Page 36 of Pride & Petticoats

She pursed her lips. “Hardly. When am I to make my entrée? Shouldn’t we begin to plan the time and place?”

Freddie rolled the glass of port in his hands. “You’re not ready. You still have more—”

“Lessons. Yes. That’s what you always say. What are these finer points of etiquette I’m missing? Is it just the titles? Because I do know them.”

Freddie would have loved to test her on that point, but he refrained. “The titles are the least of it, madam. There’s your deportment, your manner of speaking, your”—he looked down at his soiled clothing—“table manners, your—can you even dance?”

She blew out an angry breath. “Of course I can dance, and there’s nothing wrong with any of the rest of it, either.”

“That is a matter up for debate, so let’s end it.” He put the port aside. “Let me see you make a sweep.”

She stared at him. “Pardon?”

“Curtsey,” he said sharply.

“You mean bow?”

“No, men bow. Women curtsey. Give it a go.” She shook her head. “I prefer to shake hands.”

“You can shake hands with friends and equals. You curtsey to those with a higher rank.”

“Higher rank? I just told you that I value equality—”

“Humor me,” he growled. She glared at him, but finally she curtseyed. Freddie winced. “What was that?”

She put her hands on her hips and scowled. “My curtsey. If you’re just going to make fun of me—”

“Not a’tall. Though that particular attempt was a bit cow-handed. Do it again.”

“Did you just refer to me as livestock?”

“No, I said it looked cow-handed.” He stood and crossed to the fireplace mantel. “It means clumsy.”

“Oh, really?” she said jerking her chin up. “This curtsey, which you, sir, call clumsy, attracted every beau for three counties in South Carolina.”

“Is that so?” He finished the port and set the empty glass under a portrait of his great-grandfather.

“Yes, it’s so.” She glanced away. “Mostly.”

“I can see why it was popular. You’re bowing so low you’re likely to display all your assets in an evening gown.”

Charlotte gasped, her jaw dropping open. “How dare you, sir!”

Freddie flicked her protests away. “If you want my assistance I’ll have to be honest. None of that flummery you may be used to.”

“Flummery?”

“Just do it again, and keep your back straight this time.” He watched her take a deep breath, from the look on her face no doubt battling a murderous rage coursing through her. Finally she complied, her back so stiff he thought it might break.

“No, no,” he exclaimed. “You won’t be meeting the Queen. Not so low. Here”—he strode to her—“try it like this.” He placed one hand on her back and the other on her abdomen below her breasts.

She inhaled sharply, then without looking at him, curtseyed.

“That’s all the go,” he praised. “Again.”

She did so, then turned with bright eyes for another word of approval. He hadn’t expected the movement and found himself staring into her hopeful, sherry-colored eyes. Almost involuntarily, his hands on her stomach tensed, and he felt the fullness of her breasts press against his chest.

He looked down at the cool rosy pink expanse of flesh, his eyes tracing her curves from the swell of her breasts to the slim lines of her bare neck. Her skin there was pale and beckoning, and he couldn’t resist trailing a hand up her spine until he could caress the warm flesh at her nape with two fingers. Soft as silk. Would she taste as sweet and sultry as she sounded? Her eyes flew to his mouth and, unable to resist, he bent to brush her mouth with his.

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