Charlotte set the cup down and brushed her hands. That would teach the arrogant man to treat her like one of his dogs. Lord, but she’d thought they’d established who had the upper hand last night. Was she stuck with a dim-witted husband? The dimwit was looking decidedly stormy, so she rose to leave, just as Andrews opened the door and announced, “Lady Dewhurst and Miss Dewhurst.”
Dewhurst froze, a napkin clutched to his nether regions, and Charlotte blinked as two creatures frothed in muslin, lace, and perfume swept into the dining room. Now what?
“Freddie!” The older woman’s voice held a note of censure and familiarity. Her gaze swept over Dewhurst as though she expected to see him changed into a lunatic with wild hair and mad eyes. But when she saw Charlotte, the woman halted and gasped, and Charlotte realized she’d become the spectacle here in Bedlam. Charlotte glanced at her husband for guidance, but he only groaned. She studied him, then the woman, then Dewhurst again. Both were tall, blond, and far too full of themselves. Dewhurst was wearing a stiff cravat, fitted tailcoat, and tight breeches—now accessorized with one coffee stain and one linen napkin—and looked every bit the flamingo. The woman—surely his mother—wore a pearl gray morning gown, a starched pelisse, and a bonnet with more feathers than a peacock.
Finally Dewhurst moved, intercepting Charlotte’s arm before she could escape. “Mother!” he said in a tone that sounded contrived, even to her inexpert ears. “How good to see you. Tea? Scone?”
She glared at him in stony silence.
He, undeterred, pressed onward. “Lydia. Charming as usual. Apple tart?”
“Freddie,” his mother said again, “I think you owe me an explanation.” Her attention wandered to the linen napkin he had clutched to his crotch, and she gave a quick, concerned glance at the young woman with her. Charlotte assumed it was Dewhurst’s sister. Like her brother, she had chiseled aristocratic features, golden blond hair, and heavy-lidded eyes. Charlotte’s gaze swept over the trio, and the sensation that she was an outsider was so strong it almost knocked her over. What was she—plain, lackluster, daughter of a retired sailor—doing here among these golden angels, who had but to think of a wish for it to come true?
“Lydia,” the older woman said, with a disapproving look at Dewhurst’s napkin. “Wait in the coach.”
“But Mama!”
“Do not argue, young lady.”
“Dash it,” Dewhurst said, squeezing Charlotte’s arm with the force of his exasperation. “Any further squabbling and I will send you both back to the coach.”
That unified the women, who gave him identical scathing looks.
“Now sit down, have some dashed tea and a scone, and allow me to explain.”
The two women moved stoically to the dining room chairs, apparently forgoing the offer of breakfast. Charlotte, however, was much more favorably inclined to Dewhurst’s offer. She had yet to eat anything, and she might need the sustenance if she was going to survive this ordeal. While everyone else angled for the table, Charlotte veered toward the sideboard, only to be propelled in the opposite direction and forcibly assisted into the chair next to Dewhurst’s. “I’m hungry. I don’t want to sit down,” she grumbled.
He bent down in the guise of assisting her with the chair. “And I didn’t want coffee scalding my inexpressibles, so it appears neither of us is going to get what we want.”
He took the seat beside her, then caught her hand in his before she could snatch it away.
“Mother, Lydia,” he began. “I have a surprise for you.” He squeezed her fingers, and she frowned at him. That elicited another squeeze, and a dark look from his otherwise sunny features. Did the man actually want her to smile and pretend all was well? Charlotte returned his black stare, adding a challenge in her eyes.
Still smiling, he said, “This is not how I imagined this moment, but I am glad you two are here.” He nodded at his mother and sister. “I know this seems abrupt and a bit hasty, but who among us can harness the power of love? I want to introduce my wife, Charlotte. Mother, Lydia, Charlotte Burton, now Dewhurst. Charlotte, this is my mother, Lady Abigail Dewhurst, and my youngest sister, Lydia.” He inclined his head at the women. “I know, given time, you will come to care for each other as much as you do me.”
He squeezed Charlotte’s hand again, his smile as tight as his grip. Think of Cade and the thousand dollars, Charlotte reminded herself and was able to force her mouth to turn up at the corners. A little. She could see that her effort did not please Dewhurst, but he ceased the death hold on her fingers.
Dewhurst’s words rang in the silence of the room, and Charlotte looked across the table to see both women looking more like buzzards than the hummingbirds they’d twittered in as. She swallowed and tried to remember how to address these members of Dewhurst’s family. “How lovely to meet you, Your Grace,” Charlotte said, and Dewhurst squeezed her hand so tightly she almost cried out. “I mean, Your Lady”—squeeze—“ship.”
Dewhurst’s mother had a look on her face very much like the one her son had shown when she’d made the gaffe about the earlette last night, but finally the woman cleared her throat. “I am sorry, Freddie. I must be mistaken.” She smiled, almost laughed. “For a moment I thought you referred to this bedraggled, homely woman as your wife.”
Charlotte’s jaw dropped, and Dewhurst jumped in before she could respond. “Ah, Mother, I’ve always said you have a keen sense of humor.”
“I have no such thing. In fact, as soon as I heard the twaddle about a marriage, I came here to hear the denial.” She crossed her arms. “I’m waiting.”
Dewhurst clenched his jaw and, worse, his hand over hers. “Mother, I can’t—”
“Freddie, I am waiting for your denial, and I do not intend to leave without it.”
“I’m afraid you’re a bit too late.”
“Rubbish,” Lady Dewhurst announced, rising and staring at her son across the table. “Give the chit some money and send her back to wherever she hails. I have overlooked your dalliances with trollops and lightskirts in the past, but this is beyond the pale.”
“Trollop?” Charlotte said before Dewhurst could stop her. “How dare you call me a trollop?” Before meeting this foolish flamingo and his family, she had never—never—in her life been treated as anything less than a lady. Now, in the space of a couple of days, she’d been mistaken for Cade’s mistress, kissed and insulted as though she were a common tavern doxy, and now outright called a whore by a woman who seemed to think Charlotte was as easy to be rid of as a stray cat.
“I’ll have you know,” Charlotte continued, “that my father comes from one of the oldest families in Charleston, and I will not be treated as though I’m no better than a river rat.”
Beside her Dewhurst groaned and looked as though he might cry, but whatever the cause of his distress—increasingly, Charlotte was coming to believe she was the source of his pain—she had to give him credit for holding fast to her hand and their ruse.
