How to Please a Lady

by Jane Goodger

  He hadn’t waited for her to come out. He hadn’t wanted to see her brilliant smile or hear the cheers from the crowd that had gathered outside. He hadn’t wanted to picture her, naked, yearning, being touched by her new husband. The night of her wedding, Charlie got drunker than he’d ever been in his life and ended up outside their house, looking up at the second floor, tears streaming down his face. Sobbing and pathetic. Even as drunk as he’d been, he’d known what a fool he would look like should anyone see him. He’d stumbled home, a broken man.

  Bitterness replaced his misery soon enough, molding him into the man he was now, the man who was glad she could hear him pleasuring other women. It wasn’t the most honorable thought he’d ever had in his head, but there it was. He wanted to hope that some part of her regretted her decision. But it was far more likely she hadn’t given him another thought. He was a servant. He was nothing to her.

  Why couldn’t he get that through his thick skull? If she’d been kind, if she’d kissed him, it had only been a lark. It meant nothing because he’d meant nothing to her. And so he knew he’d relish the moment when she realized he was no longer anyone’s servant.

  As his carriage stopped in front of his house, he smiled, remembering her note to him. Opera, indeed. He wondered what she’d thought about the French actress he’d entertained. Picking up his top hat, he placed it on his head as he heard his driver drop the step, then eased out of the carriage, his eyes on his home, brimming with pride.

  “Charlie?”

  He recognized her voice immediately and schooled his features to remain impassive, even though his damned heart practically leapt from his chest. There she was, grinning at him.

  “Charlie!” She walked over to him, her face lit up, clearly happy to see him. My God, she was beautiful. She had been a girl when he’d left her and now she had blossomed into a woman. Her dark hair was swept back and bundled together at her nape, and her brown eyes sparkled. He’d forgotten how dark they were, and how they came to life whenever she smiled.

  “My goodness, Charlie, you’re a sight for sore eyes. How are you? And how fine you look,” she said, holding out her gloved hands for him to take. Charlie hesitated, not wanting to touch her, not trusting himself if he did. He braced himself even though her hands were gloved. He did the next best thing to not touching her, and that was to keep the contact as brief as possible. He did his best not to smile, not to let her know that his heart was hammering madly in his chest. Then he remembered she was recently widowed, and he was slightly ashamed of his physical reaction to her nearness.

  “Mrs. Cartwright. I was sorry to hear about your husband’s death. He was a good man,” he said.

  “Thank you. I miss him every day.” It looked like she might cry, and Charlie felt a wave of jealousy. Over a dead man. He glanced at his home and had an awful moment of regret over its purchase. She followed his eyes with the oddest look on her face. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Do you work here? I’ve yet to meet my new neighbor. He’s quite a mystery.” Rose looked him over, her face showing her confusion at his expensive clothing. Of course she never, not in a million years, would have thought him the owner, and part of him rejoiced at what he was about to tell her.

  “I don’t work here, Mrs. Cartwright,” Charlie said.

  “Oh?”

  “I live here.”

  Oh, the look on her lovely face was priceless. It was clear that at first, she thought he was having fun with her. That’s how unlikely it was that he was telling the truth. She even let out a small laugh, almost immediately stifling it when she realized he was not laughing with her. He watched the emotions come and go—amusement, confusion, and then the idea forming that perhaps he was telling the truth.

  And then, it really was the loveliest sight he’d seen in some time, the awful dawning that he was her neighbor, the author of the note he’d sent, the man who had been disrupting her evenings with his performances.

  “You live here? Do you mean to say you own this house?” Her brows were furrowed and her expression was downright adorable. She still couldn’t quite believe that her former head groom lived in a house grander than her own.

  “I do.”

  “You’re C. A. Kitchen Tools?”

  “I am.”

  “And you . . .” She couldn’t complete the sentence, so he did it for her.

  “. . . enjoy the opera.”

  Her face turned the brightest red he’d ever seen on another human. She appeared both horrified and outraged, and he threw back his head and laughed.

  “You are my new neighbor. My awful new neighbor,” she said, quite unnecessarily.

  Charlie gave her a mocking bow. “At your service, madam.”

  He had to give her credit. She held herself together quite nicely, keeping her composure in spite of what must have been a large shock to her delicate system. “I see. Well, Mr. Avery, welcome to the neighborhood.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cartwright. I enjoy it already,” he said, feeling rather wicked for teasing her. The way she was blushing, one might think she hadn’t been married for four years.

  “It was lovely seeing you again. Good day.” Her parting words were polite and spoken in a tone only a true English lady could use effectively.

  He tipped his hat and watched as she pivoted and walked briskly back to her gate and entered it without turning around for a final look. Whistling a jaunty tune, Charlie strode up his front steps, feeling happier than he’d felt in a long time.

  God above, he had missed that woman.

  Charlie. Charlie Avery. It couldn’t be. That man, that strikingly handsome, womanizing, richer-than-Croesus man was Charlie Avery. Sweet Charlie who had taught her how to kiss, who had been her friend, who had been so kind and caring and . . .

  “It’s impossible,” Rose said, closing the door behind her. How could that arrogant, smirking, wickedly beautiful man be Charlie? She went immediately to her bedroom, not even pausing to remove her hat or gloves, and found that awful note he had sent on the back of her stationery. She had no idea why she’d kept it; the mere sight of it piqued her. She looked at his handwriting, bold and without flourish. It was not the fine hand of a gentleman; she’d known this immediately. But there was a certain amount of confidence that bespoke a man of accomplishment.

  Dear Mrs. Cartwright:

  Please accept my sincerest apologies for disturbing your evening. I was unaware sound traveled so well between our homes. I will attempt to curtail the noise, but as some aspects of the performance are beyond my control, I cannot make any promises.

  A

  “I cannot make any promises,” she said in a man’s deep tone. Then it occurred to her that the entire time he knew who she was, that she was the one who had written that note. How he must have laughed at her. How could he? Why would he? He was not the man she’d thought he was. She remembered her mother telling her, “Servants are not your friends, Rose. This is their job and the only reason they seem to want to please you is to keep their job. Don’t mistake that for affection.”

  At the time, her mother had been speaking of her lady’s maid. After coming across the two of them giggling like old friends, her mother had admonished Rose for her familiarity. It turned out that her maid had been stealing from her. Rose had been stunned and hurt, but it had been a lesson well learned. Still, she had never put Charlie in such a category. Though perhaps she should have.

  She cringed, thinking about that ridiculous note she’d sent over to him. And those ridiculous kisses they had shared—the only time she’d ever been kissed. Throughout the years, she often had thought about those kisses, brief though they had been. Had Charlie simply been playing with her, having a bit of fun with the lady of the family? Good God, she’d even fancied herself in love with him.

  And now he was her neighbor. The very same one who liked to entertain women. Quite well, apparently.

  Rose crumpled the note up and threw it in her fireplace. It was too warm for a fire, but eventua
lly it would go up in smoke. Without conscious thought, Rose walked over to her window and looked out across the alley. His curtains, as well as the window, were closed. She’d often admired the home; it reminded her of the houses back in England. Perhaps that’s why Charlie had been drawn to it. That thought made her snort aloud. She knew full well why Charlie had been drawn to that home—it was to thumb his nose at her, his former employer. Did he think owning such a house would make him her social equal? Rose stared at the white stone, feeling out of sorts and a little bit betrayed. It was almost as if this new Charlie had stolen all her fond memories of the old Charlie. She liked him. This new man, with his expensive clothing, neatly shaved face, and dapper top hat, was not the Charlie she had adored as a girl.

  No, he was a man who knew how to please a lady and seemed to revel in that fact. Imagine telling her he was “enjoying” his home already, using that tone that men used to flirt with women. Charlie hadn’t been a flirt. But Charles Avery was a skirt-chasing man-about-town, and Rose decided then and there that she would have absolutely nothing to do with him.

  Chapter 14

  Need I say that the knife is to cut your food with, and must never be used while eating? To put it in your mouth is a distinctive mark of low-breeding.

  —From The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette, and Manual of Politeness

  For nearly five years, Rose had had dinner with the Campbells every Thursday night, taking turns at each other’s homes and allowing their cooks to have a friendly competition. It was a tradition they’d kept up even after Daniel’s death. While he was alive, the two couples were quite close, though she believed neither Genevieve nor Mitch ever suspected their neighbors’ marriage was anything but perfect. And it had been, to a certain extent. She loved Daniel and he loved her, and they shared a common goal and affection for one another that was far deeper than she could have imagined. But as much as she adored Daniel, she did sometimes regret her decision to agree to a marriage without physical relations. Without children.

  After Daniel’s death, ironically from influenza that skipped by her that year, Rose allowed herself to think that perhaps she could marry again, have children. She was only twenty-three years old, an age at which some women hadn’t even been married at all. Genevieve had mentioned it recently. Daniel had been dead more than a year and her mourning period was over. Perhaps she could begin to think about a true marriage now.

  Rose looked in her mirror and tidied her hair. She hadn’t bothered with fashionable clothes or intricate hairstyles in years and now realized it might be time to visit a dressmaker. She looked, she decided, downright frumpy and far older than her years. She frowned, wondering what Charlie had thought when he’d met her. Did he see her as frumpy and old?

  “Stacy, do I have anything else in my wardrobe that would be suitable for my visit with the Campbells?”

  Stacy, who had been repairing a small tear in one of her chemises, stood and walked to her wardrobe to study what was inside. Half of the dresses were black, brown, or gray, the other half so old she might as well throw them away. Fashion seemed to be changing rapidly, and Rose would rather not wear a dress from two or three years prior, the last time she’d had dresses made. All of those dresses were created for rather large bustles, and the more current designs conformed more closely to a woman’s form.

  “You do have the blue,” Stacy said a bit skeptically. She pulled it from the wardrobe and examined it. The blue gown was one of the first she’d purchased when she’d officially put aside mourning, but it was a winter dress and overwarm for a late spring day. Still, it was the only one she had that was even remotely au courant, so she supposed it would have to do.

  “It’s a bit chilly this evening,” Rose said with forced cheerfulness. “I do believe we need to take a trip to Madame Brunelle’s.”

  Stacy beamed. “Oh, yes, ma’am, that would be a fine idea.”

  Once Rose was dressed, she pulled her hair back into her traditional serviceable bun, much to the disappointment of Stacy, who adored working with her thick, dark hair. “This will have to do,” Rose said, looking at her reflection and trying to pretend that the wool dress she was wearing wasn’t suffocatingly warm. “I’m already late as it is.”

  Thursday nights with the Campbells had truly been the only thing she’d looked forward to of late. She was living as if she were an elderly widow, not a vibrant young woman. Perhaps it was time to step out and attend more social gatherings. The problem was, she was no longer invited to the events she had been when she was married to Daniel. As a high-ranking member of the State Department, he had kept up with a social calendar that had been quite full. When he died, the invitations, understandably, came to an abrupt halt. Without family nearby, Rose had leaned heavily on the Campbells for whatever social excitement there was—and there wasn’t very much of it. She certainly couldn’t invite herself to a dinner or the theater. James had taken her out to the theater a few times, but he was so bereft at the loss of Daniel, he’d been poor company, and after a time, he’d stopped coming by at all.

  Rose shook her morose thoughts away as she made the short journey from her front door to her neighbors’. Mr. Spark opened the door before she had a chance to knock, and he motioned her in and bade her follow him to the Campbells’ parlor. She heard Genevieve’s laughter and smiled, thinking how lucky she was to have such a lively friend.

  Genevieve jumped to her feet when she entered, and her husband immediately stood. Mitch Campbell was a handsome man with piercing blue eyes and a headful of dark hair. At the moment he sported a Vandyke beard and mustache, which Rose thought made him look rather mysterious but that Genevieve disliked heartily. She kept threatening to shave her husband in his sleep.

  “I’m sorry I am late,” Rose said, walking toward Genevieve and taking her hands. The two friends were a study in contrasts: Rose with her dark, almost exotic looks and Genevieve, blond, pale, and green-eyed. “I realize I’m in desperate need of a new wardrobe. Would you like to go shopping tomorrow?”

  Genevieve smiled. “Madame Brunelle’s?”

  “Of course. It’s been so long, I daresay she will faint when she sees me cross the threshold. And I can’t let her see me in this as it’s not one of her creations. I fear she would be quite vexed with me.”

  When Rose heard footsteps behind her, she assumed it was Spark coming to offer her refreshment. She turned without a thought, ready to take the glass of wine he was no doubt offering, only to stop dead at the sight of Charlie Avery, his dark blue eyes assessing her as if she was someone he’d never before met.

  “Mrs. Cartwright,” Genevieve said, her voice overly bright, “this is your new neighbor, Mr. Charles Avery.”

  Rose whirled around to look at Genevieve, or rather to give her friend an angry flash of disbelief, which Genevieve of course ignored.

  “We met briefly earlier today,” Rose said, trying to recover. “In fact, Mr. Avery is quite well known to me—”

  “We met some years back on the Adriatic when we were both traveling to America,” Charlie put in quickly.

  Rose narrowed her eyes at his blatant lie. So, he did not want anyone to know he’d once been her groom? He gave her a steady look, almost challenging her to expose him, and for a moment Rose was tempted.

  “It is such a pleasant surprise to see a familiar face,” Rose said, and noticed a slight ease in Charlie’s tension. He had been afraid—likely far more than he was putting on—that she would contradict his story. It made her angry for a moment, that he should be ashamed of what he’d been, but she understood why he felt the need to lie. Or at least not tell the entire truth.

  “Why that’s wonderful,” Genevieve said. “What a surprising coincidence!”

  “It’s almost hard to believe,” Mitch said dryly, and both she and Charlie gave him a quick look. Rose had found over the years that Mitch’s calm reserve hid a highly intelligent man. She often wondered if he had discovered the truth about her marriage to Daniel and had simply kept the
information to himself.

  “Yes. A pleasant surprise,” Charlie said, taking a sip of his brandy, his eyes unwavering on hers. If she was not mistaken, there was gratitude in his gaze and Rose looked away, her cheeks suddenly pink.

  “That dress must be quite warm, Rose, your cheeks are flushed.”

  If Rose and Genevieve had been alone, Rose might have given her friend a face, but instead she smiled, a spectacularly false smile that Genevieve apparently found extremely amusing. Rose knew what Genevieve was up to; she was attempting to matchmake. Rose wondered if her friend would have tried to pair them up had she known Charlie had been under her family’s employ. Knowing Genevieve, and she did know her quite well, it wouldn’t have mattered at all. Though Genevieve was the granddaughter of the Duke and Duchess of Glastonbury, she had grown up in a cabin with her father out West. Despite her cultured, aristocratic accent, Genevieve was the least snobbish person she knew. After all, her husband, though a brilliant portrait photographer, was hardly from the highest echelons of society (his mother was an actress, of all things!). No doubt Genevieve would be thrilled to know she was trying to match the daughter of an earl to that same earl’s former head groom.