To Wed a Wicked Earl

by Olivia Parker

  As both women collided, Lady G remained upright, steadying herself with an elegant hand braced on the wall.

  Charlotte, however, wasn’t so lucky. She tripped over what she would have sworn was m’ lady’s own dainty foot, and found herself and the stupid shepherd’s crook flying to the floor. She landed on her hands and knees with a jolt.

  “My word,” Lady Gilton said with a soft chuckle. “In a terrible rush, are you?”

  Easing back to her haunches, Charlotte breathed deeply while she waited for the throbbing ache in her jarred knees to subside. “Pardon me,” she breathed, “I didn’t see you.”

  “Funny, that,” Lady Gilton said with a smirk that Charlotte couldn’t see as much as she could hear. “Do you not agree? I mean, considering that for once in your life you were actually wearing your spectacles inside a ballroom.”

  Good Lord, her spectacles! They must have flown off her nose when she fell. Never mind the beautiful woman with the tart tongue who was now slinking back toward the ballroom without so much as a by your leave.

  She patted the floor frantically, sighing in relief when she found them. Hurriedly, she put them on, thankful that they hadn’t been broken.

  Taking care to stand, Charlotte retrieved her crook and continued down the shadowed corridor, albeit slower and with a noticeable limp.

  She jiggled the handle of the first door she came to, but it was locked tight. Ignoring the wild beat of her heart, she tried the next door. She gave a sigh of relief as it opened easily on well-oiled hinges, making nary a sound.

  Silently, she slipped inside, surprised to find the cluttered room awash in golden candlelight radiating from the elaborate brass sconces set on the far wall.

  Softly closing the door behind her back, Charlotte took a brief inspection of the cluttered room. A vast array of stacked chairs, settees, tables, tall armoires, and other unidentifiable articles of furniture sat covered in either dust or swaths of white sheets. Linens were draped along the walls of bookcases, presumably to keep dust or paint from reaching them.

  Charlotte’s brow furrowed. Why on earth would Lizzie’s mother order such a room to be lit? She shrugged, dismissing the thought.

  Stepping deeper inside, she nearly tripped over a plump, tasseled pillow leaning against the leg of a chair. Using her shepherd’s crook, she poked it out of her way.

  And that’s when she heard it. A soft swish. Like that of someone adjusting their position.

  A shiver spilled down her spine and the air felt heavy. She remained perfectly still. Perhaps it was a cat, she thought. Then she heard it again. And again, the swishing noise becoming more persistent and agitated like someone or something was struggling to free itself.

  A grunt, definitely a man’s grunt, came from the back of the room.

  Her instincts told her to leave, to get the bloody hell out of the room. Now. But something else made her stay. Be it curiosity, or blatant stupidity.

  With silent footsteps, she crept around a tall, wide armoire blocking her view from the full length of the room.

  And what a view there was to behold. Her mouth dropped open and she quite forgot to breathe.

  There, on a spindle-legged chair positioned against the far wall under the warm glow of the twin sconces, sat Lord Rothbury, blindfolded with his own cravat, his hands tied together, secured behind the back of the chair.

  In vain, she tried to swallow, only it felt as if her throat had been doused with sand.

  Good Lord! Why on earth was he tied up?

  His shirt lay open, displaying the tawny skin of his broad chest, his flat nipples, and the sparse golden hairs that brushed the plane of his muscled stomach. Her greedy eyes remained fastened on that sleek, bare stomach, mesmerized by the rise and fall of each breath he took.

  A voice in the back of her mind told her she should look away. After all, he was sin embodied. But what a sight he was for her starved eyes.

  His dark blond locks lay in splendid disarray and he gave his head a quick jerk, tossing away the hair that fell across his forehead. He was unsuccessful, the silky strands sliding back into their former position. He blew out his frustration on a low growl.

  Just what the earl was doing tied up, in an arousing state of undress no less, in one of their hostess’s spare rooms, Charlotte did not know. She could only imagine it had something to do with his amorous pursuits. But he had gone off with Lady Gilton and Charlotte had just bumped into the woman. Surely they couldn’t have done whatever it was they intended to do in such a short time. Could they?

  Well, what she did know, however, was that she was an idiot for befriending a rake and then expecting him to behave properly and make good on his promises.

  She desperately needed to get out of this room. If anyone should happen upon this room and the picture it presented, her reputation would be utterly ruined. She turned to leave…no matter how shamefully intriguing his position happened to be.

  “Whatever your little game is, count me out,” Rothbury’s cultured voice cut through the room. “I’ve business to attend to. And you have no right to be angry. Untie me now, Cordelia.”

  Charlotte gasped, clapping her hand over her mouth. Why would Lady Gilton leave him here?

  Her face and neck ignited with heat. “You are shameless,” she whispered heatedly.

  Imagine, delving into risky love-play when scores of people milled about down the hall in the ballroom. She had never known, only wondered, of the games lovers played behind closed doors. Indeed, the Earl of Rothbury was a wicked, wicked man.

  But still, she mused, looking at him with a thoughtful tilt of her head. He did look rather…helpless.

  Rumpled and vulnerable. Like a beautiful, restrained beast, his bonds gave the illusion he was approachable, harmless, when in fact he was just as dangerous or rather even more so now because of his budding fury.

  What if he was a victim of some trick? Who would have ever found him? Perhaps she should untie him.

  No. She shook her head. She would not. His deviant, greedy mind got him in his current position and she didn’t care what happened to the rogue. Shaking her head, she silently chastened herself for trusting him with her friendship. In fact, maybe he wasn’t much of a friend after all.

  Her parents were right to forbid her to be anywhere near Rothbury. He was depraved. Immoral. Irredeemable.

  And he could bloody well keep the favor he owed her. She didn’t want it any longer.

  She turned to leave, tiptoeing toward the door.

  Skirting around a pedestal table, she looked up at the door across the room and frowned, hesitating.

  As soon as she walked out that door, everything would go back to the way it was before. She still would be shy Charlotte, sweet Charlotte, never-even-came-close-to-kissing-a-man-before Charlotte.

  Tomorrow would come and she would still be unmarried, with no future prospects other than Witherby. At the end of the year she’d probably find herself unhappily married to him, forever joined. Good Lord, she most definitely would have to kiss him, wouldn’t she?

  Reaching the door, she placed her hand on the brass knob. She would never in her life forget the arousing sight of Lord Rothbury in such a scandalizing position.

  Maybe just one more look. It’s not at all like it was back in his bedchamber. He doesn’t even know you’re here. You can look all you want.

  Turning back, she took one silent step toward him.

  For quite some time Charlotte had felt like she’d been sitting life out…and she was getting dashed tired of it.

  “No more,” she whispered. Grabbing a nearby chair, she shoved it under the doorknob, effectively barring Lady Gilton, or anyone else for that matter, from entering the room.

  Tonight, or at least this moment, she was going to do exactly what she wanted to do. Hang the consequences.

  She was about to take matters into her own hands for a change. And right now, she wanted to find out what it was like to kiss a scoundrel.

  “Who’s
there?” Rothbury nearly growled, straining against his binds, the muscles in his gloriously tanned arms bunching and tightening.

  She didn’t answer him. Instead, she took a deep breath and padded purposefully toward the earl, kicking another slumping tasseled pillow aside and tossing aside her shepherd’s crook.

  Tied up and blindfolded as he was, she would have her way and be out the door before he could ever guess who she was. Indeed, he might even think she was his curiously absent lover.

  And once he’d returned to the ballroom, she would have herself a secret smile. He’d never know, he’d never guess his shy friend would dare to taste forbidden fruit. Besides, what damage could one little kiss do?

  Chapter 9

  A Gentleman employs the library for study purposes only.

  Rothbury inhaled the familiar lemon-tinged air wafting before him. He remained silent, ignoring the zing of awareness thrumming through him, and listened for the sound of footfalls instead.

  Whoever had entered the room, it was definitely a young woman. He’d bet one of his prized Arabians on it, but it wasn’t Cordelia. She smelled perpetually of pungent roses, which he had been partial to in the beginning of their short love affair, but which now merely reminded him that the woman connected to it was just as clingy and thorny as the flower itself.

  But this scent—he inhaled deeply as it now surrounded him—inspired contentment, which was a miracle in itself, considering all he wanted to do presently was break free, find Lady Gilton, and throttle her elegant neck.

  “Who’s there?” Rothbury demanded, his tone firm but quiet. He pulled at the twisted silk binds holding his wrists together behind him, noting they were finally starting to tear. “Come now,” he said in a tone he used on skittish horses. “Tell me who’s there.”

  Silence, but for the gentle rustle of a skirt. She was coming closer—he could feel it, hear it. The air changed, his senses telling him she now stood before him.

  And she was trembling, he could hear it in her breath, almost feel it shuddering against his skin.

  Who the bloody hell was in this room and why would they not reveal themselves?

  Aggravated and growing impatient, he made a fist, the weakening silk tearing silently. In another minute he would be free.

  Heat blossomed in front of him. He had the distinct impression that the woman was hesitating. He worked to remain virtually motionless as he tore more of the silk.

  His cheek twitched as a strand of hair tickled his skin.

  Her hair. She must be bending over him.

  His lips parted, but before he could form a single syllable, tightly pursed lips pressed over his.

  Evidently, a puckering statue had kissed him.

  Whoever the untutored woman was, she pulled away before his body could decide whether or not he would have liked to deepen the kiss.

  Just then, one of his hands finally slipped through the torn binds. She gasped. Quickly, he pulled his other hand free, his first thought to rid himself of the tight blindfold. But he didn’t want to take the chance that she’d get away before he could take it off.

  So instead he swiped blindly in her direction. He found nothing but air.

  She was getting away.

  With no time to react, he stood, rolling his stiff shoulders. He lunged toward the sound of her flight…and then promptly whacked his knee on the corner of a table. He howled in pain.

  The woman in the room, strangely, crooned in sympathy. In fact, it sounded as if she was torn between the decision to continue her mad dash out of the room or run back to assist him.

  Unfortunately for her, the sound of her voice told Rothbury exactly where she was in relation to him. He found her, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her back solidly against him.

  “Oompf!” Charlotte couldn’t believe her luck. Or lack thereof. She screeched, spinning in his hold. Clearly, Lord Rothbury wanted her to be still so he could remove his blindfold and discover just who had the gall to kiss him, but she didn’t plan on affording him the opportunity. She twisted fitfully, hoping her jerky movements would require him to use both of his arms to subdue her.

  It became apparent, however, as she pushed against the wall of his hard, bare chest, that he was equally determined to have his way and needed only one arm to hold her tightly against him. As she squirmed and pushed at him, he stood perfectly still and solid, his grip on her waist like a velvet manacle.

  Still, she managed to jar his elbow just before he could push up the blindfold.

  “Damn it, woman. Hold still!”

  “Let me go,” she ordered between her teeth.

  Amidst their scuffling, Charlotte’s feet became entangled with part of a sheet that had been draped over the table his lordship had banged his knee on. She toppled backward, the tasseled pillow she had kicked out of the way earlier thankfully making the fall on her rump less jarring.

  Rothbury followed her down—not because he lost his footing, Charlotte suspected, but for the simple fact he wasn’t about to let her get away.

  Tangled up in sheets and pillows, Charlotte scrambled rearward on her back using her elbows and heels. But the earl was too quick—even with the blindfold still in place.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” he said with dark amusement. He crawled stealthily toward her, like a stalking panther, his tousled dark blond locks completely loose and hanging in his face. “You’re not going anywhere until I find out who you are.”

  The muscles of his chest rippled with his movements. For a second Charlotte felt paralyzed by her fascination. He was mesmerizing. Hesitating, she had to remind herself to keep moving backward, for some wicked part of her wanted to do nothing more than wait for him to catch her.

  Unerringly, his large hand clamped down on her ankle to keep her from scooting away while his other hand tried to lift the wound linen from his eyes.

  In vain, she attempted to shake her imprisoned ankle free, but Rothbury’s gentle hold was unflinching.

  What a fool she was to think he was helpless! Her instincts spurred her into alternate action. Using the heel of her free foot, she kicked him in the shoulder.

  He grunted in pain. “Why you little…”

  And then in a swift, calculating move, Rothbury sprang forward, covering her body with his own.

  For a second her breath felt trapped in her chest and she was instantly immobile underneath his weight. His warm, hard thigh sat heavy between hers.

  Panting from exertion, a shameful lick of heat ignited deep in her belly. Effortlessly, he joined her wrists together, holding them above her head with only one hand while the long, blunt-tipped fingers of the other trailed a silky path down her cheek.

  “Who are you?” he whispered.

  Her breath hitched at the explosion of feeling and thought thrumming through her. He looked so dominant above her, so beautiful, like he was created specifically for seduction. None of her wicked imaginings had prepared her for the plethora of sensations he sparked with only his fingertips upon her face.

  Belatedly, she realized her body refused to listen to her mind. She had quit squirming. In fact, she had begun to relish the intoxicating feel of his long, lean-muscled body atop hers. His warm, bare chest pressed onto her bodice, his solid thigh planted firmly against her sex.

  Her eyes dipped to his mouth, which was partially open, baring his straight white teeth. All she would have to do was arch her neck and her mouth would fasten to his.

  She shivered, surprised and ashamed at the way her body reacted to him. She needed to escape before he discovered her identity.

  But her mind warred between what was right and what felt wonderful. In the end, years of dire warnings from her pious father about the sins of the flesh returned at least some of her good sense.

  “Get off of me,” she demanded, albeit weakly.

  “Absolutely not,” he growled, his breath feathering hotly against her mouth, her cheek, her neck. “I’ll not let you get away now. Not before I find out who you are. Wa
nted a taste, did you?”

  His dark words spurred a thought to flit through her mind. Would he take her? He could if he wanted to, she realized with growing concern. Suddenly she regretted all those gothic novels she had read in the past. Tales of titillating horror, passionate embraces, men on the verge of losing their self-control, some of them succumbing to their base needs.

  Part of her thought to tell him it was only she, his friend, but Charlotte was too embarrassed by the stolen kiss to admit her identity. She simply had to get away.

  She twisted her wrists. He was so heavy atop her and at least ten times stronger. With only his weight he pinned her beneath him, with only one hand he held her two wrists together. She was utterly helpless.

  Thankfully, he had stopped causing shivers to streak down her spine just by the inquisitive brush of his fingertips. Now, he was using those fingers to busily work his cravat from the cover of his eyes.

  Just wait, Charlotte’s conscience reminded her. Just wait till he sees who you are. Could anyone truly perish from mortification alone?

  He’ll spring off of you as if you were nothing but a bramble bush. And that’s what she wanted. Wasn’t it? Dear heavens, what was wrong with her? Didn’t she want to get out from under him? Hadn’t she been trying to escape from him barely moments ago?

  With a grunt, Rothbury shifted his weight. All he wanted to do right now was remove the damn blindfold. One-handed, it was a surprisingly difficult thing to do. Especially if there was a mysterious woman panting beneath him.

  No sooner had that thought entered his mind when the woman bucked beneath him, throwing him off balance. The movement allowed her a small space to bring up her knee and catch him in the groin.

  He grunted and collapsed off to the side, curling into a ball. “I suppose I deserved that,” he squeaked out at an octave higher than his usual.

  Sounds of tripping and scuffling ensued. The door was thrown open and then slammed shut behind her. His little kiss stealer was, regrettably, getting away.