How to Please a Lady (17 page)

No, he was a man who knew how to please a lady and seemed to revel in that fact. Imagine telling her he was “enjoying” his home already, using that tone that men used to flirt with women. Charlie hadn't been a flirt. But Charles Avery was a skirt-chasing man-about-town, and Rose decided then and there that she would have absolutely nothing to do with him.

F
or nearly five years, Rose had had dinner with the Campbells every Thursday night, taking turns at each other's homes and allowing their cooks to have a friendly competition. It was a tradition they'd kept up even after Daniel's death. While he was alive, the two couples were quite close, though she believed neither Genevieve nor Mitch ever suspected their neighbors' marriage was anything but perfect. And it had been, to a certain extent. She loved Daniel and he loved her, and they shared a common goal and affection for one another that was far deeper than she could have imagined. But as much as she adored Daniel, she did sometimes regret her decision to agree to a marriage without physical relations. Without children.

After Daniel's death, ironically from influenza that skipped by her that year, Rose allowed herself to think that perhaps she could marry again, have children. She was only twenty-three years old, an age at which some women hadn't even been married at all. Genevieve had mentioned it recently. Daniel had been dead more than a year and her mourning period was over. Perhaps she could begin to think about a true marriage now.

Rose looked in her mirror and tidied her hair. She hadn't bothered with fashionable clothes or intricate hairstyles in years and now realized it might be time to visit a dressmaker. She looked, she decided, downright frumpy and far older than her years. She frowned, wondering what Charlie had thought when he'd met her. Did he see her as frumpy and old?

“Stacy, do I have anything else in my wardrobe that would be suitable for my visit with the Campbells?”

Stacy, who had been repairing a small tear in one of her chemises, stood and walked to her wardrobe to study what was inside. Half of the dresses were black, brown, or gray, the other half so old she might as well throw them away. Fashion seemed to be changing rapidly, and Rose would rather not wear a dress from two or three years prior, the last time she'd had dresses made. All of those dresses were created for rather large bustles, and the more current designs conformed more closely to a woman's form.

“You do have the blue,” Stacy said a bit skeptically. She pulled it from the wardrobe and examined it. The blue gown was one of the first she'd purchased when she'd officially put aside mourning, but it was a winter dress and overwarm for a late spring day. Still, it was the only one she had that was even remotely au courant, so she supposed it would have to do.

“It's a bit chilly this evening,” Rose said with forced cheerfulness. “I do believe we need to take a trip to Madame Brunelle's.”

Stacy beamed. “Oh, yes, ma'am, that would be a fine idea.”

Once Rose was dressed, she pulled her hair back into her traditional serviceable bun, much to the disappointment of Stacy, who adored working with her thick, dark hair. “This will have to do,” Rose said, looking at her reflection and trying to pretend that the wool dress she was wearing wasn't suffocatingly warm. “I'm already late as it is.”

Thursday nights with the Campbells had truly been the only thing she'd looked forward to of late. She was living as if she were an elderly widow, not a vibrant young woman. Perhaps it was time to step out and attend more social gatherings. The problem was, she was no longer invited to the events she had been when she was married to Daniel. As a high-ranking member of the State Department, he had kept up with a social calendar that had been quite full. When he died, the invitations, understandably, came to an abrupt halt. Without family nearby, Rose had leaned heavily on the Campbells for whatever social excitement there was—and there wasn't very much of it. She certainly couldn't invite herself to a dinner or the theater. James had taken her out to the theater a few times, but he was so bereft at the loss of Daniel, he'd been poor company, and after a time, he'd stopped coming by at all.

Rose shook her morose thoughts away as she made the short journey from her front door to her neighbors'. Mr. Spark opened the door before she had a chance to knock, and he motioned her in and bade her follow him to the Campbells' parlor. She heard Genevieve's laughter and smiled, thinking how lucky she was to have such a lively friend.

Genevieve jumped to her feet when she entered, and her husband immediately stood. Mitch Campbell was a handsome man with piercing blue eyes and a headful of dark hair. At the moment he sported a Vandyke beard and mustache, which Rose thought made him look rather mysterious but that Genevieve disliked heartily. She kept threatening to shave her husband in his sleep.

“I'm sorry I am late,” Rose said, walking toward Genevieve and taking her hands. The two friends were a study in contrasts: Rose with her dark, almost exotic looks and Genevieve, blond, pale, and green-eyed. “I realize I'm in desperate need of a new wardrobe. Would you like to go shopping tomorrow?”

Genevieve smiled. “Madame Brunelle's?”

“Of course. It's been so long, I daresay she will faint when she sees me cross the threshold. And I can't let her see me in this as it's not one of her creations. I fear she would be quite vexed with me.”

When Rose heard footsteps behind her, she assumed it was Spark coming to offer her refreshment. She turned without a thought, ready to take the glass of wine he was no doubt offering, only to stop dead at the sight of Charlie Avery, his dark blue eyes assessing her as if she was someone he'd never before met.

“Mrs. Cartwright,” Genevieve said, her voice overly bright, “this is your new neighbor, Mr. Charles Avery.”

Rose whirled around to look at Genevieve, or rather to give her friend an angry flash of disbelief, which Genevieve of course ignored.

“We met briefly earlier today,” Rose said, trying to recover. “In fact, Mr. Avery is quite well known to me—”

“We met some years back on the
Adriatic
when we were both traveling to America,” Charlie put in quickly.

Rose narrowed her eyes at his blatant lie. So, he did not want anyone to know he'd once been her groom? He gave her a steady look, almost challenging her to expose him, and for a moment Rose was tempted.

“It is such a pleasant surprise to see a familiar face,” Rose said, and noticed a slight ease in Charlie's tension. He had been afraid—likely far more than he was putting on—that she would contradict his story. It made her angry for a moment, that he should be ashamed of what he'd been, but she understood why he felt the need to lie. Or at least not tell the entire truth.

“Why that's wonderful,” Genevieve said. “What a surprising coincidence!”

“It's almost hard to believe,” Mitch said dryly, and both she and Charlie gave him a quick look. Rose had found over the years that Mitch's calm reserve hid a highly intelligent man. She often wondered if he had discovered the truth about her marriage to Daniel and had simply kept the information to himself.

“Yes. A pleasant surprise,” Charlie said, taking a sip of his brandy, his eyes unwavering on hers. If she was not mistaken, there was gratitude in his gaze and Rose looked away, her cheeks suddenly pink.

“That dress must be quite warm, Rose, your cheeks are flushed.”

If Rose and Genevieve had been alone, Rose might have given her friend a face, but instead she smiled, a spectacularly false smile that Genevieve apparently found extremely amusing. Rose knew what Genevieve was up to; she was attempting to matchmake. Rose wondered if her friend would have tried to pair them up had she known Charlie had been under her family's employ. Knowing Genevieve, and she did know her quite well, it wouldn't have mattered at all. Though Genevieve was the granddaughter of the Duke and Duchess of Glastonbury, she had grown up in a cabin with her father out West. Despite her cultured, aristocratic accent, Genevieve was the least snobbish person she knew. After all, her husband, though a brilliant portrait photographer, was hardly from the highest echelons of society (his mother was an actress, of all things!). No doubt Genevieve would be thrilled to know she was trying to match the daughter of an earl to that same earl's former head groom.

Genevieve lifted her head, acknowledging her mute butler, and said, “Dinner is ready. Shall we dine?”

That's when a terrible thought occurred to Rose. Her mother had always said that the true mark of breeding was the manner in which one comported oneself at dinner. Rose had been drilled on polite dining habits, something that Charlie's education had been sorely lacking. She remembered on the ship being surrounded by passengers who had not been as severely schooled as she had in proper dining. At first, she'd been rather appalled at the lack of manners many of the passengers had displayed—Charlie among them. Genevieve and Mitch were not sticklers, but they did comport themselves well and would no doubt look askance at Charlie if he did not.

As they sat, she watched Charlie, wishing she could school him quickly in how to act. She noted immediately that he removed his gloves and placed them on his left leg, then covered his gloves with his napkin. Rose was ridiculously proud of him.

The footmen filled their wineglasses, and Mitch held his up to make a toast. “Welcome to the neighborhood, Mr. Avery,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr. Campbell,” Charlie said, placing the glass down without taking a taste. “I fear I have misled you.” Charlie glanced at Rose before continuing. “I have, in fact, known Mrs. Cartwright almost from the day she was born. You see, I was first her father's stable boy and later his head groom. I've never lied about my background and who I am and I cannot say in truth why I just did.”

For some silly reason, Rose felt her throat burn and knew if she didn't get hold of herself immediately, her eyes would begin to glitter suspiciously. How brave Charlie was to admit such a thing. Everyone at the table was silent for a long beat, until Genevieve said, “How marvelous! You, sir, are a success story. Rags to riches. Quite exciting. I have my own rags to riches story to share, perhaps after dinner. Everyone has your gadgets in their kitchen, you know. The mark of a good kitchen is the number of C. A. Kitchen Tools one has. And quite pretty with that little flower on each one. Your kitchen has them, doesn't it, Rose?”

Rose gave her friend a smile of thanks; never would she meet anyone as charming and kind as Genevieve. “Yes, that is right. My cook nearly swooned when she found out who had moved in next door.”

“You must tell me what Rose was like as a child,” Genevieve said. “Not that she's so old now. Imagine your moving in next door. What a coincidence that . . .” Her voice trailed off because though Genevieve might be a bit naive at times, she was not stupid. “At any rate. Yes. How lucky for us all.”

Everyone knew that Charlie's moving into the house next door to Rose could not have been happenstance, and an awkward silence fell over the table.

“It wasn't an accident, my moving in next to Mrs. Cartwright,” Charlie said, his eyes on Genevieve, and Rose got the distinct feeling he was purposely avoiding her gaze. “Having Mrs. Cartwright as a neighbor was one of the home's most important assets to me.” Rose could feel her entire body heat, though she wasn't entirely certain why . . . until Charlie looked at her. He was
affecting
her, as no man had since, well, since Charlie. How exceedingly upsetting. It was those women he'd entertained, their cries of passion and obvious pleasure. Would she never be able to look at Charlie without thinking such things? It was purely awful.

“I don't understand,” Genevieve said.

“I don't want to be crass, but I haven't been wealthy all that long and I know only a few men who run in the circles that I must enter in order to make business connections. In fact, I was hoping that Mrs. Cartwright might be able to introduce me to New York society. Moving in next door was a calculated business move.”

Rose told herself not to be disappointed in his revelation, but she was. She'd imagined he'd moved in next door for spite, to show her how far he'd come. She'd even considered that he'd chosen to be her neighbor to rekindle the small romance they'd had on board ship. No, that was the wrong word, for they hadn't truly had a romance. Friendship, perhaps? Still, to learn Charlie had no motive for buying the house other than making his own pockets more full was slightly upsetting. He had planned all along to use her? Suddenly, the evening felt far less joyous. Why she'd thought using her for business connections was far worse than moving there for spite, she could not say.

“I haven't been out in society of late,” Rose said, making her voice cold. “I've been in mourning.” She found small gratification in the fact that Charlie's cheeks reddened.

“We can help a bit,” Mitch said quickly, obviously noting the sudden tension in the room. “Though we don't move in the same circles Mrs. Cartwright did, we can make some introductions.” Mitch gave Rose a look of censure, which she decided to ignore. She was not in the mood to capitulate.

“Oh, yes,” Genevieve said. “We certainly don't call the Astors our friends—can't really say that anyone does—but we are often invited to entertainments where you might rub elbows with the people you need to meet.”

Rose watched as Charlie nodded. Something was so reserved about him, so tense. While he talked with Mitch about the connections he needed to make for his business, Rose took some time to look at him. He was uncommonly handsome, but she noticed telltale circles beneath his eyes (she knew for certain he wasn't getting a full night's rest), and brackets at either corner of his mouth that hadn't been there when he'd been a younger man. It was almost as if he'd been spending far too much time frowning. His hair, his beautiful dandelion hair, was cut short and tamed with a small bit of pomade.