Shana Galen (14 page)

Charlotte squeezed her hand. “Do not give up hope yet.”

“But how can you say that when it’s been seven years?”

“Because my father and mother had difficulty conceiving, and even after my mother bore my brother, it was another thirteen years before I was born. Addy, that is the woman who raised me, always says that ‘God didn’t put no salt in the sweet pie.’” Lucia’s brows furrowed, and Charlotte explained. “That means that everything happens for a reason. If it’s meant to be, it will be.”

Lucia’s lips curved in the shadow of a smile. “I don’t know that I’m a great believer in fate.”

“Neither am I.” For the most part, Charlotte believed in making her own destiny. “But what is the creation of life if not a roll of the dice? Boy or girl?
Blond or brunette? For once, matters are taken completely out of our hands.”

Lucia nodded, and her engaging smile was back. “How did you become so wise, Lady Dewhurst?”

“Oh, it’s not me. It’s Addy.”

“God didn’t put any syrup in the pie. Is that it?”

“No, it’s ‘God didn’t put no salt in the sweet pie,’” Charlotte corrected, playing up her accent. “And as Addy would say, ‘You’d best to remember that.’”

“Oh, I will—”

“Lady Selbourne?” a harried servant interrupted apologetically. “I’m sorry to interrupt ye. A ’undred apologies.”

“What is it, James?”

“Lord Brigham, my lady. He’s looking for ye.”

“Thank you.” She rose. “Well, Charlotte, are you ready to meet my father?”

Charlotte wasn’t sure she liked the twinkle in Lucia’s eye.

Like his daughter Lucia, Lord Brigham was tall and handsome. A prominent member of the House of Lords, he took politics quite seriously, as Charlotte discovered when he blustered a quick greeting and turned back to argue heatedly with another peer—a rather rotund gentleman twirling a quizzing glass about one finger.

Lucia curtsied to the two men, murmuring, “Fa
ther. Lord Alvanley. This is—” But her father did not wait for her to finish.

“Just a moment, Lucy. Now see here, sir. Your opinions regarding the war are little more than a barrel of horse—” He stopped himself, glancing apologetically at his daughter, who only raised an innocent eyebrow. “Well, they are preposterous. By God, Alvanley, if Bonaparte still thinks he can conquer England after Wellington’s decisive stroke last week at Vittoria, he is an even bigger ass than I thought.”

Charlotte allowed her eyes to roam about the ballroom. It seemed that in London, every new venue was more beautiful than the last. The walls were painted to resemble white marble, the cut-crystal chandeliers glittered and bounced light off the shimmery heavy gold draperies, which were tied back from the French doors, and the ladies and gentlemen in attendance radiated wealth and style.

Charlotte glanced at Lucia, wondering what it must have been like to grow up in a home like this, to be surrounded by such opulence. Lucia was still trying to get her father’s attention, but suddenly standing beside Charlotte, the corner of his mouth quirked in a half smile, was Freddie Dewhurst. He bowed slightly when their eyes met, and Charlotte stiffened. All night she’d been hoping to see him, but now that he was here she felt uncomfortable—too warm, too aware, too…everything.

“Father, I—” Lucia tried again to get her father’s attention.

“Now, just a moment, Lucy. And about America, sir. If those colonists think to take us on, then I say let ’em come, sir! By God, let them come! We’ll send ’em home whimpering.”

Charlotte’s head whipped around so fast that she heard the tense muscles and joints crack.

“I put little stock in the American forces,” Alvanley drawled, lifting his quizzing glass to peer at Freddie’s cravat with disdain before turning back to Brigham. “But they are one more diversion Napoleon will use to his advantage.”

“Diversion!” Charlotte gasped. “How dare you call—”

“Dash it if my head doesn’t swim with all this talk of politics,” Freddie interrupted, yawning. “I always say that at a ball one should confine one’s conversation to what is really important: how much lower ladies’ necklines will plunge and whose are plunging on the lawn as we speak.”

“Yes, that would be the extent of your intellectual capabilities, Dewhurst,” Alvanley sneered. “That and how to snatch one’s mistress from right under a man’s nose.”

Freddie shrugged. “At least I don’t try to steal a man’s valet. Now that, sir, is truly hitting below the belt.”

Lucia quickly stepped in before the argument
grew any more heated. “Did you need to speak with me, sir?” she asked her father.

“By God, I do, Lucy. What’s this I hear about you gallivanting about with Americans? I won’t have it!”

Lucia’s eyes met Charlotte’s, and Charlotte, never willing to allow another to shield her, said, “I think you must be speaking of me, Lord Brigham.” Charlotte held out her hand. “I am Charlotte Bur—” Freddie’s soft curse was audible to all. “Lady Dewhurst, I mean,” she finished.

Brigham did not take her hand. “I see. So you are the American that has got my wife in a tizzy? Well, you look harmless enough. Dewhurst, twirl your wife around on the dance floor once or twice.”

Freddie bowed obligingly, holding out his arm, but Charlotte ignored him. “I suppose you believe all Americans harmless, do you not, Lord Brigham?”

Lucia’s father threw a puzzled glance at Freddie, then answered, “No, I do not, madam. You colonists can be quite a pain in the…neck when you choose to be.”

Charlotte took a deep breath of air and opened her mouth, but Freddie’s voice drowned hers out. “Dash it if the contredanse is not about to begin. My lady, if you would be so kind?” He glared at her, holding his arm out again.

“I am afraid I cannot dance, sir, when my coun
try is being insulted.” She turned back to Lord Brigham. “Colonists, sir? I believe we won the War for Independence.” She shook her head slightly to show her disdain. “We are no longer your colonists, and I must say that we are all the better for it. We Americans value freedom and liberty for all.”

Freddie began clapping. The music had just ended, and his hollow claps echoed throughout the large room. “Beautiful, Lady Dewhurst. Your patriotic sentiment almost moves me to tears. Almost.”

Charlotte turned and shot him daggers. And although his face retained its bored expression, his eyes flung bullets right back.

“Almost, sir?”

“Yes, almost. Alas, I fear I must correct you, madam. Your country has not advanced so far as you might think. You value freedom and liberty but not for all. At my last count, freedom was still the sole province of rich, white American men. You
Americans
”—he said the word derisively—“speak of equality, but I have to wonder: where is it? No, madam, your country is quite the contradiction.”

“Well, at least we are not overbearing, arrogant, and vain,” Charlotte threw back. She knew it was weak, but she hoped it would hit a nerve.

Freddie raised a dispassionate eyebrow. “No, you are merely foolish.”

“Clarify yourself, sir!”

“Take the current war.”

“Yes, do. Your puffed-up, egotistical governmental attempts to dictate policy to the United States are at an end. We are a sovereign country with trading privileges that—”

“Your trading privileges have been reinstated. The Orders in Council were revoked, madam.”

“Oh, yes, and that paltry gesture came far too late. We suffered one grievous insult after another.”

“If you hate the British so much, my lady,” Alvanley interjected with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “then might I inquire as to why you are in our country and married to an Englishman—our Dewhurst here?”

Charlotte’s mouth shut quickly.

“Ah,” Freddie said straightening his cravat. “Thank you, once again, Alvanley, for putting your two pence where it is not wanted. But, as usual, you have the situation all wrong.”

Alvanley raised his quizzing glass in curiosity, and even Charlotte wondered what the man could have gotten wrong. It seemed to her the plump man had the situation exactly right.

“You see,” her husband went on, “it is not Charlotte’s views toward England that have changed, rather it is my own views toward the United States.”

Alvanley’s brow rose above the quizzing glass,
and Lucia reached over and pinched Charlotte excitedly.

“What the devil do you mean by that statement, Dewhurst? By God, it’s a pile of rubbish if I ever heard one,” Lord Brigham blustered.

“I only meant,” Freddie said, his air casual and unconcerned, “that my dear wife has a point. The United States did win the war—that is a fact, no matter how much we seek to deny it. And they have reason to oppose us now—or at least they did before we revoked the Orders in Council. There is a new world order, gentleman, and that order advocates equality and liberty for all. England would do well to take note. We can no longer dictate policy to the rest of the world. We can no longer keep such a sharp, unwavering focus on foreign affairs. We have our own issues—riots, poverty, inequality—right here at home.”

Charlotte blinked. Had Dewhurst just defended America? Even worse, had he just defended her? Why? Did the man realize how much harder this would make it for her to hate him? The small party stood in silence for a moment, presumably digesting Dewhurst’s discourse, then Lucia—apparently adept at smoothing over the rough moments—stepped in.

“Well,” she began, clapping her hands together. “Charlotte, I simply must introduce you to the Duchess of Richmond. She can be quite…amus
ing.” Lucia grabbed Charlotte’s arm, and Charlotte stumbled ungracefully away with her.

When they were well away from Freddie, Alvanley, and Brigham, Lucia grabbed two glasses of champagne, handed one to Charlotte, gulped her own, and then began to laugh. Charlotte merely stared, her glass untouched. “Why are you laughing?”

“Oh, it’s not at you, dear Charlotte. I have not seen my father so flabbergasted in a long time, and for once it wasn’t with me. Oh, and Freddie! Did you see his face? He was furious! I
loved
it!”

“Furious with me!” Charlotte retorted.

“Nonsense. If there’s one thing I know about Freddie, it’s that he’s loyal to the last. He’s one of the best men I know.”

Charlotte’s jaw dropped. She had begun to trust Lucia’s judgment in these matters, but now she began to wonder if Lucia was altogether sane. “Lucia, he’s an arrogant, egotistical, spy!” Charlotte seethed. “I abhor him!”

“Of course you do.” Lucia laughed again. “Now have a sip of the champagne. Champagne always makes everything seem better.”

C
harlotte took Lucia’s advice and sipped her champagne. Now that her temper was cooling, she regretted her words to Lord Brigham. She’d never been very good at keeping her emotions under control when arguing politics. She took after her own father too much, and his motto had been “My way or no way.” She downed the champagne, and Lucia, smiling, fetched her another.

By her third glass of champagne, Charlotte was also able to laugh at Lord Brigham’s shocked expression when she’d countered him and at her own overreaction. She wasn’t yet able to laugh at her defeat and subsequent salvation at the hands of Freddie Dewhurst, but she could smile ruefully. When Lydia, Freddie’s sister, joined them, Lucia left in search of Lord Selbourne.

“I have just been dancing with Lord Westman,” the young girl squealed breathlessly. “He dances divinely.”

“I am very glad to hear it,” Charlotte said, at a loss for any other comment. Had she ever acted as silly and excited as Lydia? She sighed. Probably she had, but it seemed a lifetime ago. Charlotte watched the forms of the dance on display before them and tried to conjure a carefree feeling of excitement. Perhaps if she could regain that lost freedom, then she’d stop worrying so much and just enjoy herself.

Lydia sighed dramatically. “Westman is so handsome. He’s the son of an earl, you know.”

“Oh. Is that good?”

Lydia sighed impatiently. “Yes, that’s good. It would make me a countess if we married.”

“Oh, yes. I always have trouble with that one.”

Lydia’s pretty blue eyes clouded in confusion, but Charlotte wasn’t really paying attention. The champagne was making her head swim, and the music and the swaying dancers all seemed a bit too much suddenly.

Lydia clutched Charlotte’s arm, forcing her to focus. “Here he comes!” Charlotte frowned. How long was she to stand here, smile, and pretend interest? And where was Dewhurst?

“Excuse me, Lydia,” she said. “I need to—” She needed to what? She didn’t finish, but Lydia was focused on Westman and didn’t seem to notice.
Charlotte made her way to the open windows of the ballroom. She had drunk too much champagne, and she knew she walked a little unsteadily. But if she could just step outside for a moment, she would be in the fresh air, away from the music and the crowds. She was exhausted—mentally and emotionally—and no matter where she turned she was surrounded by the enemy. And despite the crowds, she’d never felt so alone.

Charlotte felt tears prick at her eyes, and for once she allowed the rivulets to stream down her cheeks. It had been so long since she’d allowed herself to cry, to mourn the large losses in her short, small life. She’d been strong for so long, and she just didn’t think she could do it anymore. But the terrace of the Brighams’ town house was perhaps not the best spot for her breakdown. She needed to find a place inside where she could be alone. She began moving against the wall of the town house, but her head was spinning, and she stumbled every few moments.

Feet scraping on gravel, Charlotte saw a faint light, like a beacon, pouring into the garden a short distance away. She lurched toward it and peered inside. For once she was in luck. The room had to be the Brighams’ library. She looked more closely, noting that three or four candles had been lit and a fire burned low in the hearth, but the room was still empty. Perfect.

Charlotte turned the handle of the French door,
fully expecting it to be locked, and pitched inside when it opened easily. She closed it quietly behind her, shutting out the insistent cold and welcoming the low warmth of the fire.

It was a man’s room, all dark wood and heavy furnishings. Books lined the walls from the hardwood floors to the elaborate crown molding running the length of the ceiling. The room was dominated by two pieces of furniture, a dark burgundy velvet couch and a massive polished mahogany desk. The simple decor of elegant tapestries and imported rugs testified to the wealth and position of the Brighams.

She leaned against the French door, put her hands to her face, and sniffled. Half of her wanted to laugh at the idea of her—an American—in the bosom of British Society, the other half wanted to dig a deep hole and cry.

She was so tired of being alone. So tired of struggling, clawing, and pushing to get what her family needed and wanted. She sniffled and put a hand to her mouth, allowing a trickle of the silent sobs to escape. Oh, God, would she ever feel secure again? Would she ever be able to close her eyes and drift to sleep without a thousand worries pressing down on her like a mountain of boulders? Was she destined forever to be alone?

“You’re not crying, are you?” A familiar masculine voice floated across the library.

Freddie set his crystal glass of brandy, now half full, on Brigham’s mahogany desk, just before Charlotte’s shriek. The chit howled when he spoke, then jumped back so quickly she hit her head on the door. Freddie rose from the desk chair, where he’d been taking a brief respite from the ball—that was, avoiding the sight of his lovely, tempting bride. Freddie’s retreat had served another purpose as well, however. He’d met with Sebastian and Alex in the library, where Sebastian announced that he’d seen the man they suspected of being Pettigru’s contact in London at dinner. Surely the news about Charlotte’s marriage and her presence in London would reach Pettigru’s ears soon.

Freddie’s friends had just exited when his wife slipped inside and began to whimper. He hadn’t meant to scare her or hurt her, but now she was rubbing the back of her head, and he winced in sympathy.

“
You
,” she whispered in a tone one might use with a mongrel. He glanced behind him, but not a spaniel in sight. Was he the mongrel in this scenario? A big, fat tear trickled down her cheek. Freddie went rigid. He hated it when women cried. Detested tears above all else. Flay him, torture him, scald him with hot coals, but do not saddle him with a teary-eyed woman.

“Dash it! You
are
crying. Here, take my handkerchief.” He fumbled for the piece of cloth.
“Don’t cry!” he ordered thrusting the handkerchief into her hands.

She stood there, staring at the fine linen. Then she murmured, “I’m not crying.”

Freddie narrowed his eyes skeptically. “Your eyes have gone all misty, and you’re sniffling.”

“I’m fine.”

Freddie raised a brow. “Oh, really?” He reached out and ran the back of his hand gently across her lashes, capturing one of her tears with a finger. He held it up triumphantly. “Then what is this?”

Charlotte touched her cheek where his fingers had skimmed across it, then stepped back, rattling the French doors. “It—it’s cold outside, and my eyes—”

Freddie’s gave her a quelling look. “Madam. It is July.”

She took a deep breath and seemed to cast about for another excuse. “I don’t feel well,” she said quickly. “I feel…faint!” She put a hand to her forehead, and when Freddie peered closer, he decided she did indeed look peaked. She swayed, and he caught her elbow to steady her. Instinctively it seemed, his other arm wound around her, catching her waist and pulling her closer than he’d intended. It wasn’t a sensual embrace, but the feel of her warm, soft body against his jolted him into awareness nonetheless.

“Dash it, Charlotte. Do not faint.” He urged her gently to the dark velvet couch. She sank into its
plush cushions and closed her eyes. He frowned down at her. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair slightly mussed, but that might have been from waltzing.

Whose arms had she been in?

Freddie pulled on the sleeves of his tailcoat violently. Logically Freddie knew she would be asked to dance at the ball, but he hadn’t anticipated his reaction to the notion of her in another man’s arms. He didn’t like it.

Strange, considering that he was not a proprietary man. Horses, women, the blunt in his pocket: share and share alike had always been his motto. Tailcoats and a fine valet were another matter entirely. But with the exception of the time Alvanley had wooed Wilkins away—something the dandy had yet to allow Freddie to live down—and the few instances when Brummell’s tailcoat had been far superior to his own, Freddie had never once felt a twinge of envy. When he felt it, he was not inclined to be reasonable. He’d acquiesced to Wilkins’s demand for an exorbitant salary, and he’d accidentally spilled claret on Brummell’s tailcoat—one reason he and Brummell were on shaky terms to this day.

And here he’d been tonight: defending the colonies and seething over the idea of Charlotte dancing with another man. He’d needed space. And then, just when he was feeling reasonable again, the contrary chit had found him.

Now he was all at odds again and every semblance of reasonableness had gone the way of the codpiece and Elizabethan ruffs. He shook his head. Why did he feel so disconcerted when in her presence? Tonight he’d been steadfast in his resolve not to let her affect him, but how was he to temper his reaction to her when, even red-eyed and runny-nosed, he wanted her?

His hands burned to caress her graceful neck, wrapped in glossy pearls, then trace the curve of her jaw and brush his thumb against her wide mouth until she opened it and…Painfully he noted the perfect hair, still his favorite color. He wanted to run his hands through that hair, pull it down, hold it to his nose and inhale the scent of honeysuckle.

He reached up to run a finger inside his tight cravat, and she finally opened her eyes. She dabbed the last drops of moisture away with his handkerchief. Her sherry gaze focused slowly on him, darkening the longer she stared.

“Dewhurst. You’re still here.”

Freddie took a long, slow breath. That accent, the lilt, the low, rich tones. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed the sound of her voice, even—and this he would never admit—when she antagonized him by calling him Mr. Dewhurst. “Are you feeling better?” he asked.

“Wha?—oh, no. I think we should go home.”
She smiled, a wobbly smile that seemed out of place on her.

He peered at his pocket watch. It was barely eleven. Lydia would not be pleased to quit the ball so early. But he said, “Of course. I’ll order the carriage.”

She sat forward, swayed, and had to grip the arm of the couch to steady herself.

“Good God. You’re not well a’tall.” He strode quickly to the side table and poured three fingers of Brigham’s brandy, then pressed the crystal glass into her hands.

“No, I don’t want it.” She handed the glass back, but before she could loosen her grip, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist. He felt her pulse thrum under his touch, and she stared up at him.

“Do not argue, Charlotte,” he said, thrusting the glass under her nose before he did something dreadfully unfashionable and which he would surely regret in the morning. “Drink it,” he murmured.

Eyes wide, she stared at him. “But I can’t. I mean, I don’t think—”

He tightened his hand around her wrist. She was dashed stubborn. “Very well,” he said, releasing her. “Then we wait. I won’t have you fainting in the hall. I might be forced to catch you. It may sound romantic in novels, but such gestures are devilish hard on the cravat and tailcoat.”

“Oh, George Washington forbid I wrinkle your precious tailcoat!” she exclaimed.

Freddie stifled a smile. “There’s no call for blasphemy.”

“You are the most irritating man I have ever known! I don’t know why I ever married you.” Before he could remind her that they were not truly married, she snatched the glass from his hands and held it up. “You are going to regret this.” She downed the brandy and set the glass on the end table. Only she misjudged the distance, and it splintered against the polished wood floor.

Freddie’s jaw dropped. His little American hellion was not feeling faint, she was drunk. And now he had likely made her more so. He cursed himself for not noticing before—dash it if all the signs weren’t there: the wobbling, the high color in her cheeks, the slight slurring of her words—but the idea of her being foxed had not crossed his mind. Ladies of her supposed ilk did not over-imbibe.
Supposed
was obviously the operative word. She was no lady. He knew it, but how was he to keep the rest of the
ton
from the latest
on-dit
—the fact that his wife, Lady Dewhurst was an uncouth, uncultured—he shuddered—
American
? If the chit wasn’t so integral to the capture of Pettigru, Freddie would never have borne this.

The American knelt unsteadily on the floor to collect the shards of glass, but he quickly hauled her up again. What was he going to say if some
one walked in and saw his wife crawling about on the floor? To her he said, “Leave it be. You’ll cut yourself.”

“Oh, hellfire,” she muttered as he hoisted her back onto the couch, where she promptly fell back onto the cushions. Hellfire was right, he thought. What was he to do with her now? She was drunk, disheveled, and…completely at his mercy.

Freddie started, alarmed by the direction of his thoughts. He had to send his mind on a detour—and quickly. But Charlotte was a sight to tempt any man—sprawled on the couch, hair in disarray, lace at her bosom trailing down the swell of her breasts. The dress was snug across her generous curves, and his fingers curled in an effort to curb the urge to loosen the gown, once again caress her ripe breasts, and feel the nipples harden against his palms.

Freddie clenched his jaw. He needed to remind himself that he didn’t even like this Yankee. Her manners were incurable, she had no subtlety, no style. Dash him if she hadn’t stood in the ballroom beside Lord Brigham and faced them all down like a common laundress.

Laundress or not, he respected her passion and her loyalty to her country. He had damned near taken her into his arms and kissed her right there in the ballroom. Her eyes had been burning so brightly that he had wanted to see them when overtaken with passion of another sort.

And now she was drunk. Damned little fool!

Without thinking, he crossed to her and yanked her up. She swung forward unsteadily, and he grasped her arms, half out of anger and half to support her. “Why the devil didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” she stammered, trying to squirm out of his arms. He tightened his hold, fingers curling around the deliciously bare flesh above her sagging gloves.