Noble Destiny

by Katie MacAlister

  Curious, Patricia set the novel she was browsing through back on the shelf and skirted her sister-in-law to peer over her shoulder. “What are you doing, taking notes?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte answered, closing a small leather-bound memorandum pad, tucking it and a gilded pencil away in her reticule. “I have decided to conduct an informal study on the matter of falling in love. I’m not quite sure how to go about it, and this seems the best way to understand the phenomenon. I am particularly interested in those signs that indicated to you that you were about to, or had already, fallen in love. Was it any one thing, or a sum of smaller indicators?”

  Patricia swallowed back a burble of laughter. Charlotte looked so earnest, it would never do for her to feel as if she were the subject of amusement. “I believe it was a number of things: the way David made me feel, the fact that I wanted to share every event of my day with him, the sense that something was lacking when he was not near, the manner in which he filled my thoughts…it was all those things, and many others.”

  “Interesting,” Charlotte said, a puzzled frown between her brows. She strolled down the aisle of Hookam’s with her arm in Patricia’s, nodding to the small groups of people collected around the more popular book offerings. Once she was assured she was out of hearing range, she dropped her arm and turned to face her sister-in-law. “Dare wishes me to be in love with him before he…” She waved an arm about in an inarticulate manner.

  “Beds you,” Patricia filled in.

  Charlotte colored prettily. “Yes.”

  “Is that a problem? Do you not love him now? I thought you were very fond of him.”

  “I am. I am quite fond of him. I always have been. He is so very handsome, and we look so well together, I know we shall have children who will be just as attractive as we are, but he will not give me those children if he does not believe I love him.”

  “Do you?”

  Charlotte wrung her hands for a moment before she remembered she had on her last good pair of gloves, then sat down in a nearby chair with a whoosh. “I don’t know. That is the problem! I desire him, in a connubial calisthenics sense, and I enjoy being with him, as you said you do Captain Woodwell, and I believe he is kind—although he might have told me he had run through his inheritance before we wed—and I know he can be funny, because he amused me very much five years ago, but as for the rest…”

  Charlotte let her gaze wander down the long room. “I simply don’t know. I do not feel as if I am in love, but I do want to be near Alasdair. I certainly want him to—” She looked up suddenly and remembered to whom she was speaking. “Oh, it is a tangle. If I am not in love with him, how am I to accomplish the feat?”

  Patricia patted her shoulder. “I shouldn’t fret over it, Char. I think if you’re not in love with him now, you soon will be. Dare is very lovable.”

  “I hope so.” Charlotte slumped in the chair as she sighed forlornly, then stiffened and rose to her feet. “Drat. There’s that odious Mrs. Mead. She is Lady Bridgerton’s sister and one of the biggest gossips in the ton. No doubt she is going to torment me with the happenings of last night. Smile, Patricia. As your brother says, it doesn’t do to let them see you care.”

  Patricia nodded and curtsied politely when the lady in question sailed up to them, her maid and a down-trodden companion in tow. “Miss McGregor, I am surprised to see you out only two days before your wedding. What can the earl be thinking?”

  Charlotte knew to a very fine distinction the level of her abilities and charms. She was under no mistaken belief that she was the least bit bluestocking—she had never been a very deep thinker, unlike her cousin Gillian, and she had no intention of starting now. Being intelligent sounded exceedingly unpleasant. She knew that it pleased men to look upon her, and that many women were insanely jealous of her because of the circumstances of her breeding, birth, and appearance. Because of the last, she had often been the recipient of catty comments, snide asides, and slights that other less pretty women did not suffer.

  She filed the cut she had just received from Neela Mead under the heading Jealous Acts and determined to ignore it just as she had ignored other such pettiness. With a lift of her chin that she knew would mark her as obstinate, she smiled. “My husband and I both feel there is nothing unseemly in the least in Patricia making an appearance in public with me. She is, after all, to be married, not bound for a harem where she will be secreted away from men’s gazes.”

  The older woman gasped and turned eyes the color of boiled steel upon her. “You dare speak in public of that poor man you wed? For shame, Lady Charlotte. Your mother would die of mortification if she knew what a scandal you have brought upon your family name.”

  “I am now Lady Carlisle,” Charlotte answered, gritting her teeth just the tiniest bit. “I don’t see anything the least bit shameful in my marriage.”

  “A marriage in name only, or so I understand from Minerva Wentwater.”

  Charlotte was unable to keep from flinching at the name tossed at her. It was said that Minerva Wentwater was an even bigger gossip than Mrs. Mead, and Charlotte knew from sad experience with the sharp side of Miss Wentwater’s tongue that such a thing was indeed the truth.

  Mrs. Mead leaned forward as if to say something privately, but spoke in a trumpeting voice that was well pitched to carry down the length of the store. “Do you fear he will annul the marriage, dear Lady Charlotte? I confess that were I in your shoes, I would very much worry about finding myself once again unmarried. One cannot help but wonder if the tragic circumstance is due to a failing on Lord Carlisle’s part, or”—her cold eyes raked Charlotte from toes to crown—“due to a distaste of engaging in intimate acts with you. Do you know that they are taking wagers on which it is at many of the gentlemen’s clubs? I’m sure it will please you to be the object of speculation of so many gentlemen; you always did strike me as a little desperate in your attempts to attract their attention.”

  Patricia gasped at the insult. Charlotte ignored the gasp, laughing at the woman before her. True, her laughter lacked the quality of gaiety usually acquainted with such an act, but it was still laughter, and Charlotte was determined to work it for all it was worth. “Oh, my dear Mrs. Mead—if I were to procure a saucer of cream for you, would you pull in your claws and purr for us?”

  “Well, really!” gasped Mrs. Mead, her eyes wide with shock.

  Charlotte tipped her head to the side and tapped a finger to her lips. “Please do not discomfit yourself in such a manner, Mrs. Mead. If your eyes bulge any further, I am convinced they will pop right out of your head, and we should be obliged to tread carefully lest we squash them into pulpy little bits. Come, Patricia. I do not see any books here I want. I believe we will pick up your wedding gift to Captain Woodwell.”

  Charlotte marched off down the aisle leading a giggling Patricia, ignoring the stares and accompanying whispers of everyone as they turned to watch her. She knew she shouldn’t have ripped into Mrs. Mead in that manner, knew that she would pay a dear price for it, but the spiteful comments and digs were just too much for her to bear. She made it into the carriage before she started shaking with the aftermath of her fury and humiliation.

  “What an odious old woman!” she snarled, unsure of whether she wanted to scream or cry. She decided on both. “How dare she say such cruel things about Alasdair!”

  Patricia, climbing into the carriage behind her, looked surprised. “But, Char! She insulted you, not Dare!”

  “Oh, pish,” Charlotte said, fumbling in her reticule for the handkerchief that she had confiscated from Dare’s bureau that morning. “As if anything she could say about me could hurt my feelings. She’s just jealous of me, jealous and spiteful. That I pay no mind to, but when she says cruel things about Alasdair…” Fury like none she had ever felt boiled inside her. “Well, I shall not stand for it.”

  “What will you do?” asked Patricia, curious about the f
ierce look on her sister-in-law’s face.

  “I shall simply redouble my efforts to fall in love with your brother. If I concentrate on the matter, I should achieve my goal by nightfall at the latest, don’t you think? Then he will bed me and all the terrible, cruel things they are saying about Alasdair will be untrue.”

  Patricia’s mouth moved as if she wished to say something, but no words came out.

  “Yes.” Charlotte nodded, just as if Patricia had agreed with her. “Nightfall by the latest. It simply is a matter of turning all my attention to the task.”

  ***

  Despite spending the remainder of the day attempting to fall in love with her husband, all Charlotte accomplished was an argument with him, the result of which was her banishment from his workroom.

  “He said my mooning around him was distracting, Batsfoam. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? I never moon! I don’t even know how to moon, and if I did, I’m sure I would do it in a pleasing and agreeable manner, not one that would annoy him.” Charlotte climbed the narrow kitchen stairs up to the main floor of the house, Batsfoam thumping his way behind her. She paused on the ground floor and glared up the carpeted stairs for a moment before starting up them. “And that’s another thing, why did he insist on you accompanying me to my sitting room? It almost seems as if he does not trust me to do as requested, and thus I must have a gaoler! Really, it is too much. Much too much!”

  “Indeed, my lady, your lord, my good and kind master, did seem to be a bit on the testy side this evening. Perhaps it is the weather. I myself feel the damp weather most strenuously in that portion of my limb which I left lying in a field in Poitiers. Indeed, I am sure that climbing the stairs to escort you will be beneficial and helpful to my unfortunate limb, as my master has only my happiness and well-being in mind. In God’s truth, I would not be surprised if my limb should regenerate itself due to all the happiness and well-being I find from having the opportunity to escort your ladyship to her room, keeping from your person any and all dangers as you might expect to find as you move from the subbasement to the first floor. I am almost certain I can feel my toes returning to life on that poor, misbegotten limb.”

  “Toes are vastly overrated. You are much better off without them,” Charlotte said in a distracted voice, being busy with the regrouping of her thoughts and plans. She paused at the landing and turned to her companion. “Batsfoam, have you ever been in love?”

  “Love?” He staggered back a few steps, apparently surprised at her question. “I, my lady? In love?”

  Charlotte pursed her lips and continued up the stairs. “Yes, I wish to know. As you are Lord Carlisle’s personal servant, I shall bare my soul to you.”

  The interested glint that always entered Batsfoam’s normally melancholy eyes around Charlotte glittered brightly. “I am speechless with the honor you do me, madam. I am overcome. I am beside myself with joy. I am fair to bursting with pride at this most unexpected gift from your gracious self. I burn to know your thoughts. Pray, tell me now before my heart should burst from the expectation and anticipation, leaving me a lifeless husk, a shell of my former self, dead here upon these very steps.”

  Charlotte stopped at the top of the stairs and raised an eyebrow at the servant following her. “Batsfoam?”

  “Yes, my lady?” He bowed low as he clumped his way up the last of the steps.

  “It is obvious to me that you read far too many flowery novels. They have warped your mind. It is most unbecoming to have a butler whose mind is warped. Therefore, I must insist that you limit yourself in the future to no more than one flowery novel per month.”

  His lips twitched as he bowed again, his head nearly touching his knees. “It shall be as you demand, madam. I shall struggle to fill the many long hours of free time I enjoy every day spent reading flowery novels in some other, more productive, employment. Perhaps I shall take up blacksmithing instead.”

  “An excellent suggestion.” Charlotte nodded and allowed him to open the door to her sitting room. “Now, about my soul—as you are his lordship’s body servant and thus in his confidence, I shall reveal to you that I have made it my goal to fall in love with him. I am endeavoring to do so now, but you were witness to that sad episode below.”

  Batsfoam’s eyes opened wide with astonishment for a brief moment, before he veiled them in his usual manner. “Indeed, madam?” he murmured.

  Charlotte paced the length of the small cream-and-green room, her brow furrowed. “How he expects me to fall in love with him if he won’t allow me to be of assistance to him in his work is beyond me, utterly beyond me. I cannot see what I did wrong.”

  “I believe, my lady, that Lord Carlisle found the fault not in your ladyship’s intentions, but in the manner your assistance took.”

  Charlotte paced past him, still frowning. “He overreacted. His objections to my doing a spot of cleaning on that filthy engine were most ungentlemanly, and only because I am most determined in my attempt to love him was he saved from having his ears boxed.”

  Batsfoam bowed his head humbly, more so his mistress wouldn’t see the unholy glee in his eyes than from any sense of subjugation. “I could be mistaken, but as I understand it, a certain amount of filth in the form of grease is needed to make the pistons move smoothly in their fittings. Without that substance present, the engine would not be able to work as it was intended.”

  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.”