What Not to Bare

by Megan Frampton

  “Her father can what?”

  Charlotte and her mother glanced at each other, then both sighed. “You’d better be there as well, Charlotte.”

  One win won. Now for an additional assault. “And once we are engaged”—which we won’t ever be—“I will require some time for my wedding clothes. You don’t wish me to venture into life as Mr. Goddard’s wife in my current clothing, do you?’

  There was a pause as her mother considered that. A pained expression came over her face, which was when Charlotte knew she had won the second battle.

  “That would seem to make sense.”

  “Wonderful. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must change in preparation for Mr. Goddard’s arrival.”

  “But he won’t be here until the aft—oh, never mind,” she heard her mother say as she left the room.

  She ran up the stairs, her mind racing as fast as her feet. She hadn’t had a plan beyond staving her mother off until she came up with a plan, which thus far wasn’t the best plan she’d ever had. Not being a plan, precisely.

  At least she knew the worst that could happen—the absolute worst—was that she would say no, her mother would be livid, and she would take herself off, along with her fortune, where no one would know her.

  Where she could remember David’s touch, his kiss, his words.

  Why didn’t this cheer her at all?

  She darted into her bedroom and plopped down on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest. If only she could just say what she wanted—and didn’t want—without having to disappoint her mother and be a burden on her family.

  Because even if she did live on her own, they’d always worry about her.

  Her throat tightened, and she felt the sting of tears burn her eyes. She rested her forehead on her knees and let herself cry, sobbing out all the frustration and worry and more frustration she had in her heart.

  If she could just … what?

  What would her ideal future hold?

  The tantalizingly forbidden image of her with David immediately rose to her mind. But they had made it clear this was temporary, and she wouldn’t jeopardize his return to India, knowing how much it meant to him, to his sense of personal satisfaction.

  Besides, what did they have in common?

  Beyond breathing, liking to eat food, being English, sharing a sense of humor, liking the way each other kissed, having strong opinions on fashion … oh, no.

  She’d done it, hadn’t she?

  She’d fallen in love with him.

  That reality should have made her sob harder, but it didn’t; instead, she thought about all the joy and fun she could cram in with him in these last few days before he went back to being useful, and she returned to … well, she didn’t know where she would return to, but she was determined it wouldn’t be anywhere Mr. Goddard was.

  Despite her mother’s hopes and aspirations, despite her own concerns about never being wanted for herself.

  She valued herself too much to throw it all away on someone like Mr. Goddard.

  Even if it meant she was alone for the rest of her life.

  But in the meantime, she would not be alone. She would be with David.

  ***

  Writing the column should have been a clever way to get her mind off her problems, but she found that when she put pen to paper, all the thoughts that were chasing themselves around her brain spilled out.

  Instead of trying to force her brain back in line, however, she wrote everything down, laughing at certain turns of phrase she’d come up with and sighing over some of the ideas she realized she had inside.

  She could see why Emma liked doing it so much now—it was a way to express herself without revealing who she was, and thus risk Society’s scorn and mocking. Oh, she didn’t doubt but that there were other young gentlemen and ladies who shared her opinions, but it would always be people such as Anne’s brother, Charles, who dictated how people thought they should behave and react.

  It wasn’t fair, but she did it, too. After all, she deliberately dressed herself as she did not just because she liked what she wore. She used it as a weapon, as a disguise, and only certain-sighted people could see through it to the real Charlotte.

  Not to mention, it totally aggravated her mother.

  She finished the last batch and tucked them into an envelope, sighing as she sealed the letter closed. These would be the last ones she wrote; the column was done when Society’s Season was finished, and she wouldn’t be expected to continue, not when Emma was available.

  She was proud of her work with them, proud of having been able to express so many of her own thoughts and have them read and enjoyed by people who wouldn’t have listened to Lady Charlotte Jepstow.

  But she knew that if they did know, they would be horrified, especially given the ideas in some of the last few columns. It was a good thing it was over soon, since every time the column appeared, she ran the risk of someone finding out who was writing it, which would cause more scandal than anything she had ever worn, even including the evening gown with all the butterflies.

  She pulled the bell for Sarah, holding the envelope tightly. So much was coming to an end, and she still had no idea what would be in her future. Not just her future future, as in ten years from now, but her immediate future, as in a month from now.

  Although, she smiled to herself as she waited for her maid, she was hoping her immediate future would involve her being able to see David. To ask him all the questions she had in her mind and find out precisely what would have been next if they had spent more time on the Terrace of Touching.

  ***

  Gotam walked in, holding the paper, giggling in a way that gave David a prickly feeling as he sat at his desk. “Have you seen this?” he asked, holding the paper out.

  “A paper? Yes, Ox, I am familiar with them.”

  Gotam shook his head—perhaps at David’s weak attempt at a joke?—and tossed the paper onto the desk, where it made the things he’d been working on leap into the air and cascade to the floor.

  David ignored them, and that prickle becoming more persistent as he saw the title of the column: “What Not to Bare.”

  “Is this your way of offering fashion guidance? Because if it is, you can just tell me if you don’t like what I’m wearing.”

  Gotam dropped into the chair at the other side of the desk. “I’m not the one who wants to see you less clothed. But whomever writes this appears to wish for it very much. Look,” he said, putting his finger to the words.

  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.

  David finished reading and just stared at the paper. The prickle was a torrent down his spine now, and he couldn’t figure out which emotion was uppermost in his mind—anger, embarrassment, or pride. He knew enough about his effect on people to know it was him the columnist was referencing—he couldn’t pretend otherwise, even though his modesty might demand it.

  “It’s you,” Gotam pointed out, helpful as always. “It has to be you. As far as I’ve heard, you’re the best-looking man in Society these days, and the reference to the museum—you’ve visited there lately, haven’t you?—seals it. It’s you, Mr. Gorgeous.”

  “So what if it is? It is not as though I had a part in it. I don’t know who this”—he bent forward to read the name—“Fashionable Foible is.”

  Gotam shrugged. “Anyone who’s seen you who can put pen to paper, I imagine. It’s hardly scandalous; I wouldn’t be concerned.”

  That hadn’t crossed his mind, the possibility of scandal resulting from the column. But Gotam was correct. It wasn’t anything he should worry about. Of course people would talk and
speculate, but it wasn’t something over which he had control.

  “Is Lady Charlotte visiting today?” Gotam asked, a more-than-merely-curious tone in his voice.

  “With her maid, Sarah?” David teased, seeing the red stain of a blush underneath Gotam’s dark skin. “I am not certain. I saw her last night”—and came close to stripping her naked on a terrace—“but she did not say if she would be able to visit.”

  Which made the knock at the door seem remarkably well timed. Gotam nodded to David, his face brightening as he walked to the door to open it. David heard the murmur of voices and spent the few moments before she arrived trying to calm his mind. And other things.

  “Lady Charlotte,” Gotam announced, his eyes holding a special gleam that meant David would be in for teasing later. As though he wasn’t in for teasing every day.

  She walked in, that delicious smile playing about on her mouth, a matching sparkle in her brown eyes. “How are you, Lord David?” she said, tilting her head in her usual questioning mode.

  “Excellent, Lady Charlotte,” he replied, moving forward to greet her. He met Gotam’s eyes and nodded, and Gotam withdrew, shutting the door behind him.

  “I have so many questions,” she began.

  “Of course you do. Let me provide some answers.”

  What Not to Bare

  Dear Ladies:

  One piece of fashion advice that ladies—married ladies, mind you, ladies who are allowed to choose what they wear—often do not heed is one of moderation.

  If the color of your gown is purple, trimmed in gold, and you augment your beauty with gold earrings, a gold necklace, a gold fan, gold slippers, a gold bandeau around your head, not to mention a gold shawl, you are in danger of looking like King Midas—an old greedy man who was to be pitied for his avarice.

  Moderation will keep you from looking like a pitiful, old—albeit, quite wealthy—man.

  The Fashionable Foible

  Chapter 22

  David didn’t hesitate. He put his hands up to her hat and began pulling out the pins securing them. Today’s hat was relatively mild, composed only of three colors—none of them matching—and a few wisps of gauze trailing off the back.

  He pulled it off, dropped it onto the table next to them, and continued pulling pins out of her hair. “I’ve never seen your hair down, do you know that?”

  She looked up at him, dragging her teeth over her lip in a delicious anticipatory movement. “I like how your hands feel on me,” she said, her tone low and smoky.

  “So do I,” David murmured, pulling the last of the pins out and pulling her hair out of its coif. It swirled around her shoulders, strands flying every which way, as chaotic and lovely as she was. “What are your questions for today?” he said, cupping the back of her head in his palm, drawing her mouth closer to his.

  “When will you kiss me?” she whispered as she closed the distance between them.

  Her mouth was so warm, so soft, and the immediacy of it so surprising that David felt his breath catch. She didn’t hesitate when it came to putting her hands on him, either—she slid her palms from his shoulders down his back to his arse, which she tugged on so he was pressed up against her.

  She broke the kiss and looked up at him, her eyes already heavy lidded with passion. “I haven’t yet seen you without your clothing, although you have seen me. I would appreciate it if we could rectify that imbalance,” she added, with a wry smirk on her lips.

  “Do you want me to remove my clothing, or would you like to do the honors?” he replied, running his hands down her arms and onto her waist. He spread his palms out on her torso so his fingers were just tantalizingly underneath the curve of her breasts.

  His mouth watered at the thought of putting his mouth on her, on her nipples, bringing them to stiff peaks as he kissed and sucked them.

  “I think I would like to be in charge of the removal,” she said in a gasp as he moved one of his hands up to cup her breast. He felt the heavy weight of it in his hand and held it, hard, so she could feel his touch.

  Judging by the way she uttered a soft moan, it seemed as though she liked it. He lowered his mouth to her neck and bit the tender flesh just where her neck emerged from her shoulders. She gasped, then sighed.

  He moved lower still, flicking his tongue on those few scattered freckles he’d noticed the first time he met her, and now he really was going to get to connect the dots. His hands kneaded her breasts, teasing her with first a light touch, then a hard grasp, as her body arched into him.

  Damn, they were both still wearing clothes, and he was as aroused as he’d ever been. She uttered a frustrated groan, then put her hands to her spencer and yanked it off her shoulders.

  He heard the soft thud as it fell onto the carpet.

  But before he could say anything, her hands went to the shoulders of his jacket and tugged it downward, making him take his hands off her to allow the sleeves to come off. As soon as his jacket joined hers on the floor, he bent his head again to kiss her and slid his hands up onto her breasts again.

  Lord, what would she look like naked? He would find out soon or expire in some sort of frustrated fog.

  She had her fingers at his buttons, still kissing him back with alacrity. They must have looked foolish, scrabbling at each other’s clothing as they were kissing.

  David had never been so happy to look foolish in his entire life.

  She undid the placket of buttons, then began to slide his shirt up his body, putting her palms on his naked skin.

  Her hands were warm, and soft, and felt so right on him. Like they belonged there.

  She yanked the shirt up higher, forcing him to pull away from her mouth, and leaned over to help her as she pulled the shirt off. He heard her gasp as she saw his back, and smiled inwardly. “How do I compare to those statues?” he asked, muffled by the fabric of the shirt.

  It fell, and he straightened, rolling his shoulders back as he looked at her expression.

  It was … well, it was the best expression he’d ever seen a woman have on her face when regarding him. Lust, mixed with admiration, mixed with a saucy knowing that she was about to get to touch him—it was entirely sensual, and intoxicating, and he could not wait to bare himself entirely to her gaze.

  “You do want me entirely nude, is that correct? To answer all your questions?”

  Her face turned bright red. And she nodded, quickly, as though she were unable to speak.

  “Do I meet your expectations thus far?” He couldn’t resist teasing her. It was lovely to see her turn as red as some of the gowns she wore.

  She nodded again as she traced the curve of muscles on his stomach with her finger. “I don’t have these. Do all men have them? Or is this unique to you? Although the statues had a hint of them, so perhaps all men do have them—”

  He cut her off. “No, not all men have these. Just as,” he said, hooking his fingers on the shoulders of her gown, “not all women have such stunning figures as you do.”

  Her mouth formed an O as he tugged, but then he recalled he would have to unbutton her first. He moved behind her, drawing close enough to whisper in her ear.

  “I will be undressing you also, Charlotte. I cannot wait to see what you look and feel like under my hands. Under my mouth.”

  “People do that?” she said in a shocked, excited whisper.

  “I cannot speak for people, but I certainly do. Especially when it’s you I plan on kissing and touching.”

  He kissed the back of her neck, then worked on her buttons, trying to ignore the fact that his cock was straining against the fabric of his trousers to get at her. To bury himself inside her sweet warmth. He could not allow things to progress that far—it wouldn’t be fair. To either one of them, even if she might be curious about it all.

  Lord save him from her curiosity, if she asked what it felt like.

  When the last button was done, he bent down to the floor and picked up the hem of her gown in his hands. He pulled it up, slowly, slow
ly, hearing how her breath was coming faster and faster. As was his.

  Of course she wore stays and a shift underneath, but the stays could be quickly undone, a mere flick of his fingers to untie them. Her shift was gossamer thin, and he could see the curve and shape of her underneath it. Not to mention that item was the next thing to get removed anyway.

  He drew the gown over her head and flung it to the floor, then started right away on her shift.

  “Wait,” she said, her voice soft and breathy.

  “Do you want to stop?” he asked, the question taking all of his will to ask.

  She gave a snort. “Of course not! I just don’t think it is fair that I should be unclothed before you are. Come back around here and let me continue my exploration.”

  The way she said “my exploration” was so entirely her, and so absolutely and completely sexual, he felt his knees weaken. And his trousers were still very definitely on.

  He walked back in front of her and spread his arms wide, loving how her gaze seemed to devour him. She licked her lips, and he felt his cock buck in anticipation.

  Her hair down, her gown off, standing only in her shift and little slippers with glittery buckles on them, she was an enticement he simply could not resist.

  Her fingers went to the fastening at his trousers, and they fumbled with the buttons, each slight contact with his penis making him shudder.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, her brow furrowed in concentration.

  “Yes, just hurry up,” he replied through a clenched jaw.

  She finished the last button, and he clasped her hand at her wrist, bringing it up against him. “Feel what you do to me, Charlotte.”

  “I can feel. I’ve felt it any number of times in the past week or so, if you recall.”

  A perfectly Charlotte response.

  “And it doesn’t hurt, swelling up like that?” she asked.

  Only if I don’t come. “No, it’s … well, how do you feel?” he asked her.