Page 64 of Pride & Petticoats

Charlotte rose as Lucia ushered her reluctant husband through the drawing room door. When he had trudged through, she turned back around and hugged Charlotte with fervor.

“I am so happy for you,” Charlotte whispered.

“Thank you,” Lucia said, leaning back. Tears were sparkling on her eyelashes. “Soon it will be you as well!” She threw a glance at Freddie, who was leaning on the marble mantel, and squeezed Charlotte’s arms. “I’ll see you tonight!”

Then she was gone, and Charlotte and Freddie were left alone.

Chapter Seventeen

Freddie drank in the sight of Charlotte as though it had been an epoch rather than a few hours since he’d last seen her. He traced the slope of her collarbone framed by the border of lace on the scooped neck of her gown, then admired the roundness of her arms where they peeked out of the long flimsy sleeves and the tumble of cerise curls that had escaped the silk ribbon binding that tumultuous mane and now skimmed the arch of her shoulder.

And again he was awed by the fact that this radiant woman was his wife. Or would be soon. What had he ever done to deserve such perfection? He really did not think she realized her own allure and sensuality. And he had been entrusted with her; he would be the one to awaken her senses, show her the pleasures of the body, and perhaps one day the one to possess her love.

There was a blush flaming her cheeks, and Freddie realized he’d been staring too long. This drift in his thoughts needed to be staunched until he possessed her more definitely. Until Pettigru was safely locked away—out of commission and out of Charlotte’s heart—Freddie had to check his reaction to her. What if he lost all control of his emotions and began blubbering about how much he cared for her? What if she did not feel the same? He could not risk it.

He threw a shield over his heart and a mask over his features, then executed a flawless bow. “Lady Dewhurst. Forgive my impertinence, but your loveliness, as always, enthralls me.”

Charlotte blinked, and when he held out a hand, she took two halting steps toward him, then paused and cocked her head, eyes regarding him coolly. Freddie made no move to close the gap. She would have to come to him.

“You must have left very early this morning,” she said finally, and the sound of her voice almost unraveled his resolve. Instead he resisted the urge to grab her and claim her impertinent, honeyed mouth with his own.

He said in a blasé tone, “Indeed.” Still leaning against the mantel, he traced the pattern of the white marble shot with peach, his fingers slow and impassive in their movements, his gaze fixed on her under lowered lashes but with the intensity of a cat watching a sparrow.

Charlotte glanced at the Brussels carpet, shuffled, and murmured, “You did not have to go . . . last night . . . to your own room, that is.”

Freddie started, covering his shock by taking great care to adjust the sleeve of his coat. If she had been his mistress, he would have teased her with words of innuendo and promise. But he’d never cared for a mistress as he cared for Charlotte.

Charlotte was . . . different.

“I did not wish to disturb your sleep,” he said. “And, of course, I am used to my own bed.”

Charlotte flicked her eyes to his face, and he thought he saw a flash of pain. Before he could smooth it over, she said, “Where have you been all day?”

Freddie tensed. So the chit was not content with possession of his heart. She wanted his freedom as well. Dashed colonists.

Freddie yawned and waved his hand dismissively. “At my club. Out and about. Customarily, a wife does not query her husband about such matters, madam.”

The hurt look on her face deepened, and she reached out to clutch the back of an armchair upholstered in cream and light green. Through clenched teeth, she said, “Perhaps that is because husbands customarily inform their wives of their plans for the day. I had to ask Mrs. Pots if you were at home this morning.”

Freddie shrugged. “What else are servants for?”

Charlotte huffed. “It’s embarrassing and counterproductive to our purposes, that I should not know the whereabouts of the man who is supposed to be my devoted husband. The hired help know more about you than I.”

Freddie pulled out his gold pocket watch, flicked the warm metal cover open, and considered the time. “Would you prefer I left a detailed schedule each day before I disembark?” With studied elegance, he snapped the watch shut and repocketed it.

Charlotte threw her hands in the air resignedly. “Oh, never mind! You are absolutely impossible. I do not even know why I attempt conversation with you. Obviously I am just an annoyance in your life. An interruption.”

Freddie smiled and raised a golden eyebrow. “A pleasant interruption, madam.”

Charlotte’s jaw dropped, and Freddie realized he’d taken the studied indifference too far.

“Is that all last night was to you?” Charlotte said, voice low and ominous. “A pleasant interruption?” She was almost shaking with fury, and he ached to gather her close. He took a stilted step toward her, reached out, but Charlotte shrank back.

Recovering himself quickly, he said, “What do you want me to say, madam?”

Charlotte turned away from him and began to pace the floor. “What do I want you to say? I don’t even know where to begin!” She turned on her heel and faced him. “I want you to use my name. I’m Charlotte, not ‘madam.’” She paced away from him again and paused in front of a giltwood and ormolu side table on which stood a large Greek alabaster vase. Tracing the smooth dancing figures carved on the antique, she spoke, almost inaudibly, so that Freddie had to strain at every word. “I want you to wonder about me when you are not here. I want you to miss me. I want you to . . .” She paused and glanced over her shoulder at him.

Freddie clenched the cool marble tenaciously to stop himself from going to her, taking her in his arms, and kissing her into reassurance. But he would not. He had no doubt touching her would be his undoing. He would not show her how vulnerable he was to her. How much control she’d already wrested away from him.

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