Potent Pleasures (16 page)

Charlotte bit her lip. She was thoroughly perplexed. “
What
condition, Mama?”

Adelaide took a deep breath. “Your father says—” She broke off. Then she spoke abruptly. “Impotence is when a man … when his member becomes soft rather than stiff. Such a man
cannot
get married, Charlotte, because he and his wife would have no children. Do you understand?”

Charlotte nodded. She had a fair idea of the mechanics of sexual ingression, less, it must be admitted, from that night in the garden than from inadvertently seeing two horses mating a year ago.

“It’s not right,” Adelaide added. “It’s not right that the earl is pursuing you, given his limitations.”

“He is quite, ah, stiff, Mama,” Charlotte said weakly. “I mean, I noticed, because he kissed me and—”

Adelaide interposed, her eyes slanting away into the corner of the room. “The fact is, darling, that apparently a man can be quite capable up until the last minute, or something of that nature,” she said hurriedly. “I can’t say I understand it completely. But an impotent husband cannot have a child.”

“But—he has a child,” Charlotte said in a puzzled tone. “Pippa looks exactly like him.”

Adelaide groaned inwardly. This was precisely the subject she didn’t want to discuss.

“The child might not be, well, she could be his child but not his wife’s, if you grasp my meaning.”

“Nonsense, Mama. He told me that Pippa is distressed because when his wife was dying, the child was left with a succession of nannies. He was telling the truth.”

“I don’t know, darling. I don’t understand about the child, and your father doesn’t either. But the fact is that his wife annulled the marriage on the grounds of impotence, and he didn’t raise a whisper about it. In fact, he must have agreed with her assessment, or there would have been an examination.”

“An examination,” Charlotte whispered. “You mean by doctors?”

“Oh, Charlotte,” her mother said in agony. “You’ll simply have to forget about this man! Everyone is talking about him and anyone who marries him will have to face the harshest scrutiny … can you imagine? What if he
is
capable and you gave birth to a child who didn’t resemble him? What would everyone say then? No, no,” she said with decision. “I don’t know why he is even trying to get you to marry him. He will have to settle for taking his brother’s child as heir, that’s all.”

Charlotte absorbed in silence the news that all London was talking about Alex. Her heart was wrung by the idea of people laughing at him. Did he know? He must know. He showed no signs of distress. And no signs of worry about his … capability, she thought slowly. In fact, even remembering the moment when he jerked her body against his, at the picnic, made her feel flushed.

“He wants to get married because his daughter won’t accept a governess,” she said softly, looking up at her mother. “He was quite honest about it.”

Looking at her daughter’s miserable face, Adelaide felt a sympathetic pulse of sadness. Alexander was devastatingly handsome, with his dark hair and eyes. She took her daughter’s hand comfortingly in hers.

“Your father thinks he may have had a riding accident, dearest.”

Charlotte thought about this for a while.

Her mother cleared her throat. “You do see, darling, that his suit is impossible? You are far too lovely to become a mere governess. I want you to fall in love and—to be able to make love. And to have children.” She stroked her cheek lovingly. “You children have been the greatest source of joy in my life. I would hate to see you unable to experience that.”

Charlotte nodded silently.

“Perhaps you could direct Alexander to speak to your father,” her mother prompted. “Marcel could make it quite clear that he would never accept his suit, and the man could look for a nursemaid elsewhere. Really.” She frowned. “I dislike him more for pursuing you for that reason than I do for any disability he has.”

“It’s not that reason alone,” Charlotte said, almost in-audibly.

“I am sorry, darling,” her mother said, instantly understanding. “But there’s nothing to be done about it.”

“I would prefer to tell him myself.”

“Yes.”

There was a short silence.

“You will have to be very resolute, Charlotte. Perhaps it would help if you kept your mind fixed on what happened three years ago.”

“Yes,” Charlotte said.

“I meant what I said about your father, dearest. We have shared, well, life together for more than twenty years. I know that you can find a man who takes his private life seriously. If he loves you, he will,” Adelaide added firmly.

Charlotte looked at her numbly. She felt instinctively in the pit of her stomach that if she didn’t marry Alex, she would marry no man. But why bring that up with her mother? Her parents’ point of view was quite clear. And even if she refused Alex’s hand for a different reason than they would—she didn’t countenance this question of impotence overmuch—her mother had merely confirmed her sense that Alex’s inability to remember their encounter three years ago signaled an unhappy future. She did not want to end up like Sissy’s mother, huddled at home while her husband circled the ballroom with other women. Even the idea of seeing Alex smiling down at another woman, whether she was married to him or not, made her sick to her stomach.

“Mama,” she said, “I want you to promise that you will not discuss with papa what happened three years ago. I know that papa won’t accept Alex’s suit. But I insist that I tell Alex myself.”

Charlotte had no clear idea why she was so insistent about personally refusing Alex’s proposal. In the back of her mind she knew that if her father spoke to Alex, Alex might never speak to her again. Even the thought wrung her heart. How would she get through an evening knowing that his deep voice wouldn’t appear at her ear at some point? How would she be able to dance without the knowledge that, at some point, his large hands would grasp hers? If she were completely honest, in the week since the picnic at which he asked her to marry him she had lived for the moments when he approached her.

Charlotte went to bed feeling numb, cried out. She had promised her mother that she would inform Alex at the first opportunity that her parents would never accept his suit.

“I can’t just spit that out in public!” she had said dully, huddled on the couch in her studio.

“I know,” her mother had replied. “All we ask is that you end his courtship as soon as possible. We are only trying to guard your reputation and happiness, darling.”

That night, for the first time in a week, Charlotte did not go to sleep dreaming of velvety dark eyes and hands that tantalized and persuaded. She stared at the ceiling until glimmers of dawn crept through her new chenille curtains. Finally she turned over and fell dreamlessly into sleep.

Chapter 8

C
harlotte didn’t wake up until almost two o’clock in the afternoon. Her maid tiptoed in and out several times, trying to decide whether to pull the curtains and wake up her mistress. But she looked so white lying against the linen sheets, her face distressed even in sleep, that Marie finally decided that her mistress must be getting ill and should be allowed to sleep as long as possible.

When Charlotte awoke she lay still for a moment as details of the conversation with her mother dropped back into place in her mind. Finally she stretched, pulling the bell cord next to her bed. Somehow the situation didn’t seem so tragic in the light of day. She swung her feet out of bed and stared absentmindedly at her toes.

Perhaps she didn’t have to give up Alex entirely. She would explain the situation—her mind nimbly evaded the question of how
that
was going to be aired—and they could continue as they were, with the understanding that marriage was not an option. Charlotte really felt quite pleased with this idea. Wiggling her toes happily, she pictured herself going down the set on Alex’s arm. Maybe she would even go in to dinner with him at the next ball. So far she had made certain she was engaged for dinner before he even appeared (he invariably attended any ball late, just before the doors closed in the case of Almack’s).

When Marie appeared, followed by a puffing footman with a large pail of hot water, she was surprised to find a faintly pink, smiling Charlotte humming and darting about the room.

“I’m going to the theater tonight, Marie,” Charlotte said. “I believe I shall take a ride now, and then I’ll go to Blackwell’s and see if I can find a new novel.” Not that she had any time for reading, but she was between paintings. Who should she paint next? Her mind wandered off into a pleasurable daydream that involved Alex sitting on the couch in her studio. She would lean over him to rearrange his arm … what the imaginary Alex did then made her cheeks turn from pink to rosy. Marie stared at her in amazement.

“And after the bookstore,” Charlotte added hastily, “I would like another bath, Marie. Would you send a message to Monsieur Pamplemousse, please? If he could attend me at some point this evening, I would be grateful.”

Two baths in one day! Marie mentally shook her head. She herself found a semiweekly wash-off to be more than enough. As her mother had often told her, too much water caused water on the lung.

“What would you like to wear tonight, my lady?” she asked.

Charlotte stretched out luxuriously in the large tin tub. “I think I shall wear the white and black gown. You know the one.”

Marie nodded vigorously. It was her favorite of the dresses Lady Charlotte had bought from Madame Carême, although she had yet to see her mistress wear it. Marie looked speculatively at Charlotte. She was wearing that dress for an engagement at the theater? Something important was going to happen tonight.

Marie’s assiduous reading of the gossip columns had gleaned two interesting facts: The Earl of Sheffield and Downes apparently came to balls only to dance with Charlotte, and there was something very smoky about his previous marriage. Ah, well. Marie was no great believer in condemning a man for behavior during a previous marriage. Unless—her eyes widened a bit—he
killed
his first wife! But no. The papers said very clearly that she died of scarlet fever. Just like Marie’s own aunt.

She bustled about pulling out gossamer stockings, a corset, and her mistress’s crimson riding costume.

“No, not that one,” Charlotte said suddenly, looking up from her bath. “I’ll wear the gray costume.”

Now Marie knew that something was happening. The gray riding habit was one of her mistress’s new purchases. It was the color of a mourning dove and fit like a glove, with black braid trim that gave it the air of a Russian soldier. It was exquisite … but also rather uncomfortable. If Charlotte was wearing that riding costume, she was expecting to meet someone on her ride. Marie glanced at her speculatively. If the duchess knew her daughter was making assignations in the park!

In fact, Charlotte was not engaged to meet anyone in particular on her ride. But she had woken with blood singing in her veins, and she was not allowing herself to think about the cause. She felt like looking her best, she reasoned. If the Earl of Sheffield and Downes happened to be riding in Hyde Park when she was there … well, she would be friendly but cool. There was nothing wrong with wanting to look her best.

Charlotte stretched a long, elegant leg out of the bath and looked at it meditatively. Then she sat up and, balancing herself carefully with hands on both sides of the light tin tub, stepped out of the bath.

“Marie, will you send one of the footmen over to Lady Sophie’s, please, to ask whether she would like to join me in the park? Thank you.”

Marie, having laid all her mistress’s clothing on the bed, whisked over to the door. Any opportunity to take a message downstairs meant that she got to see Cecil, and perhaps even to snatch a kiss behind a door.

“I’ll be back immediately, my lady,” she said. Then she ran down the back stairs.

Alone in her room, Charlotte finished rubbing herself with cream, faintly scented with orange blossoms, and paused in front of the mirror. For some reason, ever since she woke up this morning her belly felt fiery. Even the sight of her own curvaceous self—the body she had lived with for twenty years!—seemed exotic, exciting. She tried to look at herself as a man might, but gave up. She’d lost some weight recently, but oddly enough her breasts seemed to have grown larger. When she looked at the tender weight of her breasts, all she saw was a honey-colored male hand curving around them…. Charlotte shivered all over, and turned away from the mirror.

She managed to dress herself almost completely before sitting down and waiting impatiently for Marie to return. What on earth could be taking her so long? Finally she pulled her bell cord, and downstairs Marie gasped and pulled away from Cecil’s chest.

“Go, go!” she said quickly, her French accent intensified by excitement. Lady Sophie lived only a few streets away, so he could be there and back in a flash. Marie dashed up the servants’ stairs and slowed to a walk just outside Charlotte’s door, quietly slipping inside.

“I am sorry, my lady,” she said, beginning to fasten the small buttons that made the gray suit so form-fitting.

Her mistress was sitting in front of her dressing mirror, absentmindedly staring at herself.

“That’s all right, Marie,” she said.

Marie smiled a bit. She was very lucky and she knew it. Charlotte was never bad-tempered, and even when she was irritable she rarely snapped at Marie. Whereas Marie had a friend working for a certain young lady who had not received an offer so far this season, and
she
regularly had to dodge hairbrushes and combs, and recently her mistress had even thrown a jar of face powder at her!

There was a discreet knock and Marie stopped brushing Charlotte’s hair and opened the door, just a crack. It was Cecil, looking very formal.

“Lady Sophie York would be pleased to join Lady Charlotte in approximately one hour,” he said, rather loudly. Then he whispered wickedly, “And Mr. Cecil would like to take a certain French miss into the laundry closet for a ride!”

Marie rolled her eyes indignantly, shutting the door.

Charlotte was looking rather amused, for some reason. She couldn’t have heard Cecil, Marie reassured herself.

“Lady Sophie will ride in an hour, my lady,” she said.

“Hmmm … was that Cecil?”

Marie’s hands got even busier, arranging and rearranging Charlotte’s soft curls.

“Yes, my lady.”

“He’s quite handsome, isn’t he, Marie?” Charlotte asked mischievously, picturing the fair-haired man who often accompanied her on rides in Hyde Park.

“I don’t know,” her maid said hurriedly.

“He’s
very
English-looking,” Charlotte persisted.

“There! You look lovely, my lady.
Ravissante
” Marie said.

Charlotte twinkled at her in the mirror. Marie slipped into French only in moments of strong emotion.

Sophie was waiting for her by the time Charlotte’s mare delicately pranced her way to a stop before the marble steps of the Marquis of Brandenburg’s town house. She ran down the steps lightly, dressed in a crimson riding costume that was just as form-fitting as was Charlotte’s. Sophie’s groom threw her up onto her fidgeting horse, a sprightly, slender mare she had named Erica.

“Erica!” her father the marquis had said in disgust. “Such a pedestrian name for a lovely animal.”

But Sophie just smiled at him and sent her groom to fetch Erica. Nothing he said, her father gloomily thought, had ever had any effect on her actions; what made him think that he could influence the name of her horse?

Now Sophie looked appreciatively at Charlotte, whose gray costume was perfectly complemented by her midnight black mare.

“My God! We make an exquisite pair, don’t we?” She gave Charlotte a wicked smile. Sophie loved to embarrass Charlotte by pointing out the obvious, but she noticed with interest that Charlotte didn’t turn a hair today.

“Do you think we ought to bring two of our grooms, rather than one of yours and one of ours?” Sophie twisted about to look at the two grooms mounted behind the girls.

“Why on earth?”

“Sweetness,” Sophie teased, “their liveries don’t match. And when two dashing high-flyers like ourselves are taking the air, shouldn’t we be accompanied by matching grooms?”

Charlotte shrugged, sending a slanting grin in Sophie’s direction. “I personally think that all eyes will be on me,” she said impudently. “And if there is anyone left to look at you, I don’t think they’ll notice the grooms.”

“Oooooh,” Sophie replied. “My sweet Charlotte is growing some thorns. All right, then.
On y va
, Philippe,” she called to her groom. The marquis—who insisted that his title be spelled in the French way—was more than a little proud of his wife’s French background. He employed only French servants, insisting that they provided a nobleman’s house with an extra touch of refinement. After growing up her whole life surrounded by French servants, Sophie slipped easily into either English or French.

Sophie and Charlotte ambled along the crowded London street together. After meeting noses and snorting a few times, their mares pranced neck to neck, one occasionally tossing her neck and indicating a wish to bolt. The street was thronged with London’s rich and poor inhabitants. Orange sellers slipped past well-breeched swells, their hands sliding gently over rich fabrics, perhaps removing a watch chain or a wallet. Children dashed into the crowded street every other moment, running between carriages and horses, recklessly tossing their lives into the hands of people who, for the most part, didn’t give a tinker’s curse for the life of a London waif.

“My mama,” Sophie said with a sideways glance at Charlotte, “is somewhat perturbed about tonight’s entertainment.”

“Really?” Charlotte replied. “I believe the play is quite unexceptional: Shakespeare, isn’t it?” Sophie’s mother had grown up in a French convent, and she had notoriously strict ideas about propriety.

“That’s not the problem. The problem is that where you go, along comes the earl, and …”

“Which earl?”

“You know which earl! The Earl of Sheffield and Downes, of course. Every wit’s favorite target.”

Charlotte’s heart sank. Sophie had been kept at home with a cold all the past week and Charlotte hadn’t had a chance to speak to her; if she too knew about Alex’s supposed impotence, then her mother was right. All of London was discussing the man’s ability.

“I don’t like it,” Charlotte said fiercely, staring between her horse’s flicking ears. “How can people be so vulgar!”

Sophie cast her a curious glance. “Is it true, then?” she asked.

“How on earth would I know?” Charlotte answered. “It took my mother about an hour to become clear enough so that I could even understand what she was talking about.”

Sophie listened silently. One of the virtues of having a French nanny was that talk of male properties was not uncommon in the Brandenburg nursery. Not, of course, that the marchioness, Eloise, had any notion of that fact.

“Perhaps you could ask him?” she said, her face alight with devilment. Charlotte looked up. There, edging down the street on a huge black stallion, was her sometime suitor, Alexander Foakes himself. Charlotte’s heart instantly started beating so quickly she felt as if the buttons on her riding costume must burst.

“Lady Charlotte; Lady Sophie,” Alex said easily, reining his horse to a stop just to the left of Charlotte. He doffed his hat. He was wearing a gray riding coat and top boots, and looked every inch the gentleman. Charlotte looked at him somewhat wonderingly. How on earth did she ever fool herself into thinking he was a footman?

“Sir,” she said, inclining her head.

Sophie contented herself with an impish smile. She liked this suitor of Charlotte’s, with his stormy black eyes and huge body. Not for her, someone so large and moody-looking, but he was perfect for Charlotte, she had to admit. Naturally, only
if
all those rumors were untrue.