What Not to Bare

by Megan Frampton

  India! Charlotte had always wanted to go there. Women there were allowed to wear colors as loud and garish as they wanted, she’d heard. There was the added bonus that her mother would never board a ship, so Charlotte wouldn’t have to hear about her failings. Or, scratch that, she would only have to hear about them via the post.

  “Where in India were you, my lord?” Charlotte asked. Emma glanced quickly at her, approval warming her eyes. She was forever urging Charlotte to join in conversation.

  “Bombay. Have you been?”

  Charlotte flushed again as she met his gaze. One dark eyebrow was raised in a mocking disbelief—he was likely assuming she couldn’t possibly have gone to India. He probably doubted she’d ever left England.

  Which she hadn’t, so he wouldn’t be entirely wrong. But she did want to travel. Didn’t that count for anything?

  “No, my lord, I have not. But I have read about it. Is it as hot as they say?”

  His eyes flicked between her and Emma. “Yes, so hot you would not be able to wear half the clothing you ladies have on.” He made it sound as improper as he no doubt intended.

  “I have no desire to travel to India, or leave London at all, in fact,” Emma replied in a grumpy voice that somehow still managed to be fetching. “My sister demands my presence in Gloucester, my lord, and I do not wish to leave.”

  Did he exhale in disappointment? Probably; most men did much worse when they heard Emma was leaving their presence.

  “I am sorry to hear that, Miss Clarkson. My London acquaintance will therefore be reduced by a third.”

  “Surely you know more people than that, my lord,” Charlotte’s mother interjected.

  Lord David nodded in acknowledgment. “Yes, but the crucial question is, how many of the people I know will admit to knowing me?”

  Charlotte’s mother giggled in reply, something Charlotte had never heard her do before.

  I am sure anyone would be glad to know you, Charlotte thought, peeking quickly at him. In a Biblical sense, if nothing else.

  ***

  The blond one was not the countess’s daughter. Pity. More of a pity that the blond one was leaving town while her friend remained in London. It was difficult to see what the countess’s daughter really looked like, she was garbed in such an outlandish—and unpleasant, actually—combination of colors and fabrics. How could the countess allow her to walk about looking like that?

  She was asking him another question. Save him from inquisitive girls.

  “How many years were you in India, my lord?” Her eyes, at least, were a lively brown, not nearly as dull as the mousy brown of her hair. And her mouth was wide, lush, and full, with a tantalizing mole at the corner. He felt an unexpected pang of interest.

  “Three. Before that I was billeted in France and Spain, until one of the enemy decided I should hop everywhere.” He patted his thigh to indicate his injury.

  “Oh.” Her eyebrows narrowed in concern. “Were you badly hurt?”

  She was curious, wasn’t she? He loathed talking about himself. “Do you want me to detail precisely where I was injured, my lady?” he asked, his voice indicating clearly that he wished to drop the matter. Hopefully his bluntness would dissuade any further questions.

  Instead, her expression brightened. “Yes, I would be most interested.”

  Before David could reply, Miss Clarkson grabbed her friend’s arm and pulled her away. “Excuse us, my lord, my lady, Charlotte and I need to repair my hem.” Charlotte opened her mouth, presumably to argue, but Miss Clarkson had successfully wrenched her far enough away that it wasn’t possible to hear her words.

  At least he got to watch Aphrodite retreat. That her friend was wearing clothing perhaps inspired by Bacchus’s worst revelry made it easier to keep his eyes focused on Miss Clarkson’s behind.

  “Lord David?” The voice startled him. He turned to see one of the directors, Lord Bradford, from the Home Secretary’s office at his elbow. An older man, he was sharp and precise with his assignments, and David had thus far enjoyed working with him.

  “My lord, a pleasure. I didn’t realize you would be here. I had scheduled an appointment with you tomorrow.”

  “I hadn’t planned on it, but then my sister insisted. You were just speaking to her—the Countess of Jepstow?” He waited for David’s nod of assent before continuing. “But since I am here, we can discuss what I had planned to talk about tomorrow—your next assignment.”

  David was very pleasantly surprised. Had he just been lamenting that he was bored? A new assignment would make his time in England that much more interesting.

  “Excellent.” David took a glass of something light and sparkling from a passing servant. “What is it?”

  He took a sip as Lord Bradford spoke. “I wish you to court my niece.”

  David choked as the words penetrated his brain. “Your—what?”

  Lord Bradford clapped him on the back. “Breathe, my lord. Went down the wrong way, hm?”

  You could say that. “You want me to marry your niece?”

  Now it was Lord Bradford’s turn to choke. “No, not at all. Marry Charlotte? And make her return to India when you do? Her mother would kill me.”

  Now David was just confused. “So what is it you wish me to do if not court her?”

  Lord Bradford nodded in enthusiastic agreement. “Yes, that’s it.”

  Could his beverage have given him a headache this quickly? Because he felt entirely fuzzy. “What is it?”

  “Court her!” Lord Bradford replied, as though it were entirely obvious.

  “Court her,” David repeated. No, it didn’t make any more sense when he said it himself than when Lord Bradford said it.

  “Yes, she is a lovely girl, but not very popular.” Lord Bradford leaned in to whisper into David’s ear. “She’s on her third Season, and hasn’t taken. Some unpleasant people have dubbed her the Abomination, in fact.”

  It wasn’t hard to see why. If David weren’t so diplomatic, he might suggest to the lady’s uncle that perhaps his niece should try wearing clothing that didn’t threaten to permanently damage a person’s eyeballs. “And you wish me to court her—but not marry her.”

  Lord Bradford positively beamed. “Precisely! If you—forgive me for speaking plainly, but you are an attractive fellow—are seen to be paying attention to her, perhaps some of the other gentlemen will also.”

  This was not the kind of assignment David was accustomed to. Nor wanted.

  In fact, paying marked attention to the Countess of Jepstow’s daughter made him feel as though he were being valued for his looks, not his brain. Something he’d fought ever since that growth spurt over ten years ago.

  It had been a source of personal satisfaction, in fact, that he had applied for—and gotten—his current position without an in-person interview. He had been judged entirely on his merits, not on his visage.

  “I don’t wish to be rude, my lord, but—”

  Lord Bradford held his hand up. “This is an order. You returned here with your reputation barely intact, is that not so? And while your work has been unexceptional, your behavior when not working has been a topic of some conversation.”

  David snapped his mouth shut. Damn. He was going to have to do this, wasn’t he? Or be in danger of staying in England permanently.

  Lord Bradford continued. “If you can keep yourself out of trouble for the remainder of the Season while paying attention to my niece—not too much attention, mind you,” he said, narrowing his eyes in a pointed stare at David, “we will be much more amenable to returning you to your post. But only if your assignment is successfully completed. Is that clear?”

  He didn’t have a choice, did he? He swallowed all the words he wished to say. “Crystal clear, sir. Thank you. I will endeavor to perform the task to the best of my abilities.”

  Even if he was bored and blinded in the process.

  ***

  “It is time for our dance, is it not, Lady Charlotte?” He felt the
coiled ball of tension in his chest swell as he spoke. He’d originally asked her for a dance just because he was a gentleman, and that is what a gentleman did when introduced to a young lady, no matter how unprepossessing.

  But now that it was his job to do this, it was the last thing he wanted. But if it got him home—to his real home, in India, in the countryside—that much sooner …

  For a moment, he let his mind wander back: breezy, open rooms leading to wide verandas; the chatter of the birds at night outside his window; the smell of the spiced tea he drank every afternoon. He would do whatever it took to return.

  Even if it meant paying attention to the Abomination, who might as well have been called the Atrocity.

  He drew her into his arms as the music began, keeping her as far away from his body as possible.

  He was angry. Not that it was her fault—he didn’t think she knew what her uncle had done, much less had a hand in putting him up to courting her but not marrying her.

  That kind of assignment came purely from a man used to scheming, not a young lady on her third Season. Who, judging by her pairing of colors, was the least diplomatic person he’d ever met.

  They danced in silence for a few minutes, David’s mind racing as he tried to find something to converse about.

  At last, she spoke. “Do you plan on staying in London long, my lord?”

  This close, what she was wearing was even more appalling. Who chose to put on a gown like that? Was it possible the woman was blind?

  “Why do you wear these colors together?” Had he just said that? He shook his head. He had been out of Society for far too long. “That is, I apologize, my lady, I just—”

  “I know, aren’t they dreadful?” She laughed, a genuinely amused laugh, not the polite giggle young ladies usually served up. “I actually do like them, but then there is the added fun of watching how my mother reacts.” She tilted her head and regarded him as though he were a scientific curiosity. “Now when my mother saw you, well, she reacted quite differently. And who could blame her?” She fanned her fingers on his shoulder. “You really are stupendous-looking.”

  David had been told before he was good-looking, but never quite so soon after meeting someone, and never quite so bluntly. “I am not certain what to say to that except thank you.”

  “Oh, don’t thank me! I just feel terrible I have you to look at while all you have to look at is me.”

  This conversation was unlike any he had ever had with a woman before. Perhaps the assignment would be less boring than he thought. At the very least, he wouldn’t be in danger of nodding off—her gowns would guarantee that.

  “You are not ugly.” In fact, when he wasn’t distracted by her clothing, she was interesting looking—her sensual lips tilted up at the corners, as though she were constantly amused. Her eyes, a soft, warm brown, sparkled with that same amusement. Her skin was creamy white, with a few scattered moles decorating her décolletage.

  He did always enjoy connecting the dots.

  “Thank you,” she said, her lips curving into a smirk. “ ‘You are not ugly’ is probably the most sincere compliment I have ever been given. Don’t be shy if you want to tell me ‘you are not stupid’ and ‘you are not the worst dancer ever.’ ”

  He was a diplomat, wasn’t he, renowned for his ability to talk anyone into anything? Because at the moment, he felt like a gauche-mat or whatever the opposite of a diplomat would be. He was so addled, he couldn’t even remember basic etiquette or language skills.

  “Let us start again,” he said after a moment. “You are a divine dancer, my lady.”

  “I am not,” she shot right back at him, still with that smile on her face. “In fact, I can be said to be average in most things, the exceptions being my taste in clothing and my unfortunate habit of saying anything that crosses my mind.”

  Before he could protest, she continued. “And you are a tremendous dancer. I wasn’t certain you would be, what with your height and the size of your feet.”

  He had to ask. “What does height and foot size have to do with dancing skill?” Does your uncle know you make conversation like this?

  She considered that, wrinkling her eyebrows together in thought. Everything about her was expressive, including her eyebrows; thick, dark wings that arched up as though she were always asking a question. Which, thus far in their acquaintance, seemed as though it might be the case.

  She would be terrible at cards, he imagined.

  “Tall men can be quite awkward. My brother is quite tall, like you. They stoop, and bend, and generally make a shorter female seem somehow lacking, as though it was the woman’s fault they have to be so inconvenienced. When dancing, of course.”

  “Dancing, of course. There are other things tall men and shorter ladies can do together that are less … inconvenient.” Good god, was he actually flirting with her?

  “My lord, I believe you are flirting with me.”

  Apparently he was. Well, it was part of his assignment, was it not?

  “My lady, I have to compliment your imagination as well as your not being ugly. I was speaking, of course, of horseback riding. It does not matter then how tall one is, as long as one enjoys the riding.”

  “I love riding. It is one of the things I miss about being in London. Neither of my parents ride.” Thank goodness she did not catch the double entendre.

  “Perhaps we could go riding together sometime? That is, if your riding habit will not make my horse start.”

  She uttered a low, throaty laugh that went straight to his … well, in this instance the pertinent measurement was length rather than height.

  This assignment might prove to be a fascinating one. If he didn’t go blind or say the wrong thing.

  What Not to Bare

  Dear Ladies:

  Today let us discuss the fit of a garment.

  A garment, a gown, for example, should fit properly. It should cover you, drape in a flattering manner, and help to augment your bodily features.

  It should not outline each and every one of your flaws in egregious fashion (which is not fashion). One should not be able to, say, ascertain precisely how many hooks are buttoning your chemise through the fabric of the gown. Or gauge that one has a mole on one’s elbow.

  If there is any question as to the fit of your garment, remind yourself: just because you can get it on doesn’t mean it fits.

  Leave some room to the imagination. Not to mention leaving some room for your body.

  The Fashionable Foible

  Chapter 2

  “Have you listened to anything I have been saying?” Her mother’s frustrated rebuke made Charlotte lose hold of her morning biscuit, which went flying through the air.

  Right into the receptacle where her father tapped his cigar ash.

  Drat, Charlotte thought. “Yes, of course I have, Mother,” she said, leaning forward to retrieve another biscuit from the pile. Her mother tapped her hand away before she could snag it, however. Charlotte leaned back in her chair and consoled herself with the thought that the biscuit was dry, anyway. She reached for Christian’s latest letter instead—at least her brother could be counted on not to nag her.

  “What have I been saying?”

  She withdrew her hand from the letter and tried not to roll her eyes. Christian’s letter would have to wait until she was alone. “Why, you were commenting on the party last evening, and speculating on the number of eligible bachelors in attendance, and wishing the food were better, and then ringing for fresh tea.”

  Her mother nodded, a smug smile on her face, no doubt thankful her daughter was finally listening.

  That her daughter was merely reciting what her mother said every morning when they were in London was something she did not realize.

  “And I was wondering if Lord David Marchston would be staying in town long. He has been away for years.” Her mother’s fig-brown eyes sparkled with untold gossip.

  “He has been in India, I believe he said?” Charlotte replied, kn
owing full well where he’d been.

  Long after he’d danced with her, long after she’d returned home from the party and gotten into her nightdress and into bed, she’d thought about him. About their conversation, and how he’d danced, not to mention those eyes—his blue, blue eyes that reminded her of faraway oceans and storm-swept skies and other natural beauties.

  She doubted he would enjoy hearing himself referred to as a “natural beauty,” however. Perhaps she would tell him, just to see if he got that startled expression on his face again. She had to suppress a giggle at the thought—her mother would know for sure she hadn’t been listening, since Charlotte usually was not amused at her mother’s conversation. Peppered, as it was, with alternating laments about Charlotte’s continued spinsterhood and a constant analysis of all the available men in town.

  Thank goodness Christian did write, or the only conversation she’d have with her family would be with her mother.

  “I have no idea where he’s been, just that he hasn’t been here,” her mother said dismissively, as though London were the center of the world. For a mother with a marriageable daughter, perhaps it was.

  That the marriageable daughter was Charlotte, in this case, made the center of the world more … centric, since it didn’t seem likely Charlotte would get an offer this Season. As she had not the last. Or the one before that. And likely would not the next.

  Which made her eccentric, come to think on it.

  Neither Charlotte nor her mother had discussed what, precisely, would happen when Charlotte was a confirmed spinster—thus far she was unconfirmed. The possibility hung over them like a sword spinning in the air, nonetheless.

  For Charlotte, the sword that dangled above her was tantalizing, as if she herself might wield its power, if only she could seize it. For her mother, the sword threatened to slice through her heart, such as it was, causing Charlotte to be an Eternal Burden on the family. Charlotte had shortened the situation, whenever she thought about it, to EB.

  “You danced with Lord David,” her mother said. Charlotte nodded. It had been a wonderful dance, even if her partner’s mind had retreated someplace else. They had waltzed, and Charlotte had never felt so light on her—