Page 52 of Pride & Petticoats

“He will,” Meg said, “after he speaks with Oxbow.”

“Now girls,” Jane, the peacemaker in the family and five years Freddie’s junior, said. “Freddie will have time to speak to Oxbow and Mama. There’s no need to argue.”

Mary sneered. “You think if you’re sweet to him now then he’ll talk to Fitzherbert for you, is that it?” she accused Jane. “Don’t listen to her, Freddie. She’s angling for a new town house, and she wants you to plead her case with Fitzherbert.”

“That’s not true!” Jane said.

“My problem with Oxbow comes first,” Meg said.

“But what about Westman? I hate being the youngest,” Lydia cried. “I never get any attention.”

“Oh stubble it, Lydia,” all three girls said in unison.

There was a moment of stunned silence, for it was not very often that the sisters agreed on anything, and in the momentary quiet Freddie heard the sound he’d been dreading. The hinges on the French doors creaked, and Charlotte staggered inside. “I don’t feel very well,” she groaned.

“What is that?” Meg cried and backed away.

Freddie rolled his eyes and wished he were somewhere else—an iceberg, a prison barge . . . Hell. “Ladies, might I introduce—”

“Charlotte!” Lydia screamed. “Freddie, what have you done to her?”

“Nothing. I didn’t touch her,” he answered automatically, then remembered she was supposed to be his wife. “I mean, she’s not feeling well, and I was about to take her home.”

“This is your new wife?” Mary asked, staring at Charlotte with unabashed curiosity. “She’s not what I expected.”

“Not at all,” Meg chimed in.

“She looks very . . . sweet,” Jane said helpfully.

Charlotte glanced at the three women, then at Freddie, and muttered, “This is all your fault. I told you I didn’t want that brandy.”

Jane gasped, and Mary and Meg’s eyes got very large. Lydia scowled. “Freddie, is poor Charlotte”— she lowered her voice—“indisposed?”

“Ah . . .” Freddie looked from one sister to the next, then at his wife. “I think we’ll just be going now.” He took Charlotte’s arm, but when she stumbled, he bent over, swept her into his arms, and carried her out of the library, past the guests loitering in the hallway and out the front door to find his coachman.

DO YOU LIKE THE FIRE, Charlotte? Do you want to burn hotter?

Charlotte massaged her pounding temples as Freddie’s words ran through her head for the three hundred and seventh time that morning. Actually, it wasn’t even morning anymore. Addy had long since come and gone with the breakfast tray, and from the sounds outside the window, it sounded as if it was now past noon. Not that she could tell from the position of the sun, as there never seemed to be any sun in this godforsaken city. Instead she lay in her ivory bed, under vanilla silk sheets, listening to the quiet patter of rain against the windowpane.

Her head ached and her stomach roiled and she was so confused that she didn’t know where to begin sorting it all out. Her feelings, her thoughts: they were all such a jumble. Who was this man playing at being her husband? Just when she thought she had him figured out, he did something unexpected. Like kiss her senseless and then put his hands . . .

She blushed and turned her head into the pillow. Perhaps she remembered that part incorrectly. Perhaps that had been nothing more than a dream—a very intense, pleasurable dream—but she couldn’t bear to think that she had behaved so shamelessly in real life.

And why would she behave so? She hated Englishmen. She hated Dewhurst.

Then, last night, he had kissed her. Really kissed her.

And she realized there was a depth to him she hadn’t seen. The fierceness in him, the raw need she felt in the Brighams’ library had set her on fire. It had left her shaken and wanting more. But even as she tried to be offended by the liberties he had taken in kissing her, she remembered another good quality.

He’d defended her. Defended her and her country in front of the whole of London Society, and she knew how much their opinions meant to him. What could have gotten into him? She was not his wife in truth. Could he feel a sense of loyalty toward her anyway? And Charlotte would never forget the tenderness in his eyes when she’d told him he made her feel safe, when she’d told him she needed a hero. And how could she ever shut out the raw, flagrant desire in his eyes when he’d ruched up her skirts and moved his hand tantalizingly between her thighs?

Charlotte shivered and pulled the covers to her jaw, but she could not shut out the memory of his fingers pressed tightly against her and the stirring sensations each infinitesimal movement elicited. And she couldn’t help but wonder what it would have been like if they had continued. If he’d . . .

But certainly that was not what she wanted. She did not want to lose her virtue to an Englishman. Not when the English had taken so much from her already. And she certainly would not lose her heart to Lord Dewhurst. That, above all, was the true danger. Her body desired him, and her mind was intrigued by the contrast between his cool, fashionable exterior and his hot, passionate interior. But her heart . . . her heart melted when he smiled at her, said her name, stroked her hair. How was she to defend her heart against a man who described her plain auburn hair as cinnamon and her brown eyes as sherry-colored? If that was not evidence that he found her alluring, then nothing was.

George Washington! Perhaps he played the part of a fool, but what sort of fool was she if she fell in love with him? He was a warrior. If he even possessed any of the more tender emotions, he would never succumb to them. Becoming involved with Freddie Dewhurst beyond this business deal would leave her scarred and alone. And she was already that without him.

“Well, I see the princess is finally awake,” Addy said from the doorway.

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