Shana Galen (4 page)

Charlotte looked at Dewhurst. “Pray, what do I get out of this? If I play the part of your wife, if I lead you to Cade, what then?”

Dewhurst spoke without looking at her. “We fake your death and you go back to the col—the Americas. I go on as a widower, and life goes back to normal.”

Not for me
, Charlotte thought. “But what do
I
get out of this?” she repeated, and Dewhurst narrowed his eyes at her.

“What do you want?”

Charlotte pretended to consider. First and foremost, she wanted to know where Addy was and if she was safe. Secondly…she studied Dewhurst. This man obviously had money if he was part of the highest social circles in London. She had a responsibility to the memory of her father and brother to rebuild Burton & Son, not to mention Addy needed her. She’d sacrificed as much as Charlotte—possibly more than Charlotte—to buy them fare to London and a chance at rebuilding
their lives. She couldn’t fail Addy. But how much should she ask for? How much did she need? Four hundred dollars? Could she persuade him to give her five hundred? “Money,” she said, stalling for time in which to calculate.

The gentlemen glanced at each other. Dewhurst’s look was that of a man used to money grabbers and toadies. But this had been his idea, not hers. She had every right to expect compensation. Cade’s safety came first, but money was a close second. Dewhurst rose and strode to where she was standing, stopping mere inches from her.

He wore the same clothes, and his hair was still too long, but now she saw something of the aristocrat in him. The condescension in his eyes, the derisive curl of his lip, his haughty manner. And yet she did not step away or back down. His body was warm beside hers, his closeness making her pulse race. She wanted to pretend her reaction to him came from anger or fear, but she knew it was not true. He was an attractive man, for all that he was the enemy.

“If I am to marry you, madam, I expect your performance as my wife to be spectacular. Furthermore, I am in charge. You do what I say, when I say, how I say, and I’ll brook no argument.”

“And if I agree?” Charlotte said, tilting her chin up to look him in the eye.

“Then I pay you one thousand pounds and never have to see you again.”

F
reddie put a hand over his eyes and tried to imagine he were somewhere else—anywhere but traveling in Middleton’s yacht with a colonist who was to be—to play, he amended—his bride. Middleton had left them to inform Edwards she’d agreed to the scheme and to give the captain orders to sail into one of the docks.

Separating his fingers, Freddie peered across the room at his “bride.” Charlotte’s jaw was clenched, her expression stony, and she looked as though, were he to turn his back, she’d be eager to play Brutus to his Caesar.

What was he about? Had he gone completely daft? This scheme was mad—no one would ever believe he’d marry a colonist. A Yankee with no name, no family, no eye for fashion. Not to men
tion, there was a sense of desperation, a hunger hanging about her. She was a fighter; he could see it in her eyes. But he did not want to probe too deeply into the nature of the skirmishes she’d won and lost.

Over the years, Freddie had painstakingly constructed the persona of a dandy to deflect suspicion from his activities in the Foreign Office. He didn’t mind his role. After all, he had an eye for a well-tied cravat and a fine tailcoat. But there were times when he found the part constraining. This was one of them. How was he to play a pink of the
ton
, a tulip of the goes, a fashionable of the highest order with a dowd in tow?

Freddie lowered his hand and glared at the dowd in question. He supposed she wasn’t hopeless. With a bit of Town bronze she might look well enough. But that accent, her style of speaking, her common manners. Freddie Dewhurst, exquisite and choice spirit of the
ton
, married to a ginger-pated, bran-faced colonist? It was enough to make a cat laugh.

But his mother wouldn’t be laughing. Lady Dewhurst would be furious and full of questions, and he’d have to appease her while pretending to be in love with an American. Neither would Josephine find any amusement in this new state of affairs. His mistress was somewhat proprietary—a quality he’d found amusing. Until now.

Dash it. He hadn’t considered that he’d have
to give up Josephine to ensure this preposterous sham was believed. Freddie ground his teeth. How had Edwards talked him into this? The answer was simple: he hadn’t. Edwards had
ordered
him to marry the girl, and Freddie wanted the bastard Pettigru enough at this point to agree to just about anything. The girl would be useful; that he did not dispute. But making her his wife? During his tenure with the Foreign Office, Freddie had been shot, stabbed, and beaten within an inch of his life; he’d slept in hovels, in the open, and in stables; he’d traveled by horse, by coach, and even by dashed ship when he was forced to. And he had never—well, almost never—complained. But this marriage was pushing his loyalty to its limits.

At least the woman did not appear as overly emotional as some females, and she was certainly unlikely to threaten the security of his own controlled emotions. Freddie patted his breast pocket and felt the sheaf of papers: a false marriage license and doctored papers.

“Mr. Dewhurst,” the colonist said, her honeyed voice making him forget the direction of his thoughts. “Is there something keeping you here? If so, pray, state your purpose. I prefer to keep our exchanges quick and painless.”

“If only that were possible, Miss Burton. But, you see, you’ve already drawn blood.” She gave him a puzzled look, a delicate crease forming be
tween her sherry-colored eyes, and he explained, “It’s Lord Dewhurst.”

She waved a hand. “Of course.”

“No, not ‘of course.’” Freddie stood and was dismayed to realize his legs were still somewhat unsteady. “The order of precedence is a matter of great significance among members of the upper ten thousand, and you would do well to learn it and learn it perfectly. But first I want some information from you. How long has it been since you last saw Pettigru?” He leaned against the wall and rested a booted foot on her berth.

“It’s been five years since I’ve seen him,” she said, giving his boot a pointed look.

“And in that time, you never thought to come to London and visit before?”

She shrugged, and he tried not to notice how large her brown eyes were in the dim light or how her hair reminded him of a river of molten lava streaming across her back. Bloody hell, but she was aggravating. He clenched his fist. “I want to know what motivated your visit. Was it money? Your father and brother were killed, but what about your mother?”

A look of pain flashed across her face, and she seemed to sink into the berth. “She died when I was very little.”

“So you have nothing.” She did not answer, but her dark eyes never left his face. “And if Pettigru
loaned you, say, a thousand pounds, how were you going to pay him back?”

“I told you, he’s my friend.”

“Did you expect he’d marry you? Take you as a mistress? Is that what you wanted?”

“Mr. Dewhurst—”

He held up a hand. “It’s Lord Dewhurst.”

She gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes, and he clamped his lips shut to keep from shouting at her. Irritating little chit. He would
not
lose control of his temper because of her. He knew all he needed to for now. One: she was alone in the world. Two: she needed money. Three: she’d gone to Cade Pettigru for help.

Now God help him, because he had a monumental task ahead of him. He pushed away from the berth and strolled across the small cabin. “It might be best if we start at the beginning, Miss Burton.”

“The beginning?” She pushed a strand of hair from her face and raised a brow. “I am not a fool, sir.”

Freddie leaned a hip against the large desk bolted to the floor of the cabin. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Miss Burton.”

“Not necessary, sir, when you have an overabundance as it is.”

Freddie frowned. Had the chit just insulted him? He narrowed his eyes, and she watched him warily from her seat. The contrast of her white
face and flame-colored hair beside the dark counterpane and somber black gown made her look small and harmless.

Freddie decided he’d misunderstood her. “Miss Burton, as I understand it, you are from Charles Town and you—”

“Charleston,” she interrupted.

“What?”

“I told you. I’m from Charleston.”

Freddie raised a brow. Hadn’t he said that? Her version sounded like his except she ran Charles Town all together. He tried another tactic. “You are from South Carolina.” He paused in case she felt the need to correct him. Apparently she did not. “And as such, there may be some customs and expectations involved in the London Season with which you are unfamiliar. As my wife and an outsider, your every move, every action will be scrutinized. It falls to me to ensure your introduction is done to a cow’s thumb. I do not mean to crow, but I have a reputation as a pink of the
ton
, and in order to—”

“What language
are
you speaking?” she asked.

“English,” he retorted, frowning.

“It does not sound like any English I have ever heard.”

“Now you go too far.
You
are disparaging
my
English?”

She snorted. “You’re not one for originality, are you, Mr. Dewhurst?”

“It’s
Lord
Dewhurst,” he erupted losing his patience. “I am a
lord
, not a mister.”

She raised an eyebrow, and he scowled, thinking how he must have sounded. Dash it if this chit wasn’t getting the better of him.

“Please accept my humblest apologies,” she said, her face contrite, but Freddie could have sworn there was a very healthy measure of sarcasm in her voice.

“You hoaxing me, madam?”

“I declare, I would never hoax you, Mr.—Lord Dewhurst.” Her eyes sparkled with restrained laughter.

Freddie eyed her suspiciously. “Do you even know what ‘hoaxing’ means?”

“No. But I am sure I would never do it.” She blinked innocently, and then he knew she was making fun of him.

He ground his teeth. Not only was the chit distracting him from his lesson, she’d annoyed the hell out of him, too. Freddie tapped his fingers on the desk in a halfhearted attempt to relax and refocus on the task at hand. It might have been easier if her cheeks hadn’t warmed with color and her eyes hadn’t brightened with mischief at her game.

Without thinking, he reached for the bottle of wine standing upright on the desk. Uncorking it, he looked around for a glass, found none, so drank a healthy dose from the bottle. The American looked unperturbed. Probably used to men
with manners no better than an ape’s. He frowned, thinking the comparison didn’t reflect too well on him at the moment. “Miss Burton, I am trying to establish where to begin our lesson. I see we need to work on titles, but I think—”

“Lesson?” she said, all traces of mischief gone. “I hardly think I need a lesson in etiquette from you, sir.”

“Oh? You are familiar with the intricacies of life among the
ton
?”

“I have no idea what you just said, but I am familiar with the social graces to which you are probably referring. After all, we
do
have a Season in Charleston.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” he said, dismissing the idea out of hand.

“Not at all. Before I began working at my father’s business, I attended many social engagements. I am sure, given a little practice, the graces to which you are referring will all come back to me. I can be quite charming when the occasion calls for it.”

Freddie took another swallow of the wine and said, “A charming American. An oxymoron to be sure.”

“Pray, sir, keep insulting me, and you’ll see the barrel of my pistol.”

Before he realized what he was about, he’d crossed the tiny cabin, grasped her arm, and wrenched her to her knees. “Don’t threaten me, little Yankee hellion.”

“I am a Southerner, sir. Not a Yankee.”

“You’re a pain in the—neck. And my good humor and noblesse oblige only extend so far.”

She made a fist with the hand he held. “You speak of nobility, sir? You don’t know the meaning of the word. I’ve seen what you bastards do in the name of nobility, and it sickens me.
You
sicken me.”

He pulled her forward, hard against him, until he could see the smattering of freckles on her nose. “Best you inure yourself to the taste, Miss Burton, for you will have a hale and hearty dose as long as we are together.” And then to his surprise, he cupped the back of her neck, bent, and kissed her. Hard.

Her body went rigid with shock, but it was a temporary paralysis. Her free hand came up and made a feeble attempt to push him away, but Freddie was determined to show her who was master. He’d told her he was in charge, and now he intended to prove it. Hardheaded Americans. Always fighting battles they were sure to lose.

And this colonist was losing. He could feel her softening. Feel her lips opening to him, feel her body—which was far more lush than the ill-fitting gown would have one believe—pressing against him, feel her breathing become more rapid, feel—

Freddie broke the kiss and stepped back. His stomach was churning, and the room had started spinning. Too late, he realized he should never
have drunk the wine. These dashed yachts would be the end of him. He took a deep breath, but it was no use. Even Charlotte was spinning now. Spinning round and round and—“Dash it,” he swore, and snatched open the door.

Charlotte put a hand to her beating heart, alarmed at how hard it was pounding. He had kissed her! The arrogant, overbearing despot had actually kissed her. The last thing she had expected him to do was assault her.

He’d been standing there, so presumptuous, so autocratic, so full of pride. And he’d actually tried to lecture her! As if he could teach her anything. Oh, George Washington, how was she ever going to survive this charade when they reached his home? She’d spent all of a half hour in the man’s presence, and already she hated him. And he hated her, too. He’d looked positively green when he’d broken their kiss. He’d rushed from the room as though his life depended on it. Thank God. Who would have saved her if the Brit got it in his mind to rape her?

She rose and walked slowly around the cabin, moving with the gentle swells from the river beneath them. She’d been on ships since she was a baby and had her sea legs firmly under her. It would have taken a violent storm indeed to unsettle a seasoned sailor such as she.

Then why had this Dewhurst unsettled her so
easily? She hated him, as she hated all things British. And just like a warrior to try and play on her softer emotions for leverage. George help him if he ever tried to kiss her again. Then she’d show him…what?

Why hadn’t she showed him earlier? Why had she just stood there and allowed him to kiss her? The pit of her stomach knotted but not from nausea. She wished she could go on deck to clear her head. Her conflicted response to him was most unnerving. She, who hadn’t the time or inclination to look at a man in years, had been—however momentarily—swept away by an…
Englishman
.

Of all the men in the world, the English had to be the least appealing. This man was the enemy of her country, her father, her grandfather, dear George Washington himself. Dewhurst was from that stock of people who had forced unfair restrictions and provisions on her country, invaded her home without provocation, killed and enslaved her countrymen by the thousands. He was her enemy, and from now on she’d treat him as badly as his kind had treated her countrymen.

An hour or so later, Charlotte, Addy, and Dewhurst disembarked at another dock. It was early morning, but one would not have known it here. A pervasive haze hung over the ships and passengers, making the sky look dark. And the place was a veritable beehive of activity. Groups of passengers and seamen streamed by, carrying trunks
and valises, or were followed by servants carrying the luggage for them. Carts and carriages popped up like weeds at every turn.

Dewhurst steered her and Addy through the throngs, chatting amiably to Addy but admonishing Charlotte more than once to keep her head down and the hood of the mantle close around her face. Charlotte did not mind the mantle—it was cold and damp outside—but she did mind missing all the goings-on about her. Dewhurst stopped to allow a group of boisterous seamen to pass, and Charlotte turned, surveying the tangle of masts rising like spires in the channel behind her and the barrels of rum being hoisted off a ship and onto a platform. Officials ticked off each barrel on their logs while uniformed guards eyed anyone passing by too slowly with menace. Finally her gaze rested on Addy, who stood directly behind her, clutching her meager shawl and frowning something monstrous.