To Seduce a Rogue (27 page)

Mrs. Peters threw her a tight glance, suggesting she should get on with it.

Charlie slid from the bed and just missed the stool placed next to it, her feet hitting the floor with a thump. She grimaced and hurried to the wardrobe, where Mrs. Beard had insisted upon placing her meager possessions. As Charlie opened the doors, she noted her dresses, looking rather pathetic dangling there, taking up so little space. Peeling off her nightdress, she slipped one of the two clean dresses remaining—this one blue—over her head. She was pulling the sleeves into place when Mrs. Peters executed a graceful rotation.

She approached Charlie, her scrutinizing gaze sweeping from head to foot, at last falling to the nightdress puddled on the floor. She sniffed for the second time that morning. “Thank goodness I have connections. Mrs. Follette will be here within the hour, and I must say” —with another look thrown to the rumpled nightdress, then another to Charlie’s simple attire— “she is desperately needed.”

Her chaperone’s disdain did not trouble Charlie. She had endured that her entire life. “Who is Mrs. Follette?” She picked up her nightdress and began to fold it, something she rarely did at home.

Mrs. Peters frowned, took the nightdress from her and folded it with quick efficiency. “Only one of the finest seamstresses in Virginia. I will have you know that she had a waiting list for appointments. She is a
personal
friend. I can assure you an appointment without my reference would have been impossible. Even
with
Mr. Chase’s adequate funds.”

Charlie’s took a step forward. “A seamstress? Mr. Chase’s funds? I don’t need a seamstress, and I don’t need Mr. Chase’s funds!”

“My dear, he is being most generous sponsoring a mere employee of his. Why, you are not even distant family.”

“I don’t—”

Mrs. Peters thrust the folded nightdress into her hands, promptly ending her rebuttal. “Miss Whitney, for a two-week visit, your apparel needs are simple. But my dear, you have
three
dresses, if I am not mistaken, hanging in this wardrobe. Three basic, inappropriate dresses.”

“My dresses are fine. I made them, thank you very much.”

Mrs. Peters’ eyebrows lifted at that. “Well, they are indeed suitable for Edgemont,” she amended. “Richmond, though, requires a finer level of attire.”

“I don’t know what Chase, um, what Mr. Chase told you...” She felt her temper rise. Just thinking of Chase’s high-handed tactics. Oh! She had reminded herself again and again that Chase believed he was doing the right thing.

While she was at it, she should set her chaperone straight. It would certainly simplify matters for the remainder of their stay in Richmond. “Mrs. Peters, to put it plainly, I’m here because Mr. Chase was afraid to leave me alone in Edgemont. With the newspaper. He feared I would cause trouble. More than I have already, I mean.”

Charlie watched a sly smile cross Mrs. Peters’ face. Either her chaperone had heard the gossip and didn’t believe it, or she discounted someone’s motives. Chase’s? That was impossible, considering his conduct during their travel. It was obvious, from his distant manner that he wished she were anywhere but where she was—with him.

Her chaperone continued to stare at her, as if Charlie had never spoken. “The dresses I have are quite suitable. There will be no parties or social gatherings. I avoid those as studiously as possible in Edgemont, why would I attend them here? Besides, Mr. Chase has no intention of taking me anywhere but to his office one afternoon. Oh, and a short tour of Richmond, at best.” Chase could hardly stand to
look
at her. She was sure soirees were not on his list of events.

“You must be mistaken. It makes no matter.” Mrs. Peters nodded toward the wardrobe. “Your clothing is not appropriate for even a simple tour of the city.”

“I cannot possibly let Mr. Chase furnish my clothing. I will not.”

Mrs. Peters softened her tone. “My dear, I am arranging this affair; there is absolutely nothing improper. Plus,” she whispered, “for Mr. Chase, this expenditure amounts to mere pocket change.”

Charlie had nothing to say to that. She had known, of course, from the way Chase lifted a glass to his lips to the way he held a pencil, that he was a refined man. His education and breeding spoke for themselves, as those things tended to do, but perhaps she hadn’t realized how very
wealthy
he was. His house definitely spoke volumes. “I can’t accept, Mrs. Peters. Really, I don’t want to cause you to worry. It’s not the impropriety.” She laughed at that. “It just feels wrong to me somehow.”

Mrs. Peters patted her shoulder. “Go and have breakfast. We can talk later.”

Charlie went down to breakfast, unable to shake the feeling that she was being outmaneuvered by her chaperone.

* * *

Only moments later, another of Mrs. Peters’ soft knocks sounded on the oak doors leading into the library. Mrs. Beard had told Mrs. Peters she would find Mr. Chase there, as he refused to use his study as a study.

Mrs. Peters, after years of owning a business that served an aristocratic clientele, could attest to the strange behavior of those with money. Like Mrs. Beard, she observed—often with great interest—but never commented. Which she advised Mrs. Beard, who was none too happy to hear it, to do in the future.

“Mr. Chase? It is Mrs. Peters. May I have a brief moment of your time?” He did not answer, so she knocked again.

Papers shuffled, then his deep voice called, “Please enter.”

The room, a magnificent mixture of dark wood and leather, lit by sunlight spilling in the floor-to-ceiling windows, fit such an imposing man. “I’m sorry to disturb you.” She halted as she encountered his cool expression. “You must be very busy. Yet, I have run into a small problem.”

Adam exhaled and rubbed his eyes. “Let’s get this over with. What has she done?”

She blinked in the sharp sunlight, which for a moment obscured Adam’s face from her vision. “How do you know—”

He leaned back in his chair with a laugh. “After spending even one hour with her, how can you ask that?”

Mrs. Peters stepped further into the room, stopping behind the chair sitting closest to his desk and resting her hands on the back. “She
is
a willful young woman, I will concede.”

Mrs. Peters also found her to be warm and friendly, and quite beautiful, though abysmally unpolished.

He laid his pen on the desk, still smiling. He appeared to be waiting for her to continue. She cleared her throat, trying to avoid the strength of his gaze. “Actually” —she squeezed the chair and rushed into her prepared speech— “Miss Whitney needs proper clothing, which she does not have. She has no dressing gowns, no walking dresses, no morning dresses, no evening dresses. Not to mention a bonnet, gloves, slippers.” She sighed long and hard. “Those boots of hers are without a doubt the ugliest things I have seen since my dog had the mange.”

He laughed into his fist. “The boots
are
hideous.”

“Mr. Chase, this is hardly amusing. How can you possibly present her in public looking like a ragamuffin?”

His smile softened. “Miss Whitney has her own sense of style.”

Mrs. Peters sniffed and pursed her lips. “Yes, I suppose. But she must have—”

He picked up a paper from his desk, prepared to dive back into his work. “Do whatever is necessary. Just send the invoices to me.”

“
That
is the problem.”

“The invoices?”

“Miss Whitney does not think it is
right
, as she terms it, for you to pay for her clothing. I told her it was entirely proper. Apparently, that was not the aspect of the situation she was concerned with. I believe it is a matter of principle.” She rolled her eyes. The idea of a young woman reflecting upon her integrity was an absurd notion. An absurdly masculine notion. “I have sent for the seamstress.”

Adam shifted in the chair, his head falling back as he ejected a bark of laughter. “You mentioned propriety? To
her
?” He laughed again and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.

Mrs. Peters glared at him as she gripped the chair. “I fail to find any humor in this situation.”

He unsuccessfully tried to contain a smile. “When is the esteemed seamstress supposed to arrive?”

Mrs. Peters released a held breath. Mr. Chase was finally going to cooperate. “In less than an hour.”

“Too late to cancel the appointment then.”

“
Cancel the appointment
?”

“How about this? I’ll talk to your charge” —he laughed as he said this— “on my way out. You handle the rest. I have too much to do to play nursemaid.” He gave her a look that clearly stated,
That is what you are here for
.

Mrs. Peters dusted her hands together, closing the discussion. “Miss Whitney is simply more tenacious than I would have imagined.”

He shrugged and turned his gaze—and his attention—back to the work upon his desk. “I warned you.”

Mrs. Peters circled back, cleanly dismissed. Mr. Chase
had
stated that Miss Whitney was headstrong and determined. That her upbringing had been...exceptional. 

But he had omitted a significant ingredient of the recipe. That she, Mrs. Jeffrey Peters, formerly Alice Fripp of the Richmond, Virginia Fripps, was in attendance not only to chaperone an impulsive, spiritual young woman, but to serve as a barrier between two people she suspected were in love with each other.

Longing

Strong persistent desire or craving, especially for something unattainable or distant.

Adam left his bedroom, tugging impatiently at his neckpiece. God, he hated the damn things. He longed for an unbuttoned shirt and a pair of trousers that did not chafe. He had conveniently forgotten the impracticality of Richmond’s formalities: appropriate dress for morning and evening, parties and socials, meetings and appointments. Now here he was, off to recruit another hapless soul into the world of tasteful fashion and refined protocol.

He paused at the bottom of the staircase as warm laughter met his ears: Charlie’s laughter. He would recognize hers in a room filled with a hundred others’. Not to mention her scent, her smile, her body, her walk. Shoving aside a strong pulse of longing, he followed the sound.

The dining room was empty, he noted as he passed through the archway. The nut brown sideboard, filled with a vast array of muffins, juices and pastries, looked undisturbed. He turned his head as another burst of laughter cut into his skin as sharply as sand in a driving wind.

Pushing forward, he walked into the kitchen, the door propped open with a large, red brick. Again he paused, catching sight of Charlie, her round bottom indelicately planted atop an enormous chopping block that had been in his family for three generations. His kitchen staff of two surrounded her.

Mrs. Beard and Miss Cameron stood there smiling and laughing as Charlie told some undoubtedly captivating tale. She flipped her hands as she talked, eager and free. Her feet hung far from the floor, her legs swaying in a two-rhythm beat to her own music as usual.

He laughed—he could not stop it—and came into the room.
This
was the young woman Mrs. Peters hoped to reform with a few scraps of silk and a bonnet.