To Wed a Wicked Earl

by Olivia Parker

  Feeling flushed, she looked down at her hand with a start, realizing she was still touching his chest. She retracted it quickly, then made a great show of studying the tip of her index finger, where a tiny dot of blood had beaded. A thorn had jabbed her earlier during her perilous climb. She hoped it would draw his attention and distract him.

  But it only made it worse. He covered her hand with his own in a movement that could only be called a caress.

  She swallowed. “Give me back my hand, you depraved hound.”

  “Mine.” Slowly, he drew her toward his mouth, lips parted slightly.

  Good Lord. Was he going to put her finger in his mouth? All her breath seemed to sink down to her knees, if such a ludicrous thing was possible. This had to stop. She thought to shove him away, only her muscles refused to respond.

  “Now, what would you do?” He leaned down, his lips parting, giving her a tiny glimpse of his tongue.

  Her heart tripped over itself. He was magnificent in the moonlight. But she wasn’t going to stand for any of this teasing either. She brought out the parasol and pointed it at his chest. “Step back.”

  He merely raised a brow, his gaze flicking from her finger to the parasol and back again.

  “I’m warning you.”

  Pushing his hand from the wall, he plucked the decorative umbrella from her slack hold and tossed it behind his back with ease. When it hit the carpet with a dull thud, he gave her a look that said, “So now what are you going to do?”

  So much for her weapon.

  “You can stop this now.” She twisted her lips. “I see your point. However, I do have a very good reason for being here. And I am certainly not looking for your brand of mischief.”

  His eyes instantly cooled. Curtain closed, scene over. Thank goodness she was smart enough and strong enough not to fall for his rakish scheming. There was never any sincerity in his words. To him, playing the part of a rake was all an act, like a lever he turned on and off at will.

  After watching her for a moment, he stepped away from her, disappearing into the dark room.

  The air suddenly felt cold. She shivered, goose pimples spreading across her skin.

  “What are you looking for, then?” he asked, his voice fading as he walked away.

  A door opened in the distance, followed soon after by the sound of fabric swishing over smooth, bare flesh. She supposed he was getting dressed.

  “Perhaps if you bothered to read my letters, you would know the answer to that question.” She cleared her throat, eager to get to the point. “To begin, I’ve come to ask you why you failed to inform me that Harriet cried off. Tristan is free.”

  She nearly jumped when a door, which she hadn’t known existed until now, was suddenly forcibly opened behind her, then slammed shut.

  Rounding her like a stalking panther, Rothbury padded past, dressed now in a loose white shirt and a pair of tan breeches. He looked angry, his jaw tight.

  A sudden stark awareness nearly made her shiver with apprehension. She was in his territory, of that there was no doubt. And if she were any other woman (a woman he truly found attractive, to be more precise), there was no doubt that her virtue would be in danger.

  He lit a branch of candles sitting upon a side table, basking the room in a soft golden glow.

  He wasn’t lying. There weren’t any chairs in his bedchamber. Or she supposed there weren’t. For at that moment her mind could only focus on the huge mahogany four-poster bed crouching in the back of the room. The chocolate-brown coverlet sat rumpled in a heap at the end of the bed while a honey-colored sheet spilled halfway onto the floor.

  Goodness, she thought, resisting the urge to fan herself. If his sheet was there, that meant that he had dropped it when he had walked away from her. Which meant he had walked to his dressing room utterly naked. Without the sheet. In this room. With her. For about five seconds, at least.

  Crossing his arms over the broad expanse of his chest, Rothbury regarded her with a serious expression. In fact, he looked mightily irritated. Much like he was an inch from tossing her out the window, which, given her outlandish behavior this evening, might very well be justified.

  “So your Tristan is free. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “What does that have to do with…? How could you ask me such a question?”

  “Didn’t I just?”

  “You are very moody.”

  “Please. What does Harriet Beauchamp crying off have to do with the fact that you are standing in my bedchamber at…” he glanced at the mantel clock, “…at half-midnight, wearing a frock with a missing third button?”

  “A missing…?” She looked down at her dark green carriage dress. Sure enough, just where he said, a button was missing. “My, you do have remarkably good vision. The complete opposite of m—”

  “Honestly, Charlotte,” he muttered, shifting his stance. “Did it come as a shock? When he asked her, she thought she was marrying either the heir apparent to a dukedom or presumably giving birth to one in the future should Tristan’s older brother live a long and healthy life. Think, Charlotte. Now that the duke married, she found herself engaged to a man who holds nothing but a courtesy title.”

  “Indeed,” she said. “I understand. I just hadn’t expected it, which brings me to my point for being here.”

  “Thank God.”

  She cleared her throat. “I will ignore your sarcasm.”

  “Wise choice. Proceed.”

  “Well,” she said cautiously. “It seems you’ve forgotten a very special event. The Hawthorne Costume Ball. It’s next week.”

  Rothbury hadn’t forgotten at all. Admittedly, he had been avoiding Charlotte as the date approached. Knowing Tristan wasn’t engaged any longer and knowing his friend would presumably attend the ball, Rothbury had no more desire to watch Charlotte blush and stutter in Tristan’s presence than he would enjoy getting pecked to death by a flock of man-hungry seagulls.

  He should have known this was coming. According to Charlotte, she’d been enamored of Tristan since the day he pulled her and her mother from the mangled heap of their overturned carriage. Participating in the Bride Hunt Ball had seemed like fate to her. And now that the gossip columnists had recently reported that the chit cried off the engagement, Charlotte must be ecstatic, thinking this was her second chance.

  “I received a letter from my cousin in the post this morning,” she went on, clearly warming up to her point. “She said you had sent your regrets. You simply must attend. You must. Tristan is going to be there.”

  “That’s nice,” he muttered. “Have fun.”

  She started wringing her hands. “You simply must come, Rothbury. As my friend, you must support me. How ever am I supposed to withstand being in the same room with him after all that has happened between us?”

  “Avoid him, then,” he offered with a shrug. “It’s sure to be a crush, packed to the ceiling with guests. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

  “But I need you. How else am I to implement my plan?”

  Momentarily speechless by her declaration of “needing” him, his mind quickly scrambled to refocus. Plan? Rothbury stilled. “What plan?”

  “Well, as you know, you owe me the sum of one favor.”

  “Oh, Christ,” he murmured, running a hand through his tousled mane.

  “Wait,” she said gently. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

  “I don’t have to. I already know.”

  “You couldn’t possibly.”

  “I am not a matchmaker, Charlotte.”

  “I’m not asking for you to do such a thing. You of all people know your friend better than anyone. Perhaps better than his own family.”

  “Perhaps not. Listen. You’re close friends with the duke’s bride. Why not pester them into helping you leg-shackle the man?”

  She looked to the ground. “They’re still in Wales, presently. Besides, they’re against the match.”

  “Doesn’t that tell you something
then? His own family thinks he’ll make you miserable.”

  “They don’t understand,” she said shaking her head. “You don’t understand. He promised—”

  “Men promise a lot of things when lust runs hot and steady under their skin.”

  “We’ve been through this before. I do not inspire such feelings.”

  And Rothbury knew she truly believed that. It was all there in her eyes. Open and sincere, anxious and hopeful.

  “But I want to change that,” she whispered, meeting his gaze hesitantly, “with your help.”

  Rothbury’s jaw tightened as he smothered a curse.

  She took a step toward him. He went to take a step back, but he found himself against a wall.

  “Charlotte, I cannot help you.” He shook his head, turning away from the hope flaring in her eyes, making them bright, making him wish…well, making him wish for things he had no business wishing for. “I have problems of my own,” he muttered.

  “All I need is your advice…on how to attract Tristan in such a fashion that he’ll go mad for wanting me for his own. I want him to look at me again. But this time I want him to realize it was me he should have picked the first time. I want to make him jealous, Rothbury. Will you help me?”

  He closed his eyes momentarily. What could it hurt? A few orchestrated trysts here, some advice there. A couple of days and she’d be satisfied. Or more likely, frustrated. Once Harriet cried off, Tristan finally admitted he’d proposed to the girl in haste. And now that he no longer needed to marry and carry on the family line because his older brother was happily fulfilling that obligation, Tristan was free to be the debauching, carousing, wastrel of a second son. Charlotte may have turned his head a time or two, but his friend wasn’t interested in marriage any longer.

  But what did he know. Rothbury didn’t spend his days sitting in Tristan’s pocket. Certainly, he wasn’t privy to his friend’s every thought.

  Wait…She had said “jealous,” hadn’t she?

  He jerked his head in her direction. “Did you say you want to make him jealous?”

  “Quite.”

  “As in…revenge?”

  “Yes,” she said impatiently, widening those sapphire eyes of hers.

  “So you do not want…you do not intend to win him now that he’s free?”

  “No,” she replied in a small voice, her tone not as firm as Rothbury wanted it to be.

  “Charlotte, you naughty little thing. Why, I ought to take you across my lap and—”

  “Oh stop it, Rothbury,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Perhaps a decent amount of groveling will do.”

  “Groveling? Begging is better.”

  At her sigh of frustration, he chuckled. “All right. I’ll be serious. Please, proceed.”

  “Of course, I don’t intend for this to go on and on. I have other things do and I must work quickly. Time is of the essence. This is to be my last Season. I simply must ensnare another suitor before my mother makes other plans. Perhaps you could go over my list of proper husbands while we’re there?”

  A proper husband. Something inside him jerked with a stab of pain.

  Quick as it came, he brushed the thought aside, thinking instead of the matter at hand.

  So, he had misunderstood her. Good. He liked this version better. Now at least, he had an excuse to flirt with Charlotte to his heart’s content. He didn’t know if any of it would work, but it still sounded like fun.

  Fun? Or torture?

  He shook his head, sighing in resignation.

  “Hullo?” She waved a hand in the general direction of his face as if to wake him from a stupor. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I’ll help you. But I cannot promise you the results that you seek.”

  She bounced where she stood, clasping her hands together. Rothbury couldn’t help but smile. Was he such a bowl of pudding, then? Probably. But he suspected it had something to do with embracing an opportunity to spend more time with a chit who always made him bite back a smile, even while she frustrated him to hell and back.

  “Oh, thank you! Thank you,” she chirped, surprising him by bounding across the room and clasping him tight for a quick hug.

  His arms hung heavy and loose at his sides during her gentle siege.

  Rothbury had enchanted exotic opera singers into returning to his bed time and again. He had warmed coldhearted courtesans into confessing their undying love and he had seduced a number of beautiful, feisty women who were just as fickle in picking their lovers as he was. But Charlotte’s hug unsettled him, knocked him off balance, one might say.

  He didn’t want her to let go. But he wouldn’t dare bring up his arms to hold her either. Without a doubt he knew if he indulged himself, all he felt, all he thought, would be exposed in the warmth of his embrace. And then there would be no turning back. He would be bared, revealed, humiliated.

  All too soon, she pulled away.

  Leaving him, Charlotte started to flounce to the windows and then returned just as quickly.

  “Yes,” Rothbury joked, “do use the stairs to leave.”

  She shook her head. “I almost forgot.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My costume. With all those guests, how ever will you be able to spot me in the crowd?”

  “You’re not walking home,” he said, deliberately changing the subject. Honestly, he didn’t want to know what or whom she was going dressed as. It would only inflame his imagination, create more wicked fodder for his dreams, and cause him undue agony. “My carriage will take you and your burly kitchen maid home.”

  “You don’t want to know?”

  “I am certain I will be able to find you. Don’t fret.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you.” She gave him a small, knowing smile. “You’ll be happy to know that Lady Rosalind will be there as well.”

  “Lady Rosalind, eh?”

  “Indeed,” she said with a wide smile. “Are you not excited?”

  Oh, who the hell was he fooling? He was too tired to fake his interest in that woman right now. So he merely raised a brow and hoped it appeared sincere. “I can hardly contain myself, my dear.”

  Chapter 6

  A Gentleman is welcomed by all.

  The Hawthornes’ Costume Ball

  Northumberland

  “Lord Rothbury is forbidden.”

  Charlotte gave her mother a dutiful nod, furrowing her brow for effect lest her mother suspect she wasn’t paying attention, or worse, not taking the dire warning seriously.

  “I realize we’ve become quite desperate,” Hyacinth Greene stressed with all the maternal protectiveness she could muster, “but his lordship is not the answer.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Pay absolutely no attention to him.”

  “Naturally.”

  As if any female with a pulse could possibly ignore Rothbury.

  Perched on a gilded chaise lounge alongside her mother, a betraying warmth spread up Charlotte’s neck and fanned to her cheeks. She had always been a deplorable liar, her skin forever turning splotchy pink and giving her away. Good thing for her that her mother was always too preoccupied to notice.

  Hyacinth cleared her throat, apparently noticing Charlotte’s flagging attention. “You wouldn’t want to scare any possible beaus away by being seen consorting with that scoundrel, would you?”

  Possible beaus? What were those again? Ah, yes. Elusive creatures, those.

  Charlotte waved a dismissive hand in the air. “You may rest assured,” she said wryly, “I am perfectly safe from him.” Her mother worried needlessly. She wasn’t a sniveling debutante. “If Lord Rothbury had any interest in me, I’d know. He’d make sure of it.”

  As when she so stupidly climbed into his room in order to make certain he would be attending this costume ball. And what a frustrating evening it was turning out to be.

  Her mother had been watching her as if she were a pickpocket, making sure Charlotte never ventured anywhere nea
r Lord Rothbury. Tristan arrived late and then proceeded to spend the better half of the rest of the evening in the card room. But she still held hope that her plan of inspiring jealousy would be implemented.

  “He has a look about him tonight,” Hyacinth remarked, worry evident in her tone. “Like he’s on the hunt. It’s quite unsettling. Quite.”

  “Please, do not worry over me. I’ll be fine.”

  She conceded, however, that there was some substance to her mother’s trepidation about Lord Rothbury. That is, if Rothbury suddenly acquired an appetite for spectacle-wearing wallflowers who wore hideous costumes to masquerade balls per annum in order to please their mothers.

  No. She shook her head, disrupting the plethora of bows and ribbons adorning the frumpy contraption called a bonnet on her head. Highly improbable.

  “You must admit,” Charlotte said with an impish grin, anticipating her mother’s animated reaction with her next words, “his lordship does look positively tempting this evening.”

  “Charlotte!” Her mother’s cheeks reddened. Gently, she swatted at her daughter’s lap with her open fan. “That fact should be of no consequence to you…or me.” She cleared her throat. “Just promise your dear mother you’ll stay clear of Lord Rothbury, will you? Don’t do anything that would snag the rogue’s attention. Your costume is rather beguiling.”

  Er…. right. With great effort, Charlotte refrained from twirling her eyes. She wasn’t the type of woman to place wagers, but she’d be willing to drop a tidy sum on the odds that “shepherdess” costumes weren’t lust inducing.

  Next to her, Hyacinth yawned. Charlotte gave her mother one last reassuring smile, then sighed.

  At two and twenty, Charlotte had come to that point in her life where she was beyond wanting to shed her wallflower status. She held no shame that she was more an observer of life than a participant, and that she would very likely someday become a spinster. A lot of women did.

  With the exception of Rothbury, she often stammered her way into realizing she wanted nothing more than to fade into the background instead of being the center of attention. She knew who she was and what she desired in life.