How to Please a Lady (9 page)

“Ticket, please,” the steward said. He was dressed in a smart navy uniform, his shoes polished to an impressive shine, which Rose found oddly reassuring.

Charlie handed over his ticket and the steward directed them to their stateroom.

Rose knew, of course, that their stateroom wouldn't be as luxurious as she was used to, but she couldn't stop a gasp of dismay when she saw it. It was hardly bigger than her wardrobe at home. Two narrow bunks with thin, straw-filled mattresses were crammed on one side, the floor space so limited, Rose had to turn sideways to walk from one end to the other. There were no blankets, no pillows, no window.

“It's meant only for sleeping,” Charlie said loudly over the sound of the engines, which felt as if they were beneath her feet. He heaved his bag onto the top bunk, situated uncomfortably close to the wooden ceiling; he would not be able to sit up properly once in bed. He put her carpetbag at the foot of her own bunk. “I expect we'll spend much of the day topside.”

Rose felt as if she were slowly being torn apart, as if someone was pulling at the delicate thread of a seam, revealing more and more of her fear. Even Charlie, her dear friend, seemed like a stranger to her. This space was too small to share with a big man like Charlie. It was almost as if she were seeing him for the first time, his large size, his scent, which reminded her of home. In this cold cabin, she could even feel the heat from his body. It was downright uncomfortable and completely unwanted.

She didn't want to feel anything.

“Charlie,” she said, sitting abruptly on the hard mattress. “I think I'm about to cry. Would you mind very much leaving?”

She looked straight ahead, staring at the wall, and noticed then that someone had carved a small heart with two sets of initials. It was such a sweet gesture, one likely done by a man who was truly married to the love of his life. She could sense Charlie looking down at her, no doubt with a furrowed brow. She'd seen that look a hundred times when he was caring for one of the horses that had taken ill.

“Of course, my lady.” And he made for the door.

“Do not call me that,” she shouted, standing so abruptly, she smacked her head—hard—on the top bunk. “Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody, bloody hell.” She rubbed her smarting head and glared at Charlie as if it were his fault her head was hurting. “I'm not your lady. I'm no one's lady anymore.” She took a breath, horrified that she'd shouted and cursed, horrified that Charlie was now looking at her as if he had, indeed, bludgeoned her. “I'm sorry, Charlie. My nerves are frayed and . . . and . . . you've been so kind and I'm just a horrid person who is breaking her parents' hearts and who is going to America to marry a man who probably doesn't even remember who I am.”

“I'm sure he remembers you, my l—” He shook his head hard. “Rose. I'm sure he remembers you. Hell, I can't do it, my lady. It's wrong.”

She stood in front of him, hands on her hips. “Say my name, Charlie.”

He looked down, his cheeks ruddy. “Rose.”

Rose placed her hands on his face and gently lifted to make him look at her, and he met her gaze, his eyes holding some strong emotion—likely anger—before he took a step back and she dropped her hands. “Rose,” she said.

“It's a boundary I don't want to cross,” he said, sounding slightly put out. Ah, so he
was
angry.

Rose let out a small laugh. “My goodness, Charlie, we're unmarried and sharing a cabin. I think we've crossed the biggest boundary already.”

He smiled slightly and finally gave a sharp nod. “Fine. Rose it is.”

“Or Mrs. Avery, if you will.” She grinned at him, expecting him to smile, but he became even more grim-faced.

“Do you still need that cry?”

Rose thought a moment and shook her head. “Perhaps later. What about you, Charlie? You've left behind your father, and I know you have friends back in Cannock.”

“Dad understands.” He looked away, and Rose knew it must have been difficult saying good-bye to his father.

Rose hadn't said good-bye at all. Guilt came flooding back, making her almost ill. She would write her family when she reached New York and pray everyone forgave her.

 

While he waited for Rose to join him in the dining hall, Charlie made fast friends with half a dozen shipmates and saved one young mother by fashioning a rattle out of two spoons for her cranky baby, who was happily banging the contraption against the wooden table where they sat. The fare was edible, if not especially flavorful. But it was plentiful.

The dining area was large enough to accommodate the fifty second-class couples. Already, Charlie felt himself in rather good company, having met a law clerk, a secretary, and a man who claimed he was the finest butler in all of Britain. His wife, a patient woman with a ready smile, rolled her eyes in good humor. “He has a position already,” she said, patting his arm. “The son of our master set up house there with his new bride and we've accepted the position. He paid for our ticket, don't you know.”

“Could have paid for first class,” her husband muttered.

“And have us think we're better than we are? Oh, no, I'm quite happy in second and thankful we're not in steerage.” She shuddered.

“Yes, but I can smell it,” the banker said, and they all laughed. Charlie laughed, too, but only to be polite. He was only one wealthy lady away from being in steerage, which was where he really belonged.

Mr. and Mrs. Browne came to dinner a bit late, and Charlie wondered if the glow in Mrs. Browne's cheeks told the reason why. He envied them their easy love for one another and he wondered if he and Rose would actually make people believe they were married. He was so damned nervous around her, feeling like some kind of imposter. It was bad enough he had to call her by her given name (his father would want to thrash him within an inch of his life), but to share such a tiny cabin with her was beyond improper.

“Where's Mrs. Avery?” Mrs. Browne asked when she saw him.

“She wasn't feeling hungry, but I expect she'll be out soon,” Charlie said, even though he really had no idea whether Lady R—Rose—would be out at all. If he were to slip up in front of these fine folks, he'd kick himself and hard.

“Here she is,” said Mrs. Browne, as if she were seeing an old friend.

“Hello.” Just the sound of her voice did something to him. How the hell was he going to survive being in the same cabin as her for eight long days?

He thought he'd steeled himself for the sight of her, as he always did when he had advance notice, but she looked so lovely in this unlovely place, he couldn't help but stare. How could she look like a queen wearing an ugly gray dress buttoned up to her chin?

“Have I missed dinner? I thought I didn't have an appetite, but it seems I am quite famished now. What is on the menu?” As one, everyone looked at Rose, then back at Charlie, and he could almost imagine what their thoughts were: How on earth did that man manage to get that woman to marry him?

Charlie didn't sound completely uneducated, but he didn't sound as if he'd been to Oxford or had a tutor or been drilled in comportment either. Hell, had Mr. Browne just sat up a tad straighter? He counted himself lucky that he knew how to read and had learned basic sums. He was not the sort of man a woman like Rose should be with and he had a feeling everyone at the table knew it. Rose looked from person to person, a pleasant smile on her face. “Have I missed dinner?”

Charlie stood and noticed the bemused and curious looks of the other men at the table. None of them, not one, had stood when their wives appeared. But damn if it didn't look like they were all about to launch themselves to their feet. Thankfully, Rose sat next to him and, to his surprise, grabbed his hand and held on as if she might slip away. He looked at her and for the first time realized she was nervous. This girl who had been to balls, who had spoken easily to people at the highest levels of society, who had been engaged to a duke, was nervous. He squeezed her hand gently, trying not to dwell on the fact it was soft and smooth and felt perfect in his.

Within a few minutes of her sitting, a young uniformed man placed a plate of beef stew in front of her.

“It's not awful,” Charlie said, and felt like he'd slain a dragon when he earned a small smile. “You probably need this back if you're to eat properly.” She turned toward him and let out a small laugh when he placed her right hand onto the table near her fork.

“So, Charlie, what are your big plans when you get to America? Heading west or staying in New York?”

From the corner of his eye, Charlie could see Rose turn to him, no doubt curious about his reasons for leaving. Or perhaps not. She'd never asked him about his plans.

“My uncle works in a restaurant there and he's promised me a job. He's recently made maître d' at Delmonico's.”

Rose's face lit up. “I've heard of it,” she said, seemingly delighted that she could add to the conversation and apparently forgetting that, as his wife, she would already have been privy to this information. “My friend Caroline wrote me when she first moved to New York. It's a marvelous place and attracts the highest level of society, such as it is in New York.” Charlie widened his eyes and tried to convey what he was thinking. It was something like:
shut up now
. Rose saw his expression and snapped her mouth closed. “Of course,” she said, with a nervous smile, “we could never afford to dine there. I understand it's quite dear. Caroline married well, you see.” Her voice sort of drifted away and Charlie held back the urge to chuckle.

“You didn't know where Mr. Avery was working before now?” Mrs. Browne asked her, her tone light, almost teasing.

A telling blush tinged Rose's cheeks. “I'd forgotten,” she said brightly. “Details like that flitter in and out of my brain all the time.” She laughed and everyone at the table joined in.

“Perhaps I'll be able to bring home some food from the kitchen and it will be almost as good as sitting down in one of their fancy dining rooms,” Charlie said.

They all shared their stories, some expressing a bit of concern over tales of high unemployment, but most seemed to have a well-thought-out plan. Charlie wondered if that was the case in steerage. He knew he was lucky, for he would have a job the moment he stepped off the boat, but scores of others would be on their own. His uncle had written in great detail of the difficulties facing immigrants since the panic two years ago in '73.

After supper, Charlie suggested they go on the deck; the air below was stagnant and, if not completely foul, then unpleasant. Many of the other passengers were on deck, too, but it was rather cold and most didn't last long.

“I very nearly ruined everything, didn't I?” Rose asked when they were standing alone at the rail.

“But you covered nicely, my . . . wife.” Charlie let out a silent curse. Calling Rose my lady was so ingrained, it was beyond difficult to break the habit.

Rose wrapped her arms around herself, pulling her coat close. “It's rather chilly.”

“We'll go below soon.”

“I don't mind. The air is so clean. It reminds me of vacationing in Brighton when I was a girl.” She was silent a long time before she said, “I'm not doing very well, am I?”

“You're doing fine.”

She shook her head. “No, I am not, but I shall try harder. Charlie, why are you going to work in a restaurant? You're a groom, the finest one in Birmingham. Did you not enjoy your work?”

Charlie looked down at his hands gripping the railing. “I did. Very much. But I suppose I wanted more. I never would have been anything other than a head groom, and I'm only twenty-five. Now I can be or do whatever I want.”

“And what do you want to be?”

“Rich,” he said without hesitation. “Very, very rich.”

T
hough Rose was exhausted, she could not sleep. The throb of the engine and the absolute darkness inside the cabin were driving her a bit mad. Because of the danger of fire, oil lamps were not allowed lit after nine at night. At home, a lowered gaslight was always lit, providing a sliver of light beneath her door, and the only noise she was likely to hear was the sound of crickets outside her window. And she was cold, even wearing her jacket. One would think the ship would provide the bare necessities, such as a blanket and pillow, but those luxuries were reserved for first class.

“Charlie, are you awake?”

“No.”

She smiled. “I do apologize, but I cannot sleep and I was wondering how you were managing it. It's the engine, you see. The noise.”

“You'll get used to it.”

Rose stared up at the bottom of his bunk, unhappy with his reply. She would not get used to it and supposed she would not sleep for eight nights.

“Charlie.”

He grunted, and that was enough to encourage Rose to ask her question.

“Are you frightened?”

She heard a rustling sound and a
thump
as Charlie jumped down from his bunk. “I am a bit,” he said, his voice so close she knew he had to be sitting on the floor next to her, his back to her bunk. “But I'm excited, too. My uncle wrote that a lot of blokes don't have jobs and I'm one lucky son of... lucky man. It will be strange not being in England; it's all I've ever known. In New York, there's all kinds of people. Italians, Germans, Irish, Greek. English, too. All there to find a better life. Sometimes I think there might not be enough better life in America so that we can all find it.”

Rose turned on her side and reached out her hand to touch the top of his head. When she was very small, she use to beg Charlie to let her touch his hair and he almost always relented. She called it dandelion fluff because his blond curls were so fluffy and soft, and would pretend to blow the seeds away and make a wish. It was comforting in a way to reach out and touch that softness, that familiar sensation. “You have such lovely hair,” she said, moving her fingers as if she were lightly kneading bread. She blew and closed her eyes. “I just made a wish.”

He chuckled before saying, “It's a curse. But girls do seem to like it, so I suppose I'll keep it.”

She batted him lightly on the head. “Charlie Avery, such vanity. And you shouldn't speak of other girls when you're here with your wife.” She laid her hand on his head again. “It's not fair you should have such lovely soft curls.”

“You have curls,” he pointed out, his voice sounding oddly hoarse.

“But not as pretty as yours,” she teased. She was silent for a moment, mulling over all her troubles, her fears. “It's a distinct possibility that Mr. Cartwright will send me packing and I'll return to England in disgrace.”

“Is that your biggest fear?”

“No,” she said, removing her hand from his hair. “Being forced to marry Weston despite my running away. That's my biggest fear.”

Charlie turned so that his arm rested on the bed. It was so dark in the room she couldn't even see the glint of his eyes, but she could sense he was looking at her. “I won't let that happen,” he said in a tone she'd never heard him use before. “If I had the power, I would make sure he never married anyone.”

Rose frowned. “I daresay there isn't much you could do if Mr. Cartwright does send me away, though I can't imagine Weston would still want me after this humiliation. If he finds out. There is a distinct possibility I'll be home before he even knows I'm missing. He mentioned he was going to London for several weeks and wouldn't return until just before the wedding. Knowing my mother, she will do everything in her power to keep my disappearance from him.”

“Surely your parents cannot keep it a secret for too long.”

“They are very determined for me to marry Weston. He's a duke, Charlie. I very much fear I've made a terrible enemy; I pray my parents do not bear the brunt of my actions. It was a selfish thing of me to have done.”

Rose felt her hand suddenly engulfed in his. “You mustn't say that, Rose. You are not some sacrificial lamb to be offered to that ogre. Is it selfish to want to be happy?”

“At the expense of everyone else, yes.”

He pressed her hand against his beard-roughened cheek and Rose stilled. It felt lovely and safe, but somehow far too intimate in this small, dark place. Fortunately, he dropped her hand quickly and turned back around so that he was facing the wall again. Rose hesitated before touching the top of his head again, but the lure of those soft curls was just too much.

“This man you're wanting to marry. Is he kind?”

Rose smiled. “He seemed so. And Marcus likes him, and you know how difficult he is to please.” She rested her head on her hand, wishing she had thought to bring a pillow. “I realize it seems a bit mad to travel across the ocean expecting to marry a man one hardly knows.”

“Just a wee bit,” Charlie said, sounding as if he were half asleep, but when she dropped her hand from his head, he gave a small protest until she returned it.

“Do you think this is a terrible sin, Charlie?”

“Touching a man's hair is perhaps the most sinful of things. So, yes.”

“Ha,” Rose said. “You know what I meant. I meant me, sharing a room with you. Pretending to be married. Lying. All sins.”

“But not bad sins, Rose. Not sins that will make God too angry. And I think He'll understand your reasons.”

“This is the most sinful thing I've ever done. Oh, I forgot disobeying my parents. Thou shall honor thy mother and thy father. I'm breaking a commandment.”

“A commandment created by man, not by God.”

“Charlie, that's not true. Is it?” She could tell he shrugged. “I'll pray extra hard. If I were a Catholic, I'd just tell my sins to a priest and that would be that. Sometimes I think the Church of England should implement something similar. I suppose if God wants to punish me, He'll make me return to England and marry Weston.”

Charlie chuckled. “Rose.”

“Very good, Charlie,” Rose said. “That's the second time you've called me Rose this evening. Yes, what is it?” She could feel him breathe, in, out, in, out. Whatever he wanted to say was apparently not easy.

“What happens between a man and a woman who love one another, or who are at least kind, can be lovely. I wanted you to know that so you wouldn't fear your wedding night if this man does agree to marry you. I don't want you to be afraid.”

Rose's throat squeezed shut, more from the way Charlie said those words, with quiet conviction and a concern that truly touched her, than from the words themselves. If the rumors about Daniel Cartwright were true, she would not have a wedding night, which was exactly why she'd chosen him. She'd spent long hours lying in her bed, trying to think of a way out of marrying the duke. Many young women married men they did not care for. But not many married men they feared.

Weston did not love her and she most certainly did not love him. But did that give her the right to do what she had done?

“I'm not afraid,” Rose said finally. “Not now.”

 

She was lying, Charlie knew she was. He let it go because he was hesitant to say anything that would stop her soft, warm hand from caressing his head. He knew she didn't realize it was a caress. Likely, it was just as calming to her as it was to him, but he was damn sure it wasn't nearly as erotic. If she knew that her simple innocent touch was driving him mad with need, she'd never touch him again. It was the worst sort of torture, but one he was willing to endure. For a lifetime. He could stay where he was forever, sitting on this cold, damp floor, listening to her talk as she threaded her hands through his hair. He closed his eyes and tried not to picture her hand other places, but he was no saint. Then again, maybe he was.

Charlie had been taught the art of pleasing a woman—and it was an art—by a young widow who found him, as she put it, full of endless energy. For a long time, Charlie thought all women were like Rhonda Smithers, finding as much pleasure in the bedroom as he did. And Lord above knew he did. He hadn't been with Rhonda for more than a year, since she'd left for Cornwall to care for her ailing mother, and as he wasn't one to seduce innocent women or cuckold married men, it had been a while since he'd enjoyed the pleasure of a woman.

“Charlie, how do you know?”

Charlie tensed a bit. “Know what?”

“You know, with a woman. I didn't know you had a sweetheart.”

“I'm twenty-five years old, Rose.”

She let out a sound that very much resembled a snort. “That's not an answer.”

“That's all the answer you're getting.”

She pulled his hair just enough to sting, and he smiled. When they reached New York, they would say good-bye, and it was unlikely they would ever see each other again even if she frequented Delmonico's with her new husband. He'd be working in the kitchens and storeroom, not out front, though his uncle had said if he were “as pretty” as his father was when he was young, the owner just might promote him to waiter. Charlie had no desire to be a waiter or anything at Delmonico's for long; a man didn't get rich working in a restaurant.

 

That first night aboard ship set the pattern for much of the journey. The two would talk late into the night until exhaustion finally overtook Rose and she was able to fall asleep. Charlie would take up his position on the floor, their heads close together so they wouldn't have to shout, and talk about what they thought New York would be like, books Rose had read, their childhood adventures. So many conversations started with Rose saying, “Remember the time . . .” Many times, Charlie hadn't remembered until she related the story.

“Charlie.”

She'd been silent for perhaps ten seconds. Rose knew she was likely driving the poor man crazy with her talking, but he never complained or hinted she was bothering him. She simply couldn't bear to lie there listening to the throbbing engine. She'd imagine it sounded as if it were saying something, like Go home, Go home, Go home. And no matter how much she tried, she couldn't make it stop.

“Yes, Rose.”

She smiled. There was something about the way he said her name, a certain hesitation that told her he still resisted calling her by her given name.

“Remember the time I caught you in the loft with our governess?”

“Now that's one I remember. You saved me from a terrible mistake, Rose. I was only seventeen and Miss Talbot had found herself in a difficult situation.”

“Do you mean what I think you mean?” she asked, more shocked than she could express. Miss Talbot had been such a stickler about propriety, and as a little girl, finding her alone with Charlie hadn't really been Rose's concern. Finding her sitting on a pile of hay in the middle of the day when she was supposed to be preparing Rose's lesson was the true shock.

“Yes. She was let go shortly after, remember?”

“Do you mean to say she was already enceinte and she was trying to make you think that you . . . Oh, that's terrible. Why you?”

Charlie laughed. “Because I was seventeen, had a decent enough position, and I was ready and willing. And she was a very desperate lady.”

“Really, Charlie, have you no shame?”

“
I
wasn't doing anything wrong,” he said with mock affront. “She was trying to entrap
me
.”

“But you were willing. That sort of activity outside the confines of marriage is a sin.”

“Not a very big one and not one very many people avoid. And of course, who wouldn't be willing?”

“I wouldn't,” Rose said, sounding a bit more morose than she'd meant.

“You'll change your mind about all that, no doubt.”

Rose wondered if she would. It was highly unlikely, given that just the thought of kissing a man made her slightly ill. Unfortunately, every time she tried to picture it, she saw Weston's leering face, his too-thick lips, his . . . She squeezed her eyes closed as if that would banish the images. It was just as well she wasn't going to have to worry about kissing and men and all that bedroom activity. If Mr. Cartwright was indeed not interested in women. What would she do if it turned out all those rumors were wrong and he still wanted to marry her? Not two days ago, she'd congratulated herself on being the cleverest woman she knew when she'd come up with her plan. “I do believe my mind is made up,” she announced with certainty.

“That's because you've never wanted to be with someone. When you do, you'll change your mind.”

“I never will.”

She heard a rustling sound that meant Charlie was turning to look at her. “What about when you are married?”

Rose's face heated. “I really do not want to discuss this any further,” she said, sounding very prim. “It is a highly improper conversation.”

“Even with your husband?” Charlie asked, clearly teasing.

“You are not my husband, thank God.” Charlie turned around suddenly and Rose had the feeling she had hurt him. “I didn't mean that to sound quite so awful.”

“No matter. I've thicker skin than that.” But he sounded off, and Rose frowned.