Never Lie to a Lady by Liz Carlyle Read Free Book Online Page A

put your hand here,” said Pamela, placing Xanthia’s palm atop her belly. “Say hello to your new cousin, the future Earl of Sharpe.”
    Xanthia’s smile deepened. “Am I to feel anything?” she asked, curious. “Will he…will he move? Or kick my hand?”
    Pamela laughed. “Oh, Xanthia, you can be shockingly innocent,” she said. “No, he shan’t do a thing for weeks and weeks. But he is in there, all the same. Shall I tell you when he starts to move about? Would you like to feel him kick?”
    Xanthia felt suddenly shy, and, to her shock, more than a little envious. “I would, yes,” she admitted. “It is such a wonderful, unfathomable thing to me.”
    Pamela’s face took on a serious expression. “You must have children of your own soon, Xanthia,” she said quietly. “Time marches on. You are what? Seven-and-twenty now?”
    Xanthia gave an embarrassed laugh. “Oh, Pamela, I shall be thirty in a few months’ time,” she said. “And there is one serious flaw in your plan, my dear. One ought not have children without a husband.”
    Pamela’s expression brightened. “Well, you are about to enter the marriage mart!” she answered. “Louisa is determined to look about quite carefully for just the right sort of gentleman. I would suggest, my dear girl, that you do the same.”
    Xanthia shook her head. “I do not mean to marry, Pamela.”
    “Well, why on earth not?” demanded her cousin. “It is the most natural thing in the world.”
    Xanthia looked away and chose her words carefully. “Gentlemen wish their brides to be…well, younger and more naive,” she answered. “Besides, there is Neville Shipping to worry about. If I marry, it becomes my husband’s. Even if it did not, no husband would permit me to work as I do.”
    “Oh, heavens, let Kieran take care of Neville Shipping!” said Pamela impatiently. “What else has he to do? He has sold his plantations, and he has leased out all of his estates. Honestly, Xanthia, if he cannot find something to occupy his time, Sharpe says he is going to drink and whore himself into an early grave.”
    Xanthia stiffened. “Kieran knows nothing of shipping, nor does he wish to,” she replied. “He will simply sell the company to the highest bidder.”
    “Yes, as he did the Barbados properties,” Pamela remarked. “I vow, that made no sense to me.”
    “He did not sell to the highest bidder, Pamela,” Xanthia gently chided. “He leased the land in allotments to the men who had worked it year after year. And if you had lived all your life in Barbados as I have done, you would understand why he wanted to do that. The days of slavery, Pamela, are over. It is time we all accepted that. It is a vile and corrupting institution, no matter how gentle one’s hand.”
    “Yes, it is very dreadful, to be sure, but could he not just—”
    A sound at the door cut her off. Pamela’s maid came into the room. “The girl from Madame Claudette’s has come with Lady Louisa’s new gowns, ma’am,” she said after curtsying. “Shall you wish her to try them on before the girl goes?”
    Pamela and Xanthia exchanged vaguely apologetic glances. Clearly, there would be no more talk of slavery’s evils on this particular afternoon. It was time to get back to that evil which was far more troubling to the ladies of Mayfair—the unspeakable horror of a badly fitted ball gown.

Chapter Three

A Grave Misunderstanding in Mayfair
    B aron Rothewell was savoring a brandy and a black, nasty humor when he heard the knocker drop upon his elegant front door in Berkeley Square. He had been savoring his brandy since teatime, actually, and was not now disposed to break what had thus far been a solitary interlude.
    Rothewell was the sort of man who believed very firmly the old adage that silence was the true friend that never betrayed. He made few acquaintances and kept far fewer. Nor was he a man with any fondness for idle conversation—and it was all idle, so far as Rothewell