Not the Kind of Earl You Marry

by Kate Pembrooke

  “How does it fit?”

  “Perfectly,” she admitted.

  “Seems a shame to give it back then.”

  She shook her head. “Even if I felt right about keeping it—only for the duration of the betrothal, of course—I don’t want the responsibility of having it in my possession. I’d be terrified of losing it.” She didn’t add that losing the ring was the least of her fears.

  “I don’t see how you would be in danger of losing a ring that fits you well,” Phillip pointed out.

  “Because I’d only wear it when I went out in public. The whole point of my wearing it is to give credence to the story of our engagement. But what if I mislaid it in between times?”

  “Seems to me you could just wear it all the time. Then you wouldn’t have to worry about it.”

  She didn’t wish to discuss the issue anymore so she merely said, “I’ll give it some thought.”

  Her brother’s eyes narrowed as he shook his head and pushed back from the table. “I can see you’re going to do what you’re going to do. No sense in trying to talk you out of it.” He walked to the open doorway, then turned back to her. “I’ll just say this. He’s behaving quite decently. Least you could do is cooperate and wear his ring for a few weeks.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, just left her to stew over his words. She studied the ring on her finger and mulled over what to do. In one sense, Phillip was right: wearing the ring should be a simple matter, an easy gesture of cooperation. Sending it back would look petty and ill-humored, and completely ungracious in the face of his gestures of goodwill: letting her drive his curricle, giving her his copy of Waverley, and now sending over the ring, obviously a family heirloom, and probably of sentimental value quite apart from its worth as an expensive piece of jewelry.

  Charlotte slid it off her finger, then back on again. It fit so perfectly it might have been made for her. Would it really be so difficult for her to wear it? It was just metal and stone. She knew quite well it didn’t symbolize anything real.

  And in the meantime, she could enjoy wearing a beautiful piece of jewelry. Why was she trying to overcomplicate it? This ring shouldn’t make any difference in her feelings toward him. As long as she relied on her good sense to keep her emotions in check, she would be fine. She could manage that, couldn’t she?

  She studied the ring, sliding it up and down the length of her finger as she pondered what to do. Lord Norwood would probably object if she tried to give it back to him, and there was a distinct possibility he wouldn’t give up on the matter as easily as Phillip had. Did she really want to get in a debate with him over it?

  “To wear, or not to wear. That is the question,” she muttered to the empty room. To her chagrin, the soft sound of someone discreetly clearing his throat told her she wasn’t alone after all.

  She looked up from her contemplation of the ring on her finger and saw a footman standing just inside the door. He hesitated a moment, then came over to her, holding out a note.

  “Mr. Hopkins asked me to give this to you.”

  She took it and nodded her thanks. She recognized the handwriting. It was from Lord Norwood.

  How ironic, she thought, breaking the wax seal, the movement causing the sapphire to wink in the light. And odd, since he hadn’t sent it with the ring.

  My dear Miss Hurst,

  I trust this note finds you well this morning. By now, you’ve (hopefully) received the package I instructed the jeweler to send to your residence.

  I took the liberty of selecting a betrothal ring without consulting with you about your preferences. Forgive me, but I wished to have it prepared for you to wear as soon as possible. Let anyone dare question our betrothal with it on your finger!

  I hope it meets with your approval, but even if the style is not to your taste, I think you’ll agree its history is remarkably appropriate. My grandfather presented it to my grandmother upon the occasion of their engagement…after she’d turned him down twice. The first time she refused him she told him he was a very frippery fellow, and not worth her attention. The second time, she said that, despite improvement, she still found his character lacking.

  As you can see, my grandmother was a believer in speaking her mind plainly. I think the two of you would have gotten on well if you’d had the opportunity to know each other.

  As always,

  Your most devoted servant,

  Norwood

  P.S. I have it on good authority that Liverpool intends to appoint the committee chair within the month. I thought you’d be happy to hear this.

  Charlotte considered this last bit of information. One month was longer than she preferred, but within the month could indicate an even shorter period. She’d feared the engagement might drag on much longer than that. But one month? That was manageable. That she could do.

  She could wear the ring for one month.

  But once that appointment was made, she intended to end this arrangement between them immediately. Before her lamentably susceptible heart had a chance to convince her otherwise.

  Chapter Eight

  That afternoon Lady Peyton’s carriage drew up to an unprepossessing storefront on Bond Street, and a ripple of unease skipped through Charlotte as she peeked out the window. In her experience, the more discreet and nondescript a shop’s exterior, the more expensive were the goods inside. She hoped it wouldn’t prove true today, but the only thing that marked this as a place of business was a modest brass plaque next to the front door with Mme. Rochelle, Modiste engraved in a neat script.

  She ought to have anticipated this. Last night at the theater, both sisters had been exquisitely attired in gowns obviously created by skilled—and probably outlandishly expensive—modistes. She hadn’t questioned Lord Norwood’s sisters about which shops they planned to visit, preferring to leave those details in their hands. Now she regretted not speaking up sooner and making clear her shopping habits didn’t include purchasing garments from such a high-end modiste.

  Aggravated with herself, Charlotte stepped out of the carriage and followed Lydia and Elizabeth to the shop’s entrance. If the prices at this modiste proved as expensive as she expected, she could order nothing and request they visit a different dressmaker. Mrs. Wickersley, from whom Charlotte had bought a few items earlier in the spring, was an excellent seamstress who kept a small shop just off Bond Street. The location was less fashionable than this, but her prices were quite moderate. She’d suggest her if this Madame Rochelle charged outrageous prices.

  They entered a small anteroom furnished with comfortable-looking chairs and a sofa, all elegantly upholstered in soothing hues of cream, sage green, and soft rose, such as one might encounter in a tasteful drawing room in Mayfair.

  The only item to indicate this was a place of business was a long counter of polished wood, which ran along the entire length of one wall. A pretty young woman stepped from behind the counter and came toward them. Her fair hair was swept up in an elegant chignon, her dress an exquisite confection of pale yellow muslin embroidered with sprays of blue and purple flowers. Charlotte wondered if the gown was an example of Madame Rochelle’s workmanship.

  “Lady Peyton, Lady Chatworth, how may I be of service to you?” the shop girl greeted them, her voice a charming mixture of perfectly enunciated English with just a hint of a French accent. Her gaze turned to Charlotte, her eyes making a quick head-to-toe sweep, as if sizing her up as a potential client.

  “We have an appointment with Madame Rochelle because we need several garments for the trousseau of our brother’s intended,” Lady Peyton said, gesturing to Charlotte with a wave of her hand.

  The modiste’s assistant nodded her head in a businesslike manner. “But, of course, we can provide those items. Please.” She gestured with her hand toward a curtained doorway that led farther into the shop. Charlotte followed the earl’s sisters through the velvet drapery into a larger, but more sparsely furnished, room.

  A Persian rug in muted tones of rose and green co
vered the center of the floor, while a row of dressmaker’s dummies graced one side of the room. Surprisingly, only two displayed evening gowns, while the rest showed off some of the loveliest undergarments and nightgowns Charlotte had ever seen.

  These were made of a sheer, gauzy linen, with delicate embroidery and a liberal use of lace. The petticoats and chemises looked as insubstantial as cobwebs and so beautiful it would be a shame to cover them up.

  Charlotte fingered the smooth fabric of one of the garments, imagining how wonderful such finely woven material would feel against her skin. Wonderful, but impractical, and probably insanely expensive.

  “Madame Rochelle is gifted with a true artistry, isn’t she?” Lady Chatworth murmured close to Charlotte’s ear.

  Charlotte nodded, since it was impossible not to admire the quality of the workmanship. “They’re quite exquisite,” she agreed, then lowering her voice, said, “but does she make less beautiful, more serviceable items? I don’t need anything so fancy that will just be covered up by my outer clothing.”

  Lydia shot her an amused glance. “Keep in mind it’s your trousseau we’re purchasing today, and throw considerations of practicality out the window. If it makes you feel better, people will expect William’s bride-to-be to order such items from Madame Rochelle.”

  “But who will know of our visit here?” Charlotte asked. “It’s not as if it’s likely to come up in conversation over a cup of tea.”

  “By this evening, it will be known across London that you’ve ordered your trousseau items from here,” Lady Peyton said, joining the conversation. She’d been conferring with the shop assistant, but the girl had returned to the entrance area, leaving the three of them alone. “Any modiste worth her salt makes sure the ton knows when she caters to prominent customers, and now that society believes you to be the future Countess of Norwood, you have become a prominent customer. From now on, your business will enhance the cachet of any shop.”

  Charlotte blinked. The idea that, by virtue of her association with Lord Norwood, she’d become influential in any way and that something as mundane as where she shopped would be of interest to the ton, was rather unbelievable.

  And silly, she reminded herself. The world had much bigger concerns than where she shopped for her unmentionables.

  Before Charlotte could offer any comment, a tall, dark-eyed woman swept regally into the room, followed by two girls, one carrying a sheaf of papers and a pencil, the other, a wooden sewing box. The woman inclined her head ever so slightly to the earl’s sisters in a movement that was simultaneously deferential and haughty, and so quintessentially French that there was no question in Charlotte’s mind this must be Madame Rochelle in the flesh. The imperious modiste barked out some words of rapid-fire French too quickly for Charlotte, who spoke the language fairly fluently, to understand all that the modiste said. She recognized the terms “delicate bones,” “slim-hipped,” and something about her bosom, although whether the observation had been complimentary or unflattering was unclear, as Charlotte hadn’t quite caught the adjective Madame had used.

  The assistant with the papers busily transcribed this torrent of French, while the girl with the box stood nearby in a posture of stiff attention. Charlotte presumed her job was to hold the seamstress’s tools at the ready should the woman decide she needed them. What she might need presently beyond a tape measure, Charlotte couldn’t imagine.

  At last, Madame fell silent, and with one finger tapping thoughtfully against her lips, she walked in a full circle around Charlotte. When she regained her starting point she stopped, gave a dismissive flick of her hand, which sent the two girls scurrying out of the room, and with an acquiescing nod of her head toward the earl’s sisters, said, “It will be a pleasure to provide the necessary garments for Lord Norwood’s bride-to-be.” Her words were heavily accented, unlike her shop assistant’s nearly flawless English. “With her figure, the earl will find her most délicieuse and charmante in the items we make for her. Angelique is writing up the bill of sale now. Once you’ve approved the order we can take measurements.”

  Perhaps this was the French way of shopping, but to Charlotte’s mind, it seemed to be all backward. One took measurements and chose garments before a bill of sale was written up. A shop existed to serve the customer’s needs, after all, not the other way around.

  And how could Madame Rochelle know what she needed before Charlotte told her? Besides, there was her budget to consider. A seamstress of Madame Rochelle’s caliber could command a high price for her work even if said work would never be seen outside the confines of one’s private quarters. Even a few pieces would likely come at a dear price. Charlotte had no intention of presenting her brother with an outrageous bill simply because the audacious modiste expected it.

  “But I haven’t given you an idea of what I want,” Charlotte objected.

  Madame’s brows quirked ever so slightly. “But, of course, you have. You are shopping for your trousseau, yes?”

  Charlotte nodded.

  Madame shrugged. “Then that tells me everything I need to know.”

  Charlotte blinked several times, not sure how to argue her case in the face of the woman’s unshakable conceit that she knew best what Charlotte needed, as well as her complete unwillingness to consult Charlotte’s wishes, even if she ultimately intended to ignore them. Madame Rochelle’s talents might be with a needle, but she had the unmistakable aura of the prima donna about her.

  Charlotte looked to the ladies Peyton and Chatworth for support, but they weren’t by her side any longer. They now stood near the doorway, engaged in conversation with a newcomer to the shop. Her back was to Charlotte, but her dress and bearing indicated she was a lady of means. So a client of the modiste, not an employee.

  “Well, it certainly gives us a starting point,” Charlotte said, turning her attention back to Madame Rochelle. “But you can’t know specifically what I want.”

  “Mademoiselle, this is my business, my livelihood, my passion, if you will. I guarantee you, I know better than yourself what you want when it comes to garments of an intimate nature.” Her lips curled in Gallic disdain. “You English misses are kept wrapped in cotton wool before marriage, and then thrown into the intimacies of the wedding night…the wedding bed…with scant foreknowledge of what to expect. How can you possibly anticipate what you, or perhaps I should say, what your earl might want in terms of your wardrobe?”

  Charlotte felt a hot, furious blush sweep across her face. Thanks to her innate curiosity, and the discovery of some rather prurient books in her late father’s library, she had a very good idea of the sorts of bedroom activities that went on between men and women. And Madame Rochelle’s words brought to mind images of herself and Lord Norwood tangled together in the same manner as some of the illustrations in those books.

  “Aaaah.” A smug—and rather admiring—smile played around Madame Rochelle’s lips. “I see you are not completely unfamiliar with the affaires de coeur. The earl must be a man of strong passions.”

  “I’ve no knowledge of his passions, nor he of mine,” Charlotte said, thinking if it were possible for a body to spontaneously combust, she’d be a pillar of fire right now. The only saving grace was that Lord Norwood’s sisters were still engrossed in conversation with the newcomer, and so were oblivious to her embarrassment.

  The modiste gave her a doubtful look, then shrugged. “If that’s the case, then more than ever I must insist that you trust my judgment in this.”

  “But you don’t even know what colors I prefer, or what styles,” Charlotte said, unwilling to concede defeat yet.

  “Would you dictate to a painter the colors he must choose for his painting? As for style, that is determined by your figure, your carriage”—Madame Rochelle waved her hands about as she searched for the right word—“by your essence. There is no choice to it.”

  This attitude was a far cry from Mrs. Wickersley’s more collaborative approach. At least, she listened to Charlotte’s ideas,
even if, after discussion, they settled on something different.

  “I have a list,” Charlotte continued doggedly, determined to prevail in the types of garments purchased, even if she had to allow the modiste latitude in the details of style. She reached into her reticule and pulled out a folded paper. “These are the only things I require. I know it’s not a great many items, but I suspect my clothing budget won’t cover much else.” She glanced toward the dressmaker’s dummies displaying nightgowns that were composed of as much lace as they were fabric. “Furthermore, I must insist that the nightwear be substantial enough to provide some warmth for sleeping.”

  She handed her list to Madame Rochelle, who had scrunched her face into an expression of artistic outrage. “Mademoiselle, you miss the point. My creations aren’t made with sleeping in mind, therefore considerations of warmth are irrelevant.”

  “Surely they can serve a dual purpose,” Charlotte said firmly.

  “Mais non, mademoiselle. Let me suggest you add an extra blanket to the bed. Or better yet, curl up in the arms of your lover.”

  Unfortunately, this statement caught the attention of the others, who had drifted closer at some point during the conversation with the maddening Frenchwoman. The earl’s sisters wore similar expressions of wide-eyed surprise, while the other lady, whom Charlotte now saw was Lady Serena, looked amused and—somewhat unexpectedly—approving.

  “I don’t have a lover,” Charlotte declared, not wishing for anyone to get the wrong idea, and not entirely certain whether or not they’d heard any of what had preceded this talk of a lover.

  An awkward beat of silence followed before it was broken by Lady Serena. “Goodness, don’t let us interrupt such a deliciously improper conversation,” she said, beaming a bright smile at Charlotte. “How delightful that our paths cross again, Miss Hurst. Rest assured, I would never stand in judgment if you did have a lover, since I’ve long decried the societal double standards that demand virginity in unmarried females while nothing of the sort is expected from the male sex.” She turned to the modiste. “We English and our peculiar traditions, eh, Madame?”