How to Please a Lady (18 page)

Genevieve glanced at Rose before saying, “Will you also be searching for a bride?”

Rose snapped out of her reverie. As they waited for Charlie to answer, Genevieve pointedly did not look at Rose. Rose knew this, of course, because she knew Genevieve, and she also knew how difficult it was for Genevieve
not
to look at her.

“I'm rather enjoying the life of a bachelor at the moment,” Charlie said, a small smile forming on his lips, and Rose suspected he was thinking about all his lady friends. “I suppose I may marry eventually.” He hardly sounded enthusiastic about the prospect.

“What sort of women do you prefer?” Genevieve asked. It wasn't the question but the way she asked it that made Rose want to throttle her.

“Opera singers,” Rose said without missing a beat.

Charlie took a bite of fine filet mignon and chewed slowly, looking very much as if he was trying not to smile. He even looked attractive chewing. How could that be possible?

“Actually,” he said, dragging his eyes away from Rose to look at his hostess, “I'd prefer someone respectable. That is all.”

“You don't care if she's pretty or intelligent or kind?” Genevieve asked.

“Of course, all of those things are important,” Charlie said, looking as if he'd taken a bite of something he wished he hadn't.

Mitch chuckled, shaking his head. “You, sir, have opened a Pandora's box that I'm betting is best left shut tight. You do realize you've just given these two women permission to be matchmakers. Good God, man, I do pity you. You were going to tell us about what Mrs. Cartwright was like when she was a child.”

Charlie gave Mitch a grateful smile. The very last thing he wanted Rose to do was come up with some list of eligible women he should court. He had no idea why he had said such a thing, because he already knew precisely whom he wanted to marry. His brain got all muddled when he was near Rose, it seemed. The minute he'd seen her, his heart had begun pounding madly and his brain had shut down entirely. And of course his body had reacted, as it always did. He had no doubt why he had moved in next to her and it sure as hell had nothing to do with business. If Daniel had still been alive, he never would have considered buying the home next to them.
Moving in next door was a calculated business move
. One of the most absurd things to come out of his mouth yet. Yes, he had moved in next door to the woman he'd loved for years, the woman he'd never forgotten and never truly gotten over, for
business
reasons. Good Lord, the fact that anyone accepted that load of donkey dung was beyond him. Then again, no one in the room, including Rose, knew he was madly in love with her.

“Lady Rose—that is what I called her then, even when she was very small—was exceedingly curious. I first saw her when I was about ten years old and she was four. She was . . . spectacularly talkative,” he said, earning a laugh from Rose.

“I would hang about the stables and batter him with questions and questions. What was he doing? Why? Why couldn't I feed Moonrise oats? My brothers and I spent hours in the stables, much to my mother's horror.”

“Why couldn't you feed Moonrise oats? And who is Moonrise?” Genevieve asked.

“Moonrise was my mare, such a sweet and courageous horse. I miss her dearly. And she was allergic to oats, so I wasn't allowed to feed them to her. Charlie was quite adamant. I do believe he loved her as much as I did.” She smiled fondly at him and he felt his face turn red. Again. “She had a foal right before I left. My father sold her, the foal, not Moonrise, thank goodness.”

Charlie could picture Rose perfectly, her big brown eyes, her dark hair often braided into pigtails and pinned atop her head. Those braids never did stay put and she'd end up with the two dark ropes of hair whirling about her. Even then, she'd held a special place in his heart.

By the time the two couples left the table to move to the parlor for dessert, Charlie knew one thing: he couldn't imagine himself married to anyone but Rose, but he was probably the last man on her list of potential suitors. Just out of mourning, she might not even be considering marriage yet. And even if she were, he doubted he would even appear on the list. If he possessed all the money in the world, it wouldn't stop her from considering him a commoner, a working man who had no business thinking about her, never mind marrying her. He understood this, as well as he understood he would go to his grave loving her.

R
ose had never been the type of woman to spy on her neighbors. She reminded herself of this fact as she watched another strange woman standing on Charlie's front steps to be admitted into the house. Watching this was no easy feat. In order to see his front entryway, Rose had to stand in her own foyer, get up on her tippy-toes, lean over a small table, and crane her neck just so.

After the woman had gone inside, Rose relaxed and sighed. Who
were
they all? The past three nights since her Thursday evening dinner with the Campbells, it had been silent next door. But during each of those days that had passed, she'd spied no fewer than two different women on three separate days enter his home. Alone.

She shouldn't care and she told herself it was none of her business what her neighbor did, as immoral as he apparently was. But she did care. Obviously. Her strained neck was proof of the fact. Unfortunately, the women were standing too far away for her to see their features, but Rose imagined they were young and pretty. And she had to admit, based on their clothing, they were respectable ladies. Were they contenders for the title Mrs. Charles Avery? What young woman wouldn't want to marry a rich, handsome man?

A woman, she told herself, who was completely aware of just how many women Charlie was interviewing for the position of his wife, that's who. Rose crossed her arms, curiosity burning inside her. What were they doing? They weren't playing chess, that was for certain.

It would be completely unconscionable to actually go over to her property line and try to peer into his house. And she told herself she probably wouldn't like what she saw in any case. Just that thought made her cheeks burn—and other parts of her body were also strangely hot. Rose pressed her fingertips against her temples, not because her head hurt, but more to expunge the images in her head. Other than statues, Rose had never seen a fully naked man. Her only experience had been with Weston, which had been disgusting. Clearly, the women who visited Charlie were not disgusted, quite the opposite. Stacy nearly swooned every time she caught sight of him, and she'd heard her maids giggling more than once after he'd walked by.

“I won't be able to see anything anyway,” she whispered to herself. It was highly unlikely they'd be doing whatever they were doing within sight of a window. Rose chewed on her lower lip, debating with herself and wondering why she was debating at all.
Because I want to know. Because if he is with a woman, I will be able to stop thinking about him. I will know and that will be that.

Mumbling to herself about how wrong what she was about to do was, Rose walked to the back of her home and slipped outside, looking behind her as if she were a thief. As she walked around the house and entered her narrow side yard, she frowned. Facing her was a hedge that was just too high for her to easily see over. She walked along the hedge, casually, to see if she could find a thin spot where she might be able to peer through to the other side, but her gardener was far too good to allow a thin spot. Putting her hands on her hips, she looked about, as if a space would magically open up for her.

Then she spied the gate at the end of her property that separated her yard from his. It had never been locked, as Rose had allowed her old neighbors' lively brood to play in her garden. She'd enjoyed watching them and had often set up a game of croquet. Rose strolled to the gate, and again looked behind her to make certain none of her staff was looking out into the garden, then she slipped through, holding her breath, and closed the gate behind her.

“Oh, Lord.” What would she do if she were caught in his yard? She had to have some sort of explanation other than the truth, which was too awful to even consider saying aloud.
Why, I thought I'd watch you and your lady friend cavorting. Surely there is nothing wrong with that!

Oh, so, so wrong. But Rose started walking stealthily in the twilight darkness of Charlie's garden toward the first lit window she saw. She knew it was far more difficult for anyone inside the house to see her, but she was filled with fear at any rate and tried to walk as quietly as possible. The first window with light shining through was the kitchen, and Rose ducked down upon seeing members of Charlie's staff cleaning up after dinner. Lifting her skirts, she walked, bent over so she'd be below the window, along the house until she reached the next lit window.

She wished she knew more curse words, because they would come in quite handy at the moment and all directed at herself. What was she
doing
?

Rose slowly straightened, poised to run just in case Charlie or someone else was peering out the window directly at her, and looked inside. What she saw, well, it wasn't what she'd expected.

A man, whom she recognized as one of Charlie's footmen, was sitting at a piano, and Charlie and a woman were standing in the center of the room. The woman was talking to him as the footman looked on, hands poised above the piano keys. The woman was much older than he; her hair, which had been covered with a bonnet when she'd stood outside his door, was sprinkled with gray. She had to be at least fifty years of age. Then, as Rose watched, she instructed Charlie to place his right hand upon her waist and his left in hers, and raised their joined hands to shoulder level. Clearly, she was instructing him how to dance the waltz.

Something in Rose's heart shifted at that moment. Of course Charlie wouldn't know how to dance. How could he? And his manners at dinner, so impeccable; had he had a lady give him lessons in proper table manners as well? He certainly had to have learned it somewhere. It occurred to her that Charlie was learning to be a gentleman, learning all those things that had been drilled into her brothers from the day they were born. Drilled until everything was second nature—dining, conversing, dancing—all those little habits that separated the classes. They were not inborn, they were learned. Rose, of course, already knew this on a certain level, but watching Charlie's stumbling attempts at the waltz, his clear frustration, was almost heartbreaking.

Rose stood there, transfixed, as Charlie and his tutor stopped and started, again and again, until Charlie started to get it. He was so determined, his face set and solemn, finding absolutely no joy in the dance. It was like everything else, Rose realized: he needed to learn it and so he did. It was very nearly heroic, this simple waltz.

After some time, they moved onto a schottische, which Charlie clearly knew better than the waltz. Rose realized it was more likely that Charlie had already known the schottische. His tutor said something, and Charlie gave her a grim smile, so Rose assumed it was some sort of compliment. Charlie was an athletic dancer, not particularly graceful, but confident and strong. It would be thrilling to dance with him, Rose thought, her eyes on his hand, which rested lightly on the lady's slim waist. For a sharp instant, she wished that strong hand was on her.

Blushing hotly, Rose turned away and rested her back on the cool stone of the house. What was she doing, spying on him? Was her life so empty that the only entertainment she could find was watching her neighbor be tutored in dance? She looked up at the moon, barely visible through a thin layer of clouds, feeling lonelier than she ever had before. She stood there for several long minutes, watching the moon's glow brighten and wane, depending on the thickness of the clouds, allowing herself to slip into a bout of self-pity. When was the last time someone had held her? In truth, she couldn't remember. Perhaps her brother Marcus when she'd been ill? She wrapped her arms around herself in a rather pathetic attempt to comfort herself.

Angry that she'd slipped into self-pity, Rose turned back to the window and looked inside, only to see an empty room.

“What are you doing in my garden?”

It was Charlie and he was clearly angry. He looked from her to his window, quickly surmising what she'd been doing. Rose closed her eyes, knowing she had no excuse for looking into his window. She took a bracing breath and decided to act as if peering into someone's house at night was a common occurrence and nothing at all to be upset about.

“I was watching you dance. I adore dancing and it's been some time—”

“You have no right,” he bit out, walking toward her. “You are trespassing, Mrs. Cartwright.”

Rose felt her entire body heat with embarrassment and a little bit of fear. Charlie did seem so very angry. “I know, Charlie, and I am sorry.”

“Mr. Avery,” he spat. “I have not given you leave to call me by my given name.”

Rose very nearly reared back. “I am sorry, Mr. Avery,” she managed to say through a throat that was becoming tight. Of course, Rose knew she was completely in the wrong, but she hadn't thought about how much she was violating Charlie's privacy; she had only thought to assuage her curiosity. “I . . . It's just that I saw all these women coming and going and I'm afraid my curiosity got the best of me.”

He took another step toward her and she took a step back, her heel hitting the stone foundation wall of his home. “Why do you care if I entertain a hundred women in my own home?
My
home, Mrs. Cartwright. A home I worked for, seven days a week, long hours, endless days. I earned this house
and
my privacy.”

Oh, he was so very, very angry. Hot tears pricked at her eyes. She couldn't argue; she had no excuse. Rose had never been one to use tears to get her way, and the fact that she was crying was extremely annoying. She wiped at them impatiently, trying to think of something to say that would make the situation better.

“Why do you watch my lessons?” he demanded.

“I don't.” He let out an angry sound. “I mean to say, I didn't know you were receiving a lesson.”

“Then why were you outside my window . . . ?”

Rose felt as if she might combust from shame and embarrassment.

“You wanted to spy on me while I entertained my lady friends, is that it, Rose?” He stepped closer until he was mere inches away from her.

Rose turned her head away, unable to face him. This was perhaps the most mortifying thing to have ever happened to her.

“You wanted to watch me,” he said silkily, moving his head next to hers so that his mouth was just inches from her left ear. “You wanted to watch me kiss their breasts, taste them. You wanted to see us naked, is that right, Mrs. Cartwright?”

She shook her head, just slightly, just so he'd know she was rejecting his words even though they were far too close to the truth. She could feel the heat of his body despite the fact that he was not touching her, and she had the awful urge to tilt her neck, an invitation for him to press his lips there. The thought came from nowhere, but his voice, soft and taunting, was making her feel things she didn't want to feel. A flood of desire made her weak, and she swallowed in an attempt to restore her senses.

“And you want me to do the same to you, don't you? You want me to kiss you, to bare your breasts and suckle you. To touch you between your legs. You always did like playing with the commoners, didn't you?” This last was tinged with anger.

“That's not true,” Rose said vehemently, knowing he was referring to their time on the ship together. “It wasn't like that.”

He pulled his head back to look at her, as if he were surprised by her words. It was still just light enough so that she could see his eyes glittering in the dark, but his expression was lost to her.

He tilted his head, a mocking gesture filled with anger. “Then, tell me, what was it like?”

She looked up at him, her dear old friend, and surprised them both by leaning closer, by pressing her lips against his, by letting him know that, yes, she did want him to touch her. She needed him to touch her. Rose moved her lips against his, trying to recall the proper way to kiss, letting out a sound of pleasure and frustration and terrible need.

He pulled back as if studying her, then, letting out a deep, guttural sound, he kissed her, slanting his head and thrusting his tongue into her mouth, moving his lips teasingly as if he wanted to devour her. It surprised Rose, but she always had been a quick learner, and she played with his tongue, a sensuous, wonderful new experience that was far more pleasant that she'd thought it would be.

Rose knew Charlie was treating her like a woman who'd been married, not the virginal innocent she was. He pressed his erection against her, and it was shocking and somehow wonderful. She brought her hands up to his hair and smiled, loving the softness of it, even though he'd cut it short. When he touched her breast, his hand was large and warm and welcome. And when he moved one thumb over her nipple, she cried out at the pure pleasure of it, sweet shards of sensation that seemed connected directly to the apex of her thighs. He let out a sound, purely male, when her nipple became erect beneath the pad of his thumb, and he pressed himself even harder against her.

Suddenly, it was too much, too fast, her senses were reeling, her body on fire, and she pushed him away, just slightly, just enough to let him know she couldn't take another second of his touch without losing herself completely.

They were both breathing heavily, Rose perhaps more than Charlie, who dropped his hands from her and stepped back.

“I apologize,” he said, his voice sounding strained.

“No, please do not.”

He took another step back, as if he didn't trust himself to be so close. “I'll bid you good night, Mrs. Cartwright.”