Lisbon (25 page)

The temptation was great, but better judgment stayed his hand, though it did nothing to cool his hot temper.

He dared not do it—not now, not here. Dueling with Talybont—most certainly if he killed him—would bring Rowan Keynes too forcibly to the attention of the authorities. He might find himself imprisoned or—worse in his view, for he was contemptuous of prisons, having escaped from several—he might be cast out of Portugal, and it was harder getting a ship’s captain to turn his vessel about than it was to bribe one’s way past prison bars.

Of a sudden his dark eyes gleamed and he cast a quick look down at the excited girl beside him. A plan was forming in his mind and it came to fruition as he noted the fashionable inn the Talybont carriage drew up before. Quickly he told his driver to drive on.

“Charlotte,” he said.

Charlotte, who had been craning out of the carriage the better to view, on the highest hilltop above her, the great outer bastions surrounding the lofty pile of the Castelo de São Jorge, turned reluctantly.

Her violet eyes were shining, Rowan noted approvingly.

“Charlotte,” he said gravely, “I have a request to make. The woman just alighting at that inn—no, don’t look now, she is turning about”—he ducked his head until he again had a back view of the lady’s coiffure—“I want her humbled.”

Charlotte came out of her fascinated survey of the city with an effort. “What do you mean, ‘humbled’?”

Rowan’s mouth formed a grim line.

“That woman is Katherine Talybont. She broke our engagement, kept my betrothal ring, and married that fop up yonder”—he nodded toward Eustace Talybont, just then helping his wife to alight—“and made me the laughingstock of London. ” He paused, “I want her humbled. ”

“How?” wondered Charlotte.

“I will tell you later,” he said, and sat back.

Charlotte considered him sidewise through her long lashes. Rowan was indeed a very handsome man and she was surprised to hear him speak so bitterly about being jilted. He was so erect, so vital, so manly—how could any 
woman leave him for another? she wondered. Any woman who loved him, that is. She cast a quick backward look at the woman, who had now left her carriage and was sweeping into the inn with her hand resting lightly upon a lavender-blue-silk arm. Even in that brief glimpse she could see that Katherine was very beautiful.

"Did you love her very much?” she asked wistfully.

The answer was controlled, self-mocking. "I thought I did.”

"And she loved you?”

"Oh, she was forever declaring it.” He gave a short hard laugh. "But Talybont”—he nodded back toward the inn— "was the richer.”

Charlotte digested that. She considered the face, now in profile and looking carved from granite, of this man with whom she had made a hasty marriage of convenience. After overwhelming her with unwanted attentions that first night on board the
Ellen K
., Rowan had kept his word to her. He had slept across her door on shipboard—the reason for this, she knew, was to keep her from dashing out in a paroxysm of grief and hurling herself overboard—and he had offered her no hurt. Indeed, save for rather fiercely insisting that she eat her dinner and drink her wine last night, he had been unfailingly courteous. He had, now that she thought about it, saved her from both Lord Pimmerston and her uncle—and he had done it at the possible cost of his life. All of this she had accepted from him and given nothing in return—that is, if you discounted that brief wild bout in the cabin of the
Ellen K
.—and she realized now that she must have frightened him half to death by almost going over the rail of the vessel. She had driven him too far, and his control had snapped, but later he had seemed heartily sorry and ashamed of himself and had thenceforth acted as a perfect gentleman. And had he not taken separate rooms for them at the inn last night?

Rowan had been ill-rewarded for nearly throwing his life away for her, and now he was asking her a favor—just what favor was not yet clear.

"I will do all I can to help you,” she said with such
fervor that his eyes gleamed. “What do you want me to do?”

She had half-expected him to say, “Go to Katherine's inn and pretend to be a serving girl and find my betrothal ring and bring it to me,” but he surprised her.

“First,” he said in a gentler tone, “I am going to take you shopping. ”

Rowan was an extravagant man. She found that out at once, at the first shop he took her to—a cobbler’s, from which she emerged handsomely shod. Next, to buy fragile underthings, silk stockings, a dainty lace chemise as fine as any her mother had ever owned. And to a milliner’s, where he selected several hats to be held for them until he could discover what sort of gowns she would be wearing. The milliner, Charlotte noted, was most respectful and promised that the hats would be held until tomorrow.

But buying the gowns
—that
was a revelation. The ladies on St. Mary’s Isle had gotten themselves up bravely for their balls and routs, but they were mainly conservative in dress. Not so Rowan. In a shop with, surprisingly, an English shop mistress, he chose her clothes for her and Charlotte could not believe her eyes. Set out for their inspection was a large array of the latest “fashion dolls” from Paris, for France was now the acknowledged leader of the fashion world, just as Spain had been in the last century, and French styles and French laces were as eagerly snapped up in Lisbon as they were in London. The stiff little dolls were dainty miracles of fabric and lace, and, copying their tiny elegant gowns, local dressmakers would whip up full-size copies for ladies of flair and fortune.

Charlotte’s interest quickened as Rowan selected a slim-waisted full-skirted gown of a tawny gold that matched her golden hair delightfully. It was cunningly made, narrow from the side view but with a very wide skirt held out by light metal hip panniers. It was very sporty, its sleek tailoring giving it the look of a riding habit, while also managing to display Charlotte’s feminine charms in delectable fashion.

“Where will I wear it?” Charlotte asked, half-expecting Rowan to say they would save it for some distant occasion.

“Why, you’ll use it for riding about and for everyday wear,’’ he answered her absently. “It will look well with the bronze tricorne hat I selected for you back there and with those bronze leather slippers you are wearing. ’’ Charlotte took a deep breath. On St. Mary’s Isle not even her mother would have considered donning such a gown for everyday wear.

“I doubt I will be able to wear it riding about, she told Rowan ruefully, “for the skirt will take up more than the whole width of a carriage!’’ She estimated that the skirt must be almost four and a half feet wide across the front, more than double its width from the side view.

“The panniers that hold it out are flexible and will bend,” Rowan assured her absently.

“And fashion decrees broad at the front, narrow at the side,” put in the shop mistress in a reproving voice, as if Charlotte should know that.

“You will need gloves,” Rowan said, “but I believe we will purchase those from a glover.”

“Oh, but we have some very fine ...” began the shop mistress, and let her words dwindle away at Rowan’s cold look.

“A glover,” he repeated firmly. “For I see you have nothing in bronze kid. ”

Charlotte watched dizzily while Rowan added to their purchases a silken purse, some delicate handkerchiefs, and told her to remind him that they would also need pomades, perfumes, a comb for her hair, some hairpins so that it “would not fall down in that disagreeable fashion,” and perchance a bit of black court plaster to add emphasis to the whiteness of her skin.

Speechless as dolls in ball gowns were paraded before her, Charlotte overlooked that bit about her hair falling in “disagreeable fashion.”

“Which gown do you like?” asked Rowan.

“The pink brocade, I think,” she said tentatively.

“No, you shall have the lavender satin with the silver lace. Its hue complements your violet eyes and will”—his sudden laugh jarred her—“go well with Talybont’s blues. I 
am told his friends have nicknamed him Blue because he never wears any color save blue or lavender. ”

"To match his blue blood?” Charlotte quipped.

Rowan gave her an odd look. She had cast off her dreary expression and was entering into this thing. His dark gaze kindled. "Exactly,” he said softly. He turned to the shop mistress. "When will these be ready?”

"Well, we are very busy, sir,” was the nervous answer. "In a fortnight, shall we say?”

"No, we shall not say a fortnight. The day gown must be ready by tomorrow morning, and as for the lavender satin, my wife needs a gown to wear
tonight. 
He rose and fixed the shop mistress with a stern gaze. "I see we will have to go somewhere else, Charlotte. Someplace that can accommodate our needs.”

"But, sir!” The shop mistress was upset at the loss of so much patronage. "I suppose I could have the day dress ready by tomorrow morning,” she admitted doubtfully. Her mind was working rapidly. If she brought in her assistant's two younger sisters—yes, they could do it. "But the lavender satin has those intricate rosettes—it will take longer.” She was very definite about that.

"Then we must forgo the lavender satin,” Rowan told her ruthlessly.

She bit her lip. "Perhaps”—she sounded reluctant— "perhaps I have the answer, sir.” She clapped her hands and her assistant appeared. "Celeste, bring me the blue gown we have just finished. ”

"But that gown is for Madame Monserrat,” was her assistant’s scandalized protest. "We made it up from a fashion doll that she herself had sent from Paris!”

"I know, I know, but Madame Monserrat has not paid her bill from the last time.” The shop mistress’s voice hardened. "And the gentleman is paying cash, is he not?” Her questioning gaze sought Rowan, who nodded. "And we have already kept the gown for two weeks because Madame Monserrat has left for Oporto. We will deal with the matter when she returns. Hurry, Celeste, the gentleman must not be kept waiting!”

The gown Celeste brought out was of a delicate blue 
that Charlotte’s mother had called “Prussian blue” but which Rowan called “Copenhagen blue.” It reminded Charlotte of the skies over the Scillies. The fabric was almost tissue-thin. “Real Italian silk,” the shop mistress assured them with pride. “And”—she studied Charlotte’s slim figure—“with a little alteration it should be a good fit.”

“Try it on,” commanded Rowan, and Charlotte retired to a small dressing room and had the gown pinned up—for Madame Monserrat had not been blessed with Charlotte’s tiny waist, and was a shade taller—by the shop mistress herself and by two seamstresses who had magically appeared from a back room, one with a mouthful of pins. The gown’s wide flaring neckline just missed Charlotte’s shoulders. It was shield-shaped and executed a slightly dipping V directly over Charlotte’s forward-thrusting young breasts. Indeed it was cut so daringly low that it was Charlotte’s opinion that it revealed more of her breasts than it hid. Still, daring or not, the effect was devastating. Pearly white, the tops of her breasts rose and fell, the pink nipples barely obscured by the sheer material. At the point of each shoulder was a large lace rosette set into a frame of pale blue satin ribands, giving the effect of a small corsage on each shoulder. A delicate blue ruching marched down the tightly fitted bodice and when it reached the skirt became abandoned, with fluffy blue silk rosettes peeking here and there from great scalloped flounces. Brilliants were set here and there, making the dress sparkle as she moved, and the upper part of the three-quarter sleeves, which became a spill of white lace at the elbows, were frosted—along with the tip of the bodice—with tiny clear beads that gave Charlotte, standing before the French cheval glass, the appearance of rising from a flower-filled blue lake with tiny droplets of water glistening from her shoulders and bust and cascading spectacularly downward. Some of the beads were sewn on in short iciclelike groups so that they dangled, and the effect was that her young breasts seemed to quiver at the slightest breath.

Charlotte had never even imagined a dress like this.

“And with your hair up—so,” said the shop mistress, lifting Charlotte’s hair impatiently when they came out for 
Rowan s viewing. “And with—what do you think, Ada, a small coif?” And when the seamstress with the mouthful of pins shook her head, “No, I suppose not. Perhaps some lace ruffles for her hair?” she suggested to Rowan.

Rowan was studying his dazzling wife with pride. “No,” he said with decision. “A plain blue satin riband to twist in her hair, long enough to allow it to cascade down over her shoulder. And blue kid gloves—with brilliants if you have any. And then we must hurry back to the cobbler, Charlotte, for now you will need pale blue satin slippers with very high heels.”

“Ah, perfect!” cried the shop mistress, clasping her hands as if in prayer. “The alterations will be completed by tonight—it may be a trifle late,” she added anxiously.

Rowan paused and frowned. “No, it must be ready this afternoon for my wife to wear to dinner,” he said. For who knew when the Talybonts might leave Lisbon? Who knew, they might be booked for sailing on the morrow!

“Oh, but, sir!” cried the flustered shop mistress. “My ladies”—she indicated the seamstresses, who were looking at each other with resignation—“would have to drop their other work that is promised for this afternoon—”