Page 35 of Pride & Petticoats

Freddie set his glass of port on the side table.

“Then you need the money.” She made no indication of hearing him, and he said, mostly to himself, “And you aren’t likely to give up.”

Her gaze whipped back to meet his. “Give up? Never, Lord Dewhurst. I will make this scheme work and clear Cade’s name.”

“Ah, and we’ve returned to the topic of the infamous Mr. Pettigru. What exactly has he done to garner your loyalty? Tell the truth. You don’t care if he’s guilty. You’ll fight for him regardless.” He clenched his hand into a fist, not liking the image of her with Pettigru, and liking his own jealous reaction even less.

“I will fight for him. He was my brother’s friend, and he’s been another brother to me. He used to tickle me until I screamed for mercy, teased me about the boys I had crushes on, and he even danced with me at my first ball.”

Freddie reached for his port, drank it down. He could well imagine Charlotte at her first ball. Young, innocent, beautiful. He would have fallen hard and fast. Freddie poured himself another drink. “Join me?”

She raised one graceful eyebrow. “I hope I have not driven you to drinking, Mr. Dewhurst.”

Freddie clenched the glass. “You’ll have me on the cut in no time if you insist upon lowering my rank at every opportunity.”

Charlotte smiled, and he could have sworn she’d intentionally called him mister.

“It’s Lord Dewhurst, my lady,” he reminded her.

“That’s what I meant,” she said airily, and his hackles rose. He needed to put her back on the defensive. He didn’t like feeling out of control.

“Yes, that response will go over well when you’re addressing the Prince Regent. ‘I meant to say Your Highness,’” he drawled, imitating her Southern twang.

“You’re not nearly as amusing as you seem to think,” she retorted, the color rising prettily in her cheeks. “I’m making every effort.”

He snorted. “Ha! I might believe that if I still thought you had windmills in the head, but you obviously have some intelligence. So? Explain. Is there some reason you feel the need to constantly demote me? No one’s yet broken their teeth by calling me lord.”

“I find titles repulsive, Alfred. Most Americans do. Unlike you Brits, we value equality among all men.”

“Really?” Dewhurst said, leaning back on the couch and stretching his legs out. His polished boots brushed against her dainty white slippers. “Does that include all men or just white men?”

“It includes neither Negroes nor women as yet, sir, but I trust that will change.”

“I see. Then you admit that in your country not everyone is equal?”

Charlotte shifted from one foot to the next, obviously not liking his insinuations. He didn’t sympathize. She had started it, after all.

“Our system is by no means perfect, sir, but—”

“Neither is ours,” he said, sitting up and grasping her wrist. She jumped at the unexpected contact, and he was able to take advantage of the moment and pull her to him. “But everyone knows his or her place. And if I am to escort you about Town, I must insist that you keep the line.” He could feel the pulse beating in her wrist now, and knew he was causing the reaction.

“Keep the line?” Charlotte asked, twisting her wrist in his grip and glaring at him.

“Quite right. Address your betters as such.” He kept his tone light, but he was deadly serious. She would have a hard enough time as it was without ignoring the rules governing Society. And he would jeopardize neither his cover as a dandy nor his assignment for one stubborn American.

No matter how rich her auburn hair, how full her lips, or how voluptuous her body.

“My betters?” she hissed, yanking her arm but not freeing it. Instead Freddie pulled her toward him until she was bent forward. In hindsight, it was not the best move he could have made. When she bent over, he had a tantalizing view of her ample cleavage. Worse, he could smell her. Smell the faint but undeniable scent of . . . honeysuckle?

He swallowed. “This discussion is a mere taste of what you will encounter when you finally make your entrée, so if you’re going to kick over the traces every time some cake of an earl or duke unwittingly insults you, it were better that you stay home.” His eyes burned into hers, but she met his gaze defiantly.

“I think, like most Englishmen, you underestimate my American sense of determination, sir,” she bit out.

“Good,” he said, releasing her and sitting back to give the appearance of never having touched her at all. His body—the thrumming in his loins, the residual heat from her skin on his—told a different story. “And as to your dilemma concerning my title, Dewhurst will do just fine.”

“I can think of several other more colorful—”

Freddie raised a brow. “Now, now. Language like that hardly befits a lady. Or were you hoping for a language lesson?”

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