She shrieked and dropped her arms to cover her thin petticoat. Madam Vivienne, startled by Charlotte’s outburst, jumped as well, sticking Charlotte in the arm with a pin. Charlotte jumped again, this time in pain, then pointed to Dewhurst. “What are you doing here?” she screamed. Then, looking at Lydia, “Why is he here?”
Lydia glanced at her brother and gave a delicate shrug. “Oh, he doesn’t trust anyone’s taste but his own. You’re not needed here, Freddie,” she called to him. “We are almost done.”
“We are?” Charlotte was momentarily relieved, then remembered Dewhurst. “Sir, I must insist you leave. I am not fully dressed.”
Dewhurst gave her petticoat his infamous lazy smile. “Nothing I haven’t seen before, my dear.”
Charlotte felt herself blush from the roots of her hair to the bottom of her feet. Even her toes were bright pink when she stared down at them. She would have flown from her perch and donned a dressing gown, a curtain, anything . . . but Madam Vivienne held her hostage with pins, tapes, and laces.
“In any case,” her husband said, “I am needed here. You can’t possibly think to dress her in that blue or that green. Those colors suit Lydia’s complexion, but will do nothing for Charlotte.”
“Freddie—” his mother began.
“No!” Madam Vivienne poked her head out from behind Charlotte. “Listen to this man. He knows of what he speaks. Monsieur, this is what I was saying. Put her in the russet or the gold. Copper, too, will bring out her coloring.”
“Exactly so.” He circled her, seeming to study her from every angle. She blushed even harder, her skin so hot that she felt that she might burst into flame. “Those colors will do well for evening, but I’m thinking yellow and peach for morning. Perhaps burgundy for a riding habit. No blue,” he said decisively, stopping in front of her and cocking his head to the side. “Blue will do nothing for that cinnamon hair and those sherry eyes. Keep her in dark, brazen colors. Those will suit her best.”
There was silence in the room as everyone stared at him. Charlotte’s jaw was hanging open, but she was too surprised to shut it. She had cinnamon hair and sherry-colored eyes? She would look best in dark, brazen colors? George Washington, but he was making her sound like some sort of temptress! She wanted to be offended. She wanted—once again—to slap him hard across the face until that lazy smile was permanently removed. Instead she found herself strangely flattered. He thought she was bold and dramatic. A temptress.
Then she remembered where she was and her state of dress—or rather, undress—and she tensed again.
The silence was finally broken by Madam Vivienne. Beaming, she danced out from behind the footstool, her little feet flying like bumblebees. “Oui! Oui, monsieur! Exactement!” She looked up at Charlotte with new admiration. “Votre mari est si a` la mode. Entre nous, you are une femme chanceuse.”
Charlotte’s gaze met Dewhurst’s, then he turned and strode to the dressing room door. He paused, winked at her, and was gone.
FREDDIE CLOSED THE door to the dressing room and almost collapsed against it. It had been a mistake to enter Charlotte’s room, a mistake to risk seeing her in a state of dishabille. He’d thought he was safe. His mother and sister were in the room with Charlotte, dash it. But the pope could have been in attendance and it would not have tempered Freddie’s arousal at the sight of her in a paper-thin petticoat and nothing else.
He’d seen many women undressed. He’d seen many beautiful women undressed, but he’d never experienced such a jolt of arousal as he had upon entering Charlotte’s room. She stood on a white pedestal, a lick of fire rising out of a cool winter snowbank. The room’s froth of white decor surrounding Charlotte had served as a cold contrast to the warmth of her peachy skin and the cherry spill of her hair. Arms outstretched, eyes slightly closed, lips parted, she was the most innocently sensual creature he’d ever seen.
And that was before his eyes had fallen on her generous curves, the sweeping, lush landscape of her body. The mourning dress she’d been wearing had been more ill-fitting than he’d realized. It hid the creamy slope of her breasts, rising above the rounded neckline of her petticoat. It hid the small circle of her waist and the proud jutting of her hips. The petticoat was tattered and old and undeniably alluring. It was so thin he could see the shape of her legs through the material, and if his eyes—already dazed by the assets displayed before him—were not mistaken, her legs were long and round, tapering into a sweet derriere.
Dash it, but if he did not remove the image of his half-naked wife from his head soon, he might end up married in truth.
He should have gone to his club. He should never have listened to a foolish American who knew nothing of the inner workings of the ton. And he would have gone—if her reasoning hadn’t made so much sense. How many times had he seen a newly betrothed couple at a ball or dinner party and known the match was at the wish of their parents? How often had he watched married couples at the theater, sitting next to each other and yet virtual strangers?
That would not do for him. If the story of their marriage was to be believed, Freddie could afford no doubt, no question as to his affections for Charlotte. And yet somehow he had to keep those affections a ruse. He had to keep his emotions toward her in check. Already he thought of her too often. Reacted to her too intensely.
He needed to temper all of it, regain control of himself, and play his part to the hilt. He would make Society believe his unlikely match was genuine. The gossips and social commentators would talk loudly and freely of the stylish baron and the fiery American. And then Pettigru would find her. The spy would not slip through Freddie’s fingers again. He would have the man, and he’d do whatever it took to catch him.
Chapter Nine
Charlotte smiled when she learned that Dewhurst had decided to change his plans and spend the evening at home. So he would not be visiting his mistress after all.
It had been a long time since she’d thought of dressing for dinner. For the past few years she’d mainly been concerned if there was to be any dinner, but fortunately Madam Vivienne had left several gowns behind to hold Charlotte over until her own gowns were made.
Charlotte pulled several dresses from the armoire and tried to remember which were which. She discarded a pretty muslin frock as a day dress and a heavy gown with as much embellishment as a ball gown, and that left her one choice.
The gown had obviously been made for an older woman and was, Madam Vivienne assured her, only a temporary selection as Lord Dewhurst had not seemed to think she would shine in green. But Lady Dewhurst had called her son’s pronouncements nonsense. Her one concern with the gown was that the vibrant green colored crepe over the ivory satin slip was too matronly.
Charlotte thought an objection to the neckline might be more appropriate, but when she’d slipped the gown on for a few alterations, no objection had been forthcoming. Now, with Addy’s help, Charlotte donned the gown again, then went to the mirror to observe the effect. The neck was still objectionable—round and low, the mantua maker having explained that the current style was to show as much of the bosom as possible— but the sleeves were full and slashed. Charlotte liked the sleeves and only wished that some of the overabundance of material gathered there had been used to form the bodice.
Looking in the mirror, she pulled the dress higher in an effort to keep her breasts from spilling out, then adjusted her mother’s emerald necklace, which actually looked nice, set off by the color of the dress. Addy came to stand behind her, shaking her head and pursing her lips. “That dress ain’t proper, Miss Charlotte. How you going to go around showing so much flesh? You’ll be put in jail for a loose woman.”
Charlotte frowned in the mirror. “First of all, Addy, I won’t be out and about in the city. I’m having dinner downstairs with Dewhurst. Secondly,” she said as she settled behind the dressing table and handed Addy a brush and several hairpins, “I am supposed to be a married woman. Married women are allowed more liberty in their dress than unmarried women. Lastly, if you had been paying any attention to the conversation between the Dewhursts and Madam Vivienne, you would know—ow!” Charlotte put a hand to her stinging scalp, where Addy had just ripped through a particularly vicious tangle.
“Oh, sorry, Miss Charlotte. I forgot you’re such a tender head.”
Tender head, my foot, Charlotte thought. Even a woman in a wig would have protested at that harsh treatment. It had been some time since she and Addy had engaged in this ritual. Hairdressing had seemed unimportant when they were faced with so many other obstacles in their daily lives, but Charlotte had no doubt Addy, who had been dressing hair for longer than Charlotte had been alive, had not slipped with her hairbrush.
