To Wed a Wicked Earl

by Olivia Parker

  All but one.

  Miss Greene stood alone, wringing her gloved hands together, her face inflamed with a scorching blush.

  Surely, someone would claim her for the dance. They had all been handpicked by a duke. They were all highly suitable, eligible young women, and…Why the hell should he care if Miss Greene stood alone while the others danced?

  No. Her partner was coming. Certainly some gentleman—a group in which Rothbury was not included—would dance with her, alleviating the pain of rejection.

  He took two steps, his ankles feeling as if weighted with chains.

  “Ah, hell,” he muttered. His restraint gone, he turned back around…and almost slammed into her.

  Or rather, she was seconds away from bumping into him. Hurriedly backing her way out of the room, Miss Greene came at him with surprising speed.

  His breath hitched as her backside brushed against his thighs. “Oh!” She spun around, nearly whacking her forehead on his jaw when she looked up. “Lord Rothbury! I didn’t know you were there.”

  “As you do not have eyes on the back of your head, I wager you would not.” By design, he gave her a slow, wolfish grin, expecting her to react like most virtuous females did: break into a giggle and flounce away.

  She only blinked up at him.

  But then again, he didn’t really know how bad her vision was. There was a chance his face was just a blur to her. Besides, she seemed to be busy muttering something under her breath. It sounded like a chant of I-will-not-cry-I-will-not-cry-I-will-not-cry.

  And that’s when it happened. Twin, fat tears, dislodged from the tips of her lashes, no doubt from all her furious blinking, raced over her cheeks and splashed onto his dark green waistcoat.

  He stared down at those small damp splotches. And while he did, his stomach clenched. What the hell was wrong with him?

  His gaze darted to her face. She was taking deep, gasping breaths, her teary eyes growing wider, he guessed to keep any more tears from falling.

  The crestfallen look on her face left him feeling as if she had sucked the air straight out of him. How absurd. It wasn’t as if he was the one who broke her heart. Furthermore, he hadn’t a conscience even if he had been the one. He was debauched. His lifestyle was decadent, overflowing with good wine, questionable pursuits, and plenty of feisty, beautiful women. Women he walked away from with ease when they became possessive or his attention waned. After all, he was a man of varied carnal delights. And damn proud of it too.

  But this…this felt different. Despite Miss Greene’s being known for her timidity, Rothbury had always observed that she was one to be quick with a smile—even when she was left standing in the corner watching while all her friends danced.

  Right now, however, he reckoned she couldn’t summon a smile if he offered to pay her for one. But then even he knew that of all the potential brides present this evening, Miss Greene was the only woman who sincerely liked Tristan. Hell, even Tristan himself knew that.

  At his continued silence, she looked down, her cheeks growing redder by the second. Good God, she wasn’t going to swoon, was she?

  “May I ask where you were dashing off to, Miss Greene?”

  Delicately, she cleared her throat. “I needed to get a bit of fresh air.”

  “Leave, you mean?”

  She answered with a nearly imperceptible nod.

  “Whatever for? Because Tristan didn’t choose you?”

  When she didn’t answer, he tilted her chin up. A tear had settled at the corner of her mouth. In his mind’s eye, he used his thumb to gently wipe the moisture. Such a telling action would certainly give him away, not to mention supply the hundred or so guests swarming around them into a feeding frenzy of gossip and speculation, so he held back. But as he continued to gaze down into her fathomless blue eyes, he felt himself losing purchase, slipping deeper.

  Her bottom lip started to tremble and she made a tiny, heart-breaking squeak of a sound.

  “Shhhhh,” he said in a whisper of air, sounding, even to his own ears, like a wolf comforting a lamb right before he devoured her. He rushed to think of what to say before she sobbed uncontrollably. “Did your dance partner wrench his ankle?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your partner? I could not help but notice that you are not engaged in the last waltz of the evening.”

  “I haven’t a partner,” she said softly. “I was not asked.”

  “Oh. Right, then. Would you do me the honor?” He took a step back, holding up his bent arm.

  Someone should mark this day down in history. He was doing something nice and the truth of the matter was, he very likely wouldn’t be gaining a bloody thing from sacrificing his time.

  She sighed loudly, taking his arm with a shrug.

  “Not quite the enthusiasm I was hoping for,” he drawled, holding back a chuckle as he walked her toward the swirling couples.

  “Oh. I’m terribly sorry,” she said on another sigh as he swept her easily into the twirling steps of the dance. “I’m just not having a good day.”

  “No need to apologize.” She felt so delicate in his arms, like he was dancing with air. In reaction to the sensation, he tightened his grip at her waist, else the next turn shoot her straight into the wall.

  “It’s just that…” she continued, clearly oblivious to his worry. “It’s just that I liked him for so long. Since I was…well, for a rather long time.” She cleared her throat. “Did you know that once, when our carriage overturned in the market, he pulled my mother and I from the wreckage? He even tended to our driver and calmed our horse.”

  “Heroic.”

  “Quite. I thought for sure that this was fate—being chosen to attend this ball.” She sighed. “And then today he…he winked.”

  “Winked?”

  “Yes. Winked.”

  “Well, then, there you have it. For everyone knows what a wink means.”

  She blinked. “What does it mean?”

  “I have no bloody clue. You seemed so certain it meant something, I thought I should agree.”

  With masked delight he watched a glimmer of humor sparkle in her gaze, but it was soon gone, replaced by glum acceptance. “I guess it really doesn’t matter now, does it? But still, I tried so hard to be what he wanted.”

  “And how do you presume to know what he wanted? Did you make a list?” He gave a low chuckle.

  “Yes. Yes, I did. I knew all of his favorite things. His likes, his dislikes—”

  Ridiculous. He had nothing to say to that, other than her actions bespoke a schoolgirl’s infatuation. But then that sort of adoration often faded quickly, and Miss Greene had been quite tenacious in her esteem for Tristan over the years.

  “And I…” She swallowed hard, quite like she was still concentrating on not crying.

  He swirled her faster.

  “…and I thought he liked me. He alluded many times…”

  “I can only guess he was toying with you,” he said sharply.

  He couldn’t help it. Friend or not, Tristan’s actions of the past fortnight reeked of immaturity, a certain lack of diplomacy, if you will. Besides Rothbury knew the ways of wicked men, he was one, only until now he had never remained long enough to bear witness to the pain and the anguish of the rejected woman.

  She looked up at him for the first time since they joined the dance, her eyes a deep, sorrowful blue. “I’m not stupid. Surely I would have noticed his falseness.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. You were too busy bumping into furniture and walking into walls. Wear your spectacles, Miss Greene.”

  She lifted her chin. “I can see perfectly well, thank you.”

  “No, you cannot.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “All right, then.” He made a purposeful arc that brought them dancing past the terrace doors, where a long row of chairs were set up against the wall, some occupied, some empty. “Tell me, Miss Greene, does your mother still repose on one of these seats?”

  She pulled her pa
le pink bottom lip into her mouth as she stared around his shoulder. Soon, a small, satisfied smile curved her lips. “Why yes, my lord. Indeed, she does.”

  “Counting from the corner, which seat do you believe she’s in?”

  “The third chair,” she answered without hesitating.

  He raised a brow. “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” But uncertainty shone in her eyes.

  “Now that I know you are most positive, Miss Greene, I must tell you that what you claim is your mother is in actuality two walking sticks and a stack of ladies’ shawls, should someone decide to take a stroll outside.”

  “Oh dear,” she said, her voice small. But to his surprise a small, low chuckle tumbled from her lips.

  Rothbury tamped down a surge of unexpected pride at making her laugh. “Contrary to what you believe, rendering yourself nearly blind to attract suitors could never work to your benefit.”

  “I wasn’t trying to attract all suitors, just him. And before you should think me a fool, I had overheard him say that he didn’t fancy women who wore spectacles. So naturally I…” She stopped, her eyes narrowing on him in suspicion. “Why the sudden change?”

  He wasn’t quite sure he heard her correctly. “I beg your pardon,” he said, bending his head close. Her soft lemony scent teased at his senses.

  “You came to my rescue, my lord.”

  Her stress on the word “You” was not missed by him. She might have well said “despicable beast” instead.

  “I wanted to dance,” he replied, with a small shrug. “You flatter yourself by thinking more of it.”

  “No. I bumped into you as you were leaving.”

  “No,” he countered, his jaw tightening. “I was looking for a partner.”

  “In the empty doorway?”

  “Miss Greene,” he said, feeling quite like he had been caught in a lie. “Do you always interrogate your dance partners?”

  “What provoked it?”

  Bloody hell. She was the embodiment of aggravation. Couldn’t a man ask a lady to dance without being asked twenty damn questions?

  “Do you know what I think, my lord?”

  “I do not doubt that you are going to tell me.”

  “I think you desire a chance to redeem yourself. Transform yourself into a gentleman, perhaps.”

  “Is that so?” He did not bother withholding the note of sarcasm in his tone.

  “Am I correct?”

  “Absolutely not.” His gaze trailed across her lace-edged bodice before returning to her eyes, just in case she failed to take him seriously.

  Charlotte, however, knew better than to believe that a man like Lord Rothbury was truly appraising her figure. She might be a bit gullible and trusting, but she was well aware that his shocking assessment of her girlish charms—or lack thereof—had less to do with genuine interest and more to do with the fact that he was trying to scare her off the scent, so to speak. And she was not so easily deterred.

  His reaction to her assumptions stirred her curiosity. Perhaps she was correct.

  “I think you are on your best behavior this night,” she said, “because a certain someone is in the room. A certain Lady Rosalind Devine.”

  “And I think you are wholly misguided—”

  “I disagree.”

  “—and incredibly nosy.”

  “Well, I wish you all the luck, my lord,” she said as gently as possible. “You’ll need it.”

  Charlotte could feel the tightness of his shoulders underneath her fingertips at her words. However, she just couldn’t seem to stop herself. She was just trying to be helpful.

  “Honestly,” she went on, “how could you possibly expect a different outcome? Hasn’t the earldom of Rothbury been synonymous with sin and scandal for hundreds of years?” Indeed. Renowned for trickery and vice, the Rothburys were not to be trusted. “Perhaps therein lies your problem, my lord. I know it’s terribly disappointing to hear, but it is entirely plausible that you will never be able to rise above the weed-filled path of debauchery the men in your family have so heavily sowed.”

  A muscle in his cheek twitched. At once she regretted her words.

  They neared an alcove made by swaths of towering cream silk draped along alabaster columns. Before she could say another word, he disengaged himself from the pose of the waltz and grabbed her by the waist.

  In a whirl of movement he lifted her and then deposited her inside the silken cocoon, which deftly hid them from view.

  Her heart thundered in her ears. “I have said too much,” she rushed out, making for what she hoped was the narrow opening in the fabric.

  Nodding menacingly, he took a step toward her, blocking her escape. His warm, whiskey-hued eyes hardening to crystals of amber. “The middle of a ballroom isn’t the most ideal place to use our tongues as weapons, is it?”

  She rubbed her arms as a shiver shot through her. He was a prideful man. Her dearest friend, Madelyn Haywood, always said he reminded her of a tawny lion. Charlotte must have wounded his pride with her stark words, that’s all. Of course it wasn’t the smartest thing for her to have done, she supposed. Nor the most gracious. He had asked her to dance after all. And now she insults him?

  Up until this point all she managed to do was embarrass herself. Now, however, her big mouth just might have gotten her into a particular class of trouble she had no idea how to handle. Somehow, Charlotte mused, a simply apology would do nothing to placate him.

  This man was a renowned rogue. In fact, should it strike his fancy, he could make her life a miserable one. Starting with a ravishment in the middle of a ballroom, just for sport.

  He had a reputation for using women. Leading them to believe he sought their hearts only to walk away in search of his next willing victim. And she had heard they were always willing, only to be lured into believing it was love in his eyes instead of lust.

  She looked up, willing her features to remain impassive. He was so devastatingly handsome, it was difficult to do. A silky ash-blond lock loosened from the leather queue he always used to tie back his hair and slid against his temple.

  An absurd thought popped into her head. Maybe he cast some sort of spell on women to get them to do what he wished.

  Suddenly she felt like a mouse caught under a lion’s claw. And everyone knew what cats did with their quarry—they dragged it off to the corner to play. Before devouring it.

  She swallowed hard. “What are you about, sir?”

  “It’s really very simple,” he drawled. “No need to look as if you fear I’ll gobble you up in the next second.”

  “I’m f-fine,” she said, mortified that she stuttered. “Women like me are not your natural prey, so I can assume that I’m perfectly safe here…alone with you…” she made a vague gesture to the silks surrounding them “…hiding behind this curtain. Alone. Very alone.”

  While she stumbled her way through her reasoning, Rothbury crossed his arms over his chest and studied her with a cool gaze. “One should never assume, Miss Greene,” he countered darkly.

  “Yes, well, I must be on my way.”

  “Quite. Before you go, however, you must tell me why you believe Lady Rosalind is…above my reach, shall we say? I cannot wait to hear your reasoning.”

  In that instant, her shoulders relaxed. Of course he hadn’t plucked Charlotte from the ballroom to have his wicked way with her. How could she have thought otherwise?

  He must have whisked her away simply because she happened to be acquainted with Lady Rosalind, not to mention the fact that Charlotte was quite possibly the only virtuous young lady who could talk to Rothbury without immediately diving into a swoon.

  She sighed. Apparently, he didn’t like to be told the truth either. She supposed the polite thing to do was placate him. “It’s just that…I believe the only way you would ever have a chance at winning her would be with help.”

  “Your help?”

  “Perhaps.”

  A hint of masked stubbor
nness hardened his chin. “Preposterous.” His mesmerizing gaze remained steady on her. “I do not need help. Most especially yours.”

  “Good.” Insufferable man. “For I was not offering it.”

  Outside their linen-draped cocoon, the waltz was coming to an end.

  “I must go,” she announced. But despite the need for haste, she hesitated, wondering what it would be like to be a sought-after woman. To be admired, envied, and desired. To be pursued by men—by this man. Would her manner be comparable to that of Lady Rosalind? Would she be able to resist his attentions?

  She gave her head a little shake, vowing to finally put an end to her penchant for woolgathering. Giving Rothbury a tight, polite smile, she excused herself from his company and made to skirt around him.

  In a burst of movement, he took her up into his arms, smoothly sliding out from their hiding spot. Seamlessly, they rejoined the other dancing couples. To onlookers she supposed it looked as if they had become clumsily caught up in the duke’s lavish decorations.

  Charlotte felt scorching heat radiate from where his steady hand pressed on her back, the smooth grasp of his other hand over hers. He had moved so quickly, her breath felt trapped in her throat.

  The music concluded with a flourish. Gently, he released her from his hold, her skirts swinging back into place.

  “I didn’t mean to pry,” she explained, feeling like she ought to say something. “And I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  “It is of no consequence, I assure you.”

  Her lips parted on a shaky exhale. “I don’t suppose you’ll walk me back to my mother.”

  “Er, no. But I think you understand why. I find I’m not in the mood to be pummeled into submission just for dancing with you.”

  “Oh dear. That’s right. She did do that once, didn’t she?”

  Prior to that incident, Rothbury had thought reticules had no purpose other than to compliment a lady’s frock. He had no idea they could be used as a weapon. Miss Greene’s mother believed otherwise. “I shall never forget it.”

  She cringed. “I’m sorry. She’s very protective and you are…” Her cheeks bloomed with a blush as she realized what she was about to say right to his face.