increased at the very thought of doing so with him, because it would expose her to far too many interested eyes, of course.
‘Nor do cits,’ he replied with a rueful grimace she refused to even countenance—he was far too much at ease in company, of whatever kind, for her to feel the least need to bolster his self-esteem. ‘And I really don’t think Mrs Ramsden agrees with you,’ he added with an expression of such dowagerly shock that she had to suppress a silly urge to laugh with him at the follies of mature society beauties who ought to know much better than to openly pursue rather risqué gentlemen, while supposedly chaperoning her innocent young daughter.
‘Miss Ramsden has my sympathy,’ she said truthfully and shot the still lushly beautiful Mrs Ramsden a covert glance as that lady danced airily past with another admirer and received a furious glare in return. ‘Maybe you should dance with Mrs Ramsden again if you really want to set the dovecotes fluttering,’ she added cynically. Without even trying to, she had won herself at least one enemy tonight, and how right she had been to wish herself a hundred miles away.
‘I’m told the lady has extensive gambling debts and is in search of a new husband with limitless credit and an accommodating nature. As my chief detractor, you must surely admit that she is very much mistaken in thinking I might be that man, Miss Wells,’ he told her with an ironic smile.
‘You would have me save you from fortune hunters, sir?’ she said lightly, in an attempt to avoid the thought that she could indeed pity him just a little after all.
Never to know if the slavish feminine attention he received was the product of lust, or lust and avarice, must be a severe trial to a proud man, and something told her Ben Shaw was a very proud man indeed. Some of the so-called gentlemen she had encountered would no doubt pour scorn
