What Not to Bare: A Loveswept Historical Romance

Thanks to Myretta Robens, who is a fantastic friend, a great critiquer, and an amazing resource for all things Regency-related.

And thanks to Louise Fury, my agent, and Sue Grimshaw, my editor, both of whom knew I had this in me (’cause I wasn’t so sure).

“Write your column?” Charlotte looked at her friend in disbelief.

“It is only for a few months while I am with my sister; the way she’s acting you’d think women had never had children before. And during the Season, too! How inconsiderate can one sister be?” Emma rolled her eyes as though to express her feelings, but her tone belied her exasperation—Emma loved her older sister and would do anything for her. Even leave London in the midst of the Season.

Charlotte, on the other hand, wasn’t leaving anywhere until she got some food. The Davenhams’ evening entertainment included all of their daughters, one of whom had enacted a precise tableaux inspired by Gibbons’s
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. All six volumes
.

Charlotte had contemplated eating her shoe around the Roman conquest of the Franks.

And just as she was about to sit down at the table with her small plate of food, her best friend Emma had bustled up, grabbed her, and informed her she would be writing Emma’s fashion column while Emma was away from London.

This, Charlotte knew, was the most ludicrous idea ever imagined. Even worse than Miss Davenham’s Viking song. Who knew those fur-clad Northern Europeans could be so … 
jolly
?

“But, Emma,” she replied, spreading her hands out to indicate her gown, “I know nothing about fashion. Less than nothing. Look,” she said, pointing to her shoes. “I somehow thought purple slippers would go perfectly with my yellow evening gown.”

“Not to mention those red squiggly things wandering randomly through the fabric,” Emma said, touching one of the offending stripes “And that yellow! It looks like jaundice! What were you thinking?” Emma had never been shy about offering her opinion of Charlotte’s use of color.

Charlotte groaned. “I was thinking it looked lovely! Instead, when I came downstairs, my mother’s mouth opened and closed like a dying fish, and she made me
come into the ballroom five minutes later than she did so no one would think she had anything to do with my gown.” She shook her head. “Honestly, Emma, I have no fashion sense. Less than none. I am negative in the fashion-sense area.” She swallowed. “You have heard the nickname I’ve gotten, haven’t you? The Abomination.”

She’d almost come to believe her own words. If only so many hadn’t discussed—at length—just how rich she was, she wouldn’t have to indulge her most far-fetched visions of dress.

But they had, and so she did. Hence her reputation, which kept nearly everyone but Emma safely away. And Emma did not wish to marry her, thank goodness.

Emma patted her arm in sympathy, and Charlotte felt momentarily guilty at fooling her friend. Her friend with the loose tongue. “I am sorry. But,” Emma continued, “I don’t care.” Charlotte stopped feeling guilty entirely.

She spoke in that decisive tone Charlotte knew only too well. It meant Emma’s mind was made up, whether she’d decided to hatch a chicken egg in her bedroom, ask the Prince of Wales to marry her, or run for the title of Most Beautiful Emma in London.

That last one had the best chance of happening, since so many young men of the
ton
were enthralled with Emma’s blond tresses, limpid blue eyes, and deliciously tiny figure. Plus, she was named Emma, so that was a good start.

Nothing like Charlotte’s own brown hair, equally brown eyes, and a figure her mother euphemistically referred to as “healthy.” Which was in danger of being less “healthy” if she didn’t get something to eat soon. Not to mention her name, which always sounded to her like an elderly aunt who smelled of old mint, unlike Emma’s, which rang like a gentle tinkling bell in one’s ears.

“Fine, then. When do you leave town?” Charlotte plunked her plate on the table and sat. Damned if Emma was going to make her miss her dinner.

Emma took the chair next to hers and beckoned a footman over. “Could you bring me a chocolate ice, please?” Perhaps that was how Emma kept her trim figure—she just skipped the main course and went straight for the treats.

The Davenhams were wealthy—and not shy about showing it—so they always provided the most decadent refreshments at their parties. Keeping ices cold for several hours was an impressive way of demonstrating the depth of one’s bank balance. It was a
tactical move, since the Davenhams did indeed have so many daughters to marry off. And it would take a lot of ice to get a gentleman to take on the history-minded Davenham. She rather looked like some sort of prehistoric snow dweller, Charlotte thought. Perfect for an ice enthusiast.

“I leave tomorrow. And normally I have a few columns in reserve, but I got behind. You’ll have to start writing it immediately.” Emma picked up her spoon and took a delicate bite of the ice. As though she hadn’t just blown Charlotte’s world apart into little, fashionable bits.

“Immediately?” Charlotte shrieked, albeit quietly. As loud as her clothing was, Charlotte had no wish to draw attention to herself. Plus, she knew her mother would spend an extra half an hour in addition to her normal lecture at the end of the evening if Charlotte caused people to stare. More than her outfit warranted, that is.

“Yes. That is why I insisted you come to the Davenhams tonight, so I could help you with what you need to do. It’s really quite simple.”

Simple if you have a sense of style, Charlotte thought. Even now, Emma couldn’t help but look beautiful—her gown, a pale-cream color, was accented with pink ribbons just under the bosom. If Charlotte had worn it, she would have added several dozen more ribbons, preferably in varying hues, her favorite pair of red gloves, and perhaps some feathers in her mousy-brown hair.

She knew she looked garish, but even beyond wanting to keep certain types away, she just … 
liked
looking that way, despite her mother’s despair. Perhaps because of her mother’s despair? Her mother had long ago washed her hands of Charlotte, sartorially at least, since she could only control so much of what her daughter did.

Besides, Charlotte reasoned, as she always did when she ran through the argument in her head, she wanted to be liked for who she was, not what she wore. Or how much money she had. Which, thanks to her favorite (and now late) great-aunt, was a substantial sum.

That Charlotte hadn’t yet found a husband—even with as much money as she had—was her mother’s Cross to Bear, something she reminded Charlotte of daily. And sometimes nightly.

But no matter how much her mother begged, Charlotte couldn’t resist an item of
clothing if it was loud. Preferably screaming. Dressing as she did was a type of disguise, a protection against anybody who might try to infiltrate her defenses for the wrong reasons.

Her mother didn’t understand Charlotte’s explanation, didn’t understand Charlotte at all, but she was determined to Bear her Cross until her daughter was wedded.

While Charlotte waited for someone to brave her defenses, so she could be certain she was loved for herself.

Meanwhile, Charlotte attended every event her mother asked her to, knowing full well that the man who would seek her out for herself was an unusual, special man.

Because she was an unusual, special woman.

Who liked to wear unusual, special clothes.

“And then you turn in your article every Thursday, by two o’clock at the latest. I can send the address ’round to you tomorrow,” she heard Emma say. “Have you even been listening?” her friend asked in an annoyed tone.

“Uh … well,” Charlotte began.

“Marchston!” her mother said in a voice loud enough to silence the room, holding her hand out to a gentleman who’d just arrived. Charlotte’s eyes slid over to see whom her mother was speaking to, and then she felt her knees buckle. And her toes tingle. And a slow curl of something swirling through her body. And it wasn’t her dinner.

***

This was quite possibly the most boring evening he’d spent since he’d had his first drink, David thought as he walked into the room. The same dull people gossiping about other dull people, the same petty intrigues and scandals only obfuscating the inevitable ennui that enveloped every member of Society within a few years.

No wonder he’d bought a commission so many years ago. Yes, there was the threat of dying, but at least he wasn’t
bored
. After he’d gotten injured, he and his bad leg had been assigned to India, where he’d handled delicate negotiations between the government, the company, and the local princes. Not to mention breaking more than a few hearts.

When his leg had healed enough for him to return to England, he’d discovered he’d rather stay, having found something that kept his boredom entirely at bay.

It was unfortunate for him, then, that the most recent heart he’d broken had belonged to a very important general’s wife. Coming back to England had been his only choice; that had been made very clear.

So he’d donned his knee breeches, stuck a neck pin into his cravat, and strolled right back into the same dull environs he’d left ten years ago. All of it had changed, and yet nothing seemed different.

The Countess of Jepstow was still here, wearing the result of ten years of pastries, and a tired feather bobbing from her hair like a becalmed sail. The warm look she gave him was a familiar one; he’d been getting such looks from ladies since he had turned eighteen and grown to over six feet in height.

“My lady,” he said, taking her hand and bowing over it, barely grazing her skin with his lips. She tittered and squeezed his fingers as he met her gaze.

“And so the rogue has returned. It is wonderful to have you back. London has been such a bore since you left.”

I can see that, David thought. “Surely not with you here, my lady.” His reply was automatic. Ladies flirted the same way the world over, no matter what color their skin or what rank they held.

“You are too kind, my lord,” the countess said, eyeing him as if he were a piece of meat on display at the butcher’s. She glanced over his shoulder and narrowed her lips into a thin line. “Oh, of all the—”

David turned and looked too and was rewarded with a glimpse of the most goddesslike creature he’d seen since his return. And not one of those mean goddesses, either; an Aphrodite renowned for her beauty, not a Juno famous for her temper.

“My daughter, my lord,” the countess said, her tone revealing clear frustration.

The countess’s daughter? That lovely creature seated at the table, spooning some sort of fairy food into her delicious mouth? David had forgotten just how lovely the classic English rose could be. He turned to the countess. He almost felt sorry for her, having a daughter with those looks. The comparisons would be inevitable.

“Please do me the honor of an introduction, my lady.” Unwed girls were out of
David’s usual stalking area, but at the very least he wanted a closer look. He wouldn’t risk any kind of entanglement, but a flirtation might lessen his boredom.

“Of course.” Her words were clipped. She walked to the table and made a demanding gesture. “Charlotte, my dear, Lord David Marchston would like to make your acquaintance. Please come here.”

David stood beside the countess, keeping his eyes on the countess’s daughter.

And almost missed, therefore, when another woman rose and walked toward them.

***

Charlotte nearly fell off her chair when her mother spoke. As though she and the chair weren’t already perilously close to parting ways, after her initial sight of him.
He
wanted to meet
her
?

She stood, surreptitiously holding on to the back of Emma’s chair to steady herself.

“Lord David,” her mother said, her eyes practically demanding Charlotte behave, “may I introduce my daughter, Lady Charlotte Jepstow. Charlotte, this is Lord David Marchston.”

Charlotte held her hand out to him. He took it and bowed over it briefly while Charlotte tried to calm her breathing.

He was more stunning the closer he got. From far away, of course she’d noticed his commanding presence and brooding good looks; he’d walked into the room as if he owned it, his height and dark hair making him stand out from the shorter, lighter-haired men. Which were all of them. He was the darkest and tallest, and definitely the most handsome.

Up close, she could see that his dark eyes, which she’d assumed were brown, were deep blue, like a lake under a full moon. His hair was so dark brown as to be almost black. And his mouth, dear lord, his mouth was sinful to look at, with full lips curled into a knowing smile, which of course meant Charlotte couldn’t look away.

And he was speaking now, which meant she had to stare at his mouth, didn’t it? “I
am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Charlotte. Perhaps you would save me a dance for later this evening?” His voice was low and husky, as though he’d recently recovered from a cough.

Charlotte wanted to giggle at the thought of offering him a poultice for his throat. “Yes, of course, my lord. I would be honored.” She stood silent, feeling as awkward as she ever had. What did a young lady say to such an impossibly handsome man?
Goodness, you are lovely. Perhaps you would care to undress so I might compare you against all those statues my mother never wants me to see?

She felt her cheeks flush a bright red; unlike Emma, Charlotte didn’t develop a delicate, ladylike blush, but instead looked as though she’d been sticking her face directly into a blazing fireplace.

“Oh,” she said, remembering Emma, “may I introduce you to my friend, Miss Emma Clarkson?” She turned and smiled at Emma, who’d finished her ice and was dabbing at her mouth with a white linen cloth. Emma rose and walked around the table to the group.

“Miss Emma Clarkson. Pleased to meet you.” Lord David’s voice sounded even deeper now, and there was a different tone to it. More intimate. He took Emma’s hand and held it for a moment, staring into Emma’s light-blue eyes.

For the first time in her life, Charlotte resented her friend’s beauty.

And then despised herself for it. Emma was nothing but a loyal friend, and she couldn’t help it that men tended to fall over their feet when they met her.

But still. Charlotte wished that, just once, a man would look at her with the same blend of longing, lust, and admiration she saw in Lord David’s expression.