When Charlotte awoke she lay still for a moment as details of the conversation with her mother dropped back into place in her mind. Finally she stretched, pulling the bell cord next to her bed. Somehow the situation didn’t seem so tragic in the light of day. She swung her feet out of bed and stared absentmindedly at her toes.
Perhaps she didn’t have to give up Alex entirely. She would explain the situation—her mind nimbly evaded the question of how that was going to be aired—and they could continue as they were, with the understanding that marriage was not an option. Charlotte really felt quite pleased with this idea. Wiggling her toes happily, she pictured herself going down the set on Alex’s arm. Maybe she would even go in to dinner with him at the next ball. So far she had made certain she was engaged for dinner before he even appeared (he invariably attended any ball late, just before the doors closed in the case of Almack’s).
When Marie appeared, followed by a puffing footman with a large pail of hot water, she was surprised to find a faintly pink, smiling Charlotte humming and darting about the room.
“I’m going to the theater tonight, Marie,” Charlotte said. “I believe I shall take a ride now, and then I’ll go to Blackwell’s and see if I can find a new novel.” Not that she had any time for reading, but she was between paintings. Who should she paint next? Her mind wandered off into a pleasurable daydream that involved Alex sitting on the couch in her studio. She would lean over him to rearrange his arm … what the imaginary Alex did then made her cheeks turn from pink to rosy. Marie stared at her in amazement.
“And after the bookstore,” Charlotte added hastily, “I would like another bath, Marie. Would you send a message to Monsieur Pamplemousse, please? If he could attend me at some point this evening, I would be grateful.”
Two baths in one day! Marie mentally shook her head. She herself found a semiweekly wash-off to be more than enough. As her mother had often told her, too much water caused water on the lung.
“What would you like to wear tonight, my lady?” she asked.
Charlotte stretched out luxuriously in the large tin tub. “I think I shall wear the white and black gown. You know the one.”
Marie nodded vigorously. It was her favorite of the dresses Lady Charlotte had bought from Madame Carême, although she had yet to see her mistress wear it. Marie looked speculatively at Charlotte. She was wearing that dress for an engagement at the theater? Something important was going to happen tonight.
Marie’s assiduous reading of the gossip columns had gleaned two interesting facts: The Earl of Sheffield and Downes apparently came to balls only to dance with Charlotte, and there was something very smoky about his previous marriage. Ah, well. Marie was no great believer in condemning a man for behavior during a previous marriage. Unless—her eyes widened a bit—he killed his first wife! But no. The papers said very clearly that she died of scarlet fever. Just like Marie’s own aunt.
She bustled about pulling out gossamer stockings, a corset, and her mistress’s crimson riding costume.
“No, not that one,” Charlotte said suddenly, looking up from her bath. “I’ll wear the gray costume.”
Now Marie knew that something was happening. The gray riding habit was one of her mistress’s new purchases. It was the color of a mourning dove and fit like a glove, with black braid trim that gave it the air of a Russian soldier. It was exquisite … but also rather uncomfortable. If Charlotte was wearing that riding costume, she was expecting to meet someone on her ride. Marie glanced at her speculatively. If the duchess knew her daughter was making assignations in the park!
In fact, Charlotte was not engaged to meet anyone in particular on her ride. But she had woken with blood singing in her veins, and she was not allowing herself to think about the cause. She felt like looking her best, she reasoned. If the Earl of Sheffield and Downes happened to be riding in Hyde Park when she was there … well, she would be friendly but cool. There was nothing wrong with wanting to look her best.
Charlotte stretched a long, elegant leg out of the bath and looked at it meditatively. Then she sat up and, balancing herself carefully with hands on both sides of the light tin tub, stepped out of the bath.
“Marie, will you send one of the footmen over to Lady Sophie’s, please, to ask whether she would like to join me in the park? Thank you.”
Marie, having laid all her mistress’s clothing on the bed, whisked over to the door. Any opportunity to take a message downstairs meant that she got to see Cecil, and perhaps even to snatch a kiss behind a door.
“I’ll be back immediately, my lady,” she said. Then she ran down the back stairs.
Alone in her room, Charlotte finished rubbing herself with cream, faintly scented with orange blossoms, and paused in front of the mirror. For some reason, ever since she woke up this morning her belly felt fiery. Even the sight of her own curvaceous self—the body she had lived with for twenty years!—seemed exotic, exciting. She tried to look at herself as a man might, but gave up. She’d lost some weight recently, but oddly enough her breasts seemed to have grown larger. When she looked at the tender weight of her breasts, all she saw was a honey-colored male hand curving around them…. Charlotte shivered all over, and turned away from the mirror.
She managed to dress herself almost completely before sitting down and waiting impatiently for Marie to return. What on earth could be taking her so long? Finally she pulled her bell cord, and downstairs Marie gasped and pulled away from Cecil’s chest.
“Go, go!” she said quickly, her French accent intensified by excitement. Lady Sophie lived only a few streets away, so he could be there and back in a flash. Marie dashed up the servants’ stairs and slowed to a walk just outside Charlotte’s door, quietly slipping inside.
“I am sorry, my lady,” she said, beginning to fasten the small buttons that made the gray suit so form-fitting.
Her mistress was sitting in front of her dressing mirror, absentmindedly staring at herself.
“That’s all right, Marie,” she said.
Marie smiled a bit. She was very lucky and she knew it. Charlotte was never bad-tempered, and even when she was irritable she rarely snapped at Marie. Whereas Marie had a friend working for a certain young lady who had not received an offer so far this season, and she regularly had to dodge hairbrushes and combs, and recently her mistress had even thrown a jar of face powder at her!
There was a discreet knock and Marie stopped brushing Charlotte’s hair and opened the door, just a crack. It was Cecil, looking very formal.
“Lady Sophie York would be pleased to join Lady Charlotte in approximately one hour,” he said, rather loudly. Then he whispered wickedly, “And Mr. Cecil would like to take a certain French miss into the laundry closet for a ride!”
Marie rolled her eyes indignantly, shutting the door.
Charlotte was looking rather amused, for some reason. She couldn’t have heard Cecil, Marie reassured herself.
“Lady Sophie will ride in an hour, my lady,” she said.
“Hmmm … was that Cecil?”
Marie’s hands got even busier, arranging and rearranging Charlotte’s soft curls.
“Yes, my lady.”
“He’s quite handsome, isn’t he, Marie?” Charlotte asked mischievously, picturing the fair-haired man who often accompanied her on rides in Hyde Park.
“I don’t know,” her maid said hurriedly.
“He’s very English-looking,” Charlotte persisted.
“There! You look lovely, my lady. Ravissante” Marie said.
Charlotte twinkled at her in the mirror. Marie slipped into French only in moments of strong emotion.
Sophie was waiting for her by the time Charlotte’s mare delicately pranced her way to a stop before the marble steps of the Marquis of Brandenburg’s town house. She ran down the steps lightly, dressed in a crimson riding costume that was just as form-fitting as was Charlotte’s. Sophie’s groom threw her up onto her fidgeting horse, a sprightly, slender mare she had named Erica.
/> “Erica!” her father the marquis had said in disgust. “Such a pedestrian name for a lovely animal.”
But Sophie just smiled at him and sent her groom to fetch Erica. Nothing he said, her father gloomily thought, had ever had any effect on her actions; what made him think that he could influence the name of her horse?
Now Sophie looked appreciatively at Charlotte, whose gray costume was perfectly complemented by her midnight black mare.
“My God! We make an exquisite pair, don’t we?” She gave Charlotte a wicked smile. Sophie loved to embarrass Charlotte by pointing out the obvious, but she noticed with interest that Charlotte didn’t turn a hair today.
“Do you think we ought to bring two of our grooms, rather than one of yours and one of ours?” Sophie twisted about to look at the two grooms mounted behind the girls.
“Why on earth?”
“Sweetness,” Sophie teased, “their liveries don’t match. And when two dashing high-flyers like ourselves are taking the air, shouldn’t we be accompanied by matching grooms?”
Charlotte shrugged, sending a slanting grin in Sophie’s direction. “I personally think that all eyes will be on me,” she said impudently. “And if there is anyone left to look at you, I don’t think they’ll notice the grooms.”
“Oooooh,” Sophie replied. “My sweet Charlotte is growing some thorns. All right, then. On y va, Philippe,” she called to her groom. The marquis—who insisted that his title be spelled in the French way—was more than a little proud of his wife’s French background. He employed only French servants, insisting that they provided a nobleman’s house with an extra touch of refinement. After growing up her whole life surrounded by French servants, Sophie slipped easily into either English or French.
Sophie and Charlotte ambled along the crowded London street together. After meeting noses and snorting a few times, their mares pranced neck to neck, one occasionally tossing her neck and indicating a wish to bolt. The street was thronged with London’s rich and poor inhabitants. Orange sellers slipped past well-breeched swells, their hands sliding gently over rich fabrics, perhaps removing a watch chain or a wallet. Children dashed into the crowded street every other moment, running between carriages and horses, recklessly tossing their lives into the hands of people who, for the most part, didn’t give a tinker’s curse for the life of a London waif.
“My mama,” Sophie said with a sideways glance at Charlotte, “is somewhat perturbed about tonight’s entertainment.”
“Really?” Charlotte replied. “I believe the play is quite unexceptional: Shakespeare, isn’t it?” Sophie’s mother had grown up in a French convent, and she had notoriously strict ideas about propriety.
“That’s not the problem. The problem is that where you go, along comes the earl, and …”
“Which earl?”
“You know which earl! The Earl of Sheffield and Downes, of course. Every wit’s favorite target.”
Charlotte’s heart sank. Sophie had been kept at home with a cold all the past week and Charlotte hadn’t had a chance to speak to her; if she too knew about Alex’s supposed impotence, then her mother was right. All of London was discussing the man’s ability.
“I don’t like it,” Charlotte said fiercely, staring between her horse’s flicking ears. “How can people be so vulgar!”
Sophie cast her a curious glance. “Is it true, then?” she asked.
“How on earth would I know?” Charlotte answered. “It took my mother about an hour to become clear enough so that I could even understand what she was talking about.”
Sophie listened silently. One of the virtues of having a French nanny was that talk of male properties was not uncommon in the Brandenburg nursery. Not, of course, that the marchioness, Eloise, had any notion of that fact.
“Perhaps you could ask him?” she said, her face alight with devilment. Charlotte looked up. There, edging down the street on a huge black stallion, was her sometime suitor, Alexander Foakes himself. Charlotte’s heart instantly started beating so quickly she felt as if the buttons on her riding costume must burst.
“Lady Charlotte; Lady Sophie,” Alex said easily, reining his horse to a stop just to the left of Charlotte. He doffed his hat. He was wearing a gray riding coat and top boots, and looked every inch the gentleman. Charlotte looked at him somewhat wonderingly. How on earth did she ever fool herself into thinking he was a footman?
“Sir,” she said, inclining her head.
Sophie contented herself with an impish smile. She liked this suitor of Charlotte’s, with his stormy black eyes and huge body. Not for her, someone so large and moody-looking, but he was perfect for Charlotte, she had to admit. Naturally, only if all those rumors were untrue.
“Won’t you join us, my lord?” Sophie asked.
Alex hesitated, looking at Charlotte’s downcast face. He only had to see her to become aflame with desire. Even now, the one thing he wanted to do was sweep her off her horse and carry her … where? Into his house, his bad angel quickly said. Charlotte’s eyelashes were so dark and thick that they cast shadows on her cheeks.
This was ridiculous. “I am sorry to say that I cannot,” he replied, watching Charlotte’s enchanting profile. Surely a tiny sigh escaped her lips when he said that?
Sophie looked a silent question.
“I have been informed by my man that if I do not make my way to Guthrie’s this afternoon he will leave my employ, and that would never do.”
Sophie giggled.
“You see the problem, don’t you, Lady Sophie? I would be vexed beyond all bearing if Keating decided to leave me. Ah, the life of a dandy. Guthrie will take all afternoon to fit me for one coat, and then it will take all evening for me to shrug myself into another one, and a good two hours to achieve a proper waterfall with my neck scarf.” He sighed deeply.
Despite herself, a small smile curled around Charlotte’s lips. She stole a glance at Alex. His coat was close-fitting but by no means could it promote him as one of the dandy set.
“Alas,” she said sweetly, “I fear that with such a low collar as the one you are sporting today, sir, and such a plain neck cloth … dear, dear. Indeed you must rush to Guthrie’s establishment. I would recommend some lemon-yellow pantaloons.”
“My goodness,” Alex said appreciatively, bending dangerously close to Charlotte and looking straight down into her green eyes. “Do you know, I believe you are the very first young lady who has had the temerity to mention my unmentionables, let alone criticize them?”
Charlotte flushed slightly. It was true. No proper lady would be caught discussing pantaloons in the company of a gentleman. Alex stared down at her, his eyes burning into hers. Suddenly his horse tossed his head and he reined back sharply in order to avoid bumping into Charlotte’s mount.
Sophie noticed with satisfaction that if Charlotte had turned pink, Alexander Foakes also seemed to be a little overheated. Alex met her eyes, and a rueful smile touched his lips for a second. The man could not be impotent, Sophie decided. In fact, she was going to do everything in her power to further a marriage between her closest friend and this particular earl.
“Charlotte and I were just discussing the Shakespeare play we see tonight,” Sophie said airily. “King Lear, I believe. Are you familiar with the play, sir?”
“I am much looking forward to seeing Kean in the role,” Alex replied, his smile turning into a positive grin.
Charlotte turned her head from Sophie to Alex, a rather bewildered look in her eyes. She wasn’t even aware that the two knew each other. Sophie had been at home most of the week; when had they become so friendly?
Alex doffed his hat again, remarking gravely that he hoped to have the pleasure of greeting them that evening, and rode away. His whole body protested, riding down the street away from his delectable love, especially given that her riding costume emphasized every lovely curve. His eyes darkened as he imagined picking up Charlotte and putting her on his library table, tossing up her elegant skirts, uncovering …
His horse curvetted in protest as his hand involuntarily shortened the reins. For God’s sake. He rode a bit faster. The tale about Guthrie was flummery. In fact, he had to be home before Pippa awoke from her nap.
He was extremely irritated as he threw the reins to a waiting groom and strode into the front hallway of Sheffield House. Instantly he paused and cocked an experienced ear. No piercing screams meant that Pippa had not yet woken up. Alex walked into his library, only to be greeted by his desperate-looking secretary, Robert Lowe. Alex’s desk was piled with papers and had been for days; his secretary seemed to tag behind him everywhere, asking for signatures. Alex grimaced, remembering his ordered life before Pippa’s arrival.
Meanwhile he sat down at the desk and quickly began working through the largest pile of papers, tossing them in the direction of his secretary with instructions about how to respond. Suddenly he stopped in astonishment. Before him was a sheet of newsprint, clearly one of the scandal sheets printed daily, with an arrow pointing to a paragraph.
Last night Lord L——was caught with Lady D——.
If Mrs. B——will still continue flirting
We hope she’ll draw, or we’ll undraw the curtain.
“What the devil is this piece of rubbish doing here,” Alex said in a deadly voice, his dark eyes pinning his secretary to the chair.
“I just thought,” Lowe said miserably, “I thought you might want to consider a suit for libel…. Anyway,” he finished in a rush, “I thought you should know.” Alex’s eyes sharpened and he returned to the sheet he still held in his hand.
A certain earl had better stop a-knocking
It takes a stiff rapper to enter a duke’s locker.
Alex swore and violently crumpled the sheet, throwing it to the ground. His secretary trembled.