by Jenna Jaxon
The gravity of their situation reared its head once more. Not so much that they had been found out, but that she had behaved so wantonly with this man she hardly knew. What had possessed her to kiss the earl like that?
Standing apart from him like this, she felt nothing of the burning passion that had seized her when he had caught her in his arms. No fire ripping through her veins as when his mouth sealed itself to hers. If she touched him again, would it reappear?
Charlotte turned toward Wrotham to find the earl watching her, as coolly detached as he had been hot with desire. She opened her mouth, not knowing what words might emerge.
He saved her the trouble. “You were expecting Garrett just now when you ran into me, weren’t you?”
Her sharp gasp sounded loud as cannon fire to her ears.
In the silence that followed, he sauntered to the sideboard and poured a good three fingers of brandy into his glass and downed it in one gulp. “Did you simply mistake me for him, or did the man matter at all to you?”
“How dare you!” Outrage at his insinuation shoved all her guilt over her actions into a far corner. Just whom did he think he was to judge her?
“I dare to speak the truth, my lady. You seemed genuinely desirous enough just now to fool me into believing your passion was aimed at me. Either you thought me your lover or you wanted me to be. I merely wish to know which is true.” Wrotham’s gaze glittered in the guttering candlelight, unreadable as blank stone.
“I came to meet him, as I said. But he is not my lover.”
His eyebrow rose. “Surprising.”
She gasped, and anger made her bold. “Why? Because I’m the ‘Wicked Widow’?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “No. Because I have tasted a depth of passion such as yours only once or twice. If he is unwilling to take you to his bed, he is a fool.”
The last he spoke with such vehemence she jerked her face up to his.
His eyes gleamed with dark desire.
Her stomach plunged to her toes.
Wrotham stalked toward her, and she fled backward until she pressed against the wall of the library, the chair rail digging into her back.
He towered over her, the expanse of his chest filling her field of vision with the black superfine of his jacket and the starched white of his cravat. He grasped her head and lifted it until his dark eyes bored into hers.
“No one has ever called me a fool.” Then his mouth seized hers again and she melted once more, damn him! The heat of his lips burned like the red-hot embers of a well-banked fire. She struggled to pull in enough air, as if he had sucked it all from the room. When his tongue thrust into her mouth she welcomed it, cherished it as it ravaged whatever it touched. An ache she had only felt once before began to pulse between her thighs, one that magnified as his tongue plundered where it would. Her knees buckled and she would have slid down the wall except he grasped her arms, steadying her. Time ceased to be as he caressed her shoulders, her arms, her breasts.
The throbbing below intensified when his thumbs circled her nipples, making them peak and strain against the thin fabric of her gown. She moaned low in her throat, a sound full of longing, full of need. Lord, would he never stop? Never let him stop. Heat flushed her entire body until she burned like a furnace. He lifted his head.
“Marry me, Lady Cavendish.”
“What?” She couldn’t have heard that correctly.
“Marry me and let us continue this evening’s activities to their inevitable and glorious conclusion.” His voice, ragged with need, rumbled from his chest. He seized her lips again, pressing his big body against her until she could feel his shaft, hard, hot, insistent.
Desire for what he offered welled up and her resolve slipped. It would be glorious to give in to these feelings that made her doubt her sanity. But once married, she would have no recourse against him, as she’d had none over Sir Archibald.
He slid his hands behind her derriere, pushing her against his hips and grinding them together until she broke the kiss, gasping at the need he inspired in her.
“Why bring marriage into it, my lord?” she whispered, pulling his ear to her mouth. With one slow stroke, she licked the outer rim and thrilled when he shuddered in her arms. “Surely we can reach that ‘glorious conclusion’ without benefit of clergy?”
Then he was gone.
Charlotte blinked, coming back to her senses as if being pulled out of a well.
Wrotham stood before her, breathing heavily, hovering as though he might pounce on her again. “I need a wife, Lady Cavendish.”
“I am sorry for that, my lord, but I don’t need a husband.” She licked her lips and hoped she looked seductive. “Can we not find a way to compromise?”
He wavered. Charlotte would have sworn he started toward her and the throbbing between her legs became agony. Then he leaned back and crossed his arms. “No. I’m afraid where you are concerned, Lady Cavendish, I cannot.”
Damn him! She raised her chin. “Then I fear we are at an impossible impasse.”
“It would seem so, my lady. And I for one am truly sorry.” He shrugged and sighed, then headed for the door. At the last moment he turned, his black eyes burning into her. “If you are ever in need, I am close at hand.” With that outrageous statement, he disappeared through the doorway.
Charlotte slid down the wall until she bumped into the floor, her strength spent. That annoying ache still hounded her body, though it had eased once his hands no longer claimed her. She leaned her head on her knees and tried to slow her heart from its frantic pace.
What a beginning to her house party. Garrett gone to Essex, over fifty miles away. Wrotham fled home, scarcely a mile from her. Rakes, both of them, and good riddance. Something in the recesses of her practical mind, however, whispered that she had not seen the last of either one. And something else, with a naughty gleam in its eyes, rejoiced.
Chapter 10
Charlotte passed a wretched night, tossing and beating her pillow, pretending she had the Earl of Wrotham under her fist. How dare he insult her, propose to her, then flee with that disgraceful suggestion that she contact him if needed. The fact that he had excited her as no other man ever had just made the whole episode worse.
At some point she dozed off and woke late into the morning, still weary but determined to be the perfect hostess. Her hopes for a dalliance with Wrotham might have crumbled, but she, nevertheless, had to carry on for her guests as if nothing was amiss. The house party had, however, lost some of its luster.
With her maid’s assistance, she managed to present a decent appearance. The freshness of her rose sprigged muslin—her favorite of the new post-mourning day gowns—helped boost her spirits. Her face told another story when she gazed in the mirror. She sighed.
“Rose, bring the Pear’s Bloom of Roses.” A little on her cheeks would hide the pallor brought on by the strains of the night. She usually disdained the use of cosmetics, but better a touch of the rouge than be thought pale from pining for someone.
Charlotte arrived in the cheery breakfast room, around haft past eleven o’clock, to find her cousin alone, sipping tea and spreading marmalade on toast. Not the best companion this morning. Jane could always wheedle information out of Charlotte no matter how hard she tried to withhold it. She braced herself for a battery of questions.
“Good morning, Jane.” Charlotte kissed the cheek that looked younger than her own and slid into the chair at the head of the table. “I see I have missed breakfast.”
“Good morning, my dear.” Jane eyed her face, then raised an eyebrow. “Yes, they’ve just put the things away, although I’m sure there’s still plenty in the kitchen.” She peered closer at Charlotte. “You’re certainly out of looks today. Did you not sleep well?”
Charlotte signaled a footman to bring her a plate. “I may have tossed and turned a bit,” she admitted. That much at least was true. “Worrying about the guests and today’s activities. Are you aware Alan Garrett left in the middle of
the night?” Best get that piece of information out in the open. Her cousin either already knew or would find out shortly. “He was called to his uncle’s death bed.”
“Yes, I heard that while dressing this morning. Nichols had it from Fisk. Shame about his uncle, but I daresay it’s for the best in the long run.” Jane sipped her tea with an air of nonchalance.
“How so?” Charlotte took a piece of toast and began to butter it, listening carefully for her cousin’s point.
“I suspect his elevation to the title and the attendant responsibilities will steady the man. Make him less of a rakehell.” Jane cut her eyes at Charlotte, then back to her teacup.
“Lord, I will pray for that from this day forward. Perhaps then he will stop his unwanted attentions to me.” Charlotte finished with the butter and began to slather marmalade on the bread. She didn’t like to coat the jam so thickly, but she needed something to do with her hands. “Unfortunately, I’ve noticed that such behavior is a rare occurrence. They inherit their titles, more funds become available to them than they have ever seen before, and they go off on a spree of drinking, gambling, and whoring—”
“Charlotte!”
“Well, that’s what happens, isn’t it?” Charlotte turned a sour eye on her companion. “I have been married, Jane. I’ve seen Edgar at close range for years. Men gamble away all their inheritance before they know what’s what or take up with mistresses or some other type of bird of paradise.”
Of course, some men might take up with a discreet widow instead. Much better for a man’s purse in the long run, if she had her own money and would be content to simply share his bed. The Earl of Wrotham’s face came to mind, as darkly handsome as ever. No, she would not think of the wretched man this morning.
The footman laid her plate before her and she studied the eggs and kidneys with loathing. She’d be violently ill if she took a mouthful of that. Determinedly, she crunched into the sticky toast.
“Lord Wrotham seems to have weathered that storm successfully. He is very pointedly looking for a wife.”
The toast stuck halfway down Charlotte’s throat. Grasping her teacup, she sipped a mouthful, trying to make the gluey mass go down. She coughed, praying she would not finish the morning by casting up her accounts. A bit more struggle and the food continued on its way. Charlotte gulped her tea, then set the cup down with a vigorous clink. She wiped her tearing eyes with her napkin. “Why bring up Lord Wrotham? And how do you know he’s looking for a wife?” Her cousin certainly knew how to get a reaction from her.
“Most titled gentlemen his age are.” Jane sipped tea tranquilly, a slight smile on her lips. “He’s only been in ton circles for a year or two. Inherited his title from an uncle when he and his son were killed in a carriage accident. I’m sure you heard about that? The son was Lord Berkley.”
Charlotte vaguely recalled a tall, blond young man of that name from her come-out Season, so she nodded. She carefully turned the teacup around and around its saucer.
“And I know for a fact Wrotham was very taken with you at Almack’s. If only Mr. Garrett had not been so insistent.”
“May I remind you, I am not in the market for a husband, my dear?” Charlotte would swear her cousin rolled her eyes.
“Nonsense, Charlotte.”
“Nonsense? You yourself told me you would not marry again. Why should I?”
“Because you need to experience a real marriage.” Jane squeezed Charlotte’s hands. “You were married to an old brute who used you badly. You should marry a young man who will thoroughly woo you, bed you, and give you children. That’s what a woman needs.” She released Charlotte. “And if Lord Wrotham is not the perfect man to do it, I will eat my best bonnet.” Jane pursed her lips. “Perhaps my second-best bonnet. I do adore the cream straw with the blue trim. I would hate to have to eat that one.”
Charlotte burst out in giggles. “Jane, you are a wonder. Only you could annoy me to the point of distraction and then make me love you for it.” She had often marveled at the captivating way her cousin had always gotten her way with everyone, from the servants to her late husband.
“Now tell me,” Jane gave her an arch look, “just between us. If Lord Wrotham proposed, would you really say no?”
Charlotte went still, seeing the image of Wrotham’s dark eyes boring into her when he demanded that she marry him. Memory of the incredible heat their bodies had created pressed against each other sent a rush of warmth through her again.
“Charlotte?” Jane’s voice sounded a long way away. “Charlotte.”
With a gasp, she came to herself to find Jane peering at her, her brows puckered.
“Are you all right?” Jane grasped her hand and rubbed it. “You went quite pale and then your cheeks flushed. Have you taken a chill?”
“I did.”
“You’ve got a chill? My dear, you must go back to bed.” Jane had risen and was urging her to stand.
“No, I refused him. Wrotham. Last night.” Charlotte fanned her hot cheeks. Lord, if this happened each time she thought about the earl, she’d have to start wearing lighter clothing.
“He actually proposed? Last night?” Jane’s mouth had dropped open.
At last she had surprised her unflappable cousin.
“Yes. It’s quite the story. First, he accused me of being Alan Garrett’s lover, then he kissed me, then he asked me to marry him. Somehow I don’t think this is the behavior of a perfect gentleman.”
“Perhaps not,” Jane said, sipping her tea, her eyes still wide. “But you have to admit it is extremely dashing. Was he very disappointed when you turned him down?”
“Not half so much as when I suggested we have an affair instead.”
Jane dropped her cup. It rattled into the saucer without spilling a drop.
“Charlotte! You didn’t!”
“I did indeed. And I would have done it, but he simply refused to entertain the notion.” Charlotte adjusted her napkin. “He must wish to marry rather badly. I thought men generally jumped at the chance for a dalliance.”
“Generally they do.” Jane picked up her cup and shook her head. “One does wonder why he would insist on marriage on such short acquaintance. Perhaps he’s in love with you.”
Charlotte snorted. “Love at first sight, Jane? In Minerva novels only, I assure you. No, I’m not quite sure why only marriage will do for him where I am concerned, but should he persist, I will find out.”
“I will be very interested in what you discover. So, my dear,” the brisk Jane returned, “how do you propose to even your numbers now that Mr. Garrett has gone?’
The abrupt change of subject jarred Charlotte so thoroughly she knocked her hand against the teacup. It rattled alarmingly, almost turning over. “Drat. I had forgotten Mr. Garrett’s departure would make the party most uneven.”
“Yes, you are now down two gentlemen, Charlotte, for dinner and your outings, which will make for an awkward time of it for one of your guests. As hostess, you can stand to be unpartnered, but at least one of the ladies will likely be made to feel left out.” Jane poured more tea and dropped in two small lumps of sugar, all the while staring at Charlotte with an air of expectation. As if Jane hadn’t realized her invitation to Maria Wickley had caused the problem in the first place.
“I hadn’t thought about it yet,” she confessed, suddenly aware that she should have been thinking about the situation almost immediately. It wasn’t as though she’d never hosted a party before. Just never one where she had been completely distracted by the men in her life.
“Lord Wrotham is returning, is he not? He seemed to get on well with everyone last evening. And if he is absent, I simply don’t know what you shall do with only three men.”
Charlotte’s heart sped up at the mention of his name again. This would never do.
“Lord Wrotham hinted he had more important things to do than socialize with his new neighbors. That is why he did not stay last night. He said he had business to attend to this morning.�
� Charlotte comforted herself with the thought she’d spoken some snippet of truth, although he’d said nothing about being otherwise engaged this evening.
Jane flashed her a knowing look. “Indeed. It sounds as though he enjoyed himself immensely. I’ll wager he returns tonight. He dances divinely, but of course you know that. You seemed to take great pleasure in the set you shared.” A satisfied smile spread across her face. “In fact, you appeared quite enthralled when you looked at him. Are you sure you turned him down?”
Face now flaming, Charlotte stared down at her cold plate. “Yes. And if you doubt me, you may ask him yourself when he arrives tonight. If he arrives.” Best turn the tables before Jane could ask any more questions. “But then, what about you and Lord Sinclair? How have you been getting on?”
Jane’s narrowed eyes spoke volumes. “Robert and I have been friends for years, while I was married to Tark.” Her voice firmed and her gray eyes flashed. “And that is all we were.” She softened once more. “Now I believe he has developed a tendre for me. And I have encouraged him in it. This weekend, therefore, I think we will become better acquainted.”
Her voice softened as she returned to their previous topic. “So tell me, what do you plan to wear on the lovely outing you have planned for this afternoon?”
* * *
The village of Wrotham lay picturesquely nestled at the foot of the North Downs of Kent, only a mile from Lyttlefield Park. Why, therefore, had Charlotte only visited it once in the whole of the four weeks in which she’d been resident? Oh, she could give herself excuses aplenty. There had been so much to do and oversee at the Park that unless she deemed the need urgent, she’d vetoed any excursions in order to make sure the house and grounds were all in readiness for her guests. That meant, however, that planning an outing to the village had been done with almost no knowledge of the points that might be of interest to the company.
Charlotte managed to smile pleasantly at Georgie as she and Elizabeth chatted about the sights of the village as the carriage rumbled forward toward Wrotham. Then she went back to brooding, praying her ignorance of the village would not earn her the label of poor hostess. She had attended only one house party before her marriage and none thereafter, so she had little personal knowledge to guide her.