To Wed a Wicked Earl

by Olivia Parker

  He smiled tightly at her hesitation. “A very bad sort?”

  “Quite,” she said looking relieved.

  “Well, then,” he said, lifted one side of his mouth in a grin. “We must assume the bad sort puts you at ease, then.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. Whenever I see you, I can’t help but think of all the wicked things you’ve done, and then my skin feels as if it’s ablaze.” She gasped and turned scarlet. “That didn’t come out right at all.”

  He smiled grimly. “I don’t suppose there is a right way.”

  If there had been a boulder nearby, Miss Greene looked as if she would have loved to do nothing better than to dive behind it.

  “It’s all right, Miss Greene. I’ve been called worse. Much worse.” And he deserved just about every moniker thrown at him, he supposed. However, Miss Greene was a proper young lady and proper young ladies did not spew insults, no matter how deserving the person happened to be. “Besides,” he added, “it is not as if you are insulting the archbishop or the king for that matter. I know what I am.”

  After a brief hesitation, she dipped her head. “Thank you for the dance.”

  He inclined his head.

  With that he turned to walk away, but after about five steps, he glanced over his shoulder. With an odd sense of satisfaction, he watched as she plucked her spectacles out from the inside of her bodice and placed them on her nose where they belonged. He bit back a smile, bemused, as always, by just how this one managed to get under his skin.

  Indeed, the earldom of Rothbury was synonymous with debauchery, gambling, too much wine, and too many women for generations. The men in his family certainly never took it upon themselves to rescue bespectacled wallflowers from the indignity of being the only young woman without a dance partner.

  Rothbury turned to leave the room, ignoring the curious looks of a few guests who obviously wondered why in hell he would bother paying any attention at all to the reigning wallflower of London. He, the reigning scoundrel. No doubt they all thought she was to be his new conquest.

  He did not blame them. Because in truth, that’s what he did, that’s what he was. Seduce and dominate. Charm and manipulate. A user of women.

  How they would scoff, Rothbury mused bitterly, if they knew that he was secretly in love with the silly little chit, spectacles and all.

  Chapter 2

  A Gentleman courts his Lady Love in the proper manner.

  London

  April 1814

  “‘Goodnight, goodnight! Parting is such sweet—’”

  A fat pot of pink begonias sailed through the crisp evening air and crashed upon the lawn in a scrambled mess of broken porcelain, water, and abused blooms.

  Apparently, standing below the second-floor window of one’s beloved whilst quoting Shakespeare didn’t hold the exact air of shiver-inducing sentiment one would expect. Especially if the man doing all the quoting was most definitely drunk…and terribly unwanted, if the objects being tossed out the window were any indication.

  Looking out her second-floor window into the garden of the house next door, Charlotte leaned her elbows on the sill, her chin resting in her hand.

  Renting a house next to the stunningly beautiful heiress Lady Rosalind was certainly turning out to be entertaining. All day long, men strutted like roosters past her front door, back and forth, hoping for either a chance meeting or a little glance at the sought-after woman. Charlotte shook her head. The woman never had peace. Should the poor dear ever venture out to a ball, the following day men would call upon her in droves. They brought flowers, baskets of sweets, sang ballads, and one even brought her a horse. Some of the men were admitted inside, but most were politely turned away. Perhaps the one below was one of the rejected, drunk and determined to win her somehow.

  Clearly oblivious to her presence—not to mention the near miss with the potted plant—the man below alternately mumbled and whistled as if calling for his collie. Charlotte’s lips quirked and she shook her head sadly. Men could be such fools around beautiful women.

  The first streaks of light were beginning to glow on the horizon; the first chirpings of the sparrows sounded far in the distance, for the romantic drunken sot below most assuredly frightened all of their birds away with his shouting.

  Why hadn’t anyone sent for the magistrate yet, she wondered? Perhaps because most of her neighbors had just gone to bed after exhausting themselves after an unending string of parties. In truth, Charlotte and her mother had only just retired after returning from a ball themselves. And Charlotte often had trouble winding down enough to fall sleep after nights such as these and would often lie abed for hours.

  “Ah, hell,” the man grumbled loudly, looking about. “Now where the devil did you go?”

  Though it was nearly dawn, it was still dark and quiet. There didn’t seem to be anyone else about, at least in the shadowed gardens behind this particular row of mansions. Who did he think he was speaking to?

  As he swaggered his way toward a dense grouping of trees, Charlotte straightened her spectacles, surveying the myriad of other items strewn across the lawn.

  There was a wedge of soap, three decorative pillows, an ornate inkwell, several candle stubs, a lady’s brush, and what appeared to be a small wooden duck. Evidently the man had been here for some time.

  The sound of flapping paper caught Charlotte’s attention. She glanced over just in time to witness a writing tablet drop down from the window. For a fleeting moment she wondered if the man wasn’t drunk after all, but simply suffered the effects of being walloped in the head by any or all of the items.

  Looking down, she realized she had lost sight of him. Had he left? Peering through the darkness, her eyes barely made out the tall shadow amidst the trees. He had a hand braced against the trunk of a birch tree, giving the impression he was keeping it from falling over, though it was most definitely the other way around.

  Although a thick, naked branch hid most of his face, she could discern that he wore no coat or waistcoat, just a loose white shirt, scandalously unbuttoned to the center of his chest.

  For a second she entertained the notion that he was a common man, perhaps even an errant footman, but there was something unmistakably regal about him that set him apart, despite his inebriated state.

  Even in the dim light emanating from the few illuminated windows of the mansions, Charlotte could see that this man’s body was athletic and pleasing to the feminine eye. This was no young, besotted whelp declaring his undying love. This was a man.

  A clearly stubborn one, but a man just the same. Long and lean muscled, a trim waist and narrow hips, and strong legs encased in black breeches that he must have inched his way into. Inexpressibles. Charlotte almost sighed.

  Why couldn’t she be oblivious to such things? She ought to shut the window and go to back to bed.

  The man under the tree started mumbling, bringing her attention back to the present. This one definitely belonged in the scoundrel category, a group of men she had recently sworn to avoid at all costs. Not that they had been beating down her door, but still.

  She watched him pluck an empty brandy decanter from the grass. Frowning, he closed one eye to peer inside the narrow glass neck. Finding it empty, he shrugged, then tossed the bottle over his shoulder.

  At that moment the wind picked up, bringing with it a chilly reminder that winter still nipped at the heels of spring here in London. Charlotte shivered, pulling the edges of her woolly white shawl closer together.

  “What’s in a name?’” The man tucked in the shadows suddenly proclaimed, his deep voice booming loudly in the dark, making Charlotte nearly jump out of the thick, woolly stockings she wore to bed. ‘“That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’”

  After punctuating the quote with an ill-timed hiccup, he took two long, lazy strides out from under the shelter of the tree…and then promptly had to duck for cover under the branches.

  Add one large boot to the invento
ry of objects scattered across the ground.

  Charlotte gasped. Not because of the boot, although that was indeed unexpected. No, her breath caught for she had finally recognized the inebriated man.

  It was none other than Lord Rothbury: renowned profligate, devious debaucher, and gambler of cards, horses, and numerous women. Not to mention her reluctant rescuer from the night of the Bride Hunt Ball of last autumn.

  The epitome of tawny masculine beauty—beguiling, if such a word could be used for a man—the earl’s charred reputation caused suitable, marriageable ladies to give him a wide berth, but that didn’t stop them from staring…and sighing.

  An excellent dancer, Lord Rothbury had asked Charlotte to dance seven and a half times within the last four years. The half was for the time her mother marched on the dance floor and forcibly pried Charlotte from his hold, slapping his forearm repeatedly with her reticule.

  However embarrassing that had been, it didn’t stop Charlotte from watching him over her shoulder as she was ushered out of the room by her mother. And he had watched her departure as well. She always wondered why he had.

  Still, daydreaming about Lord Rothbury was a horrible, sinful weakness on her part, on any young lady’s part, really. The Rothbury earldom had been linked to sin and scandal for hundreds of years. It was a good thing for Charlotte and her reputation that she just happened to be invisible to him. It was his habit to bestow attention only on the most ravishing of females.

  Except, of course, for that night.

  His kind gesture had shocked her to her toes. However, she had recently learned to not let such acts go straight to her head. He was simply being kind, she supposed. Nothing more. Undoubtedly, to him it was only a dance. Wicked or romantic, Lord Rothbury had no designs on her. If he had wanted Charlotte, she would have known about it an age ago.

  But he really was quite gorgeous, she thought with another sigh. Tall and virile, the earl maintained a cultured grace in dress and comportment that belied his wicked mind. Whatever it was that he did—walking, dancing, conversing, or riding—he did it while looking utterly captivating.

  Except, apparently, for this evening.

  But love, Charlotte mused, must do that to a man. Weaken his will, test his resolve, tilt his judgment, make him do idiotic things—like stand under a window at four o’clock in the morning and get pummeled with personal objects.

  Of course he’d be here on this particular morning. Even though he was good friends with Rosalind’s younger brother, Lord Tristan, he was barred from visiting when the duke wasn’t there. And the duke and his new duchess were traveling in Wales on their wedding trip presently.

  Which of course left Lady Rosalind dreadfully devoid of her older brother’s unflinching protection.

  A small sigh eased past her lips. Would Rothbury ever learn? The beautiful Lady Rosalind could have any man she wanted. Why in the world would she choose to associate herself with scoundrels? And just what had come over Rothbury this evening? She hadn’t thought he was the sort to behave so hopelessly besotted. She couldn’t quite believe it.

  She shook her head in disdain, certain she would never fully understand the ways of society’s elite. Before pushing off from the sill and returning to her bed, she stole one more glance at him.

  He was now emerging from under the tree once again, the branches no longer offering him shelter as they undulated in the rising wind.

  Expertly overstepping the litter, he sauntered over to a nest of dense shrubbery. Minus the leather queue he always used to tie back his hair, his tousled, dark gold locks feathered against the back of his neck in a deceptively boyish manner.

  “What say you?” Rothbury drawled the question, sounding less like a drunk and more like the skilled seducer he was reputed to be—most probably because he was now speaking French.

  Charlotte continued to listen in, grateful for the fact that she actually had paid attention to her French lessons.

  “Are you going to hide back there all evening,” he asked, “or are you going to come out and help me?”

  A huge, dark shadow emerged from behind the thick cluster of tall bushes nestled close to the mansion wall under Rosalind’s window. The beast’s glossy coat shimmered in the low light. Other than that, the beautiful horse was nearly invisible in the dark.

  “There you are.” Reaching up, Rothbury ruffled the tousled ebony locks between the horse’s ears, much as one would the hair of a doted-upon child.

  What sort of man talked to his horse as if it were a person? In French, no less?

  “Just as I thought,” he said softly to the animal. “You little coward. Afraid of a woman.”

  The horse snorted, shaking its elegant head.

  “What do you know anyway?” Rothbury grumbled. “How could she know my heart is not engaged? Thinks she’s a bloody mind reader? I’ll win her yet.”

  “Goodness, I doubt that,” Charlotte snickered, then gasped. Dear heaven, had her voice travelled to him?

  Rothbury’s tawny head jerked up in her direction.

  Apparently, it had. Too late, she clamped a hand over her mouth just the same.

  “Who is there?” he queried, now in English. “Reveal yourself.”

  Every muscle froze. She held her breath, hoping the earl would soon dismiss what he had thought he’d heard. She slid her foot back, thinking to simply slip into the depths of her bedchamber.

  Movement coming from the window next door caught her attention. Her mouth fell open in shock. Unbeknownst to the earl, someone, most likely Rosalind, was now holding a rather large tome out of the window.

  Directly above his head.

  The intent was obvious.

  Charlotte lurched forward, panic making her speech stilted. “Your lordship!” she shouted from her window, pointing. “A book!”

  Seemingly unsurprised by her declaration, no doubt from the effects of heavy drinking, the usually elegant and dignified-looking earl merely arched a brow. “A book? I beg your pardon, but I am not a pilferer of books, miss.”

  “NO! Duck, you lovesick buffoon!”

  “Duck? If you want one of those, chèrie, I think I saw one over there.” He gestured toward the lawn with a negligent hand.

  He looked up. But it was too late. Before he could blink the book landed on the earl’s head with a thunk. His horse cantered off to hide behind the bushes once again.

  Groaning, he crumpled heavily into a heap, his hand sliding off his broad chest, falling listlessly onto the grass.

  “Oh-dear-oh-dear-oh-dear,” she chanted anxiously, moving from side to side, wondering what she should do.

  Grasping the sill, she peered outside. Nothing stirred. Not another living being was about. Even the birds in the distance had quieted.

  Should she just leave him there and go back to bed? Yes, definitely yes, she should…but she wouldn’t. How could she not go to the rescue of a man who had rescued her? Good Lord, he could be dead!

  Racing across her room, she shoved her feet inside a pair of boots without tying the laces. They flapped at the sides as she padded speedily down the steps and into the front hall. Moving through the house as quietly as she could, she headed toward the back. Reaching the back door, she slipped outside and rushed over, slowing her pace only momentarily so she could step over a low hedge. She nearly tripped on her laces, which would have sent her flying atop his lordship, but she caught her balance just in time.

  Panting from exertion, Charlotte put her hands on her hips, studying the earl’s prone form. She was relieved to see his chest rising and falling, slowly and steadily. Her gaze trailed down his hard, lean-muscled body, noting the charmingly disheveled clothing. She knew she shouldn’t be thinking such things at this particular moment, but he seemed so…so long. Truly, he must sleep in a huge bed, or else his feet would hang off the end.

  Lifting her chin, she threw a brief glance at her window across the way, silently telling herself she was an idiot for coming down here to assist him.

&nb
sp; Good Lord, soon it would be daylight. But she couldn’t just leave him here. Perhaps she could rouse him up quickly and be on her way before anyone should spy her in her night rail in the garden with a scoundrel.

  “Perhaps I should leave,” she murmured, a worried frown marring her brow. “Even unconscious you’re dangerous to my reputation.”

  Chapter 3

  A Gentleman’s mind is always fit, his reflexes sharp.

  “My lord? Are you all right?”

  Rothbury inhaled the fresh, almost lemon-tinged air wafting before him, the scent seeping deep into his lungs coaxing forth an unexpected pang of responsiveness.

  Eyes of sapphire blurred and spun before his gaze. “Tempt not a desperate man.’”

  “I believe that’s enough Shakespeare for one evening, my lord.”

  For a moment the air seemed to sparkle about her head, causing him added confusion. “Are you an angel?” he heard himself mutter.

  “Are you all right?” her soft voice asked, sounding like she withheld a laugh.

  He closed his eyes as a shard of pain stabbed at the back of his skull, tempting him to succumb to the blissful realm of weightless oblivion. “Bloody hell.”

  “I think you hit your head on a rock when you fell. And please don’t curse, my lord,” the angel replied from above him.

  “Am I dead?”

  A beat of silence, then came the soft hush of rustling fabric. It sounded as if she surrounded him. Her scent certainly did, delicate citrus and warmth.

  Mmm. He smiled. “You smell like sunshine.”

  What a ridiculous thing to say. Maybe he was dead…and in heaven. No, that couldn’t be. Too many people had told him he was solely responsible for the fiery trail into hell.

  “No, you’re not dead,” the angel said, her tone flat. “But I think I know someone who wishes you were.”

  “Cheeky, angel,” he muttered. Eyes still shut, he rose up to lean back on his elbows. A sudden wave of lightheadedness gave him a spinning sensation. “Hell and damna—”