Noble Destiny (15 page)

“Saturday, just before the wedding. She is taking the waters for her dyspepsia. She suffers terribly from upsets of an internal nature, and Lady Devonshire assured her that her upsets were quite cured by taking the waters. I do hope they help. Aunt Whitney has been most uncomfortable after dinner.”

“That's such a shame,” Charlotte said cheerfully. “We shall sorely miss her presence here in these, your precious last few days as an unmarried woman. Indeed, I shall endeavor to fill your time so that you don't fret over her absence. Do you need help with the wedding?”

“No, Aunt Whitney took care of that before she left for Bath. I have a final fitting today for my wedding gown, and then there is nothing to do until Sunday.”

Charlotte drummed her fingers on the table before rising. “I assume, then, you will not be odverse to helping me with a little project of my own?”

“I would not be
adverse
in the least to helping you, dear sister-in-law. How can I be of assistance?”

Charlotte took Patricia by the arm and headed toward the kitchen. “You know, of course, that the Duchess of Deal is giving an engagement ball for that pasty-faced daughter of hers whose name I never can remember.”

“Lady Charlotte, yes.”

Charlotte paused as she descended the stairs to the basement. “Charlotte? Her name is Charlotte? Well, the insipid little twit was misnamed, she's nothing like a Charlotte. Regardless of how poorly Their Graces chose to name her, her engagement ball is going to be the biggest event for the rest of the Season, and I've already accepted—on all our behalf—the invitation she sent Dare. Now we must acquaint him of this fact, and then I shall take the servants in hand. They sorely need it, not that I am impugning your skills in the least.”

Patricia giggled as the pair headed down the low-ceilinged, dark hallway leading to Dare's workroom. “Thank you, Charlotte. I'm not feeling impugned at all, but I'm afraid Dare won't like your idea in the least. He hates the
ton
, he has ever since…well, since before he became an earl. I had a terrible time getting him to take me to Lady Jersey's masquerade. I had to threaten him with all sorts of things, finally resorting to crying before he agreed, and even then he swore it would be the only function besides my wedding that he would attend for the rest of the year. I don't know how you plan to persuade him to go, but I can assure you that it will not be an easy task.”

“I don't imagine it will be too difficult once I present my proposition,” Charlotte said, halting before the door to Dare's workshop. “He'll have no way to refuse me once I offer to help him sell his engine to Mr. Whitney.”

Patricia grabbed her arm as she was about to open the door. “Help him? How can you help him sell his engine to Uncle Whitney?”

Charlotte smiled a smile filled with her newly discovered awareness of feminine power. “My dear, I am a woman. No one can resist me when I put my mind to it. Even your brother could not withstand the onslaught of my full attention. Persuading your David's uncle to buy Alasdair's machine will be nothing compared to the coup I have just made.”

Patricia mumbled a warning about the advisability of referring to Dare's marriage as a coup in his hearing, but she followed along docilely enough as her new sister bearded her brother in his den. Watching Charlotte handle Dare for the next few days was going to be an education, and she very much looked forward to seeing who would win their battle of wills.

“Truly, Charlotte, I don't know how you managed this miracle, but I'm so glad you did,” Patricia whispered, squeezing Charlotte's hand as the pair slowly maneuvered their way through the crowd that littered the grand staircase at Henley House.

Charlotte thought briefly of the steadfast refusal Dare had first given, followed by gracious capitulation once Charlotte had sent Patricia from the workroom so she could ply him with kisses and pretty words. Truthfully, the words had little effect, but the kisses, oh, those kisses… Charlotte glanced behind her at where her husband and David followed. The latter was smiling pleasantly, his eyes on his betrothed, while the former was scowling at her with an intensity that could blister steel. She paused for a moment to note just how very handsome he was in midnight blue, then blew him a kiss and turned back to the hall to remove her cloak and make her curtsies to those in the receiving line.

“Lord Carlisle, how pleased I am you could attend after all,” the Duchess of Deal trumpeted down her long nose as soon as Charlotte and Patricia had left their cloaks. The duchess always reminded Charlotte of a long-faced pony she'd had as a child, and the similarity to those of the equine persuasion was becoming even more pronounced with the passing years. “Miss McGregor, is it not? And you must be Captain Woodwell. You are most welcome, sir. My congratulations on your upcoming nuptials.”

Charlotte waited politely to be acknowledged, relishing the moment of triumph. She had done what she had set out to do—she had married well and had regained her position, if not fortune. No one in the
ton
would slight her now, not without incurring Dare's wrath, and as he was in general a well-liked (if seldom seen) man, she knew his name would protect her. She flashed her dimples as the duchess condescended to notice her.

“Lady Carlisle.” An infinitesimal tip of the head accompanied her dismissive glance.

“Your Grace.” Charlotte smiled broadly, dipping into a deep court curtsy just to annoy the duchess. She rose and greeted the duke, gave her felicitations to the Marquis of Summerton, kissed the cheek of the unworthy bearer of her name, and proudly entered the crowded reception room on the arm of her husband. Candle flames flickered and swayed in the swirling air generated by so many moving bodies as they conducted that intricate dance of Polite Society meeting, greeting, and promenading. Delight shivered down Charlotte's back as she smiled at everyone. She had done it. She had succeeded where everyone predicted she would fail. She had returned, on her own terms, and no one would ever again keep her from her rightful spot. Ah, but life was sweet.

“I'm back where I belong,” she breathed, her eyes alight with joy as she savored her victory.

“I need a drink. I trust you will keep an eye on Patricia?” Dare asked as he disengaged his arm from Charlotte's clutch. “Good. Send someone for me when you are ready to return home.”

Charlotte stared in horror as her husband of a day abandoned her at the moment of her greatest triumph.

“Oh, Charlotte, isn't it beautiful? Have you ever seen so many candles alight at once? I'm surprised no one has swooned in this heat. Why do you suppose the doors are shut? Wouldn't it be cooler if they allowed some air in? And the flowers? Who could have imagined so many white roses in all of London? Oh, Char, look, just look at that lady's gown. It's scandalous! You can see right through to her frillies! I must have one just like it after I am married. Where are Dare and David off to?” Patricia's face was aglow with excitement, in sharp contrast to the fallen expression of her sister-in-law.

Charlotte swallowed her disappointment, telling herself she didn't really need Dare present to enjoy herself, but even as the thought formed, she knew it was an untruth. Just being with him made everything seem brighter, more exciting, and when he left, it all turned dull and tarnished.

“Alasdair felt a bit parched in the heat and has gone for some refreshment. I believe David is keeping him company. The rooms are closed no doubt because the Prince Regent is expected, and I doubt seriously if your husband would appreciate you parading around in a gown like Mrs. Cutter's. She's a notorious widow, and is not in the least the sort of person you should emulate.”

Patricia grinned and took Charlotte by the arm as they wove their way through the crowd. “Come, you promised to introduce me to all the people Aunt Whitney would not allow me to meet. Let's start with Mrs. Cutter.”

Charlotte spent the next hour in a unique position previously unknown to her—chaperone. While Patricia was not a flighty young thing to be watched every moment lest she bring herself to ruin, she was young, excited, and utterly thrilled with a world in which she'd had little contact. She also possessed a spirited sense of mischief that Charlotte realized, with some horror, bore an uncanny resemblance to her own. Never before had she been responsible for another, and she did not much care for the sensation.

“I have a new respect for what my poor mother must have endured,” Charlotte grumbled to Caroline later as she intervened when Lord Briceland, a notorious rake responsible for many a young woman's downfall, would have swept Patricia off into a secluded corner of the ducal gardens. Caroline snickered.

“I am betrothed, Charlotte,” Patricia protested as the two women dragged her along a cinder path edged with fantastic beasts rendered in topiary form toward the doors leading into the ballroom. “No harm can come to my reputation now. Lord Briceland has the dearest golden curls, don't you think, Lady Beverly?”

“Oh, yes, very much like that dashing Lord Byron's,” Caroline agreed.

“Puts them up in papers each night like Byron, too, no doubt,” Charlotte snapped and came to a halt to face the giddy young girl. She glanced around quickly, but there was little to be seen but a giant yew hedge marking the boundaries of a maze. “Good, there's no one around so I can speak freely. Patricia, I cannot have you dashing about making a cake of yourself in this manner. I really cannot. What would Alasdair say if I allowed you to be seduced in the garden? What would David say? He's bound to object. Men do about that sort of thing!”

“They do, they truly do,” Caroline said. “Why, I remember the time shortly before I was wed when dearest Algernon caught me admiring Lord Selfridge's mustache—you remember him, Char, he had the most delicious blond mustache, almost silver it was—well, as it was, I was admiring Lord Selfridge's mustache and I felt I simply must touch it to see if it was as soft as it looked, and do you know, it was. It was very soft indeed, and I was much tempted to kiss him just to know whether the mustache tickled upon one's lip or not. But then dearest Algernon burst into the room ranting and carrying on in the most flattering way about me shaming him and giving away my innocence all for the sake of an attractive mustache—”

“Yes, thank you, Caro,” Charlotte interrupted. “We take your point, assuming you have one. As for you, Patricia, I must insist that you remain at my side and take your cue from my conversations. Honestly, I would have never allowed you to read Vyvyan La Blue's book if I thought you were going to discuss the relative merits of the Minataur's Dance versus the Eight Heavenly Gates of Apollo with Lady Jersey! Ridiculously hidebound and old-fashioned though she might be, she
is
one of the leading ladies of the
ton
. One does not discuss connubial calisthenics with her!”

Patricia giggled. Charlotte glared at her and mused for a moment on the fact that she might be older by six years only, but she certainly
felt
decades wiser. “Do not giggle at me, miss! Giggling is for ninnies, and if you continue as you are, you'll end up like Caro here.” She shook her finger with a stern countenance. God's elbows, wild as she was, she never was a ninny.

“Char!” Patricia objected, shooting a worried look at Lady Beverly.

Caroline drew herself up to her full height and looked down her nose at her friend. “I am not a ninny.”

“Don't you ‘Char' me in that outraged tone,” Charlotte lectured her sister-in-law. “A ninny is as a ninny does, just you remember that! Besides, it is impolite to giggle in public.”

“I have never
been
a ninny!”

“You said yourself we were alone here,” Patricia said, trying to wipe the smile off her face. “No one can hear us, and I am sorry, but oh, Charlotte, you do make me laugh! Ever since you married Dare you've become positively priggish!”

“To be a prig is worse than to be a ninny,” Caroline said darkly.

“Priggish!” Charlotte gasped, her eyes wide with outrage. “I am not in the least bit priggish! I am the most unpriggish woman in existence! Caro, tell her! Tell her that I am dashing and daring and do many things of a nature that is completely opposite that of priggish. Go ahead, Caro, tell her.”

Caroline eyed her friend. “It is a well-known fact that ninnies keep company with prigs, therefore, since you claim I am a ninny, it follows that you are the living embodiment of priggishness.”

“OH!”

“I think it must be the bedding that's made you this way,” Patricia said thoughtfully. “Vyvyan La Blue says that lengthy and frequent bedding is recommended for shrews and women of a flighty nature since it balances their humors and eliminates their wild ways with the calming influence of motherhood. Although you certainly aren't a shrew or flighty, you must admit that since you wed Dare, you've become very circumspect.”

“Hrmph,” snorted Charlotte, bored to tears with the conversation. She leveled a stern gaze at her friend, who frowned back at her. Then she took her sister-in-law by the arm and headed off down the path past the torch-lit opening to the maze. “You shouldn't believe everything you read. In fact, I believe you should apologize to me here and now for saying I was priggish. Since your brother has not seen fit to do his manly duty by me, any circumspection I might have is due solely to the fact that your unthinking and careless actions are driving me to an early death.”

“Charlotte!” Patricia gasped, stopping so abruptly that Caroline trod on her heel. “You can't mean that Dare didn't…didn't…that you and he didn't…but the way he looked at you! And the way you looked at him! I was sure he…I just cannot believe that he wouldn't bed you!”

“Shhh,” Charlotte hissed, glancing around her. Although the three women were alone, standing between the foot of the stairs leading to the verandah and the opening to the dark and uninviting maze, one never knew who could be lurking around. “The fact that my husband refused to consummate our marriage is not a subject I wish made public. In fact, it's truly not any of your business what Dare and I do or do not do, so please forget I mentioned it at all.”

“Char, you can't mean he hasn't—” Caroline said at the same time Patricia said, “But, Charlotte—”

“Not another word! Look, there is David gesturing for you. It must be his dance. Go enjoy yourself. Caroline and I will be in momentarily. Do not, under any circumstances, repeat what I just said! I would die of shame if anyone found out that Dare refused…well, I would die if anyone found out.”

Patricia assured her she wouldn't breathe a word to anyone, and hurried up the steps to fling herself into her betrothed's arms. Charlotte watched her for a minute, tempted to follow and make sure they spent the allotted time dancing and not sequestered in a dark corner, but quickly dismissed that idea when Caroline put her hand on her arm.

“Char, why?”

“Why what? Oh, why didn't Alasdair bed me?” Caroline nodded. Charlotte sighed and looked into the darkness while she tried to muster words to explain something she didn't quite understand herself. “He feels we need to know one another better. He wants me to be…oh, I don't know what he wants me to be. His friend, I think. He said he wants us to have tender feelings for one another before we engage in connubial calisthenics.”

“That's rather sweet,” Caroline said with a little smile. “I imagine most men wouldn't think of wanting to be their wife's friend before they did their duty by her. He must love you very much if he's willing to wait until you have similar feelings for him.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “You
are
a ninny, Caro. He doesn't love me.”

Caroline's hand tightened on her arm. “I swear to heaven, Charlotte, if you call me that again, I shan't be held responsible for my actions!”

“Call you what? A ninny?”

“Yes! I will not tolerate it again!”

“Really?” Charlotte asked with interest, tipping her head as she considered the angry countenance of her friend. “What will you do? Challenge me to a duel? Engage in fisticuffs with me? Tie me to a tree and shoot arrows at me? I've seen your archery skills, Caro. I wouldn't have much to be concerned about there.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Of course I shan't do any of those things. No, I shall do something much, much worse.”

“What?” Charlotte asked again, her curiosity getting the better of her. She knew Caroline well. A woman less able to say anything unkind or cruel did not exist. A flash of blue in the corner of her eye caught her attention as Caroline gestured wildly, her voice rising in distress.

“I don't know, something terrible, something cruel. No, I do too know what I will do.”

Someone was coming from within the maze. Charlotte stepped aside, intending to pull Caroline after her so their conversation wouldn't be overheard.

“If you persist in calling me by that unkind and wholly inaccurate word,” Caroline said in voice that pierced the night in righteous indignation, “I shall tell that awful Lady Brindley that your husband has refused to bed you because he is still infatuated with her.”

Charlotte's mind skidded to an abrupt stop at the sight over Caroline's shoulder. A woman emerged from the darkness of the maze into the golden pool of light cast by the torches. Dressed in midnight blue with a lighter-blue overgown, Phylomena, Viscountess Brindley, embodied the memory of every bad experience Charlotte had had during her two Seasons.