What Not to Bare: A Loveswept Historical Romance by Megan Frampton Page A

from, and felt his mouth drop open.
    She was—she was a vision.
    A vision in boredom.
    “How do you do, Lady Charlotte?” He tugged his mouth into a smile, but what he really wanted to say was “What are you wearing?”
    Oh. He had uttered that aloud, hadn’t he?
    She smiled—sort of. Her smile lacked the brightness she’d displayed earlier in the day, just as her gown, though acceptable, was mediocre, not memorable.
    “You seem to ask me that a lot, Lord David. Tell me,” she said, tilting her head into her questioning pose, “do you ask every woman you know what she is wearing? Or is that particular question reserved for me?”
    He already felt off-balance. How could he possibly answer in a way that wouldn’t be insulting? Of course, he’d already done plenty to insult her since meeting her just the evening before. In fact, he was hard-pressed to think of having insulted any woman as he had her.
    He was truly a gauche-mat.
    “Uh … reserved for you?” He sounded as unsure as he felt. And was pleased when that real smile, the one that had smitten him earlier, returned to her face.
    “Excellent. And since you asked, I am wearing a gown, pink in hue. I presume you know what a gown is?” She continued without waiting for his reply. “And I also presume you know what is under my gown?” Now she paused, and he saw her swallow. “That is …” Her cheeks flushed the pink of her gown—the color of which he much preferred on her skin. “Never mind.” More pink. Almost scarlet.
    “Why are you wearing what you are wearing, then, to be more precise?” This was not the way to convince her he found her fascinating.
    There were more people arriving and a hubbub of conversation undulating all around them. She stumbled as someone bumped into her, and he caught her arm, steadied her, and stared down into her eyes.
    Had he thought them plain brown before? Well, so they were, but they were a delicious plain brown, with different shades of brown swirling together in a mélange of brown.
    Which sounded entirely uncomplimentary. Perhaps he ought not to mention how brown her eyes were.
    She was answering his question, even though he’d almost forgotten he’d asked. “I wanted to look like every other young lady this evening. Not at all like me.” Her color was heightened, and she was biting her lip.
    A lip, he thought, that he might like to bite as well.
    “You wished to blend in with these other ladies? Prove yourself unexceptional?” He saw her flinch at the dismissiveness in his voice. “If that was your intent, you have succeeded. You now look like every other young woman in Society. Congratulations.” He bent his head down to her, still keeping his hand on her arm. “But wouldn’t you rather be exceptional, Lady Charlotte? Be someone no one could ever forget having seen? Provethat you are more than the cut of your gown, of the curl in your hair?”
    She stared at him as though he were speaking a foreign language. And perhaps he was.
    “But—but you were horrified by how I looked. I saw it in your eyes when we first met.” She shrugged his arm away. “And you cannot tell me you knew you were to meet me. You thought my mother was introducing you to Emma, didn’t you?” She moved closer to him, her lovely brown eyes filled with a fierce intensity. “You are so handsome you could appear in anything, and everybody would think you were delightful. I am not as blessed in face as you, my lord.”
    At least she hadn’t called him beautiful again. No, she wasn’t traditionally pretty, that was true, but there was a sparkle about her that made her intriguing, nonetheless. Made his duty not as onerous, in fact.
    “And,” she continued, clearly now in a temper, “why would you want me to continue to be a laughingstock in Society?”
    “I don’t,” he answered in a quiet tone. “And you’re correct. I almost cannot think when confronted with what you choose to put on your body, but that does not mean I