Page 49 of Pride & Petticoats

He peered at his pocket watch. It was barely eleven. Lydia would not be pleased to quit the ball so early. But he said, “Of course. I’ll order the carriage.”

She sat forward, swayed, and had to grip the arm of the couch to steady herself.

“Good God. You’re not well a’tall.” He strode quickly to the side table and poured three fingers of Brigham’s brandy, then pressed the crystal glass into her hands.

“No, I don’t want it.” She handed the glass back, but before she could loosen her grip, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist. He felt her pulse thrum under his touch, and she stared up at him.

“Do not argue, Charlotte,” he said, thrusting the glass under her nose before he did something dreadfully unfashionable and which he would surely regret in the morning. “Drink it,” he murmured.

Eyes wide, she stared at him. “But I can’t. I mean, I don’t think—”

He tightened his hand around her wrist. She was dashed stubborn. “Very well,” he said, releasing her. “Then we wait. I won’t have you fainting in the hall. I might be forced to catch you. It may sound romantic in novels, but such gestures are devilish hard on the cravat and tailcoat.”

“Oh, George Washington forbid I wrinkle your precious tailcoat!” she exclaimed.

Freddie stifled a smile. “There’s no call for blasphemy.”

“You are the most irritating man I have ever known! I don’t know why I ever married you.” Before he could remind her that they were not truly married, she snatched the glass from his hands and held it up. “You are going to regret this.” She downed the brandy and set the glass on the end table. Only she misjudged the distance, and it splintered against the polished wood floor.

Freddie’s jaw dropped. His little American hellion was not feeling faint, she was drunk. And now he had likely made her more so. He cursed himself for not noticing before—dash it if all the signs weren’t there: the wobbling, the high color in her cheeks, the slight slurring of her words—but the idea of her being foxed had not crossed his mind. Ladies of her supposed ilk did not over-imbibe. Supposed was obviously the operative word. She was no lady. He knew it, but how was he to keep the rest of the ton from the latest on-dit—the fact that his wife, Lady Dewhurst was an uncouth, uncultured—he shuddered—American? If the chit wasn’t so integral to the capture of Pettigru, Freddie would never have borne this.

The American knelt unsteadily on the floor to collect the shards of glass, but he quickly hauled her up again. What was he going to say if someone walked in and saw his wife crawling about on the floor? To her he said, “Leave it be. You’ll cut yourself.”

“Oh, hellfire,” she muttered as he hoisted her back onto the couch, where she promptly fell back onto the cushions. Hellfire was right, he thought. What was he to do with her now? She was drunk, disheveled, and . . . completely at his mercy.

Freddie started, alarmed by the direction of his thoughts. He had to send his mind on a detour— and quickly. But Charlotte was a sight to tempt any man—sprawled on the couch, hair in disarray, lace at her bosom trailing down the swell of her breasts. The dress was snug across her generous curves, and his fingers curled in an effort to curb the urge to loosen the gown, once again caress her ripe breasts, and feel the nipples harden against his palms.

Freddie clenched his jaw. He needed to remind himself that he didn’t even like this Yankee. Her manners were incurable, she had no subtlety, no style. Dash him if she hadn’t stood in the ballroom beside Lord Brigham and faced them all down like a common laundress.

Laundress or not, he respected her passion and her loyalty to her country. He had damned near taken her into his arms and kissed her right there in the ballroom. Her eyes had been burning so brightly that he had wanted to see them when overtaken with passion of another sort.

And now she was drunk. Damned little fool!

Without thinking, he crossed to her and yanked her up. She swung forward unsteadily, and he grasped her arms, half out of anger and half to support her. “Why the devil didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” she stammered, trying to squirm out of his arms. He tightened his hold, fingers curling around the deliciously bare flesh above her sagging gloves.

“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 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.”

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