“Addy!” Charlotte held up her hand, not at all certain she wanted to hear the completion of that analogy. “I understand that you don’t like Mr. Wilkins. He’s . . . different, but we have to try and get along with these people while we’re here. We have to make the best of a bad situation.”
“I’m pleased as Punch to hear you say so.”
Charlotte whipped around. Her husband was standing by the wall, arms crossed, lazy smile in place.
“How?”
Dewhurst stepped aside. “I have a key.” He held up a shiny gold key, allowing it to dangle from his finger before opening his hand and making the key disappear.
“Parlor tricks, Alfred?” she said. “How quaint.”
His smile grew lazier, if that were possible, and Charlotte’s stomach fluttered with butterflies. “I knew you’d enjoy it, but don’t expect me to pop over uninvited often”—he winked at her as though recalling her visit the night before—“I only came to tell you that Madam Vivienne, the best mantua maker in London—if my sister has the right of it—has been sent for. She should soon be on her way to outfit you.”
Charlotte glanced at Addy, who sighed heavily. “I’m going. I’m going.”
“Miss Addy.” Dewhurst bowed as she passed him. “Always a pleasure, madam.”
When she was gone, Charlotte turned back to Dewhurst. His green eyes, their color now softer, swept over her shabby dress. He had changed out of his stained clothing, and Charlotte could only blink at the rapid transformation. How did the man manage to go from scruffy to stylish so quickly?
Under his scrutiny, she suddenly felt more like a street urchin than a well-bred Charleston lady. Her dress was wrinkled and ill-fitting. Her hair had come loose and was streaming down her back. And though Dewhurst had been through the same ordeals as she this morning, her husband stood before her looking more the archangel than ever.
“My mother and sister will be here to see you through,” her husband said. “I trust their choices and expect you to defer to their judgment in all matters. I want a full report when I return.”
“Return?”
“I’ll dine at my club tonight. If you refrain from assaulting my cook again, I’m certain he will make whatever you request.”
“Assault? I merely asked the man if he had any lemon water.”
Freddie waved a hand, dismissing her. He began to close the door behind him, but Charlotte pushed it open.
“You’re leaving, sir?”
“As you see.” He indicated his clothing, and Charlotte finally registered the reason for the quick change in his attire. He’d traded the soiled breeches for riding breeches, a charcoal tailcoat, and boots black as night. His hair, which she’d succeeded in loosening from its queue during their morning parlay, was once again restrained and tamed into some semblance of order. She frowned, thinking she liked the golden mass free and curling against his neck.
Much as she hated the English and their aristocratic ways, she could not deny that this man looked every inch a prince. More than his attire, his bearing suggested refinement and majesty.
And she was no princess. As high an opinion she’d had of her social dexterity, she knew now she was sorely outmatched when it came to London and its ton. She really did need Dewhurst and his stupid lectures if this ruse were to work. And she needed it to work. Perhaps that’s what vexed her the most. Guilty or not, she would not abandon Cade to rot in an English prison or to stand trial for treason, and she would not give up her one thousand dollars. To give up the money would mean letting Addy down and returning to Charleston with nothing. She could not go back to the ruins of the life her father had left for her. She could not go back to those whispers and pitying smiles.
But if this—at this point she could only think of it as a madcap scheme—were to work, she would need more than a gaggle of feathered dresses. She’d need to survive in London Society until Cade came for her. For that, she’d need a husband. Or at least she’d need these people to believe Dewhurst was her husband, and that meant he had to appear to be in love with her, to want to be with her, to be so swept away with love that he had to have her, even though she was a—what had he called her?—an uncouth colonist.
Charlotte looked into Dewhurst’s eyes and frowned.
He frowned back. “What?”
“I think it’s better if you stay.” Because of their charade, Charlotte reminded herself. Not because she cared what he did or who he saw. “Your running out to see your mistress or dine away from me does not smack of marriage.”
He snorted. “Women’s idea of marriage perhaps, not a man’s.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Oh, really? Well, perhaps that is the case for other husbands, but I won’t tolerate it from mine.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “And I won’t tolerate a wife issuing me rules and orders. I’ll spend my time how and where I want.”
“And with whom,” she said, narrowing her eyes.
“Correct.”
Charlotte turned her back and shrugged. “Well, then I see no real reason to see this Madam Vivienne. If you can’t be bothered to spend one day at home with your wife—the wife you fell madly in love with and married, even though she’s naught but an uncouth colonist—then what I wear won’t matter. No one will believe this marriage were I dressed like a queen.”
