To Wed a Wicked Earl

by Olivia Parker

  Rothbury waited for the radiating throb of pain to dull into an ache. He then wildly tossed off the blindfold with frustrated, impatient hands.

  What the devil was that all about?

  He stood, hands on hips, catching his breath and staring at the door for several moments. Shaking his head, he decided to dress and see if he could find her, though all he had to go on was a scent and pair of tightly pursed lips.

  His face pulled into a scowl as he buttoned his shirt. What he should do right now is seek out Lady Gilton. But really, why bother? He knew why she tied him up and left him there.

  When they had started their little game in the library, he was an active participant, but once the blindfold went on, an image of a Charlotte flitted through his mind. He didn’t expect her to be there lurking amid his memories and was certain all thoughts of her would simply vanish when the viscountess placed her greedy hands on him, but they hadn’t. The images grew brighter and vibrant.

  And suddenly what he was doing with Cordelia, what he was going to do with her, wasn’t so stimulating any longer. The viscountess had sensed his rather obvious waning interest, had become angry—most likely a little worried she’d lost her touch as well—and left him there to rot.

  After creating a loose knot in his cravat, Rothbury crossed the room. Just as he was about to grasp the door handle, the toe of his boot nudged something that clunked. He looked down, astonishment washing over his face.

  The light scent of lemons.

  As he stood there staring down at the damning shepherd’s crook, a myriad of feelings coursed through him. He was bewildered. Shocked. Mystified. In a state of disbelief. And, he might as well admit, incredibly aroused.

  His mouth quirked with a lopsided grin as he bent to pluck it from the floor. Sweet Lord, he had found his mystery woman.

  Chapter 10

  A Gentleman eschews all forms of duplicity.

  Breathless from her dash out of the library, Charlotte forced herself to a more sedate pace so as not to draw undue attention.

  Besides, it was unlikely Rothbury would come charging out of the library half dressed, bent on chasing down the fool who had thought to steal a kiss. Even someone as wicked as he wouldn’t do something so shocking. Or at least she prayed he wouldn’t.

  Hoping to blend back into the crowd, Charlotte decided to return to her dozing mother.

  How foolish she had been, she thought, shaking her head. Clearly she had stepped over an invisible boundary into a world she had no business sticking her nose into. Or her lips for that matter.

  And really, she could push aside her compulsion for daydreaming about Rothbury. The mystery was gone. She had kissed him, she thought with a shrug, and there was nothing remarkable about it at all.

  The earth didn’t shift under her feet, her knees didn’t buckle, and she certainly didn’t feel like swooning. Surely, she could even discount the pulsing heat she had felt when he threw himself atop her as the effects of being jarred by her fall.

  This revelation only further assured her that she was indeed safe from the rogue and his sinful wiles. Just why she had to keep assuring herself of this, she had no idea.

  Rounding a grouping of chairs, she decided it would take forever to push her way through the throng of guests, so she decided to turn down a short corridor that would open to the other side of the ballroom. The air was cooler here and the shadowed floor stretched out empty before her, free of people. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  Unfortunately for Charlotte, her relief was premature.

  She was only about five feet from the opening when she felt cold, thin fingers give the flesh on the back on her arm a revolting squeeze. Revolting, because she knew exactly who stood behind her.

  Whirling around, she smothered a groan.

  Dressed as a Roman god, Viscount Witherby displayed more pale, tissue-like skin than she’d thought she’d ever care to see in her lifetime. He came up beside her and waggled his white, bushy eyebrows at her in a gesture he no doubt thought was charming and friendly, but in actuality caused Charlotte to shudder in aversion.

  “You look so very beautiful, Miss Greene.”

  “Thank you,” she muttered.

  His probing gaze swept over the white, frilly layers of her dreadful frock, finally coming to a stop at the crisscross lacing of her bodice. “Are you…are you a milkmaid?”

  “I’m a shepherdess, my lord.” She took a deep breath and remembered she had a weapon. The shepherd’s crook. Silently, she vowed to whack his knuckles with it should he raise a finger in her direction…Wait…

  Her heart leaped. She turned her head from side to side, searching. “Oh, no,” she groaned. “Wherever did I leave it?”

  “Leave what, poppet?” Witherby nearly crooned.

  A jolt of panic ran down her spine. She spun in a circle, searching the floor about her in vain.

  “What have you lost?”

  She swallowed and forced herself to take a calming breath.

  Surely, there was no need to worry over the whereabouts of the crook, was there?

  “Oh, never mind,” she rushed out.

  “Are you well?” Witherby asked, cocking his head to the side.

  “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” But she was not fine. Her mind raced to remember where she left the dratted thing.

  And then it felt as if all the air in her lungs sank to her knees, if such a thing were possible, when realization dawned.

  I must have left it in the library.

  Would Rothbury find it? She prayed the answer was no. But if he did find it, would he know it belonged to her? There was a chance he wouldn’t.

  There was also a chance he was still rolling around on the floor from a kick to the groin. She grimaced and hoped he had recovered. It wasn’t her intention to hurt him so terribly.

  Witherby drew her attention by reaching into his pocket and pulling out his monocle. With the lens crammed in front of it, his eye appeared twice its normal size as he boldly studied her bodice. “Would you do me the honor and dance with me this next set?” he asked her bosom.

  “Well…I, ah…that is to say…” Charlotte threw a desperate glance about the room.

  “I believe it is a waltz…the last of the evening. And there is something of utmost importance I’ve been waiting to discuss with you.”

  And then Charlotte knew, just knew, that if she went off with Witherby, he’d make an offer for her hand in marriage.

  Good Lord, she did not want to dance with this man. She didn’t want to marry this man. All she wanted to do was grab her mother and race back into her room to hide from Rothbury. She didn’t even care where the devil Lord Tristan had gone. But what excuse could she use that she hadn’t already used a hundred times before? She’d already exhausted every excuse imaginable in the past. She needed something fresh. Her mind scrambled for a solid reason.

  Perhaps she should dance with him, her mind rebelled. Perhaps then, if his lordship should spy her, he might think she had been in the ballroom this entire time.

  But then she ran the risk of encouraging the viscount. And that was something she wanted to avoid even more than Rothbury’s probing gaze.

  “What I mean to say, sir, is that I…” A curious heat spread across her back. She ignored it.

  “Yes?” Witherby inquired, his eyes flicking above her head for a moment, making her wonder if her bonnet was in a horrid state after the tumble in the library.

  Lord, the heat spreading over the span of her back made her feel quite like she stood too close to a coal stove.

  “I cannot dance with you because I…well…” She cleared her throat. “…That is to say…”

  “Miss Greene cannot dance with you,” a deep, smooth voice rumbled behind her, “because she has already promised the next to me.”

  She swallowed a lurch of dread, instantly recognizing to whom the sultry, lazy drawl belonged.

  Witherby recoiled at the intrusion. “I say,” he replied, looking up at Rothbury with
distrust, “no wonder the young lady hesitated over my offer. I know for a fact Miss Greene is not permitted to dance with you.”

  Rothbury only chortled, low and deep. Charlotte could feel it thrum through her spine and down to the soles of her slippered feet.

  Turning, she stole a sidelong glance at him. He stood with his feet braced firmly on the floor, his hands behind his back. His burnished gold hair was swept back into place but for a thick lock that hung low on one side of his forehead.

  His hooded eyes stared down Witherby as he gave a lopsided grin that on any other man, she supposed, would appear utterly charming in a boyish sort of way. On Rothbury’s handsome face, however, it looked watchful, lethal. Quite like he was silently daring Witherby to touch her just so Rothbury could have the pleasure of breaking his fingers.

  And, Charlotte was happy to note, he did not have her shepherd’s crook in his possession. This of course meant that he hadn’t found it in the library, so he couldn’t have any idea she was the one to steal a kiss.

  His gaze flicked briefly to her before settling again on the aging viscount. “Why don’t we ask Miss Greene where her interest resides?”

  A shiver brushed over her skin. They both knew that in public he couldn’t address her informally, should someone overhear. However, no matter how formal “Miss Greene” might be, when it rolled off Rothbury’s tongue it always managed to sound decidedly improper. Like he knew a wicked secret and wanted to share. However, she feared that this time it wasn’t an act. He had a secret—her secret. And he meant to expose her.

  The viscount puffed out his chest, evidently thinking she would make the correct decision. The easy decision. The safe decision.

  Across the room, the sweeping chords of the violins signaled the waltz.

  At Charlotte’s hesitation, Witherby frowned with disapproval, dragging the wrinkles framing his thin lips downward. “Might I remind you, my dear Miss Greene, that your mother sits just a few feet away? She is watching this entire exchange.”

  So her mother had awakened already. In that case, she must keep her back to Rothbury and not acknowledge his presence. Should her mother realize Rothbury was attempting to keep her from having to dance with Witherby, there was no doubt Charlotte would find herself torn away from Rothbury’s side once again.

  But what was she to do? As distasteful as it would be, dancing with Witherby would save her the embarrassment of having to talk to Rothbury after what she had done, what she had seen. Although he couldn’t possibly know she had witnessed his dishabille, nor that she had kissed him. And waltzing with Rothbury would save her from Witherby.

  She hesitated. True, he would be saving her, but really, it felt more like escaping the jaws of a graying wolf only to step into the lair of a sleek, wily fox.

  However, surely the fox would have eaten her already given that he had ample opportunity. She took a deep, fortifying breath, her mind made up.

  “Indeed, sir. I have promised this dance to Lord Rothbury,” she said, her tone firm.

  “Very well, then.” Witherby bent his head close, his lips hovering over her ear. “If I didn’t know better, young miss, I’d think you were avoiding me. It’s no matter. Good sense will prevail. And when it does, I’ll be waiting. Good evening.” Dropping his monocle back inside his pocket, he bowed deeply and turned to stride away.

  She watched his retreat in silence, strangely grateful that Rothbury had come when he had. Though her shame over her uncharacteristic behavior in the library superseded that admission.

  And there was something else nagging at her mind now that she had time to think on it. What sight would she have beheld if she had come upon Lady Gilton and Rothbury five minutes sooner?

  Her stomach roiled, suddenly queasy. She swallowed, trying her best to suppress the feeling and whatever nameless emotion that caused it.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, turning her chin barely an inch so that she could discern in her peripheral vision that he yet stood behind her. Although really, the heat emanating from his body onto hers was proof enough.

  Though she liked to dance with Rothbury, his offer was meant only as a way to save her from Witherby. They both knew they couldn’t dance now. Not here. Not now that her mother took it upon herself to guard Charlotte’s heart with the ferociousness of an alley cat. For once she was glad for it. She suddenly didn’t want to be in his arms; her reaction to his body in the library frightened her.

  She cleared her throat. “Is that the second, third, or fourth time you’ve come to my rescue? If you don’t watch yourself, you’ll be bound to turn yourself into a gentleman. With or without my help.”

  Closing his eyes for a moment, Rothbury inhaled her light lemony scent. At this moment there was nothing in the world he wanted more than for every single guest in this ballroom to disappear so that he could pull Charlotte against him, rip off that silly bonnet, and sink his hands into her hair while sinking his mouth onto her throat. Christ, why did she have to smell so damn good?

  Silently, he cursed himself for not realizing just who exactly it was that he had caught in the library when he had her squirming beneath him. Damn, he would have relished the moment, however brief it would have been, had he known it was Charlotte.

  He did concede however, that it was a good thing for her that he hadn’t known it was Charlotte writhing beneath him at the time. He would have been decidedly, and happily, obliged to expound, in lavish detail, upon the intricacies of an authentic kiss.

  “Oh, I doubt I’ll turn into a gentleman anytime soon,” he drawled from behind her, “if at all.”

  All around them, guests started to traverse the corridor, some on their way to join the dance, some leaving the ballroom to wander elsewhere. The milling crowd afforded a bit of privacy as her mother’s view was now, undoubtedly, blocked as people passed them by. And even if her mother sprang out of her seat to put an immediate stop to their conversation, it would take her at least ten minutes to cross the room. They could talk for now. Even if for a moment.

  “Are you enjoying yourself this evening, Miss Greene?”

  She nodded, thinking it safe now to face him.

  “Good,” he said, offering her a wicked grin when her eyes lifted to his. “I believe all young women, especially those timid and retiring ones like yourself, should embark on new horizons…try new things, if you will. I undoubtedly approve and, in fact, encourage, you to indulge your most wicked fantasies. Speaking of which, did you happen to lose something?”

  Familiar pricks of embarrassment, not to mention dread, scattered over her senses. “Ah. N-no, no I haven’t.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Suddenly, he brought forth her shepherd’s crook from behind his back.

  Her heartbeat felt as if it tripped over itself. She swallowed, determined to admit nothing and think clearly. There was a chance she could convince him of some other story.

  She forced a look of surprise. “Oh, look at that! I put that cumbersome thing down, oh…must have been an age ago. Forgot all about it, I did. Thank you, my lord. How silly of me to misplace it.”

  His laughing eyes sparkled with mischief. “Misplaced it, eh?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She nodded, pressing her lips together. That, at least, was the truth.

  “Tell me, I cannot help but wonder…where do think you happened to leave it behind?”

  She lifted her shoulders.

  One side of his mouth curved upward. “What’s the matter? Have you suddenly become tongue-tied? I find that hard to believe, given that the few times we have been in each other’s company you have never failed to find words.”

  A telltale hot blush began to creep its way up her neck. “I-I suddenly find I no longer wish to talk, or dance for that matter. If you’ll excuse me, my lord.” She made a grab for the crook.

  Smoothly, he leaned it away from her reach, which caused Charlotte to stumble forward. Her chest pressed into the solid wall of his chest. He didn’
t move an inch to help her set herself back from him. He only stared down at her with that half-amused, half-seductive grin of his.

  “Well,” he said darkly, his rich, deep voice intoxicating her as it lured her in. “Would you like to explain why you kissed me, Charlotte? Couldn’t control yourself, I imagine?”

  Gaining her balance, she shoved herself away from him and took a deep calming breath, before glaring at the crook still in his grasp. Secretly, she wished she could trip him with it.

  “Hardly,” she said with a sniff. She refused to be one of those females who contributed daily to the size of his ego. “It was a simple case of curiosity, ’tis all.”

  “And has your curiosity been appeased?”

  “Quite. I no longer wonder what kissing is like,” she added, batting at a drooping loop of ribbon that hung close to her eyes. “Truly, I found it rather…mundane.”

  His expression turned contemplative. “How interesting.”

  “Why is that interesting to you?”

  “You see,” he said, dragging a hand over his jaw. “I find that my curiosity has increased tenfold by your actions.”

  “Really?” she asked, realizing with a start that she sounded incredibly engrossed in his confession. She cleared her throat. “Really?” she repeated again, this time injecting a cool indifference.

  Nodding slowly, he shifted his weight, moving closer to her by only an inch, but his body heat seemed to engulf her. Whiskey-colored eyes seemed to devour her, making her feel like she was being drawn toward him though her feet remained unmoved. “Evidently, I have greatly underestimated you.”

  She swallowed hard. “If you keep looking at me like that, we’re sure to draw attention. Can we just forget about the entire affair and move on to a different subject?”

  “And which subject would that be? Lord Tristan or Witherbottom?”

  “Witherby,” she stressed.

  “Whomever.”

  “And no, I definitely do not want to talk about him.”

  “Am I to understand that old frump intends to marry you someday?”