Noble Destiny (7 page)

He would leave town after Patricia's wedding. He would never see her again. “Good-bye, Charlotte.”

The latched turned under his hand, forcing him to step back quickly lest he be struck by the opening door.

“Ah, Lord Carlisle, there you are. A little bird told me I could find you here.”

Dare looked with growing horror at the smiling, suspicious face of his hostess.

“Lady Jersey. I…er…”

“Your sister was worried about you, weren't you, Miss McGregor?”

Dare took another step back as Patricia slipped in next to Lady Jersey. Both women looked beyond him to where Charlotte had scurried behind the chair. “I was. It's not like my brother to disappear when he promised me a waltz, although if you have some business with that gentleman, Dare, I am willing to forgive you the oversight.”

Lady Jersey stepped farther into the room, inclining her head toward Charlotte as she held out her hand. “Sir, I do not believe I've had the pleasure?”

Charlotte, with a strangled sound and a quick indecipherable glance at Dare, reached out to take the proffered hand, but snatched it back quickly when her breeches started to slide down her hips.

“Good God in heaven!” Lady Jersey exclaimed, her sharp eyes missing nothing of Charlotte's rumpled appearance. “Lord Carlisle, I had no idea you are a…that you preferred…”

Thankfully the presence of Patricia put a halt to any further utterances. Dare opened his mouth to explain, but he couldn't. If he mentioned who Charlotte was, the parson's noose would be around his neck before he knew it. Yet if he didn't, Lady Jersey would be sure to spread word of his alleged sexual preference, which, given his luck of late, would find its way unerringly to the ears of the very straitlaced Mrs. Whitney, and that would spell a disaster from which he could not recover. He tried to rally his wits, but the full horror of the situation had struck him, leaving him with a sick, clammy feeling in the region of his stomach, hands that were suddenly damp, and the knowledge that if his goose was not yet actually plucked, it was next in line. Before he could do more than sputter an objection, however, the matter was taken from him.

“Lord Carlisle was merely helping me with my codpiece,” Charlotte said in a deep, obviously false approximation of a male voice. Two more people crowded into the doorway as she cleared her throat and added, “That is, he was assisting in removing an object from it.”

Dare's mind went numb around the edges. He hadn't thought matters could be made worse, but when Mrs. Whitney leaned toward him and in a scandalized whisper asked why a half-clad man was standing before Lady Jersey, he felt the leaden weight of despair clamp itself around his heart. Dare glanced at her, over to the sympathetic eyes of Patricia's betrothed standing beside his aunt, and felt the cold hands of the feather plucker approaching. He was caught. Ensnared. Trapped. It had come to this, to a choice. If he wanted any hope of selling his engine design to the Whitney shipyards, he would have to salvage the situation, and assuming his prayer for the earth to open up and swallow him whole was not going to be answered, salvage meant sacrifice.
His
sacrifice.

He took one last breath as a free man.

“When I say he was assisting me, I mean that he offered to look inside and determine what exactly was in—”

“What Lady Charlotte is trying to say is that she has done me the honor of bestowing upon me her hand.”

Five pairs of eyes stared in surprise at his pronouncement. Dare looked calmly back at all of them, beyond feeling anything but stupefied.

“She? That person is a woman?” asked Mrs. Whitney.

“I knew it!” Patricia exclaimed, saluting her brother with her wooden saber before kissing him on his cheek. “I'm so pleased!”

“Best of luck to you, old man,” said David the sea captain as he clapped Dare on the back.

“
Lady
Charlotte?
” Lady Jersey growled as she turned to face the person in question. “Lady Charlotte Collins? The Lady Charlotte who ran off with an Italian nobody despite my warning her it would all end in despair? The Lady Charlotte whom I specifically forbade to attend my ball? The Lady Charlotte who, upon hearing my refusal, referred to me as ‘that jealous old she-cat who wouldn't recognize quality if it bit her on the bottom'?
That
Lady Charlotte?”

Dare looked at Charlotte. She looked back at him, her eyes round with surprise. Then suddenly she whooped with delight and threw herself across the room and into his arms, murmuring into his ear, “I knew this would turn out well! I knew you wouldn't fail me! Now we will be wed and you won't be hunted any longer, and Lady Jersey will have to receive me, and I shall have gowns and go to balls and dance, and best of all, your instrument will be happy to apply itself while you demonstrate the armchair's usage to me.”

“Oh, happy day,” Dare said, flinching slightly as the hunter's arrow pierced him with a mortal blow. The taste of entrapment was bitter on his tongue.

“Truly, Alasdair…”

Charlotte stopped speaking under the look Dare bent upon her. She thinned her lips in annoyance. “We are betrothed. Must I continue to call you Lord Carlisle?”

Dare fought the familiar tightness across his chest and took an experimental deep breath. At least the shackles Charlotte had about him allowed him to breathe. “No, you do not need to call me Lord Carlisle, but if you must use my Christian name, please use the abbreviated version. No one but my mother calls me Alasdair.”

She blinked. “What should I call you?”

“Dare.”

“Dare? As in…
Dare
?”

“Dare.” He signaled the horses to start and expertly guided them into the busy flow of traffic surrounding Covent Garden. “It's just four little letters. Even you should be able to remember it.”

Charlotte tucked an errant curl back into her honeysuckle-crested bonnet, frowned for a moment, then turned to give Dare an outraged glare. “Did you just insult me?”

“Yes.”

Her look of outrage grew. “Why?”

“Because I'm in a foul mood.”

“Why?” she asked again.

Because he had been forced into offering for her. Because he had enough experience to know that what she wanted in life was not what he wanted. Because he knew that despite his acceptance of fate, their marriage would be a terrible mismatch, dooming them both to a life filled with misery, despair, and hopelessness. The Charlotte he remembered was silly and seldom looked beneath the surface, while he had been molded by bitter circumstances and had no patience with shallowness. Dare stared grimly ahead as he drove his team toward Green Park, where his sister had arranged to act in place of Charlotte's family to discuss wedding arrangements. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, expecting to see a righteously indignant Charlotte demanding he treat her as was her due, or a petulant Charlotte who wanted compliments to soothe his insult, or worst of all, a giggly Charlotte determined to jolly him into a better mood. Dare was a man who cherished his sulks, and he had no intention of being made happy when he wanted to brood.

What he saw in her eyes shook his faith in his right to make everyone around him miserable. She was nodding, understanding and compassion warming her blue eyes until they were so clear, he could see right through to her soul. He yanked his gaze away. He didn't want to see her soul. He wanted to be left alone to nurse the grievous injury she had done him, and he couldn't do that if he was forced to see beyond the shallow surface of her character.

She patted his arm nearest her. He stared down at the butter-yellow glove resting on his sleeve as she said, “It will no doubt come as a great surprise to you, but I, too, have had occasion to give in to a pout. I've found them most refreshing, as long as they don't go on too long. Then they can cause wrinkles.”

Dare straightened his shoulders and shot her a warning glance. “I do not pout, madam. I am, if anything, merely brooding over the many injustices done me of late. Brooding is not pouting. It's as far removed from pouting as is possible. Women pout, men do not.”

“Pheasant feathers!” Charlotte scoffed. “It's a pout and nothing but a pout. And to what injustices are you referring? You don't mean our marriage, do you? Because if you do, I shall be forced to be offended and take action.”

“What action?” Dare couldn't help but ask. He wrestled his bad mood back to its accustomed place. Just being in her presence gave him a sense of something so remarkably akin to happiness that it threatened to blow away the clouds of his foul mood. And he couldn't have that, because without his cloak of self-pity, he would have to admit to feeling things for Charlotte that were best left unrecognized.

“I should challenge you to a duel.”

Dare jerked at the reins, narrowly avoiding driving over two unwary lady's maids. He tossed an apology over the side of the phaeton before turning his attention back to his bride-to-be. “Obviously the stress of the last few weeks has taken its toll on me. My hearing has become quite unreliable. Would you repeat what you just said?”

“I said that if you meant our marriage and future together was an injustice, I should take action, and that action would translate itself as a duel. Pistols, I think. I never was any good with Matthew's sword, but I am reckoned quite a crank shot with a pistol.”

“Crack,” he corrected automatically, wondering if somewhere along the last day he had lost his mind. That or his life had turned into a French farce. Either explanation would make sense. “Ladies do not fight duels, Charlotte. Not with pistols, not with swords, not ever.”

“I have never been one to follow the dictates of fashion, my lord.”

Dare stared at her in disbelief. “Of course you are. You don't think about anything but what's fashionable and the latest shot with the
ton
.”

Charlotte appeared to think about that for a moment. “When it suits me, yes, but oftentimes what Society says is reasonable and fashionable doesn't suit me.”

He had to concede that point. Charlotte did exactly as she wanted, regardless of what anyone thought of her actions, whether it was wearing a beard and codpiece to a masquerade ball or running off with a penniless foreign nobleman. He sighed over his unconventional bride for a moment before admitting to himself that her originality was most decidedly an asset. Still, he wasn't about to start out his new life as a husband with his wife in the position of power. There was no better time to make it absolutely clear who would be in charge in their marriage.

“Ladies do not fight duels, Charlotte,” Dare said in his best end-of-the-discussion voice. “Now, as I told you earlier, since you have no family present, my sister will be happy to help you plan your wedding.”

“
Our
wedding.”

“That goes without saying,” he said with only a minor tightening around his chest. Maybe he would survive the experience after all. Maybe, after a few years, he would get use to his bondage and could look forward to, if not happiness, then a pleasant existence.

“And I notice you are the one who is taking great pains to avoid saying it,” Charlotte pointed out. “I cannot help but feel, Alasdair, that you are not entirely happy about having offered for me, and yet I also cannot help but point out that it was, in fact, you who offered marriage, not I. Well, I did earlier, but you turned me down, so that doesn't count. Not really. Are you?”

“Am I what?” Dare asked, feeling only the tiniest bit bemused by Charlotte's amazing leaps of thought. He took pride in his ability to follow her, feeling certain few men could claim such an achievement.

“Are you happy that we are to be married?”

Dare flicked the reins and tried to think of how to answer her question. He wanted to tell her that he had only offered for her because she'd trapped him in front of the woman who could destroy his future, but he had enough honesty to admit that wasn't entirely the truth. Oh, she had trapped him, but he might have been able to bluff his way out of the situation, even with Mrs. Whitney viewing the proceedings with bright, inquisitive eyes. No, the truth was… What was the truth? He didn't want to wed her, did he?

He slid a glance at the figure beside him. He had wanted to make her his wife…once, five years ago. But that was before disaster struck, before he knew that he had little to offer a wife but an empty title and a mountain of debts. And he'd be damned if he went to a bride empty-handed, unable to take care of her.

“And yet that's just what I'm doing.” He sighed, allowing a moment of self-pity.

“If you mean that what you're doing is avoiding answering my question, yes, you are quite correct. Really, Alasdair, I believe I'm about to be most offended. You can't even answer a simple question when I put it to you? Is there something about me that offends you? I know it can't be my appearance, because…well, modesty is a silly virtue, I've always felt. Clearly my appearance is not at fault, and I know it can't be what I've said, because I haven't once mentioned any of the things that outraged you so during your discussion of my genitals, and I'm fairly certain it can't be this gown because it's my cousin's gown that I had altered, so really, if you're offended, it's Gillian's fault, not mine, and I don't think that's at all fair of you to be offended with her since she is on a ship somewhere and can't defend herself against your rude comments about her choice of gowns!”

It really was amazing, Dare thought to himself, that he was starting to understand how Charlotte thought. Oh, to be true, any lengthy conversation with her left his mind feeling a bit strained, but he really was getting the knack of the thing. He pulled the team to a halt before the small beige brick house he had rented for the time he was in London, and turned to tell her the truth. She tipped her head on the side, watching him with a gaze that seemed to see so much, and yet was the epitome of innocence. He thought of what his life would be like bound to a frivolous woman without a thought in her head for anything more serious than what gown to wear. He thought about sinking further into debt trying to support her. He thought about the dreams he had as a young man, now withered and crumbled to dust. He recognized the cold hand of despair touching his heart, and wanted to weep with the injustice of it all.

“Alasdair?”

He thought of all that until his gaze met hers, and then all he thought of was how indescribably lovely she was, how completely and utterly unique she was from every other woman of his acquaintance, and how he would rip to shreds any other man who thought to claim her.

“My lord?”

His jaw tightened as he acknowledged his unwanted feelings of possessiveness. So be it. He had made the decision, and now it was his duty to see it through. God alone knew how he was going to manage it. Marriage to any woman was not welcome, but to a woman so clearly bent on having her own way, regardless of his wishes…well, he would wed her and possess her, but in his own good time, in his own way. She'd just have to understand that he had no intentions of being trapped a second time.

“I am a simple man, Charlotte,” he told her. “I would not offer you marriage if I thought either of us would live to regret it. If you are having second thoughts, please tell me now. Otherwise”—he leaped down from the phaeton and held out his hand to her—“my sister awaits, and you have wedding plans to make.”

***

“You are welcome to be married with David and me,” Alasdair's sister offered, looking up with a smile from where she was embroidering her bridal stockings. “It won't be a big wedding, but you're welcome to share it. I think it would be very romantic for all of us to be married at the same time.”

Charlotte thought it would be anything but romantic. Horrific, appalling, embarrassing, not-to-be-borne, a terrible waste of a day that was supposed to be the happiest in any woman's life, yes, yes, it was all that, but romantic? Faugh!

Patricia turned to her brother with a smile that sparkled in her eyes. “Dare, you wouldn't mind being married with David and me, would you? It would be such a lovely day. You could join us for breakfast at the hotel, and then we can all go down to the docks to see the ship. I'm sure Lady Charlotte would enjoy that.”

On the contrary, Lady Charlotte was sure she would
not
enjoy that. Lady Charlotte was equally sure she would not enjoy any other events of that ilk. Lady Charlotte would go so far as to admit to an almost uncontrollable urge to wrap her borrowed lace handkerchief across Patricia's mouth lest other such suggestions burst forth.

“It might do,” Alasdair said thoughtfully, one finger absently rubbing across his lower lip. Charlotte shifted to a slightly less uncomfortable spot on the worn settee, her gaze following his finger as it rubbed back and forth, her breath doing odd little palpitations in her chest as she noticed for the first time just how handsome his lips were. Lips, she had always felt, were lips. Functional, yes. Pleasing in an aesthetic manner, true. But she had never been a connoisseur of lips in the past, a fact she admitted with no little sense of regret upon viewing the fine specimens Alasdair bore. Clearly she had made a grievous mistake in overlooking lips as a source of enjoyment, his lips in particular, but that fault would be corrected immediately. Or as immediately as it took her to kiss him. “It would serve us both well. We could get both events over with in one fell swoop.”

“I do not wish to be over in a fell swoop, whatever that is,” Charlotte objected. Her musings upon the glory and greatness of his lips were abruptly brought to an end. She felt control slipping through her fingers, and it was not a pleasant sensation. She liked Alasdair's sister, she honestly did, but if that little mischief-maker thought she was going to do Charlotte out of the grand, glorious wedding due her, she could just think twice!

“We wouldn't dream of encroaching on your wedding,” she told Patricia quickly. “That is your special day, the day everyone caters to your every whim, the day when you look your prettiest. You wouldn't want to share that day with another woman, would you?”

“I wouldn't mind,” Patricia protested.

“Of course you would mind! You wouldn't want your husband-to-be comparing you to another woman, and seeing you in a lesser light, would you?”

“David would never—”

“That would be a terrible cavity!”

“Calamity,” Dare offered.

Charlotte pointedly ignored him. “Your brother ought to be ashamed of himself for even suggesting the idea to you. How dare he try to ruin your happy marriage?”

“No, Lady Charlotte,
I
suggested it to him—”

“How could you face the rest of your life with a man who thought you were second best?”

“But, but—”

“It simply is not tolerable! No woman should be asked to sacrifice herself thusly, not even for me. No, no, protest no more, dearest sister-to-be. It's quite clear to me that you must not have your day tainted by such unhappy opportunities as your husband seeing me looking particularly stunning in my wedding finery.”