What Not to Bare

by Megan Frampton

  He was not appalled at her. She knew that, deep in her heart. He had liked doing all those things with her. And she liked doing all those things with him, not to mention talking to him, and watching him try to answer her questions, even if he was distracted by her clothing. And dancing with him.

  It was a good thing, she thought wryly to herself, she had no intention of falling in love with him.

  Of course, she also knew she lied. She was a little bit in love with him already, and if she wasn’t careful, he would break her heart.

  But meanwhile, she did have that pesky men’s smallclothes question. Which she was determined to answer—firsthand, ideally—as soon as she possibly could.

  She and Sarah arrived home—already!—and thankfully her mother was not waiting to pounce on her the moment she walked in the door.

  Perhaps the unmarried bachelors had taken the day off. Of course, her mother did think she’d been at the museum already. Twice in one day would seem excessive. Desperate, even.

  She handed her coat and hat to Bennett and ascended the stairs to her room. Sarah scooted ahead of her and opened the door, giving her an inquiring glance.

  “No, thank you, I am not in need of you for a few hours. We have dinner at eight o’clock, correct?”

  Sarah nodded. “Yes, miss.”

  “Return at seven thirty, then, to help me dress for dinner.”

  Sarah nodded again, and Charlotte walked into her room, closing the door behind her. She stood for a moment, just looking around her room.

  What to do first? Take notes for her column or relive every single moment of the past hour?

  Who was she trying to fool? She’d relive every moment no matter what else she was doing, so she might as well get some work done.

  With that resolution, she walked purposefully to her desk, where a blank sheet of paper and a pen sat waiting for her. Almost staring at her with a baleful eye. Or that could be her imagination.

  She sat down and picked up the pen.

  “Chemises,” she wrote. Followed by “fabric, smallclothes, colors, hats, and gloves.”

  That was not a column. It was a list.

  She had to focus. But a part of her mind—a significant part of her mind—kept thinking about him and how he had felt. And how much she wanted to undress him as thoroughly as he had her. More, since he’d already told her men didn’t wear anything like chemises under their clothing.

  What had Anne said about choice? About the decisions young ladies were allowed to make?

  Not very many, that was for certain.

  She bent her head over the paper and scratched lines through all of the words she had written.

  “Choice,” she wrote.

  ***

  An hour or so later, she put the pen down, folded the paper, and slipped it into her desk drawer. She would give it to Sarah to get to the newspaper office tomorrow, while she and her mother were receiving visitors.

  She glanced at the clock—seven already. She reached her arms behind her and stretched, feeling how her back had stiffened as she was hunched over her desk. How did Emma do it regularly? This was hard work, and she’d barely been doing it for a week.

  Perhaps Emma didn’t take quite so long or have to do so much research for it.

  She put thoughts of her friend and the column aside as she allowed herself to recall just what it had felt like. She went to stand in front of her mirror and turned to the side so she could see part of her backside.

  He’d seem quite taken with it, putting his hand there and everything. She couldn’t quite see what the fuss was about, honestly.

  Had she ever really thought about what a person’s behind looked like? Hers was usually hidden underneath her gowns. Gentleman’s backsides were much more readily available to view.

  She put that on her list of things to do next time she saw David: examine his behind.

  Not the worst task she’d ever had.

  She turned back around and looked at herself for a minute, then shrugged and spun around to lie on her bed.

  She had about fifteen minutes before Sarah was coming to dress her, and she was exhausted, what with all the subterfuge, kissing, groping, and writing she’d done.

  It was a good thing they weren’t going out tonight. She didn’t think she could be properly sociable.

  The knock came right on time, and Sarah entered without waiting for Charlotte’s call. “Your mother, my lady, has brought a guest to dinner. A Mr. Goddard.”

  Charlotte sat straight up on the bed, her mouth dropping open. “No. Really?”

  Her mother was intensifying the pressure to accept Mr. Goddard, wasn’t she? Allowing him to come to dinner when it was to only be family certainly said something.

  Something Charlotte definitely did not want to say.

  But if she was obviously trying to dissuade him, her mother would put the pressure on even more.

  She would have to be both diplomatic and calculated. In other words, completely opposite to herself.

  She took a deep breath, then clambered off the bed to let Sarah dress her. For her next strategic move.

  One that could decide her very future—if she let it.

  ***

  “Look who I ran into,” her mother said as Charlotte walked downstairs. “Mr. Goddard,” she added, as though she were trying to help Charlotte identify him, “who’s been gracious enough to accept an invitation to dinner, or it would be just us.”

  “Ran into” likely meant “arranged with,” but never mind that. And why would it be so bad to be “just us,” anyway?

  Oh, of course, unless one of the “us” was the EB.

  “How lovely to see you, Mr. Goddard,” Charlotte said, extending her hand to him. He took it, and bowed over it, not quite touching it with his lips.

  She tried not to snatch it away and rub it on her gown when he let go.

  “Your mother was kind enough to ask me to dine, and since I can think of no place I would rather be, here I am!” he said, spreading his arms wide, as though he were an exhibit at the museum.

  The unmarried bachelors would likely not be intrigued by viewing this specimen, given that she was the intended audience, and even she was not impressed.

  “Let us go into the living room while we wait for Lord Jepstow. I cannot think what is keeping that man,” her mother muttered as she led the way.

  “I can go find him if you’d like,” Charlotte offered.

  Her mother gave her a pointed look, as if she knew precisely what Charlotte was thinking.

  Hopefully she did not, since Charlotte would be in way worse trouble than merely being asked to marry someone she did not want to. She would end up shut in a box for the rest of her life, or worse—made to wear dull clothing, or never be allowed to ask another question for the rest of her life.

  “We will send Bennett.” Her mother went to the bellpull and yanked it, hard, as though she were expressing her displeasure at her husband for not being there with the motion.

  “Please, sit down, Mr. Goddard.” Her mother indicated the sofa where Charlotte was just about to sit. She quickly moved to the chair opposite the sofa, ignoring her mother’s glare.

  Mr. Goddard settled into his seat and clasped his hands across his chest. “I had a letter from my children’s governess this morning. My eldest, Lucas, caught a frog and set it loose at the dinner table.”

  Judging by his disapproving tone, Mr. Goddard would probably not like it if she shouted “Bravo” in response.

  “It sounds as though your son needs some guidance,” her mother said, casting a significant look at Charlotte.

  Honestly, could her mother be any more obvious? Although perhaps she shouldn’t ask such a question—her mother could definitely be more obvious. It seemed, however, that her mother had not yet decided to test the efficacy of an enormous sign reading MARRY MY DAUGHTER.

  “And my daughter, Lydia, spends far too much time inside reading. I have informed her no gentleman wishes to marry a bluestock
ing. But she will not listen.” He shook his head. “It has gotten to the point where I have forbidden the purchase of any additional books. Thankfully my forebears were not particularly well-read, so our library is rather meager.”

  “Thankfully,” Charlotte echoed, reconsidering the possible advantages of living in a box.

  She glanced over at her mother, whose expression was still hopeful. How desperate was her mother for her that she was willing to overlook the fact that Mr. Goddard was an incredibly pompous and ignorant ass?

  Perhaps she should not consider that too deeply.

  The door opened, and Bennett entered. He cleared his throat. Oh dear, Charlotte thought.

  “Lord Jepstow is not dining at home this evening, my lady. He left for his sister’s house about half an hour ago. His man said Lord Jepstow informed you.”

  Her mother twisted her face up into an expression of displeasure. “He might have told me, but I don’t listen to half the things he says. This is a bother.” Then she recalled they had a guest and eased her face back into some semblance of normalcy. “I am so sorry, Mr. Goddard. You will have to be the only man at the table.”

  Had he looked like a smug prig before? That was nothing compared to how he reacted when her mother announced that. How could she possibly bear to look at that face every day?

  The answer was that she couldn’t.

  “Dinner is served, my lady,” Bennett said. He held the door open as they rose to their feet.

  “Mr. Goddard, you may escort Charlotte in, if you please.”

  Charlotte took the arm he proffered and followed her mother out the door to the living room.

  At least Cook was an excellent cook; Charlotte hadn’t realized quite how hungry she was until she smelled the roast that followed the soup course. And with her mother and Mr. Goddard taking care of all the conversation, she could pay attention to her dinner.

  Since paying attention to them would likely put her off her dinner.

  She couldn’t help but hear some of what they said; mostly inanities about who was at which party and how this year’s events were not as good as previous years.

  She didn’t pay much attention, however, until her mother and Mr. Goddard starting gossiping; of course, Lord David’s name came up.

  “My brother would not tell me what caused his return, just that it was sudden. And then that widow, what is her name? She has returned also.”

  “Lady Radnor,” Charlotte murmured.

  “Yes, Lady Radnor. Of course it seems unlikely they wouldn’t have known each other there, and she is so beautiful—even if she is a widow—that one wonders just what might happen over the next few months.” Her mother nodded as though she had inside knowledge of the situation, which Charlotte knew for a fact she did not. And why would being a widow affect her beauty, one way or the other?

  Sometimes her mother just confused her.

  “It seems to me that the lady in question—Radnor, you say?—should be staying at home, as is proper for someone in her situation, rather than attending events. It is unfortunate she does not have a male to guide her in her choices.”

  “Because he died, which makes her a widow in the first place. Therefore making her in need of guidance,” Charlotte pointed out.

  Neither her mother nor Mr. Goddard seemed impressed with her logic.

  “I cannot bear when a lady gets herself talked about, as this one has,” Mr. Goddard said in his most priggish way. “A lady should be unnoticed for her actions. Paid attention to just by virtue of being unnoticed.”

  “Oxymoronic,” Charlotte pronounced in a loud voice, making both her mother and Mr. Goddard turn to look at her. Neither of them seemed to know the word.

  She spoke again. “Oxymoronic. Something that is a contradiction by virtue of itself. Like a lady being noticed for not being noticed.”

  “You are so clever, dear,” her mother said in a murmur that indicated being clever was not something to be valued.

  “Nevertheless, the lady would do well to keep herself from scandal. Nobody wishes to be associated with a lady who would get herself talked about.” His face had gotten redder, as though a scandalous lady was the worst thing that could happen to anybody.

  “Unless she were being talked about because …,” Charlotte began to say, only to realize that continuing the conversation would be fruitless. Although it gave her an idea, something she would have to think about to see if she could actually do it.

  It would make her mother angry, but at least she wouldn’t have to even entertain the possibility of marrying Mr. Goddard.

  The rest of the dinner passed without any more interesting conversation, at least as far as Charlotte could tell, which was good, since her mind was preoccupied with Cook’s fish course, David’s hands, and her future.

  Not in that order.

  What Not to Bare

  Dear Ladies:

  We have dealt, in the main, with what fashionable people put on their bodies as clothing. We have not yet spoken of what covers their head, or “brain box” as some young sports would call it.

  Why, after spending far longer than you would care to admit to in choosing your garments for the day, would you then clap something on your head that doesn’t augment your ensemble? A hat is just as unfunctional as the rest of your clothing, although it has the pretense of keeping your head covered. A good hat can make up for many deficiencies in the clothing area, but good clothing cannot cover up a bad hat.

  Remember that if your face is your fortune—or at least your calling card—your hat is the literal top of the fortunate heap.

  Do not besmirch the rest of it by wearing poor headwear.

  The Fashionable Foible

  Chapter 17

  The thing he should absolutely not do is cause scandal of any kind.

  So why was he once again spending time—alone—with Lady Charlotte?

  At least this time it was merely on yet another terrace. This one belonged to the Chilcotts, a family that had made its fortune in somewhat dubious ways, but they at least had a fortune, so they were tolerated.

  For their entertainment, at least; thus far, only one eligible Chilcott had wed, to the third-in-line heir for a viscountcy.

  Which meant that, like the Davenhams, the parties they hosted were elegant and well-provided to an extreme. David had come to all this knowledge within moments of arriving, as he was warned not to pay particular attention to any of the Chilcott ladies or he’d find himself betrothed by the time the party was complete.

  He appreciated the warning, but he had no intention of betrothing himself to anyone. The possibility of not returning to continue his life’s work—thanks to the combined efforts of Lord Bradford and Louise—made him even more cognizant that he had to remain out of anything that would require him to stay in England or would cause him to lose his position in India.

  So again, he had to ask himself: Why was he out on the terrace with Lady Charlotte? “Please, Lord David, can you escort me outside to take the air? I find it far too crowded here.” Oh, that was right. She had simply asked, and he had been far too bemused by her, and what she was wearing, to deny it.

  “Are you feeling better, my lady?” he asked. “The air is not too cold?”

  She smiled up at him, a knowing smile that said Just yesterday you took my gown off and ran your hands over my body while we kissed.

  Or perhaps he was just hoping she was thinking that when she smiled.

  “I am excellent. Especially now that I’m out of that stuffy ballroom.” He’d noticed she’d hardly lacked for partners this evening—a fact that should have pleased him.

  Her gown for the evening was, of course, just as, well, just as abominable as all the other things he’d seen her in. He wasn’t quite certain what the main color was, just that he doubted it could be found in nature. It was definitely an unnatural color.

  But the gentlemen asking her to dance were apparently willing to overlook that. And of course he wanted her to shed her abomi
nable nickname when the world realized she was just an Original. But he wasn’t pleased.

  In fact, he’d felt what he thought might be jealousy—not that he’d ever felt the emotion before.

  But watching her dance with men other than him, men on whom she bestowed that delicious smile, men who got to hold what he knew now was a stunning, curvaceous figure, made him react in an unpleasant way.

  It must be jealousy.

  In fact, since he was acknowledging things to himself, he should admit that all he wanted to do was strip her naked and answer any and all questions she had.

  That she was here, fully clothed, was not pleasant.

  That he was supposed to not pay her attention any longer was also not pleasant.

  That he had these feelings at all was the most not-pleasant thing of all.

  The unpleasantness churned inside, twisting and growing until it felt as though he were going to explode.

  His words burst forth before he could consider their impact. “You’ll have to excuse me, Lady Charlotte. I need to leave, and I should escort you back to your mother. I cannot do this any longer.”

  Her expression looked as though he’d slapped her. Which he had, metaphorically.

  “Of course,” she replied. Her voice was deadened.

  He held his arm out to her, and she just stared, lowering her head to gaze at the ground. She didn’t move.

  Her next words were pitched low, carrying an intensity that pierced him in the gut. “You should not have been so kind before. Not if you didn’t mean it. Not if you meant to—” She stopped abruptly, as though her words were choking her.

  They were choking him, that was for certain.

  He felt like an absolute scoundrel. First he’d told her that her uncle had required him to pay attention to her, then she’d said she’d like to continue the acquaintance, and now, well, now he seemed to be changing his mind.

  When he wasn’t changing his mind at all. He was … damn it, he had no clue what he was doing. Obviously.