Chapter One
Today's Modern Woman should strive for personal
enlightenment, independence, and forthrightness. The
perfect place to begin this quest for assertiveness is in
the bedchamber ...
A Ladies' Guide to the Pursuit of
Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment
by Charles Brightmore
"Scandalous, that's what it is," came an outraged male
whisper. "My wife has somehow secured a copy of that
deuced Ladies' Guide."
"How do you know?" came another gruff male whisper.
"Damned obvious, what with the way she's been acting. Been
spewing out nonsense about 'today's modern woman'
and 'independence' like a steaming teakettle. Just
yesterday she marched into my private study and proceeded
to question me regarding my gambling markers and the
amount of time I spend at White's!"
Sharp intakes of breath followed. "Outrageous," muttered
the gruff whisperer.
"Precisely what I told her."
"What did you do?"
"Why, I marched her right out of my study, called for a
carriage, and sent her to Asprey's to pick out a new
bauble to occupy her mind."
"Excellent. I assume your strategy worked?"
"Unfortunately not as well as I'd hoped. Last night I
found her awaiting me in my bedchamber. Gave me quite a
turn, I tell you. Especially as I'd just left my mistress
and was thoroughly worn-out. Bloody hell, a wife's not
supposed to make such demands, or have such expectations."
"My wife did the same thing just last week," came a third
aggrieved whisper. "Entered my bedchamber, bold as you
please, pushed me onto the mattress, then ... well, I can
only describe it as to say she jumped upon me. Completely
deflated my lungs and damn near crushed me. As I lie
there, immobile with shock, fighting for my very breath,
she says in a most impatient tone, 'Bump your arse a bit.'
Can you imagine such undignified goings-on? Then, just
when I thought I couldn't be more astonished, she demanded
to know why I'd never... "
The voice lowered further and Lady Catherine Ashfield,
Viscountess Bickley, leaned closer to the Oriental screen
that secreted her presence from the gentlemen on the other
side.
" ... This Charles Brightmore must be stopped," whispered
one of the gentlemen.
"I agree. A disaster of gargantuan proportions, that's
what he's brought upon us. Why, if my daughter reads that
cursed Guide, I'll never marry off the foolish chit.
Independence, indeed. Completely insupportable. This Guide
could well prove even worse than the uproar incited by
that Wollstonecraft woman's writings. Nothing but
ridiculous reformists' balderdash."
Murmurs of agreement followed that pronouncement. Then the
whisperer continued, "And as for the bedchamber, women are
demanding enough creatures as it is, always wanting a new
gown or earbobs or carriage or the like. 'Tis outrageous
that their expectations should extend to that. Especially
a woman of my wife's age, who is the mother of two grown
children. Unseemly, that's what it is."
"Couldn't agree more. Should I ever find myself in the
company of this Brightmore bastard, I'll personally wring
his bloody neck. Tarring and feathering is too good for
him. Everyone I've spoken to feels certain that 'Charles
Brightmore' is a pseudonym, and coward that he is, he's
refused to step forward and identify himself. The betting
book at White's is a frenzy of wagers on the subject of
his identity. Damn it all, what sort of man would think,
let alone write, such unseemly ideas?"
"Well, I stopped at White's just before coming here, and
the latest theory proposes the possibility that Charles
Brightmore is in fact a woman. Indeed, I heard ... "
The gentleman's low-pitched words were drowned out by a
trill of nearby feminine laughter. Catherine inched
closer, all but pressing her ear to the screen.
" ... and if it's true, it would be the scandal of the
century ... " She heard some more unintelligible mumbling,
then, " ... hired an investigator two days ago to get to
the bottom of this. He comes highly recommended ...
ruthless, and will ferret out the truth. In fact -- oh,
bloody hell, my wife's caught sight of me. Hang it, look
at her, fluttering her eyelashes at me. Shocking, that's
what it is. Appalling. And altogether frightening."
Catherine peeked around the edge of the screen. Lady
Markingworth stood at the edge of the dance floor, her
rotund proportions ensconced in an unfortunate shade of
yellowish green satin that cast her complexion with a
distinctly jaundiced hue, her brown hair arranged in a
complicated coiffure involving sausage curls, ribbons, and
peacock feathers. With her attention fixed on the opposite
side of the screen, Lady Markingworth was batting her eyes
as one might if caught in a dust-ridden windstorm. Then,
with an air of determination, she marched toward the
screen.
"Egad," came a horrified, panic-filled whisper that
Catherine assumed belonged to Lord Markingworth. "She's
got that damnable gleam in her eye."
"And it's too late to escape, old man."
"Bloody hell. A plague on that bastard Charles
Brightmore's house. I'm going to find out who this person
is, then kill him -- or her. Slowly."
"There you are, Ephraim," said Lady Markingworth, her
greeting followed by a girlish giggle. "I've been
searching for you everywhere. The waltz is about to start.
And how fortunate that Lords Whitly and Carweather are
with you. Your wives anxiously await you near the dance
floor, my lords."
Throat clearing and several harrumphs followed this
announcement, then the scuffle of shoes upon the parquet
floor as the group moved away.
Catherine leaned against the oak-paneled wall and drew a
shaky breath, pressing her hands to her midsection.
Slipping behind the screen in search of a moment of
sanctuary from the hordes of party guests had taken a very
unexpected turn. All she'd wanted was to avoid the
approaching Lords Avenbury and Ferrymouth, both of whom
had dogged her footsteps since the moment she'd arrived at
her father's birthday party and separately attempted to
maneuver her into a tรชte-ร -tรชte ...
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