Noble Destiny (9 page)

“A linen cloth?”

Charlotte nodded. “You will see. Messy.”

“Ah.”

Happily for all concerned, the subject was dropped in favor of a debate on the relative merits of Belgian versus Irish lace, a discussion that ended abruptly when Dare, shadowed by Batsfoam bearing Charlotte's revised list, came roaring into the room with a demand to know why Charlotte was attempting to drive him insane.

“I thought it only right since you earlier accused me of being mad, not to mention obstinate and unreasonable,” she said placidly, considering and rejecting the fashion plates Patricia had presented her. As money was clearly no object with Dare, mundane fashions that any woman might have would not suit the future Countess of Carlisle.

When Dare sputtered indignantly at her answer, she glanced up at him to ask just what he was so upset about, but ended up staring in stunned amazement. He was coatless, cravat-less, his shirtsleeves rolled up to expose muscled forearms that were as bare as the day he was born. His shirt gaped at his neck clear down to the top of his waistcoat, exposing a tanned column of throat that made Charlotte's mouth suddenly go dry. She looked between his neck and his arms, unable to decide what she wanted to stare at more, the corded strength of his naked arms, all golden and warm in the afternoon sunlight, or the strong, tempting neck and glimpse of bare chest, with…good Lord, were those gilded curls nestled at the top of his waistcoat chest hair? She toyed briefly with the thought of swooning, but decided against it when she realized that if she swooned she wouldn't be able to stare, and at that moment, there was nothing more she wanted than to view his deliciously exposed flesh. Arms! Neck! Collarbone! Chest hair!

“Really, Dare, are you a savage that you must speak to your betrothed dressed in that obscene fashion?” his sister scolded him. “What Lady Charlotte must think of you, I shudder to think.”

Charlotte knew exactly what she thought. She thought covering up all that glorious flesh was a crime against nature, an abomination, a travesty. She wanted to see more of it. Much more. All of it, in fact, every last inch of that golden, tanned, muscled flesh. Her tongue cleaved itself to the roof of her mouth just imagining it.

Dare's frown, directed temporarily at his sister when she demanded he rectify his appearance, returned to Charlotte, where it faltered in the face of her stunned expression. Charlotte dragged her eyes up from his neck to watch in fascination as his frown faded into a faintly puzzled look, flirted for a few seconds with smug male satisfaction, then deepened into an intense look that seemed to charge the air between them with almost tangible desire.

“My lord, if you would allow one so humble and unimportant, not to mention overworked and burdened, to explain…”

Charlotte and Dare both ignored the interruption. The tiny hairs on Charlotte's arms stood on end in response to his gaze; heat rose in her chest, then suddenly pooled low, down in her womanly parts. So surprised was she by the feeling, she almost looked down at them. That region seemed suddenly quite important, calling for attention in a manner she'd never encountered, certainly never in response to a man's look. One's genitalia wasn't supposed to do that, was it? Dare's gaze tightened on her and her womanly parts answered his silent call with a demand that she take them to him immediately.

“Lady Charlotte, are you ill? Dare, what's wrong with Lady Charlotte? Dare?”

Charlotte ignored her body's demand, unable to look away from Dare's unblinking gaze, shaken by the stark need written in his sapphire eyes, suddenly aware for the first time of the true power of her femininity. The emotions sparking between her and Dare were something infinitely more profound than the trivial, meaningless flirtations she had practiced in the past. This was…earthy. It was primal. It was shocking and exciting and utterly wanton. She wanted to touch him, to taste his skin, to feel his bare flesh against hers, and she ached, she positively throbbed, for the application of his manly instrument. Her breasts suddenly, of their own accord and certainly without her permission, chafed in their stays, sensitized, heavy with the need to be stroked by his hands.

“My lord?”

Her breath caught in her throat, her nipples hardened and clamored for Dare's touch, joining a veritable cacophony of cries for attention from numerous other parts of her body. She wanted his hands on her flesh, touching her, warming her, easing the ache that he started so deep inside her. She wanted it all, and she wanted it right at that moment. She took a step toward him. His eyes glittered darkly as he moved toward her, making a soft noise deep in his chest that answered the look in her eyes.

“Dare!”

“My lady!”

Two outraged voices cried out at the same time, breaking the spell. Dare frowned. Charlotte stepped back, her body crying out in silent frustration. She ordered her body to cease its lamentings and promised it that fulfillment would come next Wednesday night. “Perhaps sooner,” she mused, her eyes once more on the banded muscles of Dare's arms. His fingers twitched in response.

“You see, Dare, Lady Charlotte is quite overcome by your uncouth appearance,” Patricia said as she tugged Charlotte back toward the lumpy settee. “Come and sit next to me, Lady Charlotte, and we shall excuse my brother while he puts himself to rights.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to say that wasn't in the least bit necessary or desired, but Dare had evidently remembered the reason for his returning.

“I have been working on my engine,” he said to Charlotte by way of an explanation, “and I shall return to that just as soon as you explain this.”

He held out her list of locations and guests.

“Your suggestions were unacceptable. You are an earl. I am the daughter of an earl, and the widow of the heir to a count. We cannot have our wedding in a small, poky church. Where would all the guests sit?”

“Which brings me to the subject of your guest list,” Dare growled.

Charlotte gave him a triumphant smile. “The selection of wedding guests, Alasdair, is the bride's prerovative.”

“Prerogative, and that right is revoked when the groom is paying for the whole bloody thing, as Batsfoam informs me I am.”

“Dare!” Patricia cried.

Charlotte jumped up from the settee and lifted her chin at him.

“Since you have no dowry, and no family to pay for the wedding, you will practice the utmost economy and organize it to my scriptures.
Strictures
,” he corrected himself. “Good God, your tongue is contagious!”

“There's nothing wrong with my tongue,” Charlotte snapped, at her limit for being insulted and yelled at. “Which you'd know if you took the time to kiss me. You didn't even do so when you offered for me, you beastly man, you!”

“You were wearing a beard,” he snarled, stepping closer to her, the air around them both growing heated once again.

“Well, I'm not now,” she answered, taking a step toward him.

“Fine!” he roared.

“Fine!” she agreed, her hands fisted, prepared to do more than poke him in the bare part of his chest if he didn't do the proper thing by her. She didn't have time to think of just what she'd do to his chest before his mouth took possession of hers.

“Dare! You can't!”

“My lord!”

“Lady Charlotte, you mustn't!”

“My lady!”

“Oh, Batsfoam, do something!”

“Short of warming up his lordship's bed, I am at a loss as to what you'd have me do, miss.”

“Batsfoam!”

Charlotte ignored both of them, ignored the voice in her head telling her that virtuous women did not encourage men to kiss them, ignored reason and common sense and gave herself up to the pure, hot magic of Dare's mouth. Antonio had once or twice kissed her in the French manner, but the tentative prods and pokes with his tongue were nothing like Dare's kiss. He was everywhere, surrounding her, overwhelming her, one hand pulling her hips close to him, his thighs hard against her legs, her breasts aching and heavy again, pressed tightly against his chest. One hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back until she was bent over his arm. But it was his mouth that captured and held her attention, his mouth that demanded and gave, coerced and teased until her eyes felt as if they would roll back in her head. He swept into her mouth, taking immediate possession, learning her taste, making her learn his. He was everywhere around her, inside her, the heat of him thrumming in her blood. She fought the sheer dominance of the embrace, tried desperately to pull air into her lungs, but her body would not answer to her anymore. A whimper rose in the back of her throat even as she gave in, clinging to him, softening her lips against his as she matched his restless movements, wanting to twine herself around him just as her tongue twined around his. She wanted…

“ALASDAIR IAIN MCGREGOR!”

In a dimly lit, dusty corner of Charlotte's mind, she was grateful to Patricia for ending the kiss. The balance of her mind was furious and muttered things about people minding their own business, but hours later, as she sat in Gillian's best guest room, gingerly touching her lips, she recognized that Patricia was right to stop them. What she had demanded—a kiss sealing their agreement to wed—and what Dare had given her—a kiss that came close to scorching the blacking off her boots—were two different things.

“Still, it bodes well for the future.” Charlotte smiled into the night. “It was a very effective kiss. I'll wager Alasdair won't need to look at Vyvyan La Blue's
Guide
to
Connubial
Calisthenics
more than once or twice!”

“This is the worst day of my life. Tell the carriage to leave, Caroline, it won't be needed, as I have no intention of going anywhere.”

Silence met that pronouncement. Charlotte kicked at an innocent embroidered footstool and glared at the reflection of Caroline's maid, pressed into service to prepare her for what was supposed to be her day of days. Her day. Ha, she could just burst her stays laughing over
that
bit of comedy.

“You just have cold feet. Mama says all brides feel that way. Why, I myself was sick all over my dressing room on my wedding morn. Mama says there are only two times when it is allowable to be sick—your wedding day and when you're breeding.” Caroline looked closely at her friend. “You're not breeding, are you, Charlotte?”

“Just a hearty dose of shame.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Charlotte sighed and decided that while feeling sorry for herself might not be the solution to all her problems, it certainly couldn't make her feel any worse.

“How has this come to pass, Caro?” she asked, looking forlornly in the mirror at the lovely image facing her.

“Your marriage? Well, first you dressed up as Henry VIII—”

Charlotte glared her to a stop. “The question was oratorical, Caro, it wasn't meant to be answered. Truthfully, there's no answer to it, any more than there's an answer to the question of how all my plans could go so badly awry, how Alasdair could think to shame me in this manner, or how he could possibly expect me to take my rightful place in Society if he carries through his nefarious plan to wed me in such an appalling manner.”

Caroline studied her friend's midsection. “Are you sure you're not breeding? You sound just as dramatic as my dearest Algernon's sister Tess when she was carrying the twins, and that's saying quite a bit. Dearest Algernon said that Tess on a bad day could have out-emoted Mr. Kean.”

Charlotte shook a rosebud at her friend. “I am having the worst day of my life and all you can do is go on about shooting the cat on your wedding day and staring at my middle parts as if I were going to burst suddenly into motherhood. Truly, Caroline, I think you could be a bit more sympathetic and aid my wallow in self-pity rather than trying to distract me with nonsense about actors and such! Today is promising to be a veritable blot of excuses on the humility of my soul, and it would only be kind of you to recognize that fact!”

“What?” Caroline tried to puzzle out the mangled last sentence of Charlotte's tirade. A blot of excrescence on the humanity of her soul? She shook her head and decided her time was better spent in calming the bride than trying to figure out what she was saying. Charlotte was clearly overwrought. She would focus her friend's attention on much happier thoughts. “Never mind. It matters not, Char. Those blossoms look lovely in your hair. The day is fine, you are the prettiest bride ever, and Lord Carlisle will soon be yours. You can't possibly be serious about not going anywhere—you're getting married today! Today is your most favored day, not one that will shame you. Everyone knows you can't make your wedding day the worst day of your life. It's a bad omen if you even think that.”

Charlotte allowed her shoulders to slump just for a moment. As a solution to her troubles, self-pity clearly had failed; she hadn't even impressed Caroline with her woeful situation. This called for a new tactic. Where pity did not answer, perhaps a tantrum would. Charlotte straightened her posture and smiled at her reflection. Why hadn't she thought of this before? It was all Alasdair's fault. If he hadn't kissed the wits right out of her, she would have realized days ago that there was nothing like a good tantrum and show of temper to get results. Once everyone realized that she was serious about the appalling breach of manners Alasdair had planned on committing that very day, the situation would be righted to her satisfaction.

“I am not leaving this house. I refuse to go to the church, not because I have cold feet, not because I'm sick, and not because I'm breeding. Quite simply, my dear Caroline, I am not going to the church because I'm not getting married today,” Charlotte said with a happy smile, dimples dimpling madly. She waved away the maid who was tucking rose blossoms into a mass of curls crowning her head. “You may cease that, Clothilde. I have no need for a headful of flowers, not until Alasdair rectifies his mistake.”

“What do you mean you're not getting married?” Caroline clutched her hands together. “Of course you're getting married! You're in your wedding gown. Dearest Algernon is below with the carriage to take us to the church where Lord Carlisle is awaiting you. You have a wedding breakfast scheduled! You must get married!”

“Dearest Algernon can dismiss the carriage because I'm not leaving the house. In fact, I refuse to leave your bedchamber. I'm sure it will be no trouble if I stay here until Alasdair comes to his senses.”

Caroline grabbed at the back of a rose damask chair and turned pale at the image of Charlotte in permanent residence. Dear heaven, she had to think, and think quickly! There must be some way to get Charlotte out of the house and into the arms of her betrothed, where she belonged. Caroline's mind whirled madly as she tried to formulate persuasive arguments, calming platitudes, and soothing words. Unfortunately, her mind refused to cooperate. “Char, you're being too unfair! You simply must realize that it's unreasonable to cancel the wedding that you wanted, incidentally dragging me into your plans in order to achieve it, and making dearest Algernon agree to give you away, all because you are unhappy with the arrangements.”

Charlotte's chin went up as she stood to face her friend. “The arrangements, as you well know, are not mine. They are
his
.
He
is the unreasonable one.
He
took them away from me when I insisted he could grind his economies into snuff and snort them.” She paced for a few moments before plopping down on an overstuffed armchair. “Well he can just enjoy his arrangements by himself because I'm staying right here. Please ring for some tea. And perhaps some biscuits or tarts or a jam cake or two. And toasted bread, lots and lots of toasted bread. It doesn't matter what I eat now, I have no one to care if I get wide in the saddle.”

Caroline's panic magnified tenfold at the obstinate look on her friend's face. “Char, you're making yourself upset needlessly. I'm sure Lord Carlisle cares about how wide in the saddle you are, not that I think that's important in a marriage, but still, I'm sure he cares about you and only wants you to be happy—”

Charlotte, remembering again the injustices he had perpetuated upon her in the name of saving a few coins, sprang out of the chair with an indignant flame in her China-blue eyes, and began to pace before the window. “He doesn't care for anything but his precious purse. His slanderous comments about my extravagant plans for a memorable wedding were clearly the sign of a deranged mind, not to mention the lecture he read me about driving him into the poorhouse. As if that were possible! He is an earl, after all. Have you ever heard of a poor earl?”

“Well—”

“No, of course you haven't. Unreasonable, my garters! I'm not being in the least bit unreasonable! I am the most reasonable person I know, and I know a great many people!”

“But Char, I'm sure Lord Carlisle desires only your happiness—”

Charlotte gave an unladylike snort of disbelief that felt so good, so right, she repeated it. “He made all the arrangements to be married at a tiny little parish church in Covent Garden with no one in attendance but you and that bossy Patricia, but that doesn't mean I have to be there! This is my wedding, too, and I'll be damned if I celebrate the most important moment of my life in an empty church!”

“Charlotte Honoria Eveline Benedict!” Caroline gasped. “Foul language on your wedding day is a bad omen!”

“God's teeth, Caro! My whole life is in ruins and all you can think about are bad omens? You have bad omens on the brain.” Charlotte huffed as she stomped around the room.

Caroline, desperate now, faced as she was with the possibility of Charlotte making good her threat not to marry the earl, played her last card. “Have you thought of what everyone will say if you don't marry Lord Carlisle?”

Charlotte frowned at Caro as she paced by her. “There will be a delicious amount of speculation as to why I canceled the plans at the last minute.”

Caroline shook her head, preparing to be merciless for the better good of her friend's happiness, not to mention her own marital bliss. “They will say Lord Carlisle jilted you. They will say he changed his mind about wedding you. They will say he found the very idea of marriage to you repugnant and unbearable.”

Charlotte stopped dead and stared at her friend in horror. Her first instinct was to dispute such foul claims, but a moment of truth had her admitting that her star was not very high with the
ton
at that moment, and given the fickle nature of the members of Society, it was entirely possible that reaction to her jilting Alasdair would turn out as Caroline predicted. She was a social pariah now; could she stand being pitied and laughed at as well? She shuddered at that unwholesome image and quickly rethought her strategy. Perhaps an outright refusal to marry Alasdair wasn't the solution. Perhaps there was a way to bring him to his senses and achieve her goal without having to run the risk of becoming an object of pity.

“Alasdair may think he can deny me my due, but I am a clever, intelligent woman who is not going to allow the minor tragedy of having accepted a pinch-paring man so tight with his purse strings that he won't allow me to be fawned upon and idolized as is my right. I won't marry him until he begs my forgiveness and gives me a proper wedding, one with lots of people to admire me and congratulate him on his exceptionally good luck in gaining me as his bride!” Charlotte tossed the last few words over her shoulder as she marched out of the bedchamber.

“But, but…where are you going?”

“To the carriage. Really, Caro, are you so disorganized that you aren't ready to leave? We were supposed to be at the church ten minutes ago. Quickly, quickly! I haven't the time to waste if I wish to be wed today. Alasdair may look like an angel, but even he can't work miracles!”

Five minutes later saw the Beverlys' town chaise rolling down the street. Lord Beverly—after spending two minutes in Charlotte's company—opted to ride to the church. Inside the carriage, Charlotte spent most of the trip mustering the statements and demands she would present to her betrothed. He simply must see how important it was that they start off their married life correctly. She tried out a few of the choicer statements on Caroline.

“Honestly, Char, I don't think telling Lord Carlisle you'll see him hung by his toes if he doesn't give in to your demands for a proper wedding is quite the persuasive argument you mean it to be. Perhaps if you tried to reason with him—”

“He's a man, Caroline. Have you ever known one open to reason?”

“Well…dearest Algernon sometimes…he did stop trying to grow that mustache… Regardless, I say if you just explained how unhappy you are with the arrangements, Lord Carlisle will be in a better mind to discuss the issue than if you threaten him with bodily harm.”

Charlotte smiled a wicked little smile to herself. “I wouldn't harm his body, Caro, I like it. I like it quite a good deal.”

“Charlotte!”

“Oh, you needn't look so outraged. If your Algernon were the magnificent personification of everything manly and virile as Alasdair is, you would be saying similar things.”

“I would not! I would never speak of my husband in such a bold manner! It isn't seemly in the least!”

Charlotte dimpled at her friend and couldn't help but tease her a bit. “Really, Caro, you're the most circumcised person I know!”

“I am…circumcised? Did you say
circumcised
?”

“Yes, but only because you are. Very circumcised.” Charlotte's smile faded at the sight of her friend's expression. “That's not right?”

“No, it's…Char, do you know what circumcised means?”

“Well, of course I do,” Charlotte scoffed, then thought for a moment. “I thought I did…yes, I know. It means to be overly cautious and hesitant. Doesn't it?”

Deep pink stained Caroline's cheeks as she looked anywhere but at Charlotte. “According to the passage in the Bible, to be circumcised means…well, it means…it's something they do to men. You know. It's when they snip off part of the man's…his…” Caroline gestured wildly with her hands.

Charlotte frowned in concentration. “His what?”

“You know, his winkle.”

“His
what
?”

Caroline hushed her and looked nervously through the carriage windows before turning back to her friend. “His winkle. Dollymop. Dingle-dangle.”

Charlotte sat back against the cushioned seat and rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Caro, you're a married woman. I can't believe you have to come up with so many juvenile euphemisms for a commonplace object you must see every day. We are, after all, adults. You can say it in front of me without blushing or going to such lengths as dreaming up words like
dingle-dangle
!”

“I know.” Caroline looked abashed at her silliness. “I'm sorry. I won't do it again. You are absolutely correct. We are both married women; we can talk about such things openly.”

Charlotte pulled out a tiny mirror and checked her reflection. “Exactly. As for the other, it's utterly ridiculous. You must have read the passage wrong. No man with any amount of common sense would allow someone to snip off his dinky.”

***

Dare frowned at the pocket watch in his hand. His frown deepened as he glanced across the verger's small, musty room to where a carriage clock sat on a battered desk. Mindful that it was his wedding day, he kept the frown from moving into a scowl as he strolled with a nonchalance he was far from feeling to where Batsfoam stood behind Captain David Woodwell, Patricia's intended. He looked at the watch David was shaking next to his ear.