Noble Destiny

by Katie MacAlister

  “Caro,” the gentleman intoned urgently as the young woman dashed by him. Lady Caroline stiffened at the repeated hiss of her name, turning slowly to give the beruffed figure a cold and cutting glare.

  “Sir, I do not have the honor of your acquaintance.”

  “You most certainly do. You piddled in my sand pit when you were only three. I remember quite distinctly how Matthew laughed when Nurse blamed me.”

  The silent, still figure of Lady Caroline, dressed charmingly in the wide panniers, rose silk, and silvered lace of her mother’s era, came to life again under the influence of that familiar, if annoyed, voice. “Char? Is that you?”

  The portly man moved from the shadow of the balustrade onto the middle of the steps. “Yes, it is me, just where the devil have you been? I waited at that gate for an eternity! You were supposed to unlock it at half of midnight, Caro! It’s well after midnight now!”

  “I’m terribly sorry, but dearest Algernon insisted on having a waltz with me. Charlotte”—Caroline squinted to make out her friend’s face in the shadow—“I thought your costume was to be of Good Queen Bess? You appear to be dressed as a man.”

  “Yes, yes, I changed my mind. I thought I would be less conspicuous if I were dressed as Henry VIII.” She twanged the leather protrusion curving gracefully from her groin. “No one who knows me would ever expect to see me in a codpiece.”

  “No, indeed,” agreed Caroline with alacrity. “Say what you will about your propensity for shocking the ton, codpieces are simply not part of your everyday apparel.”

  “And yet, in fairness,” Charlotte admitted, “I must say it is very handy. Because I was so late waiting for Mme. Beauloir to deliver my costume, I did not have time to dine at home. Tremayne Three was kind enough to give me one of the horses’ apples, which fit quite snugly in the codpiece. It is of no wonder to me that men wore them for so many years—they’re much handier than a reticule!”

  The two women considered that piece of male apparel in silence for a moment.

  “Why do you suppose they call it a codpiece?” Caroline asked. “It doesn’t look anything like a fish. Yours looks like…well, rather like an overly ambitious squash.”

  “It was the finest codpiece Mme. Beauloir had,” Charlotte answered with dignity, stroking the smooth leather and brass object that, she had to admit, did somewhat resemble a squash. She was about to defend her codpiece’s honor further, but the noise and light spilling out as a verandah door was opened returned their attention to the circumstance at hand.

  “Take my arm,” Charlotte demanded, “and pretend I’m a gentleman.”

  “You don’t walk like a gentleman,” Caroline objected.

  Charlotte stopped at the top of the steps and pulled Caroline to the side where an urn erupted in a screen of greenery, providing a modicum of privacy. “What are you talking about?”

  “No one will believe you’re a man if you walk like a woman. Surely you must realize that. It’s just common sense. Men don’t sway their hips when they walk.”

  “Some do,” pointed out Charlotte, squirming slightly as she adjusted her codpiece. “Drat the thing, it’s tickling.”

  “True, but those aren’t gentlemen we are supposed to know. What are you doing now? Char, you can’t do that in public, someone will see you!” Scandalized, Caroline hurried to stand between her friend and the nearest group of people enjoying the cool night air.

  “I can’t help it,” Charlotte muttered, her chin jammed against the starched linen of the ruff. “This codpiece is most uncomfortable. It’s…moving.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Shhh,” Charlotte hissed, glancing around quickly before returning her attention to her nether regions. “It’s as if there’s something in there. Something other than my handkerchief, that is.”

  “Moving?” Caroline asked through her teeth, smiling a bit wildly at a couple dressed in red dominoes as they strolled past. “What do you mean moving? What could be in there that could move?”

  “I don’t know.” Charlotte grunted, trying without success to unattach the buckles holding the polished leather piece onto her costume. “But I suspect something claimed occupancy while I was hiding in the bushes outside the gate waiting for you to let me in. Thus it is quite clearly all your fault that my codpiece is now rife with wildlife.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, what could climb into a codpiece? There’s no room in there for anything but an apple!”

  “Caroline,” Charlotte snapped, turning abruptly so the codpiece whapped her friend smartly on the hip. “A family of dormice could have set up shop in this dratted thing and I’d be none the wiser, so if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate a little help evicting them from the premises so I can fulfill my destiny and become Lady Carlisle, something I simply cannot do if I have rodents inhabiting my groin!”

  “Oh, good heavens,” Caroline moaned softly. “We’re doomed!”

  “It’s not that bad,” Charlotte answered, placing both hands on the protuberance of the codpiece and tugging. “I just need help getting it off. The buckles seem to be frozen or caught on something.”

  Caroline, her back to Charlotte as she attempted to block the sight of her friend’s codpiece-related actions, reached behind to tug at Charlotte’s arm. “Char, stop,” she whispered in an anguished, choked voice, trying as she did to summon up a smile. She raised her voice in a clear, “Good evening, Lord Carlisle.”

  Charlotte, for once alert to the nuances around her, froze and peered over Caroline’s shoulder as she bobbed the earl a curtsy. “Damnation.”

  Dark, midnight-blue eyes met hers.

  “Quite,” Dare replied.

  “I…er…if you’ll excuse…my husband is waiting for me,” Caroline murmured apologetically, and with a worried glance at her friend, hurried off to rejoin the ball.

  One of Dare’s eyebrows rose as he studied Charlotte’s costume. “Henry VIII?”

  “Yes, how very clever of you.” She turned as if to gaze in contemplation at the darkened garden, rubbing the codpiece on the railing in an attempt to force it loose. It didn’t help. With a quick sidelong glance at the handsome man staring out into the garden next to her, she tugged at the obstinate bit of leather with what she hoped was unobtrusiveness.

  Dare’s second eyebrow rose as she realized she would need to practice her unobtrusive codpiece tugging skills in the future. Clearly this was one of those times when it was more prudent to admit her folly than to encourage the man whose children she would someday bear into thinking her the type of woman who would stand in darkness on a balcony and grope at her codpiece. “There’s…I think there’s something in there,” she whispered, nodding toward the leather protrusion.

  Dare pursed his lips.

  “Something alive,” she added, trying not to squirm under both his look of disbelief and the surety that it was hundreds of tiny little feet that were brushing against her sensitive flesh. Overwhelmed by the need to explain further, lest the earl think she was ten cards shy of a deck, she added, “I think something crawled in while I was hiding in the shrubbery.”

  He blinked.

  “Perhaps you would be kind enough to extract it for me? Lady Beverly assures me there is a private room at the end of the hall we could use briefly.”

  “Madam.” Dare finally spoke, but in tones so frigid Charlotte expected ice to form upon his manly lips. “The contents of your codpiece do not interest me in the least.”

  “I understand,” Charlotte answered somewhat ruefully. “I’m out of apples. I’m afraid I only had room for the one, you see. I didn’t know you’d want one, too, and a two-apple codpiece just seemed a bit too extravagant.”

  She smiled, wondering briefly about the wild, dazed look about his eyes, finally putting it down to too much champagne. Gentlemen always had too much champagne at masquerade balls. In fact, she counted on that very fact
to aid her in drawing him into her net. Her smile brightened as his look of confusion increased. He was no doubt so well oiled by now, she’d have no difficulty in proceeding as planned.

  ***

  Dare paused in the doorway and scanned the ballroom for his sister, all the while he called himself every sort of fool. Try as he might to heed the warnings of the sane voice in his head, he was unable to resist the thought of spending a few moments in private with Charlotte. The predicament she was in was so ludicrous, so utterly Charlotte, that despite the harsh words he had spoken to her, it would take a group of strong men and quite probably several draft horses to keep him from the explanation of what she was doing dressed as Henry VIII with an animal stuffed down her codpiece. He couldn’t begin to imagine what her explanation was, but he was certain it would be the most entertaining thing he had heard in a long time.

  He spotted his sister standing on the fringes of a group of giggling girls. As he strode toward her, he justified his interest by pointing out to his doubting self that Charlotte was a widow, after all.

  Rendezvous with men at balls were no doubt requisite in her set. A few moments spent alone with her would do her reputation no harm at all. There was, however, the matter of his reputation, and it was with an eye to that grisly relic he took the precaution of murmuring a few words into his sister’s ear.

  “Where’s Mrs. Whitney?”

  The small, dark-haired woman dressed as the infamous pirate Anne Bonny turned and smiled at her brother, her dark eyes sparkling with happiness. “She’s dancing with David. Isn’t this a lovely ball? I’m so pleased you agreed to let us attend, although it wouldn’t have hurt you in the least to wear a costume. What are you looking so worried about? It’s not me, is it? Dare, I’m perfectly capable of standing here by myself while David dances with his aunt. Unless, that is, you wished for me to join the set with you?”

  Dare tweaked a dusky curl nestled next to Patricia’s ear and ignored the teasing glint in her dark brown eyes. “Minx. I detest ton parties, as you well know. The only reason you’re here is because I couldn’t stand the incessant grizzling about not having anyone attend your wedding if you weren’t present tonight, not that I see the connection between the two events. However, even if I wished to dance with you, I am not free. I have an appointment I must keep. I want your promise you’ll stay here and await Mrs. Whitney’s return.”

  “Oh?” With one eyebrow cocked in the manner of her brother at his most quizzical, she looked him up and down. He was an impressively austere man in his dress blacks, there was no disputing that, but he had about him an unexpected air of suppressed excitement that intrigued her. Dare was so seldom excited about anything other than his steam engine, surely if something—or someone—had caught his attention, it behooved her to learn more. “What, pray tell, do you have an appointment to do? You’re not gaming, are you? No,” she answered her question before he had a chance to protest her accusation. “No, you wouldn’t do that, you’re much too careful with your money to be throwing it away on nothing. Hmmm. Perhaps you are meeting with a gentleman who wishes to invest in your steam engine?”

  Dare glanced nervously toward the door. He hated leaving his sister alone, especially since his entire future hung upon the goodwill of the woman acting as her chaperone, but he had promised Charlotte he would be with her momentarily. The thought of what might happen should she stroll into the crowded ballroom and announce that she was awaiting his help with her codpiece made his flesh crawl. “I must leave. Give me your word you’ll stay here and wait for Mrs. Whitney until I return.”

  “Not a gentleman investor, I think.” Patricia ignored his request, her eyes laughing as she tipped her head to better consider him. “For if you had an investor, it would not matter to you in the least whether or not Mrs. Whitney recommends you to her husband, and thus you wouldn’t be so worried about placating her. Not to mention keeping your scandalous past from her ears.” She tapped a finger to her lips, her eyes growing bright with interest. “If it’s not gaming and it’s not an investor, then it must be…good heavens, Dare, you’re not intending to have an assignation with a woman, are you?”

  “Well, I’m not likely to have one with a man,” he snapped. “Now, will you—”

  “It is a woman!” Patricia crowed.

  Dare scowled as he abruptly shushed her. “If you can’t behave any better than this in public, I’ll think twice about giving my permission for you to attend any other such festivities.”

  “After next week, you won’t have any say about where I go, but that’s neither here nor there.” She waved away her brother’s objections. “Tell me about this woman you’re meeting! Who is she? Do I know her? Are you courting her? Oh, Dare, I do so worry about who will take care of you after I’m married—please tell me you’ve fallen in love and are about to offer for a woman who will love you in return.”

  “Love.” Dare snorted, momentarily distracted by that unwholesome thought. “That sort of foolishness is what comes from reading those novels you devour weekly.”

  Patricia watched her brother steadily for a moment, the light of laughter dying in her eyes. “No, I can see you’re not in love with anyone, but I haven’t given up hope that someday you will find the woman meant for you. I know you believe yourself too scarred by past events ever to give your heart again, but truly, brother, not all women are like the one who hurt you. You must have hope. You must leave yourself open to loving again.”

  The blank, shuttered look that accompanied any reference made to the events of ten years past left Dare’s face a cold, unyielding mask. “Yes or no, will you stay here and behave until Mrs. Whitney is free?”

  There was no hope for it, he would not discuss the past. Patricia allowed herself an inner sigh of concern for him, but found a cheerful smile as she saluted smartly. “Aye, aye, mon capitaine. Hoist your mainsail and belay those worries, brother mine. I shall stay here becalmed until my own darling captain comes to hoist my anchor.”

  Dare paused as he turned to leave. “Patricia, just because you’re marrying a sailor—”

  “Captain, if you please, of the finest Whitney ship ever to sail the seas!”

  “—captain, does not mean you must talk like Halibut Harry, the fishmonger’s delight. And there had best be no anchor hoisting before the wedding,” he warned, his eyes dark with meaning.

  Patricia grinned and shooed her brother off. With a shake of his head at the folly awaiting him, he started for the small room off the darkened end of the hall that Charlotte had indicated. Surely it would be a simple matter to help her, one quickly attended to. He would assist in evicting whatever it was that had taken up residence in her codpiece—women were so often squeamish about such things—then perhaps engage in a few moments of the particularly delightful form of word games that passed for conversation with Charlotte, after which, with a polite but firm excuse, he would take his leave. The nagging desire he felt to be near her would be assuaged, she would receive discreet assistance with regards to her codpiece problem, and none would be the wiser.

  He was mentally forming the excuse he would use to make his escape when he entered the room. “My apologies for being delayed, Lady—mmrph!”

  Dare didn’t have time to do more than catch a glimpse of heated blue eyes before he was pulled into an intimate embrace.

  With Henry VIII. A very well-padded, bearded, codpieced Henry VIII.

  He unwound the arms clasped behind his neck in order to dis-attach his lips from the mouthful of scratchy red-orange wool that covered Charlotte’s lower face. “I never thought the opportunity to voice this opinion would arise, but there is much to be said for women who shave.”

  Charlotte, dismay filling her eyes for a moment at his rejection of her advances, smiled instead. “I beg your pardon, I forgot about the beard. One moment, I’ll remove it, then we may continue with the ravishing.”

  Dare shook his
head in hopes of clearing away whatever it was that was keeping him from hearing her correctly. He knew Charlotte’s verbal acrobatics were sometimes filled with leaps in logic that even a learned man would be hard put to follow, but the one she had just made was surely beyond even her fertile mind.

  “About the problem with your costume—”

  “That’s been remedied,” she replied, frowning as she tugged on the side of the woolly beard. “’Twas just a leaf, not a family of dormice as I had suspected. Drat this thing. Crouch must have used extra glue on it. I can’t seem to peel it off, and I ask you, how on earth am I ever going to attend to the ravishing in time if I’m wearing a beard!”

  An ugly suspicion flared to life in Dare’s mind. “Exactly whom do you expect will be ravishing you?”

  Charlotte frowned as she muttered something about needing glue remover. “Pheasant feathers! You’ll just have to keep your lips clear, is all. As for your question, no one will be ravishing me, Alasdair. I shall ravish you.”

  “You what?” Dare couldn’t believe that even Charlotte, outspoken and uninhibited as she was, would suggest such a thing. A moment of honesty had him amending the thought to a disbelief that she would plan his ravishment in someone else’s home, certainly not anywhere they could be easily…he sucked in his breath at the horrible realization that she had set a very clever snare for him, and he, a man who had prided himself daily on avoiding just such entrapment, had blindly walked right into her clutches.

  “You needn’t worry, I shall take care of everything. You won’t have to lift a finger,” Charlotte promised.

  He stared at her, dumbfounded. Having removed the black-and-gold velvet doublet, she was spinning in a frustrated circle as she attempted to reach behind herself to untie the tapes holding a large pillow bound over a linen shirt. “Pooh! I can’t reach the dratted thing. If you could just unbind me, my lord, I will be happy to begin the proceedings. I don’t imagine we have much time, and although my experience with ravishing gentlemen is limited, I assume it will take more than a minute or two.”