How to Please a Lady (19 page)

Rose still stood with her back pressed against the cold stone of his house. “Good night, Mr. Avery.”

He turned and walked toward the front of his house, then stopped. “If you want to watch my lessons, Mrs. Cartwright, you need only ask. Perhaps you could be of assistance.”

 

She
had kissed
him
.

That was all he could think of as he walked back into his home, feeling like a man who had just been stunned by a tremendous blow, one that hadn't hurt so much as left him reeling. The anger that had coursed through him when he'd realized she'd been watching him was like nothing he'd ever experienced. Now
that
had hurt. He'd imagined her peeking into his window, night after night, as he'd danced around like some awkward baboon. If he believed her—and he did—it hadn't been about spying on his lessons at all. It had been curiosity about what he'd been doing with the women who came to his door.

A week ago, she might have gotten an eyeful, but a week ago, he hadn't spoken to her, seen her. Realized he still had feelings for her and probably still loved her. A week ago, the only thing he'd cared about assuaging was his lust. Now it was different. She was back in his life. That was why the thought of her seeing him at his awkward worst was beyond humiliating.

Charlie had realized about six months earlier that if he was going to rub elbows with the upper levels of society, he was going to have to get some polish. His awakening occurred when he'd been invited into the Union Club for the first time and hadn't removed his hat immediately upon entering. He hadn't seen a place to put the thing, and no servant was there to take it, so he'd kept it on. Until a member of the staff quietly walked up to him and asked him to remove it. That was when he noticed several men staring at him as if he had a baby elephant on his head, not a damned top hat. He realized he didn't know and couldn't understand the rules by which he would have to live if he were to succeed in this new world. That was when he'd enlisted Mrs. Gendron, a wealthy woman approaching sixty years of age, whose husband had committed suicide upon losing everything during the Panic of '73. She'd been left with nothing and for years worked as a governess, a humiliating and devastating turn of events for a woman used to a very different life. Mrs. Gendron had opened a school and now taught etiquette and comportment to people like him, those who needed more than just a bit of polish. She called him her greatest challenge, not unkindly, and promised to sculpt him into a gentleman within a year.

Six months later, he could hold his own at a business meeting, had been admitted to the Union Club, and had been approached by J. P. Morgan about the possibility of joining the Knickerbocker Club. America was a wonderful place. This type of acceptance by men at the highest levels of society was heady stuff, yet he knew if he went home to England, his money and his manners wouldn't get him into the front door of any private men's club there simply because he did not have a
Lord
in front of his name. In England, he'd still be working in a stable.

In America, he could marry someone like Rose.

She
had kissed
him
.

 

“You have a visitor, Mrs. Cartwright.”

It wasn't the words her butler had spoken that made her look up but the slight inflection he'd used. Her butler, Mr. Brady, was not the taciturn ideal of a butler and never had been, but he was loyal to a fault and had been quite kind to her over the years.

“A gentleman, ma'am. Mr. Avery. He is waiting in the blue parlor.”

Rose raised a brow at that, for the blue parlor had been Daniel's favorite room, a masculine and comfortable place filled with heavy, leather furniture, rich navy-blue velvet curtains, and a well-used card table. Daniel had loved whist and they had made excellent partners.

“Thank you, Brady,” Rose said, rising from her spot by a window overlooking her garden. She placed her book, a mystery novel, on a side table and walked to a small mirror situated next to the door. She looked . . . terrified. Schooling her features, Rose smoothed already smooth skirts and walked down the main staircase to the blue parlor.

He was standing when she entered, studying a small statue of a shepherdess, a whimsical piece that was one of her favorites. She didn't know if she'd ever get used to the sight of this new Charlie. In her mind, she pictured the carefree young man wearing rough workman's clothing, with his dandelion curls and easy smile. The man standing in her parlor was dressed impeccably, wearing a close-fitting light brown jacket, tailored to perfection, his hair neatly groomed and smooth, with only the smallest hint of curl. He was, in one word, stunning.

This was the man she'd practically thrown herself at, and he was now standing in her parlor as if nothing untoward had occurred. “Hello, Mr. Avery, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

He looked up, and the look in his blue eyes nearly took her breath away. Placing the small statue back in its place, he held up a hand as if stopping her. “I was angry last night. You may call me Charlie, of course.”

Rose smiled. “You had every right to be angry. I want to apologize again for my behavior. All of my behavior.” She was so completely mortified over everything she'd done the previous evening, from watching the woman enter his home, to spying, to kissing him. It was almost as if another woman entirely had possessed her body.

“I've given that some thought,” he said, surprising her and filling her with trepidation. She truly wished he would immediately forget the entire incident, though she did realize that was unlikely to happen. Goodness knew she would never forget it. “I wondered why you were so curious. Curious enough to go against everything you believe, every bit of politeness that is so ingrained in you. To be honest, it was difficult for me to picture you skulking about my yard just so you could peek into one of my windows. For curiosity.”

Rose swallowed heavily but remained silent. Was he going to torture her by recounting the evening? For what purpose?

“And then there was that kiss.”

Her cheeks flamed instantly. “Really, Charlie, we don't need to revisit the entire evening, do we? I have apologized and I am frankly mortified by my behavior. As I have said repeatedly.”

“I am not recounting the events for any purpose other than to examine them further.”

Rose lifted her chin, trying to regain some composure. “To what end?”

“You do remember, do you not, that I have kissed you before.”

He could not be bringing up their time aboard ship; it didn't bear thinking about. “I think you should go.”

“I remember that kiss, Rose. It meant something to me, even if it meant nothing to you. At that time, at any rate. I was a bit taken with you, but of course you couldn't have known that. My proposal, which was met with no small amount of horror, was quite sincere.” He gave her a tight smile.

“You proposed?” Rose blurted out.

He tilted his head and stared at her, the expression on his handsome face one of faint disbelief. Then he nodded and let out a humorless laugh as he looked up at the ceiling. “My God,” he said.

“It was five years ago,” she said, frantically thinking back on that time. She'd been so young and so very afraid. Charlie had proposed? Surely she would have remembered . . .

And then she did, his offer to marry her. “But you weren't
serious
, Charlie. You said it jokingly if I recall.” And then, in a small voice, “Didn't you?”

“No, it was not a joke, Rose,” he said softly.

“Oh.”

“But I took your rejection philosophically enough. I was, after all, only an employee and you were Lady Rose Dunford. I could have expected nothing less. I remember many things, including those small kisses in the ship. You were hardly experienced.”

Suddenly, Rose wanted to flee. She'd been no more experienced the previous night than she'd been on that ship. He knew. And he was going to ask her why a woman who had been married for four years could possibly not know how to kiss, could have gasped in surprise at the lovely sensation of a man's hand on her breast. “Please leave,” she said, not as a lady would, but like a woman who desperately wanted a conversation to end. She couldn't bear it if he learned the truth about her marriage. It would hurt him, that she had chosen a man like Daniel over himself. She couldn't pretend it hadn't been a choice; it had.

“I don't pretend to know about you, about your marriage. About how it's possible that you still kiss like a young, untried girl. Did he never kiss you, Rose?”

The pity she heard in his voice was humiliating. “I want you to leave, Charlie.”

He stepped closer to her, not more than an arm's length away. “Why were you so curious, Rose? Why?”

Rose shook her head, unable to look at him. She had no answer. She didn't know herself why she'd so wanted to see what was happening, though she knew a large part of it was that if she had seen him with another woman, she might be able to dismiss him from her mind. She couldn't say that aloud, for it would be much too telling.

“I don't know,” she said finally. “I don't know why I spied on you. I don't know.” She turned away and took several steps, putting more distance between them.

“I don't believe you,” he said calmly. “But it doesn't matter. Not really.” He let out a gusty sigh. “I didn't come over here to discuss your trespassing at any rate, and I apologize if I've made you uncomfortable. As I am here to ask a favor, it was probably bad strategy on my part, but I believe it's always good to clear the air.”

Rose nodded. “Then why are you here?”

Charlie's confidence seemed to waver, and he sat, then immediately stood, realizing his faux pas. Rose graciously sat in the nearest chair and Charlie, his cheeks turning a bit ruddy, sat again. “I have been invited to a charity ball and I was wondering if you would accompany me. I won't know many people in attendance and I thought you could help me navigate this bloody New York society.”

Charlie had stunned her again. “A charity ball? At this time of year?”

“Is there a charity ball season?” Charlie asked, somewhat bemused.

“Indeed there is. November through February. A ball in April is quite unusual. Who is the host?”

“I'm not certain, but J. P. Morgan will be there. He's recently implied that I might be considered to join the Knickerbockers, and I can hardly say no to the invitation. Morgan would be a good friend to have. It would be best if I had someone along who could guide me. As you know,” he said with a telling pause, “I have been taking the appropriate lessons so that I won't make a fool of myself entirely, but it would be good to have someone such as yourself by my side. I'm afraid I don't have acquaintance with other ladies of your ilk. Spying excepted, of course.”

Despite herself, Rose laughed, glad the conversation had veered away from her inexperience in kissing and toward a much tamer and much safer topic. “I would be happy to accompany you, Mr. Avery,” she said pertly. “When is it?”

“Tonight.”

Rose's mouth dropped in a very unladylike manner. “A ball. Tonight. Charlie, I haven't been to a ball in more than a year. I haven't anything to wear. Do you?”

“I have a formal suit, if that's what you mean. Long tails, white tie, spats. I'm told I look rather dashing.”

“I'm certain you do, but I don't see how it would be possible for me, unless . . . I was planning to see Madame Brunelle. Perhaps she has something that would require only small alterations. She is not going to be pleased, that is for certain.”

“You will go?”

“If I find a dress, then yes, I will.”

 

When Rose walked into Madame Brunelle's with Genevieve later that day, all heads turned in their direction. The two women might not have been part of the highest New York social circles, but they were well known and their presence in the shop would most certainly be noted, particularly Rose, who had been out of society since her young husband's death. One of the employees immediately disappeared, only to reappear moments later with Madame herself.

“Mrs. Campbell, Mrs. Cartwright, a pleasure,” she said, smiling—a smile that quickly turned sour when she saw what Rose was wearing.

“You can see why I am here,” Rose said, looking down at her dark gray dress. “Nearly everything I have that is in the current style is mourning or half mourning.”

Madame Brunelle clapped her hands sharply and two young seamstresses immediately appeared. “Mrs. Cartwright needs an entire wardrobe. Get my fashion plates and some fabrics to show her.” She looked back at Rose and added, “Quickly now, girls.
Rapidement!
”

Genevieve whispered into Rose's ear, “When she learns what you are truly here for, I'm afraid she may collapse.”

Rose stifled a laugh before going up to Madame, who was still issuing rapid instructions to her harried employees. “Madame Brunelle, while I do indeed require a new wardrobe, that is not why I am here today.”

Madame looked from Rose to Genevieve, who was impeccably dressed as always in one of Madame Brunelle's own creations. She looked at the two women again, her puzzlement clear.

“You might as well tell her, Mrs. Cartwright,” Genevieve said, unable to keep her amusement from her eyes.

“I need a ball gown,” Rose said.

“Oui, I am certain you do.”

“For this evening,” Rose said, grimacing slightly.

“I am sorry, Mrs. Cartwright, but my English. You said you need it this evening?
C'est impossible.
” She threw up her hands, proclaiming defeat.