Shana Galen (7 page)

What finally woke her senses was the sight of the bed in the center of the room. It was not nearly as large as Dewhurst’s but it would certainly be the largest bed she’d ever slept in. The most beautiful as well. Fluffy and white as a summer cloud, the counterpane was the color of milk, turned down to reveal a froth of vanilla silk sheets. From an open canopy, ivory drapes of the thinnest silk descended in a V past the abundant pillows and lightly dusted the floor. It reminded Charlotte of the mosquito nettings she was so used to at home, and she stepped forward to finger the fine ma
terial. How many dollars—rather, pounds—had this material cost?

She might not be married to His Baronship in truth, but she certainly felt like a princess. The room was a suite fit for royalty—luxurious but tasteful and decorated in the Greek style. There were not many furnishings, as it appeared the room was rarely occupied, but what was there was of the best quality. Overall, the effect was rich without being ostentatious, understated without being too austere.

Whoever this Miss Dewhurst was, Charlotte had a feeling she’d like the girl immensely. She had taste—in furnishings, if nothing else. Charlotte looked about her, admiring the contrast between the dark cherry woods and the pale bed coverings and bright light streaming through the windows; the disparity between the simplicity of the naked, gleaming wood floor and the intricate style of draping over the large windows; and the austere white color scheme paired with rich, sumptuous, textured materials.

Charlotte glanced at Addy, who smiled knowingly. “I knew you was going to like it,” she said. “Reminds me of the house of Legare Street. Before.”

She didn’t need to say before what. Their fall from grace was too painful a subject to be spoken of directly.

But now Charlotte began to hope that perhaps
their luck had turned. What couldn’t she accomplish with the thousand dollars Dewhurst owed her? She might restore the house in Charleston. Buy back the family business. Buy Addy a servant so the woman who had worked so hard for Charlotte and her family could finally be taken care of herself.

Charlotte sat on the bed, then lay back, feeling the plush mattress sink deliciously under her weight. She rolled over, snatched a pillow, and hugged it to her. For the first time in months—in years—she began to feel hopeful. She reminded herself again that it would not do to become too used to Dewhurst’s home or Dewhurst himself. But she could enjoy it for the moment. “Addy, come lie here with me. It feels heavenly.”

Addy scowled. “Dewhurst gots me a good bed in the servants’ quarters. I gots no time for lazing about.”

“Oh, hush,” Charlotte said. “I’m not being lazy, I’m…adjusting to my new surroundings.”

“Is that what they call it?” Addy said, and Charlotte tossed the pillow at her. Addy threw it back, and Charlotte sent a volley of pillows at her, jumping up and running to the opposite side of the bed to avoid Addy’s retaliatory strike. She was laughing so hard that even Addy smiled, and Charlotte, overcome with giddiness, collapsed once again on the bed.

“Oh, Addy. I have a very good feeling about
this. Two days ago we were on a ship with nothing. Now look where we are! Our luck has turned.”

“Hmpf. I hopes so, Miss Charlotte. But yous still have to get along with that man.”

“Not a problem, Addy. We had a small discussion today, and I think he finally understands who has the upper hand in this ‘marriage.’”

“Hmpf,” Addy said again, and kept dusting.

I
n her explorations that day, Charlotte had discovered that not only were she and Dewhurst to sleep in close quarters, their bedrooms were actually attached via a dressing room door between them.

That night Charlotte sat on her bed, still in her black bombazine gown, and stared at the closed door. She’d locked it, not that she need worry her husband would throw it open and ravish her. She’d heard nothing but silence from his room and could only assume that meant he was still with his mistress.

And why that should bother her, she did not care to consider. It was not as though she wanted the mistress’s place in his heart. She wanted no part of his heart.

But a small part of her wondered if any woman had ever touched him deeply. She’d seen him go from warrior to fool to lord and back again. Who was the real Dewhurst? The devastating charmer who’d made her feel like laughing for the first time in years? The lord who made her so angry she wanted to kick him? The warrior who would never let his guard down because any sign of vulnerability was seen as a defeat?

She sighed. How was she going to protect Cade from a man like this? A man who would be relentless in his hunt and ruthless in his execution of “justice.”

She heard the door to Dewhurst’s bedchamber open and held her breath. She’d heard the valet go in and out before and did not automatically assume Dewhurst was home. And then she heard his voice. He was speaking to Wilkins, issuing directives, telling a story, exchanging ripostes. Charlotte crept to the dressing room door and tried to make out his words. Did he mention Cade? Had they caught him?

What about the mistress? Was she out of Dewhurst’s life?

Then all was silent, and Charlotte cursed under her breath. Now she’d never know. Unless…

She unlocked the door and turned the knob, ignoring the voice in her brain telling her,
Turn back! Turn back!
Charlotte crept forward, through the
dark dressing room, and stopped before Dewhurst’s door. Still no sound.

She glanced back at her room, all white and misty in the darkness, then turned and rapped on Dewhurst’s door.

For three heartbeats there was silence, and on the fourth, his door swung open and Dewhurst, dressed in black trousers and a white shirt, open at the collar, stood before her.

He cocked a brow and then inclined his head. “Lady Dewhurst. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Charlotte wanted to cut him with a sharp rejoinder. Instead she found she could not take her eyes from the bronze skin of his chest, visible in the V of his shirt. She could not help but stare at his hair. The soft curls glimmered in the candlelight. And then her gaze drifted lower to the tight pantaloons, the muscled calves, and his bare feet.

Charlotte’s gaze shot back to his eyes and saw he was watching her, allowing the perusal. “Have you seen enough?” he said with a half smile. “Or did you come hoping for more?”

Charlotte stammered, her mouth unable to form a reply.
Cade
, she thought.
Ask about Cade
. But when she found her voice, what came out was, “Did you dismiss your mistress?”

His eyes widened and he seemed taken aback.

Charlotte shook her head. “No, I meant to ask about Cade. I—I don’t care about the mistress.”

“Don’t you?” Dewhurst said, and his eyes were amused. “I think it bothers you that I’ve spent the evening with Josephine almost as much as it bothers me to know you’ve been thinking of dear Pettigru.”

“But I wasn’t thinking of Cade. I mean, I was, but not in the way you imply.”

“And I wasn’t with Josephine. It didn’t seem appropriate on the day of my marriage, though I can’t say I expected you to agree to much of a wedding night.” His emerald eyes swept over her, making her body throb every where his gaze touched.

“I’m not. What I mean is, I don’t want a wedding night.”

His gaze met hers again. “Then go back to your room and lock the door before I decide to see for myself whether you’ve got petticoats on under that dress.”

Charlotte took one look at his face, turned, and did as he suggested. Once she locked the door, she leaned against it, wondering if she should pull the dresser in front of it, then decided that if he really wanted entrance, not even the dresser would keep him out.

The role of besotted husband did not suit him, Freddie decided the next morning at the dining room table. Having had nothing to do but sleep the night before, he was up at the ungodly hour of nine
A.M
. and was waiting when Mrs. Pots di
rected Charlotte to join him. Despite their heated exchange the night before, Freddie had every intention of treating her arrival with no more interest than he showed when buttering his toast. But inexplicably, the moment she entered, he pounced.

“Madam.” He couldn’t stop the word from escaping his lips or his eyes from raking over her. Disapproval lanced through him. She was dressed in the same tattered black gown, and though he knew she had nothing else to wear, it rankled him to see her in it. He did not like the idea of his wife, even a woman playing his wife, wearing rags. “I can see we will have to put a new wardrobe at the top of our priority list.”

She eyed him from the doorway, half in, half out, gaze wary and defensive. “Not to worry, Your Baronship. I’m certain you’ll still be the belle of the ball.” She indicated his polished riding boots, buff breeches, and Clarence blue riding coat. Her lush voice ran over him like thick, warm honey. He might have retorted, but he was momentarily speechless. Dashed if he hadn’t prepared himself for her irritating American accent. It was a jolt first thing in the morning, especially when he couldn’t tear his attention from the way her full lips wrapped around the long, rounded vowels.

But she was more than ready for him this morning. Ready and willing to fight. Good. Her appearance in his room last night had thrown him.
He wanted to be back on solid footing. He was eager to spar, to show her who the true master was. He hadn’t forgotten that she was a money-grabbing colonist who would stab him in the back the second she was faced with a choice between her lover Pettigru and her “husband.” Freddie tried to speak and managed something resembling a growl.

“You’re in a pleasant mood this morning. As usual,” she said, raising a brow, then taking a seat opposite him.

He rose and signaled to the waiting footman, who approached with an offer of tea, coffee, or chocolate. Charlotte asked for coffee. When the beverage was before her, Freddie said, “As much as I enjoy trading insults with you, I have more important matters to attend to. As your failure at the lesson showed yesterday, your training will require a significant amount of time and effort, so I suggest we begin immediately.”

Her eyes, whose color for some reason still reminded him of warm sherry, heated further, an indication—he was learning—that she was displeased. Selbourne’s warnings and admonishments had not gone unheeded. This was a battle. It required strategy and finesse and a gentle hand. He’d need to reward her, subtly but effectively, when she bent to his will. But how did one reward a colonist?

Now, as Charlotte lifted her cup to sip the coffee, Freddie took the opportunity to slide the paper from under his napkin and peruse his notes.

Notes on the Training of an Upstart Colonist

1. Always remember that the colonist is the enemy. This is war. The colonist’s extraordinary beauty deception, rather, is a weapon.
   
2. Colonists have an intractable side. Begin each training session by establishing you are the master.
   
3. Colonists prey on perceived weaknesses. Do not end a training session until you have kissed her reasserted your dominance.
   
4. Colonists are attractive simple. Introduce new and difficult concepts by breaking them into small chunks or sequences of steps.
   
5. Colonists
   can
   learn. Reward obedience; punish failure.
   

Freddie folded the paper and shoved it in his pocket. He must have been more tired than he thought to have made so many errors. Not that these errors meant anything even resembling Selbourne’s insinuations of the night before. They were slips of the pen, not indications that he was
by any means or in any way, shape, or form
attracted
to the girl. Ridiculous. She was a colonist, for God’s sake.

At least the revised strategy sounded promising. Now to begin…He glanced back at Charlotte, trying to determine whether he’d established himself as master this morning. She raised a brow at him, then nodded at the sideboard. “Are we to have guests for breakfast, sir, or is all of that food to feed you and me?”

Freddie turned to the sideboard, covered with meats, cheeses, pastries, and fruits. There did not appear to be any more food than usual, but perhaps she was hungry and afraid of eating too much. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember when he’d last seen her eat. “You are welcome to have as much as you like,” he said, then remembered rule five. Would not food qualify as a reward? “You may have as much as you like,” he repeated, then added, “after you have mastered the order of precedence.”

At his words, the hand bringing the coffee cup to her mouth stilled. It hung suspended between the table and her lips for almost a full minute before she slowly lowered the cup to the table, setting it silently aside. “Lord Dewhurst, forgive me. I cannot have heard you correctly.” Her tone was sweet as peaches in cream, but when her eyes locked with his, he could see the kindling of a spark. “Surely you do not intend to imply that I am
to be treated no better than a dancing bear, denied food until I’ve performed to your satisfaction.”

Freddie heard a snort behind him, and looked over his shoulder in time to catch the footman valiantly working to suppress a smile. He made a mental note to lecture the chit on etiquette before servants, but as he obviously could not trust her at present, he waved the servant aside. “Thank you, Andrews. You may see to your other duties.” The footman straightened, gave a stiff bow, and disappeared through the servants’ door. Freddie turned back to his wife. Hadn’t he made his mastery abundantly clear? Dashed typical that he was saddled with a slow learner.

“Miss Burton—eh, Lady Dewhurst, I should say. In a few days, you will appear in front of the most powerful men and women of the world in the role of my wife. But for a slip of paper, you are indeed my wife. You sleep in my house, you breathe my air, you will wear clothes I have furnished and eat food I will provide. I am but a little familiar with the laws of your American colonies, but here in civilization, when a woman marries, she and all she owns become the property of her husband.”

At the words her hand clenched on the table and color rose in her cheeks.

“Therefore, in the eyes of this household, the
ton
, and everyone who truly matters, you are mine. My chattel, to do with and treat as I will. If I say
you will not eat until you have mastered the curtsy, then you will not eat until you curtsy as well as the Queen. If I say you do not sleep until you can recite the names of every member of the House of Lords, then you will not sleep until each gentleman’s name is as familiar to you as your own.”

Her jaw was set now, but Freddie could tell he had finally captured her attention. After this, molding her to his will would be easy. He strolled to the chair where she sat, determined to ram home his last point.

“And if I tell you to fall on your knees and polish my boots, you will do it or suffer the consequences.” He winced a bit at the last. That had come out harsher than he’d intended, but it was more important to show strength at first. He could always praise and reward her later. He peered down at her, momentarily disconcerted at the stubborn set of her jaw, then her face softened, and he saw he had won.

“I see,” she said, voice low and thick. “So you will not cease until you have me on my knees before you?”

He had not said it exactly that way, but now that the image was there, he was not opposed to allowing it to linger: the colonist on her knees before him, her head bowed, red hair spilling down her shoulders. His hand itched to capture a fistful of those fiery tresses.

“Well then,” she said, lifting her coffee cup. “If
that is the way it must be, you leave me but one choice.”

His heart stuttered in his chest as she slid her chair back. Was she going to fall to her knees before him right now? Should he allow it? Could he refuse? He gripped the table, mesmerized then perplexed as she reached out and dumped the hot, wet remains of her coffee cup down the fall of his buff breeches.

Charlotte set the cup down and brushed her hands. That would teach the arrogant man to treat her like one of his dogs. Lord, but she’d thought they’d established who had the upper hand last night. Was she stuck with a dim-witted husband? The dimwit was looking decidedly stormy, so she rose to leave, just as Andrews opened the door and announced, “Lady Dewhurst and Miss Dewhurst.”

Dewhurst froze, a napkin clutched to his nether regions, and Charlotte blinked as two creatures frothed in muslin, lace, and perfume swept into the dining room. Now what?

“Freddie!” The older woman’s voice held a note of censure and familiarity. Her gaze swept over Dewhurst as though she expected to see him changed into a lunatic with wild hair and mad eyes. But when she saw Charlotte, the woman halted and gasped, and Charlotte realized she’d become the spectacle here in Bedlam. Charlotte
glanced at her husband for guidance, but he only groaned. She studied him, then the woman, then Dewhurst again. Both were tall, blond, and far too full of themselves. Dewhurst was wearing a stiff cravat, fitted tailcoat, and tight breeches—now accessorized with one coffee stain and one linen napkin—and looked every bit the flamingo. The woman—surely his mother—wore a pearl gray morning gown, a starched pelisse, and a bonnet with more feathers than a peacock.

Finally Dewhurst moved, intercepting Charlotte’s arm before she could escape. “Mother!” he said in a tone that sounded contrived, even to her inexpert ears. “How good to see you. Tea? Scone?”

She glared at him in stony silence.