“Is there something wrong?” She gazed up at him. The moonlight was kind to his face, not that any lighting wouldn’t be. But the moonlight cast shadows over the bones and planes of his face, making his beauty seem almost fantastical, like something someone could only dream of.
He drew a hand through his hair, making it look mussed, but no less devastating. “I … God, Charlotte, you are beautiful. But you’re beyond beautiful. You’re so you, so essentially Charlotte that it’s hard to find words to describe you properly. Lord knows I’ve tried,” he added in a mutter. He shook his head.
“It’s just … it’s just this,” he said as he pulled her to the side of the terrace, just behind the double doors, so that they couldn’t be seen. And before she could even wonder why, he kissed her.
What Not to Bare
Dear Ladies:
Everyone—absolutely everyone—can benefit from some sort of augmentation to their person. Clothing, more than conversation, attitudes, wit, beliefs, or anything else that has to be conveyed by speech, announces what a person is—or might be—in the quickest, most immediate way.
That’s why it is crucial that you understand that you are making an impression, a first impression, whenever you don clothing.
Of course, we have to say, there are some people, a very few people, who look their best without any augmentation at all. Who are, in fact, so beautiful to look at that any distraction from their beauty just reduces its impression.
London Society has such a person, at least one by our count.
We just wish it were acceptable to have him walk about as naked as the statues in the British Museum. Oh, how we wish that.
The Fashionable Foible
Chapter 20
David took her into his arms and kissed her thoroughly. It felt, in fact, as though he was consuming her; his tongue plundered her mouth as his arms wrapped tight around her, bringing her in close to his body.
Which, she could tell, was pleased about the contact. That was certainly a sudden reaction … unless it had been building while they danced?
She would have to ask.
All thought of asking anything flew out of her head as her entire body reacted to what he was doing, how he was doing it, and just where he was doing it.
His hands slid down her back until he reached the point where her back curved into her behind, then he flattened his palms and ran them over her, down to where her legs began, then up again.
It felt incredible.
She heard the rustle as her gown shifted over her body, drawn up by his palms, then dropping down again as he smoothed his hands all over her.
It had been such a sudden assault—not in a bad way, but an assault nonetheless—that she had just stood there as he’d lowered his mouth. But now that she had time to assess the situation, she realized she could participate as well—which would definitely be enjoyable.
So she parted his jacket and skimmed her hands up his waistcoat, onto his shoulders. His broad, strong shoulders. Her hands grasped them, and she used him as leverage to raise herself up higher so she was more level with him.
He still towered over her, of course, but now that part of her that desperately needed contact—not her breasts, the other part—was up against his thigh, which was much more satisfactory than near his leg. Near his leg didn’t help her at all, whereas pressed up against his thigh helped somewhat.
Not entirely, but if it entirely helped, she knew her reputation would be permanently and entirely ruined, and his would suffer as well.
And even if she could do that to herself, she couldn’t do that to him. Not given what he’d mentioned about India and his need to be useful.
But meanwhile, he’d forsaken her behind and was finding his usefulness in running his hands up her side, placing his palms on her breasts, his thumbs on her skin just above the fabric.
As though he could simply hook his fingers and pull her gown down to expose her to his gaze.
Which should have been a disconcerting thought for a young lady currently being kissed on a terrace at a society party, but was not at all.
Perhaps she was different from other young ladies. But how could she find out?
She couldn’t ask him—could she?
This was far more thinking than she should be engaged in at this particular moment, given that her mind was almost entirely consumed in just how he was making her feel. Which was, in a word, wonderful.
Not to mention fantastic, glorious, sensual, attractive, and even beautiful.
He curled his hand around her breast, again caressing it as he had her behind. And that felt glorious as well, even though the wonderful feeling was tinged with a wanting, a need that was building inside her, making her want something else to happen.
She was not so naïve she didn’t know what that something was. But this was not the place, the time, nor the situation. Even if he was an excellent choice for … something.
She leaned into his hand, wanting his touch all over her body, feeling as though her breasts were aching for his touch. And he wanted it too; he gave a low moan, deep in his throat as he kissed her, his big body almost subsuming her with its strength and her need.
Then there was a noise, or rather, the music stopped, so it was a lack of noise, but whatever it was caused them to jump apart, the skirt of Charlotte’s gown making a last rustle to the ground. Her fingers went to her mouth, still moist and warm from his.
“We should return.” His voice was shaky. She’d done that to him.
She nodded, but paused and bit her lip. “Perhaps you should wait out here for a bit? Until you, uh, settle?” she said, trying hard not to look down at just where he definitely had to settle.
He looked away from her, his expression a mix of ruefulness and embarrassment. “I suppose I should. You should go back now, though.”
“Yes.” She said the word, but still she stood there, looking at him, the tremulous, delicious feeling still resonating through her body, even though they were no longer touching.
“Go, Charlotte,” he urged softly, and she spun on her heel and reentered the ballroom, hoping nobody could see just what she was thinking. What she was thinking and wishing she were doing.
Of course, if anyone could figure out the muddle currently in her brain, they were welcome to her thoughts.
“There you are,” Anne said, catching her by the arm as she turned to enter the card room. Thank goodness her mother found the allure of gambling far more interesting than watching what her daughter was getting up to.
“Were you looking for me? Was anybody?”
Anne smirked. There was no other word for it. She smirked. “Nobody else noticed when you and Lord David slipped away, if you’re worried. Not even Lady Radnor. She and Charles are dancing,” she said. “Were you doing more column research? On our terrace?” One of her eyebrows rose as she asked the questions.
“No, I was … We were …” He was kissing me senseless, and I was kissing him back, and there may have been hands involved.
Anne held her hand up. “Never mind. I am guessing this is one of those things about which I do not wish to know.”
Charlotte gave a brief nod.
“So what is your next column—oh, Lady Radnor. Have you and Charles finished your dance, then?”
“Yes, your brother is such an engaging companion.” How did everything she say manage to sound dismissive? “He has invited me to go to the museum with you and your mother—and him, of course—the next time you go. Lady Charlotte was telling me of its attractions.”
Anne looked as though she wanted to retract the invitation, but of course she was far too polite—and Charles too much of an ass—for her to say anything.
“That will be lovely.”
Charlotte was hoping Lady Radnor would find some other male to torment rather than continuing to bother David, but that assumed he did not want to be bothered.
What if he did want to be bothered? What if he liked having women dogging his heels? Not to mention kissing
his mouth.
“Lady Anne, I apologize,” David said, having joined their group. “I got engrossed in a particularly arousing conversation,” he continued, shooting a look at Charlotte that made her face grow warm, “and did not find you in time for our dance. Are you free now?”
Anne smirked again and held her hand out to him. “Yes, thank you, Lord David. I would love to.”
David bowed to both of them and drew Anne to the dance floor.
Charlotte and Louise watched them retreat, Charlotte dreading having to make polite conversation with the woman, whom she already knew she didn’t like, and was guessing she couldn’t trust.
After all, if her biggest complaint about India was that it was not England, how could Charlotte possibly find anything she said credible? Not that Charlotte didn’t love England as well, just that she was interested in going to other places and exploring other things. Something it seemed she and Lady Radnor did not have in common. Unless “exploring other things” referred to David.
“Lord David is a particular acquaintance of yours, I believe?”
Lady Radnor was clever to find the one thing they did have in common.
And how did one answer that, anyway? To say no would be to deny the friendship; to say yes made it sound as though she was bragging.
Thankfully Lady Radnor did not seem to require an answer. “He is such a gentleman, always rescuing stray dogs.” At this, she shot a look at Charlotte. “There was one occasion where the mutt was barely recognizable under all the dirt, and he cleaned it up and fed it. Only to find, of course,” she said with a trill of a laugh, “that it was still an ugly dog.”
Speaking of dogs, Charlotte wished she could tell Louise she was acting like a lady dog, a bi—only ladies weren’t supposed to know that term, nor was it at all a nice thing to say, and despite how plainspoken she was in general, Charlotte could only be that entirely mean in her head. Plus, she didn’t want to hurt the lady’s feelings, even if she had just effectively compared Charlotte to an ugly dog.
On second thought, she opened her mouth to reply, but Lord Charles chose that moment to walk up to them.
Would she ever get to actually finish a conversation this evening? It appeared not.
“Lady Radnor, may I steal you away to make arrangements for the museum visit? Excuse us, Lady Charlotte,” he said, taking Louise’s arm without waiting for a reply.
With her mother in the card room, Anne and David on the dance floor, and even Louise and Charles deserting her, she was now alone. At a party.
At least she could finally finish a conversation with herself.
***
He was going to miss this, he thought on the carriage ride home. Although how much that was due to a certain inquisitive young lady, he couldn’t answer. Wouldn’t answer, actually.
Even without including the time he’d spent on the terrace with her, he’d had fun. Her friend Lady Anne had a quiet, subtle wit he quite enjoyed, and he’d found himself at the center of a group of young gentlemen eager for advice on all sorts of things. Apparently he now had a reputation for being a knowledgeable gentleman, by virtue of having been away for so long.
If that was all it took, perhaps these young men might want to go unearth some of the aristocrats who hated London and hadn’t been there in years.
It wasn’t sufficient, all of that, but it did make him feel useful.
And then there was her, and their frequent forays onto terraces, and all that entailed. He’d come so close to throwing caution aside and stripping her of her loathsome gown tonight, revealing the beauty and loveliness he’d already seen, but hadn’t seen nearly enough of.
And the way she responded to his touch, how she had touched him as well, her hands on his shoulders, his chest, the way she’d pressed herself up against him, not timid or frightened by anything.
He admired her. He did. But more than that, he was intrigued by her. He wanted to explore her further, both her body and her mind, and that was perhaps the largest reason he wished he could remain in London longer.
Only a few weeks remained.
He felt his chest tighten at the thought of having to say good-bye. Not yet, at least. Not yet.
He wasn’t in the mood for conversation when he arrived home; thankfully Gotam had gone to bed already, knowing David could take care of himself. He poured a brandy in the salon and headed upstairs with his drink.
He set the glass down on the bureau inside his room and tossed his jacket onto a nearby chair, knowing that in the morning, Gotam would delight in complaining about David’s carelessness. Again. It seemed to be the one thing that was consistent about their friendship.
Then he sat down on one of the chairs to remove his shoes, resting his elbow on his knee. He stared at the carpet beneath his feet, not seeing it, but seeing her in his mind instead.
Still feeling the warmth and softness of her body against his.
His cock began to stiffen, and he rose, shucking his trousers and smallclothes in one smooth motion. Then he drew his shirt over his head and threw it on top of the jacket, and strode over to his bed.
Completely nude, he got under the covers and grasped himself, thinking it was her hand that touched him. That stroked his length and hardness just so, as he began to swell under the touch.
He hadn’t licked and sucked her nipples yet, had he? He would have to change that next time they were safely alone. The thought of her completely exposed to his gaze had him breathing harder as his grip grew tighter, and his strokes grew more frantic.
What would her face look like when she came? The thought itself was almost enough to send him over the edge, so he slowed his strokes and forced himself to think of something, anything, else.
Like what she might taste like lower down. How surprised she’d be when he kissed her there, found her little nub of pleasure and kissed it as thoroughly as he did her mouth. But not before he kissed his way down her body, caressing and touching every inch of skin he could while she watched him, that usually curious look replaced with something sensually curious.
His hand went faster, and his other hand went to his chest, rubbing it as he knew she wanted to. His palm skated over his nipples, and the contact sent another element of delight shuddering through his body.
He was so hard, his cock so rigid and erect, he knew it wouldn’t be long before he exploded. His balls were tight, every muscle straining as he stroked to his release.
He uttered a groan as he came, thinking of her astride him, her brown eyes gazing at him as he found his pleasure.
As his shaking subsided, he knew that no matter how great that orgasm had been, it was nothing compared to what would await him with Charlotte.
What Not to Bare
Dear Ladies:
We have veered from the focus of this column lately, haven’t we? We have to apologize, citing the absence of the usual columnist and our own breathless wonder at discovering the scope and meaning of people’s garments.
The London Season is drawing to a close soon, and we will miss this, even if a regular deadline can prove onerous, especially if one is spending all of one’s evenings viewing the entire fashionable world.
Or the fashionable world entirely in London, that is.
But what we will take away from this is that people’s perceptions of themselves, judging by the clothing they wear, is often wrong. How we wish we could take certain young ladies aside and remind them that clothing need not be a disguise for who they are, but a celebration. Especially if those young ladies are tricked out in patterns designed to give one a headache, or colors definitely not found in nature.
Although if they see themselves as that colorful, perhaps we should let them be.
The Fashionable Foible
Chapter 21
“Mr. Goddard will be arriving this afternoon to speak with your father,” her mother announced at breakfast.
The piece of toast Charlotte had been buttering snapped in two, and she managed to smear butter on her p
alm. She grabbed a napkin and wiped it off.
“What is he coming to speak to me about?” her father asked from behind his paper. Clueless Papa.
Her mother apparently thought he was clueless as well, but didn’t think of cluelessness as being charming. “About marrying Charlotte, of course,” she replied, frowning at him, and then at Charlotte, who had grabbed another slice of toast.
“I … I thought you told me I had until the end of the Season,” Charlotte said, trying to will her voice not to tremble. Or shout.
Her mother’s frown deepened. “It is nearly the end. There are not even two weeks remaining, and wouldn’t it be nice to have it all settled before everyone begins to leave town?”
No, it would not be pleasant at all. The opposite of pleasant, actually, although unpleasant didn’t even begin to cover it.
Charlotte took a nibble of toast as she composed her thoughts. They were currently racing among where David’s hands had been, and had not been, the vast unpleasantness of Mr. Goddard, Lady Radnor’s looks, and, of course, toast.
“If this is to happen, then I have to insist on being present during the negotiations.” Her mother looked blank. “You were not thinking of just handing me and my fortune over to Mr. Goddard, were you?”
Judging by her mother’s expression, she was.
“What negotiations can you mean?” Her mother’s face was getting pink, which meant she was either embarrassed or angry. Probably both.
“What happens if Mr. Goddard and I have children?” Heaven forbid. “He has children already; will my money just be handed to his son? What about my children?” she said, ending the words with the hint of a sob in her voice.
Her mother’s face softened. Good, she bought it. Perhaps there was a career for Charlotte on the stage along with Lady Radnor. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
No, because all you had thought of was getting your unmarried daughter off your hands. “You comprehend my meaning, then.”
“But your father can—,” her mother began to say, then both ladies looked at Charlotte’s father, who had lowered his paper and was regarding the females with an interested look in his eye.
What Not to Bare Page 19
