To Wed a Wicked Earl

by Olivia Parker

  She said nothing, only sighed. It was all very obvious.

  “And your mother and father, no doubt, encourage his intentions?” he asked, his tone incredulous.

  “Perhaps,” she said with a shrug. “He has been a friend to my parents since I was a child. It’s really none of your concern.”

  “Well, it damn well should be someone’s concern.”

  Viscount Witherby, renowned in the underworld of society for having a secret fascination with very young girls, had undoubtedly set his sickening sights on his Charlotte long ago. Though much older than Witherby’s usual fare, Charlotte on occasion looked a lot younger than she really was. Perhaps that was what drew the viscount’s twisted attention.

  But Rothbury couldn’t very well march into the Greenes’ town house in London and point a finger at their longtime acquaintance. Who would believe him? He imagined it would be quite like hiring a man-eating lion to protect her from a hungry bear. He might kill the bear, but what would stop him from gobbling her up for himself afterward?

  “Come now,” he said softly, redirecting his thoughts. “You can tell me. I’ll listen. I could even make certain Witherby never bothers you again if you should wish.”

  “And why would you go to the trouble?”

  “We are friends.”

  She lifted her chin. “No. I’ve decided to renege my offer.”

  “That’s not very sporting of you.”

  “I find I don’t care,” she answered, coolly.

  “I do.”

  “Perhaps you should go find Lady Gilton, then,” she blurted, now finding interest in the lace of her glove. “She seemed to be up for sport of some sort.”

  He stilled. Was she jealous? He wondered if she would believe him if he told her that even though his intentions were quite wicked, he had quickly lost interest in what Cordelia was offering him. That he thought of her, Charlotte, so much that he simply couldn’t continue.

  No, she wouldn’t believe him and he couldn’t blame her. He still wasn’t sure he believed it himself.

  The idea that she was jealous was ludicrous. Besides, she had been studiously trying to help him find a suitable bride for the past six months.

  No. She wasn’t jealous. Charlotte had no interest in him other than friendship. Although, he mused, she really needed to cease sending him contrary signs. Just why had she kissed him anyway? Was it a dare? A joke? She kept insisting she felt that she was safe from him, but did she honestly believe that? Perhaps she was testing him.

  “Tell me, you’ve decided to take back your offer of friendship based on what grounds?”

  “On the grounds that you are a despicable rogue, sir.”

  “Despicable? Haven’t I just saved you from the hands of that disgusting lovesick goat?”

  “Where is Lord Tristan?” she asked, purposely ignoring him. “He was to come.” Charlotte watched him for several moments, the heat in his gaze slowly evaporating at her mention of his friend’s name.

  A footman passed with a tray laden with goblets of claret. Swiftly, Rothbury plucked two glasses, offered her one, and at her decline, tossed them cleanly down his throat one after the other. “Delayed in the card room once again, I imagine,” he said through a grimace, setting them down on a side table.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked.

  “Do you speak French?”

  What? His question bewildered her for half of a second. Focusing again, she opened her mouth, thinking to explain that while she understood most French with the exception of some country dialects, her pronunciation was below average and she always had trouble conjugating her verbs.

  But upon further contemplation she hesitated. It was quite an odd question for him to ask her at such a time. Just what was he about?

  “Well?” he prodded softly.

  She gave her head a tiny shake. “No, I do not speak French.” It wasn’t a lie. He asked if she could speak French, not understand it.

  “Very well,” he said, the corners of his lips turning downwards in contemplation. “Does your mother speak French by any chance?”

  The more questions he asked, the more she was certain that it was a good idea for her to keep her little secret. Just why did he need her assurance that neither she nor her mother spoke French?

  “Ah, no. She doesn’t speak any French at all.” That, at least, was the perfect truth. Hyacinth Greene didn’t understand it, speak it, or even bother to partake of the drawing room French that was so popular among the ton.

  “Perfect,” he drawled.

  “I wonder…” her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  “Seeing as your mother is determined to waste you on that disgusting pig of a man, I have decided to offer you a solution to your quandary. Provided you help me with something as well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Simply this. My grandmother was invited to attend this ball this evening, but her health prohibits her from enjoying such events that once gave her much pleasure. It pains me to say that it causes her some distress.”

  “Understandably,” Charlotte replied. Having older parents with a plethora of older friends, issues of health were often a topic of conversation, warranting her sympathy.

  “She hasn’t many visitors,” he said, staring intently into her eyes, “and has become lonely. Come to Aubry Park tomorrow for tea and a late luncheon. Visit with her and in return I shall help you finally free yourself from Witherby.”

  She pressed her lips together, eyeing him dubiously. “And how to you propose to do this?”

  “Compile a list of available men that you would rather marry, bring it to me at Aubry Park tomorrow afternoon, and I shall help you win a man on your list before the Season is out.”

  “That doesn’t seem like a fair trade, my lord. Meeting with your grandmother is quite simple, the task that you’ve assigned yourself could very well be impossible.”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  Her lips parted, but she hesitated to speak. His eyes had taken on an inner light, effectively causing heat to pool low in her belly.

  He tossed a lock of hair from his eyes with a quick turn of his head. “And of course, there is always the possibility that Tristan will visit. He’s got an eye on one of my fillies. Wouldn’t he be surprised to see you at Aubry Park, with me? Might make him regret his choice for a bride. And didn’t you want to make him jealous?” he whispered the question. “He deserves a little distress for causing you such heartache, for misleading you. What say you, Miss Greene? I could issue an invitation to you and your mother, from my grandmother…”

  Charlotte couldn’t help but give a little huff of disbelieving laughter at that. The idea had merit but realistically, it would be impossible. Her mother would eat her hat, possibly Charlotte’s as well, before pointing one foot even in the general direction of Rothburys’ home.

  “Thank you, but it wouldn’t work, I’m afraid. You must remember, my mother has forbade me to be anywhere near you…indefinitely.”

  “But if we could think of a different way…”

  She shook her head sadly. “Your offer is tempting, but I fear there isn’t a single thing that could entice her to agree.”

  “There is a bit of supposedly haunted forest in my garden…”

  She tried to conceal the astonishment from her features. “I can scarcely believe you remember me telling you about her obsession with the metaphysical.”

  One broad shoulder lifted in a shrug. “I pay attention, Miss Greene, to every single syllable that passes over your lips. Perhaps you should add that to your list of required attributes in potential husbands.”

  One hand on her hip, she tapped her foot, thinking. Could her mother be tempted by his suggestion that the forest on his estate was infested with spirits? Possibly…Her lips parted as another idea suddenly popped into her mind. A better solution. A strategy that could not fail.

  Her gaze swept the length of him before returning to his face. He didn’t look the part, b
ut certainly she could sway her mother into believing…

  “Very well,” Charlotte murmured. “I will take you up on your offer to visit Aubry Park…and delve into this plan of yours.”

  His brow quirked. “Shall I issue the invitation in person?”

  Charlotte laughed. “Oh, no. Don’t bother, my lord. You had better leave the convincing to me.”

  Chapter 11

  A Gentleman leaves vigorous work to the laboring classes.

  There was something to be said about the allure of a man’s backside, Charlotte mused, as she watched Rothbury ram a muscled shoulder into the back of the Greenes’ carriage with manly vigor.

  Though there were many discerning females who remarked upon the importance of the symmetry of facial features, a pair of fine eyes, a strong jaw, and broad shoulders, Charlotte believed that a nice, tight, athletically toned backside was equally as significant an attribute.

  “Can you believe all this mud? Indeed, we don’t have nearly as much mud in Coventry.” Hyacinth sniffed from her perch atop her portmanteau, her umbrella shielding her from the misty rain. “‘Tis a good thing Lord Rothbury insisted he escort us to Aubry Park and bring three outriders or else it might have been you and I, my dear, pushing the carriage out of the mud.”

  Standing under her own umbrella off to the side of the heavily rutted road next to her seated mother, Charlotte tilted her head as she continued to watch Rothbury push roughly at their carriage, his booted feet sliding as he tried, along with two other men, to release the back wheels imprisoned in the thick, sucking mud.

  Their driver shouted encouraging orders to the horses while the men worked hard. Another man had been ordered to ride ahead to Aubry Park, to have a fresh conveyance sent in the chance that the Greene’s carriage should need repair, or their horses a rest.

  “Oh, I doubt that would be true,” Charlotte muttered distractedly. “We would have simply sent our man along to fetch help.”

  Hyacinth snorted. “And wait helplessly until some Knight of the Road came along and accosted us? I think not.”

  Her mother’s words barely penetrated through Charlotte’s imaginings.

  Unlike the other men, who wore their long coats, Rothbury had recently shrugged off his carrick coat and had handed it to Charlotte to hold. She clutched it now to her bosom, enjoying the delicious warmth left in the fabric from his body. The cool mid-morning air smelled damp and fresh and—she discreetly dipped her face into the collar of Rothbury’s coat—like a clean, warm man. Closing her eyes, a foreign but rather pleasant feeling vibrated through her. She caught a sigh before it escaped and changed it into a cough to disguise it.

  Hyacinth clucked her tongue. “I do hope you’re not catching an ague. We are only to stay one evening. This was supposed to be a quick trip, Charlotte.”

  “And indeed it will be.”

  “I had no idea the roads would be so impassable with such little rain. We’ve been waiting here for at least a quarter of an hour. All this pushing, pushing, pushing, and still nothing will budge.”

  “R—Lord Rothbury has assured us that another carriage is on the way.”

  “Oh, I do hope he is right.” She shook her head slowly. “His fine clothes are surely ruined.”

  “Indeed.”

  At that moment, all action ceased as the exhausted men stepped back to take a much needed break. Taking a step farther back from the carriage than the other men, Rothbury bent down, resting his hands on his knees, in order to catch his breath.

  Charlotte slid a glance down to her mother, who, she was happy to note, sat staring down the lane looking for the carriage from Aubry. Now with Hyacinth safely preoccupied, Charlotte decided to indulge her curiosity, allowing her gaze to roam freely over Rothbury. After all, his back was to them; he’d never know.

  Splatters of mud stained Rothbury’s fine lawn shirt, which clung slickly to the broad expanse of his back like a second skin. Having rolled up his sleeves at the onset of his task, his muscled arms were now streaked with mud and rain as were the tall boots and tight black breeches that hugged the sinewy muscles of his long, undoubtedly strong legs.

  Her admiring gaze alighted upon his golden-brown hair, which now looked more brown than golden as it was wet with perspiration and mist. A few locks lay plastered to his neck in wispy whorls.

  Charlotte suddenly felt overly warm. Seeing him…wet…somehow embarrassed her. It felt dark, intimate. Truly, if it weren’t for the mud—and clothes—she rather thought this would be what he looked like after a bath.

  A shiver ran down her arms as her eyes drifted to the dewy trails of rain droplets that ran over his slightly bristled jaw and neck, disappearing in the nest of his loosely tied cravat.

  And then her hungry gaze raised…and connected with Rothbury’s. All thoughts flew straight out of her head.

  Looking at her from over his shoulder, he straightened, his smile twisting with arrogance.

  Despite the chill in the air, her cheeks felt as if they were on fire. How long had he been watching her in-depth perusal? Long enough, she supposed, if the heated gleam in his eyes was any indication at all.

  She blinked, shaking her head hurriedly, hoping by that action she was silently telling him, “No, I definitely was not looking at you.”

  He answered her gesture by nodding slowly, telling her that he knew exactly what she had been doing and that he had caught her in the act.

  She gave her head another insistent shake.

  Still looking at her from over his shoulder, he sauntered back to the carriage, his smile broadening. He lifted his shoulder as if to say, “I don’t care. Look all you want.”

  She shook her head again, tightly.

  He winked.

  She gulped.

  And then he set back to work with the other men to free the carriage.

  Charlotte turned away, almost jumping with a start when she found her mother staring strangely up at her. “What in the world is wrong with you?”

  “What?” Charlotte asked.

  “What’s with all the angry head shaking?”

  “Oh, that?” She shrugged. “A raindrop in my ear.”

  Rothbury’s laugh sounded from the back of the carriage where he worked with the other men. If her mother heard him, she made no mention of it.

  The distant sound of a carriage rumbled down the road. Hyacinth jumped to her feet. “Oh, splendid. Splendid! Your lordship, it’s come.”

  A gleaming black coach equipped with four matching grays rounded the bend in the road ahead of them. The Rothbury heraldic arms, a lion and a sword entwined with a thorny rose vine, proudly proclaimed the owners’ aristocratic lineage on the doors.

  “What an elegant set, my lord,” Hyacinth remarked, standing.

  Charlotte put out an arm so her mother could grab it. Chilly wet weather made her mother’s bones ache fiercely, and she knew that sitting in the same position for long periods of time made her joints feel so stiff it was if they had frozen.

  “Allow me,” came Rothbury’s deep voice, coming up from behind them.

  Charlotte had no idea where it came from, but the earl suddenly had a stark, white handkerchief draped over his arm, protecting her mother’s white gloves from his soiled shirt as she grabbed his arm.

  Slow and steady, Rothbury crossed the bit of lawn to the road with her mother by his side. Charlotte trailed behind, holding her mother’s umbrella above them while still holding her own.

  The coach had circled around and come to a stop on a stretch of road that had more rocks and spiny gorse than mud. Steps were brought down and Rothbury assisted Hyacinth inside.

  “I shall see you both at the manor house,” he said to her mother. “Forgive me for the delay of your carriage, madam. Once it is free, I’ll have someone inspect it for damage.”

  Hyacinth nodded, settling her small frame into the cushy squabs. “I feel so terrible over the state of your fine clothes.” She yawned. “I know how your sort can be about the state of your clo
thes.”

  When she started to rummage around in her reticule for something, he turned to Charlotte.

  “My sort?” he asked, bending low so Hyacinth couldn’t overhear. “Charlotte, you must tell me what she means. The woman would clobber me if I should do so much as stand next to you and now she tells me I have a fine coach and frets over the state of my clothes? What in the hell did you tell her to gain my acceptance?”

  With as innocent a look she could muster, Charlotte met his gaze. “Don’t you worry. It’s working, so what does it matter to you?”

  He gave her a skeptical look, then helped her into the carriage after assisting her with the closing of their umbrellas.

  Once ensconced inside, Charlotte noted her mother was already snoring softly. A brow raised, Rothbury poked his head inside. “Does she always fall asleep so quickly?”

  “All the time.”

  His golden eyes held a smidgen of suspicion for a moment.

  “It’s the laudanum she takes for her achy joints,” she whispered.

  He nodded, hoping her mother wasn’t nurturing a budding addiction.

  Though there were many who used the opium-based liquid for alleviation of pain or inducement of sleep, there were many who overused it, spurring wild hallucinations. Some misused it to the point of certain death.

  Although, Charlotte’s mother didn’t seem to be traveling on the path of destruction, he still felt the need to inform her. Who knows, perhaps he could find an alternative medicine in one of his books in the library at Aubry Hall.

  “See you in a bit, then?” His tone was casual, but his eyes fairly smoldered with warmth.

  It was probably just suppressed mocking laughter, Charlotte told herself. In the last two days she had stolen a kiss from him and now he had caught her looking him over. Goodness, did he think she was a wanton woman? She shook the thoughts right out of her head. If she dwelled on any of them for too long, she’d probably jump out of his carriage and walk all the way home.

  What could he be thinking? She was attracted to him, of that there was no doubt. However, to let him know about it would be futile indeed. Firstly, he had no interest in her and even if by some strange shift in the heavens he did hold a genuine attraction to her, it would be for lust and lust alone. He was completely unmarriageable, a terrible rake, incapable of knowing anything other than physical love—the details of which she knew little about.