Page 46 of Pride & Petticoats

Lucia curtseyed to the two men, murmuring, “Father. 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 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 country 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.”

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