Not Quite a Lady (The Dressmakers 4)

Blindly hurrying down the hall, Charlotte nearly collided with her stepmother.

Though what Charlotte wanted to do was run out of the house and all the way home, she stopped and made herself very, very calm.

Lizzie’s gaze went from the top of the dirty cap to the dusty toes of her shoes. “I am afraid to ask,” she said.

“I was putting away Mr. Carsington’s books,” Charlotte said.

“By yourself?”

Charlotte nodded. “The servants had more important things to do.” The truth was, she couldn’t resist the temptation to examine his belongings. A man’s books told a great deal about the man, Papa said. That applied only to the men who actually read the books they owned. Some merely bought them by the cartload to fill their libraries, in order to impress visitors. She knew Mr. Carsington wasn’t that kind of man. He was not in the least unsure of himself, he was not a parvenu trying to climb the social ladder, and he did not seem to care what impression he made on others.

She had hoped his books would offer clues about him. Usually, she had no trouble assessing a man and determining the quickest way to direct his interest elsewhere without appearing to do so. She was having a great deal of difficulty with him.

This, she supposed, was because he’d caught her unawares at the very beginning. Unprepared, she’d reacted unthinkingly. Ever since then, she couldn’t seem to find the correct way to deal with him.

“Since he is a scholar,” she told her stepmother, “I supposed he’d care a good deal more about having access to his books than about the state of the chair covers.”

“I saw the crates,” said Lizzie. “He owns a great many books. No wonder you’re so rumpled and hot.”

Charlotte was a strong girl, a countrywoman, as her stepmother understood. She walked a great deal more than other ladies of her social position did. Even on a sultry day like this, several hours of climbing up and down a short set of steps and putting away books, while warm work, hardly over-taxed her.

It most certainly didn’t do to her what Mr. Carsington did when he burst through the library door. He was hatless, his gold-streaked hair windblown. He was breathing hard, his big chest rising and falling.

Then she started breathing hard.

Then her temperature shot up, and she began to sweat as though she’d been breaking rocks under the midday sun.

She would like to believe she was flustered because he’d caught her misbehaving. But she’d had fun misbehaving, and being caught merely meant she needed to use her wits, which was even more fun.

As to her playing the innocent idiot—why should her conscience take notice? Falsehoods and make believe were central to a lady’s repertoire. Pretend to be in complete control. Pretend not to notice an insult or a faux pas. Pretend not to be hurt. Pretend to be amused. Pretend to be interested. Pretend to care. Pretend not to care.

“Ye gods,” she said under her breath. “When am I not pretending?”

“Charlotte?”

“Ye gods, I do need a bath,” Charlotte said more audibly, tugging at the half-undone bodice. All of her clothes stuck to her. She wished she were a boy, and could tear them all off and leap into the nearest lake.

Mr. Carsington must have done that when he was a boy.

Very likely he still did it.

She could picture it: the broad shoulders and narrow hips and long, muscled legs…

Don’t, she told herself.

Too late.

A wave of aching loneliness washed through her, and in its wake came longing. She saw his face as he took in her joke. How she’d wanted to laugh! She’d wanted to put out her tongue at him. She’d wanted him to pull her off the ladder and into his arms.

Feelings, too many…old, wicked feelings she thought she’d killed and buried long ago.

She had to get away—from him, from this house. She tried not to look impatient.

“I’ll be ready to leave in a minute,” said Lizzie.

“I’ll wait for you at the dog cart.” Charlotte started down the hall.

“But Daisy is not with you,” Lizzie said. “Where is she?”

Only then did Charlotte realize the dog had not followed her. “She must be in the library.” She kept walking.

“Alone?” Lizzie’s voice rose. “With valuable books?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Carsington is with her.”

“He is here, in the house? Charlotte, will you stop? You will oblige me to shout.”

Charlotte did not look back. “Don’t worry,” she called. “He won’t leave Daisy alone with his books.”

She recalled what he’d said…about her letting the dog relieve herself on his books. Only he hadn’t used a euphemism, and she’d very nearly giggled, as she used to do when she heard her boy cousins use naughty words.

Oh, he was wicked…and so was she.

The look on his face when he comprehended her joke. She covered her mouth and hurried on to the dogcart.

Then, when none but Belinda the mare could hear her, Lady Charlotte did laugh…and cry a little, too.

Twenty minutes later

Between the trees, Charlotte caught glimpses as she drove of Beechwood’s lake, its waters glistening in the sunlight.

In one secluded corner of Lithby Park’s lake was a dock from which visiting boy cousins and, lately, the two older of her little brothers would leap naked into the water, as girls were not allowed to do.

She saw in her mind’s eye Mr. Carsington, naked, running down the dock and jumping into the water, the way her cousins and brothers did, and laughing the way they did.

“Charlotte, you had better let me drive,” said Lizzie. “You are not paying atten—Look out!”

Two hours later

After fuming for a time, Darius put Goodbody in charge of restoring order to the library. With a superfluity of servants about, the valet would have all put to rights in no time. It would give the housemaids something to do, now that Lady Lithby wasn’t here to keep them busy.

Darius knew there was a pecking order among servants. Certain maids were trusted with certain areas of the house and certain tasks. Furthermore, even the most high-ranking maids were not allowed to wield so much as a feather duster in areas reserved to certain menservants. But sorting out precedence was best left to Goodbody, who understood and cared about such things.

Darius might have cared more had any of the maids been pretty. Since they weren’t, he left the valet in charge and went to the stable, where he had only one groom, Joel Rogers, to deal with.

Darius had promised to evaluate the paving today, and decide whether to repair or replace it, along with the antiquated drainage system.

As he neared the stable, the groom hurried out. “You heard, then, sir?” said Rogers. “I saddled the mare, thinking you’d want her.”

“Heard what?” Darius said. The back of his neck prickled.

“About the ac

cident, sir. Along your road.”

The world blurred and chilled for a moment, as though a cold fog had swept in. “What accident?” Darius said levelly.

“Lady Charlotte, sir, and Lady Lithby,” said the groom. “I heard they caught in a rut and broke a wheel.”

In his mind’s eye, Darius saw Lady Charlotte’s mangled body carried home on a ladder. To block out the nightmare image, he asked questions. The groom had little additional information. He’d heard the news from the blacksmith, who’d recognized the damaged vehicle when he passed it on his way here.

Within minutes, Darius was upon his horse.

It did not take long to find the place, though, thanks to the ruts, he had to make his way slowly. He found the dog cart on its side at the edge of the road. The wheel was badly broken, and one of the shafts was damaged.

Then he saw spots of blood. Logic told him this didn’t necessarily bode calamity. Logic pointed out that if anything truly disastrous had happened, the news would have flown through the neighborhood. Since it was his road, people would have been pounding on the door to tell him, Logic said.

Logic might as well have spoken to the nearest tree.

Darius made for Lithby Hall with as much speed as the crater-filled road would allow.

The house appeared normal enough when he arrived. No weeping or wailing issued from any of the open windows. The outdoor servants had not gathered nearby, as they would during a catastrophe, to await news.

He looked toward the first-floor windows. He remembered Lady Charlotte dabbing at her damp breasts with his handkerchief. He recalled the potent woman-scent he’d inhaled.

He imagined the drawn curtains at one west-facing window abruptly pulled open, revealing the lady risen from her bath and as naked as the Botticelli Venus, her fair hair streaming over her shoulders, the late-afternoon sun gilding her silken skin.

Are you insane? he asked himself. You’d better hope no worse has happened than her needing a bath. You’d better hope that body is in one piece.

As he reached the stables, he heard shouting.

Not a good sign.