Shana Galen (8 page)

He, undeterred, pressed onward. “Lydia. Charming as usual. Apple tart?”

“Freddie,” his mother said again, “I think you owe me an explanation.” Her attention wandered to the linen napkin he had clutched to his crotch, and she gave a quick, concerned glance at the young woman with her. Charlotte assumed it was Dewhurst’s sister. Like her brother, she had chiseled aristocratic features, golden blond hair, and heavy-lidded eyes. Charlotte’s gaze swept over the trio, and the sensation that she was an outsider was so strong it almost knocked her over. What was she—plain, lackluster, daughter of a retired sailor—doing here among these golden angels, who had but to think of a wish for it to come true?

“Lydia,” the older woman said, with a disapproving look at Dewhurst’s napkin. “Wait in the coach.”

“But Mama!”

“Do not argue, young lady.”

“Dash it,” Dewhurst said, squeezing Charlotte’s arm with the force of his exasperation. “Any further squabbling and I will send you both back to the coach.”

That unified the women, who gave him identical scathing looks.

“Now sit down, have some dashed tea and a scone, and allow me to explain.”

The two women moved stoically to the dining room chairs, apparently forgoing the offer of breakfast. Charlotte, however, was much more favorably inclined to Dewhurst’s offer. She had yet to eat anything, and she might need the sustenance if she was going to survive this ordeal. While everyone else angled for the table, Charlotte veered toward the sideboard, only to be propelled in the opposite direction and forcibly assisted into the chair next to Dewhurst’s. “I’m hungry. I don’t want to sit down,” she grumbled.

He bent down in the guise of assisting her with the chair. “And I didn’t want coffee scalding my inexpressibles, so it appears neither of us is going to get what we want.”

He took the seat beside her, then caught her hand in his before she could snatch it away.
“Mother, Lydia,” he began. “I have a surprise for you.” He squeezed her fingers, and she frowned at him. That elicited another squeeze, and a dark look from his otherwise sunny features. Did the man actually want her to smile and pretend all was well? Charlotte returned his black stare, adding a challenge in her eyes.

Still smiling, he said, “This is not how I imagined this moment, but I am glad you two are here.” He nodded at his mother and sister. “I know this seems abrupt and a bit hasty, but who among us can harness the power of love? I want to introduce my wife, Charlotte. Mother, Lydia, Charlotte Burton, now Dewhurst. Charlotte, this is my mother, Lady Abigail Dewhurst, and my youngest sister, Lydia.” He inclined his head at the women. “I know, given time, you will come to care for each other as much as you do me.”

He squeezed Charlotte’s hand again, his smile as tight as his grip.
Think of Cade and the thousand dollars
, Charlotte reminded herself and was able to force her mouth to turn up at the corners. A little. She could see that her effort did not please Dewhurst, but he ceased the death hold on her fingers.

Dewhurst’s words rang in the silence of the room, and Charlotte looked across the table to see both women looking more like buzzards than the hummingbirds they’d twittered in as. She swallowed and tried to remember how to address these
members of Dewhurst’s family. “How lovely to meet you, Your Grace,” Charlotte said, and Dewhurst squeezed her hand so tightly she almost cried out. “I mean, Your Lady”—squeeze—“ship.”

Dewhurst’s mother had a look on her face very much like the one her son had shown when she’d made the gaffe about the earlette last night, but finally the woman cleared her throat. “I am sorry, Freddie. I must be mistaken.” She smiled, almost laughed. “For a moment I thought you referred to this bedraggled, homely woman as your wife.”

Charlotte’s jaw dropped, and Dewhurst jumped in before she could respond. “Ah, Mother, I’ve always said you have a keen sense of humor.”

“I have no such thing. In fact, as soon as I heard the twaddle about a marriage, I came here to hear the denial.” She crossed her arms. “I’m waiting.”

Dewhurst clenched his jaw and, worse, his hand over hers. “Mother, I can’t—”

“Freddie, I am waiting for your denial, and I do not intend to leave without it.”

“I’m afraid you’re a bit too late.”

“Rubbish,” Lady Dewhurst announced, rising and staring at her son across the table. “Give the chit some money and send her back to wherever she hails. I have overlooked your dalliances with trollops and lightskirts in the past, but this is beyond the pale.”

“Trollop?” Charlotte said before Dewhurst could stop her. “How dare you call me a trollop?” Before meeting this foolish flamingo and his family, she had never—
never
—in her life been treated as anything less than a lady. Now, in the space of a couple of days, she’d been mistaken for Cade’s mistress, kissed and insulted as though she were a common tavern doxy, and now outright called a whore by a woman who seemed to think Charlotte was as easy to be rid of as a stray cat.

“I’ll have you know,” Charlotte continued, “that my father comes from one of the oldest families in Charleston, and we don’t cotton to being treated worse than river rats.”

Beside her Dewhurst groaned and looked as though he might cry, but whatever the cause of his distress—increasingly, Charlotte was coming to believe she was the source of his pain—she had to give him credit for holding fast to her hand and their ruse.

Dewhurst’s mother was staring at Charlotte, by all appearances speechless, but his sister Lydia said, “I simply adore your accent, Miss—?”

“Burton,” Charlotte said at the same time Freddie interjected, “Lady Dewhurst.” That slip earned her another painful squeeze.

Lydia ignored the obvious tension. “Where are you from? I would guess Scotland.”

Charlotte frowned at her. George, did this girl really believe she was from Scotland?

“I think Charlotte hails from an area rather more west,” her husband said in a pained voice.

“Wales?” Lydia said, her cerulean blue eyes blinking rapidly. “Ireland?”

“Now I understand why some animals eat their young,” Freddie muttered. Lydia gave him a predatory glare, and Charlotte quickly stepped in.

“I’m from Charleston,” Charlotte supplied.

Lady Dewhurst threw an alarmed look at her son. “Where is this Charles Town, Freddie?”

Freddie scowled and Charlotte scowled back at him. Had he really hoped to keep her nationality a secret? He might be ashamed of it, but she was more than happy to announce her birthplace from the highest church spire.

Dewhurst slumped slightly, looking resigned. “I’m afraid Charlotte hails from the colonies, madam.”

His mother looked as though she’d been hit by a strong wind, and she toppled into a chair.

“Colonies?” Charlotte said tersely, ignoring the woman’s labored breathing and Lydia’s confused expression.

Her husband looked heavenward. “Forgive me, darling. Charlotte is from the state—the Americans do not call them colonies anymore—of South
Carolina. Or perhaps North Carolina?” He looked at her for clarification.

“Oh, dear, how many Carolinas are there?” his mother said placing her hands over her heaving bosom.

“Just two, I think.”

Charlotte bristled. “There are eighteen
states
at present, and I will have you know South Carolina was the first state to ratify the Articles of Confederation.”

Dewhurst’s mother appeared not to have heard. She looked at Charlotte, then Freddie, and shook her head. “But—but what can you have been thinking of? Marrying a colonist? The last I heard, we were at war with the colonies!” She looked to her son for confirmation. He nodded.

Charlotte reached for the teapot and refilled her cup. If this woman did not stop insulting her soon, she’d find herself in the same predicament as her son. Only this time one linen napkin would not be enough to hide the damage.

But surprisingly, before Lady Dewhurst or her son could attempt to toss her out on her ear, Lydia spoke up. “Well, I for one think her accent is charming, whether she’s from Wales or Ireland or even France.” She rose, came around the table, and knelt beside Charlotte’s chair. “You’re Freddie’s wife, and that makes you my sister.”

Charlotte smiled. Perhaps the British were not all bad. After all, her own mother had been
British, so the species couldn’t be completely evil. Of course, Katherine Burton had given up her country and her nationality when she’d married George Burton, but there was still this girl, who Charlotte could not deny was perfectly charming. Her husband, on the other hand, looked ready to throttle his sibling.

Lydia put her hand on Charlotte’s arm. “Oh, but I’ve always wanted a sister!”

“Lydia,” Dewhurst said in an exasperated tone she was coming to recognize. “You have three sisters.”

The girl tossed her hair. “I know how many sisters I have. The problem is the one brother too many.”

Charlotte covered her mouth to hide a smile, but she could understand why Dewhurst was losing patience. His sister was sweet but not the brightest firefly in the night.

“Oh, do let’s try to stay focused,” his mother interrupted. “What are we to do about this crisis?”

Charlotte bristled. Obviously her husband had learned his manners from his mother. “I am hardly a crisis, Lady Dewhurst.”

Freddie closed his eyes, while his mother widened hers. “On the contrary, young lady, you are becoming more of a crisis each time you open your mouth. Freddie, how could you do this to me—to us? A colonist? I insist you rectify this situation.”

Charlotte lifted the teacup with malicious intent, but Dewhurst pushed her wrist back down and snatched the cup from her grasp. He sat back in his chair, looking like a man used to feminine ultimatums. “What would you have me do, Mother?” he asked, absently turning a fork up and over. “Divorce her?”

The look of horror that crossed his mother’s features would have been comic, if not for the fact that Charlotte could see the idea had not been a complete shock to the woman. “Divorce is rather extreme, do you not think? I meant to suggest a more palatable solution.”

“Annulment?” Dewhurst said. He did not look surprised by the suggestion, and Charlotte wondered if he hadn’t expected this. Not that he would need an annulment as they weren’t actually married, but he must have considered that the suggestion would arise. Charlotte half hoped he would take it. The more she was around him and his kith, the more meager that one thousand dollars seemed.

“Annulment on what grounds?” Dewhurst asked. “We’re both of age and there are no previous impediments.”

“I see,” his mother said. “Perhaps we might apply on the grounds that you could not—ah, perform? We could—”

Dewhurst rose. “Do not say it, Mother. Out of the question.”

Charlotte exchanged a look with Lydia, who
appeared equally bewildered. “Could not perform what?” Charlotte asked.

“It is not a consideration,” Dewhurst repeated.

“Freddie, what is that stain on your breeches?” Lydia asked.

“I poured coffee on him,” Charlotte explained.

“Whatever for?”

“A small argument. He was getting too worked up.”

Dewhurst’s mother gasped, and Dewhurst said, “I was not. That is not what she means.”

Charlotte snorted. “That is exactly what I mean. Lady Dewhurst, I’m sorry to say it, but your son has a very hard head.”

The woman merely stared at her, mouth agape. Stubbornness was not a pleasant trait, but Charlotte did not think it would upset his mother quite so much. “What I mean is,” she began, “that he thinks I will kneel before him whenever—”

“Enough!” Dewhurst roared just as the dining room door swung open again and Addy marched inside, trailed by an irate-looking Wilkins.

“Miss Charlotte!” Addy hollered so loudly it caused Charlotte to flinch. “This here man is mighty confused, and I has had enough. Get your things. We is going home.”

Charlotte rose. “But Addy—”

“That’s right,” Wilkins said. “Run away, you she-devil. That will teach you to dare touch my iron and cravat starch.”

Addy rounded on the small, pale man, who skittered back a step. “I don’t know what you is talking ’bout, and I don’t care. That maid Hester is worthless, so I was forced into pressing Miss Charlotte’s underthings. Her stays—”

“Addy! We have company,” Charlotte said, grabbing Addy’s hand. “This is Lord Dewhurst’s mother and sister.”

“Eek!” Wilkins stumbled backward. “Lady Dewhurst, Miss Dewhurst, I cannot begin to apologize enough. Please accept my humblest, my most fervent, my sincerest—”

“Oh, stubble it, Wilkins,” Dewhurst muttered.

“My lord!” the valet cried. “What has happened to your breeches? You must remove them at once.”

“Good idea, Wilkins.” He grasped Charlotte’s hand. “Come wife, you still have a lesson to learn.”

Before she could argue, he yanked her out of the room, Wilkins and Addy followed, while his mother yelled, “Freddie, do not touch her. Remember you must prove impotent for the annulment!”

F
reddie plowed through the house, tugging Charlotte in his wake. “Wilkins,” he barked at his valet, who was scampering up the stairs behind them. “I do not wish to be disturbed the rest of the afternoon. No.” He stopped suddenly and Charlotte collided with him. “The rest of the week.” He looked at his wife meaningfully. “We have work to do.”

He might not relish spending even one more moment in his wife’s company, but he needed her to capture Pettigru. There were worse assignments than squiring a colonist about and pretending to be smitten by her. He couldn’t think of any at the moment, but he was certain there had to be worse.

“Work to do. Yes, my lord,” Wilkins wheezed,
finally reaching the top of the stairs. “But we must change your clothes. If I do not see to that stain immediately—”

“Dash the bloody stain, Wilkins!” Freddie dragged Charlotte along the corridor until they reached his room, then he burst in, surprising a maid who was tidying the bed. “Out,” he said, and she scurried past Wilkins, almost knocking the slight man over.

Charlotte wrenched her arm free of Freddie’s hold. “That was certainly entertaining.” As usual, her voice was dark and slow and damnably unperturbed. “What do you do for an encore?”

“I’ll catch a spy.” Color rose in her cheeks, but he cut her riposte short. “Stubble it,” Freddie said, rounding on her, feeling more perturbed than he had in a long, long time. “If we made a scene in there, the fault lies with you, madam.”

“Me?
Me?
” She put a hand over her breast as though she’d been stabbed. “First you insulted me, and then you allowed your mother to do the same. You are fortunate you escaped with merely a stain on your breeches.”

“And you’re fortunate I’m a gentleman and a patient one at that. Had you used even a modicum of the manners I spent hours attempting to drill into you yesterday, we wouldn’t be in this position. Further, if your maid had any sense of civility—”

“Don’t you dare bring Addy into this!” She shook her finger at him. “Blame me if you must. I
expect nothing better from you, but no Southern gentleman—no American—would disgrace a lady so.”

Freddie made a show of looking about the room. “Is there a lady present? I haven’t seen her.”

There was a gasp, and behind Charlotte Freddie saw Wilkins take a startled step back. Freddie glared at the valet, who retreated farther, and shut the bedroom door. Unfortunately, his wife had abandoned her position in the corner of the room and was now steadily advancing on him.

“No amount of money is worth this treatment! I want out of this so-called marriage and out of this godforsaken country as well.”

Freddie shook his head, quelling his impulse to yell back at her. “Why do you hate us so much?”

“You killed my family!”

“Do you blame the whole country for the actions of a few?”

She looked away, and Freddie walked toward her, stopping a foot away. “I’m sorry for your loss, but I am not responsible. Hating me will get you nowhere.”

“I don’t hate you,” she said, still not looking at him. “But I know your kind, and I don’t like you, either.”

Freddie raised a brow. “My kind? I’m a patriot, motivated by allegiance to my country, as are you. Are we truly so different?” He reached out and fingered a lock of her hair.

“Yes, we are different. You—you’re a warrior. You won’t stop until you win. My father was like you. He never listened to reason, never considered compromise. You call me prejudiced, but tell me honestly, is there any room for doubt in your mind that Cade is innocent?”

Now Freddie looked away.

“I play at being harder than I am, but how else am I to protect myself? I’ve lost everything. I have to harden my heart. It’s all I have left. But you have everything. What are you so afraid of?”

He looked at her, alarmed that she seemed to see through him so easily.

“Why are you so unwilling to let your guard down? Afraid you might feel something more than disdain for a lowly colonist? Afraid all your pride and lofty words mean nothing when your heart is exposed?”

Freddie’s chest tightened. She hadn’t hit the target, but she was not far from her mark, either. What was it about her that unnerved him? Was it the unexplained thrill of opening his bedroom door to her the night before? The need to protect her from Society’s barbs—a need he couched in lessons and lectures? Or was it the yearning to kiss her, to touch her that he felt every time they were in the same room? And what if he were to act on those needs? What then?

She scared the hell out of him. Defenses up, he struck back. “It would take more than you—a
dowdy excuse for a woman—to expose
my
heart.”

Freddie glanced at her just in time to see the blow coming. Years of training had honed his reflexes, and he caught her fist without thinking. The impact jarred him and stung his palm, but he had her. She tried to pull free, and there was a momentary tug-of-war, and when Freddie looked into her face her eyes were shooting angry sparks at him.

His hand stung. Someone had taught the colonist to throw a punch. Now he’d show her that her actions invited equal and opposite reactions. He’d show her that she was nothing more to him than a means to an end. Hand still wrapped firmly around her wrist, he yanked her to him. She tried to back away, but he held fast, then slipped one arm about her waist, pulling her close until she was flush against him and breathing hard.

“You can give it but you can’t take it, is that it?” he said, his own breath coming in choppy bursts now as well. His flesh might be heated, but his heart was firmly shielded.

“I can take anything you bastard English throw at me. Or have you forgotten the War for Independence?”

His hand flexed on her waist, the threadbare bombazine hiding nothing of the sweet curve of her back and the swell of her hip. She was warm—as hot as the fire in her hair. And he
could feel those silky tresses against his hand as well. Her hair had come free sometime during their skirmish, and now it tumbled down her back and teased the skin of his hand and arm. “So this is to be war between us?” he asked, his voice little more than a whisper.

“What else? Neither of us can forget what the other is,” she retorted, but her rich voice was even lower now. Ragged and husky and full of sweltering days and sweaty nights.

“I’ll make you forget. I’ll make you surrender.” He bent his head close to hers, brushing his lips against hers with just a hint of pressure. She inhaled sharply and tried unsuccessfully to pull away.

“Only if you surrender first.”

“Never.” And this time he did not check himself. He took her mouth with his in a relentless kiss. She gasped, and her body went rigid with shock, but he gave no quarter. He took her full, honey-thick lips, parted them, and swept inside her mouth, teasing her tongue with his own. And still she resisted.

But he’d brook no retreat. He pushed her to the limit, bending her body back, pressing her hard against him, and molding her mouth to his until she returned the kiss with a violence equal to his own. His adrenaline surged, and he was heady with the smell of victory. He possessed her now,
and all talk of exposing his heart was ridiculous. It was she whose heart was in danger.

And then suddenly he was no longer restraining her. She moaned deep in her throat and ceased all resistance. His hands were wrapped in her hair, caressing the skin of her neck and cheek, and her own hands were like small, kneading paws against his chest. Pushing and caressing and demanding more of him. He gave it, kissed her with the passion and violence, and still she did not back down. Now she was pushing him, and he was not at all certain he wanted to let her any farther inside. But at the same time his mind resisted, his body ached for her.

He took a step back, moving toward the bed and taking her with him. He wanted her on the velvet counterpane, her hair spread out beneath her like a fiery halo, and her pale skin an enticing contrast to the scarlet fabric.

He angled directly for his bed, and she went willingly, not seeming to notice where she was or what he was doing. But he knew, and his mind sounded the cannon to cease the charge. He could not do this. He would not.

Her hand slipped inside his shirt, somehow finding the chink in his armor, and he drew in a sharp breath as flesh met flesh. Oh, dash it all to hell, he thought, bending to sweep her into his arms and thus onto the bed. And then she was be
neath him, all softness and curves and her sweet feminine smell. He wanted to drive into her, to press his body even more intimately against her, to surrender to his need for her.

At the thought, a shock rippled through him, and he reared up, backing away from her. Slowly she opened eyes hazy with desire, and it took all he had to resist returning to her arms. She blinked, ran a tongue over her swollen lips, and then, thank God, he heard a pounding on the door.

He jumped up, and for the first time since they’d entered the bedroom, his mind was working.

“Alfred William Dewhurst!” his mother bellowed from the other side of the door. “Do not touch that woman! You are impotent, do you hear me? Impotent!”

Freddie looked at Charlotte—sprawled on the bed, her skirts ruched to her knees, her hair in wild disarray, her face flushed with passion—and for once he wished his mother were correct.

Charlotte opened her eyes and looked at Dewhurst. “We’re not finished here,” he promised, then crossed to the door, opened it, and stepped outside. Alone, Charlotte slumped back into the bed’s mattress. Every muscle in her body was trembling and her heart was pounding so hard she was afraid it would break free. What had she been thinking? George, here she’d meant to assault his defenses. Instead he’d battered hers. What would
she do if he broke through? What would be her fate if she began to feel for a man incapable of returning any of her sentiments?

She hated him, and yet she burned for him, too. How was that possible? Just like an Englishman, he had to make everything complicated.

Rising, she went to the door of the dressing room between their rooms, opened it, and stomped through, careful to lock her door when she closed it. “Ridiculous, preening flamingo!” she muttered. “I can’t stand him or his peacock mother!”

“What you gots against birds, Miss Charlotte?” Addy asked, rising from the rocking chair near the far window of Charlotte’s room.

“Birds? Nothing. Preening English aristocrats, however, are the bane of my existence.” She flopped down on the bed, throwing one arm over her eye. “And the servants here! Hester never knocks before barging in, Mrs. Pots still hasn’t shown me a menu, and the cook all but chased me out of the kitchen this morning!” Charlotte lowered the arm from her eyes. Addy was not coming to comfort her. Addy
always
came to comfort her. She looked around and found her maid still standing beside the rocking chair at the window. Charlotte propped herself up on her elbows. “What’s wrong?”

Addy scowled out the window. “I gots problems of my own, Miss Charlotte. That man ’bout to drive me batty as a drunk pig.”

Charlotte frowned, trying to remember if she’d ever seen a drunk pig.

“He walk around here like he own the place. Like he own the world.”

Charlotte nodded. “He does, doesn’t he? Ooh, his arrogance is so galling!” She sat up and clenched her fists.

“You ask me, it ’bout time he put back in his place. Who he think he is?”

“Who indeed? Vain flamingo!”

“Skinny-legged, pasty-faced fool!”

“What?” Charlotte said. “I actually thought his legs were rather nice.”

“Nice?” Addy rounded on her, turning her back to the window. “They skinny as all get out. Like twigs.”

Charlotte shook her head. Dewhurst’s legs weren’t at all like twigs. In fact, they were far too muscular, too finely toned and shaped for her comfort. And what was Addy doing looking at Dewhurst’s legs anyway!

“And his manners leave a mighty something to be desired.”

“Yes, they do.”

“The way he done snatch that starch right out my hand this morning. Ooh, Miss Charlotte, if I weren’t a lady, I’d have smacked the holy—”

“Addy! Wait a moment. Are you talking about Lord Dewhurst?”

Addy shook her head. “Please, Miss Charlotte.
That there man is your problem. And if I could trade you, I would. I like Mr. Dewhurst.”

“Then who are you talking about? Wait. Are you still angry at Mr. Wilkins about the starch and iron?”

“Oh, now it be
just
starch and an iron. Hmpf. We’ll see how you feel when there ain’t no starch nor no iron to be had and your dress is limp as a—”

“Addy!” Charlotte held up her hand, not at all certain she wanted to hear the completion of that analogy. “I understand that you don’t like Mr. Wilkins. He’s…different, but we have to try and get along with these people while we’re here. We have to make the best of a bad situation.”

“I’m pleased as Punch to hear you say so.”

Charlotte whipped around. Her husband was standing by the wall, arms crossed, lazy smile in place.

“How?”

Dewhurst stepped aside. “I have a key.” He held up a shiny gold key, allowing it to dangle from his finger before opening his hand and making the key disappear.

“Parlor tricks, Alfred?” she said. “How quaint.”

His smile grew lazier, if that were possible, and Charlotte’s stomach fluttered with butterflies. “I knew you’d enjoy it, but don’t expect me to pop over uninvited often”—he winked at her as though recalling her visit the night before—“I only came to tell you that Madam Vivienne, the
best mantua maker in London—if my sister has the right of it—has been sent for. She should soon be on her way to outfit you.”

Charlotte glanced at Addy, who sighed heavily. “I’s going. I’s going.”

“Miss Addy.” Dewhurst bowed as she passed him. “Always a pleasure, madam.”

When she was gone, Charlotte turned back to Dewhurst. His green eyes, their color now softer, swept over her shabby dress. He had changed out of his stained clothing, and Charlotte could only blink at the rapid transformation. How did the man manage to go from scruffy to stylish so quickly?

Under his scrutiny, she suddenly felt more like a street urchin than a well-bred Charleston lady. Her dress was wrinkled and ill-fitting. Her hair had come loose and was streaming down her back. And though Dewhurst had been through the same ordeals as she this morning, her husband stood before her looking more the archangel than ever.