How to Please a Lady (20 page)

Genevieve stepped between the angry Madame Brunelle and the frightened Rose. “Madame, surely you must have something my friend could wear for her first ball since her husband's tragic death.”

“I do not sell off the rack,” Madame said, clearly affronted.

“Perhaps Letourneau will have something,” Rose said softly, but apparently not softly enough. Which was exactly what she'd meant to do.

“
Non!
You cannot go to that man's boutique. Do you want to look like a cow?
Non
.” She called for one of her shopgirls, speaking in rapid French, so rapid Rose caught only a few words, but she understood enough to know Madame would, indeed, be able to outfit her for the ball.

Madame turned to the two women and smiled. “What is this ball? It is April.” She paused, her eyes widening. “Do not tell me it is the Tattering ball.
Mon Dieu.
Only one hundred have been invited and you . . .”

“Tattering?” Rose repeated. She'd had no idea Charlie was moving in those sorts of circles. No wonder he was nervous; now
she
was nervous. Certainly, she'd attended entertainments where the likes of the Tatterings, Vanderbilts, Morgans, and Pierreponts were in attendance, but Daniel and she had never been on such an exclusive guest list. How had Charlie managed it? “I imagine it must be.” Only someone like Anne Tattering could hold a ball so soon after Easter and before the summer season began in Newport and get away with it. Rose had met the lady once and had been terrified, for she'd heard she did not like the English and wore her family's humble beginnings like a badge of honor—even if those humble beginnings were two generations ago. It was at that moment Rose realized why Charlie had been invited. Mrs. Tattering no doubt adored him and his mercurial rise from head groom to wealth and power. The fact that Charlie had been
her
family's head groom did not bode well for Rose.

But she had said she would go and would stick to her word. Part of her prayed Madame Brunelle would be unable to produce an appropriate gown.

“Voilà!” she said, when a young shopgirl entered the room with a breathtaking dress draped across her arms. It was the color, serendipitously, of the palest rose, with intricate lace and beadwork that Rose had to admit would look lovely with her complexion and dark hair. “I had forgotten about this creation. I made it for a young woman whose delicate condition made it impossible for her to wear. She returned to England without the gown, so there is no danger of her seeing you in it, I assure you.” Madame took the dress and held it up to Rose.

“C'est magnifique,”
she pronounced. “A bit too long, but that is better than too short,
non
? Into the fitting room, ladies.” With the energy of a woman half her age, Madame Brunelle charged into the room and the shopgirls, fluttering around her like twittering birds, began helping Rose to undress while Genevieve looked on, unable to hide her smile.

“I do believe it is fate that has brought you and that dress together so quickly,” Genevieve said. “Mr. Avery will be quite pleased you were successful.”

“Genevieve, I am doing the man a favor only,” Rose said. As soon as she'd told Genevieve that Charlie had asked her to a ball, Genevieve had been giddily anticipating their wedding. Saying the words aloud put a bit of a damper on her feelings, because they were only the truth. It had not been some romantic notion that had made Charlie ask for her to accompany him. He was a pragmatic man when it came to business, apparently, and he was intelligent enough to know that to navigate New York society successfully, he needed someone by his side to help. Who else was there? Should he have asked his matronly Mrs. Gendron to accompany him? Or one of his lady friends?

The girls tugged on the dress, which fit remarkably well considering it had been made for another woman entirely. It was a bit too long, and the waist was a tad too snug, but otherwise the gown flattered her figure rather nicely.

“It looks better on you than its original owner,” Madame declared. “A little adjustment here”—she tugged at the waist—“and a bit here.” She pulled some material on the shoulder, bringing it up so that the bodice better hugged her breasts. “And look at the back. So beautiful. I'd forgotten how lovely is this dress.”

One of the girls pulled around a mirror so that Rose could get a view of the back of the gown. It was so lovely, she gasped. It was a work of art. The cascading material fell softly to a small bustle and a train of tiny florets and pleated material so intricate Rose actually felt for the poor seamstress who'd had to sew it. “It is beyond anything I could have imagined,” Rose said feelingly. “You are surely an artist, Madame, and I am honored that you are willing to make alterations so quickly.”

“Mon plaisir,”
Madame said, looking pleased. “But after this ball tonight, you must return so I can create your new wardrobe,
oui
?”

“Yes. In the meantime, you can take my measurements and create some day dresses for me, if you would. I truly have nothing to wear that isn't black, brown, or gray and I am dreadfully sick of those colors.”

“Of course. Mabel, take the lady's measurements.” Madame walked around Rose, looking at her critically. “Who is this Mr. Avery?”

“He is no one,” Rose said, seeing the gleam in Madame Brunelle's eyes. Why must everyone want to matchmake?

“Other than Mr. Campbell, he is the most handsome man I've ever seen,” Genevieve said. “And they've known each other since they were children, and I do believe Mr. Avery is already in love with Mrs. Cartwright.”

“Genevieve, really,” Rose said, laughing.

“Ah, she blushes,” Madame Brunelle said knowingly.

“The same way you blushed when I spoke Monsieur Letourneau's name,” Rose pointed out, knowing that mention of Madame Brunelle's rival would instantly stop any discussion of her marrying Charlie.

“It was rage, not love that made my cheeks flush. At any rate, I am far too old for all the romantic trappings. You are still a girl.”

Rose looked at herself in the mirror, and for a quick moment that's what she felt like: a girl about to go to her very first ball.

“Mr. Avery will be transfixed,” Genevieve said, coming up beside her and looking at her reflection.

“It doesn't matter if he is or not,” Rose said, but her friend's comment made her smile anyway.

C
harlie felt slightly ill, knowing his performance this evening might make or break his future. Men like J. P. Morgan and George Tattering liked dealing with men like themselves—highly intelligent, highly motivated men of fine morals and impeccable manners. He wasn't quite sure how he'd ended up as a guest of George Tattering, but he damned well was going to go and do his utmost to show he could stand with the best of them. He needed Morgan's financing, Carnegie's steel and railroads, and Tattering's influence if he wanted to bring his businesses to the next level. Most people knew about C. A. Kitchen Tools, some were aware of Avery Hand Tools, but very few knew about his plans to develop a better, more powerful locomotive engine. His brain never stopped, and he was constantly pulling out a piece of paper to quickly scribble some sort of design. When he'd been a groom, he'd developed new designs for the tools of his trade, but now, the world was open to him.

Morgan was one of the few people who knew, and that had been quite by accident. Charlie had been invited to a small dinner party that Morgan had attended, and had slipped away to add to a drawing he'd begun earlier that day. Morgan had found him in a small library, frantically trying to get down his thoughts before they were crowded out by another idea. The two men had talked, Morgan glancing over his drawings with growing interest, not knowing who he was talking to until he stopped in midsentence and asked.

“Charles Avery of C. A. Kitchen Tools and Avery Hand Tools?”

And that had been the beginning of an unusual friendship between Charlie and the older man. Morgan liked Charlie's youth and enthusiasm, but was keenly aware Charlie was inexperienced at business, despite his small successes.

“Vision without execution is hallucination,” Morgan had said, quoting his friend Thomas Edison. “You know who said that? A young man named Thomas Edison. You remind me of him, Mr. Avery.” He winked. “That's a good thing, son.”

At the time, Charlie hadn't quite known just how powerful Morgan was, but he knew now. And he also knew he didn't want to do anything to embarrass the man, to disappoint him. He knew what was at stake at the Tattering ball, and he also knew that with Rose by his side, he just might be able to pull it off.

The ball, to benefit soldiers who fought in the Russo-Turkish War, would be held at the Westminster Hotel on Irving Place, a large, imposing building, six stories high, that boasted proudly that Charles Dickens had once stayed there. At such balls, one was expected to make a sizable donation to the cause, though Charlie didn't know what was considered “sizable” to men such as these. He didn't want to appear uninterested, but at the same time didn't want to seem like a show-off, and so decided upon one thousand dollars and had his checkbook ready.

Charlie left his house, nodded to the footman who waited for him outside his carriage, and headed to Rose's home, his nerves growing with each step. Not only was he hobnobbing with the wealthiest men in this country, he was going to have Rose on his arm. It seemed ridiculously absurd.

Her door opened nearly immediately after he gave the doorbell a neat twist, revealing Mr. Brady, Rose's butler. The butler gave Charlie an assessing look before stepping back and allowing admittance, and Charlie wondered if the older man would have closed the door if he'd remembered they'd met five years earlier when Charlie had been frantically looking for Rose. His valet assured him his evening formals were of the finest quality and latest fashion, but Charlie felt a bit as if he were a little boy playing dress-up. His cuff links were diamond, his shoes shined to resemble a mirror, his hair neatly cut and combed, his cheeks smooth. But Charlie knew just putting on the clothes of a gentleman did not make one so, particularly in the eyes of men who were born into important families.

Mr. Brady was about to escort him to the same, comfortable parlor he had been in earlier, when a movement at the top of the stair caught both men's attention. He'd heard men say they'd had the breath knocked out of them, but Charlie had never experienced the phenomenon when looking at a woman. For five seconds, he couldn't breathe, could not draw even the smallest bit of oxygen into his lungs. She was that damned lovely. How she had managed to find so stunning a dress so quickly was beyond him, though he was terribly glad she had. Her neck looked somehow longer and more delicate. Her pale shoulders drew his eyes, and then the sight of the creamy softness of her breasts was nearly his undoing. How the hell was he supposed to stand next to her, touch her, and still hide how much he desired her? Even as he had that thought, he felt his trousers tighten. Good God, he'd better get a grip or everyone at the ball would see just how affected he was by the beautiful Mrs. Cartwright. He'd almost forgotten one of the rules of being a gentleman, to walk up the stairs to meet a lady, not stand at the bottom staring at her like some fool. He hurried up three steps, ridiculously proud that he had passed this first test.

“You are stunning,” Charlie said, unable to stop himself. He thought she might be miffed; after all, he had invited her for practical reasons, but she beamed him a smile that made his breath get stuck in his throat all over again.

“Charles Avery, you are quite handsome yourself this evening,” Rose said, holding out her gloved hand for him to take. He leaned over, one hand behind his back, the other holding her fingers, brushed his lips against the soft kid, and smiled. It was heady stuff, indeed, to have Rose look at him as if he were a man and not a former employee.

 

Quite handsome?
He
was the stunning one. Every woman at the ball under the age of one hundred would have her eyes on him. Rose had thought him dashing in his everyday suit, but in this formal wear, with his blond hair swept back from his strong forehead, his striking blue eyes, his . . . well, his everything. He was the Adonis Genevieve had said he was. Rose allowed herself to look at his mouth before glancing quickly away, praying he would not notice. She was allowing Charlie to escort her because he needed her to advance his career, not for any romantic reason. It wouldn't do for him to know where her thoughts had immediately gone. Never before in her life had she looked at a man's mouth and wished it was upon hers.

“Shall we?” he asked, holding up his left arm for her to take.

“We shall. So far, you've been the perfect gentleman,” she said, and he looked down and winked at her. Not very gentlemanly, but it did something wonderful to her insides. How was she going to get through this evening without swooning at his feet? Just before they walked out the door, Rose stopped him. “This is the Tattering charity ball, is it not?”

“It is.”

“Oh, dear, then I believe I must be forthcoming and let you know that Mrs. Tattering doesn't much care for English aristocracy. And as you know, I am, or at least I was, English aristocracy. I don't think she cares for me at all, Charlie.”

He simply laughed. “Don't worry, Rose, Mrs. Tattering likes me well enough to overlook my companion.”

Rose furrowed her brow, not liking the way he'd said that, almost as if he and Mrs. Tattering had a special relationship, one that didn't involve the lady's husband's business affairs but rather a different kind of affair altogether. “Are you suggesting that you and Mrs. Tattering. . .”

Charlie just smiled enigmatically. “I think she likes commoners even more than you do.”

Rose pulled a face. “I ought to slap you for saying that,” she said good-naturedly, though to be honest, she was a bit bothered by his comment.

 

The Westminster Hotel was ideally located downtown just a short drive from their homes. The ball, which included a midnight dinner, was one of the most exclusive of its type and only the highest levels of society would be in attendance. Which made it even more baffling to Rose how Charlie had gotten on the invitation list. Unless it was only because Mrs. Tattering held a
tendre
for him. Why, the woman was in her forties! Had Charlie truly . . .

Rose didn't want to think about it, didn't want to imagine him kissing that prune-faced biddy. Rose pretended to be interested in the view out her window, but she was actually trying hard not to be jealous. Mrs. Tattering, after all, was not at all prune-faced; she was an attractive woman who in her day had turned many more heads than Rose had.

Charlie sat across from her, jiggling one leg up and down and beating a loose fist against his thigh. His jaw was tense, his mouth set.

“Is this evening so very important?” Rose asked, and he immediately stopped his fidgeting.

“I believe it is a test and I fear that, even with you by my side, I shall fail. It is so very easy to do the wrong thing with these people, and I know they will be watching me.”

Could that be true? “Surely not.”

“I am under consideration for the Knickerbocker Club. I cannot underestimate the importance such membership would have to a man like me, with few connections and absolutely no background to speak of. Men like Tattering and Morgan make and break people all the time. Where do you think Thomas Edison would be without Morgan championing him? Nowhere. He'd be like poor Underhill, trying to get people to understand his inventions.”

“Underhill?”

“See? You don't even know who he is, but you know Edison, do you not?”

Rose had to agree she did. “And you think that's because of Mr. Morgan?”

Charlie nodded once, sharply, and started up his fidgeting again.

“You cannot impress such men if you fidget like that, Charlie.”

He gave her a dark look and she laughed lightly. “You're taking me along to gently guide you, are you not?”

The dark look remained. “I am.”

“Then you must listen to me,” she said, looking pointedly at his leg.

“I need a distraction,” he said, and Rose's entire body heated when his gaze moved lazily to her mouth before snapping back to her eyes.

“Am I a distraction?” Rose asked.

“You are. Perhaps too much of one in that gown of yours. How on earth were you able to find something so quickly?” His eyes lingered perhaps a bit too long on her breasts, and Rose could feel another blush heating her. If he continued to do this all evening, she might just combust.

“My dressmaker was so horrified by what I was wearing, I do believe she took pity on me.”

“It is lovely,” he said, his voice rough and low.

“Heavens, Charlie, will you stop?”

He looked at her innocently, the same expression her chocolate-stained brothers would give Cook when she accused them of pilfering cocoa.

“It is important that you refrain from lustful thoughts,” she said primly, to which Charlie burst out laughing.

“Then you shouldn't have worn a gown that makes you look like that,” he said, waving his hands to indicate her entire body.

Rose lifted her chin imperiously. “Think of me as your business partner. You wouldn't look at Mr. Morgan like that—” He was doing it again. On purpose. “Really, Charlie, don't be so ill bred.”

Instantly, his expression changed, hardened. “But I am ill bred,” he said silkily. “And vulgar and all those words swimming around your pretty little head right now.” He cursed beneath his breath and clenched one fist, knocked it once, hard, against his thigh, then was still.

“I didn't say you were ill bred,” Rose said softly. “I merely cautioned you not to act ill bred.”

“Hardly any difference, is there.” He didn't look at her for the rest of the short ride.

The two waited silently in the carriage for a short queue of vehicles to release their passengers. Rose couldn't imagine what was going through Charlie's mind. His mood was mercurial, one moment worried, the next teasing and fun, and now he had slipped into a dark place that was almost frightening.

When it was time to disembark, Charlie got out first, then turned to hold up a hand to assist Rose, his face expressionless.

“You should escort me to the dressing room, go to the men's dressing room, then return for me,” Rose said, and Charlie nodded. “Then we will go find Mrs. Tattering and you will thank her for inviting you.”

“You've met?”

“Yes. Briefly. So you could still say, ‘You remember Mrs. Cartwright.' And she'll give me a sour look and say ‘Of course. How wonderful you were able to attend.' And I will smile politely and make her think I'm ever so happy to see her. You must not hint, even in the smallest way, that you have anything other than a passing acquaintance.”

Charlie looked at her from the corner of his eye and his mouth curved up slightly. The cad.

“I can't whisper in her ear or brush a hand against her waist?”

“Most certainly not.”

“Or invite her for a night of opera after the ball?”

Rose stopped midstride, fighting a smile. “No, Charlie. And you know it. Stop teasing me.”

“I'm sorry,” he said, sounding nothing of the sort. “You should know that Mrs. Tattering and I are nothing but acquaintances.”

“I don't see how that concerns me.”

She could feel more than hear Charlie's chuckle, and had to use all her restraint not to let him know how very miffed she was at the moment.

When they entered the ballroom, the strangest thing occurred. Perhaps it was her imagination, perhaps it was simply her heightened awareness of how important this evening was to Charlie, but as soon as they passed the threshold into the glittering room, it seemed as if every set of female eyes looked at Charlie and stared. He was a stranger, no doubt, but it was not curiosity Rose saw in their gazes, it was admiration. And when they looked at her—if they looked at her at all—their expressions were either dismissive or hostile.