“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.”
&nb
sp; “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.”
“Unhappy opportun…Lady Charlotte, I assure you that David—”
Charlotte turned on Dare, feeling confident that she had squashed the sweet, but sadly rather bossy, plan to cheat her of the momentous event she had envisioned ever since she put up her hair. She had been done out of a glorious wedding once, and she had no intentions of allowing that to happen again. “You really should apologize to your sister for trying to ruin her most important day, Alasdair.”
The frown gracing Dare’s manly brow deepened to something bearing an uncanny resemblance to a scowl. “I have nothing to apologize for, and stop calling me Alasdair. I’ve told you to use Dare instead.”
Charlotte brushed a miniscule bit of thread from her lemon-colored gown. “I’d prefer not to. It sounds silly.”
“I’d prefer you would, and it does not sound silly.” Dare rose from the chair next to his sister and went to stare moodily out the window.
“It does. You have a perfectly good name. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t use it.”
He turned around to glare at Charlotte. “It’s my name and I’ll use it any way I want.”
“You’re acting childish!”
“And you’re unreasonably obstinate!”
“Oh!” Charlotte matched his glare and raised it a notch. “I am not unreasonable or obstinate, you take that back! I’m simply pointing out how ridiculous you sound nattering on about a childhood nickname when you’re an earl and an important person and about to become a married man!”
“As the name in question is mine, I’ll be called whatever I bloody well want!”
“You’re shouting at me. I don’t think that’s called for in the least!” Charlotte marched over to the window until she was toe to toe with him. She poked him in the chest. “First you try to destroy your sister’s sole chance at happiness, no matter how slight that might be when you consider that she’s planning on tying herself to a man who is ready to spurn her at her own wedding for a lovelier woman, and then you’re trying to make me cry by being beastly and cruel. Well, I won’t do it!”
Dare grabbed her hand to keep her from poking at him again. She used her other hand. He grabbed that as well. Reading in his eyes no uncertain repercussion if she were to continue with the chest poking, she decided on a tactical retreat, withdrawing her hands from his and returning to the lumpy settee. “Really, my lord, you are the most argumentative person I’ve ever met!”
He ground his teeth and clutched with clearly visible white knuckles at the back of a nearby chair. Charlotte watched warily as he struggled for control, relaxing when he regained it and finally unclenched his jaw long enough to say, “I don’t know why our conversations always end up in arguments.”
“Neither do I, Alasdair,” she said after a moment’s thought. “I do try to get along with you, but you will insist on arguing.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened as he stared at her with a wild look for a long moment. Then he turned on his heel and without another word left the small sitting room. “Well, really! How are we to discuss our wedding if he can’t even remain in control of his emotions for a few seconds at a time?” she asked slowly, her ears still reverberating with the slamming of the door. “Has he always been so?”
Patricia seemed to have swallowed her tea wrong, for she was making odd little choking noises, and finally had to resort to a handkerchief to dab at the resulting tears. “No. He’s not normally emotional, Lady Charlotte. He’s usually quite the opposite. It seems that only when he’s in your presence…” The words trailed off as Patricia choked again. Charlotte leaned sideways and thumped her back.
“You should be careful how you drink tea,” she warned as she took up the paper and quill lying on the table before her. “There was a girl at Miss Bengyman’s School who drank her tea wrong while the vicar was calling and it spewed out her nose and all over the vicar, his wife, two of their children, and a large gray Persian cat that happened to be passing. A most unfortunate circumstance for everyone involved. I believe the cat died. Now, let me see, you are being married on Sunday next, which means my wedding must be no later than Wednesday. Yes? What is it…Pigeonfroth, isn’t it?”
“Batsfoam, my lady.” The butler made an obsequious bow to the accompaniment of many cracking and popping noises that Charlotte felt were best ignored.
“Batsfoam, of course. How silly of me. That’s nothing at all like Pigeonfroth, is it? Did you wish to speak to me?”
“Indeed, my lady. My lord, your soon-to-be husband and protector, instructed me to make myself of service to your august ladyship, and thus it is that I abase myself before you, offering my services, humble and no doubt unwelcome though they are.” The man bowed again, this time so low his nose bumped into Charlotte’s ankle. He apologized and straightened up with audible relief, pulling from an inner pocket a folded sheet of paper, which he presented to her with great flourish.
“Oh,” Charlotte said, frowning at paper. “No, certainly your help is not unwelcome, although I am unsure of just what, exactly, his lordship expects you to do for me. What is this?”
“I believe, my lady, it is a list of dates and locations suitable to a person contemplating the act of marriage. His lordship had recently researched the very same for Miss McGregor’s upcoming nuptials, and thought you would like to have the benefit of his labor.”
“Excellent. Let me see…oh, no, no, Batsfoam, this will not do, not in the least. You see here that Lord Carlisle has not listed any church of consequence. I couldn’t possibly be wed in anything but a church of the utmost consequence, for if it is held elsewhere, no one in the ton will wish to attend. No, this list will have to be revised dramatically. I shall be pleased to do so now.” She turned to Patricia. “How do you suppose you spell Westminster Abbey?”
“My lady, if I might humbly beg a fraction of your attention for a moment that I shall endeavor to make as brief as possible, there is more.”
Charlotte looked up from where she was adding St. Paul’s Cathedral to her list. “More churches?”
Batsfoam moved his features into one expressing regret. “Alas, my lady, no, not more churches. His lordship has asked me, in the guise of his man of affairs, a role I have the honor of bearing, in addition
to that of butler, valet, draftsman, knife-boy, and now, lady’s maid to your gracious ladyship, to ascertain the direction of your ladyship’s most honored brother, Lord Collins, so that his lordship might ascertain the exact amount of your ladyship’s dowry.” He bowed and spoke the last word in such a reverent and hushed tone, Charlotte had difficulty hearing him.
“Alasdair wishes to ask Matthew about my what?”
“Dowry, my lady.” He bowed again.
She blinked in surprise at him. “What dowry?”
He blinked back at her. “I am quite certain that ladies of your station and gentility often have bestowed upon them by some member of their family a sum of money or property that is customarily referred to as a bridal dowry.”
“That may be so, but I don’t have one.”
“I do,” Patricia piped up. “Dare sold out the last of some bonds or something to give it to me, although David didn’t want to accept it at first, but Dare told him he had to take it, or he wouldn’t agree to the marriage.”
Both Batsfoam and Charlotte ignored the interruption.
“You don’t have a dowry, my lady? Not even a small house tucked away in the country?”
“Nothing.” Charlotte shook her golden head.
“Perhaps there are some government bonds you might have forgotten?”
“There is nothing, Batsfoam.”
“Not even a groat or two invested in canals?”
“No groats, invested or otherwise.”
“Your late husband…?”
“Was kept on a very small allowance by the conte. It was just enough for a few sheep and the occasional purchases of brocade.”
“No widow’s stipend?”
“None. I had to sell the sheep to have the brocade cleaned so it could be made into a traveling cloak.”
Batsfoam stared at the memorandum paper upon which he was prepared to write the earl’s direction. A sweat broke out on his forehead. “A most calamitous event, my lady.”
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