“As I was saying,” Charlotte continued when she’d blinked away the tears and the burning in her scalp had receded to mere smoldering, “you would know that ladies in London have different standards and styles of dress. What is fashionable, even appropriate here, is not necessarily what we in Charleston would consider appropriate. But when in Rome . . .”
Addy snorted. “We ain’t in Rome, Miss Charlotte. But we ain’t in Charleston any more either.”
“Addy, I have to try and fit in here. This is what the upper-class ladies in London wear.”
“It ain’t right.”
Charlotte didn’t answer. It was all well and good to dress the part of a fine lady, but she wanted to show Dewhurst and all his snobbish friends that her blood ran as blue as theirs. As yet, she’d few encounters with the loftier class, but the sketches and styles Madam Vivienne had shown her had been eye-opening. From what Charlotte could tell, the ladies went about the city practically naked, the cuts of their dresses so low that the necklines provided no cover for their often abundant bosoms. The fashionable materials were light and clingy, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. On top of this, apparently most ladies wore only a thin wrap or none at all. Charlotte did not see how they could stand it in such a cold, damp climate.
Looking at Dewhurst and his male servants, Charlotte had ascertained that the male fashions were just as bad—pantaloons so tight the men could barely walk and certainly not bend over, cravats and stocks starched as stiffly as a chaperone’s spine, and colors so glaring and mismatched that Charlotte could do little but gawk.
Addy continued to sweep Charlotte’s hair into a simple style, and Charlotte stared unseeing into the mirror and sighed. There was nothing for it. It was she who had coaxed the reluctant Addy into coming to Europe, she who’d been the one to go without in order to scrape together the funds, and she who had made this deal with Dewhurst even the devil would think twice before accepting.
She was well and truly mired in a quicksand of her own making, and she’d only sink deeper if she couldn’t make this work. She needed that one thousand dollars. Addy stuck the last pin in Charlotte’s hair, stepped back, and said, “Oh, my.”
“What is it?” Charlotte glanced at herself in the mirror and then stared.
“Oh, my,” Addy said again. “I always knew you looked like her, but I’ve never seen the resemblance so strong.”
Charlotte nodded, her voice having deserted her as she stared at her own reflection—a reflection that looked so much like the portrait of her mother that had hung over the mantel of their house in Charleston that Charlotte thought for a moment that she was actually looking at that painting. She took a deep breath, and her gaze met Addy’s.
Addy’s eyes were cloudy and watery with tears. Addy had been Katherine Burton’s maid and confidante long before Charlotte had even been born, and Charlotte knew Addy still mourned Katherine Burton’s passing. Charlotte could only imagine the despair she would feel if she lost Addy, who was practically the only mother she could remember, and she saw the pain and loss reflected in Addy’s weathered face in the mirror.
Charlotte wished there was something she could do to comfort her friend, but she couldn’t bring her mother back any more than she could have stopped her father from gambling away his portion of the business or convinced Thomas that the benefits of running the British blockade were not worth the risks. But through it all, she’d kept the family together, then taken care of herself and Addy, and she would take on the whole of London if that’s what it took to restore her life to even a shadow of what it had been.
“Addy,” Charlotte said, reaching back and taking her friend’s hand. “We’re going to get back. Just you wait. We’ll sail home in style, march into Porcher’s library, slap Dewhurst’s money on his desk, and buy back what was always ours. The business, the house, everything. Before you know it, we’ll be back on top of the world. You can take your papers and go anywhere you want. Retire in style and never again lift a finger. Just give me a week or so.” Charlotte rose and straightened her skirts. “I’ll get these British titles and rules down if they kill me. You’ll see. Proper English lady.” She shook her head. “How hard can it be?”
She walked to the door, threw her shoulders back, and started for the dining room. As the door closed behind her she thought she heard Addy murmur, “Lord help us now.”
FREDDIE HAD PACED THE dining room from top to bottom exactly seventeen times, when Charlotte threw open the door and stumbled breathlessly inside. He paused mid-stride, a scathing reproach on his tongue for her tardiness, but one look at her and his voice failed him.
She caught his eye and straightened immediately, brushing a strand of her hair back into place. “Please forgive my late arrival, Lord Dewhurst.”
Freddie raised a brow. She was using his title.
“I’m afraid I got a bit turned around and ended up in the library. But no need to worry. Andrews found me and showed me the way.”
Freddie glanced at the footman holding the door, then looked back at Charlotte.
And looked.
“What?” Charlotte said, turning to glance first at Andrews and then down at her gown as if there were some defect. “What have I done now?”
Freddie wished she had done something wrong. How the devil was he supposed to wrest control of his emotions if she kept surprising him? First the tantalizing view of her fitting with Madam Vivienne. Now the sight of her in all her glory.
Freddie wished her gown was ugly or prim or a yard too big. He wished he hadn’t a very good idea of what the gown concealed. As it was, the emerald gown highlighted all her assets and hid her flaws—if there were any. The gown was cut so that he had an excellent impression of her figure, and he had yet to find an imperfection in her lush form. If anything, she was too perfect—too much the epitome of the women he always found himself drawn to.
There was the hair—that cinnamon color sprinkled with gold and dancing in the candlelight. There was her roses-and-cream complexion— offset to perfection by the lustrous green satin of the gown. Finally there were her eyes—dark and warm, like a good sherry. He followed a loose curl of her hair down her cheek, past her rosy lips, down her almost-bare shoulder, past the small cut emerald she wore at her neck, and rested his gaze on the swell of her breasts, rising like ripe half-moons from the low-cut bodice of the gown. He allowed his attentions to drift lower, over the folds of the gown, draped so that they hinted at the lush treasure beneath.
Freddie took a long, deep breath. “You’ve done nothing wrong,” he said, his voice sounding low and gravelly in his ears. “You look—” Words failed him momentarily. She looked alluring, sensual, like a ripe fruit begging to be peeled and savored. He had to remember her association with Pettigru. She was the enemy, and her allure was part of her armory. “You look . . . appropriate,” he finally managed.
Her eyebrows came together. “Appropriate? How generous.”
Freddie nodded at the chair at the far end of the table. “Please, be seated.”
Andrews moved to pull out the chair for her, but Freddie waved him away. Instead he himself slid her chair out with a flourish and made a sweeping bow. “Your servant, my lady.”
She raised a brow but took the proffered seat, and he took the opportunity to walk behind her, running a hand over the curve of her chair so that his fingers slid against the silk sweep of her hair. He paused to take in the enticing view of her décolletage his vantage point offered, then proceeded to his seat.
