How to Please a Lady (23 page)

“That's all?”

“Yes,” Rose said firmly, trying to make her lie sound sincere. “I would hardly deny the ladies of New York your special skills.” She'd meant it as a joke, but Charlie didn't laugh, not really. The sound that came out, a sharp burst of air, was not a joyful sound.

He held his hands out by his sides, palms up. “Then please do allow me to apologize for awakening you. In the future, we shall use the guest room on the opposite side of the house. Mrs. Jefferson is quite deaf and she hasn't complained once. Good evening, Rose.”

Stunned by his words, Rose was silent as Charlie stormed down her steps and out the gate. Guest room! He'd been using a guest room on the days of silence? And here she'd thought that perhaps there'd been no one since the day they'd met in front of her house. She'd even thought perhaps that silence was because of her. Goodness, he had women waiting for him when he returned home?

Rose entered her home, her mind whirling. It made sense. Look what he'd done to her with just his hand. Of course women would want that, would wait for him to come home. Despite herself, a sharp blade of arousal hit her and she wrapped her arms around her waist in an attempt to stem it. How could she live next to him, knowing that each evening he was giving other women the same pleasure he'd given her? Except, he hadn't really. She was still a virgin. Would likely still be a virgin if she ever got married again.

That thought stopped her still. She could not be a virgin when she got married. How on earth could she possibly explain herself? She would never reveal Daniel's secret, not to anyone. The only people who knew of Daniel's homosexuality were her and James. And now Charlie probably. She could not allow her husband's memory to be sullied, but what choice did she have?

Two weeks after John Sullivan's death, Charlie left his office whistling, leaving behind gawking workers who had never seen Mr. Avery looking quite so happy. He'd received a note from Rose asking him for tea. The two hadn't spoken, even in passing, since the night he'd stood on her stoop at midnight, trying to explain how it was possible that he had a woman in his bedroom.

At precisely four, he knocked on Rose's door and was met by her smiling butler, Mr. Brady.

“Hello, Brady,” Charlie said, handing off his hat and gloves. “Mrs. Cartwright invited me for tea.”

“Indeed, Mr. Avery. She is waiting for you in the parlor.”

“I can find my way, Brady, thank you.” Charlie had a decided bounce to his step as he entered the femininely appointed room. Clearly, this was Rose's domain, an airy and light room painted a pale green. The lady was sitting on a small settee, reading a book. Though she was wearing a drab brown dress, she made a pretty picture sitting there with the sun shining upon her through the sheer curtains. The window was open, for it was a warm spring day, and the curtains blew softly, curling inward on the breeze. When he entered, she looked up and Charlie's heart skipped a beat when she smiled. He'd been a bit fearful that she would still be angry with him, but he detected no nervousness or anger on her face. He regretted his own words and hoped to use this meeting to apologize for them.

Rose stood and placed her book to the side, then walked to a near wall and pulled a cord, no doubt for tea. “Cook was delighted to hear you were coming for tea. She's made raspberry tarts, which are quite famous on the avenue. They are my personal favorite.” When she sat back down, Charlie followed suit, sitting in a chair opposite.

“So,” she said, and let out a nervous little laugh, clutching her hands in her lap. Ah, the lady was a bit uneasy after all. “I've given what occurred on the night of the ball a great deal of thought and realize you must have questions.”

“I do not,” Charlie said, and he could tell he'd surprised her. “You clearly held affection for your husband and I do not need to know the intimate details of your marriage. And to be honest, Rose, I do believe I've solved the mystery of your innocence.”

Her cheeks reddened and she looked down, unable to meet his unwavering gaze. “I quite enjoyed that evening,” she blurted, then closed her eyes briefly.

“I'm glad.”

“I have a proposal to make.” She looked up, her eyes steady. “I believe I will marry again someday and I don't care to explain to my new husband my untried state. I hadn't realized how evident my inexperience is, but I realized how odd it would be to marry a widow and realize that she is a virgin.” She spoke the last as a whisper, then stopped and passed a hand over her forehead as if she were feeling weak. “I loved Daniel. My marriage wasn't conventional but I was happy, and I would hate to sully his memory in any way. People, if they knew, would be so hateful, and I don't think I could bear that. Especially not from a husband, who would guess the truth, just as you have.”

Charlie tried not to let her words wound him. That she still didn't consider she could marry him told him more than he wanted to know. She planned to marry and was telling him her plans—for what reason, he couldn't begin to know. “I will not say a word, Rose,” Charlie said.

“I know, Charlie. But I believe the truth about my marriage would be difficult for some to accept, that my reasons for marrying Daniel would not be understood. Which is why I'm going to ask you something. A favor. And because you seem to have some talent in the area, given what I have overheard and”—she coughed—“experienced myself.”

Charlie felt the blood drain from his head. She couldn't be saying what he thought she was saying. My God, did she have no feelings for him at all?

Rose looked up to the ceiling, probably asking her dead husband for assistance. “I cannot be a virgin when I marry. I'm asking you to take care of that detail for me.”

“Take care of it,” Charlie said, trying to keep the hurt from his voice. And it did hurt, like the very devil.

“You must know how difficult this is for me,” Rose said.

“To ask me to fuck you, you mean?” His anger was palpable, but she hadn't recognized it until he used the coarsest language possible.

“I've insulted you.” Rose's eyes immediately filled with tears. Hell, he hadn't meant to make her cry, but didn't she know how callous her own words were?
Make love to me, Charlie, but don't think for one moment there could be anything more between us.
“But yes, that's the general idea. I do seem to come up with plans without thinking about the consequences. Please forgive me and forget this conversation.” She sniffed and dug into her sleeve, her hand coming away empty, and Charlie pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to her. “Thank you.”

And then the image of Rose, naked and soft beneath him, her legs wrapped around his torso, came to him in a violent and unexpected way. How could he say no to her? How could he say no to the one thing he'd dreamt about for years? Perhaps he would never marry her, but at least he would have had the pleasure of making love to her.

“I will do as you ask,” he said, feeling a terrible mix of disgust and joy. Could he respect himself for providing such a sordid service? Could he live with himself if he let another man be her first? It was an untenable situation.

 

Rose had not imagined the conversation taking such a turn. Indeed, she hadn't thought about where the conversation would go other than imagining Charlie would be flattered and rather pleased with the request. She would be one more woman in a sea of women. He'd seemed to enjoy what they'd done, to a certain extent at any rate. Rose had never thought Charlie would be insulted or angry. She realized she did not know the man sitting across from her, staring broodingly at the empty fireplace.

Yes, Rose wanted to protect Daniel, but if she were completely honest with herself, she also wanted to experience the feelings Charlie had evoked in her. She wanted to banish the fear she'd held for years about the physical side of marriage and she knew Charlie would be a gentle, caring lover. Goodness, taking a lover was so risqué and worldly of her.

“When shall we do it?” Rose asked pertly.

“Now is ideal. I left work early, you see, and wouldn't want my time to go entirely to waste.”

Rose turned her head to the window, seeing bright sunshine. She'd imagined a completely dark room. “But it's daytime.”

“All the better. Did you think men and women only made love—excuse me, fornicated—at night? I need only to go next door and retrieve something.” Charlie stood and walked a few steps toward the door before stopping and turning. “I assume this is a one-time event?”

Rose's face burned hotly. “Yes.”

His eyes flickered with some emotion Rose could not interpret, anger no doubt. “Very well. I'll return shortly.”

As soon as Charlie left the room, Rose buried her hands in her face. What was she
doing
? This was pure insanity. But if not Charlie, then who? She already liked him well enough and she knew he could please her. No, she simply couldn't imagine even kissing another man other than Charlie, never mind doing what they planned to do.

It seemed only seconds before Mr. Brady was escorting Charlie back into the parlor. Her heart was in her throat as she stood shakily upon his entrance. “Where shall we go?”

“This is as good as anywhere,” Charlie said, closing the parlor door behind him and jerking his head toward a larger settee that would easily accommodate two prone adults. He sounded so cold, and Rose wished she had never made such a suggestion. Rose walked slowly to the settee in question and sat down, nervously worrying her fingers together.

Charlie's hands went to the buttons of his trousers and he casually began undoing them, the movements so similar to Weston's, Rose had to look away and again felt tears pressing against her eyes. “Lift your skirts, Rose,” he said, sounding entirely unlike the Charlie she knew. Rose hesitated, her hands shaking, before she reached down and began pulling up her skirt and petticoats, unable to look at Charlie and feeling a sharp ache in her heart. She had not thought it would be like this.

“Jesus, Rose, stop.”

Rose looked at him, standing with his trousers completely buttoned, his eyes filled with some raw emotion. “Why?” she asked, bewildered.

“Because if I'm going to make love to you, it will not be like this. I was trying to hurt you.”

“Oh,” Rose said, quickly pushing down her skirts. He had accomplished what he'd set out to do then, for the hurt she had felt had been staggering.

“Come here,” Charlie said, holding out his hands to her. She stood and went to him, grasping his hands, shocked by the feeling of his bare skin on hers. His hands were warm and large, with a ridge of callus on the pads of his palms, and she couldn't help but wonder what those hands would feel like on her body. He looked down at her and smiled gently, his blue eyes intent. “I'm sorry if I frightened you.” He lifted one hand to her cheek and wiped away a tear she hadn't even realized had fallen. “I never want to be the reason you cry, Rose. Are you certain about this, about what you want to do?”

“I am.”

“Then let's go up to your room and do this properly, shall we?”

Rose took a deep, bracing breath. “Yes.”

 

Her room was like the woman Rose had become, elegant and restrained. There was nothing of the girl who used to run, skirts held too high, barreling into the stable to say good morning to Moonrise. And to him. Rose had given her maid a half day off, which Stacy had accepted without a single word, though she had given Charlie a thoughtful look before she went happily on her way.

Rose walked in front of him, clearly nervous, then turned and seemed to wait for him to take the lead. Charlie felt far more nervous than he was allowing her to see; he had never taken a virgin and wasn't entirely certain how to proceed. And this was
Rose
. He walked around the room, taking in the Chippendale furniture, the rich, velvet curtains, the large four-poster bed. In one corner was a small collection of rocks and seashells, ordinary enough, but Charlie knew they were somehow important to her. She'd let a small bit of herself into this room, after all. Undoing the buttons of his jacket, he turned to her and smiled, trying to put them both at ease. When he'd returned to his home to retrieve a rubber sheath, he'd been livid. How dare she? How could she possibly use him for stud services, to prepare her for the man she would eventually marry?

He was not a man to be controlled by anger, but by God, he'd wanted to hurt her the way she had hurt him. Then he'd found he had no stomach for it. One tear, one shaking hand, and it was all he could do not to gather her into his arms and beg her to let him love her.

“This will be better if we are both unclothed. Would you like me to assist you?” he asked solemnly.

He saw her swallow and attempt a smile. “If you would. I dismissed Stacy and I can hardly call her back now with you here.”

Charlie walked up to her and moved to her back to begin working on the small buttons that fastened her dress. It was a practical piece of clothing, thank God, and something he could easily tackle, despite the faint tremor in his hands. He was as nervous as he had been when he'd been a lad about to make love to a woman for the first time.

Little by little, he exposed her smooth, perfect skin as she stood, stock-still, hardly breathing, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. He pressed his lips against her back, right between the delicate curves of her shoulder blades, and smiled when he heard her breath quicken. In no time, the dress was dispensed with and Rose made short work of a small mound of petticoats before she began untying her corset cover, revealing to his heated gaze the most glorious sight of her standing before him in her corset, stockings, and bloomers. Charlie, unable to resist touching her again, reached around and cupped her breasts briefly and kissed her neck before untying the laces to her corset. Despite the passion they had shared the night of the ball, he wasn't certain how aggressive he should be. He wanted to shove down her corset and push his cock against her derriere, but he knew if he did that, it would frighten her, and he no longer had any wish to do that.

Once her corset was cast aside, he pulled down her bloomers, ignoring her small sound of protest, then slowly pulled down her silk stockings. She had, he thought, the most charming derriere he'd ever seen, round and plump and perfect for a man's hands.

“Turn around, Rose.”

He heard her release a shaking breath, and then she turned, completely naked, her hands fluttering upward briefly, as if she wanted to cover her breasts, then resisted the urge. He let his eyes drift down her body, unable to quite believe he was standing before the woman he'd adored for years. “You are perfect, love,” he said. His hands shook with the need to touch her and his arousal would have been clearly evident should Rose have had the courage to look down. He held out his arms, scarecrow fashion. “If you would, madam, I do not have a valet at the moment.”

She let out a nervous giggle. “I'm completely naked,” she said unnecessarily.

“Indeed you are. And soon I shall be, too. Start with the cravat, if you please.”