“Mr. Goddard will be arriving this afternoon to speak with your father,” her mother announced at breakfast.
The piece of toast Charlotte had been buttering snapped in two, and she managed to smear butter on her palm. She grabbed a napkin and wiped it off.
“What is he coming to speak to me about?” her father asked from behind his paper. Clueless Papa.
Her mother apparently thought he was clueless as well, but didn’t think of cluelessness as being charming. “About marrying Charlotte, of course,” she replied, frowning at him, and then at Charlotte, who had grabbed another slice of toast.
“I … I thought you told me I had until the end of the Season,” Charlotte said, trying to will her voice not to tremble. Or shout.
Her mother’s frown deepened. “It is nearly the end. There are not even two weeks remaining, and wouldn’t it be nice to have it all settled before everyone begins to leave town?”
No, it would not be pleasant at all. The opposite of pleasant, actually, although unpleasant didn’t even begin to cover it.
Charlotte took a nibble of toast as she composed her thoughts. They were currently racing among where David’s hands had been, and had not been, the vast unpleasantness of Mr. Goddard, Lady Radnor’s looks, and, of course, toast.
“If this is to happen, then I have to insist on being present during the negotiations.” Her mother looked blank. “You were not thinking of just handing me and my fortune over to Mr. Goddard, were you?”
Judging by her mother’s expression, she was.
“What negotiations can you mean?” Her mother’s face was getting pink, which meant she was either embarrassed or angry. Probably both.
“What happens if Mr. Goddard and I have children?” Heaven forbid. “He has children already; will my money just be handed to his son? What about my children?” she said, ending the words with the hint of a sob in her voice.
Her mother’s face softened. Good, she bought it. Perhaps there was a career for Charlotte on the stage along with Lady Radnor. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
No, because all you had thought of was getting your unmarried daughter off your hands. “You comprehend my meaning, then.”
“But your father can—,” her mother began to say, then both ladies looked at Charlotte’s father, who had lowered his paper and was regarding the females with an interested look in his eye.
“Her father can what?”
Charlotte and her mother glanced at each other, then both sighed. “You’d better be there as well, Charlotte.”
One win won. Now for an additional assault. “And once we are engaged”—which we won’t ever be—“I will require some time for my wedding clothes. You don’t wish me to venture into life as Mr. Goddard’s wife in my current clothing, do you?’
There was a pause as her mother considered that. A pained expression came over her face, which was when Charlotte knew she had won the second battle.
“That would seem to make sense.”
“Wonderful. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must change in preparation for Mr. Goddard’s arrival.”
“But he won’t be here until the aft—oh, never mind,” she heard her mother say as she left the room.
She ran up the stairs, her mind racing as fast as her feet. She hadn’t had a plan beyond staving her mother off until she came up with a plan, which thus far wasn’t the best plan she’d ever had. Not being a plan, precisely.
At least she knew the worst that could happen—the absolute worst—was that she would say no, her mother would be livid, and she would take herself off, along with her fortune, where no one would know her.
Where she could remember David’s touch, his kiss, his words.
Why didn’t this cheer her at all?
She darted into her bedroom and plopped down on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest. If only she could just say what she wanted—and didn’t want—without having to disappoint her mother and be a burden on her family.
Because even if she did live on her own, they’d always worry about her.
Her throat tightened, and she felt the sting of tears burn her eyes. She rested her forehead on her knees and let herself cry, sobbing out all the frustration and worry and more frustration she had in her heart.
If she could just … what?
What would her ideal future hold?
The tantalizingly forbidden image of her with David immediately rose to her mind. But they had made it clear this was temporary, and she wouldn’t jeopardize his return to India, knowing how much it meant to him, to his sense of personal satisfaction.
Besides, what did they have in common?
Beyond breathing, liking to eat food, being English, sharing a sense of humor, liking the way each other kissed, having strong opinions on fashion … oh, no.
She’d done it, hadn’t she?
She’d fallen in love with him.
That reality should have made her sob harder, but it didn’t; instead, she thought about all the joy and fun she could cram in with him in these last few days before he went back to being useful, and she returned to … well, she didn’t know where she would return to, but she was determined it wouldn’t be anywhere Mr. Goddard was.
Despite her mother’s hopes and aspirations, despite her own concerns about never being wanted for herself.
She valued herself too much to throw it all away on someone like Mr. Goddard.
Even if it meant she was alone for the rest of her life.
But in the meantime, she would not be alone. She would be with David.
***
Writing the column should have been a clever way to get her mind off her problems, but she found that when she put pen to paper, all the thoughts that were chasing themselves around her brain spilled out.
Instead of trying to force her brain back in line, however, she wrote everything down, laughing at certain turns of phrase she’d come up with and sighing over some of the ideas she realized she had inside.
She could see why Emma liked doing it so much now—it was a way to express herself without revealing who she was, and thus risk Society’s scorn and mocking. Oh, she didn’t doubt but that there were other young gentlemen and ladies who shared her opinions, but it would always be people such as Anne’s brother, Charles, who dictated how people thought they should behave and react.
It wasn’t fair, but she did it, too. After all, she deliberately dressed herself as she did not just because she liked what she wore. She used it as a weapon, as a disguise, and only certain-sighted people could see through it to the real Charlotte.
Not to mention, it totally aggravated her mother.
She finished the last batch and tucked them into an envelope, sighing as she sealed the letter closed. These would be the last ones she wrote; the column was done when Society’s Season was finished, and she wouldn’t be expected to continue, not when Emma was available.
She was proud of her work with them, proud of having been able to express so many of her own thoughts and have them read and enjoyed by people who wouldn’t have listened to Lady Charlotte Jepstow.
But she knew that if they did know, they would be horrified, especially given the ideas in some of the last few columns. It was a good thing it was over soon, since every time the column appeared, she ran the risk of someone finding out who was writing it, which would cause more scandal than anything she had ever worn, even including the evening gown with all the butterflies.
She pulled the bell for Sarah, holding the envelope tightly. So much was coming to an end, and she still had no idea what would be in her future. Not just her future future, as in ten years from now, but her immediate future, as in a month from now.
Although, she smiled to herself as she waited for her maid, she was hoping her immediate future would involve her being able to see David. To ask him all the questions she had in her mind and find out precisely what would have been next if they had spent more time on the Terrace of Touching.
Gotam walked in, holding the paper, giggling in a way that gave David a prickly feeling as he sat at his desk. “Have you seen this?” he asked, holding the paper out.
“A paper? Yes, Ox, I am familiar with them.”
Gotam shook his head—perhaps at David’s weak attempt at a joke?—and tossed the paper onto the desk, where it made the things he’d been working on leap into the air and cascade to the floor.
David ignored them, and that prickle becoming more persistent as he saw the title of the column: “What Not to Bare.”
“Is this your way of offering fashion guidance? Because if it is, you can just tell me if you don’t like what I’m wearing.”
Gotam dropped into the chair at the other side of the desk. “I’m not the one who wants to see you less clothed. But whomever writes this appears to wish for it very much. Look,” he said, putting his finger to the words.
Of course, we have to say, there are some people, a very few people, who look their best without any augmentation at all. Who are, in fact, so beautiful to look at that any distraction from their beauty just reduces its impression.
London Society has such a person, at least one by our count. We just wish it were acceptable to have him walk about as naked as the statues in the British Museum.
Oh, how we wish that.
David finished reading and just stared at the paper. The prickle was a torrent down his spine now, and he couldn’t figure out which emotion was uppermost in his mind—anger, embarrassment, or pride. He knew enough about his effect on people to know it was him the columnist was referencing—he couldn’t pretend otherwise, even though his modesty might demand it.
“It’s you,” Gotam pointed out, helpful as always. “It has to be you. As far as I’ve heard, you’re the best-looking man in Society these days, and the reference to the museum—you’ve visited there lately, haven’t you?—seals it. It’s you, Mr. Gorgeous.”
“So what if it is? It is not as though I had a part in it. I don’t know who this”—he bent forward to read the name—“Fashionable Foible is.”
Gotam shrugged. “Anyone who’s seen you who can put pen to paper, I imagine. It’s hardly scandalous; I wouldn’t be concerned.”
That hadn’t crossed his mind, the possibility of scandal resulting from the column. But Gotam was correct. It wasn’t anything he should worry about. Of course people would talk and speculate, but it wasn’t something over which he had control.
“Is Lady Charlotte visiting today?” Gotam asked, a more-than-merely-curious tone in his voice.
“With her maid, Sarah?” David teased, seeing the red stain of a blush underneath Gotam’s dark skin. “I am not certain. I saw her last night”—and came close to stripping her naked on a terrace—“but she did not say if she would be able to visit.”
Which made the knock at the door seem remarkably well timed. Gotam nodded to David, his face brightening as he walked to the door to open it. David heard the murmur of voices and spent the few moments before she arrived trying to calm his mind. And other things.
“Lady Charlotte,” Gotam announced, his eyes holding a special gleam that meant David would be in for teasing later. As though he wasn’t in for teasing every day.
She walked in, that delicious smile playing about on her mouth, a matching sparkle in her brown eyes. “How are you, Lord David?” she said, tilting her head in her usual questioning mode.
“Excellent, Lady Charlotte,” he replied, moving forward to greet her. He met Gotam’s eyes and nodded, and Gotam withdrew, shutting the door behind him.
“I have so many questions,” she began.
“Of course you do. Let me provide some answers.”