“Well, there is no chance he will be interested in you,” her mother continued. “You should not waste dances on such men, Charlotte.”
Charlotte did not point out that if she only accepted the invitation of interested men she would never, ever dance. All part and parcel of the EB.
Thank goodness.
Her mother hadn’t yet accepted that Charlotte would be fine if she never married—she had her own money, and friends, and a brother who made her laugh. Her mother believed life was incomplete unless a female was safely wed.
Not that Charlotte had yet broached the possibility she might never marry—she wasn’t sure her mother could handle even the thought of it.
“Who should she waste dances on then, dear?” God bless her father. There he sat, in the corner, his face buried behind his morning paper, a swirl of smoke rising up from the pages. He was smoking a cigar; thankfully, the paper was not on fire.
Her father was the only reason Charlotte hadn’t protested more when her mother had made plans to take her to London for an unheard-of third Season. He adored London, loved visiting the horse auctions, and drinking port at his club, and spending hours playing piquet with his widowed sister and her coterie of equally aged friends.
He was utterly useless when it came to standing up to her mother, of course, but he could be counted upon to do the unexpected.
Which was a quixotic reality Charlotte didn’t have the time to parse out at the moment.
“She should not waste dances at all,” her mother said in a shrill voice. “She should—
“Lady Silver, Lady Anne Silver, and Lord Charles Silver,” their butler, Bennett, intoned at the door. Her mother immediately altered her expression to one that was an attempt to look pleasant. Charlotte thought her mother just looked as though she had dyspepsia, but it was preferable to the look on her face when she was lecturing Charlotte.
Then she just looked as though she had an EB. Which, to be fair, she did.
Lady Silver, the matriarch, entered the room first, her two offspring trailing behind. Lady Silver was wearing something that made her look remarkably like the sausages Cook made in the fall; she was stuffed into her gown with bunches of fabric squeezing in at the especially expansive parts.
Charlotte was glad not to have eaten that biscuit after all.
Lady Anne Silver was a thin wisp of a girl, with light-red hair and pale eyes that always seemed watery, as though she’d just been tearing up at something. Perhaps at the fit of her mother’s gowns.
Lord Charles was one of the group of young men who’d dubbed Charlotte “the Abomination.” Thankfully, the nickname hadn’t yet reached her mother’s ears.
Because his mother and hers were friends, he was required to dance with Charlotte at every party they attended. Where there was dancing, of course; dancing when there was no music would have simply been odd.
But he never failed to comment on what she was wearing in a way that sounded complimentary on the surface, but held a pointed barb. To remind her that she was the butt of certain people’s jokes and that she should be very grateful he deigned to ask her to stand up with him.
She wished, just once, that she had too many partners to accept his invitation. To glance at her dance card and apologize for not being able to oblige him with a dance that evening.
But as they were both well aware, that would never happen.
So Charlotte endured his sly comments and caught the glances he gave to his friends when he thought she was looking elsewhere, and she wished the EB sword would just crash down already, hopefully right on his head.
The Silvers arranged themselves in the sitting room’s chairs, and Bennett appeared with a tray of fresh tea. Thankfully, Lady Anne sat between her brother and Charlotte.
“A lovely party, wasn’t it?” Lady Silver took a biscuit from the tray. “The Davenhams certainly know how to entertain properly. Though how they are going to get all those girls married off, I’ll never know.”
“There aren’t enough blind men in London for that,” Lord Charles said in a low aside. Neither of the older ladies heard him, but Charlotte saw his sister shoot him a sharp look. Interesting; the Silver wisp wasn’t as wispy as she seemed.
“It’s hard enough to get one married off.” Charlotte’s mother sighed, casting a look at Charlotte.
“I know that, certainly,” Lady Silver said, echoing the sigh and looking at her own daughter.
What would the ladies have in common if one of their daughters ever did actually get some male to wed her? They’d be forced to actually converse, rather than huff long-suffering sighs at each other.
Charlotte caught Lady Anne rolling her eyes as her mother spoke. She’d have to ask Lady Anne what her version of the EB was. Perhaps they could compare notes on what they planned to do as Confirmed Spinsters. So far, Charlotte’s list only included “Move as far away from my mother as possible,” but there was doubtless room for refining. Perhaps listing the actual distance in mileage?
“Lady Charlotte, was your evening pleasant? I know Anne wished the evening’s entertainment had been just a bit shorter.” Lady Silver tilted her head and said in a whisper that everyone could nonetheless hear, “Why those Davenhams can’t serve dinner while their daughters are prancing about, I’ll never know.”
Charlotte’s mother made a tsking sound. “And you would think that given just how many daughters they have, they would ensure there were plenty of eligible men.”
“Should they have imported them from China, Mother?” Charlotte asked. She heard Lady Anne give a surprised snort. “Perhaps raid a university and round them up like cattle?”
Charlotte’s mother’s face twisted into that lemon-sucking expression with which Charlotte was so familiar. “That is not what I meant at all. My point,” she said, deliberately not making eye contact with her daughter, “is that there are just not enough men to go around.”
“Like cookies on a tray,” Lady Anne added in a soft voice. “Never enough.”
Charlotte definitely liked Lady Anne.
“I agree with your mother, Lady Charlotte,” Lady Silver said, to no one’s surprise. That is, not to Charlotte or Lady Anne’s surprise; Lord Charles was apparently too engrossed in examining his fingernails to pay any attention, and Charlotte’s father seemed to have dropped off to sleep, judging by the soft snores emerging from behind the paper. All the females in the room, however, continued to remain alert. “I did hear Lady Emma was leaving town. Her sister is in a delicate situation,” she added, emphasizing the last two words with an arch look. “At least there will be one fewer eligible female around. More chance for our girls.” She nodded to them, as though it was only Emma’s presence that was keeping the men from flocking to Charlotte and Lady Anne. Not the fact that Emma was a remarkable beauty, whereas Charlotte and Lady Anne … well.
Charlotte had forgotten all about writing Emma’s column. She glanced down at her morning gown and felt her lips crease into a smile. It would horrify Emma. It was totally plain, unadorned with any ribbons, but it was a remarkable shade; neither pink nor orange, it was somewhere in-between, like a peach gone to rot.
Lady Silver drew out a piece of paper from her reticule and held it out at arm’s length, presumably so she could read it. “There was Mr. Smeldley, Lord Watkins, Lord Peter Watkins, that younger Partridge boy, the one with the unfortunate hair, Mr. Carruthers, and—and who else?”
Him. The gorgeous man with the distant blue eyes. The one who was taller, handsomer, more well traveled and experienced, and the best dancer.
The one who probably had not remember her right after he bowed and made his departure the previous night, much less today. If he met her today, she’d have to remind him that she was the poorly traveled young lady with all the questions. His “not ugly” dance partner. And then he’d likely have to ask, “Which one?”
“Lord David Marchston,” Charlotte’s mother said, a certain something in her tone of voice. Even her mother had been affected b
y him, even though she knew full well he was not a possibility for the EB.
Lady Silver sat upright as though she’d been struck. Or perhaps she’d been rendered unable to breathe because of the constriction of her gown. Either way, she had quite an impressive posture.
“Lord David Marchston! Of course. He would be quite a catch, wouldn’t he, girls?” Lady Silver nodded and smiled to Lady Anne and Charlotte as though they had a speck of a chance with him.
Charlotte’s mother gave a snort that indicated just what she thought of that. “Good luck! Don’t you remember—” She lowered her mouth to Lady Silver’s ear, whispering furiously.
Of all the times for her mother to be discreet. It couldn’t be when she was rolling her eyes at what Charlotte chose to wear, or wishing her offspring were more normal, or criticizing the quality of the refreshments.
No. It had to be when her mother was talking about the Natural Beauty.
Who aroused what Charlotte could only imagine were some very natural feelings in her. Unfortunate, then, that she should have no chance to pursue her natural urges.
What Not to Bare
Dear Ladies:
“Act your age” has been said to many a recalcitrant child.
Now we wish to add another demand: dress your age.
Ladies, simply because your dressmaker allows you to wear a gown does not mean it is appropriate for you to do so. You are not in the first blush of youth any longer; please leave the first-blush-of-youth gowns to the ladies who are in the first blush of youth.
Without pointing out exactly which blush of youth you might be in (The forty-seventh? Too many to count?), we would respectfully ask that you refrain from wearing anything that would make your mutton seem lamblike.
Act your age by dressing your age.
The Fashionable Foible
Chapter 3
It irked him that the first person he thought of that morning was the Abomination. Of course, it made sense. It would take all of his skills in diplomacy to ensure he both courted her and made certain she had no expectations.
He wasn’t cruel, after all; he just wished to successfully complete his assignment so he could return to India and never have to see any of these people again. Be useful again.
So meanwhile, even though the thought of it either made his skin crawl or made him want to yawn, he had to attend every single event to which he was invited, make himself innocuously pleasant, and become a model citizen.
David craved being useful. The second son often was not useful, except to be present in case of some horrible tragedy affecting the heir. Thankfully, his older brother James remained in good health, and James now had his own sons, rendering David’s position in the family entirely redundant.
Meanwhile, David had found something to do that didn’t feel irrelevant. He thrived on the intrigue and delicate negotiating skills he’d developed. He couldn’t let that just drift away because of some indiscretion with a woman who cared as little for him as he did for her. He and Louise had both known their affair had been one of convenience. There was no talk of love.
Of course, when the lady’s husband had gotten wind of it, it didn’t matter what their intentions were; they had done wrong, and David had been sent away until the matter blew over or the general calmed down.
But now he had another assignment. A task that required him to be as diplomatic and delicate as possible.
He flung his covers aside and pulled the bell for his valet. It was only a matter of minutes before Gotam arrived, carrying a blessedly full carafe of coffee.
“And what are our plans today, my lord?” Once he’d heard they were heading to London—his first time away from India—Gotam had developed the very irritating habit of speaking as he imagined most traditional British valets spoke.
David took a large swallow of the too-hot coffee. It burned down his throat. “I have no idea what you are doing, but I intend to go riding, see about some new boots, and—God help me—pay some social calls. Tonight I’m attending the theater. I don’t know what the play is. Nor will I even afterward. Nobody goes to see the performance, anyway.”
He knew he was being especially grouchy, but with Gotam, at least, he could be himself.
“And in what order will we be doing these spectacular events?” Even Gotam couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “We will need to be properly attired.”
“Can’t you just ask me, Ox?” David complained, setting the cup down on the tray as he stood. Naked. He loathed wearing nightshirts to bed, they always rode up to mid-chest by the morning, so he refused to wear anything at all. Thankfully, Gotam didn’t have enough of a concept of how British men were supposed to dress to think David was doing something utterly shocking. Or maybe he knew, but didn’t care.
Gotam—Ox, he’d told David it translated to—went to the chest of drawers at the foot of the bed and withdrew David’s undergarments. He held them out, his expression blank, but David caught a gleam of amusement in his dark eyes. “What order?”
“Boots, riding, social calls, theater.” He put on his smallclothes and reached for the coffee cup again, draining it in a single swallow.
“Excellent, my lord.” Gotam beamed at him as though he were a star pupil. “Sounds precisely what a gentleman in our situation should be doing.” Gotam was far more than David’s valet; he was David’s confidant and closest friend and as determined that David succeed in whatever it was he was doing as David was. “I shall lay our clothes out while you finish breakfast.”
Properly attired, and only half an hour later, David descended the staircase to the main hallway. He’d written to James as soon as he knew he’d be returning, and James had been happy to allow him to stay in the family’s London house. It was far too large for a single gentleman, but if it meant David didn’t have to find his own rooms or stay in a hotel, he would deal with the cavernousness of the house.
As the consummate head of the family, James was off being as useful as he possibly could. So useful, in fact, he hadn’t been able to make it to London to see his vagabond brother. Which meant it was very, very empty.
“The carriage is ready, my lord,” James’s butler, Wellesley, informed him. David could tell that Wellesley wasn’t entirely certain about the new occupants, but thus far he’d been polite, even though he’d likely never met an Indian valet. Or likely any Indian person, regardless of his occupation.
“Thank you, Wellesley,” David said, taking his hat and clapping it on his head. “I will be home for lunch, but not for dinner.”
“Excellent, my lord,” Wellesley replied in unconscious imitation of Gotam’s earlier comment.
***
“Why are we stopping here?” The carriage had drawn up to Marbury and Thornton’s Most Excellent Haberdashery.
“There are single bachelors there, Charlotte,” her mother said. Charlotte doubted her mother would appreciate it if she pointed out that it was hardly likely they would find married bachelors at the shop.
“They do not sell them, do they?” Because if they did, that might solve her problems—she could purchase one, not use him, and be done with the whole issue of being married.
Choosing a partner for life was even more daunting than deciding what to wear—and clearly she had enough trouble with that. She was only beginning to realize that she was unlike other ladies in more than just her taste in clothing; she would rather be an EB forever than settle. Either on a husband, or a gown.
“No, I believe they specialize in boots,” her mother said in a distracted way, not noticing her daughter’s wry question.
Which begged the question—Charlotte did not wear boots, and her brother could buy his own boots. Christian was always off engrossed in some old book or another, anyway. He would probably just stare if anyone asked if he wanted to purchase new boots. She saw no point to it, unless the point was to show how desperate you were to find a single bachelor. Of course, it would be a good place for researching the column. Emma had sent around the
note, as promised, and told Charlotte she would be expected to cover both men’s and ladies’ clothing.
Because it wasn’t horrible enough she had to write about one gender’s choice of attire, she had to write about two.
And Christian would be no help. She’d written him about doing the column, of course, but she knew his response would be to frown and then laugh hysterically, not offer anything constructive to help her.
“And there is also …” Her mother cleared her throat. Uh-oh. Throat clearing, in Charlotte’s experience, seldom resulted in anything good. “Well, you see, I have heard of a Mr. Goddard, a gentleman of excellent family. He and I played whist together, and I happened to mention you, and he happened to mention he is a widower with two children, and he …”
No. Her mother was not trying to get her married so she could be a surrogate mother, was she?
“He mentioned also that his two children are in need of some maternal love and care …”
She was.
“And he had heard of you, and he really is an excellent whist player. You know, your father likes to play whist,” she added, as though that would be something to consider in a potential husband. The basis for a good marriage.
Although for her mother, perhaps that was true; she and Charlotte’s father seldom spent time together, and when they did, they most often spent it in silence. Playing whist.
That this was what marriage could be expected to be was entirely depressing. Just once, Charlotte would like to hear of some couple or another who were still in love, years after marriage. That was what she wanted, deep in her heart. To be loved by someone who could see past her terrible fashion choices—even if she didn’t think they were terrible—to view the woman within. To know that she was cherished and desired for more than her fortune.
The upside to Mr. Goddard was that he would desire her for more than her fortune—he wanted her for her ability to be a mother, as well.
What Not to Bare Page 3
