Page 10 of Pride & Petticoats

“Lesson?” she said, all traces of mischief gone. “I hardly think I need a lesson in etiquette from you, sir.”

“Oh? You are familiar with the intricacies of life among the ton?”

“I have no idea what you just said, but I am familiar with the social graces to which you are probably referring. After all, we do have a Season in Charleston.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” he said, dismissing the idea out of hand.

“Not at all. Before I began working at my father’s business, I attended many social engagements. I am sure, given a little practice, the graces to which you are referring will all come back to me. I can be quite charming when the occasion calls for it.”

Freddie took another swallow of the wine and said, “A charming American. An oxymoron to be sure.”

“Pray, sir, keep insulting me, and you’ll see the barrel of my pistol.”

Before he realized what he was about, he’d crossed the tiny cabin, grasped her arm, and wrenched her to her knees. “Don’t threaten me, little Yankee hellion.”

“I am a Southerner, sir. Not a Yankee.”

“You’re a pain in the—neck. And my good humor and noblesse oblige only extend so far.”

She made a fist with the hand he held. “You speak of nobility, sir? You don’t know the meaning of the word. I’ve seen what you bastards do in the name of nobility, and it sickens me. You sicken me.”

He pulled her forward, hard against him, until he could see the smattering of freckles on her nose. “Best you inure yourself to the taste, Miss Burton, for you will have a hale and hearty dose as long as we are together.” And then to his surprise, he cupped the back of her neck, bent, and kissed her. Hard.

Her body went rigid with shock, but it was a temporary paralysis. Her free hand came up and made a feeble attempt to push him away, but Freddie was determined to show her who was master. He’d told her he was in charge, and now he intended to prove it. Hardheaded Americans. Always fighting battles they were sure to lose.

And this colonist was losing. He could feel her softening. Feel her lips opening to him, feel her body—which was far lusher than the ill-fitting gown would have one believe—pressing against him, feel her breathing become more rapid, feel—

Freddie broke the kiss and stepped back. His stomach was churning, and the room had started spinning. Too late, he realized he should never have drunk the wine. These dashed yachts would be the end of him. He took a deep breath, but it was no use. Even Charlotte was spinning now. Spinning round and round and—“Dash it,” he swore, and snatched open the door.

CHARLOTTE PUT A HAND to her beating heart, alarmed at how hard it was pounding. He had kissed her! The arrogant, overbearing despot had actually kissed her. The last thing she had expected him to do was assault her.

He’d been standing there, so presumptuous, so autocratic, so full of pride. And he’d actually tried to lecture her! As if he could teach her anything. Oh, George Washington, how was she ever going to survive this charade when they reached his home? She’d spent all of a half hour in the man’s presence, and already she hated him. And he hated her, too. He’d looked positively green when he’d broken their kiss. He’d rushed from the room as though his life depended on it. Thank God. Who would have saved her if the Brit got it in his mind to rape her?

She rose and walked slowly around the cabin, moving with the gentle swells from the river beneath them. She’d been on ships since she was a baby and had her sea legs firmly under her. It would have taken a violent storm indeed to unsettle a seasoned sailor such as she.

Then why had this Dewhurst unsettled her so easily? She hated him, as she hated all things British. And just like a warrior to try and play on her softer emotions for leverage. George help him if he ever tried to kiss her again. Then she’d show him . . . what?

Why hadn’t she showed him earlier? Why had she just stood there and allowed him to kiss her? The pit of her stomach knotted but not from nausea. She wished she could go on deck to clear her head. Her conflicted response to him was most unnerving. She, who hadn’t the time or inclination to look at a man in years, had been—however momentarily—swept away by an . . . Englishman.

Of all the men in the world, the English had to be the least appealing. This man was the enemy of her country, her father, her grandfather, dear George Washington himself. Dewhurst was from that stock of people who had forced unfair restrictions and provisions on her country, invaded her home without provocation, killed and enslaved her countrymen by the thousands. He was her enemy, and from now on she’d treat him as badly as his kind had treated her countrymen.

An hour or so later, Charlotte, Addy, and Dewhurst disembarked at another dock. It was early morning, but one would not have known it here. A pervasive haze hung over the ships and passengers, making the sky look dark. And the place was a veritable beehive of activity. Groups of passengers and seamen streamed by, carrying trunks and valises, or were followed by servants carrying the luggage for them. Carts and carriages popped up like weeds at every turn.

Dewhurst steered her and Addy through the throngs, chatting amiably to Addy but admonishing Charlotte more than once to keep her head down and the hood of the mantle close around her face. Charlotte did not mind the mantle—it was cold and damp outside—but she did mind missing all the goings-on about her. Dewhurst stopped to allow a group of boisterous seamen to pass, and Charlotte turned, surveying the tangle of masts rising like spires in the channel behind her and the barrels of rum being hoisted off a ship and onto a platform. Officials ticked off each barrel on their logs while uniformed guards eyed anyone passing by too slowly with menace. Finally her gaze rested on Addy, who stood directly behind her, clutching her meager shawl and frowning something monstrous.

She gave her maid a weak smile, but she could understand how Addy felt. Would they ever be home again?

“Dash it, girl. Keep your head down.” Dewhurst chastised her again.

Immediately she lowered her head, but only because she did not want to attract attention any more than he wanted her to be seen. She’d meet all his high-brow friends and supercilious acquaintances soon enough.

She wondered fleetingly if her mother had ever been to these docks—if Katherine Abernathy had walked on this same ground before her fateful trip to the colonies, where she’d met and fallen in love with George Burton. Charlotte did not have many memories of her English mother, but she could not imagine the gracious, demure woman she did remember in a noisy, dirty place like this. Perhaps by the time Charlotte had been born, the last festering pus of her mother’s British origins had been extracted.

“Here we are,” Freddie said, indicating an old carriage for hire. He pulled open the door and held out a hand to Addy. “Madam, if you will allow me.” He handed Addy inside, then looked at Charlotte. No frilly words for her. He jerked his head toward the coach, and when she took his hand, he practically shoved her inside before climbing in himself. The driver opened the hatch above them and said something Charlotte could never hope to decipher. Dewhurst must have understood because he replied, “Take us to”—he glanced at Charlotte, considering—“Bruton Street. Number sixty-four.”

“Difficulty remembering where you live, Mr. Dewhurst?”

He frowned at her from across the carriage. “Not any more than you have remembering my title, Miss Burton.” He opened the curtains a bit. “Ah, good. The sun is up. You’ll be able to see the city.”

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