Charlotte took one look at his face, turned, and did as he suggested. Once she locked the door, she leaned against it, wondering if she should pull the dresser in front of it, then decided that if he really wanted entrance, not even the dresser would keep him out.
THE ROLE OF BESOTTED husband did not suit him, Freddie decided the next morning at the dining room table. Having had nothing to do but sleep the night before, he was up at the ungodly hour of nine and was waiting when Mrs. Pots directed Charlotte to join him. Despite their heated exchange the night before, Freddie had every intention of treating her arrival with no more interest than he showed when buttering his toast. But inexplicably, the moment she entered, he pounced.
“Madam.” He couldn’t stop the word from escaping his lips or his eyes from raking over her. Disapproval lanced through him. She was dressed in the same tattered black gown, and though he knew she had nothing else to wear, it rankled him to see her in it. He did not like the idea of his wife, even a woman playing his wife, wearing rags. “I can see we will have to put a new wardrobe at the top of our priority list.”
She eyed him from the doorway, half in, half out, gaze wary and defensive. “Not to worry, Your Baronship. I’m certain you’ll still be the belle of the ball.” She indicated his polished riding boots, buff breeches, and Clarence blue riding coat. Her lush voice ran over him like thick, warm honey. He might have retorted, but he was momentarily speechless. Dashed if he hadn’t prepared himself for her irritating American accent. It was a jolt first thing in the morning, especially when he couldn’t tear his attention from the way her full lips wrapped around the long, rounded vowels.
But she was more than ready for him this morning. Ready and willing to fight. Good. Her appearance in his room last night had thrown him.
He wanted to be back on solid footing. He was eager to spar, to show her who the true master was. He hadn’t forgotten that she was a money-grabbing colonist who would stab him in the back the second she was faced with a choice between her lover Pettigru and her “husband.” Freddie tried to speak and managed something resembling a growl.
“You’re in a pleasant mood this morning. As usual,” she said, raising a brow, then taking a seat opposite him.
He rose and signaled to the waiting footman, who approached with an offer of tea, coffee, or chocolate. Charlotte asked for coffee. When the beverage was before her, Freddie said, “As much as I enjoy trading insults with you, I have more important matters to attend to. As your failure at the lesson showed yesterday, your training will require a significant amount of time and effort, so I suggest we begin immediately.”
Her eyes, whose color for some reason still reminded him of warm sherry, heated further, an indication—he was learning—that she was displeased. Selbourne’s warnings and admonishments had not gone unheeded. This was a battle. It required strategy and finesse and a gentle hand. He’d need to reward her, subtly but effectively, when she bent to his will. But how did one reward a colonist?
Now, as Charlotte lifted her cup to sip the coffee, Freddie took the opportunity to slide the paper from under his napkin and peruse his notes.
Notes on the Training of an Upstart Colonist
Always remember that the colonist is the enemy. This is war. The colonist’s extraordinary beauty deception, rather, is a weapon.
Colonists have an intractable side. Begin each training session by establishing you are the master.
Colonists prey on perceived weaknesses. Do not end a training session until you have kissed her reasserted your dominance.
Colonists are attractive simple. Introduce new and difficult concepts by breaking them into small chunks or sequences of steps.
Colonists can learn. Reward obedience; punish failure.
Freddie folded the paper and shoved it in his pocket. He must have been more tired than he thought to have made so many errors. Not that these errors meant anything even resembling Selbourne’s insinuations of the night before. They were slips of the pen, not indications that he was by any means or in any way, shape, or form attracted to the girl. Ridiculous. She was a colonist, for God’s sake.
At least the revised strategy sounded promising. Now to begin . . . He glanced back at Charlotte, trying to determine whether he’d established himself as master this morning. She raised a brow at him, then nodded at the sideboard. “Are we to have guests for breakfast, sir, or is all of that food to feed you and me?”
Freddie turned to the sideboard, covered with meats, cheeses, pastries, and fruits. There did not appear to be any more food than usual, but perhaps she was hungry and afraid of eating too much. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember when he’d last seen her eat. “You are welcome to have as much as you like,” he said, then remembered rule five. Would not food qualify as a reward? “You may have as much as you like,” he repeated, then added, “after you have mastered the order of precedence.”
At his words, the hand bringing the coffee cup to her mouth stilled. It hung suspended between the table and her lips for almost a full minute before she slowly lowered the cup to the table, setting it silently aside. “Lord Dewhurst, forgive me. I cannot have heard you correctly.” Her tone was sweet as peaches in cream, but when her eyes locked with his, he could see the kindling of a spark. “Surely you do not intend to imply that I am to be treated no better than a dancing bear, denied food until I’ve performed to your satisfaction.”
Freddie heard a snort behind him, and looked over his shoulder in time to catch the footman valiantly working to suppress a smile. He made a mental note to lecture the chit on etiquette before servants, but as he obviously could not trust her at present, he waved the servant aside. “Thank you, Andrews. You may see to your other duties.” The footman straightened, gave a stiff bow, and disappeared through the servants’ door. Freddie turned back to his wife. Hadn’t he made his mastery abundantly clear? Dashed typical that he was saddled with a slow learner.
“Miss Burton—eh, Lady Dewhurst, I should say. In a few days, you will appear in front of the most powerful men and women of the world in the role of my wife. But for a slip of paper, you are indeed my wife. You sleep in my house, you breathe my air, you will wear clothes I have furnished and eat food I will provide. I am but a little familiar with the laws of your American colonies, but here in civilization, when a woman marries, she and all she owns become the property of her husband.”
At the words her hand clenched on the table and color rose in her cheeks.
“Therefore, in the eyes of this household, the ton, and everyone who truly matters, you are mine. My chattel, to do with and treat as I will. If I say you will not eat until you have mastered the curtsey, then you will not eat until you curtsey as well as the Queen. If I say you do not sleep until you can recite the names of every member of the House of Lords, then you will not sleep until each gentleman’s name is as familiar to you as your own.”
Her jaw was set now, but Freddie could tell he had finally captured her attention. After this, molding her to his will would be easy. He strolled to the chair where she sat, determined to ram home his last point.
“And if I tell you to fall on your knees and polish my boots, you will do it or suffer the consequences.” He winced a bit at the last. That had come out harsher than he’d intended, but it was more important to show strength at first. He could always praise and reward her later. He peered down at her, momentarily disconcerted at the stubborn set of her jaw, then her face softened, and he saw he had won.
“I see,” she said, voice low and thick. “So you will not cease until you have me on my knees before you?”
He had not said it exactly that way, but now that the image was there, he was not opposed to allowing it to linger: the colonist on her knees before him, her head bowed, red hair spilling down her shoulders. His hand itched to capture a fistful of those fiery tresses.
“Well then,” she said, lifting her coffee cup. “If that is the way it must be, you leave me but one choice.”
His heart stuttered in his chest as she slid her chair back. Was she going to fall to her knees before him right now? Should he allow it? Could he refuse? He gripped the table, mesmerized then perplexed as she reached out and dumped the hot, wet remains of her coffee cup down the fall of his buff breeches.
