Free Kitty Little by Freda Lightfoot Page A

once seen, never forgotten.
    Charlotte’s style seemed to demand she be tricked out with beads, earbobs, floating scarves, frills and furbelows which no one but a girl who completely lacked breeding would be seen dead in. Yet far from cheapening her, these tricks only added to her charms. They knew of no other young woman who would dream of wearing green gloves with a blue costume and making it seem the last word in chic, or a startlingly pink hat with a red coat and look simply ravishing in it. Nor anyone else of their acquaintance whose dresses were cut quite so low, or so prick-neat, nor the skirts display such a vulgar show of ankle. There was no other word to describe this idiosyncratic attire except racy. From the tips of her pale golden hair to the toes of her dainty feet, every satin smooth curve of her petite body tantalised and bewitched. Her nose tilted to just the right degree, her eyes slanted, her lips - why indeed her lips never seemed anything other than blush pink and so fulsomely shaped they almost begged to be kissed. As for her figure, it was a miracle to these good Yorkshire ladies how it was she could keep it so neat without recourse to the iniquitous corset. Secretly they longed to emulate her and throw their own away, but dare not.
    In addition to heart-wrenching beauty, Charlotte Gilpin boasted a most engaging personality. She bubbled with energy and enthusiasm and had a wayward knack for mimicry which frequently left them in stitches. They were, quite simply, enraptured by her.
    Was it any wonder if the ladies of the County Set admitted, in the strictest confidence and only amongst themselves, (should they ever feel the slightest twinge of resentment and jealousy) that they understood perfectly why their menfolk lusted after the girl.
    But it was this ability to captivate men, Charlotte soon realised, which had so attracted Magnus to her, and had proved the chief source of rancour between them. Even in the first year of her marriage, her life had become fraught with unexpected difficulties. He’d called her his prize, his golden chalice, and then proceeded to hand her round as if she were indeed a cup that others might drink from.
    To Magnus Gilpin, having men lust after his wife was all part of a game, one that bore a strong resemblance to the chances he took at the gaming table or at the races. He possessed something they wanted, therefore he could gamble with it. He might permit them a taste, a sip, so long as they returned the favour. Nothing gave him greater satisfaction than the sight of one of his friends or business rivals, young or old, jockeying to kiss her hand or anxious to lead her out onto the floor in a waltz. He did not mind who flirted with her, or how many billets deux she received, so long as he personally selected the beaux in question.
    Today, for the first time and since necessity demanded it, he’d decreed that her guest’s thirst be slaked completely, so long as the price was agreed beforehand. He had turned pimp for his own wife, so long as the encounter produced a nice fat profit, in this case a fine race horse.
    He came to her now and pushed open her gown, allowing his gaze to wander over her nakedness, and smiled. ‘Tell him you risk a good deal by allowing him into your bed. He will never know that the reverse is the case, so why should he argue the toss? Get his bond in writing, Charlotte, on your buttocks will do if you lack paper.’
    Charlotte gazed at him, saying nothing. At one time she might have rebelled, even refused absolutely to comply, but she’d learned the value of obedience for there were precise rules to this game. She only had to flutter her lashes the very slightest degree in the wrong quarter, receive flowers from an admirer who hadn’t first sought her husband’s permission, for Magnus to instantly reclaim what was rightfully his and inflict whatever punishment he considered appropriate. He would watch, with a brooding discontent in his dark