Shana Galen (6 page)

Charlotte bit her lip. She was not prejudiced, but neither was she as informed as she might be. She supposed she was going to have to make some concessions if she were to fit into his world. “Very well.” She moved to the high-backed, rounded chair to her right, seated herself, and gave every appearance of rapt attention. She might not care for the lesson, but she’d show him that, like all Americans, she was a quick study.

For his part, he assumed the stance of a well-seasoned teacher. He stood across from her, struck an oratorical pose, and began what would likely be the longest, most tedious lecture she’d yet to bear. Even more tedious than old Miss Crudsworthy, the half-deaf, mostly blind teacher at her school in Charleston. Fortunately Miss Crudswor
thy had retired after half a year and was replaced by Miss Joyce, who was young and pretty and vibrant.

Charlotte looked at Dewhurst. She would get no reprieve this time.

“Britain’s
haute ton
, what we might call in English the fashionable set or high society,” Dewhurst began, “adheres to a strict set of unwavering rules. You must not only learn the rules, but master the rules, if you wish to become a diamond of the first water.”

“A what?”

“A diamond…” He paused, and the look that crossed his features was almost pained. “One of the most fashionable ladies. As my wife, nothing less is acceptable. At present we have ended the Season but…”

Charlotte stifled a yawn and allowed her attention to wander over to the bed again. Every time she looked at it, prickles of…excitement? fear?…cascaded down her back. She had never been in a man’s room before, especially not alone and unchaperoned. Not that there was a need for a chaperone as the household and soon the entire city would think she and Dewhurst married. But she knew they were not husband and wife. He knew it as well, though her presence in his bedroom seemed not to faze him. It certainly didn’t prevent him from going on and on about someplace called Almack’s.

And perhaps that was a good thing. She did not want the kiss on the ship repeated, particularly not here in the presence of such a sinfully plush-looking bed. George, but it was huge. It was probably the largest bed she’d ever seen. Why did he need such an enormous bed, and did it ever swallow him up?

She turned to ask him about the furnishing, but he was still going on about the upper ten thousand or some such. She shook her head. He treated the rules of his
ton
as though they were a matter of life or death. He went on and on with his lesson, and the longer he talked, the more difficult Charlotte found it to school her face into the studious expression he seemed to expect.

Remember the thousand dollars
, Charlotte chided herself when she had to squelch another yawn. She supposed it would be churlish to complain that he was boring her. He seemed to enjoy hearing himself speak, and she—well, she had to admit she enjoyed looking at him.

He was arrogant as the governor when she actually listened to his words, but if she tuned out his voice and focused on him, the experience was not altogether unpleasant. He was undeniably the most handsome man she’d ever met or probably would ever meet.

And his clothing, though a bit extravagant, was impeccable—not a crease, not a wrinkle. It fit him perfectly. Too perfectly. From her position on the
chair, Charlotte couldn’t help but notice how well the buff-colored pantaloons molded to his exquisitely muscled thighs and slim hips. Feeling the color rise in her cheeks, she quickly focused her attentions higher.

But that view was no better. As broad-shouldered and muscled as the boys she’d known in Charleston, Dewhurst destroyed her image of the fat, lazy English aristocrat. No, with his blond hair, green eyes, and boyish good looks, this man was more like a golden angel than a stuffy English lord.

Which was actually rather annoying. She wasn’t used to dealing with men who were so much prettier than she. Not that his good looks daunted her. Charlotte had always judged others more on personality than looks. It was the way she preferred to be judged, as she prized equality. That, and she was no paragon of idyllic beauty—American or British.

Dewhurst adjusted his cravat, changing absolutely nothing as far as she could tell, and turned his emerald eyes on her.

“I believe we shall review the order of precedence,” he was saying. Charlotte nodded enthusiastically, not remembering him discussing this order earlier but willing to listen if it was required.

“At the top of the order of precedence are the King and Queen, followed by their offspring,” he said. “The male royal offspring are referred to as
dukes, for example, the Duke of Cumberland. Now you would address the Duke of Cumberland as either ‘Your Grace,’ ‘Duke,’ or ‘Your Royal Highness.’ You will hear him spoken of as Cumberland, though.

“Below the royal dukes are the nonroyal dukes. They are addressed in the same fashion as the royal dukes without the addition of ‘Your Royal Highness.’ Do you follow?”

Charlotte nodded sagely, wondering how she would know a royal duke from a regular duke, but decided to just call all of them “Your Grace” so as not to have to distinguish.

She frowned. Addy would say the whole order sounded far too blasphemous. Didn’t one pray for God’s grace? Weren’t you to refer to God as the Lord? And wasn’t it a bit arrogant to expect everyone to go around calling you “Your Grace”? She missed the next part of Dewhurst’s lecture—something about an earl.

Charlotte really did
try
to attend, but he was speaking so quickly and there was so much to take in that she found herself distracted—first by his eyes, then his mouth, his thigh muscles again…

She listened harder, but a moment later she was intrigued by his inflection on particular words. His tongue seemed to roll over some syllables and pause on others. He had the pronunciations all wrong, but oh, how she liked to watch his lips form those words.

Charlotte took a deep breath and sighed, then bit her cheek in frustration. She had almost forgotten that she hated British accents. They were
not
appealing. Not at all. Not even his…

With renewed determination to concentrate and learn, Charlotte caught Dewhurst’s next words. “Now below an earl is a viscount. A viscount is not a viscount of anything. He is simply Viscount Brigham, for example. His wife is a viscountess. You refer to her as Lady Brigham. You refer to the viscount as Lord Brigham. I hope you are attending because you may meet Lord and Lady Brigham.”

“Oh, yes,” she lied. Then, because she could not help herself, “What are you?”

He gave her a frustrated look. “As I have told you before, I am a baron. However, no one speaks of barons by their title. I am always referred to as Lord Dewhurst.”

“And your wife is Lady Dewhurst, correct?”

“Yes, as my wife, you are the Baroness Dewhurst, but you will be addressed as Lady Dewhurst.” He was still talking, but Charlotte didn’t hear. A sudden surge of warmth had infused her when he’d called her “wife.” She couldn’t say why, didn’t want to speculate. The meanings were too horrendous to contemplate.

“Traitor!” she whispered.

“Eh?” he asked.

“Oh, I said, so then our children would be Lady Dewhurst and Lord Dewhurst as well.”

He frowned. “We are not going to have children.”

“Of course not! I wasn’t implying—”

He held up a hand. “But were a baron and baroness to have progeny, they would not be titled. As I have explained to you, only the offspring of a duke or a marquis are given titles.”

Charlotte pursed her lips. She did not remember him saying that. He narrowed his eyes. “What is the wife of a duke called?” he quizzed her.

That one was easy, and Charlotte smiled. “A duchess.” Ha! Let Dewhurst
try
to get the better of her.

“And the wife of a marquis?”

She thought for a moment. “A marchioness?”

He nodded. “An earl?”

“An earless,” she answered confidently.

Dewhurst blanched.

“No, no!” she hurriedly added, “I meant an earlette.”

He clutched one of the bedposts, knuckles turning white. “A countess,” he said so quietly she could hardly hear him.

“Oh, of course,” she replied, hoping he was not about to collapse. His face was flushed and red, and he seemed to be having difficulty breathing. After a moment, his color returned, and she said, “But I thought acountess was the wife of a count.”

Dewhurst pulled on his coat sleeves, jerking the
material fiercely. “There are no counts in England,” he said, voice hitting each word.

“Well, that makes no sense. You have a duke and a duchess, a marquis and a marchioness, a baron and a baroness. But a countess and an earl? That doesn’t seem quite right.”

“You questioning my knowledge on the matter?” he demanded.

“No. There’s no need to raise your voice. I was only wondering.”

“Wondering? What about
listening
? You’re driving me mad, woman.” He glanced at the clock and swore under his breath. “Dash it. I’m going to be late.”

“Late for what?” Charlotte asked.

He shook his head. “Do you realize I’ve been talking for over an hour, and you still haven’t grasped the basics?”

Charlotte huffed. “Well, maybe if you had a mite more patience—”

“Patience! I’ll have you know that I have the patience of a saint. I’ve sat for days—
days
, mind you—waiting out foreign operatives, I’ve endured over a dozen operas by a mediocre soprano who could barely carry a tune because proof of my devotion was required before I could bed her, and I once went two whole weeks without a suitably tied cravat because that dashed valet of mine got it in his head to go on strike. I have patience, madam!”

“I see. Well, cravats and opera singers aside, sir, you have as much to gain from this venture as those. If you could just begin again—”

“Begin again?” He stared at her as though she’d grown two noses. “Even if I were so inclined, I haven’t the time. I have an appointment with Josephine in a quarter hour, and I will be late as it is.”

“Josephine?” Charlotte gaped as indignation coiled in her belly, making her cold all the way to her toes. “Your
mistress
!”

“Good God.” He jerked at the sleeves of his tailcoat again. “You sound like a wife already.”

“And can you blame me? You’re going to see your mistress? Dressed like that? And on our wedding day?” She jumped up and stomped over to him.

“What’s wrong with my attire?” He angled so that he could see himself in the large cheval mirror. “These boots too drab? I should have Wilkins—”

“Oh, never mind. Your clothing is as puffed up and narrow as you!” She flicked his cravat and stiff collar for emphasis. “Go to your mistress, and I don’t care if you ever come back!” She turned, crossed the room in three strides, opened the door, and slammed it with all the force she could muster. A maid dusting one of the portraits in the long corridor jumped, and a footman dropped the
candle he was using to light one of the wall sconces.

Behind her, Dewhurst’s door swung open again, and he barked, “You dare slam my door in my face? You ungrateful little wretch.”

“You arrogant, preening flamingo!” she shot back. “I have nothing to say to you.” She gripped the edge of the door, prepared to slam it again, but he put his hand over hers, stopping her.

“But I have something to say to you, my upstart colonist. And when I am ready to say it, you
will
listen.” This time he shut the door so hard that the house rattled.

F
reddie strolled into Brooks’s in full dandy mode—despite his former mistress’s attempts to turn into a human catapult. He rubbed his cheek. Josephine had thrown a variety of objects, and her heavy hairbrush had struck home. Dashed woman was dicked in the nob. Perhaps this charade with the colonist would not be all bad. When a woman like Josephine became too attached, it was time to end the affair. Best to send her back to Alvanley. Perhaps having her back would smooth the baron’s ruffled feathers.

Alvanley’s potential reunion with Josephine was the topic of the evening during dinner at Brooks’s. Romeo Coates wagered Alvanley’s good humor would return in three weeks, Lord Yarmouth wagered seven, and Golden Ball
Hughes and George Hanger both put money on a fortnight. Freddie wagered a week; namely because when he had won Alvanley’s favorite hunter the year before, Alvanley had been in high dudgeon for ten days, and Freddie couldn’t imagine being more upset over a woman than a horse. Especially now that, after only three months, Josephine would be amenable to taking her former lover back.

Freddie had just begun perusing the wedding notices and wondering how he should word his—once-elegant dandy married to uncouth insignificant colonist?—when Alex Scarston, the Earl of Selbourne, thrust himself into the chair next to Freddie. Without so much as a word, Alex grabbed the gin and poured himself a large glass. Freddie frowned at the usurpation of the gin and then grimaced even more harshly when he got a better look at his friend. Alex’s hair was in wild disarray, as though he’d been running his hands through it, his cravat hung sloppily down his linen shirt, and his boots were scuffed and lacking polish.

“Has Hodges deserted you, old boy?” Freddie asked, referring to Alex’s valet.

“Unfortunately not.”

Freddie opened his mouth to comment on the state of Alex’s attire, but shut it quickly at a look from Alex. He’d known the earl since they’d been schoolmates at Eton, then Cambridge. Freddie
was a few years younger than Selbourne and prided himself on being a good deal more charming. As a boy, he’d deliberately cultivated the good graces of the older and somewhat dangerous Selbourne, and the effort had saved him more than once from the abuse younger boys at Eton endured. But Freddie had repaid the favor more recently and therefore felt no compunction in needling his friend. “You’re looking a bit Friday-faced, old boy. Dare I ask if something has happened to alter your exalted state of conjugal bliss?”

Alex threw Freddie a murderous look, drank his gin in one swallow, and motioned to the waiter to bring another bottle. Freddie raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t care what you say, Dewhurst. Just don’t say it in Italian,” Alex grumbled.

Freddie threw back his head and laughed, causing several of the other gentlemen in the club to turn and stare. A few smiled. “I assume you’ve been to see Lady Brigham?” Freddie asked.

“I left Lucia with her parents. I couldn’t take it another second. That house is Bedlam.”

Lucia was Lady Selbourne, Alex’s wife of seven years. Her mother, Viscountess Brigham, was well known for her obsession with all things Italian and her frequent use of her woefully scant Italian vocabulary.

Watching Selbourne pour another drink, Freddie decided it might be worse. He suspected that Alex’s irritation with Lucia’s mother had less to do with Italian and more to do with her hounding the couple about when they would have a child. After seven years, they had no offspring, and Freddie knew it was not for lack of trying.

And it was certainly not for lack of grandchildren that Lady Brigham complained. Lucia’s sister, Francesca, and her husband, Ethan, the Marquis and Marchioness of Winterbourne, had four children, three boys and one girl. The undeniable fact was that Lady Brigham liked to meddle, and her daughters were fair game. Dash it if the viscountess hadn’t had him in her sights at one time or another as well.

Alex nodded and took another drink, and Freddie said, “Dipping rather deep, aren’t you, Selbourne? I don’t relish the notion of delivering you home and watching you fall flat on your face at your wife’s feet.”

Alex glared at him and deliberately took another drink.

“Besides,” Freddie continued, stepping lightly “My own wife is waiting at home for me.”

Selbourne choked on the gin, and Freddie had to pound him on the back. When Alex could breathe again, he said, “Your
what
?”

Freddie was loath to say it again.
Wife
had come
out sounding unnaturally loud. It seemed to reverberate in the room like a death knell. He swallowed and forced himself to go on. He would have to convince the whole of the
ton
that, not only was he married to the American, he was besotted with her as well.

Freddie reached for the gin again. “Ah, I see the tittle-tattle hasn’t reached you yet. I have finally followed you into the parson’s mousetrap, Selbourne. I carried my bride over the threshold mere hours ago.”

Alex’s eyes narrowed. They were gray and piercing as a hawk’s. Freddie allowed his gaze to wander about the room as though Selbourne wasn’t mentally eviscerating his words and putting them back together in a fashion Freddie doubted would be to his taste. Before Selbourne sliced too deeply, Freddie said, “Don’t look so surprised, old boy. It was going to happen sooner or later. What is it the poets say? ‘Under love’s heavy burden do I sink’?”

Selbourne slowly arched one brow. “I think it is more along the lines of ‘oh, what tangled webs we weave.’”

Freddie smiled. “Be assured that I am quite willing to play the fly in Charlotte’s lovely web.”

Selbourne looked unimpressed. “Charlotte?” he said, voice bland. “Do I know the lady?”

Freddie took another sip of gin. “Doubtful. Unless you have been to America recently.”

A flicker of interest lit Selbourne’s eyes. “The lady is an American?”

Freddie tried to look pained—not a difficult proposition considering Charlotte’s regrettable nationality. “Yes. Bit of jolt there, I know, but the power of love and all that.”

Selbourne’s other brow rose. “Love?”

Freddie swallowed more of the gin. This was going to be dashed harder than he thought. Selbourne gave no indication of being convinced. In fact, he looked as though he were waiting for the final jest.

“Yes, Selbourne, love. How we mighty have fallen, eh?” He lifted the glass to his lips again, belatedly noticing that he’d already drained the gin. He continued dry-mouthed. “Met her, fell instantly, madly in love, and married her by special license. Whirlwind romance and all of that fluff—uh…fortuitous circumstances.”

Alex seemed to ponder this last for a moment, and Freddie dared hope his friend might finally be convinced. “A redhead?” Alex asked.

“The chit does happen to be ginger-pated. How did you know?”

“You can’t resist redheads.”

Freddie sat back dramatically. “Alas, I fear ’tis true. And the color is so dreadfully unfashionable!”

“Right. Keep it up and Brummell will revoke your membership in the Fops and Dandie’s Club.”

“There’s a club?” Freddie asked in mock seriousness.

“What game are you playing?” Alex asked, leaning forward and speaking in a lowered voice. “You cannot possibly expect me to believe you met and married an American, brought her home to London, and are sitting here with me now while she settles into your town house. I fail to see the humor in this joke.”

“Because it’s not amusing,” Freddie grumbled.

“Wait a moment. Is this woman why Pettigru slipped through your fingers?”

“Pettigru hasn’t—” Freddie clenched his jaw, and Alex wordlessly reached for his glass and refilled it. “Thank you,” Freddie managed before downing a healthy portion. “I don’t need to tell you that this must remain in strictest confidence.”

Alex waved a hand, indicating that was a given.

“Charlotte is Charlotte Burton. Her family in Charles Town was on intimate terms with Cade Pettigru.”

Alex stilled. It wasn’t an overt gesture, more of a sense of total calm and concentration that swept over his features. “And she has agreed to aid in that gentleman’s apprehension?” Though it was highly unlikely they would be overheard, Alex was careful not to repeat Pettigru’s name.

Freddie turned that question over in his mind. “She has not so much agreed as given in to pressure and greed.” Alex shook his head, and Fred
die said, “We’ve offered her one thousand pounds and the freedom to return to America if she plays the role of my wife and lures our friend from hiding.”

“Dangerous proposition.” Alex cocked a brow. “You’ll have to bring her out in public if you want to set a trap. It could mean your social annihilation.”

“I know,” Freddie said, feeling a bead of sweat run down his back. “I know. If I’m to minimize the damage, she’ll have to improve her manners. We continue our etiquette lessons tomorrow. Pray she’s a fast learner.”

“How does the role of tutor suit you?”

Freddie sat back. “Not a’tall, I’m afraid. Either the chit has a brick for a brain or I’m not a very gifted instructor.”

“You?” Alex said with what looked suspiciously like a grin. “Say it isn’t so.”

“Ridiculous notion, I know, but the girl actually accused me of lacking patience.”

“No.” Alex shook his head.

“Exactly. Me lack patience? Was I not the picture of fortitude when Wilkins got it in his head to valet for Alvanley last year? Was I not the soul of tolerance when Lady Helmsley lured me to her bed and then insisted I not only—ah, entertain her but Lady Wrothgar as well?”

“Yes, that must have been terribly trying for you.”

“And now to be called impatient by an upstart
colonist, too ignorant to know the most fundamental tenets of proper etiquette!”

“Not to be borne,” Selbourne said and lifted his gin in a toast.

Freddie frowned. “Why do I have the feeling you are secretly enjoying my troubles?”

“Never,” Selbourne said, not managing to hide a smile. “Though I will admit I prefer our roles reversed. It’s been some time since I’ve seen you all sentimental over a woman.”

“Sentimental? Ha!” Freddie barked. “Emotion has no part in this. It’s business.” He placed a hand over the breast pocket of his tailcoat and extracted a paper. “See this list? It proves I’m in complete control of the situation.”

Alex creased his brow but held out a hand for the paper. He unfolded it, read it, then erupted into howls of laughter. Freddie gritted his teeth. “Something funny, old boy?”

“No, no,” Alex said, snuffling the last of his chuckles. “This is priceless. Rules for dealing with your wife. Oh, I approve it wholeheartedly.”

Freddie smiled. “Ah, then you think I shall succeed?”

“Oh, I didn’t say that. You’ll fail miserably, but I’ll enjoy watching you stumble.” Alex reached for the bottle of gin, but Freddie snatched it away.

“Not so fast, Selbourne. I’m not feeling inclined to share.”

“Is it my fault you’re smitten with the girl?”

“Smitten? I don’t care in the least—”

Alex slipped the paper from Freddie’s hand and pointed to a sentence. Freddie read it over, then blanched with horror. “Slip of the pen,” he said, crossing the mistake out ruthlessly. “Doesn’t mean a thing.”

“Glad to hear it.” Selbourne rose as though the matter were settled. “In that case, we’re for home.”

“Home?” Freddie said, appalled. “It’s still early.”

“Early for a bachelor.” Alex grinned. “But we besotted husbands actually enjoy being home with our wives.”

Freddie frowned. “I’ll be bored out of my mind.”

Alex slapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to domesticity.”

Not long after Dewhurst—
Lord
Dewhurst, Charlotte amended—left his bedroom for a visit to his mistress’s boudoir, Mrs. Pots appeared and pointed Charlotte to her own room. It was the next door down from Dewhurst’s room, a locale that equally thrilled and annoyed her. George, but she had never felt so low, so uncouth and common as she had these past hours in Freddie Dewhurst’s house. Standing outside what was to be her room for God knew how long, Charlotte
took a fortifying breath. She had to remember who she was and where she had come from.

Certainly her family had fallen from favor. Whereas once she’d never wanted for anything and her house had been, if not as grand as Dewhurst’s, nothing to sneeze at, all she had now were her wits and the clothes on her back. She touched the emerald necklace she wore hidden beneath the high collar of the black gown. The mourning gown was the last memory of her father and brother, and the necklace a dim reminder of her long-dead mother. Everything else had been auctioned, sold, or abandoned.

But for a promise made by a man—a British man at that, and one she didn’t know or trust—Charlotte and Addy had nothing.

Mrs. Pots seemed to relish keeping Charlotte in her place. She refused to call her anything but
miss
, scoffed when Charlotte asked if she could see the menu and the household accounts, and resolutely placed Charlotte and her needs at the bottom of a long list of other tasks, beneath even the feeding of Dewhurst’s two large dogs. Finally the woman saw fit to show Charlotte to her room, which if Charlotte had known was not fifteen paces from where she’d been arguing with Dewhurst, she would have found herself.

“Here you are,” Mrs. Pots said, opening the door. “Miss Dewhurst decorated the room, so you’ll note the abundance of white.”

Charlotte nodded, pretending she knew who Miss Dewhurst was and why the color white should be associated with her, then stepped into the room. Mrs. Pots closed the door behind her, and Addy turned from a small nightstand, which she’d been dusting with her handkerchief.

“Here you is,” Addy said, putting her hands on her hips.

Charlotte nodded. “Yes, here I is.” There seemed to be a fog as persistent as that hovering over London, and her senses were as gray and cloudy as the buildings of the city. The room was large—far larger than she’d been used to in recent years—and for a moment she wondered if she’d been shown to the wrong suite. She stared blankly at the bright walls and unfamiliar furnishings, feeling as though her life were a bad dream.