How to Please a Lady (10 page)

“I'd make a terrible wife in truth, Charlie. I don't know how to cook or clean or do any of those other things a husband demands.” Rose found herself wincing. She had not meant that to come out quite the way it had, and found herself quickly explaining to a silent, inscrutable man. “That's not what I meant. It's not that I wouldn't want to. With you. But of course I don't. It's nothing against you. You're a fine-looking man and I imagine any woman would . . . Oh, God.” She slapped a hand over her mouth to stop herself from saying more.

“My lady,” Charlie said, putting things to rights by using her title. “I know what you meant.”

“Do you? Because I don't. Oh, Charlie, I'm so confused.”

He chuckled, and Rose resisted the urge to give him a smack.

“You've been through something, Rose,” he said quietly. “And it's going to take some time to get over it. But someday quite soon, you'll be back to your old self, kissing your beau and looking forward to walking out with your new fiancé.”

Rose snorted. “Kissing a beau.”

Charlie turned back around and said quite near, “What is so amusing?”

“Nothing,” Rose said quickly.

“You've never been kissed, have you?”

“Of course I've been kissed.”

“Where?” Charlie demanded, clearly not believing her.

“At my ball,” she said with a small sniff. “And other places, of course.”

“Not where as a place, but where on your person? Cheeks and hands don't count.”

“Oh,” Rose said, slightly crestfallen. “Then I've been kissed a dozen times at least.”

“Liar.”

“Charlie Avery, how dare you say such a thing? You are hardly in a position to know whom I have kissed and whom I have not kissed.”

“True enough,” he said, sounding rather grumpy.

Rose let out a sigh. “I was lying. I haven't been kissed.” This was said so quietly, Rose was fairly certain he wouldn't be able to hear her.

“I thought so.”

She stuck her tongue out at him even though it was far too dark for him to see. “It's all a bit of nonsense at any rate. Kissing and romance and all that. It's nothing I'm interested in. Not one bit. When Weston showed interest in me, I was so relieved I wouldn't have to participate in the husband search any longer. I pity girls who fancy themselves in love.”

“Do you really?” He sounded almost sad.

“Of course. For one, it's impractical, especially for the aristocracy. Marriage is a business matter, an arrangement. Love only complicates everything.”

“You sound like you're repeating something you've heard a dozen times, Rose. You cannot truly believe that. What of your brother and his wife?”

“Marcus?”

“No, Adam. He and his wife seem to like each other enough.”

Rose pursed her lips; Charlie was right. Adam and Georgette loved each other madly. Marcus, on the other hand, did not seem nearly as happy in his marriage. Still, she recalled his courtship and it certainly had seemed as if he and his fiancée had adored one another. “I suppose they do,” she said reluctantly. “But they are newly married. I rarely see couples who've been married for any length of time staring into one another's eyes like lovesick calves. I've never seen my parents touch each other in affection and certainly never saw them kiss.”

“That's too bad,” Charlie said softly. “Kissing is lovely.”

 

Good God, now all Charlie could think about was kissing her. Kissing her long and deep, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, tasting her. She had the most beautiful mouth, soft and pink. He didn't know how many times in the past year he'd caught himself looking at her mouth. Thank goodness she was blissfully unaware.

It seemed as if everyone on board ship knew he was completely gone over his “wife” except for the lady in question. Roger Browne had nudged him on more than one occasion when he'd caught Charlie staring at Rose with less than pure thoughts. “You don't have to wait until bedtime to use your stateroom,” he'd said with a wink. Charlie had given the man a weak smile, envying his married state fiercely. Imagine having a wife who was willing any time he was? Who loved him and couldn't wait until they were alone. More than once, he'd seen the Brownes give each other a look, and then disappear after saying a polite farewell.

It was such a mistake to look at Rose, to imagine kissing her, because his body would react in an obvious way, leaving him aching and uncomfortable. He simply couldn't stop himself. He needed some release, but privacy on board ship was nonexistent and he certainly couldn't take care of himself with Rose in the same room. Charlie was on edge, and talking about kissing was enough to make him harder than hell, enough to make him more reckless than he should be.

“Maybe your first kiss should come from a friend and not a beau.” Damn, he'd actually said that aloud.

Her silence was answer enough. He'd no doubt disgusted her. Had he forgotten who he was? He was not her friend, he was her servant. His mortification made him physically ill. Maybe she hadn't heard him?

“Do you think so?”

It had been a full minute between his comment and her answer. A full minute of gripping his legs with shaking hands, so horrified was he that he'd actually uttered those words aloud. And now she had answered him. In a matter of speaking.

“It would mean nothing, you see. Probably a very bad suggestion.” He held his breath, his entire body taut, not knowing what he wanted her to say. Of course, he wanted to kiss her, but he wanted to
kiss
her, not pretend it was some sort of lesson. Then again, he really wanted to kiss her no matter what the reason.

“Yes. Very bad.” She didn't sound at all certain. “But if we did kiss, at least I could honestly say I'd
been
kissed. Should anyone ask.”

The relief that Charlie felt was nearly dizzying. “Very true. And I'll let you kiss me, so there will be no doubt about who is kissing whom.”

“Oh, Charlie,” she said, almost sounding weepy. “You are the kindest man I know.”

Guilt gnawed at him, but not enough to change his mind. For nearly two years he'd imagined what it would be like to kiss Rose, and now he finally had his chance. He turned, his left arm resting on her mattress, the other straight by his side, right hand pressed flat against the rough wood floor. Then he felt her hand, just one, spanning his cheek, her fingertips at his jaw so that she might pull him toward her if she wanted to. Instead, she moved forward, keeping him still, until her nose butted up against his, making her laugh.

“You have to tilt your head just a bit,” he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. He closed his eyes, even though it was black as pitch in the room.

“Tilt,” she whispered, her mouth so close to his, it was all he could do to keep that hand planted firmly on the floor and not drag her to him. And then, heaven on earth found him when her lips touched his, soft, hardly felt, but by God the most glorious thing that had happened to him in his adult life. She withdrew and he could almost picture her face, with her brow likely furrowed. It had not been much of a kiss. “There, we've kissed,” she said, but she was still so close he could feel her soft breath against his face.

“Have we?”

“Haven't we?”

“We've touched lips. We have not kissed.”

“Isn't that the same?”

Charlie chuckled. “Let's try again. I'll show you, just a bit, and you can stop anytime you'd like.”
But please, please don't stop, at least not too soon.

This time, she pulled him toward her and planted her lips against his. “Now what?” she asked against his mouth, her voice slightly muffled, and he smiled.

“You're smiling. Don't laugh at me, Charlie.”

“No. I wasn't.”

He moved his mouth, just a bit, just enough to show her how it was done, this kissing stuff. He pulled at her lower lip and he thought he heard her gasp, but the engine noise was too loud and he couldn't be certain. He teased her, first her bottom lip, then her top, then slanted his head a bit more, deepening the kiss just a bit, just enough to show her but not enough to frighten her.

When she moved her lips against his, finally, finally, he fisted his hands to keep them where they were, for his body was screaming to pull her close. She sighed—he felt it more than heard it—and he pulled back more for self-preservation than anything else.

“There. See? It's not awful.” He knew his voice sounded hoarse, his tone gruff, but he couldn't utter a gentler sound at the moment.

“No, not awful,” she said, sounding far less affected by the kiss than he. “Thank you, Charlie.”

Thank you, Charlie
. It felt like a punch to his gut, those words. Because they were uttered precisely the way she would have thanked him for saddling her horse or handing her up. Thank you, Charlie.

He had to leave, had to get out of this room where his stupid desires, his foolish dreams seemed to be laughing at him. What the hell had he been thinking? That he could trick her into kissing him and then she'd fall head over heels in love with him and want to marry him instead of some wealthy American stranger?

He stood and climbed up on his bunk, staring blindly at the ceiling, and waited perhaps five minutes before saying, “I'm going to get some air, my lady. I'll be right back.” He jumped down from his bunk and walked out of the tiny cabin, not aware that he'd called her my lady until the door was shut. How quickly he reverted to the servant when he was treated like one. In that moment, as he pressed the back of his head painfully against the stateroom door, he hated himself. He hated what he represented, he hated his lust and love for Rose, he hated the fact he was poor, that his hands were rough, that his boots were dull and worn. Charlie stalked around the common room, finally settling at a table, alone in the dark, unwilling to return to the stateroom where he would have to listen to her lilting voice, breathe in her perfect scent, wish he could lie next to her.

Thank you, Charlie.

Bloody hell, if he wasn't the biggest fool on the face of the earth.

T
hank you, Charlie.

Was that truly what she had said? Perhaps she could have said, “Thank you, Charlie, for confusing me utterly, for making me doubt my plan, for making me feel things I've never felt before and no doubt will never feel again.” It wasn't his fault. She was the one who'd asked for a kiss, and it had been glorious. The fact that it had been glorious and she was thinking about kissing Charlie again only made everything more confusing. One didn't kiss the Charlies of the world. They were as off-limits to her as she would be to them.

She had always been aware, on a certain unemotional level, that Charlie was a good-looking man. But it had very nearly been like having handsome brothers. She could acknowledge her brothers were stunningly good-looking, like appreciating a painting. She simply had not thought of Charlie in that way. Until now. Until he'd pressed his beautiful mouth—and it
was
beautiful (another thing she hadn't truly noticed)—against hers and kissed her. Perhaps the most horrible thing was that she wanted another kiss. And that would be so, so wrong.

Rose gnawed on her knuckle, horrified by what she was feeling. She was also excruciatingly aware that Charlie had called her my lady before he'd left, a marked reminder that what they'd just done was not to be repeated. Level heads would have to prevail, and she thanked goodness that Charlie possessed a far more level head than she. Had he left because he was embarrassed by the kiss? Remorseful?

Sometime during the night, Rose fell asleep, only to be awakened by Charlie entering their stateroom and announcing breakfast was being served. She sat up carefully, rubbing her bleary and burning eyes, and scowled at Charlie for no other reason than that he looked entirely too chipper this morning. She wasn't even certain if he'd returned during the night and gotten any sleep at all. He certainly looked well rested. And handsome, with that glorious curling blond hair, scruffy three-day beard, and the most piercing blue eyes she'd ever seen....

What was
happening
to her? She'd known Charlie her entire life and never thought of his eyes as piercing.

“Every morning it's nearly impossible to get you up and we nearly miss breakfast, which, if you haven't noticed, is the only meal of the day worth eating.”

“I'm up,” Rose said, sounding grumpy and tired—because she
was
grumpy and tired. She stood and was face-to-face with Charlie, her eyes perfectly even with his beautiful mouth. Ridiculously, she found it difficult to breathe.

“My lady.”

She immediately looked up, blushing hotly. “Rose, Charlie.” She lifted her chin and pretended her insides weren't a jumble of nerves.

“Rose, that kiss. I should like to apologize. It was wrong.”

Rose shook her head. “I kissed you, if you recall. No apology is necessary.” He took a step back, as if he was afraid she might launch herself at him and press her mouth against his. “Of course, it won't happen again. It was improper, given our circumstances.”

Charlie stiffened, but Rose forged doggedly ahead. “I do appreciate the effort, Charlie, truly I do. I wouldn't want you to think I am unappreciative. I also realize kissing me is outside the purview of your responsibilities and I recognize that if anyone needs to apologize, it should be I, for having put you in the position of being unable to refuse my request.”

Charlie said something beneath his breath and his blue eyes snapped with what looked a lot like anger, but he was so quick to recover, Rose couldn't be certain.

“I beg pardon, Charlie? I didn't quite hear what you said.”

“I don't want there to be any misunderstanding, Lady Rose. I kissed you because I wanted to, not because you asked me to. When I kissed you, I was not your servant, I was a man who wanted to kiss a woman. More fool I. If you'll excuse me.”

Ah, so he was angry. Quite angry. Rose watched in dismay as he spun around and stormed out of the stateroom, leaving her behind with her mouth slightly open in shock. She ignored his anger, his hurt, everything he'd said except one thing:
I was a man who wanted to kiss a woman.
For some reason Rose didn't want to examine too closely, she smiled and her mood brightened considerably. And she was starving.

 

During the first few days of the trip, Rose kept mostly to Charlie's side, but as the days progressed she found herself more and more in the company of the women on board, and in particular Charlotte Browne. Rose, as any young lady would, was well-schooled in the fine art of being a lady. As such, her needlepoint skills were excellent and she was pleased to teach Charlotte some of the more intricate stitches she had learned. The older woman was pleasant company and Rose felt guilty about lying to her. She was thankful Charlotte planned to live in Boston rather than New York, for that meant there was far less chance they would ever run into each other. How would she explain her “new” husband if they chanced to meet?

The two would spend long hours on the deck talking about their families. Charlotte with her four sisters and Rose with her four brothers, had endless stories to tell. It was rather nice to share her life with someone who didn't know her, and it was profoundly comforting to talk to her about her brothers and introduce them one by one. Being on a ship produced an honesty and forthrightness that Rose had never experienced before. She had always been careful not to put anyone she knew in an ill light, but Charlotte didn't know any of the characters in her story, so Rose found herself divulging things she wouldn't have dreamed of telling someone back home.

“Marcus is terribly unhappy, I think,” Rose said. Odd, she hadn't really ever thought about Marcus as being unhappy until she started talking about him with Charlotte.

“Oh?”

“It's his wife. She's quite nice and pretty and very friendly.”

“She sounds awful,” Charlotte said, laughing.

Rose pressed her lips together, unused to saying anything unkind about anyone. But it somehow felt so good to be honest for once.

“I think she's a bit too friendly. With everyone. She adores being the center of attention.”

Charlotte's eyes grew wide and she stopped stitching. “With men you mean?”

Rose furrowed her brow and examined a flower she'd just added to her project. “I have no suspicions whatsoever and feel awful even hinting at any impropriety, but yes. She's constantly surrounded by men and I think Marcus pretends not to care, but he does. I can see it in his eyes.” She stopped a moment, wondering if she should divulge her greatest concern about Marcus's wife. “And I fear she drinks rather too much.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I thought she would be perfect for him. He's the oldest, you remember, and so full of responsibility and his duty. Eleanor was light and air. She made him smile more than I ever remembered seeing him smile growing up. But now . . .”

“Now?” Charlotte prompted.

“He almost never smiles. I fear she's broken his heart.”

“That's terrible. Marriage can be so wonderful; I can vouch for that. But I have seen couples that seem so wrong for one another.”

Rose was quiet for a long moment, idly wondering if Charlotte thought she and Charlie were right or wrong. It was a silly thought, but Rose was curious. “What do you think of Charlie and me?”

Charlotte burst out laughing. “Let's just say I can tell you two are newlyweds. He reminds me of Roger when we first got married. I remember my mother telling me, ‘He's smitten with you, Charlotte. I don't think I've ever seen a man as smitten as that one.' And of course, she was right. He was. And I was. We still are,” she said softly. “He's a wonderful husband.” Charlotte winced a bit and kneaded the back of her head.

“Perhaps we should stop our needlepoint lesson today.”

“I have developed a bit of a headache. If you don't mind, I think I'll take a little nap.”

Rose stood. “Of course.” Rose buttoned up her coat and walked to the railing, where the wind was strong and had a decided bite to it. All the nooks and crannies on the deck were filled with those well enough to partake of the air. Below, many poor souls were sick and dared not venture forth on deck. Neither Rose nor Charlie had suffered anything but the mildest discomfort, but others had not fared so well. She wondered if Charlotte were finally succumbing to seasickness.

They had just three days left before reaching New York. By now, Mr. Cartwright had likely gotten over the shock of receiving her telegram announcing her imminent arrival. She'd been brief and vague about her visit, writing only that she would be arriving in New York on April twenty-ninth and would be going directly to his residence “to discuss a matter of great importance.”

Her parents had no doubt determined that she had departed for some parts unknown, for the telegram would have told them that it had been sent from Liverpool, but her name would not be on the ship's manifest as she was listed only as Mrs. Charles Avery. She prayed whoever was sent to fetch her didn't look at the manifest too closely and recognize Charlie's name. They would be looking for Dunford and would not find that name aboard the
Adriatic
.

Rose stayed on deck as long as she could, until the cold wind forced her below. The second-class salon was filled with couples, playing cards or cribbage. In one corner, an older man had brought out a violin and was playing softly to a small group. She found Charlie surrounded by a group of men, apparently fascinated by whatever he was doing. Edging closer, she craned her neck to see what was so interesting, only to discover that Charlie was holding one of his inventions—a device he'd created to remove horseshoes. Charlie was always creating odds and ends with the help of the village blacksmith. He would draw a picture and the blacksmith would create it. Charlie had created a dozen tools that made his life easier caring for horses.

“You should get a patent for that. It'd make you rich.”

Charlie snapped his head around to search for the man who'd spoken. “And why would getting a patent make me rich?”

“If you have a patent, you could make more and no one could copy your idea.”

“And where would I get the money for the materials and the labor to build them? I doubt I even have enough money to pay for the patent.” Charlie laughed. “I'll tell you what, though, that's an idea I'm going to put away for later. Who knows, maybe this little thing will make me a rich man. And if it does, I'll have you to thank and make sure you get your share. What's your name, sir?”

The young man blushed. “Arthur Slater. I'll hold you to that.”

Charlie laughed again. “I'm afraid that promise is a bit like a rooster promising an egg, but it's nice to think about, now, isn't it?” The men chuckled and Rose smiled, feeling unaccountably proud of Charlie. He looked up then and caught her eye, his smile slipping a bit before he recovered. “If you'll excuse me, lads, my wife is here to fetch me.”

He walked toward her, looking at his horseshoe tool thoughtfully, as if he'd never considered it might have any value to anyone else but him. As they walked toward the other end of the dining hall, Rose said, “I didn't really come to fetch you. I was curious what you were talking about that was so interesting to the other men. I had no idea men could be fascinated by a tool.”

“Neither had I.”

“I think you should try to patent it, Charlie. I can think of no reason you should not.”

“Perhaps,” he said, sounding dispassionate, but he took another long and thoughtful look at the tool before shoving it into his pocket.

 

That night, Charlie had the most erotic dream in his memory and woke up to the blackness of the stateroom with a painful erection and no way to assuage it. He was almost embarrassed, for in his waking moments he never would have allowed himself to think such carnal thoughts about Rose. Oh, he had carnal thoughts, but his dream had been downright indecent; he hadn't known his mind could actually conjure the images it had, at least not with Rose as the centerpiece of this lust. Now he'd be tortured with those images—real or not—in his waking moments and he knew it would be some time before he'd be able to get those thoughts out of his head. Hell, he could practically still taste her, the dream was so real. She had been so responsive, coming around him over and over, hot and pulsing, pleading with him to keep pleasing her. When he'd awoken, he'd been very near release. For several long minutes he relished the aftermath of the images, finally letting out a groan of pure frustration. He would never have her that way, never bury himself inside her, feel her slick heat, taste her arousal. Tease her nipples with his tongue.

“Jesus,” he said, rather too loudly.

Rose sat up and Charlie winced at the clear sound of her hitting her head against the bunk. “Charlie, what's wrong?”

She stood so her head was even with his, and by God, it took more strength than he knew he had not to put his hand behind her head and kiss her until the dream came true. He could picture her, her brown eyes drowsy from sleep, her hair pulled back in a messy braid, her lips soft and plush. He said another silent curse. “Just a nightmare,” he said gruffly.

He'd hoped that would be enough explanation and Rose would settle back to bed. It was a futile thought.