Chapter 4

 

The following Tuesday, Charlotte, her aunt, and her maid visited the mantua-maker. Usually her aunt arranged that they came to her home, but Charlotte insisted on the visit, saying she would appreciate taking the air in Green Park afterward.

She dropped the hint carelessly, knowing her aunt would take her up on it. Aunt Adelaide was sweet on a gentleman from Hampshire who was presently visiting London. Charlotte’s suggestion that they visit the park was tantamount to giving Aunt Adelaide permission to discreetly let him know where she would be.

That was the first part of her plan.

The mantua-maker was probably the stuffiest in town, but she had served the late queen, and Charlotte’s father, cognizant of his consequence, insisted on his daughter using her. But Miss Wilson’s establishment was in Bond Street, close to many others, including drapers’ shops.

For once, Charlotte would do what she wanted. She would not wait for the menfolk to make up their minds to allow her to do something. This was her time and her day. Even if she only had one day in her life where she did as she wished, she would have it and take the consequences.

Whatever they were.

When they arrived at the bottom of Bond Street, Sir Lucas Shapcott was loitering outside, as if browsing and passing the time of day. Charlotte had discreetly encouraged the burgeoning but promising romance between the pair. Her father’s sister was as intimidated by him as everyone else, but the moment Sir Lucas had seen her, he had made a play for her. Rejections turned to gentle conversation and a tentative friendship, so knowing she needed a distraction today, Charlotte had conveyed a discreet note to him, informing him where they would be. Taking a walk in the park, she’d found a boy who, for a shilling, had taken her note. She was glad to see the baronet. For all she knew, the boy could have taken the money and dropped the note in the nearest gutter. But all was well.

As the carriage stopped, he glanced at the shield on the door and then took a closer look before smiling broadly and striding forward. Charlotte sucked in a breath and then carefully controlled the way she breathed out, lest her aunt notice.

That was the first part of her plan. Charlotte was not adept at such complex devices, but she had worked out every step, carefully planned it. An element of risk remained. Risk made Charlotte nervous. She had five guineas in her pocket to bribe her maid with, but Aunt Adelaide needed a bit more managing.

After a deal of chitchat, Charlotte brought up the topic she wanted to address, praying Sir Lucas took her carefully dangled bait. “I wished to go to Green Park when we had finished at the mantua-maker’s. It is such a fine day, do you not think?”

“It is a very fine day. I would be happy to accompany you,” Sir Lucas said promptly.

He would be an excellent match for Aunt Adelaide. Sir Lucas was a widower with grown children who no longer demanded his time. All he required in a wife was companionship. He was tall and a little on the portly side, but he could chivvy Aunt Adelaide out of one of her melancholy moods. Charlotte rather liked the idea of playing matchmaker. “You could go now. My maid is with me, and if I go directly into the shop, we may walk up to meet you afterwards. Nobody would object to that.” Green Park lay very close to the shop. She flicked out her fan and plied it vigorously. “The day is warm, and likely to grow hotter. The fresh air will do you good, Aunt Adelaide.”

And her aunt would not be there to report what Charlotte did to her father. Because Charlotte was about to misbehave.

Charlotte reminded her aunt of the headache she had woken with that morning and how tonight would be a very long one, with the opera and two balls afterward. At the end of ten minutes, they had finally persuaded Aunt Adelaide to allow Sir Lucas to take her to the park.

As Charlotte watched her aunt go off with her beau, triumph curled through her. She had done it. Small deceptions apart, Charlotte was a good and obedient daughter, but the effort was killing her. She needed these victories to remain sane and healthy.

Turning, she very nearly cannoned into a broad silk brocade-clad chest, the gold threads dazzling her in the bright sunshine. Only his hands on her forearms prevented her from doing so. Her heart pounded as she looked up into the face she knew she’d find. “Lord Valentinian!” Already she knew his touch.

He stepped back and swept a low bow. When he rose, he was smiling. “My dear Lady Charlotte! You are well?”

No breathlessness or surprise covered his features, but for a bare second, she had let her mask fall. She knew it, and knew he had seen it. No matter. Val would not let her down and gossip, even if he had noticed her discomfiture. “Perfectly, thank you, sir. I am going to the mantua-maker’s.”

He glanced around and pulled a face. “Not this one, surely? Miss Wilson caters for the…more mature lady, does she not?”

“She served my mother, and now she serves me.” She let him see her opinion on that, pulling down her mouth and giving an infinitesimal shrug.

He laughed. “If you will permit, I can show you the establishment my sisters frequent. It is but a few doors away.”

She frowned, shooting a glance at the shop she’d selected. The windows held drapes of fabric, and a few people had quoted it as their dressmaker. “I was going there…” She waved a hand.

“An excellent choice, but my sisters use Cerisot.”

A gasp escaped her. Why did this man always take her off guard? “But she doesn’t take everybody. She has a careful selection of clients. Last month, she turned away a duchess!” And she was expensive. Although Charlotte had been hoarding her pin money, she doubted she could afford Cerisot.

“Of course you can visit her.” He leaned forward. “You will soon be a Shaw. We have discounts.”

The low voice, his breath against her cheek vividly brought back their encounter in the garden. The scent of roses, heady and seductive, swam into her senses, and she sucked in a gust of air.

He retreated. He appeared perfectly normal except for the darkening of his eyes.

“Then I would be honored.” Still breathing a trifle too quickly, she let him guide her to the shop while her maid scurried behind them. When Charlotte glanced behind, she smiled sweetly. Hunter glared back.

“I will take the blame,” Val said calmly. “Have the bill sent to me.”

“No indeed! I will pay!”

To her relief, he didn’t argue. “Then I will send it to you, if you wish. That isn’t the point. If I choose to present you with a gift, I am perfectly entitled to do so, in the eyes of your father. We are still betrothed, my dear.”

Yes, they were. She bit her lip. “I spoke to my father.”

“Then I will speak to mine.” His voice had gained distance. “I didn’t wish to anticipate you. It will be you who cries off. Don’t worry. I will contrive to create a scandal your father cannot bear to accept.” He laughed, but it sounded forced to Charlotte’s ears. “I wonder what it should be? Perhaps I should consult you. What would annoy your father most?”

“Shh!” She jerked her head to indicate Hunter.

His gaze turned sharp. “She spies on you? But she is your maid.”

“I know.” She gave that infinitesimal shrug again, knowing he would notice and understand.

A few lengths of fabric decorated the window of Cerisot’s establishment. The materials were so beautifully exquisite they did not need abundance to make their point.

He opened the door for her and stood aside. “If I never get to wear what I buy today, I will still die happy,” she said, breathing the words so quietly she was almost sure nobody heard.

He came in behind her and leaned close. “You will wear it.”

Charlotte shuddered at his proximity, reminded of their kiss. “You cannot promise that.”

He said nothing, but he might as well have said, “Yes I can,” because she heard the words deep in her mind. In the most private place of all where nobody penetrated.

The proprietress herself glided forward to greet them. “My lord.” She swept Charlotte up and down with an all-encompassing glance. “At last you bring us your betrothed. I have been waiting for the day.” She spoke as if people were not lining up for her services. She didn’t wait to ask what they wanted, as any other mantua-maker would have done.

Her French accent came and went, as if she had to remember to apply it, but Charlotte found it delightful. In any case, she wouldn’t dare upset the lady. She smoothed her hands down her skirts, suddenly nervous about her appearance.

“If you will come this way, I can assure you a private space to discuss your needs.”

She led the way to a private room. Inside a graceful sofa awaited, and a long table with several large books resting on it, as well as a gleaming mahogany tantalus containing a set of three cut-glass bottles filled to the brim.

“Burgundy, my lord?”

“Claret, if you please,” Val said. “The day is too warm for burgundy.”

“Of course.” She poured for Val and Charlotte, her movements neat and precise. She was a small woman, but gave the impression of being taller, as her posture was ramrod-straight. Then she gave Hunter a considering study before turning back to Val. “You may leave, my lord. Return in an hour, if you please.”

Val took the wine with a murmured word of thanks. “Oh, no, you don’t. I will stay. My betrothed needs my advice.”

Cerisot glided to the table, as if she were rolling on wheels. If it weren’t for the above-the-ground day gown that gave a glimpse of her delicate blue silk shoes, Charlotte wouldn’t have believed she had feet at all. She opened the first volume, grunted, and closed it again. She picked up the second as if it weighed nothing and brought it to the smaller table next to the sofa. “If your ladyship will care to give this your attention, I will show you the colors I consider best for you.”

The book contained samples of fabrics. Charlotte caught her breath and reached out to touch a printed blue silk. “That is lovely.”

“But not quite your blue, my lady. Here.” She flipped half a dozen pages and touched a square at the top. “I would make you a robe francaise of this, with a petticoat of ivory.”

For the next hour, Charlotte lost herself in a world of wonderful fabrics and designs.

Val interrupted occasionally, pointing out thread and lace he wanted her to have.

Only when her pocket watch chimed did Charlotte recall herself. She sprang to her feet. “I must go. I’m so sorry, but my aunt is expecting me.”

Val rose and nodded to the dressmaker. “We are deeply indebted for your time. How long will the gown take?”

“Do you have an event in mind?”

Charlotte shook her head. “The season is filled with events. I do not have a spare evening until the end of June.”

“A week,” Val said firmly. “Send the gown to Lady Engles’s London address and the usual arrangement for the accounting.”

“It is my pleasure, my lord.”

Her head spinning, and not from the two glasses of claret she had consumed, Charlotte left the shop.

Val accompanied her to Green Park, a tight-lipped Hunter scuttling behind them like some kind of big beetle. When Val made that comment to Charlotte, she barely suppressed her snort of laughter. “You are bad for my self-control, sir.”

“Then I am a success at something in life,” he said. “I will not leave a completely barren legacy behind me.”

She disliked that. “You are clever, handsome, witty…” She trailed off when she saw his broad grin. “You were joking.” Misery crept sluggishly through her veins. “I’m sorry. I cannot always see jokes.”

“You have not had the practice.” He guided her through the gates.

Of all the parks, Charlotte liked Green Park best. St. James’s had a beautiful waterway, where ducks and wildlife gathered, but Green Park was unpretentious. Especially with the small herd of cows kept there for people to buy a glass of milk straight from the animal. Business flourished, especially in the summer months. Charlotte twitched her hat to shade her face from the sun and searched for her aunt. “There she is.”

“With Sir Lucas Shapcott, I see,” Val said. He slowed his pace and turned his head to glare at Hunter. “Keep your distance.”

Hunter’s nostrils flared. Nobody spoke to her like that. Charlotte had another moment of triumph. She would miss Val.

“Thank you for today. I intended to make the purchase myself, even if my father sent the gown back, which he probably would have done once he saw it.”

“Then don’t let him see it until you wear it. Until it’s too late for him to change his mind.”

Her laugh rang around the park, and her aunt looked up. They were too far away for Charlotte to see her face, but not the way she was eagerly turning to her escort.

“You do not know my father,” she said bitterly to Val. “His word is law. He would slice the gown off me if I tried such a trick.”

“It’s not a trick. It is your choice to dress as you wish. What is wrong with what you have chosen?”

It was good of him to say her choice, but he’d had as much say as she, only because she had little experience at such matters. Choosing her own clothes was exciting but daunting. The difference was Val had ensured she was happy before she made the choice. She’d have ordered half a dozen and hang the expense, if she’d dared. That would have put her in hock for years, but she didn’t care.

Most of her larger bills went directly to her father. Consequently, her pin money did not amount to much. She had enough to buy stockings, gloves, shifts, and other necessities. The jewelry she had was mainly from the family vault and consequently old-fashioned, far too grand for most purposes these days.

“It is extravagant,” she said to Val, recalling her father’s strictures on other ladies. He would go home and dissect them all, before he turned on Charlotte and picked her appearance apart. “He will say that it is not a practical fabric, and it will have to be cleaned far too often. It is too fashionable and it will have to be remade next season. The fabric will not date well. It is far too extreme. It is too tight, the lace too fine.”

Val held up his hand. “Stop! I see his reasoning and condemn it all. You must not tell him I said that, if you please. However, I do not scruple to tell you that your father is far too much the great lord. He is a duke, it is true, but he must relax sometimes, surely.”

A year ago, Charlotte would not have noticed Val’s agitation, but now she did. His blue eyes sparked, and fine lines appeared at the corners of his mouth. Even her recounting of her father’s less harsh behavior had driven him to that. She did not dare tell him of the rest.

“Not that I have seen.” She bit her tongue before she told him how much time her father expected her to lavish on him. She would be back on duty when she returned home, attending him during fashionable visiting hours. Some thought him a doting father because he insisted on being such an important part of his daughters’ lives. Charlotte knew better.

Her shiver made him draw her closer. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing. A chill, that is all. I am perfectly well, sir.”

This man was far too perceptive. He had never been so before, had left her to her own devices during their long betrothal. What had raised his curiosity now?

The kiss. That kiss had opened her up. One touch of his lips had turned her into a wanton, someone she hardly recognized, except that the person who had responded so fervently to his embrace had been buried deep inside her. He’d woken her.

She would not wear the gown. She would send it back to Val unworn. That would appease her father and perhaps persuade him to expedite discussions with Val’s father to sever their connection.

So why did her heart sink at a prospect she wanted so much?

The bright day and the pleasure of her trip out melted away in the face of her unexpected sense of devastation at the prospect of losing him. She could not let herself grow even fonder of him than she had already. The disgraceful scion of a great house would go on his merry way and never realize how much letting him go had cost her.

She would make sure of it.