Shana Galen by Prideand Petticoats Read Free Book Online Page A

boys in uniform. I’d be happy to introduce you,” Charlotte answered with a smile. Dewhurst looked as though he knew the kind of introduction she’d give him—one guaranteed to see him hanging from the nearest tree branch. She allowed her gaze to rest on him briefly—this man who would play her husband—noting that he looked tired and pale. Was he dreading this ordeal as much as she?
    A few moments later, the crowds thinned and the streets were quieter and less congested. She caught a glimpse of green up ahead and leaned forward to better see the trees and grass. “Berkeley Square,” he said. “I have friends there.” Charlotte blinked. There were some very fine houses in Charleston but few rivaled these. “Would you like to see Grosvenor Square, Miss Addy? I’ll tell the jarvey to drive us.”
    “No.” Charlotte answered for her. She wanted neither Addy nor herself to be impressed by these English. The coach slowed then and the coachman—what had Dewhurst called him, a jarvey?—announced their direction. Or so she assumed for she still did not understand the man.
    Dewhurst swung out, first handing Addy down and then taking Charlotte’s hand. She stepped onto the walk and looked up. The house was white and pretty, three or four stories. It was not huge, but neither could it be called modest. She started forward, and Dewhurst grasped her elbow. “Are you ready to begin our charade, Charlotte?”
    She gave him an icy glare. “I have not given you leave, sir.”
    “I’m your husband. Our marriage tends to imply a certain familiarity. The servants will expect it.”
    He was right. She took a breath. “Very well. What shall I call you?”
    “My given name is Alfred, but my friends call me Dewhurst.”
    “Alfred, then.” She turned back to the house, but he swung her ’round again.
    “My close friends, my family, and my mistress call me Freddie.”
    Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Mistress?” she hissed. “You said nothing of mistresses!” She glanced at the house. “I don’t know what you were thinking, but I am not entering a house of prostitution.”
    He chuckled. Actually chuckled! “Josephine has her own house, and I assure you I will give her a public congé. I suppose I have to if this marriage is to be believed,” he muttered.
    “Pray, don’t appear so eager, Alfred. I might not believe you’ve really ended it.”
    “It’s Freddie, and I assure you I will end things with Josephine. Just as I know you will bring Cade Pettigru to me.”
    She inclined her head. “A fair trade.”
    He laughed. “Hardly, Charlotte. Hardly.” Then he bent down and swept her up and into his arms.
    “What are you doing?” she cried, squirming to be free.
    “Old English custom, Lady Dewhurst. I’m carrying you over the threshold.” He reached forward, undid the gate, and started up the walk. Charlotte could hear Addy grumbling behind them.
    “I do not need to be carried,” she said, but the words came out feebly. He had called her Lady Dewhurst. Oh, George. She had not realized how strange it would be to think of herself as an Englishman’s wife. To be a titled Lady, with a lord for a husband. What had he said his title was? Baron? Was that like a prince? And then they reached the landing and the polished black door with its brass knocker opened and a small man with a pale face and dark hair, meticulously combed back, stood frowning at them.
    “My lord!” he crowed, sounding like a bird who’d just had a tail feather plucked.
    “Wilkins,” Dewhurst said, nodding. Charlotte noticed that though he had just carried her up the walk, he did not sound winded in the least. His color was back now, and if his smile was to be believed, he was enjoying himself indeed. He carried her through the door and set her down with a flourish in a large foyer. He bowed deeply and theatrically, and said, “Your humble abode, my lady.”
    Charlotte wanted to swat at him. He was finding far too much amusement in the