She hadn’t realized how desperate her mother was. How desperate her mother thought she was.
Was it so hard to expect to be loved? For herself?
Her father loved her, at least, that much she knew. He didn’t think of her as the EB, or anything other than the reason he got to go to London once a year. Her brother loved her, when he could pull his nose away from his studies. Her mother loved her, but that love came with obligations.
At least her family loved her.
Depressing. Entirely depressing.
Perhaps, she thought, desperately looking for a bright side, she could find something to write about for Emma’s column at the haberdashery.
Besides the plethora of single—not married—bachelors.
What Not to Bare
Dear Ladies:
When you think about what color to choose for your gown, do you ponder how the color will set off your skin? Your hair? Your eyes?
If you are a young unmarried lady, it is traditional for you to wear white, or the bolder choice, off-white. Some young unmarried ladies, knowing that they don’t look their best in either of those two colors, choose something more complementary. A soft blue, for example, to match their eyes, or a vibrant purple that makes their dark hair even more striking.
If they choose too boldly, however, they are castigated.
But in order to attract a mate—and therefore move themselves from the unmarried to the married column—they should look their best.
What should a young lady do when faced with this conundrum?
The answer is simple: What will make you look your best to the one who will love you best?
The Fashionable Foible
Chapter 4
David had to admit, visiting a London haberdashery was an experience he had definitely missed. On the battlefield, he’d worn his uniform, of course, and then in India, Gotam had taken care of getting his clothes tailored. Even though he and Gotam had argued as to just how “native” David was allowed to go.
Gotam usually won.
Here, at least, the uniform David wore was what every other gentleman was also wearing. For once, he felt as though he blended in.
And then immediately did not blend in, as every eye turned to him as he entered the shop. Of course. He’d been away for ten years, and he knew that rumors were swirling as to his precipitous return. Never mind that he’d been off serving his country for a decade, it was his status as a Prodigal Son that had them talking.
Never mind that he and James remained happily and affectionately in touch; that he had been gone for so long in a foreign land would strike many people as odd.
Which could make his courtship of the Abomination make them talk even more—the opposite of what he was supposed to be doing. This assignment was markedly harder than Lord Bradford knew.
“Marchston!” David had no clue who had recognized him, and still no clue as the man advanced toward him, holding his hand out with a wide grin on his face.
“Wonderful to see you! You’ve just gotten back, I’ve heard?”
No. Still had no clue who this was. He was actually grateful when he spotted Lady Charlotte, so he could just nod and pass by the jovial gentleman to speak with her.
She was wearing a gown of such a virulent shade of orange—or was it pink?—he felt his eyes widen involuntarily. And David did not like showing any kind of emotion—a diplomat was seldom useful if his every feeling was revealed on his face.
Plus, if she could read his emotions, she would know he was not sincere in his attentions.
“What in heaven’s name are you—oh. That is, it is lovely to see you, Lady Charlotte. Lady Jepstow.” He nodded to the lady’s mother, who was engrossed in a conversation with an older, stout gentleman. Lady Charlotte’s father, perhaps?
Lady Charlotte tilted her head up to regard him, an unholy light of amusement in her eyes. “Were you going to ask what in heaven’s name I was wearing, Lord David?” She poked him—poked him!—in the arm and chuckled. “You should be careful. If you go about speaking to everyone in this frank manner, everyone will think you as blunt as I. That would not,” she said, leaning closer in a conspiratorial manner, “be a good thing.”
He took a deep breath before he spoke and brushed an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve. “I was going to ask what in heaven’s name are you doing in a gentleman’s establishment.” He glanced down at her feet, clad in slippers that matched the gown, of all things.
He was glad he’d only had coffee for breakfast. “Not buying boots, certainly.”
She laughed, that low, husky laugh that he’d heard the previous night. It caused such a different reaction than her clothing, conversation, or pokes did that he wondered at his response. Was there more to her than met the eye?
Or perhaps less, given what did meet the eye?
“We are here to peruse what appears to be in overwhelming supply, Lord David,” she said. Again, that laugh. “Mother and I are here looking for a gentleman.” She gestured idly toward the other men in the shop. “Surely my mother hopes, one of the unmarried bachelors here might find me intriguing.”
“You do know unmarried bachelors is redundant, do you not?”
A smile spread across her face, a smile filled with unmitigated joy. It nearly blinded him, what parts of his eyes that weren’t already blinded by her gown.
“Exactly what I said to my mother, but of course she had no idea what I meant. Thank you, Lord David, for sharing the joke.” She kept smiling at him, and he couldn’t look away.
Her face was just—well, it wasn’t beautiful, certainly, nothing close to that of her friend, Miss Clarkson. Her hair was a normal shade of brown, as were her eyes, and her nose was perhaps a bit too long and her mouth a bit too wide.
But she radiated a heat—an almost palpable heat—he hadn’t encountered since leaving India. And even though he appreciated the curve of her body, and the way her husky laugh made him think of things that were better thought of when not in polite company, it was more her zest for life, for living, that he found fascinating.
Wonderful. He would be certain to compliment her zest. That would be almost as flattering as telling her she wasn’t ugly.
And he considered himself a diplomat? He wanted to smack himself in the head.
At this rate, his assignment would be over before it had begun, once she realized he’d managed to insult her multiple times during each of their encounters.
“Are there any likely candidates?” he asked instead, taking advantage of his height and the bend of her shoulders to catch a glimpse of the swell of her breast.
He could find some benefit in the assignment, after all.
Her expression dimmed. “You perhaps have not been in town long enough to hear what they are calling me?” She tilted her head in the way he’d begun to recognize as her questioning angle.
He nodded. To pretend otherwise would be disingenuous. “I have.”
“Oh.” She blinked rapidly. “So soon. Well, then. You see the problem.”
“May I help you, sir?” At the shop owner’s words, she started, almost as though she were doing something she shouldn’t have been.
He took her hand and tucked it under his arm. “Shall you advise me on which boots to purchase, my lady?” This was a safe topic, at least.
She threw her head back and laughed, not the low, husky laugh he’d wanted, but something that was as zestful as she was. “Are you certain you trust me to advise you on fashion?” She gestured toward herself with the hand that wasn’t tucked in his arm. “Because you have seen me, have you not?”
“I am in need of a pair of boots, please,” David said to the waiting shopkeeper. As the man went away to gather his measuring tools, he turned back to her. “Anyone who can willfully dress as you do, my lady, knows precisely what constitutes good taste—even if she errs on the wrong side of it.”
Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened into an O of surprise. After she recovered herself, she dug her el
bow into his side. First she had poked him, now this; he might end up bruised in the course of his courtship. Would Lord Bradford offer him injury pay?
“If I might, my lord?” The shopkeeper was back, gesturing to a low bench where other men were sitting and having their feet measured. David made to move forward, still holding on to her arm, but she didn’t walk.
“I appreciate your kindness, my lord, but I should return to my mother.” They both glanced to where her mother was still talking with the stout gentleman. She hadn’t said parents, so perhaps the man was not her father. She added, “That is, you’ve just returned, and you certainly have other friends to see. I wouldn’t want to keep you from them.”
David raised an eyebrow at her. “Yes, I can see that my legions of friends are all waiting to get a word with me, daunted by you.” Her face flushed, and he felt like an arse. Until she spoke.
“Has it occurred to you, my lord, that perhaps I do not wish to stand here and gawk at you as you shop?” Her face flushed more, making her cheeks turn a vivid scarlet. “Forgive my blunt speaking, but you are you, and I … am me. I do not wish to have the inevitable comparisons made, the assumptions that I am even thinking I could make a match with you.” Thankfully, she was speaking in a whisper, so no one could hear. She withdrew her hand from his arm and stepped back. “Good day, my lord,” she said, whirling around and marching toward her mother.
David stood and watched her go, his mouth dropped open in surprise. No woman had ever refused his company. Much less one to whom he’d been assigned.
***
“I told you about Lord David, did I not?” Charlotte’s mother didn’t bother to lower her voice, and a few people around them looked as she spoke.
Charlotte tried to calm her breathing. “You did, Mother. And here I am. Tell me, have you found anything to purchase?” She emphasized the last word, knowing her mother would be irked at her tone, but she was too agitated to care.
Why was he so determined to make conversation with her? Ask her for her opinion on clothing, of all things? It couldn’t be that he was attracted to her—he’d told her she was not ugly, of course, but that was hardly anything close to a compliment. She had elicited that gorgeous smile a few times, the crooked one where one side of his mouth went up higher than the other. But that didn’t mean he liked her.
He probably found her amusing, like the rest of the ton did, only he was amused by her words, rather than her clothing. That was an improvement of sorts, at least.
Never let it be said Charlotte was not an optimistic sort. When she was not turning her heel on the most stunning man she’d ever seen. Had that really been her?
“Charlotte, may I present Mr. Goddard?”
Apparently her mother had found something to purchase after all.
The widower bowed and smiled at Charlotte in a way she found most uncomfortable—not as though he were smiling at her, but as though he was already counting her money and relishing the thought of spending it. That kind of smiling.
Ugh. Was it possible to form an instant dislike of someone?
“Lady Charlotte, how delightful. Your mother has spoken of your excellent manners, your solicitousness for others, your enjoyment of quiet pursuits.”
All fine things, but not really descriptive of Charlotte.
Charlotte opened her mouth to reply, but her mother grabbed her arm and headed toward the door. “We should be on our way. Mr. Goddard, Charlotte will save you a dance at the next party, certainly. Charlotte, your father is expecting us.”
Mr. Goddard didn’t seem to mind, or even notice, that Charlotte hadn’t spoken. That was likely the kind of woman he was looking for—one who would be seen and not heard. The kind of woman Charlotte most definitely was not.
He held the door open for them and nodded at Charlotte as though he were already in control of her—a feeling that chafed worse than new shoes.
As she left, she couldn’t help herself and snuck a look back at him. Not Mr. Goddard, of course; Lord David. And she felt her insides tighten and her breath catch as she saw he was looking at her. With an understanding look on his face that made her both unutterably happy and terribly sad. Because of all the men to find her in the least bit charming, this man—this stunningly handsome man—would be the last man in the world she should choose to fall in love with. If she even had a choice.
It would go nowhere; he might find her amusing, but that didn’t mean he would want to marry her. She didn’t know him well enough to know if she’d want to marry him, but she had the sneaking suspicion that if she did get to know him well enough, she would.
Which would leave her not only a spinster, but a spinster with a broken heart, and it would be nobody’s fault but her own.
She had to keep her expectations reasonable. So, while she could admire his beauty, and respond to his wit, she could not allow herself to do anything so stupid as to fall in love.
That course would lead to sheer disaster.
What Not to Bare
Dear Ladies:
Have you ever gone through your grandmother’s collection of clothing, and marveled that anyone would wear such ridiculous fashions? Those huge skirts, the hats almost as enormous, the wildly garish patterns?
Keep your laughter in mind as you choose what to wear. Fashion is, obviously, fashionable, but it should also be classic. Do not wear anything that, if it were not in the highest of fashion, would make you laugh after it’s gone out of fashion.
Do not, please, embarrass your grandchildren.
The Fashionable Foible
Chapter 5
Her mother began to speak as soon as the door to the carriage swung shut. No throat clearing; the uncomfortable moment was here, without any preamble.
“This is your last Season,” she said, staring at Charlotte with an uncompromising gaze. “It is not that your father and I cannot afford to give you another one, of course, but if there is no point to it …” She let her words trail off, still pinning Charlotte with her eyes.
“No point meaning if I do not snag a husband?” Charlotte asked, refusing to avert her gaze from her mother’s. She could be just as stubborn as her mother.
“Precisely.” Her mother finally looked away through the window of the carriage. “You have done nothing to attract any kind of eligible bachelor. In fact, I wonder if you are attempting to actively dissuade them.” She looked pointedly at Charlotte’s gown. It was not the first time she had made the accusation. “But that is of no matter.” She cleared her throat. “Mr. Goddard will be asking your father if he may pay his addresses to you.”
Charlotte’s chest tightened. That was what the two of them were discussing. And she knew her father would agree with whatever his wife wanted.
Which was for her to be married to the man seeking a substitute mother. With a healthy fortune.
Damn.
“There is nobody else who will come up to scratch. You’ve made sure of that with your absurd gowns and your plain conversation. Have you heard the nickname you’ve gotten?”
She must have taken Charlotte’s continued silence as a yes.
“But all that will go away once you are safely married.” Safely married. As though by being unmarried she was in a dangerous situation.
“I don’t wish to marry Mr. Goddard.” She couldn’t detail in just how many ways she didn’t want to—she didn’t think her mother would appreciate her thoroughness in spelling it out.
“Mr. Goddard will make an admirable husband.” Her mother’s tone of voice said it was decided.
“But what about me making an admirable wife?” Charlotte retorted. “I think it would be best for both Mr. Goddard and myself if I could learn how to manage a household, and care for children, and …” And stall for time. Even the prospect of writing a fashion column no longer seemed so bad as what else might be in her future.
“… and all those things you know that I don’t, that would make me into what Mr. Goddard wants.”
If her mother
bought this, perhaps Charlotte should look into a career as a charlatan. Or an actress.
“Now you are thinking as I’d always hoped, my dear.” It made her feel awful that her mother sounded so proud and so fond of her daughter, just when her daughter was lying through her teeth. “But Mr. Goddard has expressed his desire to be married soon, and you can learn all of that after you are safely wed, and since there is no impediment.”
There is plenty of impediment, namely that I do not wish to be married, much less to him.
Charlotte interrupted before her mother could complete her thought. “If this is to be my last Season, it will be yours also. Not that you couldn’t come to town, but it wouldn’t be the same.” She reached her hand out to touch her mother’s arm. “Shouldn’t we enjoy these last few weeks? Parties, dancing, trips to the theater … all those things we won’t have after when we are both married ladies. Would you deny us that?” She widened her eyes at her mother and blinked a few times, so as to look more sincere. At least she hoped so.
There was silence, during which Charlotte could only hear her heart racing. Please, please, please.
“Hm.”
“And I might surprise you—perhaps someone else will offer for me. What if some shy young gentleman has been waiting for a chance with me, perhaps the distant heir to a dukedom? Would you deny your daughter the chance to be a duchess?”
More silence.
“I know how stubborn you are,” her mother said at last. I learned it from you, Mother. “If you must have until the end of the Season,” she continued in an aggrieved tone, as if it weren’t something she’d enjoy more than her daughter, “then fine. And then you will receive Mr. Goddard as a suitor. Heaven knows,” she added as an aside, “it is not likely that anyone else will offer.”
Having gained more time made her mother’s despair almost bearable. Now she just had to figure out what to do, how to stall, what plan was next.
Almost as easy as it would be for the Abomination to write a fashion column.
What Not to Bare Page 4
