Shana Galen (15 page)

“Why didn’t you tell me you were foxed, you little fool? Now we’ve only made it worse.”

“I told you I didn’t want the brandy, but you wouldn’t listen.” Her sherry eyes flashed fire.

“I would have listened had I known the reason. I thought you were just being stubborn. As usual.”

“I’m not stubborn.” She swayed slightly in his arms, and he pulled her back down on the couch beside him. The cushions were so plush that she practically fell against him. God help him to endure this temptation.

“How dare you call me stubborn.
You
are the stubborn one, but I suppose you think all Americans are stubborn.” Her voice was muffled from being pressed against him.

“Do
not
start that patriotic rubbish again,” Freddie ordered tiredly. “I call a truce for the rest of the night.” As he spoke, his lips moved against her velvet cheek, soft as the material of the couch underneath him. He closed his eyes. “Darling,”
he whispered because he was unsure of his voice. “How did you become so foxed?”

“What’s a foxed?” she murmured, and he could feel her voice resonate through him.

“Drunk. How did you become so drunk?”

She pushed away from him. “Drunk? I have never been drunk in my life. I’m simply in-in-invitriated.”

“
Inebriated?
”

“Oh, just forget the whole thing. I don’t care. I just want to find Cade and go home.”

Freddie heard the catch in her throat before she turned her head away, and he grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tugged her face to his. The couch sloped inward, and they were thrown quite close together.

“Buck up now, Charlotte. None of that blubbering.”

Her lips were trembling, and she gave him a shaky smile. Freddie’s gaze darted to the tip of her tongue as she ran it quickly over her lips, and he had to restrain himself from brushing his fingers against her mouth. A mouth that was too big for her face, a mouth that he could imagine doing wicked things to him with that little pink tongue.

He pulled his hand away, resisting temptation.

“You are the bossiest man I have ever met,” Charlotte complained, laying her head on the couch cushions behind her. “First you tell me how
to speak, then how to dress, and now I’m not even allowed to cry.”

Freddie couldn’t stop a small smile at her pitiful tone, but his thoughts did not tend toward sympathy. Underneath the lustrous yellow pearls she wore, Charlotte’s neck was slender and vulnerable. Was she trying to tempt him by arching it so? Was she tempting him earlier with the flick of her tongue?

Lazily she rolled her head toward him. “I am so in-in—drunk. Everything is spinning.” The words were so slurred, Freddie could barely make them out. She closed her eyes. “I wish I were home.”

Her voice was so full of anguish that Freddie gathered her in his arms without thinking. He pulled her close, and then her tears began in earnest.

The smell of honeysuckle overwhelmed him. It was in her hair, her clothes; it seemed to emanate from her skin like a part of her. He closed his eyes and pulled her closer, willing her tears to stop. She wasn’t sobbing uncontrollably, just the tears of someone who was exhausted physically and mentally. Someone homesick. He remembered the feeling. When he’d first arrived at Eton, he’d cried and pined for his mother and father and home. The older boys had toughened him up quickly enough, but he never forgot the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach or the pang of yearning.

Freddie pulled her snugly against his shoulder and stroked her hair. Fire and small white flower blossoms swirled around his fingers. Like molten lava, her hair glinted in the candlelight.

Soothed and quiet, she snuggled into the crook of his shoulder. His hand strayed from her hair to the nape of her neck, smooth and delicate, bending gracefully like a willow and with that hidden strength as well. How much strength this woman must have to be sitting in Lord Brigham’s library with him even now. How much must she have overcome?

And how great would be her reward? A thousand pounds. She wanted his money, not him. She wanted no Englishman.

But quite suddenly he realized that he wanted her.

Freddie stiffened involuntarily, coming back to his senses like a man bowled over by a wave from the ocean. She was getting too close. He was beginning to find it more and more difficult to keep her at a distance.

Were her actions calculated? Did she have some ulterior motive? And dash it if he couldn’t get the idea of her warm supple body arching beneath his in the firelight out of his mind. He wanted her.

“You’re ruining my hair,” she murmured, her breath tickling his neck.

“I’ll stop,” he said, moving to separate their bodies, but she did not relinquish her hold.

“No,” she said. “I like it. I feel…safe for the first time in…oh, never mind.” She peered up at him, thick lashes wet with tears. “I need a hero, Freddie.”

He tensed at the sound of his name on her honeyed tongue.

“I need someone to save me. Just once. I’m so tired, so tired of saving everyone else.” She shook her head, peered into his eyes. “Why you?” she asked.

He frowned. “Why me, what?”

“Why does it have to feel so good in your arms? Why do you make me shiver every time you touch me?”

He shivered himself at her words. “Do I?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She nodded and licked her lips again. He took a fortifying breath, then raised his hand again to the nape of her neck, fingers sliding slowly upward to cradle the base of her skull and test the weight of her hair. The intimacy of seeing her with her hair down was beginning to affect him. Only husbands and lovers had this privilege.

Charlotte leaned into his touch. “What else do I do to you?” he said, voice husky as his fingers trailed down her neck to trace the delicate arch of her jaw.

“You make me warm,” she said softly. “You make me feel like there’s a fire pooling in my belly and sliding down—all the way to my toes.”

He rubbed the pad of his thumb across her
lower lip, feeling it give gently, feeling the inviting warmth of her lips and mouth.

“Do you like the fire, Charlotte?” he said. “Do you want to burn hotter?” She nodded, and he whispered against her lips, “Show me.”

Charlotte met his gaze, then reached up, cupped a hand around his neck, and pulled his mouth to hers. Lips met lips, tenderly at first. Testing, then exploring.

At first Freddie thought that he must be the one who was drunk. Everything about the experience of kissing her intoxicated. He was engulfed by her scent. He was sinking in her skin, relishing the taste of her abundant lips and the feel of her ample breasts pressed against him.

His tongue flicked her lips, and she opened for him. The lush feel of her tongue mating with his sent his senses reeling. He felt like a man who has been numb all his life and has suddenly learned how to use his senses. It was as if he’d been wearing thick gloves for an eternity and they were suddenly and unexpectedly ripped off, and he could
feel
.

He was suddenly alive. Alive in the moment but alive inside as well. The feel of her, the tentative touch of her tongue, sparked something in him—something he hadn’t felt in a long time and something he didn’t want to let go of again.

An urge to possess her ignited within him, and instinct, feral and primitive, took over.

In one swift motion, he lifted her onto his lap so that her legs straddled him. When she might have protested he deepened the kiss, stroking her hot, wet mouth with his tongue, bruising her lips with the force of his passion, and tangling his hands in that flaming hair. He explored the recesses of her mouth as he wanted to explore her skin, showing her how he would please her with his body, making her breathing quicken and her body shudder.

He felt her tremble, and it only made him want her more. Was he the first? If he entered her now, hard and fast, would he find her untouched? Desire ripped through him at the thought, and he took her mouth hard. She gasped, and deep within, Freddie knew he should draw back. But he was so far gone, so hard under her, his body seemingly composed of corded sinew and steel. Freddie had a reputation among the ladies of the
ton
as a skilled, aloof lover. But his need for Charlotte would not allow any pretense. He could not play a part with her. His longing was too intense and possessive. Too dangerous.

He tried to force himself to be more gentle, fearing she’d push him away or cry out in protest. But as soon as he drew away, she made a moan of disapproval and pulled him hard against her again. “Don’t stop,” she groaned and pushed against him.

The effort Freddie had to exert to stop himself from toppling her onto the floor and taking her
right then was immeasurable. He was as taut as a wire, and all control threatened to break. Oh, the safe, comfortable façade was definitely gone now, perhaps beyond any recovery, and Freddie was exposed—raw and fierce. He dared not allow this to go any further, and yet he ached to see passion light her face. He needed something, some memory to get him through the long, lonely nights when she was gone.

Keeping one arm about her waist, he pushed her skirts high on her legs until he could look down and see the creamy skin of her thighs. He ran his hand along the top of one leg, feeling the silky skin smolder under his fingertips. With a deft flick, he pushed the bulk of her skirts away until she was bare before him. “Open for me,” he murmured, fingers teasing the juncture of her thighs to entice her. She did not move and he glanced up at her.

God, she was a vision. Her flaming hair and flaming cheeks were the perfect picture of every male fantasy. She looked debauched. Wanton. Freddie’s need for her reached new heights.

“Open for me,” he whispered, and she did, revealing her wet, pink flesh. Hand shaking, he reached out to stroke her. At the first touch, she cried out and bucked against him. He stroked her again, his touches longer and more deliberate. Then he entered her with two fingers, felt her close tightly around him, heard her whimper in pleasure.

She was breathing hard now, her breasts heaving, her eyes wild. He lifted his hand to cup her, stroked her again until she clenched hard around him and cried out, arching her back and thrusting hard. Then she slumped against him, her heart beating so hard and fast he could feel it in his own chest.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said a moment later. “It’s not proper.”

Freddie smiled and tilted her head back so he could see her. “I thought I was the one giving the etiquette lessons.”

She looked as though she would argue but what came out was a moan. Freddie narrowed his eyes. That did not sound like a moan of ecstasy. “Are you all right?” Freddie asked cautiously.

“No,” Charlotte croaked. “I think I am going to be sick.” Her hand flew to her mouth, and her wide eyes scanned the room frantically.

Freddie had her off his lap and across the room in mere seconds. He dragged her to the French doors and pushed her outside where she promptly began retching, quite loudly, into the bushes of the garden.

“Oh, good God,” Freddie groaned. He had better get her home and without anyone seeing. He glanced back out the French doors and saw that she had stopped retching and was now just moaning, and he crossed to the front doors of the library, opened them a crack, and peered out. It
didn’t look as though anyone was about. He eased the door open farther, poked his head out, then realized his mistake.

“Freddie!” a gaggle of female voices called. “There you are! We’ve been looking for you.”

Freddie stepped back into the library and slammed the door shut again. How had they found him? Worse than just his scatty sister Lydia, all four of his sisters had been hunting him, and now they’d cornered their prey.

The library doorknob turned.

F
reddie threw a quick glance at the French doors, wondered if he had enough time to close them and keep Charlotte out of sight, but the library door opened and several women poured in on an endless ruffle of silk.

Not just any women—his four sisters.

“Freddie!” Meg, his eldest sister, exclaimed. Unlike the rest of the family, she had dark hair and eyes, and they flashed at him now. “Where have you been? I want you to have a word with Lord Oxbow about his plans for the south fields at Downsleigh. He simply will not listen to reason and insists on planting corn.”

“I see,” Freddie began, wondering how he had become enough of an expert to advise his sister’s husband on crop rotation. “Perhaps I could—”

“Freddie,” Lydia interrupted. “First I need you to speak with Mama. I promised Lord Westman the first dance at Lord and Lady Winterbourne’s ball the day after tomorrow, and Mama says she has no intention of attending.”

Freddie frowned over his shoulder at the French doors. How could he get his sisters out of here before Charlotte began retching again or stumbled in through the doors? “Ah, why not tell Westman you’ll see him at the theater or Almack’s on Wednesday?”

“Freddie!” Mary said, bustling forward. She was two years younger than he, pale, and quite short. “Lydia cannot tell Lord Westman she will not be available to dance with him at the Winterbournes’ ball. Do you want her to end up a spinster?”

Freddie opened his mouth and closed it again. “I fail to see how the two—”

“Oh, you never see!” Lydia cried. “You don’t need to see, just speak with Mama.”

“He will,” Meg said, “after he speaks with Oxbow.”

“Now girls,” Jane, the peacemaker in the family and five years Freddie’s junior, said. “Freddie will have time to speak to Oxbow and Mama. There’s no need to argue.”

Mary sneered. “You think if you’re sweet to him now then he’ll talk to Fitzherbert for you, is that it?” she accused Jane. “Don’t listen to her, Freddie.
She’s angling for a new town house, and she wants you to plead her case with Fitzherbert.”

“That’s not true!” Jane said.

“My problem with Oxbow comes first,” Meg said.

“But what about Westman? I hate being the youngest,” Lydia cried. “I never get any attention.”

“Oh stubble it, Lydia,” all three girls said in unison.

There was a moment of stunned silence, for it was not very often that the sisters agreed on anything, and in the momentary quiet Freddie heard the sound he’d been dreading. The hinges on the French doors creaked, and Charlotte staggered inside. “I don’t feel very well,” she groaned.

“What is
that
?” Meg cried and backed away.

Freddie rolled his eyes and wished he were somewhere else—an iceberg, a prison barge…Hell. “Ladies, might I introduce—”

“Charlotte!” Lydia screamed. “Freddie, what have you done to her?”

“Nothing. I didn’t touch her,” he answered automatically, then remembered she was supposed to be his wife. “I mean, she’s not feeling well, and I was about to take her home.”

“
This
is your new wife?” Mary asked, staring at Charlotte with unabashed curiosity. “She’s not what I expected.”

“Not at all,” Meg chimed in.

“She looks very…sweet,” Jane said helpfully.

Charlotte glanced at the three women, then at Freddie, and muttered, “This is all your fault. I told you I didn’t want that brandy.”

Jane gasped, and Mary and Meg’s eyes got very large. Lydia scowled. “Freddie, is poor Charlotte”—she lowered her voice—“indisposed?”

“Ah…” Freddie looked from one sister to the next, then at his wife. “I think we’ll just be going now.” He took Charlotte’s arm, but when she stumbled, he bent over, swept her into his arms, and carried her out of the library, past the guests loitering in the hallway and out the front door to find his coachman.

Do you like the fire, Charlotte? Do you want to burn hotter?

Charlotte massaged her pounding temples as Freddie’s words ran through her head for the three hundred and seventh time that morning. Actually, it wasn’t even morning anymore. Addy had long since come and gone with the breakfast tray, and from the sounds outside the window, it sounded as if it was now past noon. Not that she could tell from the position of the sun, as there never seemed to be any sun in this godforsaken city. Instead she lay in her ivory bed, under vanilla silk sheets, listening to the quiet patter of rain against the windowpane.

Her head ached and her stomach roiled and she was so confused that she didn’t know where
to begin sorting it all out. Her feelings, her thoughts: they were all such a jumble. Who
was
this man playing at being her husband? Just when she thought she had him figured out, he did something unexpected. Like kiss her senseless and then put his hands…

She blushed and turned her head into the pillow. Perhaps she remembered that part incorrectly. Perhaps that had been nothing more than a dream—a very intense, pleasurable dream—but she couldn’t bear to think that she had behaved so shamelessly in real life.

And why would she behave so? She hated Englishmen. She hated Dewhurst.

Then, last night, he had kissed her.
Really
kissed her.

And she realized there was a depth to him she hadn’t seen. The fierceness in him, the raw need she felt in the Brighams’ library had set her on fire. It had left her shaken and wanting more. But even as she tried to be offended by the liberties he had taken in kissing her, she remembered another good quality.

He’d defended her. Defended her and her country in front of the whole of London Society, and she knew how much their opinions meant to him. What could have gotten into him? She was not his wife in truth. Could he feel a sense of loyalty toward her anyway? And Charlotte would never forget the tenderness in his eyes when she’d told
him he made her feel safe, when she’d told him she needed a hero. And how could she ever shut out the raw, flagrant desire in his eyes when he’d ruched up her skirts and moved his hand tantalizingly between her thighs?

Charlotte shivered and pulled the covers to her jaw, but she could not shut out the memory of his fingers pressed tightly against her and the stirring sensations each infinitesimal movement elicited. And she couldn’t help but wonder what it would have been like if they had continued. If he’d…

But certainly that was not what she wanted. She did not want to lose her virtue to an Englishman. Not when the English had taken so much from her already. And she certainly would not lose her heart to Lord Dewhurst. That, above all, was the true danger. Her body desired him, and her mind was intrigued by the contrast between his cool, fashionable exterior and his hot, passionate interior. But her heart…her heart melted when he smiled at her, said her name, stroked her hair. How was she to defend her heart against a man who described her plain auburn hair as cinnamon and her brown eyes as sherry-colored? If that was not evidence that he found her alluring, then nothing was.

George Washington! Perhaps he played the part of a fool, but what sort of fool was she if she fell in love with him? He was a warrior. If he even possessed any of the more tender emotions, he
would never succumb to them. Becoming involved with Freddie Dewhurst beyond this business deal would leave her scarred and alone. And she was already that without him.

“Well, I see the princess is finally awake,” Addy said from the doorway.

Charlotte glanced at her friend, then looked more closely. “Is that a new shawl you’re wearing?”

Addy merely smiled. “Maybe it is. You going to get up or loll in bed all day?”

“I suppose I had better get up and, um…” What did she have to do when she got up? “See to the servants and the dinner menu,” she finally said.

Addy harrumphed. “Every day you say you going to look at the menu, and everyday I hear you arguing with that Mrs. Pots ’cause she ain’t showed it to you.”

Charlotte glared at her. “Thank you for pointing that out, Addy.”

Mrs. Pots was proving quite stubborn, but Charlotte had no doubt she’d come around. After all, Charlotte had won the other servants over. Now that Hester was no longer simply a maid but also a hairdresser, she was far less lazy, and Wilkins hardly ever grumbled about sharing his starch with Addy anymore, and Charlotte had even convinced Freddie’s cook, Julian, to experiment with some of her American favorites.

Everything was falling into place. Everything
except Freddie and Cade. To rid herself of one, she’d need to contact the other.

With Cade safe and her thousand dollars in her reticule, there’d be nothing to stop her from going home. Home. Where she and her heart would be safe.

Freddie’s ebony walking stick made a pleasant clicking sound as he made his way through the thinning crowds on Bond Street to Gentleman Jackson’s Rooms. Freddie was fond of pugilism and he wasn’t bad in the ring, but he had no intention of participating that night. His first order of business was to find Sebastian and hear his report.

Freddie nodded to Lord Yarmouth, who was exiting Gentleman Jackson’s as he entered. The rumor was that Yarmouth was the latest recipient of Josephine’s ample charms. Freddie frowned, suddenly realizing that he hadn’t thought of Josephine for days. He hadn’t thought of any woman save one: Charlotte Burton.

Dash it if the hellion hadn’t intrigued him—no, bewitched him—with her charms last night.

Wilkins had had to query three times which riding boots Freddie preferred this morning, and he had no idea how many times his housekeeper, Mrs. Pots, had inquired if his breakfast was satisfactory. Freddie couldn’t even remember what, if anything, he had eaten for breakfast.

Two things played upon his mind constantly. One was that he had to have Charlotte Burton. He wanted her in the biblical sense of the word certainly, but he also feared that he might feel the need to have her in a more permanent way as well. As a mistress?

No, she would never agree to that.

Which left only—Freddie shuddered and endeavored, for perhaps the fiftieth time, to pretend the idea had never crossed his mind—marriage.

Leg-shackled. Tied the nuptial knot. Buckled.

He didn’t know where such a thought came from or how to rid himself of it. He could only hope this irrational need to possess her would wane. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Never before had he even considered marrying a woman of his acquaintance. He was fond of the ladies he knew and courted, but he felt no great affection. Then there were his paramours, of course, but none of them would have made a suitable match. And neither would Charlotte, he reminded himself sternly.

And he’d be dashed if he couldn’t imagine the tittle-tattle when Charlotte vocalized her very American political views again. He could not hope to keep her silent on that point. Of course, her loyalty was commendable, and Freddie knew without thinking that she was fiercely loyal to her family and friends. What might it be like to be the recipient of such devotion? For a man who had
made a career of trusting no one, the idea was almost inconceivable. Could he trust Charlotte?

That brought him back to reality. What of Charlotte herself? Could he trust her to uphold her end of their bargain concerning Pettigru? And what of the money she demanded as payment? Was she just a mercenary, a money-grabbing chit like so many others he’d known?

Freddie’s hand clenched around the gold lion’s head of his walking stick. He did not want to think of Charlotte in those terms. It was much more pleasant to dwell on the memory of her lush body pressed against his. He knew enough of women’s bodies to know that hers would mold perfectly to his. That he could easily lose himself in her satiny skin, her velvet curves, and the heady scent of honeysuckle. He imagined her cherry hair splayed on the white of his pillow, her sherry brown eyes half closed in pleasure, her—

Freddie’s roguish smile was still on his lips when he saw Alex signal to him from across Jackson’s Rooms. He made his way to his friend, who was lounging next to Sir Lumley Skeffington, odd pairing that, and belatedly realized the two were engrossed in a boxing match between Middleton and Lydia’s beau, Westman. Gentleman Jackson, the retired pugilist and owner of the establishment, was shouting encouragement and directions.

Freddie took the empty space next to Skiffy, who then remarked, “Zounds! Middleton is giving Westman a beating. Poor chap. I never thought that chitty-faced fop had it in him.” Freddie smiled crookedly at Skiffy’s characterization of Sebastian as a fop. He could smell Skiffy’s strong perfume three feet away and endeavored not to take note of the yellow satin suit he wore or the face paint.

Freddie glanced at Alex, but he seemed more engrossed in the fight than usual. That was to say that his jaw was clenched and his arms crossed. The day Selbourne shouted encouragement to one of the pugilists would be the day Almack’s opened to the general public.

“What’s got Selbourne all agog, old man?” he asked Skiffy, wincing as Westman threw a low right that hit its mark.

“Oh, he’s got a monkey on this mill. Middleton, of course.” Sebastian swung at Westman, but the punch went wild and Westman easily sidestepped it.

“And you haven’t risked any of your own blunt?”

“Zounds, no, sir! I’m in dun territory as it is. Can’t a fellow have a look-in on the Corinthian Path without having his windmill dwindled to a nutshell?”

Just then Sebastian brought up his left, and, in a
move Freddie knew well from experience, feigned a punch, then floored Westman with his right. The fight was over.

Alex uncrossed his arms and turned to Freddie. “Drinks are on me tonight.”

“In that case, may I remark that I have always admired you, Selbourne,” Skiffy exalted. “Always said you were the best of men.”

Alex raised an eyebrow but didn’t have a chance to respond as Sebastian came striding between the men. The other spectators were still calling their congratulations, and Sebastian was glowing from his victory and eager to recount the entire fight to Dewhurst.

After several moments of Middleton’s detailed retelling, which bordered on reenactment at times, even the promise of free alcohol ceased to interest Skiffy, and he left to seek grander entertainments with Golden Ball Hughes.