She heard Anne suppress a giggle beside her.
“Precisely.” The poor man sounded relieved. Thank goodness he wasn’t analyzing exactly what she had just said.
“Anne, Lady Charlotte.” Lord Charles clapped Mr. Smeldley on the back. “And you, Smelly. Enjoying the art, are we?”
He met Charlotte’s eyes for a brief, malicious second, then glanced around the room. “Perhaps the ton should hold its parties here. At least the ladies are worth looking at.”
Charlotte felt his verbal barb as though it were a physical blow. She’d allowed herself to relax, basking in Lord David’s admiration. But the reality was what Lord Charles had just said—nobody wanted to look at her.
Why, then, did she persist in it? Constantly putting things on that got her nicknames, and mocked, and made her mother’s eyes roll? She could, after all, put herself in her maid’s capable and color-coordinated hands (or eyes, rather), and look like every other young female on the Marriage Mart.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? As David had pointed out when she’d tried it. She’d look like every other young female. There would be nothing different about her, and she’d found she liked looking different.
She was stubborn also, determined to find someone to love her who would get past what she wore to find the woman within. Someone who wasn’t deterred by what a person might choose to look like. Someone who encouraged her to celebrate her personal taste and didn’t think less of her for it. Someone who thought more of her, in fact. Someone like—
“Good afternoon, Lady Charlotte, Lady Anne.” Him. Someone like him.
Even though she’d seen him just half an hour earlier, her heart still flipped when confronted with his ridiculous good looks. How did he not just sit in front of a glass all day and admire himself? She knew if she were as beautiful as he was, that’s what she would do.
“Good afternoon, Lord David. Quite a surprise to see you here. Are you looking for something in particular?”
His lips quirked in response to her jibe. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
Oh, of course. He’d seen beautiful women naked and had probably shot a glance at himself naked, which had to be even more beautiful than any of these statues.
“Do you want to sit down, Charlotte? You’re looking a bit pale.” Anne took her by the elbow and guided her to a bench directly in front of one of the most naked statues in the room. Not that there could be much of a quantitative value given to nakedness; either one was or was not.
This one definitely was.
“One of these days, my brother is going to get himself punched for what he says,” Anne muttered as she sat down next to Charlotte. “I am so sorry, I wish there was a way to stop him from speaking.”
“A well-placed stocking stuffed into his mouth? Maybe you could challenge him to say nothing but compliments for a whole day? That would silence him.”
Anne laughed. “Believe me, I’m tempted. I wish he would just return to our house in the country. I did not want him here for the Season, but he and my mother insisted. She thinks he’s going to land himself an heiress.”
“I’m an heiress,” Charlotte pointed out.
“Yes, and even though you are my friend, if you marry Charles, I will have to kill you.”
“I will not be marrying your brother, then. I wish to continue breathing.” She paused. “But he might be right. I have been wondering if I should just dress like everyone else.”
Anne grasped her arm. “No, you should not! That is, not if you don’t really want to. You need to stand up for what you want, despite what others might say. You may not know it, but you are a standard-bearer for making your own decisions. Just think,” she said, clutching Charlotte’s arm tighter, “how few decisions young women get to make. We can decide what to eat, sometimes; we can choose which books to read, within a certain amount of appropriate ones; and we can pick our clothing, sometimes. The rest—who we marry, where we live, what we do, where we go—is up to others. So you being so bold, so adventurous, is really admirable.”
That was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her. David had only told her she was not ugly, after all.
“Thank you. You are so kind.”
“No, I’m not. And neither are you. I think that’s why I like you so much.”
Charlotte nodded in agreement, her blue feather tickling the top of her friend’s hair. “I’m just louder than you, in both speech and clothing.”
“Yes, definitely.” She squinted as she perused Charlotte’s gown. “That gown might even manage to shut my brother up.”
“Then I’ll definitely keep dressing as I do,” Charlotte said with a smile.
“Are you feeling all right, Lady Charlotte?” David stood in front of them, a look of concern on his face.
What would his face look like if she told him she had gotten woozy just thinking about him unclothed?
“I am fine, thank you.”
“I am glad to hear that,” he said, one of those delicious smiles curling his mouth up.
“Why are you here, anyway?” she asked. She heard Anne’s gasp of surprise beside her.
“I thought I might find something interesting. And,” he said, spreading his hands out to indicate the two of them on the bench, “it seems I have.”
“Well played, Lord David,” Anne said, an admiring tone in her voice.
“You can speak politely after all,” Charlotte added. He grinned at her, then made a gesture to the bench.
“May I?”
“Of course,” Charlotte said, edging over to give him room. “Please do.”
“We were discussing Lady Charlotte’s wardrobe. I am insisting that she not change, despite what some people—including my own brother—might say. It is important for ladies to maintain their own choices, wouldn’t you agree, Lord David?”
“Entirely,” he said. “Lady Charlotte has a unique vision. I want her always to be able to choose precisely what she wants.”
Oh. And he thought he couldn’t speak properly around her?
“Thank you,” she said in a soft voice.
What would she choose if she could choose precisely what she wanted?
The thought was both thrilling and frightening.
What Not to Bare
Dear Ladies:
Choice is something we all have—whether to put milk and sugar in our tea, or to choose chocolate instead. Whether to finish reading the book everyone is talking about, but you find boring, or to choose a different piece of entertainment.
So why is it so hard for ladies to choose what they want to wear? Without someone castigating them for their choice?
That is the issue, though, isn’t it: criticism. Of course young ladies have a choice of what to wear, say, or do, but others can—and do—choose to criticize them for their choices.
In which case, making a bold choice, in beverages or boots, should be applauded, not derided.
Choose to let people be what they choose to be, without choosing, yourself, to choose to comment.
The Fashionable Foible
Chapter 11
He certainly hadn’t intended to go to the museum after dropping Charlotte back at her house.
He had intended to remain at home and catch up on his correspondence.
But when it came down to it, he didn’t have much correspondence to take care of, and he had done most of it prior to taking Charlotte driving. He’d been out of the country for so long, he didn’t have many connections in England any longer, and he hadn’t been in town long enough to cultivate new acquaintances.
And he wasn’t going to cultivate new acquaintances sitting alone in his brother’s house.
The plan was, then, to go find the potential new acquaintances at the only place he’d heard would have people he might meet. Whether or not he wanted to meet them he couldn’t know until he met them—another type of oxymoron he looked forward to sharing with Charlotte.
That meeting-people plan was rendered moot as so
on as he’d seen Charlotte.
Replaced by a feeling of pique that she felt she had to come to the museum to find eligible men. When she’d just been taken for a drive with one.
Which was then replaced with a feeling of horror at realizing he’d just thought of himself as eligible in regard to Charlotte—she was an assignment, nothing more.
Which was a lie, but he had no intention of having Lord Bradford angry at him for overstepping his duties regarding his niece.
He did enjoy spending time with her, but nothing more. There couldn’t be. What he wanted, what he needed, was to keep his reputation clean so he could return to India.
That was all. He should not be thinking of how and when he could kiss her again.
Nor how it had felt when they had laughed together.
Nor how she seemed to see beyond his looks to the man underneath.
None of that.
So he made conversation and glanced around at the statues, which were, as promised, naked statues, and kept returning to that kiss.
He should not attend the Millers’ that evening. He would be sorely tempted to kiss her again. He needed to keep his distance. He was having too much fun with his assignment. Assignments were not fun; they were intense, delicate work.
Except for this one.
“Lord David?” Lady Anne must have said his name a few times already; she sounded as though she were concerned about him.
“Yes, apologies. What may I help you with?” There was definitely more to Lady Anne than a thin, pale debutante; he’d caught a few sharp glances she’d shot at Charlotte when she thought no one was looking.
“I was hoping you could escort Charlotte—Lady Charlotte, that is—to her carriage. Her mother and mine are busy, well”—she looked embarrassed—“and Charlotte needs to get home. She’d forgotten about something she was supposed to do.”
He could just imagine what the mothers were up to and felt annoyed at himself for being glad that Charlotte wanted nothing to do with it.
“It would be my pleasure.”
So much for staying away from her. But after seeing her to her carriage, he could return home and stay there. All evening.
***
“What is the matter with you?” Gotam lounged in one of the easy chairs in the salon, sipping some more of that not-British brandy.
David slowed his steady pace back and forth across the carpet to stand in front of his friend. “Nothing. Why?”
Gotam raised his chin at him. “Because you are walking as though there is a fire somewhere near your hindquarters. And as far as I know, the fire is safely in the grate.”
Both of them turned and looked at the fireplace where, indeed, a cozy fire was blazing cheerfully.
It should have been a restful evening in, but all he’d done thus far was resist the urge to drink himself insensible. Not to mention practically wearing a hole in his brother’s finest Aubusson.
“Why aren’t you out chasing down your assignment? The Abomination is not entirely abominable, is she?”
David sat down opposite him, splaying his arms out on either side of the chair. “She is not entirely abominable, no.” He stretched his neck. “It is just—the intrigue is worse here than it was back home. All the gossip, and talk behind people’s hands.”
“Otherwise known as gossip,” Gotam observed dryly.
“And the constant vigilance that you say the right thing,” David continued, ignoring his friend’s interruption,
“Otherwise known as being a diplomat,” Gotam added.
“All right, fine.” David rose again, unable to sit a moment longer. “I’m bored, and irritated at being required to act a certain way in society, and resentful that it’s the cruelty of others that make me have to do all this.”
“So it was the Lady Louise’s cruelty that landed you in this mess?”
If Gotam wasn’t his best friend, he might’ve murdered him already.
“No,” he replied curtly. “That was my own idiocy. I’m surprised she hasn’t shown up here again, in fact.”
Gotam smiled his cagily mysterious smile, the one that looked especially foreign to David’s British eyes.
“Oh. So she did show up here again.”
Gotam nodded.
“And you got rid of her?” David took his glass from the sideboard and clinked it against Gotam’s. “Thank you.”
Gotam raised his glass in a salute and drank.
“Will she stay away, do you think?”
Gotam shook his head. “No, you merely got a reprieve. I am guessing the lady is even now plotting how to ensnare you in her delectable web.”
“Lord, I hope not. If so, I will have to find a way to remove myself from her coils.”
“A sticky proposition,” Gotam returned, a smirk on his face.
“Indeed.”
***
The Millers’ was, predictably, crowded with many of the most fashionable people in Society. Including her father, who’d decided to actually accompany his ladies to an event, since his sister was eschewing her normal card game to venture into Society. But the crowd did not include, as far as Charlotte could see, him.
She would have noticed him if he were here; first of all, he was taller than most of the gentlemen, not to mention that there would have been a general elevation in the ladies’ frame of mind and conversation.
Mr. Goddard was there, however, and asked her for the first waltz, which she had to agree to. Then, surprisingly, her hand was solicited for several more dances, by Mr. Smeldley, plus a few of the other gentlemen who’d been at the museum that afternoon.
Charlotte didn’t flatter herself that they were suddenly recognizing her attractions. She was actually trying to figure out what percentage of this change in attitude could be attributed to her fortune and what percentage to the attention David had been paying to her. Was it forty percent of the former and sixty of the latter? Or perhaps even thirty to seventy?
“My dear.” Her father took her elbow and pivoted her to face the lady he was with, one of the most stunning women Charlotte had ever seen. “I would like to introduce Lady Radnor, who’s recently arrived from India.”
“How do you do? It is a pleasure.” Her mouth spoke the polite words, but Charlotte’s mind was racing—it was too much of a coincidence that both of them were just arrived from India.
Perhaps they were returning all of the beautiful people to England?
“The pleasure is mine,” the lady said. Her voice was low and what Charlotte could only call sultry. My goodness.
Charlotte thought she would just ask, rather than continue to wonder. “You must know Lord David Marchston, then.”
Her father was probably oblivious to it, but there was no mistaking the gleam that came into her eyes at the mention of his name.
“Yes, Lord David and I … traveled in the same circles. My husband—my late husband—was a general in the army.” She held a lace-trimmed handkerchief to eyes that were as dry as Charlotte’s throat. And Charlotte was very thirsty.
“I am sorry for your loss, my lady.”
“Thank you.” She looked anything but heartbroken.
“Lady Radnor’s husband insisted she return to England after—well, after he had gone. We have convinced her to come out this evening, even though she is in mourning, since her husband would have wished it.” Her father beamed at the lady. She was worth looking at, certainly; glossy, black hair, dark eyes, pale skin, and a captivatingly red mouth.
Rather, in fact, like Snow White.
“Will Dav—that is, Lord David be here this evening, do you know?” And now Charlotte was wishing she had a poisoned apple.
“I am not certain he was invited.”
“He is welcome everywhere, isn’t he?” Now her tone was downright possessive.
“Of course, but the Millers perhaps do not know him as well as you seem to.” That comment drew a narrowing of the lady’s eyes. Yes, Snow, you might be stunning to look at, but do not get sharp with me
. I will get sharp right back. Not to mention forcefeeding you some apples.
“No matter. I will see him at another time.”
What other time? “Of course.” Now she was desperate to know precisely what David and Snow were to each other. Was he madly in love with her and relieved her husband had died? Had he been good friends with her husband? Why had she returned to England?
And where was David, anyway? He’d said he’d be here, even though he lacked an invitation. She was embarrassed to admit to herself how the evening’s joy seemed to pall when she thought he might not be coming.
“Dear, I am escorting Lady Radnor to the whist tables. Please let your mother know where I am.” Charlotte watched, her mind still churning over this new turn of events, as her father and Lady Radnor made their way across the room and disappeared into the card room.
“I’ve figured it out.” Anne’s voice startled her out of her reverie. She jumped, then turned and faced her friend.
“What have you figured out?”
Anne glanced around as though to make sure they weren’t overheard. “His flaws.”
There was no mistaking who she was talking about.
“And?” Please don’t let his flaws be that he is madly in love with a recently returned widow.
“He doesn’t seem to have any.”
“That’s not a flaw.” He was perfect. Which meant that he was not for her.
Not because she thought she wasn’t up to his standards—because she didn’t think that poorly of herself, no matter what he might think—but because she didn’t want to fall in love with, much less marry, someone who was a Paragon of Perfection.
Paragons of Perfection might think they were happy enough to be with someone who was less perfect, but eventually, all that paragon-ness would come to grate.
She was almost disappointed that his flaw wasn’t that he was desperately poor, in need of an heiress. An heiress like her.
What Not to Bare Page 10
