Shana Galen (11 page)

He thought about the precedency fiasco and discarded that idea. Perhaps they could pretend she was deaf. Or maybe he could tell everyone she was insane and locked up in his attic. Hmm. Now that idea had some merit.

“Of course I have a rudimentary understanding of the language,” Charlotte said, interrupting his thoughts.

Freddie brightened. Thank the Maker. All was not lost.

“I know
oui, merci,
and
arrivederci
.”

Freddie groaned aloud. Dash it all to hell. He was doomed.

“Now what’s the matter?” Charlotte demanded, and Freddie noted with unease that she poked the eel uncertainly as she said it.

“
Arrivederci
is not French,” Freddie mumbled. “It’s—what in blazes are you doing to that fish?”

She stopped poking it and looked up at him. “I’m poking it. It seems…slimy.”

“It’s not slimy. It’s sauced, and it’s delicious, so stop poking it and eat it.”

She frowned. “What type of fish is it? I haven’t seen a fish like this before.”

Freddie speared a portion and put it in his mouth. He savored it and swallowed. “It’s eel.”

“Eel!” Charlotte pushed the plate away with a force so strong it almost toppled to the floor. The ever-adept Andrews caught it and whisked it away.

“On the contrary, it’s quite good, as you would find for yourself if you would eat it instead of throwing it on the floor,” Freddie ground out.

“How many courses remain?” she said dubiously.

“Not many,” Freddie said, then mumbled, “And at this rate, we may never eat again.”

Julian would not be pleased to see so many of his dishes returned untouched. Freddie would have to pay the cook handsomely to keep him from leaving. Not only were the servants going to be unhappy, but Freddie himself was in dire jeopardy of losing yet another training session. He had to remember rule four: colonists are simple. Perhaps he had overwhelmed her with table manners. Should he break the lesson into smaller, more digestible portions?

Freddie speared another bite of his eel, but he could not enjoy it with Charlotte staring at him,
lip curled, from the top of the table. Finally he waved at the footmen to take the eel away and bring the next course. As soon as he saw it, Freddie gritted his teeth, reached out, and intercepted the footman carrying the calf’s head to Charlotte’s end of the table.

“Andrews, I’ll do the honors tonight,” Freddie said. He’d seen some women balk at carving a calf’s head, and he was taking no chances.

“What is it now?” Charlotte asked, and Freddie was relieved the table was long and covered with enough flower arrangements, wines, pots, platters, and sauceboats to obscure the calf’s head.

“It’s beef,” Freddie answered, cutting into it. “You do eat beef?”

Charlotte sipped her wine again, and Freddie noted that, though she only sipped this time, she appeared not to realize her glass was refilled each time she drank. He continued carving, giving her the best, most delicate parts. Andrews took her plate away, and Freddie began carving his own portion. A gasp from the end of the table jolted him, causing his hand to slip and cut a finger.

“Dash it! Now what?” Freddie yelled, standing up and clutching his napkin to his bleeding finger.

“There’s an eye in my food,” Charlotte said, standing with hands fisted. Her face was ghastly white now.

“It’s a calf eye. A bloody delicacy, you daft woman!”

Charlotte threw her napkin on the table. “Me, daft? You’re the one serving eel and calf eyes and—” She poked at the other item on her plate.

“Neck,” Freddie said and watched her sway. He started toward her, but she gripped the back of her chair and seemed to recover. Mumbling something unintelligible, she turned on her heel and marched past Dawson.

“Madam,” Dawson began, but she shot him a glare, then opened the door behind him, striding straight into the butler’s pantry. Freddie put his uninjured hand over his eyes and shook his head.

“My lord, do you think she’ll realize—?” Dawson began and then was interrupted when the door opened again, and Charlotte reemerged, looking sheepish. Freddie had to give her credit. She held her head high as she strode to the correct exit.

Freddie watched her go, then checked the progress of his finger. The bleeding had slowed, but when he looked down, he saw that he’d gotten blood on his tailcoat and added red splotches to the greenish cabbage soup stain on his breeches. “Bloody hell,” he growled and followed her through the door and into the entrance hall.

“There he is! My lord, come tell this misguided miscreant that I have first rights to this tub. I must prepare your bath.” Wilkins was standing in the middle of the foyer, on the first step of the stairs, playing tug-of-war with Charlotte’s servant. Two
maids who had obviously been assisting with the chore of carrying the tub upstairs cowered on a third step.

“Now, Mr. Wilkins,” Charlotte, who appeared to be attempting to restore order, said, “we’ve discussed this before. Please try and remain civil.”

“Civil?” Wilkins howled, yanking viciously on the tub. “Civil! Try telling that to this madcap rudesby.”

Freddie blinked. “Madcap—?”

“She all but snatched the tub from my hands.”

“Now, Miss Charlotte, that ain’t nothing but a bald-faced lie,” Addy bellowed from her position on the second step. “I hads the tub and these here girls were helping me to carry it to your room so I coulds prepare your bath, when this here skinny-legged fool tried to snatch it away.”

“Perhaps you could prepare my bath after Lord Dewhurst has finished,” Charlotte said tentatively. “Or I could bathe in the morning. In any case, it appears Lord Dewhurst needs a bath far more than I.”

She glanced back at him, her eyes resting on the bloody napkin about his finger and the sundry stains on his clothing.

“Egad!” Wilkins cried, jumping back, releasing his hold on the tub, then wheeling his hands to keep his balance on the steps. “My lord, now what have you done?”

Freddie’s stomach dropped as it hadn’t since
he was eight and had been caught using a mirror on a pole to look up the maids’ skirts. He had the strange urge to stare at the ground and shuffle his feet before he remembered that Wilkins was not his guardian and that the man, in fact, worked for him.

“Now’s our chance!” Addy screamed at the maids. “Grab the other end and be quick about it.”

The maids rushed past Wilkins and grabbed the tub, and Addy began herding them upstairs. Wilkins watched, apparently torn between establishing his dominion over the tub and rescuing his master’s second-best tailcoat from further ruin.

To Freddie’s surprise, the valet opted for the tub and scampered after Addy and the maids, calling, “Stop! Thief! Tub pilferers!”

Charlotte stared after the rowdy group and then turned back to him. “Do you have any more of that wine?”

F
reddie chuckled. It appeared they’d arrived at a temporary truce, and he wasn’t going to question it. She wanted a drink, and that he could certainly supply.

“Follow me.” He led her through the hall and opened the double doors to his library, holding them wide until she’d passed inside. When he’d closed them and turned around, he found her looking about, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

“This is magnificent,” she cooed, her eyes all but caressing the towers of books extending to the top of the twelve-foot ceiling. In the middle of the room was a fireplace, the fire burning low and orange and casting shadows about the wall of books. Two couches faced each other on either side of the mantel. At the far end of the room, sit
uated before a huge octagonal window that extended past the rest of the house and provided a stunning view of his garden when the sun shone, was Freddie’s desk. Intricately carved and highly polished, the desk was the centerpiece of the room. The wood was gorgeous—mahogany from the wilds of the Caribbean—and the ornate carvings were the perfect embellishment to the imposing room and its glorious window. “This is truly magnificent,” Charlotte repeated.

“A man must have his sanctuary,” Freddie answered, crossing to the table beside one of the couches, where several decanters glowed in the firelight. He poured himself a healthy dose of his best port and splashed out two fingers of brandy for Charlotte. He probably should have given her the claret, which was far more suitable a drink for an English lady, but thus far she’d exhibited no signs of ladylike behavior, and she definitely wasn’t English.

He didn’t know what they drank in America, but he had a feeling one dose of brandy would not put his colonist under the table.

She took the glass from him, sipped the brandy, and nodded her approval. Freddie watched her, wondering just when she’d become
his
colonist. Certainly he had some rights over her—perhaps
rights
was not the correct word, but definitely responsibilities—but she was in no conceivable way his. A few weeks more and she’d be back in
America, back in her precious Charleston, a thousand miles and a god-awful sea between them.

He should rejoice at the mere thought of so much distance separating them; instead, the prospect made him feel lonely. His life these past two days had been turned upside down, his sober, efficient household set on its ear. And yet there was something exhilarating—and not a little scary—in the uncertainty his wife and her sidekick brought into his ordered life.

She turned again to survey the room, and he mentally shook his head. What was he thinking? Did he actually want the little hoyden to stay? She belonged in her backward barbarian land, and he belonged here in the height of culture and civility.

She started for the octagonal window, navigating past the desk, and Freddie held his breath. She did not walk so much as sway her hips while moving forward. Her skirts swished from side to side as her sweet derriere swung back and forth. Silently he thanked Madam Vivienne for her artistry. The gown had been made with seduction in mind.

When Charlotte reached the window, she bent over to get an impression of the lawns outside, and Freddie’s heart thumped in his chest. He had a perfect view of her round, wiggling rump. Finally she turned back to him.

Freddie swallowed, but his throat felt like someone had stuffed his cravat down it. When he tried
to wet his lips with a sip of port, he found his glass unaccountably empty. “This is a beautiful room,” she said in that low, sultry voice he was coming to know so well. “I had no idea you were such an avid reader.”

Freddie followed her gaze over the rows and rows of books, most of them purchased by his father and grandfather. “I’m not an avid reader. Not a reader a’tall, if you must know.”

She glanced back at his desk and the small stack of books on the corner. Two were open and his stopping point on the others was clearly marked. “And those books on your desk?” she asked.

“Part of the illusion.” He took a seat on the couch and motioned for her to follow, but she shook her head.

“Exactly what illusion are you attempting to perpetuate, Alfred?”

“My persona, when I go out in Society, is that of a dandy.” She wrinkled her brow. “A fop, a fribble, a—”

She shook her head, uncomprehending.

“A popinjay. Oh, dash it! A man with interests in fashion and little else.”

“And this is a persona?” She ran her eyes down his starched, perfectly tailored clothing, immaculate except for the cabbage, the wine, and—oh, yes, the newest addition—the blood. “You’re quite convincing.”

He inclined his head. “Years of practice,
madam. Am I to assume that you are an avid reader? Do colonists know how to read?”

She gave him a wan smile. “If I follow the page with my finger and sound the words out.”

Freddie raised a brow. The chit could be amusing when she wanted.

“But to answer your question, no, I am not an avid reader, much to my father’s disappointment, I’m afraid.” She gave the room another wistful perusal. “He would have adored this room. He would have taken up residence and then refused to be moved until he’d read every book twice.”

“Rather a frightening prospect, but I’ve known worse fathers-in-law.”

She was quiet, her face full of grief for a moment.

“You’re thinking of him,” Freddie said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“As am I.”

Freddie shifted on the couch, uncomfortably aware that he wanted to go to her. She looked so forlorn, standing in the center of his massive library like a little girl lost. He wanted to take her in his arms, tell her everything would be all right, but how the hell did he know that everything in her life would work out? Still, he couldn’t stop himself asking, “Is that why you need the thousand pounds? Debts left by your father?”

She gave him a curious look, then turned her face away, mumbling, “Something like that.”

Freddie set his glass of port on the side table.
“Then you need the money.” She made no indication of hearing him, and he said, mostly to himself, “And you aren’t likely to give up.”

Her gaze whipped back to meet his. “Give up? Never, Lord Dewhurst. I will make this scheme work and clear Cade’s name.”

“Ah, and we’ve returned to the topic of the infamous Mr. Pettigru. What exactly has he done to garner your loyalty? Tell the truth. You don’t care if he’s guilty. You’ll fight for him regardless.” He clenched his hand into a fist, not liking the image of her with Pettigru, and liking his own jealous reaction even less.

“I will fight for him. He was my brother’s friend, and he’s been another brother to me. He used to tickle me until I screamed for mercy, teased me about the boys I had crushes on, and he even danced with me at my first ball.”

Freddie reached for his port, drank it down. He could well imagine Charlotte at her first ball. Young, innocent, beautiful. He would have fallen hard and fast. Freddie poured himself another drink. “Join me?”

She raised one graceful eyebrow. “I hope I have not driven you to drinking, Mr. Dewhurst.”

Freddie clenched the glass. “You’ll have me on the cut in no time if you insist upon lowering my rank at every opportunity.”

Charlotte smiled, and he could have sworn she’d intentionally called him mister.

“It’s
Lord
Dewhurst, my lady,” he reminded her.

“That’s what I meant,” she said airily, and his hackles rose. He needed to put her back on the defensive. He didn’t like feeling out of control.

“Yes, that response will go over well when you’re addressing the Prince Regent. ‘I meant to say Your Highness,’” he drawled, imitating her Southern twang.

“You’re not nearly as amusing as you seem to think,” she retorted, the color rising prettily in her cheeks. “I’m making every effort.”

He snorted. “Ha! I might believe that if I still thought you had windmills in the head, but you obviously have some intelligence. So? Explain. Is there some reason you feel the need to constantly demote me? No one’s yet broken their teeth by calling me lord.”

“I find titles repulsive, Alfred. Most Americans do. Unlike you Brits, we value equality among all men.”

“Really?” Dewhurst said, leaning back on the couch and stretching his legs out. His polished boots brushed against her dainty white slippers. “Does that include all men or just white men?”

“It includes neither Negroes nor women as yet, sir, but I trust that will change.”

“I see. Then you admit that in your country not everyone is equal?”

Charlotte shifted from one foot to the next, ob
viously not liking his insinuations. He didn’t sympathize. She had started it, after all.

“Our system is by no means perfect, sir, but—”

“Neither is ours,” he said, sitting up and grasping her wrist. She jumped at the unexpected contact, and he was able to take advantage of the moment and pull her to him. “But every one knows his or her place. And if I am to escort you about Town, I must insist that you keep the line.” He could feel the pulse beating in her wrist now, and knew he was causing the reaction.

“Keep the line?” Charlotte asked, twisting her wrist in his grip and glaring at him.

“Quite right. Address your betters as such.” He kept his tone light, but he was deadly serious. She would have a hard enough time as it was without ignoring the rules governing Society. And he would jeopardize neither his cover as a dandy nor his assignment for one stubborn American.

No matter how rich her auburn hair, how full her lips, or how voluptuous her body.

“My betters?” she hissed, yanking her arm but not freeing it. Instead Freddie pulled her toward him until she was bent forward. In hindsight, it was not the best move he could have made. When she bent over, he had a tantalizing view of her ample cleavage. Worse, he could smell her. Smell the faint but undeniable scent of…honeysuckle?

He swallowed. “This discussion is a mere taste of what you will encounter when you finally make
your entrée, so if you’re going to kick over the traces every time some cake of an earl or duke unwittingly insults you, it were better that you stay home.” His eyes burned into hers, but she met his gaze defiantly.

“I think, like most Englishmen, you underestimate my American sense of determination, sir,” she bit out.

“Good,” he said, releasing her and sitting back to give the appearance of never having touched her at all. His body—the thrumming in his loins, the residual heat from her skin on his—told a different story. “And as to your dilemma concerning my title, Dewhurst will do just fine.”

“I can think of several other more colorful—”

Freddie raised a brow. “Now, now. Language like that hardly befits a lady. Or were you hoping for a language lesson?”

She pursed her lips. “Hardly. When am I to make my entrée? Shouldn’t we begin to plan the time and place?”

Freddie rolled the glass of port in his hands. “You’re not ready. You still have more—”

“Lessons. Yes. That’s what you always say. What are these finer points of etiquette I’m missing? Is it just the titles? Because I do know them.”

Freddie would have loved to test her on that point, but he refrained. “The titles are the least of it, madam. There’s your deportment, your manner of speaking, your”—he looked down at his
soiled clothing—“table manners, your—can you even dance?”

She blew out an angry breath. “Of course I can dance, and there’s nothing wrong with any of the rest of it, either.”

“That is a matter up for debate, so let’s end it.” He put the port aside. “Let me see you make a sweep.”

She stared at him. “Pardon?”

“Curtsy,” he said sharply.

“You mean bow?”

“No, men bow. Women curtsy. Give it a go.”

She shook her head. “I prefer to shake hands.”

“You can shake hands with friends and equals. You curtsy to those with a higher rank.”

“Higher rank? I just told you that I value equality—”

“Humor me,” he growled. She glared at him, but finally she curtsied. Freddie winced. “What was
that
?”

She put her hands on her hips and scowled. “My curtsy. If you’re just going to make fun of me—”

“Not a’tall. Though that particular attempt was a bit cow-handed. Do it again.”

“Did you just refer to me as livestock?”

“No, I said it looked cow-handed.” He stood and crossed to the fireplace mantel. “It means clumsy.”

“Oh, really?” she said jerking her chin up. “This
curtsy, which you, sir, call clumsy, attracted every beau for three counties in South Carolina.”

“Is that so?” He finished the port and set the empty glass under a portrait of his great-grandfather.

“Yes, it’s so.” She glanced away. “Mostly.”

“I can see why it was popular. You’re bowing so low you’re likely to display all your assets in an evening gown.”

Charlotte gasped, her jaw dropping open. “How dare you, sir!”

Freddie flicked her protests away. “If you want my assistance I’ll have to be honest. None of that flummery you may be used to.”

“Flummery?”

“Just do it again, and keep your back straight this time.” He watched her take a deep breath, from the look on her face no doubt battling a murderous rage coursing through her. Finally she complied, her back so stiff he thought it might break.

“No, no,” he exclaimed. “You’re not going to be addressing the Queen. Not so low. Here”—he strode to her—“try it like this.” He placed one hand on her back and the other on her abdomen below her breasts.

She inhaled sharply, then without looking at him, curtsied.

“That’s all the go,” he praised. “Again.”

She did so, then turned with bright eyes for an
other word of approval. He hadn’t expected the movement and found himself staring into her hopeful, sherry-colored eyes. Almost involuntarily, his hands on her stomach tensed, and he felt the fullness of her breasts press against his chest.

He looked down at the cool rosy pink expanse of flesh, his eyes tracing her curves from the swell of her breasts to the slim lines of her bare neck. Her skin there was pale and beckoning, and he couldn’t resist trailing a hand up her spine until he could caress the warm flesh at her nape with two fingers. Soft as silk. Would she taste as sweet and sultry as she sounded? Her eyes flew to his mouth and, unable to resist, he bent to brush her mouth with his.