by Jenna Jaxon
Charlotte stared back at him, panting, desperately afraid he would know who she had been dreaming of. When he continued to stroke her face and gaze at her with darkened eyes, she relaxed. Thank goodness he thought she’d been dreaming of him.
He leaned toward her and she reared back on the pillow, trying to get away. He’d apparently come with a purpose in mind. But why had he come? She’d told him . . .
Too much drink.
She hadn’t been able to talk to him before dinner. Maria had come instead and she’d drunk too much spirits. He thought she still wanted him.
Needed to tell him. Go away. But she could barely move. Her arms fell from around his shoulders, like weights, onto the bed. Worse, she had to fight to keep her eyes open.
“You’ve been indulging already, Charlotte?” He righted the overturned tumbler, then sniffed the glass and raised an eyebrow. “Brandy? Did you feel the need to fortify yourself against me and my charms, perhaps?” He chuckled, eyeing the glass thoughtfully. “Well, I believe I can understand that. We’ve flirted and danced around this long enough. It’s time I made good on my wager.” He set the tumbler down with a thump that startled her. “I can certainly use a bit of cash now.”
Wager? What was he talking about? Charlotte tried to ask the question, but her mouth had gone dry as cotton.
“I’ve had a standing wager at White’s about you since June, my dear.” He grinned, and she tried to shrink away from his large red lips. “The chaps have been laying a flutter on when I would make it into your bed. The betting’s gone sky high on this weekend, so I need to do my duty. Don’t be nervous. I’ll make sure you enjoy yourself.”
How dare he do something as despicable as bet on her? The wretch! She tried to push him away, but her arms were heavy, as if her bones had turned to lead. The room started to spin again.
“Shall I undress you, my lovely, and ravish you on the spot?” His breath seared her neck, sending chills down her body. He trailed his tongue over her jaw to a spot where her pulse leaped at his touch. Pressing his lips against her skin, he sucked her flesh lightly.
“No.” Charlotte finally found her voice, although it came out sounding like a sick frog.
The guttural sound seemed to excite him even more. His eyes burned into her, his mouth leering. “You don’t mean that.”
“No, no, no.” Maybe if he heard it enough he’d believe it, the conceited wretch.
To her horror, instead of stopping him, her protests spurred him on. He swept the covers away and climbed on top of her, pressing her into the soft mattress. With one hand he pulled her nightgown off her shoulder, then deftly unbuttoned his fall.
Curse the wretch. She couldn’t even struggle properly. Too tired, too dizzy.
He set his mouth at the base of her neck, then nuzzled and kissed his way down until he skimmed the top of her breasts.
“Nooo.” Her voice wouldn’t cooperate. The thin, reedy sound wouldn’t carry through the door.
Another nudge of his finger and her breast popped free of her nightgown. She flushed from head to toe, wanting to die of shame.
“No.” Her voice was stronger. “Alan, please stop—”
His lips cut off her protest as he thrust his tongue into her mouth.
She tossed her head, trying to dislodge him, but he pressed her harder into the pillow. Damn, she couldn’t breathe. Her head spun once more and darkness descended.
* * *
Nash banged his knee on the polished cherry sideboard in his hurry to pour a much needed after-dinner drink. He had almost cheered when Lady John had finally risen after an interminable dinner and shepherded the ladies to the drawing room. He’d bolted up out of his seat and headed to the sideboard, splashing a tumbler half full of cognac. Damned fine cognac, he concluded after the first swallow. Charlotte had elevated her store after the last party.
His sour mood stemmed mainly from Charlotte’s absence. Jane had made her excuses, but Nash thought something else must be afoot. Her cousin had smiled too broadly and her hands had shaken ever so slightly while telling them of Charlotte’s indisposition, a sudden megrim that she hoped would not impede the good spirits of the company tonight. Nash had watched her during dinner; Lady John had eaten no more than he had.
He’d bet his fortune this somehow had to do with that scoundrel Kersey. The man had managed to insert himself into the company again, according to Charlotte. He had to be up to something.
Brack joined him at the sideboard, asking about the situation with the robber gang. He told him as much as he deemed safe. Not that he suspected Brack, of course, but one couldn’t be too careful. Pouring another libation, he glanced around the dining room. Lord Kersey was gone.
“Did Kersey go to the necessary?” he asked Brack, giving the question an air of nonchalance. “He promised to tell me where I could get a pair of matched grays.”
Brack glanced around and shrugged. “I didn’t notice him leave, but I’m sure he won’t be gone long.”
The hairs on the back of Nash’s neck pricked up. In the past, he’d listened to the little voice in his head that accompanied that sensation. It had always served him well. He set his glass down. “Excuse me, Brack. I’ll be back shortly.” He hurried out of the room and into the hallway.
He could look in the necessary, but something told him Kersey had other business on his mind. Nash started up the main staircase. He had no idea where Charlotte’s chamber was, and no evidence that Kersey had gone there. The rake could have simply gone to his own bedroom to attend to his toilette.
Disregarding any qualms, he pressed onward. On the second floor he eased down the corridor on his left with closed doors on either side, his ear cocked for any unusual sounds. He reached the end and had just turned back toward the staircase when muffled voices behind the second door caught his attention.
Braced in the doorway, his ear plastered against the door, he made out a low, deep voice. Then a woman’s shrill one.
“No. Alan, please stop—”
Blood hurtled through his body like he’d heard a battle cry. A coppery taste flooded his mouth. He grabbed the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. He backed up two steps and kicked the door. It blew inward and rebounded against the wall.
Nash surged in.
Lord Kersey, straddling Charlotte’s limp body, raised his head.
A red haze clouded Nash’s vision as he grabbed the blackguard’s throat and heaved.
“Gawp.” Kersey managed the single sound as he flew backward off the end of the mattress.
Nash rounded the bed and dragged the man up from the floor by the front of his disheveled shirt. “When a lady says no, Kersey, a gentleman retreats.” Nash reared his arm back. “I suppose that means you’re no gentleman.” He let fly and his fist crashed into Kersey’s nose with a satisfying crunch. Blood spurted over his snowy white shirt, soaking him in a warm shower.
“Waid . . . I cad exsplain.” The rake struggled to speak and breathe at the same time.
“Tell someone who gives a damn.” Nash hauled off and pounded him again, giving him two quick punches to his eye and cheek. He grabbed the miserable wretch by his shoulders, swung him around the end of the bed, and launched him into the door. Kersey’s back hit flat with a bang that rattled the mirror on the wall. He bounced off and fell face first on the floor.
Nash glanced at Charlotte, lying with eyes closed on the bed, her legs and breasts exposed. With a growl he flipped the coverlet over her. “Charlotte? Charlotte!” He shook her shoulders, his gaze intent on her face. Had the bastard strangled her?
She moaned and frowned but didn’t open her eyes.
At least she wasn’t dead, thank God.
He turned his attention back to the man groaning on the floor. Nash opened the door, grasped Kersey by the seat of his breeches and the back of his shirt, and threw him out into the corridor, where he slammed into a table across the hall. An ornate vase of flowers crashed to the floor, showering the earl with water, glass, and pin
k blooms.
Nash grabbed Kersey’s shirt again and dragged the man toward the staircase. Much as he’d love to kill him, he’d probably swing for it, even though the rakehell deserved it more than anyone currently in Newgate. Poised at the top of the staircase, Nash pushed Kersey down the stairs. Before he’d rolled halfway down, a crowd of men had gathered at the end of the stairs. By the time Kersey hit the floor, the ladies had joined them. Nash followed him down.
“What’s going on, Wrotham?” Lord Brack peered at Lord Kersey’s blood-streaked face.
“Oh, dear Lord.” Lady John, Georgie, and the rest of the ladies crowded around. “What has happened to Lord Kersey?”
“Jane, shall I send for Mr. Putnam?” Georgie offered, backing away, her face pale.
“Is he conscious?” Fanny asked.
Brack shook the downed man’s shoulder and Kersey groaned. “He’s alive, at least. Give me a hand, Rob.” Brack and St. Just lifted Kersey, whose head lolled and knees buckled. “Why have you beaten him to a pulp, Wrotham?”
“Lord Kersey . . .” Nash paused, unsure what lie to tell. He certainly couldn’t tell the truth. “Let us say, Lord Kersey insulted me in a manner I will take from no man. As dueling is no longer in fashion, I sought satisfaction another way. Fisk.”
The butler appeared magically. “Yes, my lord?”
“Have Lord Kersey’s carriage brought around. Inform his man that his lordship has decided to return to London and needs his things packed forthwith.” Nash flexed his hand, his knuckles suddenly smarting.
“Yes, my lord.” Fisk motioned to a footman and headed up stairs.
Keeping an eye on Kersey, who seemed to be coming around, Nash sidled over to Jane. “Can you send Rose to Charlotte? She is in need of assistance.”
Jane’s eyebrows shot halfway up her forehead. “Is that what this is about?” She turned toward Kersey, and Nash had to grab her arm to keep her from flying at him.
“We don’t want to bring Charlotte’s name into this,” he whispered to her. “Think of some excuse to go upstairs, other than to look in on her, then send her maid to her.”
“I can go see about Maria. She was distraught earlier—”
“Alan!” The shrill voice of Maria Wickley pierced the hall.
Nash jerked his gaze to the staircase, where the little widow was running down the steps, clad in a blue dressing gown, her dark plait bouncing on her shoulder.
She ran to Kersey and threw her arms around him. “Alan, who did this to you?”
Kersey groaned, his eyes and nose now puffy and turning dark. “Rutam.”
Mrs. Wickley whirled toward him, hands on hips, fire in her eyes. “How dare you lay hands on him? He is an earl, a peer. You had no right to touch him.”
“Mrs. Wickley—”
“Don’t you dare speak to me. Get away from him.” She started toward Nash, hand drawn back.
Nash could only stare at her. It was like being attacked by a hummingbird.
Jane grabbed her just before she swung at Nash, pulling her away from the group of onlookers. “Maria, dear, what are you doing? Here, come with me—”
“No. I must tend to Alan.” She jerked her arm out of Jane’s hand and ran back to Kersey’s side. She looked into his face, tentatively touched beneath his eye.
He flinched and she jumped, then burst into tears.
Jane went forward. “Here, my dear.” She thrust a handkerchief into Maria’s hand. “Let me send for some water. Bring him into the small reception room while we await the carriage.” She led the way, her arm around Maria’s shoulders, Kersey following assisted by Brack and St. Just.
While the others were distracted, Nash took the opportunity to run back up the stairs. He stopped a maid in the process of turning down beds and sent for Rose. He wanted to go to Charlotte himself, to make sure she was well, or as well as possible given the scene he’d interrupted, but he’d probably just make matters worse. He dragged his mind back to the business at hand and returned downstairs.
Kersey and Maria were again in the foyer, the front door open.
“Please send my things after me,” Maria said, supporting Kersey as they made their way out the door.
“There was no dissuading her,” Jane remarked to Nash as they headed toward the drawing room. “She wouldn’t even change into proper attire. What the servants at Kersey’s London town house will think of her, I shudder to think.”
“She is infatuated with Kersey?”
“Something more serious than that, I suspect.” Jane shook her head. “I won’t talk out of turn, but I believe Maria will shortly become the next Countess of Kersey.”
“Then I pity her.” Nash clenched his fist, wishing he could pummel the cad again. “I sent for Charlotte’s maid. If you would look in on her as well, I would be grateful.”
“Of course. I’ll go now.” She stepped away from the doorway. “Will you wait for word of her?”
“I’ll be in the library.” He wanted to avoid questions from the rest of the company and God knew he could use a drink. He’d scarcely poured a good three fingers’ worth of whiskey when Jane appeared.
“She’s asleep. I believe she had a quantity of drink earlier.” Jane looked pointedly at the glass in his hand. “I didn’t try to waken her.”
He clenched his hand around the tumbler and downed the lot. Damn. He longed to know if he’d rescued her before Kersey had . . . He refused to finish the thought. Weariness hit like a wave crashing over him, drowning him with the aftereffects of the fight. Now all he wanted was his own bed and a dreamless night. “Then I’m for home. If you would please send me word in the morning, as soon as she is stirring.” He sighed, unwilling to say more. “To let me know how she fares.”
“I will, Nash. Thank you.” Jane raised herself on tiptoe to place a kiss on his cheek.
“Thank you, Jane.” He bowed, then turned on his heel and hurried to the entry hall to find Fisk and ask for his carriage. Worry over Charlotte would not abate until he had spoken to her himself, and even that interview might not put his heart at ease.
Chapter 27
Tick, tick, tick.
The sharp noise sounded in Charlotte’s ear with annoying regularity. What the devil was booming like a drum? The ticking continued. Was it the clock over on the mantelpiece? Why on earth did it sound so loud? She twisted on her side to get away from it.
“Owww.” Blinding pain as her head exploded with searing streaks of white. Her own moans hurt her ears. She choked them back to a whimper and lay perfectly still. Her stomach protested as well, rolling alarmingly. A burp erupted, filling her mouth with the pungent taste of brandy.
Oh Lord, let me die.
She cracked an eyelid open a slit. The curtains had been pulled around the bed on the far side and the foot, cloaking her in semidarkness. On her side they remained open, as they had last night when . . .
Alan.
Charlotte started up in the bed, twisting toward the door.
“Ahhhhh!” Her scream added scarcely at all to the excruciating pain that shot through her head, wiping away everything else. She grasped her head, pressing it firmly between her hands to prevent it from exploding. Several slow breaths and the stabbing torment receded into a dull ache. Her stomach roiled. Casting up her accounts seemed eminent.
Gingerly, she slid inch by inch over to the edge of the mattress. The handle of the chamber pot poked out from beneath the bed. Too far away. Any downward movement would surely be disastrous. She eased herself onto her back, praying she would settle. How on earth did men drink so much and then act as if nothing was wrong the next day? It wasn’t fair.
How much had she drunk? Through the throbbing in her head, a clear image formed of pouring a glass downstairs. One brandy wouldn’t have done this, surely? She’d been upset over Maria’s predicament, which explained the need to steady her nerves. She must have had several.
An image of Alan’s face surfaced. The pounding in her head increased. His body on top
of her. Then suffocating darkness. What had the blackguard done to her? Slowly, she shifted on the sheets, trying out her muscles. Looking for soreness where there should be none. Unfortunately, everything hurt.
The door opened and closed with a quiet click. Charlotte dragged her eyelids open, dreading to see anyone.
Jane, a worried frown on her face, tiptoed to the bedside. “Are you awake, dearest?”
Her voice, even low-pitched, created an agony in Charlotte’s head.
Her cousin made a tsking sound and eased onto the bed.
The dip jostled Charlotte’s stomach unmercifully.
“It’s almost two o’clock, my dear. The company is assembled for the tour of the estate. I assume I am to give your regrets?” Jane’s mouth puckered, but she said no more.
A fiend in cousin’s clothing. Charlotte stared at her. If ill will were tangible, Jane would be flattened on the spot. The glare would have to do; it was the only action she could summon and hope to escape the long-expected casting up of accounts.
“I also find I am the bearer of bad or, at least, scandalous tidings, my dear.” Jane’s teasing manner turned sober.
Charlotte’s stomach churned again. What more could go wrong on this ill-fated weekend that had only just begun? Had they all found out about her and Alan last night? Death would seem a mercy right now, if so. Slowly, she peeled her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “What?”
“It’s about the altercation last evening. And the aftermath.”
Charlotte pressed her hands against her temples. “What altercation?”
“Between Lord Kersey and Lord Wrotham.”
Charlotte’s heart almost leaped out of her chest. “What?”
Jane rolled her eyes. “I thought you’d certainly know. Nash seemed very concerned about you.”
“He was concerned about me?” Dread stole through her. Why would Nash be worried if he didn’t know something? Had he seen her?
“Yes. He sent Rose to see to you and then had me come up and look in on you.” She grasped Charlotte’s hands. “For God’s sake, tell me what went on last night.”