What Not to Bare: A Loveswept Historical Romance (5 page)

The blank piece of paper stared up from the desk accusingly. At least it seemed that way. The pen was not so mean-spirited; it just lay on its side, gently rebuking her for letting it sit there when she could be using it.

How in goodness’ name was she going to do this?

It was hard enough to dress oneself—she was proof enough of that—but to then have to dispense advice on what others should wear?

Perhaps that’s what she should do. Pretend she wasn’t herself at all, but a reasonable person who could dress reasonably.

Lord David had asked her why she was wearing so many colors. Which meant, she assumed, that somehow it was better to stick with just one.

Although perhaps the one in question shouldn’t be that rotted-peach color she’d had on earlier.

The thing about it was that dressing like everyone else just made her look like everyone else. It would also mean she might be able to shed herself of her nickname—just in time to get married off to the poor widower.

Ugh. She couldn’t think about that now. She had a column to write. One where she could dispense all the advice she knew must be running through people’s minds when they saw her—that was it. She would just have to pretend to be someone she was not.

Maybe for the first column, she would pretend to be Emma—what had she said? Yellow like jaundice?

She picked the rebuking pen up and began to write, the words pouring out of her onto the page as she giggled in glee.

She could do this. She
could
.

By the time she was finished with the first one, she’d almost persuaded herself to try to look like everyone else. Just to see what it would be like.

At least the column had kept her from dwelling on what her mother had said in the carriage—only a few weeks left of the Season, and she had to make something
happen. Something other than getting married to Mr. Goddard.

It was enough to make her wear boring colors and not eat. She’d barely choked down a few cookies at tea, and they were her favorite, similar to the ones her aunt sent from Scotland every Christmas. Her mother had smiled approvingly at her as she declined more of the treats, but Charlotte wasn’t doing it because she aspired to a sylphlike shape; she was simply too agitated to eat anything.

She had to show some sort of effort, or her mother would just get her betrothed right away, without waiting. And who knew? Perhaps there would be someone out there who might fall in love with her and not with her fortune.

She knew she was witty and intelligent and loyal, after all.

Although the same could be said of some dogs and many spinsters all across England.

When her maid, Sarah, arrived to get her dressed, Charlotte didn’t pick her favorite gown. In fact, she chose her least favorite gown, a soft rose color with barely any ribbons. And then allowed her maid to pick out the shawl to match, not anything Charlotte herself would choose.

She slipped tiny pearl earrings onto her ears and drew the matching necklace around her neck.

Meanwhile, her maid was busy brushing and styling her hair.

When she was done, she looked like every other young woman in Society. Not the Abomination; not a beauty like Emma; just plain Charlotte.

She hated it.

“You look so elegant, Lady Charlotte,” Sarah uttered with an incredulous tone. Of course, Charlotte had refused enough of Sarah’s wardrobe suggestions in the past. The woman must wonder what had happened to make her mistress be so amenable.

The sad truth was that it was a man. Or
men
, actually, because without the looming threat of Mr. Goddard, Charlotte would continue to be as she was: the Abomination, the blunt speaker with no chance of finding a husband. Now she had to give herself a chance. Which meant, she thought as she gazed at her plain, boring self in the glass, that she would tamp down her own self and allow this … this farce to appear in Society.

That it might give her perspective on writing the column was something she needed to keep in mind, as well. She couldn’t be another person if she still dressed like herself.

“Thank you for your help, Sarah. We’re attending the theater tonight, no parties after, so we shouldn’t be too late.” She stood as Sarah smoothed whatever errant wrinkles had dared to emerge in the fabric.

And looked at herself in the glass again. And frowned.

That how she looked would please her mother only added to her bitterness. That she was hoping ultimately to thwart her mother’s plans made her disguise a smidge more tolerable. Even if she felt like a fake. A tolerable fake.

Would anyone find her tolerable at all?

***

“Lord David.”

He heard her voice before he saw her. And then he didn’t see her—was she hiding behind a curtain or something?

The theater was filling up, but he should have been able to spot her right away.

“I’m right here,” she added in an exasperated tone. He looked to where the voice came from, and felt his mouth drop open.

She was—she was a vision.

A vision in boredom.

“How do you do, Lady Charlotte?” He tugged his mouth into a smile, but what he really wanted to say was “What are you wearing?”

Oh. He had uttered that aloud, hadn’t he?

She smiled—sort of. Her smile lacked the brightness she’d displayed earlier in the day, just as her gown, though acceptable, was mediocre, not memorable.

“You seem to ask me that a lot, Lord David. Tell me,” she said, tilting her head into her questioning pose, “do you ask every woman you know what she is wearing? Or is that particular question reserved for me?”

He already felt off-balance. How could he possibly answer in a way that wouldn’t be insulting? Of course, he’d already done plenty to insult her since meeting her just the evening before. In fact, he was hard-pressed to think of having insulted any woman as he had her.

He was truly a gauche-mat.

“Uh … reserved for you?” He sounded as unsure as he felt. And was pleased when that real smile, the one that had smitten him earlier, returned to her face.

“Excellent. And since you asked, I am wearing a gown, pink in hue. I presume you know what a gown is?” She continued without waiting for his reply. “And I also presume you know what is under my gown?” Now she paused, and he saw her swallow. “That is …” Her cheeks flushed the pink of her gown—the color of which he much preferred on her skin. “Never mind.” More pink. Almost scarlet.

“Why are you wearing what you are wearing, then, to be more precise?” This was not the way to convince her he found her fascinating.

There were more people arriving and a hubbub of conversation undulating all around them. She stumbled as someone bumped into her, and he caught her arm, steadied her, and stared down into her eyes.

Had he thought them plain brown before? Well, so they were, but they were a delicious plain brown, with different shades of brown swirling together in a mélange of brown.

Which sounded entirely uncomplimentary. Perhaps he ought not to mention how brown her eyes were.

She was answering his question, even though he’d almost forgotten he’d asked. “I wanted to look like every other young lady this evening. Not at all like me.” Her color was heightened, and she was biting her lip.

A lip, he thought, that he might like to bite as well.

“You wished to blend in with these other ladies? Prove yourself unexceptional?” He saw her flinch at the dismissiveness in his voice. “If that was your intent, you have succeeded. You now look like every other young woman in Society. Congratulations.” He bent his head down to her, still keeping his hand on her arm. “But wouldn’t you rather be exceptional, Lady Charlotte? Be someone no one could ever forget having seen? Prove
that you are more than the cut of your gown, of the curl in your hair?”

She stared at him as though he were speaking a foreign language. And perhaps he was.

“But—but you were horrified by how I looked. I saw it in your eyes when we first met.” She shrugged his arm away. “And you cannot tell me you knew you were to meet me. You thought my mother was introducing you to Emma, didn’t you?” She moved closer to him, her lovely brown eyes filled with a fierce intensity. “You are so handsome you could appear in anything, and everybody would think you were delightful. I am not as blessed in face as you, my lord.”

At least she hadn’t called him beautiful again. No, she wasn’t traditionally pretty, that was true, but there was a sparkle about her that made her intriguing, nonetheless. Made his duty not as onerous, in fact.

“And,” she continued, clearly now in a temper, “why would you want me to continue to be a laughingstock in Society?”

“I don’t,” he answered in a quiet tone. “And you’re correct. I almost cannot think when confronted with what you choose to put on your body, but that does not mean I do not applaud your inspiration to wear it. That is what I am saying.”

They were quiet as they continued to gaze at each other, and suddenly David was conscious of the ebb and flow of the theatergoers, sliding past them as if they were two rocks in a stream, embedded in the mud, not moving.

She broke the spell first, glancing down to the ground and mumbling something.

“Pardon?” he said, bending forward to catch what she was saying.

“Would you escort me to my seat, please, Lord David?” She sounded fragile, and achingly polite. As if she’d never called him beautiful or asked him a blunt question.

He felt his jaw tighten as he held his arm out to her. She took it, giving a slight nod, and he led her to her seat. He didn’t miss the look of shock on her mother’s face as they arrived. And felt a burst of anger that even her own mother would doubt her attractions.

He took an extra pause as he bowed over her hand. “Thank you for the pleasure, Lady Charlotte. I do hope you enjoy the play,” he said.

She dropped a quick curtsy and met his gaze. She no longer looked as though she
were upset; perhaps more rueful now. Unless he was just reading into things. He was normally excellent at gauging people’s motivations and emotions, but he was entirely unsure about this woman.

Except that he knew he would have to find a way to spend time with her. To fulfill his task, that was all, he told himself.

***

“I never dreamed it was even a possibility,” her mother said as Lord David made his way back to his own seat. Even his back was stunning—his hair curled darkly over his collar, just long enough to seem raffish, just short enough to continue to be ruly. His shoulders were broad, his waist slim, and his legs long.

Neither did I, Charlotte thought. Although she knew he found her interesting, for whatever reason. Even though she now knew he did not want to see her as a normal woman. His comments on her clothing choices made that clear.

So was she to be an amusement to him? He did smile at her, but she got the feeling he was in on the joke, rather than laughing at her. If only she were in on the joke, as well.

“Lord David and I have many things in common,” Charlotte said stiffly, hoping her mother wouldn’t ask what those things were. The only things that came to mind were breathing, being English, and … well, she hadn’t gotten his opinion on food yet, but she presumed he liked to eat certain things. As she did.

“What could you possibly have in common with Lord David?”

So much for hoping.

“Well,” Charlotte began, knowing her mother wouldn’t understand about breathing and being English, “Lord David is a font of information about all sorts of things. And I like to ask questions.”

Which wasn’t far from the truth. She had asked him questions, even though his answers had not always been helpful.

“Hm,” her mother said, her tone doubtful. Thankfully, the bustle on the stage indicated that the production was about to begin, so Charlotte was spared having to
elaborate.

Charlotte didn’t pay much attention to the play, except to note that there was entirely too much shouting. She kept looking over at where he sat, wondering if he was bored by what he was seeing, or intrigued because the exoticism of India was now commonplace, and London was now exotic.

If she could speak to him without his constant inquiries as to her choice of raiment, she might have a chance of getting an answer. Perhaps he would like it best if she were naked—then he wouldn’t have any questions to ask her at all.

And didn’t
that
thought raise some interesting possibilities. Because if she were naked, it would stand to reason he would be, as well.

She didn’t think any of the statues she’d seen in museums would be close to having the kind of beauty his naked form would. For one thing, it would be
his
naked form—not marble or some other cold stone, but warm, human flesh.

Plus, she didn’t think he would have a strategically placed fig leaf on his male parts. And that would be interesting to see as well.

She chuckled to herself as she imagined how she’d go about getting them into that situation.
“I have some questions to ask, Lord David, only you have to stop asking questions first, so let us both disrobe.”

That might not impart her meaning correctly.

And what
did
men wear under their clothing, anyway? She only had the slightest idea, since it wasn’t as though she’d thought about before.
Much
.

He didn’t wear a shift, as she did. Nor did he wear a chemise. Was he even wearing anything under his shirt, jacket, and trousers?

Hm. She could see how Emma found the fashion column intriguing, after all. Even if she were more intrigued by what someone was not wearing than what they might happen to put on.

By the time she’d pondered what he was or was not wearing underneath, plus observed various members of the
ton
in their habitual London finery, and endured her mother’s pointed comments, it was intermission.

There was an entire other half of the play to get through.

And suddenly she wished to be anywhere but sitting here, wearing her boring
gown and breathing with her boring English lungs.

She leaned over to whisper in her mother’s ear. “I will return shortly, just heading to the withdrawing room,” she said, even as her mother waved her hand at her to stop talking.