“Oh, not terribly so. The sheep smelled and the brocade was quite warm when I was at sea.”
“I do not refer to the sheep, but to your lack of dowry.”
“Oh, that. It’s of no consequence.” Charlotte waved away the servant’s concern. “Alasdair might be upset because he can’t add to his fortune, but I’m sure he is more than happy to take me as I am. I will be an excellent wife to him and no doubt save him vast quantities of money with my equally excellent budgeting skills. While we are on that subject, please inform him that although I know it’s customary for the bride’s family to pay for the wedding, I haven’t any money, so he’ll have to pay for that.”
Batsfoam’s mouth worked silently a few times before he staggered over to a chair and collapsed into it.
“Now, looking back at his list, I must say that his dates are quite, quite unacceptable. Why, the earliest one is three months hence! No.” Charlotte scratched out a list of five dates and made an addition with a bold hand. “Next Wednesday, I believe, will suit me admirably.”
“But, Lady Charlotte,” Patricia protested, “Wednesday is less than a week away!”
“Ample time for your brother to make the arrangements,” Charlotte pointed out.
“But…but…such a hurried wedding…”
Charlotte looked up from creating a list of suitable wedding guests. “Only the really important people, I believe. I wonder what the Prince Regent is doing on Wednesday?”
Patricia blushed a delicate blush and shooed a still stunned, and noticeably reluctant to leave, Batsfoam from the room. She waited until he was gone to speak. “Lady Charlotte, you’re not giving due thought to the date. A wedding in such a hurry…well, it can only cause talk! People will be speculating as to the necessity of such a thing!”
“Necessity?” Charlotte looked up from her list. “What do you mean, necessity?”
Patricia’s blush deepened. “You are a widow, surely you must know.”
Charlotte allowed her forehead to wrinkle briefly in thought. “I believe we must be speaking at cross purposes. What has my late husband to do with my marriage to your brother?”
Patricia wrung her hands, her face flaming with embarrassment. “Nothing, other than…well, if you insist that I speak frankly…intimate relations.”
“What about them?” Charlotte eyed her soon-to-be sister with a small amount of concern. Patricia seemed to be upset about Charlotte’s relatives, and although heaven knew Charlotte herself wasn’t any too fond of her brother and her distant cousins, it seemed rather an odd thing to bring up objections to them now.
“People will think you had them. With Dare.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Charlotte snorted, returning her attention to her list. “I am not even remotely related to you and Alasdair. Do you think the king would be offended if I were to not invite him?”
“No,” Patricia said, pacing the floor before Charlotte. “You don’t understand. If you and Dare marry so very quickly, people would be bound to talk about you.”
“Well of course they’ll talk about us,” Charlotte reassured her in a soothing voice. “People always talk about me! Alasdair and I shall be the toast of the ton. How could we be anything else? A dashing, handsome earl and a lovely almost-contessa marrying in such a romantic manner is bound to cause envy in the hearts of everyone worth any consideration. I assure you I am quite used to being the darling of Society. I shan’t shame your brother, if that is your concern.”
“Oh…I give up,” Patricia said, gesturing defeat with her hands. Charlotte raised an eyebrow for a moment, then decided not to point out that worrying just caused spots, and she returned to her list. For half an hour the only sound in the cozy sitting room was that of the quill on paper.
“Lady Charlotte?”
“Mmm?” Charlotte crossed Lady Jersey’s name off her list. The rude comments she had delivered after she discovered Charlotte had attended her party in disguise were utterly and completely uncalled for. Charlotte relished the opportunity to give Lady Jersey a taste of crow.
“What…what is it like?”
Charlotte looked up. “Revenge? It’s quite satisfying.”
A startled expression flickered across Patricia’s face before a dusky rose color swept up from her neck. “No, not revenge. Relations. Marital relations,” she added for good measure.
“Marital relations? You mean your husband’s relatives? I have no idea—”
“No, not that sort of relations, I mean…relations.”
Patricia’s deep blush and her downcast eyes made a connection in Charlotte’s mind. “Oh, you mean the joining between your womanly parts and his manly instrument? I’m sure I shouldn’t tell you, but as my dearest cousin Gillian told me about it before I was wed, and as you are to be a bride next week, I shall just this once break the rule and tell you.” She set down the quill and arranged her hands on her lap, then looked her sister-to-be in the eye.
Patricia leaned forward, her attention completely on Charlotte. “Yes?”
“It’s messy.” Charlotte nodded twice, then picked up her quill and started double-checking the list.
“Messy? That’s all? It’s…messy?”
“Yes, that’s all.” Charlotte looked up for a moment, tapping the quill on her chin. “My cousin did have a good deal more to say about it, something about transporting her to heaven, but to be truthful, I thought it was just a messy business. Necessary, if one wishes to have children, and I wish to, but nonetheless, it’s messy.”
“Messy how?”
It was Charlotte’s turn to affect a faint blush. She waved her hand dismissively. “There are bodily humors and such to be contended with. Not to mention certain…scents. My advice to you is to have a linen cloth handy. Two if your husband is particularly vigorous.”
“A linen cloth?”
Charlotte nodded. “You will see. Messy.”
“Ah.”
Happily for all concerned, the subject was dropped in favor of a debate on the relative merits of Belgian versus Irish lace, a discussion that ended abruptly when Dare, shadowed by Batsfoam bearing Charlotte’s revised list, came roaring into the room with a demand to know why Charlotte was attempting to drive him insane.
“I thought it only right since you earlier accused me of being mad, not to mention obstinate and unreasonable,” she said placidly, considering and rejecting the fashion plates Patricia had presented her. As money was clearly no object with Dare, mundane fashions that any woman might have would not suit the future Countess of Carlisle.
When Dare sputtered indignantly at her answer, she glanced up at him to ask just what he was so upset about, but ended up staring in stunned amazement. He was coatless, cravat-less, his shirtsleeves rolled up to expose muscled forearms that were as bare as the day he was born. His shirt gaped at his neck clear down to the top of his waistcoat, exposing a tanned column of throat that made Charlotte’s mouth suddenly go dry. She looked between his neck and his arms, unable to decide what she wanted to stare at more, the corded strength of his naked arms, all golden and warm in the afternoon sunlight, or the strong, tempting neck and glimpse of bare chest, with…good Lord, were those gilded curls nestled at the top of his waistcoat chest hair? She toyed briefly with the thought of swooning, but decided against it when she realized that if she swooned she wouldn’t be able to stare, and at that moment, there was nothing more she wanted than to view his deliciously exposed flesh. Arms! Neck! Collarbone! Chest hair!
“Really, Dare, are you a savage that you must speak to your betrothed dressed in that obscene fashion?” his sister scolded him. “What Lady Charlotte must think of you, I shudder to think.”
Charlotte knew exactly what she thought. She thought covering up all that glorious flesh was a crime against nature, an abomination, a travesty. She wanted to see more of it. Much more. All of it, in fact, every last inch of that golden, tann
ed, muscled flesh. Her tongue cleaved itself to the roof of her mouth just imagining it.
Dare’s frown, directed temporarily at his sister when she demanded he rectify his appearance, returned to Charlotte, where it faltered in the face of her stunned expression. Charlotte dragged her eyes up from his neck to watch in fascination as his frown faded into a faintly puzzled look, flirted for a few seconds with smug male satisfaction, then deepened into an intense look that seemed to charge the air between them with almost tangible desire.
“My lord, if you would allow one so humble and unimportant, not to mention overworked and burdened, to explain…”
Charlotte and Dare both ignored the interruption. The tiny hairs on Charlotte’s arms stood on end in response to his gaze; heat rose in her chest, then suddenly pooled low, down in her womanly parts. So surprised was she by the feeling, she almost looked down at them. That region seemed suddenly quite important, calling for attention in a manner she’d never encountered, certainly never in response to a man’s look. One’s genitalia wasn’t supposed to do that, was it? Dare’s gaze tightened on her and her womanly parts answered his silent call with a demand that she take them to him immediately.
“Lady Charlotte, are you ill? Dare, what’s wrong with Lady Charlotte? Dare?”
Charlotte ignored her body’s demand, unable to look away from Dare’s unblinking gaze, shaken by the stark need written in his sapphire eyes, suddenly aware for the first time of the true power of her femininity. The emotions sparking between her and Dare were something infinitely more profound than the trivial, meaningless flirtations she had practiced in the past. This was…earthy. It was primal. It was shocking and exciting and utterly wanton. She wanted to touch him, to taste his skin, to feel his bare flesh against hers, and she ached, she positively throbbed, for the application of his manly instrument. Her breasts suddenly, of their own accord and certainly without her permission, chafed in their stays, sensitized, heavy with the need to be stroked by his hands.
“My lord?”
Her breath caught in her throat, her nipples hardened and clamored for Dare’s touch, joining a veritable cacophony of cries for attention from numerous other parts of her body. She wanted his hands on her flesh, touching her, warming her, easing the ache that he started so deep inside her. She wanted it all, and she wanted it right at that moment. She took a step toward him. His eyes glittered darkly as he moved toward her, making a soft noise deep in his chest that answered the look in her eyes.
“Dare!”
“My lady!”
Two outraged voices cried out at the same time, breaking the spell. Dare frowned. Charlotte stepped back, her body crying out in silent frustration. She ordered her body to cease its lamentings and promised it that fulfillment would come next Wednesday night. “Perhaps sooner,” she mused, her eyes once more on the banded muscles of Dare’s arms. His fingers twitched in response.
“You see, Dare, Lady Charlotte is quite overcome by your uncouth appearance,” Patricia said as she tugged Charlotte back toward the lumpy settee. “Come and sit next to me, Lady Charlotte, and we shall excuse my brother while he puts himself to rights.”
Charlotte opened her mouth to say that wasn’t in the least bit necessary or desired, but Dare had evidently remembered the reason for his returning.
“I have been working on my engine,” he said to Charlotte by way of an explanation, “and I shall return to that just as soon as you explain this.”
He held out her list of locations and guests.
“Your suggestions were unacceptable. You are an earl. I am the daughter of an earl, and the widow of the heir to a count. We cannot have our wedding in a small, poky church. Where would all the guests sit?”
“Which brings me to the subject of your guest list,” Dare growled.
Charlotte gave him a triumphant smile. “The selection of wedding guests, Alasdair, is the bride’s prerovative.”
“Prerogative, and that right is revoked when the groom is paying for the whole bloody thing, as Batsfoam informs me I am.”
“Dare!” Patricia cried.
Charlotte jumped up from the settee and lifted her chin at him.
“Since you have no dowry, and no family to pay for the wedding, you will practice the utmost economy and organize it to my scriptures. Strictures,” he corrected himself. “Good God, your tongue is contagious!”
“There’s nothing wrong with my tongue,” Charlotte snapped, at her limit for being insulted and yelled at. “Which you’d know if you took the time to kiss me. You didn’t even do so when you offered for me, you beastly man, you!”
“You were wearing a beard,” he snarled, stepping closer to her, the air around them both growing heated once again.
“Well, I’m not now,” she answered, taking a step toward him.
“Fine!” he roared.
“Fine!” she agreed, her hands fisted, prepared to do more than poke him in the bare part of his chest if he didn’t do the proper thing by her. She didn’t have time to think of just what she’d do to his chest before his mouth took possession of hers.
“Dare! You can’t!”
“My lord!”
“Lady Charlotte, you mustn’t!”
“My lady!”
“Oh, Batsfoam, do something!”
“Short of warming up his lordship’s bed, I am at a loss as to what you’d have me do, miss.”
“Batsfoam!”
Charlotte ignored both of them, ignored the voice in her head telling her that virtuous women did not encourage men to kiss them, ignored reason and common sense and gave herself up to the pure, hot magic of Dare’s mouth. Antonio had once or twice kissed her in the French manner, but the tentative prods and pokes with his tongue were nothing like Dare’s kiss. He was everywhere, surrounding her, overwhelming her, one hand pulling her hips close to him, his thighs hard against her legs, her breasts aching and heavy again, pressed tightly against his chest. One hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back until she was bent over his arm. But it was his mouth that captured and held her attention, his mouth that demanded and gave, coerced and teased until her eyes felt as if they would roll back in her head. He swept into her mouth, taking immediate possession, learning her taste, making her learn his. He was everywhere around her, inside her, the heat of him thrumming in her blood. She fought the sheer dominance of the embrace, tried desperately to pull air into her lungs, but her body would not answer to her anymore. A whimper rose in the back of her throat even as she gave in, clinging to him, softening her lips against his as she matched his restless movements, wanting to twine herself around him just as her tongue twined around his. She wanted…
“ALASDAIR IAIN MCGREGOR!”
In a dimly lit, dusty corner of Charlotte’s mind, she was grateful to Patricia for ending the kiss. The balance of her mind was furious and muttered things about people minding their own business, but hours later, as she sat in Gillian’s best guest room, gingerly touching her lips, she recognized that Patricia was right to stop them. What she had demanded—a kiss sealing their agreement to wed—and what Dare had given her—a kiss that came close to scorching the blacking off her boots—were two different things.
“Still, it bodes well for the future.” Charlotte smiled into the night. “It was a very effective kiss. I’ll wager Alasdair won’t need to look at Vyvyan La Blue’s Guide to Connubial Calisthenics more than once or twice!”
Five
“This is the worst day of my life. Tell the carriage to leave, Caroline, it won’t be needed, as I have no intention of going anywhere.”
Silence met that pronouncement. Charlotte kicked at an innocent embroidered footstool and glared at the reflection of Caroline’s maid, pressed into service to prepare her for what was supposed to be her day of days. Her day. Ha, she could just burst her stays laughing over that bit of comedy.
“You just have co
ld feet. Mama says all brides feel that way. Why, I myself was sick all over my dressing room on my wedding morn. Mama says there are only two times when it is allowable to be sick—your wedding day and when you’re breeding.” Caroline looked closely at her friend. “You’re not breeding, are you, Charlotte?”
“Just a hearty dose of shame.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Charlotte sighed and decided that while feeling sorry for herself might not be the solution to all her problems, it certainly couldn’t make her feel any worse.
“How has this come to pass, Caro?” she asked, looking forlornly in the mirror at the lovely image facing her.
“Your marriage? Well, first you dressed up as Henry VIII—”
Charlotte glared her to a stop. “The question was oratorical, Caro, it wasn’t meant to be answered. Truthfully, there’s no answer to it, any more than there’s an answer to the question of how all my plans could go so badly awry, how Alasdair could think to shame me in this manner, or how he could possibly expect me to take my rightful place in Society if he carries through his nefarious plan to wed me in such an appalling manner.”
Caroline studied her friend’s midsection. “Are you sure you’re not breeding? You sound just as dramatic as my dearest Algernon’s sister Tess when she was carrying the twins, and that’s saying quite a bit. Dearest Algernon said that Tess on a bad day could have out-emoted Mr. Kean.”
Charlotte shook a rosebud at her friend. “I am having the worst day of my life and all you can do is go on about shooting the cat on your wedding day and staring at my middle parts as if I were going to burst suddenly into motherhood. Truly, Caroline, I think you could be a bit more sympathetic and aid my wallow in self-pity rather than trying to distract me with nonsense about actors and such! Today is promising to be a veritable blot of excuses on the humility of my soul, and it would only be kind of you to recognize that fact!”
“What?” Caroline tried to puzzle out the mangled last sentence of Charlotte’s tirade. A blot of excrescence on the humanity of her soul? She shook her head and decided her time was better spent in calming the bride than trying to figure out what she was saying. Charlotte was clearly overwrought. She would focus her friend’s attention on much happier thoughts. “Never mind. It matters not, Char. Those blossoms look lovely in your hair. The day is fine, you are the prettiest bride ever, and Lord Carlisle will soon be yours. You can’t possibly be serious about not going anywhere—you’re getting married today! Today is your most favored day, not one that will shame you. Everyone knows you can’t make your wedding day the worst day of your life. It’s a bad omen if you even think that.”