Noble Destiny (19 page)

Charlotte spun around. “Yes, but he said my interfering—ha! As if wiping off the dirt and grime found on the parts was interfering!—ruined the pistons. Still”—her hands fluttered as if to push the thought away—“that's neither here nor there. The result of my well-meaning and tender concern is banishment. I must, therefore, find another way to fall in love with him. As you know him best, I was hoping perhaps you would have advice on the matter.”

She looked at him hopefully. He looked back at her, more than a little nonplussed. “I…I…”

“Oh, come now, Batsfoam, you know Alasdair better than almost anyone. I cannot get anything out of Miss McGregor other than
when
it
happens, you will know it
and other such vagueness, but I expect better from you. Not only are you privy to his intimate daily routine, but you act as his assistant with that engine. You must be able to tell me something that will aid my cause.”

Batsfoam, for the first time since he had become Dare's servant, was speechless. Without thinking, he sat on one of the two matching green ladder-back chairs. “I…you…” He cleared his throat and suddenly realized he was sitting before his mistress. He stood and mumbled a brief apology. “I will think upon it, my lady.”

“Good.” Charlotte dismissed him with a nod and moved toward her writing desk. “But please hurry. There are only a few hours left until nightfall, and although surely I must almost be to that point, I don't want to risk the possibility that I might not be wholly in love with him before we retire for the night. It wouldn't be fair to Dare if I weren't.”

“I will do my best, madam,” Batsfoam intoned as he bowed himself out the door. He paused for a moment in the hall, whistling tunelessly to himself, then thumped his way toward the back stairs. He thought he might just be able to help his mistress's plans along.

***

Dare staggered up the stairs toward his bedchamber. He was exhausted and hungry, but had chosen to eat nothing more than a hunk of dried bread and a bit of stale cheese rather than sit across a table from his wife. He grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck as he dragged his weary legs up one step after another. His wife. Charlotte. The woman who was slowly but surely driving him mad. If it wasn't unbridled desire that was so unbearable he doubted his own control in her presence, it was the exasperation of her misguided attempts to help him with the engine.

Help. Ha! That was a novel word for her actions. No one but Charlotte would think to strip the lubricating oil from the pistons. Her bit of housekeeping had set him back at least two weeks, perhaps more while he cast new parts to replace the ones that had been destroyed.

His stomach growled hollowly as he trudged down the dark hall toward his dressing room, wearily aware that although he very much wanted to, he couldn't blame Charlotte for the damage. She had been trying to be of assistance, and despite the pain of seeing those pistons destroyed, his heart was warmed by her honest desire to help.

Perhaps there was hope for them after all.

Batsfoam was waiting for him, looking just as tired as he did.

“I thought I told you to go to bed two hours ago?”

“You did, my lord, but I would not be remiss in my duty to you, my most gracious and generous employer—”

Dare waved a weary hand and stopped the flow of what he knew would be a five-minute soliloquy. “Please, not tonight. Or rather, this morning. Just help me off with these boots and get yourself to bed.”

Batsfoam did as requested and assisted his master into a faded, but still elegant, silk dressing gown before informing him that there was a problem with the bedding.

“What sort of a problem?” Dare asked, his hand on the door, almost dropping where he stood, he was so tired.

“There was a small fire, my lord. Nothing serious, and it was extinguished almost immediately, but not before the flames rendered the mattress unsuitable.”

“A fire.” Dare shook his head. He must be more tired than he imagined. “In my bed.”

Batsfoam bowed his head in acknowledgment.

“There was a fire in my bed.”

Batsfoam tidied up the basin and water pitcher.

“As in, flames? In my bed? An object situated well across the room from the fireplace?”

“It is most mysterious, my lord,” Batsfoam agreed, setting Dare's boots aside to be shined later. “I cannot imagine how a fire came to start itself there, but the fact remains that your bed is unavailable for the evening. I thought perhaps you might desire sleeping on the chaise, and for that purpose arranged it with the appropriate bed linens.”

“The chaise?” Dare asked dully, deciding he was simply too exhausted to pursue the subject of how a fire was started in his bed. “You want me to sleep on the chaise, the one that is at least a foot shorter than I am?”

“Alas, there are no other empty beds in the house. I would, of course, give up mine if your lordship were to insist—”

“No, no.” Dare waved the offer away and, taking a candle, staggered into his darkened bedchamber. The scent of burned linen was still heavy in the air despite the open window. He ignored the empty bed frame that sat hulking in the corner of the room and headed for the small red chaise now swathed in white linens.

“If I might suggest,” Batsfoam said from the doorway to the dressing room, “my lady was saying only this morning how very soft and comfortable her bed was. I am sure she would be willing to share—”

“Thank you, Batsfoam, that won't be necessary. I'll be fine on the chaise. Good night.”

“Good night, my lord. And might I wish you a pleasant and comfortable sleep?”

Dare mumbled something and collapsed onto the chaise, snuffing out the candle with an exhausted groan. The door clicked softly behind Batsfoam as Dare rolled onto his back, then onto his side, trying to find a comfortable position. He either had to lay with his legs crooked at an angle that he knew would become painful after a few minutes, or curl up with his knees bent, which would no doubt end up in leg cramps. He sighed and turned onto the other side, trying to prop the excess in his legs up on the chaise arm, but that just drove his side into the seat of the chaise.

“What is this thing stuffed with, gravel?” he grumbled as he switched ends in an attempt to find a spot that did not have sharp, pointy things digging into his flesh. Why on earth had he bought the blighted thing? Why had he never sat on it to ensure it wasn't lethal to human flesh? And who in their right mind would make such a devilish piece of furniture?

Visions of an inviting, comfortable, nonlumpy bed danced in his mind. Charlotte had such a bed. She wouldn't mind him using it, either. Truthfully, she'd probably be delighted, but it was the form her delight would take that had him turning again to find a comfortable spot. Better he should sleep all cramped and uncomfortable than to risk her seducing him again. After that episode in the carriage, and a day spent trying not to think about her, he knew he would not be able to resist the lure of her sweetly scented flesh.

A sharp stab to his kidney regions was the final straw.

“Damnation!” he snarled as he sat up, grabbing his dressing gown and shoving his arms into the sleeves as he stalked toward Charlotte's room. He had to get some sleep. He had to work twice as hard to make up for the lost time Charlotte's visit to the work room had cost him. If he was very quiet, and didn't disturb his wife, perhaps he could slip into her bed and get the few hours of sleep he needed. He didn't need much sleep, he thought groggily as he felt his way through the darkened room to the far side of the bed, just a little sleep, just enough so he could work without falling asleep.

Charlotte was a lump in the bed, but he steadfastly turned his tired mind away from the alluring image of sinking into the soft linens warmed by her, and instead wrapped his dressing gown around himself and gently eased down on top of the bedcovers. He was painfully aware of her body lying so close to his, not touching but close enough so he could breathe in the scent of warm, sleepy woman. He prayed she wouldn't wake up, for he knew his wife—she took the straightest path between two points no matter what distractions lay along the way. If she should discover him in her bed, she would no doubt demand he do his marital duty by her, and he was conscious enough to recognize that the overwhelming attraction he felt for her, coupled with his traitorous body, would sound a death knell for his good intentions.

“Less temptation this way,” he told himself, stifling the groan of pleasure as the soft mattress welcomed his exhausted body. “I'll be gone in a couple of hours. She won't even know I'm…”

He drifted off before he could finish vocalizing the thought.

“…here,” Charlotte whispered softly from the other side of the bed. Moving carefully, she covered her husband with a light blanket, then curled up beside him, one hand protectively on his chest.

Caroline watched her friend rip pages from her memorandum book and throw them to the small fire that had been lit in an attempt to throw off the gloom cast by the cold, damp June day so familiar to inhabitants of the south of England. “You look as if you hope to exorcise a demon by doing that,” she commented mildly.

“The demon can exercise himself, I have much more important things to concern myself about. Caro, I am at my wit's end. I know that will come as a surprise to you—Lord knows I thought I'd never face the day when I couldn't think of some way around an obstacle—but this has me defeated, and I don't like the feeling one little bit.”

Caroline made soft noises of encouragement.

Charlotte threw the last page into the fire and turned to stare out the window at the rivulets of rain running down the glass. “I have never been defeated before. I have never once set myself to a goal and failed to achieve it. I have never, in all my years, been unable to have what I've desired. This situation is untenseable, and I simply shall not tolerate it anymore!”

“What situation is untenable?” Caroline asked quietly, more than a little concerned by the look of confusion in her friend's eye. If there was one thing Caroline had always envied Charlotte, it was her sense of purpose, her knowledge of exactly what she wanted out of life and how she was to get it. The Charlotte before her plainly was not of that ilk; the Charlotte before her was made out of a common clay, the kind riddled with doubts and uncertainty and frustration just like any other mortal.

It warmed her heart like nothing else could.

“This falling in love business!” Charlotte wailed, throwing her hands up in a gesture of annoyance. “I cannot get a straight answer from anyone as to how to go about it, and obviously I'm not having any success by following my own inclinations. I have tried to fall in love with Alasdair, I truly have. I spent all yesterday at the task and was banned from my husband's presence as a reward for such diligence and hard work. Last night, when Alasdair finally came to bed—”

Caroline's eyebrows shot up.

“—he slept on top of the bedcovers.
On
top!
The only reason he was even in my bed was because Batsfoam had dismantled his under some pretext or another. I'm telling you, Caro, I am at the end. I cannot go on like this anymore. I can't think but for worrying about this problem. It's bound to give me wrinkles if it continues, and then where will I be? Unconsummated and wrinkled,
that's
where.”

“Perhaps you are trying too hard,” Caroline advised, watching as her friend started pacing the length of the room. Charlotte was forever pacing, Caroline noted to herself. It seemed to help her think. She wondered if she should try it herself at a later time. “Perhaps if you were to relax your attempts to fall in love with Lord Carlisle, you would have better success. Emotions are very difficult to force, Char. Sometimes you need to simply let them be.”

Charlotte shot her a disgruntled look as she paced by. “Nonsense. My emotions will do as I tell them. No, my problem is much more serious—clearly, my mind is off. It is just not functioning as it should, and as I…are you all right? Did you swallow your tea wrong? Shall I strike you between your shoulders?”

Caroline waved away the offer and fumbled for her handkerchief, mopping up the aftereffects of hearing Charlotte insist her mind was off, just as if it was week old mutton. “I am fine. Pray continue.”

“Well.” Charlotte pursed her lips and tried to think how best to explain the unwelcome thoughts and emotions that chased around inside her. “I have in the past always known my mind. You will agree with that, won't you?”

“Oh, yes. Very much so.”

“Yes, and knowing my mind, I've always been able to see logically what the steps were that must be taken to gaining that goal. That, also, you will agree with?”

“Well…I might take exception to the word ‘logically,' but on the whole, yes, I believe you followed through as best you knew how.”

“Exactly. Take recent events—I wanted to return home to my rightful place in Society. I thought it out, realized I must marry again, and went about selecting a husband who could provide me with everything I wanted. I had a plan, Caro, a good plan, a plan that came to tuition, just as my other plans have—”

“Fruition.”

“What?” Charlotte stopped pacing and cocked an eyebrow at her friend.

Caroline smiled into her teacup. “Nothing. Continue.”

Charlotte shot her a dark look as she resumed her pacing. “As I was saying, my other plans succeeded just as well. So therefore, there must now be something wrong with my mind that I cannot succeed in a simple task like falling in love.”

“I thought your plan was just to seduce Lord Carlisle?”

Charlotte paused before the fire, looking into the glowing coals. “It was, but that's changed. I…Alasdair…oh, it's too complicated to explain. You must trust me when I say it's imperative that I fall in love with him. The seducing will be no effort after that.”

Caroline thought that Charlotte was well on her way to being in love with her husband, but wisely kept that information to herself. Charlotte, like the obstinate horse of fable, could be led to the water, but not made to drink unless she thought herself thirsty. “How can I help you, Char?”

“Well, if I knew that, I'd have a plan!” Charlotte replied grumpily, then spun around and slumped into a nearby chair. “Oh, forgive me, Caro. I don't mean to be snappish, it's just that everything seems to be going against me of late. I've never been so blighted in all my days.”

“Blighted?” Caroline thought it time to administer a few truths to snap Charlotte out of what appeared to be a sickening wallow in self-pity. “You, blighted? I've never heard anything so ridiculous. You are the loveliest woman I've ever seen. Men have written poems to your beauty.”

“And I have a husband who doesn't see any of it,” Charlotte replied morosely, picking at the braid that ran the length of her gown. “He is forever nattering on about beauty not being important. He's just like Gillian in that respect—neither of them truly appreciates just how difficult it is to have a face that inspires lust in men.”

Caroline thought it best not to pursue that avenue of thought. “And you have a husband, a handsome husband, the man
you
selected.”

“Who won't bed me until I am in love with him.”

“Bedding isn't everything, Char.”

“Well, of course it isn't! I of all people am aware that a marriage can be conducted without any beddings. It's just that this time…I had hoped Alasdair…and he has all that lovely golden flesh…and my parts tingle, positively
tingle
when I think about him…oh, never mind.”

“Mmm. Well, there's also the fact that you are a countess.”

“A poor one. Alasdair's pockets are to let. I am
economizing
!” Charlotte pronounced the last word in a manner that combined shame and indignation most effectively.

“Still, you
are
a countess,” Caroline pointed out.

“Yes, I am, and to be sure, it is my only comfort these days.”

“You are…” Caroline cast her mind about for something else positive. “Oh! I know—you have been welcomed back into the arms of Society, and that was your main goal.”

“I have been welcomed back…” Charlotte restlessly rose from her chair and went to poke viciously at the fire. “Yes, I am allowed back into the hallowed ballrooms of the
ton
, but for what purpose? What good is it? I have been shamed before everyone, and Alasdair has had his manhood slandered. That horrible cat Lady Brindley made sure she spread the word to everyone.” She stared into the fire, her cheeks warmed by an embarrassed blush rather than by the feeble flames. “If I had any doubts before that I no longer fit in the
ton
, I have none now. I am an outsider, a castaway, adrift in a sea of the unfashionable.”

Caroline eyed her friend with renewed concern. “You don't believe you are a member of the
ton
?”

Charlotte felt tears pricking at her eyes for a moment. Then she straightened up, her jaw set. She would not let this best her. She had not survived four long years of living in the same villa as Antonio's mother just to crumple when her mind refused to cooperate. “I know I am not. Enough of this, Caroline, we are not getting anywhere. What I need now is a plan. Patricia will be married tomorrow. Alasdair informed me this morning that despite the fact that I have been shamed and made the object of fun by everyone who matters, he will not allow us to go to one of his estates where I might reign supreme over the locals. Instead we must stay in town as there has been some damage to the pistons and they must be recast or reformed or whatever it is that one does to pistons. Other than cleaning them, that is. Alasdair took great exception to my cleaning them. Thus, I am to be kept prisoner here in London, housebound, unable to go about in polite company until this latest scandal has died down.”

“That doesn't sound so very terrible,” Caroline replied. “It sounds rather romantic, actually, sort of a honeymoon where you and Lord Carlisle will be thrown into one another's company a good deal of the time.”

“It would be ideal if my husband and I had a different relationship,” Charlotte said as she picked up her memorandum book and flipped it open to a clean page. “But as I have a mind that has suddenly turned on me, a heart that is delinquent in falling in love, a body that wants to touch Alasdair in the most inappropriate—if very interesting—places, while my husband would rather work on his machine than dally with me, our time spent together is more a curse than a blessing. No, indeed, Caro, this shilly-shallying around is doing me no good. I must think up a plan, and you are going to help me do it.”

Caroline watched Charlotte as she stared at the blank paper before her, a faint frown wrinkling her brow. “What I need is a perfectly brilliant plan, something unusual, something foolproof. Simply trying to fall in love didn't work, so logically, the next step must be to have assistance. But who offers assistance in falling in love?”

“Mama always told me who was acceptable to love and who wasn't. Perhaps she would advise you?”

Charlotte began to gnaw on the end of her pencil. “No, I know whom to love, I just need…oh, I don't know, something. A little push. A help, an aid of some sort. Something that will guarantee I fall in love with Alasdair.”

“Something like a potion?” Caroline joked, her mind on the copy of
Midsummer
Night's Dream
she was reading to dearest Algernon.

Charlotte looked up, a beatific smile on her face. Her eyes lit up with that peculiar light that Caroline knew heralded another one of Charlotte's “brilliant” plans. She always worried when she saw that look.

“Perfect! What a stunningly, stunningly perfect idea, Caro! I shall forever be in your debt. Now, what do you think is more effective—a bewitching love spell or a love potion? Perhaps I should use both, just to be on the safe side? Yes, both is good. Now, where to find a witch…”

Caroline stared at Charlotte with a mouth that hung ever so slightly ajar. Never would she understand the paths Charlotte's mind took, not if she had a hundred years to do so.

***

“Charlotte?”

Dare leaned close to her, his breath ruffling her hair in a manner that made little shivers of delight go down her back. She kept her eyes on Patricia and David as they danced. “Yes, Alasdair?”

“Would you mind telling me what that is you're wearing around your neck?”

Charlotte looked down at the blue gown that matched her eyes, the gown she had worn for her wedding and had now donned for Patricia's nuptials. Barely visible above the bodice was a thin gold chain upon which hung the amulet the witch had given her.

“It is an amulet.”

“Ah.”

Patricia and David danced by in a swirl of adoring looks, rose lace, and forest-green superfine. Charlotte almost envied Patricia her unblemished happiness, musing sourly to herself that her new sister-in-law hadn't had to survive the hell of the last few hours as she had. Long, painful hours during which she was both ignored and ridiculed by Patricia's guests, bound by etiquette and the desire not to ruin Patricia's wedding to keep her tongue behind her teeth no matter how strong the provocation was to do otherwise. And
that
was a sore trial, indeed.

“What sort of amulet?”

“It is the hind foot of a lovebird.”

Still, she had survived all the catty remarks and cruel asides, whispered in tones meant for her ears. She noticed that both the remarks and asides ceased whenever Alasdair was around; no doubt he, as a man, was excluded from such unpleasantness.

Life was so unfair at times.

“You're wearing the foot of a dead bird around your neck?”

“The hind foot of a lovebird,” she corrected him absently, glancing at the clock on a table set near the door. There was only one more hour to go; and then the wedding breakfast would be officially over with the departure of Patricia and David for his ship. One hour. One short hour, and then she and Alasdair would accompany the bridal pair to the docks, finally returning home, where she would withdraw from Society until such time as it found some new bit of gossip to shred to pieces.

And, of course, there was still the little matter of falling in love with her husband.

“Birds only have two feet, Charlotte.”

“Do they? How very fascinating.”

“Two feet mean there are no front or hind feet.”

“Perhaps lovebirds have four.”

“No, they have two, just like every other bird.”

“Perhaps this lovebird was of a rare, four-footed species little known to man, and thus, the hind leg of it would be considered lucky.”