Apparently she’d said something without meaning to, because the look in his eye turned dark and predatory. Just as it had the last time she’d mentioned riding.
And she liked it.
“Yes, it should be an adventure,” he said in a low voice. Then he seemed to give himself a shake, adding in his normal tone, “Perhaps I can answer more of your questions.”
“Since you haven’t answered any of them yet,” she found herself pointing out.
“Precisely,” he said with a laugh, glancing around them. A few couples had found their way to the terrace also and were engaged in their own various conversations. “We should return to the ballroom. Your mother will be wondering where you are.”
Probably not, Charlotte thought, unless she was hoping to get her into a conversation with Mr. Goddard, just to make sure someone married her daughter.
Meanwhile, Charlotte was just wondering when David would just kiss her again.
***
It was remarkable how just a minute or two of someone’s lifetime could be played over and over again in your mind.
Thankfully her mother hadn’t noticed her absence, nor had she noticed the way Charlotte kept touching her mouth—just there; he’d kissed her there—nor that many eligible gentlemen had asked her to dance, many more than usual.
It was remarkable, as well, how being the object of interest of someone so stunning resulted in others finding you interesting as well.
But nobody told her she wasn’t ugly, nor did they ask why she was wearing what she was or pointing out just how blunt she was. They did ask if she was enjoying the evening, and the music, and the refreshments, and on that latter question, Charlotte had to admit that, no, she did not particularly enjoy the refreshments. The hosts had recently imported a French chef, straight from Paris, and apparently his genius was such that every item of food had to be a tiny morsel, adorned with wispy fronds of herbs or some such. So you didn’t really get to taste the item, it was too small, but there was a high likelihood of having a wispy frond stuck in your teeth.
And even as she was discussing all of these scintillating topics, her mind kept track of exactly where he was, and what he had said, and how it had felt.
He was dancing with Lady Anne at the moment, and Charlotte felt proud of herself that she was not at all jealous, even though Anne had taken her advice—her fashion advice, no less—and worn a more advantageous color that better complemented her hair.
“Lady Charlotte,” said a voice that came from just behind her, “may I have this dance?”
Drat. Mr. Goddard, in all his width and widowerhood. Not that she begrudged him having those things, but she wished he would go have them with someone else.
“Certainly, Mr. Goddard,” she said, hearing her mother’s sigh of satisfaction behind her. At least she was fooling her mother thus far.
It was a country dance, thankfully, which meant there wasn’t a lot of opportunity for conversation. The steps were easy to do, but there were a lot of them, and Charlotte found she had to glance at the floor to get her bearing.
He was a good dancer, she had to give him that. Every time she met his gaze, there he was, smiling at her.
If she squinted, she might almost say his expression was pleasant.
But squinting gave her a headache. And she knew why he was smiling.
And she found herself smiling, too, but for entirely different reasons. That kiss. With him. She was being entirely shallow, but if she had to be shallow over someone, she thought it might as well be the best-looking man she’d ever seen in her entire life.
Or would see.
Drat. That meant that whomever she really did end up with—if she got an offer at all, that is, besides Mr. Widower—would never compare. Looks-wise, at least. Had her first kiss already been the peak of her romantic experience?
And how would her future unknown husband react when she told him it was a fine kiss, but it wasn’t quite as wonderful as the first one she’d had out on a terrace in the middle of a ball?
Well. If she told him that before he proposed, that would likely dissuade him.
A potential strategy, in fact. A man could marry for a fortune with no cost to his reputation, but let it be known his wife found another man more attractive, and a better kisser—well, she knew that would be too much to bear.
“Mr. Goddard,” she said, when the steps allowed, “what would be the worst thing a lady could say to you?”
He stumbled; likely he was not expecting that question. He was probably hoping for her to say something along the lines of “Wasn’t the room warm?” or “Goodness, how many people are here this evening.” Which would be two ways of saying the same thing, after all.
He frowned, and they separated for a few steps.
“I cannot answer that, Lady Charlotte, since anything so unpleasant would not be appropriate for a lady’s ears.” He sounded like he was delivering a lecture.
And she did not like being lectured. She got enough of that at home.
“But is there a worst thing a lady could say to you?” Because if there was, chances were—given her blunt speaking—that she would hit upon it eventually. A bright spot to being so outspoken?
“I suppose.” He clearly did not wish to answer. His mouth had tightened into an annoyed line, and he wasn’t meeting her gaze any longer.
Ha! Maybe just the act of asking was enough to dissuade someone.
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” She offered him a wide smile, with just a touch of vacuousness in her eyes so he wouldn’t suspect she was up to something.
At last the music stopped, and he bowed, and they stood together in silence.
“Lady Charlotte,” he began to say, just as she spoke.
“Mr. Goddard.”
“You first, my lady.”
Drat for a third time. She’d entirely forgotten what she had been about to say. If she said anything like what was really on her mind, such as, “Don’t try to marry me just because you want my money,” he would tell her mother. If not everyone else in Society.
She couldn’t do that to her family, so she was going to have to find some other stratagem for dissuasion. “I was just going to say that I have quite a fondness for parrots.”
“Parrots?” He sounded as surprised as she was. Where did parrots come from?
“Yes,” she said firmly, feeling more in control of the subject. “Parrots. You see, when I was young, I read all the pirate stories I could. And pirates always had parrots. Ever since then, I have adored parrots. They have the most wonderful plumage, you know.”
He blinked slowly. At least he wasn’t lecturing her.
“My dear Lady Charlotte, parrots are a useful obsession.” He paused as she absorbed his comment. “And,” he said, casting a quick glance at her gown, “I can see how your obsession has affected your own choices.”
She would have laughed if Lord David had made the same observation, but it wasn’t humorous coming from Mr. Goddard.
“Yes, well, I am wondering if you have thought about a parrot’s diet. They eat seeds, fruits, nuts; things of that nature. I am considering going on an all-parrot diet, just to see what it would be like.”
Now he wasn’t even blinking. Just staring.
Good.
“Is that what young ladies are doing to reduce these days?” Again, that quick glance down at her figure. He did not just imply that she was … Did he? “It is admirable that you would wish to adopt a parrot’s way of eating for that.”
He did imply it. If she hadn’t been close to disliking him already, this would take him over the top in her esteem. Or under the bottom, depending on how she was measuring the esteem in question.
In either case, she didn’t like him.
And she definitely did not wish to be courted by him, much less to marry him.
She’d rather marry a parrot. Then, at least, she could compliment her partner on his garb and not be hypocritical.
What Not to Bare
&
nbsp; Dear Ladies:
We all wish to be noticed—for the right reasons—but what if you wish not to be noticed? What then?
What if you wish to remain anonymous, to blend in with the crowd, to be able to do what you want when you want to?
Beyond choosing colors and styles that are in fashion and not ahead of it, we would suggest that you outfit yourself with a group of similarly garbed people.
Make certain, when you do so, that the group is not formed of anyone who will draw attention either—no one too ugly or too beautiful.
Of course, this begs the question of why you would want to be unnoticed, but if you consider for a moment, you’ll find a myriad of reasons: a potential romantic interest, a shred of intriguing gossip, a moment to just be with yourself without having to be in the spotlight.
We all crave notice, but it you consider it, we all crave anonymity as well.
So go ahead, try it. We won’t look.
The Fashionable Foible
Chapter 10
David had never felt so … unbalanced before. Could a kiss, one simple kiss with a young lady of questionable taste, so unhinge him?
Apparently so. He removed his coat, tossing it onto the bed, and yanked his cravat free from around his neck.
He felt—shackled. It wasn’t just her. It was this, this return to London, now knowing Louise was out there somewhere, just waiting to pounce.
He couldn’t blame her. She was a lovely widow with flexible morals, and her late husband had been married previously, and had children from that marriage, so who knew how much money he’d left her? If she could easily snag someone to take care of her, why wouldn’t she?
It was just that he wished it wasn’t him she was intent on snagging.
And that kiss. His mind—and other parts of him—kept thinking about it, reliving it, and he almost felt as though he’d never really kissed anyone before.
Such a soft, lovely mouth.
“You’re home early.” Gotam settled the hot water onto the dresser and turned to face David. “Did you not have a good time?”
“I did.” And an odd time, as well. But he wasn’t going to admit, even to his best friend, that a simple kiss had so unnerved him. “Can you ask the carriage round for one o’clock? I am taking a young lady for a drive.”
Gotam cocked that damn eyebrow. And not even about the coat. “A young lady? Anyone in particular?”
David unbuttoned his shirt and drew it over his head, tossing it onto his friend’s head. “Of course a particular young lady. Do you think I’d be asking a random young lady for a drive?”
Silence.
David sighed and rolled his eyes. “Lady Charlotte.”
“The one they call the Abomination?”
David tamped down the desire to punch his friend’s face. It wasn’t Ox’s fault, after all, she’d been given that nickname. He was just irked it had reached as far as Gotam, who was neither in Society, nor even British.
“Yes. That one.”
“Is she the one you’re supposed to court?” Gotam didn’t wait for David’s reply, he just flung his head back and laughed.
“Shut up, already.” He wondered if he could find who’d given Charlotte her nickname—to him, she was Charlotte now, not Lady Charlotte; a kiss would remove that formality—and figure out how, diplomatically of course, to ruin the man’s life.
That would be an assignment he would relish.
“It’s small wonder, then, that Lord Bradford needs someone with your … skills to pay attention to her. No mere mortal would do.”
He might have to punch his best friend after all. Messenger or no, the man was crossing some line David hadn’t even known he’d drawn.
Gotam finally stopped chuckling and picked up David’s razor. Maybe he’d realized David was considering damaging his face?
No, he was just on his way to shaving him, as he did most nights. David was too grouchy in the morning to tolerate Gotam’s ministrations, so he always shaved him at night.
“Sit.” Gotam put his hand on David’s shoulder and steered him to the chair in front of the dresser. He unfolded a towel and wrapped it around David’s neck. “What is the lady like?” He frowned at the razor, setting it back down on the dresser and picking up the lathering soap instead. He dipped it into the hot water and began to rub his hands together.
“She’s—” Gotam started applying the lather. David kept quiet as Gotam worked close to his mouth—he’d once gotten a mouth full of lather, and it was not pleasant.
“What?”
She’s blunt, and honest, and witty, and surprisingly attractive. But those were not the kinds of things a gentleman would say to another gentleman, no matter how close the friendship between the two. “She’s interesting.”
Gotam paused, little bubbles of soap floating around his dark face. “Interesting? In a good way or a bad way?”
David thought. “Both.”
Gotam shook his head and continued lathering David’s face. “You are in trouble, my friend.”
He was, wasn’t he?
And the problem was, he thought he liked it.
***
He called at her house precisely at one o’clock the following day. He’d spent the morning going over his papers, compiling some final reports on the last negotiations he’d undertaken before scandal had taken him under. It put him in a foul mood, recalling how useful, how purposeful he’d felt there, before his own stupid behavior had gotten him—not to mention Gotam—exiled from his home.
He had managed to put the kiss almost out of his mind. Almost. But his assignment remained, no matter how much he did or did not enjoy it. And what perhaps rankled the most was that he knew, deep down, he was enjoying it, no matter how much he chafed against it.
“Good afternoon, Lady Jepstow,” he said to Charlotte’s mother as he was led into the receiving salon. He handed his hat to the butler and glanced around the room.
It was tastefully appointed in shades of gold and green, so he knew Charlotte had had nothing to do with its decoration. In fact, it was almost blandly nice, a description that was as far from fitting Charlotte as he could imagine.
“So, my lord, you are taking my girl driving today?” Lady Jepstow said. “She will be down shortly. She is just”—she paused and seemed to shudder—“getting dressed. Please,” she said, gesturing to the sofa, “sit down.” She perched herself on a chair arranged perpendicular to the sofa.
David found himself grinning in anticipation as he sat. What horrible concoction would she grace him with today? “Your daughter will be in excellent hands, my lady.” He leaned back against the sofa until he recalled that British gentlemen did not lounge here as they did in India, and straightened up again. “My brother, James, the marquess, has lent me his phaeton while I am in residence at his house. He assures me it is most comfortable.”
Lady Jepstow’s eyes widened. “A phaeton! Does that mean there is no room for Charlotte’s lady’s maid?” She began to shake her head. “Oh, no, I cannot allow Charlotte to go out without her maid. What would people say?”
Precisely what your brother is hoping they will say: that attention is being paid to her by the very handsome Lord David Marchston, so we should pay attention to her, too.
“I would think they would say there is nothing wrong with a lovely lady taking a drive in full daylight with a gentleman in an open carriage. If you wish to cancel the outing …” He let the thought dangle there, with all its implications—that Charlotte would be passing up a chance to be seen with him, that David might think Lady Jepstow old-fashioned (and therefore old), that her daughter might miss the chance to meet more eligible gentlemen—and saw when her resolve crumbled.
“Very well. But, please, do keep the drive to half an hour and stay in the park.” She waved her finger at him, almost flirtatiously. “I know how gentlemen are when they are with a young lady.”
“Certainly, my lady,” David replied, wishing it weren’t so easy to get people to do wh
at he wanted. Of course, if it were less easy to get people to do what he wanted, he wouldn’t be nearly as good at his position.
The door opened as Lady Jepstow beamed at him and David frantically tried to think of things to say. Charlotte walked in, and for a moment, David couldn’t see anything but her. Or, rather, her clothing.
Which was not a good thing.
She wore a bright-blue gown stamped with enormous red and green flowers. In addition, her bright-blue hat was festooned with several feathers, each a different color. Folded over her arm was a jacket made of the same fabric as the gown, only with a green background and enormous red and blue flowers.
He hoped he didn’t make a noise, because if he had, it would not have been a pleasant one.
“Good afternoon, Lord David,” she said. He lifted his gaze from scrutinizing a particularly aggressive bloom and met her eyes. Thankfully, they were the same brown shade they had been last time he saw her. At least she couldn’t alter her own coloring.
“I have been chiding Lord David about taking you out without your maid,” Lady Jepstow said in a sprightly voice. “He tells me there is not enough room in his carriage for her. So mind you behave with the utmost caution, my dear,” she added.
If only one could give clothing a similar warning, David thought.
“Of course. I hardly think Lord David will be incautious,” Charlotte said, with a quick, shy glance at him.
His mind immediately returned to that kiss, and he kept his eyes locked with hers for a moment past propriety. He was rewarded by the sight of her cheeks flooding with color, nearly as bright as the flowers on her gown.
“Shall we?” David said, gesturing toward the door. Charlotte nodded and slid her jacket on, her maid seeming to wince as she helped her with the sleeves. He couldn’t blame the woman.
David followed Charlotte out the door, staring at the nape of her neck rather than anything else. Her skin, at least, was the same shade everywhere.
The sun shone, albeit weakly, through the thin clouds, and David helped Charlotte up into the carriage, a stray yellow feather poking him in the nose. He leapt up beside her and took the reins from the post boy.
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