How to Please a Lady (11 page)

“It must have frightened you quite a lot. What was it about?”

“I don't remember.”

Rose laughed, clearly not believing him, and for one small moment he weighed telling her precisely what his dream had been about. Perhaps then she would stop pestering him.

“You don't have to tell me if you don't wish,” she said pertly.

“I don't.”

“Good night, then.” She didn't move, and he could still feel her soft breath against his face. “Are your eyes open?”

“Yes.” Why was she torturing him?

“Funny how we do that in the dark. We cannot see, yet we open our eyes as if we can.”

He grunted and was tempted to roll over and give her his back, but he stayed where he was, mere inches from her soft mouth, telling himself he was a fool to even think about kissing her again. Foolish, foolish thoughts that would lead to nothing except more frustration.

“I'm wide awake now,” she said unnecessarily. “Mrs. Browne was ill today and I didn't see her for dinner. I do hope she will be better tomorrow. I missed her company. She did look rather ill.”

“I'm sure she will be.”

“I wonder what everyone is doing back home,” Rose said, not taking the hint that he wanted to sleep. “Do you think my brothers are scouring the countryside looking for me?”

“No doubt Marcus got on the next ship to America to chase after you.”

She gasped, and he wished he hadn't said what he believed to be the truth. “Marcus is not stupid, Rose, and when they received that telegram from the Liverpool office, I'm certain they put two and two together.”

“That means they know I'm with you.”

“Probably,” Charlie said, feeling slightly ill. He knew he was just fooling himself that her brother wouldn't have gone carefully over the manifest of every ship to leave port the day they'd set sail. “I only pray he doesn't think we actually got married when he sees Mr. and Mrs. Charles Avery. Or maybe it would be best if he did think we got married. Either way, I'm a dead man for sure.”

“Don't say that. I won't let him hurt you. And Marcus certainly wouldn't murder you. He might want to, but he wouldn't.”

Charlie laughed. “And how are you going to stop him?”

She laid a hand against his cheek and he closed his eyes, hating that such a simple touch left him reeling. “I'm so sorry to put you in this situation. Once I explain that you saved me, he'll understand.”

It wouldn't matter if he had saved her; the only thing that would matter to Marcus was that he had thoroughly compromised his sister by staying in the same cabin with her.

“Of course, it won't matter, will it?” she asked, sounding a bit lost. “Being here, with you, in the same cabin. We didn't think things through, did we, Charlie? I was so afraid, I wasn't thinking about my reputation; I just didn't want to be alone. Marcus will never understand. In my entire life, I've never acted so rashly. I'll die if you are the one who is punished, Charlie. I swear I won't let that happen.” She pulled him toward her and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth, sealing a promise he knew she wouldn't be able to keep, even if she tried. She pulled back, just enough so their lips weren't touching. “I'm compromised.”

She said it simply, without inflection, and Charlie tensed. “Yes.” It was the truth, after all.

“So I suppose it doesn't matter, does it, if I kiss you again?”

He lay unmoving, every muscle in his body singing with a new kind of pain. “I think it does matter,
my lady
.” She laughed, softly, rejecting his feeble attempt to remind her who they were, who he was.

“No.” She kissed him again, softly. “It doesn't. Besides, it's only a kiss. What harm can that do?”

He ought to show her, he ought to show her what a real kiss was like, what a man who was dying to bed a woman would do to a woman who was practically offering herself to him. She wasn't, his mind screamed, at the same time his cock sprang to painful life and pressed against his breeches.

“Kissing can lead to other things, my lady. Things you may not like.”

She was quiet for a long moment and he felt her withdraw slightly, as if repelled by his subtle reminder of Weston. And then, damn her, she kissed him again, her lips so soft against his, teasing him, making him want to respond with every fiber of his being.

“You forget yourself, my lady,” Charlie said coldly, desperately.

“No, Charlie.” She sounded breathless and her hand on his jaw tightened slightly. “You don't understand. You're helping me to forget.”

Bloody hell
, if she knew what her words, what her touch was doing to him, she'd stop. Then, without thinking, he reached down, grabbing her beneath her arms, and hauled her up on top of him, ignoring her shriek. She lay prone upon him, her breath harsh against his face, but she wasn't struggling. “You want me to help
you
forget?” He sounded nearly incredulous. “By God, Rose, what will I do to help
me
forget?” And then he kissed her, the way he longed to, pushing up his hips so there would be no doubt what her innocent little kisses were doing to him. Damn her, but she wasn't repelled. She deepened the kiss, allowed his tongue into her mouth with a groan.

With a will he didn't know he possessed, he gentled, shifted, and turned so that she was no longer on top of him, but rather against the bulkhead on her side. He let his hand sweep down her body, from her shoulder to her back, and then to her round buttock, so smooth and lovely beneath his hand. Only a thin bit of muslin separated his palm from her flesh, a thought that had him stifling a moan. One of her hands went to the back of his neck and held him there as if he would escape. The other was trapped between their bodies and tantalizingly close to his aching cock.

“I'm just a man, Rose. And you're a lovely woman, giving me kisses, telling me to do things I have no right to do. I want you, Rose, in all the ways a man can want a woman. But we cannot. We cannot.” He kissed her, as if contradicting his words, sweeping his tongue into her sweet, sweet mouth, relishing the way her breath caught, the way she shyly pushed her small tongue against his.

She pulled back slightly and let out a soft breath. “I know. I'm sorry.”

He chuckled. “Now, what have you to be sorry about?”

“As a woman, as a
lady
, it is up to me to put a halt to things. But I have let you take liberties with myself, liberties I should not have allowed at all. I . . . I wouldn't want you to think . . . We are from different worlds, after all.”

Charlie stiffened and swallowed—hard. He knew what she was saying, knew it had to be said, but that did nothing to stop the hot humiliation that washed over him. “I'm not thinking about anything”—he said, turning and easing himself off the bunk—“except getting a taste of some fancy tail.”

“I've made you angry.”

“No,” Charlie said, sounding angry even to his own ears. “No,” he repeated more gently. “This circumstance, it makes it easy to forget who we are. What we are. I do apologize, my lady. I will not forget again.”

“Charlie, that's not what I meant. Well, not entirely. Oh, Charlie, please do not be angry. Please.”

He dropped his head, feeling suddenly unaccountably weary. “I cannot be angry with you, my lady.”

“Rose.”

“I think that's something we'd best forget. When in company, I will call you Rose or nothing at all. But when we are in this room and when we are alone, I will call you whatever I damn well please, and it pleases me to call you my lady,” he said. “It's best. My lady.”

“Very well.” She sounded every bit the lady she was, and Charlie knew, if he was to maintain even a bit of control over his baser impulses, he'd best remember that.

 

Rose lay awake long after she returned to her own bunk, feeling slightly embarrassed by her behavior and downright awful about making Charlie angry. She didn't know what had come over her. Curiosity, no doubt, and a real wish to discover if she were repelled by all men. Obviously, she was not. Certainly, she'd proven that point if no other, proven she was practically wanton, if she were honest. Or perhaps it was just Charlie and that he was a friend, familiar, safe, someone who would never hurt her. She couldn't imagine kissing another man, not even the very handsome Daniel Cartwright, whom she planned to marry. If he'd have her. Which he no doubt would not.

Stupid, silly girl. What was she going to do when she reached New York? It had all made perfect sense when she was lying in bed, her heart racing with fear. She would escape. She would go to New York, ask Mr. Cartwright to marry her, and he would, eternally grateful that she'd shown up, practically unannounced on his doorstep, to offer her hand in marriage. It all seemed so comical now.

Almost certainly, Mr. Cartwright would pity her, but he would no doubt send her packing and she would head back to port and take the first ship back to England, where she would spend the rest of her ruined life in her parents' near-forgotten property on the Yorkshire moors. She wouldn't even qualify as a companion, not with such a soiled past. She was beyond ruined.

At odd moments, ever since she'd made the fateful decision to run away, her body would be swamped by fear. It would travel from her head to her toes, a black wave of dread that would leave her reeling. No matter how many times she tried to push such thoughts away, the wave would hit her and she'd be left feeling quite ill. It was as if she stood at the top of a steep hill and pushed a granite ball down toward a cherished piece of art. She watched with terrible anticipation, knowing there was nothing she could do to stop what she had done. The moment the ship had left port, she could not reverse her decision.

Rose looked up at the bunk above her, wondering if Charlie slept. She didn't understand what was happening to her, and with Charlie of all people. He was her servant, at least he had been. Not two weeks ago, if she had even thought about kissing Charlie, she would have been horrified. There were some lines one simply did not cross, and she had leapt over that line with pure abandon.

Perhaps the worst of it was, she wanted to again. She wanted to kiss him, to touch him. She liked Charlie, perhaps too much. He was right, of course. Being forced to share small quarters, pretending to be married, created a false intimacy. She remembered when she was sixteen, putting on the play
Romeo and Juliet
. She was Juliet and a young lord by the name of Samuel Lansing had played her Romeo. They had gotten caught up in the drama of the play and very nearly fallen in love. But once the play and the summer party was over, it was as if someone waved a wand and that feeling disappeared almost immediately. That's what was happening between her and Charlie. She didn't truly have feelings for him. She couldn't.

And yet, even now, when she thought about saying good-bye, her heart ached far more than it should.

T
he ship had been following the coast for three days now. When the passengers had first spied land a collective shout had arisen, and those who were well enough to be on deck rushed to the starboard side to see what America offered. For three days, it hadn't offered much more than rocky shores and wooded fields. It was certainly a letdown after all they'd heard about this Promised Land. Lately, Rose had taken to wandering listlessly about the ship, missing the company of her friend, Mrs. Browne. Neither she nor Charlie had seen the woman for two days. Rose sat on the opposite side of the ship from Charlie, huddled out of the wind by one of the lifeboats, while he watched the shore.

They were one day from New York and activity along the shore had increased. Houses and larger buildings could be seen from the ship, and the waters had become dotted with fishing boats. Charlie was standing by the rail watching the men fish, though they were too far away to see what sort of fish they were catching, when Roger came up next to him, placing his forearms on the rail, one fist clenched tightly in the other. Charlie looked from Roger's hands to the man's face, knowing immediately something was wrong.

“I could go for some nice haddock about now,” Charlie said, testing the waters. He'd found on this trip that Roger was not a talkative man, and when he did talk, it took him a while to ease into what he really wanted to say. And by the way he was kneading his hands together, Roger was a man who wanted to say something.

Suddenly, Roger pressed his fists against his mouth, stifling an awful sound of anguish.

“What's wrong, man? Is it Mrs. Browne? Is she still unwell?”

Roger dropped his hands, kneading, kneading, his eyes bleak and unseeing on the horizon. “She died, Charlie. Yesterday,” he choked out. “It weren't nothin'. Just a bad cold, we thought. Didn't even think to call in the doctor. And then, like that, she turned and didn't wake up.”

Roger looked at him with red-rimmed eyes filled with terrible grief, and Charlie put a firm hand on his back. “I'm so sorry, Roger. My God.”

Roger searched his face, almost wild. “I haven't told anyone, Charlie. I don't want them to know. I don't want them . . .” His throat closed on the last word and he turned away, his hands frantically moving against one another. “I don't want them throwing her overboard. I want to take her to America. She wanted this—despite the tears, it was what she wanted.” He swallowed, trying to control his emotions. “I want to bury her in America. I couldn't let them take her. They might, mightn't they?”

“I don't know,” Charlie said. “But I won't say a thing, Roger, not if you don't want me to.”

“Looks like she's sleeping, it does. Just like she's sleeping.” Roger stifled another sob, gripping the rail hard, as if he could stop his grief if only he could hold on to that rail tight enough. “I can't go home,” he said bleakly. “I can't go home without her.”

A passenger walked by and Charlie took his hand from Roger's shaking back, not wanting to draw attention to Roger's obvious grief. “Can I do anything to help?”

Roger gave him a quick glance. “What's there to do? Just don't tell anyone, please. Not even Mrs. Avery. Promise.”

“I promise.”

Charlie left Roger standing by the rail, unable to offer the man any words of comfort that would make a difference. He walked along the deck, nodding to people he knew, his cheeks turning ruddy from the cold wind. He found Rose huddled, shielded from the worst of the wind, in a corner by a lifeboat. She looked up when she saw him and smiled, and just that innocent smile made his chest hurt.

“I wonder where Mrs. Browne is? She can't still be ill,” Rose said. Her hair, usually so neat, had escaped its pins so that long strands whipped about her face. It was April, but it felt more like February, and a few snowflakes flew, stinging cheeks and making the gray Atlantic seem even more forbidding.

“I saw Mr. Browne earlier. She's still a bit under the weather and not up to seeing visitors.”

Rose frowned. “Poor thing. She must be terribly bored. Perhaps I'll check in on her later.”

“I wouldn't,” Charlie said. “Mr. Browne was quite certain his wife was not up to a visitor. He did apologize, as he knows the two of you have become friends.”

Charlie's heart gave a little tug as he watched a smile form on Rose's lips. The two women had been inseparable for most of the trip, the close quarters making for a fast friendship. He couldn't bear to tell her the news, and was relieved that at least that burden had been taken from him by his promise to Mr. Browne.

“She has become very dear to me,” Rose said. “I'll no doubt see her tomorrow when we reach New York. Can you believe it, Charlie? America. I'll have to pinch myself when we reach shore.”

She put aside her needlepoint and blew on her hands, even though she was wearing a pair of gloves. “I do hope it's not always so cold. Goodness, it feels like winter, not spring.”

“I talked to one of the crew and he said this cold snap is unusual. It can snow in April, though, just as it can snow back home. The climate is quite similar, in fact.”

A gentleman walked by at that moment, his feet slipping perilously on the slick deck, and Charlie stepped out to steady the fellow. “Steady on,” he said, realizing almost immediately the man was unsteady for more reason than just the light snowfall. He reeked of alcohol.

“I'm fine, good fellow. Just fine.” And Charlie watched, chuckling under his breath as the man weaved down the deck.

“Was he inebriated?” Rose asked, sounding shocked.

“I believe so.” Charlie laughed aloud at the look on her face.

“It's not amusing to be tipsy at ten o'clock in the morning, Charlie.”

He shook his head. “I had no idea you were a prohibitionist.”

“I'm no Frances Cobble, but I certainly don't advocate public intoxication.” Rose sighed.

“Who is Frances Cobble?” Charlie asked, slightly put out that she'd thought the lady was so notorious that he would know who she was.

Rose's cheeks flushed slightly. “She's really an insufferable woman who blames all of society's ills on working-class men who drink. I heard her lecture once, and she inspired tremendous fervor amongst her followers. I agree that too much drink is a dangerous thing, but to point out the weakness of only the lower classes seemed rather wrong to me.”

“So, my lady, you are a champion of the lower classes.”

Her brown eyes snapped. “Do not mock me, Charlie. If I was prejudiced against the lower classes, which is what I believe you are implying, I wouldn't have agreed to accompany you on this trip.”

Charlie nearly choked. “You begged me to allow you to come,” he pointed out, trying to sound reasonable.

“Yes, I did. But as a woman who is not prejudiced, I was the one who considered it the less evil option.”

Charlie became quite still. Because he knew if he allowed even one muscle to move, he would lose the small bit of control he had over his temper.

“I think this is coming out all wrong,” Rose said in a small voice. “Each time I try to explain myself, I sound more and more like a hopeless snob. You know that's not how I truly feel, Charlie.”

He looked at her a long while, enjoying the fact she began to squirm a bit in her seat. “I don't know what you feel,” he said finally. “You are the product of your upbringing, as am I. The only difference between you and me, my lady,” he said as if her title was a curse, “is that I fully believe a man's value should be weighed by more than who fathered him.”

“Of course,” Rose said, her cheeks flushing.

“You agree?”

She lifted her chin regally, a motion that incensed Charlie even more. He knew why he was getting angry, as much as he knew he shouldn't. But why did she so completely dismiss him as a possible husband, even at her most desperate hour, even when he very well might be her most logical choice? He was a man she knew, whom she liked, but a man so completely inappropriate, even her situation hadn't been quite desperate enough for her to consider him. He knew he was being unfair to her, but it still hurt to know she thought so little of him. “I do agree. You know I do. You're just trying to be ornery, Charlie, and I do wish you'd stop.”

“And yet, you would never consider—” He stopped himself, thank God. Wasn't it humiliating enough that he'd already offered to marry her and she'd dismissed his suggestion as if it was the grandest joke, as if such a suggestion was so absurd she never thought, not for one second, that he might have been sincere?

“Never consider what?”

He dipped his head, shielding his eyes from her, for he had a terrible feeling they showed too much. He knew he was upset about Mrs. Browne, about seeing Roger's grief. He was raw and tired and in love with a woman who didn't see him as more than precisely what he was, a servant. Who the hell did he think he was?

Jesus
, he'd let this charade muddle his head and make him think things he had no business thinking.

“Charlie? Why do I have the feeling I've made you angry again?”

He chuckled, more at his own stupidity than her words. “Have you ever considered not marrying? Perhaps getting a position?”

Rose looked up at him and wondered if he knew how superior he sounded. Yes, she would simply hang out a sign and get a job. As a woman with no skills other than French and needlepoint, she no doubt could apply to any position and live quite well in a strange city. Was that what he believed? A man had so many more options than a woman. She
had
considered working but, other than servants and shopkeepers, she'd never known another woman with an occupation. Did Charlie think she should be someone's maid? Or perhaps work in a textile mill?

“I have thought about finding a position,” she said, and she could see the surprise on his face. “I thought I might look for a position if Mr. Cartwright sends me packing, which no doubt he will do. The problem is I have no skills and no references.” Rose hadn't been brought up to do anything except run an efficient household as the lady of the manor, and she would have done that quite well. She knew how to host a party, write polite invitations, deal with servants and shopkeepers—all skills that had been drilled into her since she was out of the cradle. She knew how to play the pianoforte, was excellent at needlepoint, and could carry on a lively conversation when she needed to. She could dance fifteen dances, knew which garment to wear at which time of day, and how to eat a ten-course meal without appearing like someone common. She knew, she realized, how to be what she was—a lady. And with those dubious accomplishments, there really was only one position for which she was even remotely qualified, that of a governess, the most dreaded position of any woman who had any upbringing or education.

“I thought perhaps a governess, but I have no references and very few funds to hold me over until I do find a job. I'm afraid I'll have to return home. I even thought I might sell my jewelry, but the only piece I have of real value is my sapphire necklace. Do you remember it? I wore it on the night of my engagement.” She let out a soft sound of dismay. “I can't sell that, Charlie. It was my grandmother's. She's the only one in the family I even like.”

A gust of wind whipped around the deck of the ship, finding her despite her relatively sheltered spot. It was so cold and her head was starting to ache from bending it so long over her needlepoint. “I think I'll go below. I'm afraid it's too cold for me. Perhaps I'll take a nap. I'm awfully tired. Perhaps that's why I'm so cranky.” She gave Charlie a small smile, hating that he seemed to be still angry with her, though she hadn't any idea why.

“Here,” he said, taking off his own jacket and wrapping it around her. It was so warm and smelled so good, of Charlie and home, and Rose suddenly felt as if she might cry.

“Thank you, Charlie.” She stood looking up at him, so close that if she got on her toes and leaned forward just a bit, she could kiss him. It would be wrong, of course, even if they were a married couple, for everyone knew how coarse such displays were. Her mother would have been mortified by the public affection some of the men showed their wives on board, arms slung over their shoulders, kissing and holding hands. Rose had been taught such displays set apart the classes, but when Rose saw Mr. Browne putting his arm around Charlotte, she hadn't been offended. She'd been envious. What must it be like to have a man not care who was watching, to have him look at her as if she were the most important thing in the world?