In addition to getting to ask Anne what her version of the EB was—it was Tarnished, a very clever play on Anne’s last name, Silver, that Charlotte had laughed about for at least five minutes—Charlotte had confided in Anne about the fashion column, knowing she would keep her secret. She didn’t know how she knew that, she just knew.
Just as she knew that Lord David was the loveliest thing she was likely to see, this night and every other.
Now, if only she could just write about Lord David. Of course, she doubted her new editor would appreciate so many uses of the word “lovely.”
“I am not certain. Besides me, of course.” Both ladies glanced at Charlotte’s gown. Lady Anne blinked and swallowed.
“It is definitely noteworthy,” she said in a monotone.
Charlotte nudged her in the ribs. “You can be honest. You hate it. As most people do.”
Lady Anne shook her head. “Not precisely. It suits you, even though it catches the eye in a particular way. I cannot imagine you in any other clothing.”
Charlotte remembered Lord David’s reaction to her normal attire the previous evening. It seemed others also felt as he did. Mr. Goddard had not commented on it at all; had he not noticed, or was he hoping this was a permanent change?
She doubted he’d even noticed, actually. If she wore her fortune as a gown, perhaps then he would remark on it.
“Thank you. But I don’t think the Abomination would make for a good topic. Not with me writing it, at least.”
Lady Anne’s gentle expression turned fierce. “That is an abominable nickname.”
“So to speak,” Charlotte said, grinning at her friend.
The two ladies chuckled together as they watched more and more of Society’s finest members enter the room. A profusion of brightly colored gowns, studded with the gentlemen’s more sober garb.
And then she saw him. And, as usual, he took her breath away. He wasn’t wearing anything different from what the other gentlemen wore—a black jacket, a grey waistcoat, dark trousers—but in every other aspect he was totally arresting.
What would he look like if he wore something like what she liked to wear?
“He does just seem to make you want to look at him, doesn’t he?” Lady Anne said, noting who Charlotte was gazing at. Charlotte felt herself blush.
“Oh, it’s not—”
Anne put her hand on Charlotte’s sleeve. “Please. You needn’t say anything. If we cannot look at beautiful things, then what is the point of having eyes?”
“Not to fall down when we are walking?” Charlotte replied in a dry tone of voice. And then she sighed. “And he is also very nice. It’s not really fair that he should look like that and not be stupid, or have an annoying laugh, or a bad sense of humor.”
Anne patted her arm. “Perhaps given time you will discover something unpleasant about him. Meanwhile, enjoy the discovery process. And speaking of discovering …”
He had spotted her—how could he not?—and was making his way over to her with that delicious lopsided smile on his lips.
Anne squeezed her arm one last time and slipped away, leaving Charlotte alone in the crowd.
“Good evening, Lady Charlotte.” His blue eyes twinkled as he took in her gown. She thought she saw him close his eyes, as if in pain, but he opened them to stare into her eyes. “It is lovely to see you.”
Was “lovely” the word for the evening?
“Lovely to see you as well, Lord David. How are you finding London Society after being in India for so long?”
“It is—well, it’s complicated, and honestly”—his eyes raked down her figure again, and then returned to her face—“it is difficult to form a coherent thought at this moment. Would you like to step outside and onto the terrace where it’s cooler?”
“And darker, of course,” Charlotte said, feeling a grin curl her mouth up. She liked that she could be so honest with him; not that she wasn’t honest with everyone, that was definitely her failing, but he didn’t seem to mind it. In fact, she might almost say he liked it, judging by his answering grin.
He put his hand on her back and steered her through the crowd, past demure debutantes and gossiping ladies, past gentlemen who glared at him as if it was his fault he was so good-looking, past women who looked at him as if they’d never seen anything like him before.
Likely they hadn’t.
At last they stepped through the doors to the terrace. It was blessedly cool out there, and Charlotte gulped a few deep breaths.
She turned to face him, making sure he was in the light cast by the candles in the ballroom so she could see him more clearly than he could see her. It was only as a kindness, she reassured herself. Not because up close he was just so damned … lovely.
“What did you ask? Oh, how I found London Society after India.” He paused. “Well, I—I still can’t think. I would be happy to answer your questions, it’s just … I need to ask you something.”
“Of course.” After asking her why she was wearing what she was wearing, then demanding to know what she was thinking when she got dressed, not to mention implying she had vision troubles, she doubted he could say anything that would surprise her.
“Can you remove your clothing?”
Except that.
Charlotte’s mouth dropped open. “Pardon?”
He ran a hand through his hair. Even rumpled, he was gorgeous. Lovely, even.
“I am saying this all the wrong way. Let me start again.” He pressed his lips together and blew out a breath. “It is hard to think, much less speak, when confronted with …,” he said, and gesticulated at her.
Not that she could speak at the moment, either.
He plucked her shawl from her shoulders and draped it on the stonework at the edge of the terrace. “It’s just that I can’t seem to think straight when confronted with all of this.” He took her gloved hand in his and began to work at the buttons. “Perhaps it would be easier if I were less distracted.”
His fingers touched her arm, and the contact sent shivers down her spine. And other places as well.
How much clothing did he mean? She should be slapping his face and marching back into the ballroom.
Not standing here watching as his hand continued to work at her glove. Wondering if he would next wish to remove her stockings, or her gown, or …
Oh, goodness. And them out here on the terrace.
He spoke as he slid each button through the hole. There seemed to be quite a lot of buttons. Many, many buttons.
And she was still not slapping him. Interesting.
Perhaps she wanted to see how far he would take this. Perhaps she wanted to see how far she would let him take this.
Either way, she wanted to see.
“Finally,” he said as he slid the last button through. “Now I can think properly.”
He held the edge of the glove in one hand and gently slid the glove down her hand with the other.
So it was to be just her shawl and gloves. She tried not to acknowledge that she felt disappointed.
Had the slightest touch of his fingers sent shivers through her? She felt now as though she were ablaze. The heat of his hand on her bare skin made her feel as warm as she had in the ballroom. Imagine if he did the same thing there—she might very well spontaneously combust.
He held her glove in one hand and held her hand with his other. Both of them stared down at their entwined fingers—his darker, with coarse black hair on the back of his hand, her hand soft and pale and white, as though all she’d ever done was wear gloves and gesture. Which, until she’d started writing the column, would have been the case. Now she could add “writing furiously” to the list of things her hands had done.
She had to restrain her hands, in fact, from doing more—from coiling in his hair, to smoothing down one curl that he’d disturbed with his constant raking.
“Does this help, you think, then?” Charlotte prompted, knowing he should get to the point. And answer her question, if he was so
determined to that he was doing all this.
Because she knew well enough that if anyone saw them out here on the terrace doing all this, her nickname would change from the Abomination to How-Dare-She-Presume-with-the-Most-Lovely-Lord-David, though that might be hard for some of Society to say.
But not hard for any of them to think.
He gripped her hand tighter. “Yes.” His other hand swept through his hair again, and he cleared his throat. Had he not heard that throat clearing was bound to lead to some sort of pronouncement?
“You were asking about India, were you not?”
She nodded. He still held her hand. At this point, she didn’t think she would blink if he told her India’s trees were upside down and its people spoke backward. She just wanted him to keep holding her hand, to look at her the way he was, as though she were the most important person in the world, as though he could sense her breath, her feelings, her heartbeat.
It was intoxicating to be the object of his scrutiny. Imagine if he told her he was attracted by her beauty or wanted to kiss her. Even just thinking of it made Charlotte feel a little weak.
He’d only told her she wasn’t ugly. Not quite the same thing.
He still had his mouth open, prepared to speak, when she quite suddenly did not want him to do so. She put her other hand, the one he wasn’t holding, up to his mouth, pressing her fingers against his lips.
She felt his warm breath over her skin, and she shivered.
“Lord David, I wonder if you would do me a favor. Will you kiss me?”
What Not to Bare
Dear Ladies:
When dressing for an event, what you don’t put on is just as important as what you do put on.
So, ladies, before deciding what to wear, please decide what not to wear. If, for example, your shoulders are your most appealing feature, find a gown that will make your attractions even more obvious. If it is your neck, be sure your gown is warm enough that you don’t require a shawl.
Need we go on to detail the remainder of your assets? We aim for discretion in all things.
You understand. No greater source than the Bible, after all, urged us all not to hide our lights under a bushel.
Dress as if “lights” were your best feature, and your clothing was a “bushel.”
The Fashionable Foible
Chapter 9
Will you kiss me? The moment the words left her mouth, he knew he’d been thinking about just that very thing since taking her onto the terrace.
And he wanted the kiss for his own, entirely selfish reasons. Not to convince her he was sincere in his attention, not to own a situation he was very much not in control of, not even to avoid speaking for a moment, so he could stop feeling so befuddled, but just because he wanted to kiss her.
“Yes, Lady Charlotte, I think I will.” He’d never anticipated a kiss so much before. Usually, it was a foregone conclusion that there would be kissing, followed by other activities. The kissing was just a prelude, a precursor to the rest.
As he stared down into her warm-brown eyes, he knew he wanted to savor every moment of this kiss. With her. Out on this terrace, possibly in full view of all of London Society.
His hand was on her waist, and he tugged her closer, so close that the skirts of her abominable gown tangled up with his legs. He could sense the warmth emanating from her body, luring him in with its promise of closeness, of belonging, of unity.
Slowly, Marchston, slowly, he warned himself.
This close, all he could see was her face. A face he was beginning to think was beautiful, albeit in its own way. Her skin was porcelain-fair, a faint blush staining her cheeks. Of course she’d be blushing now; judging by how her breathing was growing faster, he didn’t think she had ever been kissed.
He was going to make it a memorable first kiss. She deserved that much.
He lowered his mouth to hers, feeling his eyes close as his lips met hers. Soft, so soft. His fingers splayed at her waist, holding her still for him. Not that she was struggling to get away; in fact, she’d slid her hand up to his neck and her fingers were coiled in the hair at his collar, as though anchoring him to her.
He pressed his lips, still closed, to her tender, luscious mouth. Particular parts of his body responded to being this close to her, and he was momentarily grateful others were nearby, because he wasn’t sure he could deny what his body wanted if they were truly alone.
Only momentarily grateful only, though. He wished they were alone, so he could lavish all the attention on her he wanted to give—to show her what a long, slow, meaningful kiss could be, to run his hands over her body, finally to see her unencumbered by her dreadful wardrobe.
Her shawl and gloves were only the beginning of what he wanted to remove.
She sighed into the kiss, and he felt her body melt into his, her breasts pressed into his chest.
He licked at the seam of her lips, and she opened her mouth for him. He didn’t think she knew she had his hair in a tight grip, keeping his mouth close against hers, making sure his body was as close to hers as possible. He knew she wasn’t thinking about how anyone could walk onto the terrace and see them, pressed close in an obvious embrace.
He teased her tongue with his, sending a jolt of lust straight to his groin. If he could get this aroused with only a kiss—dear Lord.
She made a sound, deep and low in her throat, and his body reacted immediately.
His body was quite responsive, it seemed. To her, at least.
But since the point of the kiss was not to lead to other activities, he had to do something before his body took over for his head. Plunging both of them into immediate scandal was definitely the opposite of what he should be doing.
He gave her one last kiss and drew away, every part of him—save for what sense remained in his head—clamoring that this was totally the wrong decision.
His head, thank goodness, won out. For now, at least.
And almost lost when he saw the dazed, sensual look in her eyes.
She blinked and stared up at him, her mouth moist and open from his kiss. From their kiss, because she had participated nearly as much as he had.
Already he wanted to dip his head low again and take her mouth, to delve and explore her soft wetness.
Everywhere.
“That was … lovely,” she said, her mouth curving up into a sly grin at the last word. “My first kiss. How perfect it was with you.”
He disentangled his hand from hers and tried to slow his breathing. “Why perfect with me? Not that I’m arguing, of course; any man likes a lady’s first kiss to be with him, and to be perfect.”
She poked him in the chest with her index finger. “Because you are you, and you are perfect, and it was a lovely, lovely kiss.”
Her reasoning escaped him, but he was grateful she seemed to enjoy it as much as he had.
And he was very aware that he wanted to kiss her again. Frequently.
***
Goodness. If that was how kissing felt, it was a wonder that married couples ever even made it out of their houses for an evening. Although it could be because the kissing was with him. She still trembled from it, wanted more, even though she wasn’t quite certain what “more” was. Just that she wanted it.
And judging by the expression on his face, and how he had moved closer to her, and put his hand at the small of her back as though to hold her tight against him—well, it would be false modesty to pretend he hadn’t wanted it as well.
She was exceedingly glad she had opened her mouth, once again, and said what she wanted to rather than what she was supposed to.
She didn’t think anyone had seen them, out on the terrace, although it wouldn’t have been horrible if someone had. Anyone who looked as he did could get away with more than what other, normal-looking gentlemen could. And she would be elevated in people’s eyes as well, even as she was plunged into scandal.
She’d already seen how people reacted to him, giving him an extra glance as he wended his
way through a crowd, or spoke, or made a request.
She was the same as them, though, wasn’t she? Now that was a lowering thought.
“Is kissing always like that?”
He looked beyond her as he considered. Good, she thought, it isn’t always like that. If it were, he would just quickly say yes, and that would be that.
“It depends.” Which was one of the worst answers she’d ever gotten, since she had no idea what it depended on or if it meant the depending made it better or worse.
“Depends on what?” She plucked her gloves from his pocket, where he’d stuck them prior to kissing her—a very prepared gentleman, he was—and began to put one back on.
He frowned as he watched the motion of the glove sliding up her skin.
“Depends on the moment, and the person—or people, as kissing isn’t a solitary exercise—and the emotions.”
Charlotte pondered that. She moved past him to retrieve her shawl from the wall, but draped it over her arm. She didn’t want to startle him unduly. “Hm. So the next time we kiss, if there is a next time, it might feel different?” That sounded fun. Like an adventure where you weren’t quite sure what would happen next.
He smiled. Whether at her, or in anticipation of their next kiss, or something else entirely, she didn’t know. “It will happen. And it will feel different. I promise.” His voice held a thrillingly dark tone, an underlying sensual promise that even she, naïve as she was, understood.
“Good. I very much look forward to it, then.” She couldn’t resist. She rose up on her tiptoes and touched her lips to his in the barest of kisses. She felt the motion of his hand as he reached for her, but by the time he’d moved, she was back down on solid ground again. His face wore an expression of disappointment, which pleased her almost as much as the kiss had.
“Would you care to take a drive with me tomorrow, Lady Charlotte? My brother loaned me his phaeton, only I haven’t driven one since leaving here.”
She nodded. “I should be nervous, I know, but somehow that makes it all the more thrilling—doing something you haven’t done for a long while, as well.”
What Not to Bare Page 7
