Potent Pleasures (8 page)

Chapter 4

N
o one greeted Charlotte’s determination to buy a new wardrobe with more joy than her mother. They visited Madame Carême together, the very next day, and while Charlotte recklessly ordered dozens of wispy, high-waisted dresses, so light that the outline of her entire body could be seen through them, Adelaide watched happily from a comfortable chair.

In turn, Madame Carême was ecstatic. In Charlotte she saw a young lady with an exquisite figure and perfect bones. Her dresses would dance out of the shop after this particular duke’s daughter appeared at a few balls wearing her creations. Adelaide’s eyes twinkled when she heard the price of a particularly elegant gown that Charlotte was considering. She estimated the price to be rather less than half the going rate, but madame was shrewdly correct to reduce the price, she thought. Without a corset, her daughter’s body was revealed to have developed natural, luxurious curves. Men would swoon when they saw the way her breasts smoothly rose out of Madame Carême’s tiny bodices, looking perfectly shaped and utterly unrestrained. Women would order the same gown, hoping to duplicate the effect.

“She won’t lose the top of that dress, will she?” Adelaide asked with some anxiety.

Charlotte was standing in front of a three-sided mirror, wearing a startling gown. It was stark white and its only ornamentation were six or seven narrow black ribbons falling straight down the skirt, which seemed endless as it began just under Charlotte’s breasts. And there was practically no top at all, Adelaide thought, wondering what Marcel would think when he saw the gown. It was the most starkly fashionable dress Adelaide had ever seen.

She cleared her throat. “Charlotte,” she said. “You must have it. You will start a new fashion.”

Charlotte turned around. “Oh, yes,” she said happily. “I shall have it, thank you, madame.” And madame smiled, and ferociously beckoned to a girl hovering in the corner with another creation reverently laid over her arms.

At forty-one, Adelaide considered herself far too old for the new fashions, but even she was talked into buying just a few morning dresses: pale, delicate gowns with the so-fashionable Greek key pattern embroidered at the hem. They are constructed, madame whispered confidentially, so that one might wear a light waist corset with them, should one desire. And Adelaide did so desire. Not for her, this naked look that Charlotte was taking up so quickly!

Still … Adelaide smiled, thinking with satisfaction of the cattish remarks that some dowagers had made to her recently about her youngest daughter being likely to “stay on her hands,” and “never fall off the shelf.” Nonsense. No one, she thought, looking at Charlotte’s long slender legs and lily-white skin, would ever murmur to her again about Charlotte being long in the tooth. Not in these clothes!

That afternoon Monsieur Pamplemousse arrived and before Charlotte had time to think about it, her long hair was lying in little sheaves around her dressing-room chair.

“Regardez,”
said Monsieur Pamplemousse excitedly. “You are an Incomparable!” He kissed his fingers. “Ah, my scissors are made of gold!”

Charlotte stared at herself in the mirror. Her hair was curling in artful abandonment and her head felt light, as if it were a balloon about to float away. Freed from all the hair, her lips looked larger and her cheekbones were immense.

“Lady Charlotte,” said Marie earnestly. “You look more beautiful than I have ever seen you. You will start a rage!”

Charlotte smiled back at her in the mirror. Monsieur Pamplemousse was fussing about, showing Marie how to adjust a band around her mistress’s head, if she would like, although—he pulled himself up importantly.

“Lady Charlotte must summon
me
for any important occasion.” He was fully engaged for the following day, for the Duke of Clarence’s ball, but he would make a special exception and arrive at Calverstill House at four o’clock.

“I do not wish my creation to be marred,” he said, with a tremendous frown at Marie. Marie quailed and broke into French protests that Monsieur Pamplemousse ignored, flapping his hands at her.

“I must go, I must go!” he said in his marked accent.

Charlotte smiled to herself. It hadn’t escaped her that Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t respond to Marie in French; in fact, although he dropped foreign words into his speech, they were not
all
French. He seemed to be using Italian as well. She looked at herself again. It didn’t matter whether he was from the South Pole: He did have scissors of gold. She—Charlotte—felt beautiful, really beautiful, for the first time. To be honest, she felt exuberant. She was beautiful, and desirable, and exquisitely dressed. Why should she feel any shame? She couldn’t wait for the Duke of Clarence’s ball!

And that was why when Alexander McDonough Foakes, the new Earl of Sheffield and Downes, stopped in at his club on his very first evening back in London after three years in Italy, all anyone seemed to be talking about was a delectable heiress named Charlotte. Two gawky boys were practically threatening to duel each other over the question of which of them she had liked the best; his old friend Braddon Chatwin looked miserable when she was mentioned. In the two weeks since Charlotte appeared at the Duke of Clarence’s ball, the male half of London had fallen hopelessly in love with her.

Alex and Braddon settled down together in a quiet corner of the library, legs stretched out before a warm fire. Alexander fingered his brandy, listening absentmindedly to Braddon’s tale of woe … he’d asked her to marry him; she’d said no; last night she danced twice with … Lord! Why didn’t he remember how boring all of this was! He didn’t care who this arrogant little snip danced with. He looked at Braddon darkly.

“Cut rope, Braddon,” he drawled. “She must be a complete twit. Who would turn down an earl? It’s not as if you have seventeen children or something.”

“What do you know about it, Alex?” Braddon said hotly. “You always have luck with women….” But he trailed off uncomfortably. Suddenly Braddon remembered something awful, something he’d forgotten in the excitement of seeing his old friend stride into the club after three years.

Alex didn’t seem to have noticed his pause, Braddon thought, stealing a peek over his brandy snifter. His heart quieted down. Alex
looked
just the same. He didn’t limp or anything. Braddon shuddered slightly and took a huge gulp of brandy. What would Alex do with his time now? Why, all gentlemen did was box, and bet, and—and wench. Alex never liked gambling, and now he couldn’t wench, apparently.

He cleared his throat. “Ah, so, are you back for good?” Braddon asked.

“Yes,” Alex said absentmindedly, not even looking up from his glass. “You know, my father died eight months ago, and I couldn’t come back just then, but now I … Well, the estate takes some running, and—”

He looked up and fixed Braddon with his disconcerting black eyes. “I missed England after a while. Italy is splendid, but Maria, my wife, died and so I decided to return.”

“But …” Braddon was bamboozled. “I thought … everyone thinks that you aren’t married, that Maria, ah, annulled your marriage.”

Alex looked up, his eyes dark. “She did,” he said briefly. “She remarried, and then she died. Of scarlet fever, a month ago.”

“So you, you stayed in touch?” Braddon hazarded.

“No. But she summoned me when she was dying.” Alex looked up again, and caught Braddon’s gaping expression. Poor old Braddon! He always was a slowtop.

“Enough of this!” Alex said, tossing off his brandy. “Didn’t you say there’s some sort of a ball tonight?”

“Yes,” Braddon said, “but you can’t go like that! You’re not even dressed.” He cast an accusing look at his friend’s buckskin pantaloons. “Besides,” he blurted, “why on earth would you want to go? You always hated those things, even before—” And he caught himself again.

“I plan to attend the ball for the same reason you will, Braddon,” Alex said gently. “I need a wife.” He stood up and hauled the silent earl to his feet. They stood, eye-to-eye, in the empty library.

“Why?” Braddon asked bluntly.

Alexander turned and strolled toward the door. “I have a daughter,” he threw back over his shoulder. “She needs a mother. Come on, Slaslow. I’ve got my coach outside; we’ll stop by my house and I’ll change and we can have some dinner. Then we’ll go find ourselves wives.”

Braddon followed him dumbly.
He
had a daughter? Everyone in London knew that his wife had annulled the marriage on grounds of impotency.
And
that Alex hadn’t contested it. He’d never find a wife … well, of course he would, Braddon thought. Plenty of women wanting to marry earls; he could attest to that himself. But Braddon didn’t understand, he just didn’t. If Alex was impotent, how did he have a daughter? And if he had a daughter, why was his marriage annulled? And if … Braddon’s head was reeling.

The carriage pulled up in front of Sheffield House. Black swags still hung on each window, although they were getting a bit frayed now, eight months after Alex’s father died. Braddon trotted after Alex, thinking furiously. He couldn’t work it out, and he couldn’t get it straight without asking about the impotency business, and he wouldn’t do that, not under any circumstances.

It did cross his mind that it might be a little sticky, bringing Alex around to Lady Prestlefield’s ball. She was an awfully high stickler for morals and things like that; why, she’d barred Lady Gwenth Manisse from entering her house one day, just because poor Lady Gwenth was so disastrously and famously in love with a married archbishop. But then, Alex was an earl. And what’s more, he wasn’t divorced, exactly, and how could you turn someone away from a dance because they were—disabled, so to speak? Which brought Braddon around again to wondering about the problem of the daughter. Where did that daughter come from?

He’d better just forget it, Braddon thought finally, and pretend that he knew nothing about the whole annulment business. His head was aching trying to think it out. He’d get one of his clever friends, like David, to explain the whole thing to him later. If he just remembered not to mention any women, even that luscious little singer he’d just met at the opera, there wouldn’t be any uneasiness at dinner. Well, particularly he must forget the singer, because she was Italian, or she said she was. Brad-don brightened. Horses were obviously the trick! Nothing risky in talking about horses.

Braddon always had a remarkable ability for putting things out of his head (to the great annoyance of his mama, his tutors, and every logical person who came in contact with him, especially his personal secretary, his estate manager, and his butler). And so he thoroughly enjoyed his meal, and had no idea how much he bored Alex by giving him a point-by-point description of each and every horse in his stables.

After dinner Alex excused himself and ran upstairs to get changed. But first he walked softly into the chamber adjoining his and tiptoed over to the crib. Nestled into the sheets, his daughter was curled on her side, her face resting on one hand, the other flung above her head. She looked so angelic asleep, not at all like the demon who had turned his life upside down in the last month.

He reached out and traced the shape of her arching eyebrows:
his
eyebrows. His heart thumped again with rage. How could Maria have kept her from him? He’d lost a whole year of Pippa’s life. Alex took a deep breath and pulled the sheets snugly up around her small round body.

In her sleep, Pippa didn’t look sad; she was smiling faintly. She never had the nightmares the doctor forecast. It was only when she was awake that the loss of her mother showed. Damn you, Maria, Alex thought fiercely. If he’d known … well, Maria would still have died, wouldn’t she? Someday Pippa would stop missing her mother. At least Maria had summoned him when she knew she wouldn’t live. And now Pippa was here, and safe. He bent down and kissed her forehead.

“Don’t worry, pumpkin,” he said softly. “I’ll be back by the time you wake up.”