“I believe I suggested beginning a lesson on titles aboard ship. Are you a bit more amenable to the idea now?”
“Not if you continue to behave as an arrogant jackass. Pride is one of the seven deadly sins.”
“Ah, but if you were not already so prejudiced, you might realize that pride—where there is a true superiority of character or society—is not distasteful a’tall. So the question, then, is are you willing to put aside your ill-conceived judgments and see our society through neutral eyes?”
Charlotte bit her lip. She was not prejudiced, but neither was she as informed as she might be. She supposed she was going to have to make some concessions if she were to fit into his world. “Very well.” She moved to the high-backed, rounded chair to her right, seated herself, and gave every appearance of rapt attention. She might not care for the lesson, but she’d show him that, like all Americans, she was a quick study.
For his part, he assumed the stance of a well-seasoned teacher. He stood across from her, struck an oratorical pose, and began what would likely be the longest, most tedious lecture she’d yet to bear. Even more tedious than old Miss Crudsworthy, the half-deaf, mostly blind teacher at her school in Charleston. Fortunately Miss Crudsworthy had retired after half a year and was replaced by Miss Joyce, who was young and pretty and vibrant.
Charlotte looked at Dewhurst. She would get no reprieve this time.
“Britain’s haute ton, what we might call in English the fashionable set or high society,” Dewhurst began, “adheres to a strict set of unwavering rules. You must not only learn the rules, but master the rules, if you wish to become a diamond of the first water.”
“A what?”
“A diamond . . .” He paused, and the look that crossed his features was almost pained. “One of the most fashionable ladies. As my wife, nothing less is acceptable. At present we have ended the Season but . . .”
Charlotte stifled a yawn and allowed her attention to wander over to the bed again. Every time she looked at it, prickles of . . . excitement? fear? . . . cascaded down her back. She had never been in a man’s room before, especially not alone and unchaperoned. Not that there was a need for a chaperone as the household and soon the entire city would think she and Dewhurst married. But she knew they were not husband and wife. He knew it as well, though her presence in his bedroom seemed not to faze him. It certainly didn’t prevent him from going on and on about someplace called Almack’s.
And perhaps that was a good thing. She did not want the kiss on the ship repeated, particularly not here in the presence of such a sinfully plush looking bed. George, but it was huge. It was probably the largest bed she’d ever seen. Why did he need such an enormous bed, and did it ever swallow him up?
She turned to ask him about the furnishing, but he was still going on about the upper ten thousand or some such. She shook her head. He treated the rules of his ton as though they were a matter of life or death. He went on and on with his lesson, and the longer he talked, the more difficult Charlotte found it to school her face into the studious expression he seemed to expect.
Remember the thousand dollars, Charlotte chided herself when she had to squelch another yawn. She supposed it would be churlish to complain that he was boring her. He seemed to enjoy hearing himself speak, and she—well, she had to admit she enjoyed looking at him.
He was arrogant as the governor when she actually listened to his words, but if she tuned out his voice and focused on him, the experience was not altogether unpleasant. He was undeniably the most handsome man she’d ever met or probably would ever meet.
And his clothing, though a bit extravagant, was impeccable—not a crease, not a wrinkle. It fit him perfectly. Too perfectly. From her position on the chair, Charlotte couldn’t help but notice how well the buff-colored pantaloons molded to his exquisitely muscled thighs and slim hips. Feeling the color rise in her cheeks, she quickly focused her attentions higher.
But that view was no better. As broad-shouldered and muscled as the boys she’d known in Charleston, Dewhurst destroyed her image of the fat, lazy English aristocrat. No, with his blond hair, green eyes, and boyish good looks, this man was more like a golden angel than a stuffy English lord.
Which was actually rather annoying. She wasn’t used to dealing with men who were so much prettier than she. Not that his good looks daunted her. Charlotte had always judged others more on personality than looks. It was the way she preferred to be judged, as she prized equality. That, and she was no paragon of idyllic beauty—American or British.
Dewhurst adjusted his cravat, changing absolutely nothing as far as she could tell, and turned his emerald eyes on her.
“I believe we shall review the order of precedence,” he was saying. Charlotte nodded enthusiastically, not remembering him discussing this order earlier but willing to listen if it was required.
“At the top of the order of precedence are the King and Queen, followed by their offspring,” he said. “The male royal offspring are referred to as dukes, for example, the Duke of Cumberland. Now you would address the Duke of Cumberland as either ‘Your Grace,’ ‘Duke,’ or ‘Your Royal Highness.’ You will hear him spoken of as Cumberland, though.
“Below the royal dukes are the nonroyal dukes. They are addressed in the same fashion as the royal dukes without the addition of ‘Your Royal Highness.’ Do you follow?”
Charlotte nodded sagely, wondering how she would know a royal duke from a regular duke, but decided to just call all of them “Your Grace” so as not to have to distinguish.
She frowned. Addy would say the whole order sounded far too blasphemous. Didn’t one pray for God’s grace? Weren’t you to refer to God as the Lord? And wasn’t it a bit arrogant to expect everyone to go around calling you Your Grace? She missed the next part of Dewhurst’s lecture—something about an earl.
Charlotte really did try to attend, but he was speaking so quickly and there was so much to take in that she found herself distracted—first by his eyes, then his mouth, his thigh muscles again . . .
She listened harder, but a moment later she was intrigued by his inflection on particular words. His tongue seemed to roll over some syllables and pause on others. He had the pronunciations all wrong, but oh, how she liked to watch his lips form those words.
Charlotte took a deep breath and sighed, then bit her cheek in frustration. She had almost forgotten that she hated British accents. They were not appealing. Not at all. Not even his . . .
With renewed determination to concentrate and learn, Charlotte caught Dewhurst’s next words. “Now below an earl is a viscount. A viscount is not a viscount of anything. He is simply Viscount Brigham, for example. His wife is a viscountess. You refer to her as Lady Brigham. You refer to the viscount as Lord Brigham. I hope you are attending because you may meet Lord and Lady Brigham.”
“Oh, yes,” she lied. Then, because she could not help herself, “What are you?”
He gave her a frustrated look. “As I have told you before, I am a baron. However, no one speaks of barons by their title. I am always referred to as Lord Dewhurst.”
“And your wife is Lady Dewhurst, correct?”
