Shana Galen (12 page)

He intended to end it there—a quick taste and then a retreat. But as soon as his lips touched hers, all thoughts of retreat vanished. The velvet softness of her lips on his, the warmth of her flesh pressed against him, the taste of her…

Before he could think, Freddie had one hand on the nape of her slender neck and another caressing the small of her back. He pressed her lush little body against him, then parted her lips and swept inside, his tongue meeting hers.

Bloody hell, but she tasted like honey. Even the shyness and surprise in the way she kissed him back was sweet. Sweet and tempting and driving him to new heights of need.

“Dewhurst.” She pulled back, staring at him,
her eyes dark now and wary. “I don’t think that is such a good idea.”

Freddie wanted to agree. In fact, he
did
agree. He agreed wholeheartedly that not only was kissing her a bad idea, but this whole scheme, from start to finish, was a dreadfully appalling idea.

But he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t agree with her because, as much as he wanted to agree, when she’d spoken the words, her rich, low voice poured over him, warming him in places that hadn’t felt heat in years—if ever. “On the contrary,” he heard himself say, “it’s a very good idea.” And he bent to kiss her again. She put a hand between them and pushed him back.

“Why?”

He frowned. “Why?”

“Yes, why?”

Dashed if he knew why. He wanted to kiss her, he wanted to feel her heat fuse with his, he wanted to take her upstairs, strip her down to her petticoat, and ravish her until they were both thoroughly sated. That was why.

And he wanted to run screaming from the room because it was completely unacceptable that he should feel this way. She was a
colonist
, for God’s sake! He should throttle her, not kiss her.

“Because it will help our cause,” he murmured. What in bloody hell was he doing? Why was he trying to convince her to go along?

She wrinkled her brow, and he smiled at the
way her nose wrinkled, too. She was terribly cute when she did that.

Dash it! No, she was not cute. She was a barbarian colonist, devil take him, and he had to stop this seduction immediately.

“How will it help our cause?” she asked.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. Dashed if he had any idea how it would help the Foreign Office if he took her on the floor, hard and fast, right here and now. But the idea was not without its appeal.

“Wait, now I see,” she added. Freddie held his breath. What exactly did she see? “It will help because it will lend authenticity to our marriage, correct? It will make us seem more…ah, intimate.”

Yes! Yes! “Exactly,” he said, his voice sounding remarkably composed. “Authenticity is key. We cannot be
too
authentic.” He leaned in to kiss her again, his lips just brushing hers, when she spoke again.

“But neither should we get too carried away.”

He had no idea what she was saying, only that he had to settle for nuzzling her neck because her lips were still moving. Surprisingly, nuzzling her neck was an altogether pleasant endeavor indeed. Her scent—he was certain it was honeysuckle now—was stronger here, close to her hair. It was delicate and sensual and driving him to the brink of arousal.

“Dewhurst!” she said sharply as his tongue flicked her earlobe. “I said we shouldn’t get carried away.”

“Why not?” he whispered and had the satisfaction of feeling her shiver in his arms. “I
want
to get carried away.” He turned her in his arms then and kissed her, pressing his mouth hard against her, claiming her and ceasing all possibility of further protest on her part.

Not that she was protesting. No sooner had his lips caressed hers again than her earlier hesitation was gone, and she returned the kiss with passion and an intensity he hadn’t expected. This time, before he had even fully accustomed his mouth to the feel of hers, she’d slipped her tongue between his teeth and slid it along his.

Every hair on the back of Freddie’s neck reacted, and he couldn’t stop himself from pulling her tighter against him, crushing her breasts to him, feeling her softness, smelling her scent, tasting her raw sensuality.

She broke the kiss first, parting from him and gasping for air. Her breasts heaved against him, and he bent to kiss her jaw, this time allowing his tongue to snake down her neck and over her heart. When he reached the mounds blossoming from her bodice, he opened his mouth and pressed against the ripe flesh.

Her reaction was sharp and immediate. She let out a small cry, then pushed him back.

“What’s the matter?” he said, and his voice sounded slurred and fuzzy even to him.

“Sir, I must ask you to cease. I understand that a few kisses might be in order if we are to appear…ah, authentic, as you said, but this goes too far. Despite the illusion, I am
not
your wife.”

“Thank God,” he mumbled, and she tensed. “Dash it!” he added quickly. “No, that’s not what I meant. I mean—” Her scent had enveloped him again, and he was finding it almost impossible to form a coherent thought other than the ubiquitous
I want her.
Why was he even fighting it? “Charlotte,” he said, looking into her eyes, which turned out to be a mistake because they only served to distract him once again.

“Yes?” she prodded.

He shook his head to clear it. “I want you, and I think you want me as well. This…arrangement between us does not have to be unpleasant. Not if we make the best of it.”

“Are you implying—?”

“No,” he said quickly, having had experience with women and their use of the term
implication.
“I’m not implying anything, other than that I enjoy kissing you, touching you, and if you allow me, I’ll make sure you enjoy it, too.” Before she could argue, he bent once more to her full breasts, scraping his tongue down the valley between them. She gasped and tried to push him away.

“Sir, I don’t think—mmm, I—oh!”

Freddie knew a capitulation when he saw it, and he rode the momentum of his temporary victory, seeking to prolong it. Moving his hands from her waist to cup her breasts, he pushed her fullness into his mouth and allowed the heat to penetrate through the layers of silk. He ran a thumb over the hard peaks of her nipples, now detectable under her light stays.

She gasped again, arched, and in one movement and a few deft flicks of a hand, he had her bodice loosened and slipped down to reveal those stays hampering his progress. A moment later, he had those free, and he was cupping her soft flesh in his palms, taking her hard, rose-colored nipples in his mouth and rolling them over his tongue.

She moaned, a moan of pure pleasure, low and throaty like her voice, and unbelievably arousing. He took her other nipple in his mouth, using his hand to tease and tantalize the second. It grew rigid between his fingers, the hot flesh pebble-hard and, judging by her reaction, extremely sensitive. Freddie sensed victory and pushed her bodice lower, wanting to see more of her, wanting to bare more of her creamy flesh to his gaze. She whimpered, and he could almost hear the war raging between her body and her mind.

Her body won, and she arched her back, thrusting her breasts into his waiting hands—hands
that were suddenly and as agreeably filled as his every sense was with her.

He bent to kiss her again, to take more of her into his mouth, and he heard, “Pish-posh, Dawson. I don’t need to be announced. His Lordship is always home to me.”

Freddie jerked away from Charlotte so quickly that she stumbled and pinwheeled her arms to steady herself. He caught her elbow, then, in once swift motion, righted her stays, pulled her bodice back in place, and put the space of a dozen men between them.

“And so the duke said, ‘If I’d wanted a biscuit, old boy, I could have fetched one myself!’” Freddie laughed uproariously as the library doors opened. He gave Charlotte a look full of meaning, and she managed a weak smile before Sebastian Middleton sauntered into the library.

“Felicitations, coz! I see you’ve been busy.”

C
harlotte’s cheeks fired so hot, she was afraid she might emit steam. George Washington! It was Middleton again—and this time she was rather glad to see him. And rather mortified at the thought that he knew what she and Dewhurst had just been doing.

She
didn’t even want to know what she and Dewhurst had just been doing!

Freddie’s cousin strode toward the couch where they were standing, and Charlotte noticed that today he wore not only an Elizabethan doublet, but a ruff as well. “I hear you’ve gone and gotten leg-shackled, coz,” Middleton said with a wink. “Say it’s not true.”

Dewhurst glanced at the double doors where Dawson was still waiting. He dismissed the man
with a nod. “’Fraid you are going to have to congratulate me, Middleton, and allow me to introduce my lovely wife, Charlotte, to you. Charlotte, my cousin, Sir Sebastian Middleton,” he said with a last glance at Dawson.

Middleton stepped forward, playing his part admirably, and took her hand in his, kissing her knuckles. “‘If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine—’”

Dewhurst stepped between them and took her hand in his own. His touch still burned her, and his husky voice made her shiver. “‘My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.’” Their gazes met and held, and Middleton finally broke the silence.

“Is it warm in here?” He pulled at his ruff. “I find I need a drink.”

Charlotte took a deep breath, flutters still dancing in her belly. She glanced at Middleton. “Thank you, Sir…” She paused and glanced at Dewhurst for guidance. Was it Sir Sebastian or Sir Middleton? Oh, she’d never get all these titles right.

Dewhurst mouthed
Sebastian,
and she knew she should finish her greeting before the pause dragged on too long, but the way Dewhurst’s lips moved sent a shiver of pleasure through her. Not a moment ago, those lips had been on her mouth, her neck, her breasts. She shivered again, and the spell was broken only when Dewhurst finally spoke for her.

“Sir Sebastian,” he interjected into the silence. “I’m afraid my wife hasn’t quite mastered all of the differences between our two cultures.”

Charlotte gave Sebastian a tight smile, and he smiled back, his eyes soft with understanding. Oh, why couldn’t she have had to pose as Middleton’s wife? He seemed eminently more reasonable than her current spouse. Even if he did take the role of the lovelorn Romeo a bit too far.

“No worries, my lady. You’ll catch on in no time. And you shall have the opportunity to practice sooner than you think. I have a box at the opera tomorrow night.”

“No,” Dewhurst said. “Absolutely not. She’s not ready.”

Middleton helped himself to a large glass of brandy. “She’ll have to be ready. We can’t afford to wait any longer.”

“We can’t afford
not
to wait. I’ll be laughed out of Town when she calls some cake of an earl or duke mister or stumbles over her feet when she curtsies. And the gowns I’ve ordered for her won’t arrive until next week at the earliest. She’s not ready.”

“Well, Pettigru is.”

Dewhurst stilled, and in the sudden silence, Charlotte was certain the sound of her heart pounding was audible throughout the house. Cade had been spotted? He’d been seen again? Perhaps somewhere close. But Charlotte bit her cheek to keep the questions from spewing forth.

“Are you certain?” Dewhurst asked. “Have
you
seen him?”

Middleton glanced at her, and she quickly directed her gaze to the floor.
Try to look uninterested
, she told herself.
Pretend you don’t care.

“I have it on good authority that he is in Town, and looking for Miss Burton. The
best
authority.”

Charlotte bored a hole in the rich burgundy carpet with her eyes. They were talking about another spy—they had to be. And they didn’t want her to know whom. But Cade was in London, and that was the most important thing. Middleton was right. It was time to stop playing at teacher and student and seize the opportunity to find and warn her friend.

But Dewhurst was shaking his head. “We need more time. We haven’t discussed how to approach him, where to approach him, and Charlotte hasn’t yet established herself in Society.”

“Society,” Middleton scoffed. “Pish-posh. She’s the hottest topic since Wellington at Vittoria. If you don’t bring her out soon, our demure Society ladies will storm your door.”

That at least elicited a smile from Dewhurst. He took a seat on the couch and leaned back. He appeared resigned to his cousin’s plan. “Very well. Do you think the opera is the best place for her entrée? Pettigru is unlikely to be there.”

“True,” Middleton said, coming around to the couch opposite Dewhurst and seating himself in
it. “But it will give credence to the rumors that the Miss Burton he knew in America is the same Miss Burton who married you. And we might use the opportunity to establish a rendezvous more amenable to our purposes.”

Charlotte had slowly sunk back, out of the light and the men’s vision, but now she pressed forward again.

“Very well.” Dewhurst nodded. “What do you have in mind?”

“We make it widely known Charlotte will be attending a ball.”

“Which ball? I have a pile of unopened invitations—”

Middleton was shaking his head. “No need. I have already acquired an invitation for both of you.” He extracted a slim, creamy white card from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to Dewhurst.

Dewhurst read it, then raised his eyes until they met hers. “This will do very well,” he said. “Queer that the ball is in two days’ time, and I hadn’t received an invitation until now.”

Middleton shrugged. “You might say this is a special ball, contrived to suit our purposes.”

“But Lady Brigham? She’s hardly capricious enough to pull this off. She goes into hysterics if she is even five minutes late. This tardy announcement is not like her.”

Middleton smiled. “Perhaps the beau monde will assume her flighty daughter put the idea into
her head.” The two men exchanged glances full of meaning, but the language was incomprehensible to Charlotte.

“You’ll attend, then?” Middleton asked.

“It’s a start,” Dewhurst said. “And not a bad one, though I do have my concerns.”

Charlotte took a deep breath. The look he was giving her reminded her of Miss Crudsworthy again. It was the same look her primary school teacher had given the class when she was about to call on one of the students to recite in front of the class.

Oh, no. Much as Charlotte wanted to stay and hear any additional tidbits Dewhurst or his cousin might drop, she decided to flee and cut her losses before they became insurmountable.

“Excuse me,” she said, backing toward the doors. “I am feeling a bit tired, and I believe I shall retire.”

Both men stood and bid her good night. Dewhurst’s gaze rested on her a bit longer than she found comfortable, and for a moment she thought she detected a flash of the ardor she’d seen in his eyes when he held her in his arms. She fled through the double doors, up the stairs, and into her bedroom.

A half hour later, she was sitting in warm, soapy water, listening to Addy hum as she prepared Charlotte’s room and nightclothes. Charlotte closed her eyes. Cade was close now. For
some reason, knowing he was so near made her pine for home.

In her mind, she saw the long pastel piazza from her house in Charleston—her favorite spot. She’d curl up in her lounge chair and watch the last rays of the afternoon sun filter through the trees, extending long, dying fingers to touch the petals of flowers in the high-walled garden below. The garden had been one of the finest in Charleston—at least she had thought it so.

The garden had been surrounded by wrought-iron gates so covered with verdant foliage the metal appeared to be alive. She remembered walking beside that gate, her parasol brushing the honeysuckle blossoms when she paused to admire pink roses with blooms as big as her hand.

She remembered standing under one of the old magnolia trees, its shade a welcome relief from the heat of a summer day in Charleston, and she recalled James Huger. He’d put his hand on the tree trunk behind her, then leaned forward and kissed her, his tongue igniting a passion in her that she’d never known existed.

She remembered pulling away from James, then clutching his coat and pulling him back. She looked into his face—those lovely emerald eyes, that lazy smile, that tousled blond hair.

Charlotte sat up so suddenly water sloshed from the tub. James had had brown eyes and
chestnut hair. George Washington! She was thinking of Dewhurst again.

She had to put him out of her mind, but every time she did so, the thought of the heat in his eyes, that sensuous mouth, the feel of his tongue when he flicked her nipple, made her achingly aware of him again. She looked down to see her nipples standing out, hard and erect. She might try to forget him, but her body would not.

She sank lower in the tub and tried to think what to do. She did not want to feel anything but hatred and loathing for Freddie Dewhurst. He was a warrior and would never allow himself to feel anything for her. Not to mention, he was British, and as such, he was not entitled to any of her softer emotions—dislike, antipathy, aversion. She would not allow an Englishman, who just happened to know how to use his tongue, to sway her from that conviction.

She sighed. There. The matter was settled. She would not think of Freddie again.

Freddie…the name suited him. It had a charming, boyish sound that reflected his personality. She wondered what he would do, what he would say were she to whisper, “Freddie” in his ear.

“Dash it!” She sat up again. “Goddammit! Now he’s got me saying it!”

“Miss Charlotte?” Addy called from the other side of the partition. “You okay?”

“Oh, fine, Addy! I’m almost done in here.”

“No rush, Miss Charlotte.” Addy’s low voice wafted through the partition. “That skinny-necked fool think he own this tub. No how. No way. We’ll keep it as long as we like.”

Charlotte sighed. Thank God Cade was close because she couldn’t take much more of this war between Addy and Wilkins. Cade. She had to focus on Cade. Dewhurst and his cousin claimed he was a spy. Was it possible?

Charlotte sighed. She knew it was, but she owed these Brits no loyalty. Had she been in Cade’s place, she might have done the same. Her goal from now on would be not to think of Dewhurst at all. She would find Cade and warn him about the dangers awaiting him. But first she had to get through tomorrow night.

The opera turned out to be no small affair. The box Middleton had acquired for them was to be occupied not only by Dewhurst, his cousin, and her, but also Dewhurst’s mother and sister Lydia. Charlotte had worn her green dinner dress again as she had no opera gown ready, but Dewhurst had not commented, so she supposed she did not look too unsuitable.

Hester, Dewhurst’s maid, volunteered to style Charlotte’s hair, and Charlotte reluctantly agreed, hoping the maid had more of an aptitude for hairdressing than she did for cleaning. Hester, lazy and usually rude, had found her forte as a hair-
dresser, and for the first time Charlotte thought her red hair looked pretty. Not that the dress or the coiffure would survive the night.

It started on the way to the opera. She was squeezed next to Dewhurst in his gleaming black Town coach, which, although spacious, was overcrowded with five passengers—Charlotte, Middleton, and the three Dewhursts.

Quarters were so close, she had practically been forced to sit on Dewhurst’s lap. He was in full dandy persona, and while she tried to forget her discomfort, he complained endlessly about the possibility of her crushing his cravat. She had wanted to thump him over the head with her reticule, came very close to it in fact when he told her she looked “all the crack.”

Lydia assured her he meant it as a compliment, but Charlotte had seen his eyes dip to the low-cut bodice of her dress. She’d wanted to wear a wrap to cover the excess cleavage spilling out, but Freddie had snatched it away, remarking that it was not at all the thing. Charlotte had asked if catching her death of cold was more fashionable, but her husband had been unperturbed, flashing his lazy smile at her.

Despite Freddie’s comment, in the end Charlotte had been glad she’d left the shawl at home. She was not cold; in fact, the opposite was true. The heat from being jammed in the carriage and then crammed tightly in the crowds once they
reached Covent Garden was almost too much. No wonder the British women never wore wraps despite the cold weather; there were simply so many people about that they packed up against one another and generated heat that way.

When they finally made it through the crush, as Dewhurst had called it, and arrived at the box reserved for the evening, Charlotte took a deep breath and slumped in her chair. She was exhausted, and the evening had barely begun.

But as Charlotte gazed about the theater, all her fatigue melted away. Covent Garden was absolutely the most beautiful place she had ever seen. The stage was large, hidden by a rich crimson drapery, and ornamented by an elegantly paneled arch. On each side of the arch rose two female figures represented in relief, who looked as though they had just stepped out of an ancient Grecian temple. Above her, the elaborate ceiling of the theater was painted to give the appearance of a cupola, the painting depicting an ancient lyre. Just looking up at the vast domelike ceiling made her dizzy.

When Charlotte had her fill of what was before her, she began to marvel at the wonderful boxes the upper classes were beginning to fill. There were tiers and tiers of boxes, one on top of the other, with intricate carving on the wood between. The seats were covered with a light blue cloth, and even though it seemed these Brits pre
ferred being crushed together, the theater boxes were quite spacious. Separated from its neighbor by gilt columns, each box was illuminated by chandeliers of cut crystal suspended from the tops of pillars. To Charlotte, the chandeliers sparkled like tiny stars against the sky blue background of the boxes.

A refined, charming city in its own right, Charleston had its share of beautiful feats of architecture, but Charlotte had never seen anything to rival this. She turned absently to the person seated beside her to comment breathlessly on the splendor before her and was discomfited to find her husband seated there.