To Wed a Wicked Earl

by Olivia Parker

  “Good day, Charlotte,” he said.

  “Good day,” she answered. She turned to bid farewell to Lady Rosalind, but she seemed to have disappeared.

  Numbly, she descended the front steps toward a waiting Rothbury, who only had eyes for the Devines’ front door, looking quite like he wanted to murder someone.

  “Perfection, dear brother,” Rosalind proclaimed, while peeking out the little window next to the door. “Utter perfection.”

  Slipping a finger inside his cravat to loosen it a bit, Tristan craned his neck from side to side, easing the building tension. “If he kills me, I’ll see to it that you get hanged for murder as well.”

  “Pfft. How would you? You’d be dead.”

  “That’s true enough, I suppose.” He bent down to take a look out the window himself. “Rosie, why do you insist on playing matchmaker?”

  She straightened. “Because I’m so good at it.”

  “So humble.”

  “Well, I was right about Gabriel and Maddie. I knew within seconds they needed to be together.”

  “And Charlotte and Rothbury?”

  “Do you not pay attention at all when you attend balls? Do you not see the yearning glances of a man in love?”

  He burst into a grin. “No. I can safely say that I do not notice yearning glances of men in love.”

  She waved away his teasing. “I think the wicked earl would have married her a long time ago if it wasn’t for one thing.”

  “And that is…?”

  “If the woman he loved didn’t fancy herself in love with you.”

  There was nothing quite like a London Season.

  For a woman and her milliner that is.

  And her dressmaker, and the person who designs her shoes, and the…ah, hell, and whoever else was responsible for making all the other things scattered all over the Greenes’ morning room; evidence of their recent return from a shopping trip.

  It was stunning, actually.

  Bonnets, gloves, gowns, shawls, hair combs, shoes, boots, coats, stockings…it gave him a blasted headache.

  Up until now, Rothbury had no idea of the amount of clothing a young woman could possibly need for such a short period of the year. Three, four months, tops. Yet, as he surveyed the rather staggering wealth of fripperies draped over every available inch of the room—and himself, he thought grumpily as he lifted a lacey thing from his knee, examined it, deemed it a glove and tossed it to the floor—he came to the conclusion that there was enough material in this room to outfit an entire naval squadron in His Majesty’s royal navy for a year. Should they wear such feminine attire, that is.

  If he hadn’t been an only child, if perhaps had he a sister, then maybe he could grasp the concept of just all that was involved with making a young woman presentable among her peers.

  Well, he thought glumly, while he was here, he’d offer advice, gladly tell Charlotte what color suited her best, what gown complemented her pleasing frame, what bonnet brought out the utter beauty of her eyes. But he absolutely drew the line at holding up a gown under his chin simply because Charlotte had to use the powder room and Mrs. Greene couldn’t wait for her daughter to come out to see if her new Spanish blue muslin would make her hair look even more flaxen than it already was.

  “But, my lord, your hair is nearly the same color,” Hyacinth said, looking at him hopefully.

  “I refuse,” he muttered, as gently as possible.

  He liked Hyacinth. He liked her a lot. And he regretted that her acceptance of him into the sanctuary of her household was based on an untruth, for if the truth should come out and she should despise him, he would truly miss her motherly doting. It was something he never had. Or had once, but only briefly.

  After their visit at Aubry Park, Rothbury told himself that it was better for all involved if he stayed away. He didn’t trust himself around Charlotte any longer; his restraint had slipped and he knew it would do so again. Only, he couldn’t stay away. It had lasted all of half a day.

  So it had come to this, this compromise within his own mind. He forced himself to believe that it was enough, simply enough, just to be her friend. To come to dinner on occasion, perhaps to play whist with her and her family every now and then, to grit his teeth as a wave of longing swept through him when Charlotte stood too near. But then he had seen her at the threshold of the town house Tristan resided in with his sister. He had kissed Charlotte’s hand. And she looked…bewildered. Damn. She was probably in raptures.

  He shifted in his seat, bringing in his long legs so as not to trip any of the maids bustling about the room as they worked to take some of the boxes upstairs.

  Taking a deep breath, he balanced the ankle of one leg on the knee of the other and asked himself what the hell he was doing here today. Why wasn’t he at his club or at Jackson’s Rooms, using his fists to clear his head? Why wasn’t he drinking himself into oblivion at some bachelor’s private house party with some nameless, faceless trollop perched on his lap, instead of this wide-brimmed bonnet, adorned with a hideous big red poppy?

  “Rothbury,” Charlotte called as she waltzed back into the room, tapping him lightly on the knee with her pointing finger as she passed.

  Oh, yes, he suddenly remembered. She’s why.

  Abruptly, she snatched the bonnet off his lap, making him jerk in reaction.

  “You never answered me. Are you coming to the Langleys’ soiree this evening?”

  His eyes dipped down, skimming her bodice, the gentle swell of her bosom, and down further to her narrow hips and firm little bottom. Well, he couldn’t really see how firm her bottom was through the fabric of her dress, but he remembered. Sweet Lord, he could almost still feel her in his arms…could almost taste her…

  “Hasn’t this been the most fun day?” Hyacinth suddenly proclaimed, an armful of frocks nearly blocking her face as she passed them to a maid. “How I miss being a young girl and having my brother help me pick out which gown to wear. And he was so good at it too.”

  Rothbury couldn’t help but smile. After explaining to Charlotte the dangers of her mother’s potential budding addiction to laudanum, he had pored over the few medicinal volumes in his library at his town house and finally found an alternative. It seemed that soaking raisins in—of all things—gin, and having her partake of eight of them each day, gave Hyacinth some relief. She was still quite stiff in the joints at times, but she was much more alert and awake than she had been in a long while.

  “I shall have to send him a letter,” Hyacinth continued, “and tell him what a good friend my daughter has found in you.”

  Rothbury looked up, his gaze meeting Charlotte’s, soft and full of tenderness. Surely, he was mistaken.

  “Are you coming?” she asked. “I heard at least three of your friends will be in attendance. Ravensdale, Cantrell…Holt too. And of course, Lord Tristan will be there as well. You could dance with me…”

  He stood abruptly and growled, “I’m going home.”

  She blinked at his abruptness. “I’ll walk you out,” she said, watching him closely.

  He suddenly felt very uncomfortable, quite like she could see through him and read his thoughts. Preposterous.

  “There’s no need,” he returned mildly. “I know my way out.”

  He had said he was going to seduce her once they returned to London. Truly, that was all he had thought about since. But then he realized he wouldn’t be satisfied. He was a selfish bastard. Hell, of course he wanted to claim her, to make her his own; his blood boiled for her, but he wanted her heart as well. Maybe even more.

  Grabbing his coat from the back of the settee, he bid farewell to Hyacinth and walked out into the hall. Charlotte followed him.

  “Wait,” she cried out.

  At the door, he turned, shrugging on his coat.

  Striding toward him, she reached out. Slipping her fingers in his coat, she brushed his collarbone and smoothed her way to his shoulder.

  What the devil?

  Her fum
bling fingers nearly made him groan. A second later, she pulled out one of her stockings from the inside of his coat. The damned thing must have been lying on his coat when he picked it up. The back of the settee did look quite like an avalanche of clothes.

  She smiled. “You certainly don’t want to go home with this, do you?”

  Well, actually…“Of course not.” He smiled tightly.

  “You’ve been in such a mood lately,” she said with concern. She smoothed out the collar of his coat. “I have been remiss in my duties of helping you win your Lady Rosalind, haven’t I?”

  Rothbury merely grumbled, plunked his top hat upon his head, tipped it to her, and then left without saying another word.

  He couldn’t remember ever going this long without a woman before.

  Striding down the street, Rothbury contemplated this while paying no heed to the sudden, thin drizzle that was slowly soaking him. Purposely, he had decided not to bring his carriage or his horse when he visited today, thinking the chilled walk to and from their town house might do well to discourage his burgeoning desire.

  He walked quickly, his footsteps sure and determined, making short work of the pavement. Sooner than he thought, he arrived at his residence just around the corner.

  As he stomped up the steps to his town house, the door flew open just as he would have walked through it. He shrugged off his sodden coat, told the butler he was not to be disturbed and strode directly to the brandy decanter in his study.

  A small fire smoldered in the grate. He closed his eyes to it as he leaned back his head, downing a snifter of brandy in one gulp. He was so damn tense. He was getting bloody tired of being in a perpetual state of half arousal.

  “Your lordship,” came Summers’ somber tones from the doorway a short while later.

  Rothbury turned. “Yes?”

  “You have a caller, sir.”

  “I do?”

  “A lady, sir.”

  Charlotte, Rothbury thought with a sigh. Honestly, as much as he loved her, he did not want to see her right now. Not when they would be quite alone and she quite without a chaperone. He sighed. It sounded like a growl. Well, at least she was using his front door now.

  “Show her in, Summers.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Collapsing into his leather chair behind his desk, he resigned himself to the fact that he was indeed a cursed man.

  A cloaked female slid into the room.

  Confusion marred his brow before recognition dawned.

  Lady Gilton, long-legged, raven-haired, and—she hesitated, opened and dropped her coat to the floor—completely naked.

  “Miss me?” she purred, not a flicker of concern in her eyes that the door was still open behind her. She lifted her shoulders with a heavy sigh, causing her ample breasts to bounce. “I miss you.”

  He said nothing, his eyes dragging up and down her body. Yes, he was cursed.

  “There are a lot of us who miss you. Me especially. Ever since you started paying attention to that mouse, you haven’t paid any attention to me.”

  She placed her hands on her hips, then slowly sculpted them over her ribs and up further still to cup her breasts, holding them high in a gesture of offering.

  “It’s cold in here,” she said in a husky voice. “Come and warm me like you used to.”

  Pushing away from his desk, Rothbury stood, took a deep breath, then crossed the room with slow, steady steps. He stopped directly in front of Cordelia.

  Within reach, she clasped his hand in hers and brought it to her stomach. “Touch me,” she begged.

  But instead of his hand being poised to offer a caress, his fingers curled into a claw. Bending down, he picked up her coat, and whipped it around her shoulders.

  “Go home,” he said, coldly. “I am done. I no longer wish to live the life of my father, of my uncles. I am not them. I never was.”

  Cordelia’s laughter held disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

  “Leave.”

  “Oh no,” she muttered, shaking her head. “No. No. No. You are not doing this to me again.”

  “Yes. I am. Now go.”

  “You cannot be serious!” she cried in disbelief as he guided her down the hall toward the front door.

  “I am.”

  Summers stood there waiting. He opened the door as they neared.

  “No. You cannot possibly be attracted to that odd creature? Witherby’s to have her, everyone knows.”

  His jaw hardened, but he did not say a word.

  “I cannot believe it,” she cried, her voice shrill. “You are choosing her over me?”

  “Believe it,” he said, ushering her out the door. “You’ll be a lot happier.”

  She spun to face him, her face—a countenance that at one time seemed exotic and beautiful—contorted with her jealousy, her hatred. Her mouth opened to spew more scathing words, but he did not hear them, for he slammed the door in her face.

  Her frustrated scream sounded muffled through the door.

  “Summers.”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “I will not be accepting any more female callers, unless of course, it is Miss Greene.”

  “I understand, my lord.”

  Rothbury turned on his heel, disgusted with what had just happened, but before he could return to his study, his butler spoke, stalling his strides.

  “There was a missive delivered while you were…occupied with your caller, sir.”

  “Just put it on the salver near the door. I’ll look at it tomorrow.”

  “Beg my pardon sir, but the young lad who delivered it said you must read it straight away.”

  Rothbury sighed, taking the letter from the servant. Striding into his office, he broke the seal with his opener and held it up to the waning firelight.

  Dear sir,

  I’m writing to inform you of a situation that occurred during your recent visit to Northumberland. The wedding that took place, though you and your lady believed it to be a forgery, was in fact genuine and binding. Once you crossed the bridge, you were on Scottish soil, the village Dirleton, the place of my birth and where I have lived all my life.

  By Scottish law, you have been well and truly joined in a most blessed union. As much as I would like to say that it was accidental, your grandmother orchestrated the entire ordeal, purchasing the ring from my brother, a blacksmith up the road. She begged me not to disclose her trick, but I could not, as a Christian man, continue to withhold such information. I’ve enclosed the marriage certificate.

  May God bless your union and the years ahead bring you both joy.

  Regards,

  Father Robert Armstrong

  Dear God, what had his grandmother done?

  Belatedly, Rothbury realized his hands were shaking. Wordlessly, he dropped into his chair.

  He wasn’t going to tell her. It would be his secret and his secret alone. He’d take it with him to the grave. He…he was only fooling himself.

  He must tell her. Scoundrel that he was, he loved her. And it was the right thing to do.

  What would Charlotte’s reaction be? And how would he tell her? When would he tell her?

  Now, he must tell her now.

  His head jerked toward the mantel clock. Half past nine. She was most likely just now arriving at the Langleys’ soiree. Smiling and dancing and flirting with his friends in the hopes one of them might be obliged to court her.

  He had to tell her and soon. She was going to hate him, of that he was certain, it irrevocably took away any hope for her winning Tristan. That chapter of her life was done.

  “Summers!”

  His butler rounded inside the doorway from the hall, making Rothbury suspect the man was hoping to find out what urgent message the letter contained.

  “Send orders to have my valet set out my evening clothes posthaste and have my coach brought around. I’m off to fetch my wife.”

  Chapter 17

  A Gentleman is in control of his temper at all tim
es.

  It occurred to Charlotte, as she weaved within the steps of a lengthy quadrille along with her dance partner, that she should rather enjoy throttling Rothbury.

  For the past two weeks, maybe longer, she suspected he harbored a secret affection for her. Maybe it wasn’t quite love, but she was fairly certain it was more than friendship.

  But whatever his feelings were, he was holding them back. Just as he held everything back. If he wanted her, he was going to have to reach for her. And she refused to make it easy for him. If he wanted her, he was just going to have to come and claim her.

  And she would do whatever she needed to do to draw out his true feelings. It wouldn’t be pretty and she might lose some sense of herself in the process, but she was ready.

  Any lingering doubts evaporated when she spotted him clutching the balustrade of the gallery overlooking the ballroom. Out of the corner of her eye she noted how his predatory gaze skimmed the crowd, searching. Presumably for her.

  When she felt his gaze upon her, warming her from the inside out, she lightened her steps, smiled wider at her dance partner, and laughed louder at his rather dull quips.

  And when the dance had ended and she would have normally settled herself next to her mother, she instead walked across the ballroom, head held high as she relished the feel of his eyes following her every move.

  She felt different tonight. Instead of pulling inward when she entered a room, she was expanding.

  She had once thought that being shy and quiet allowed her to observe so much of other people’s behaviors, little things that others would hardly notice—the slight change in tone of one’s voice when one’s feelings were hurt, the rush of excited breath when a young man asked a pretty young lady to dance, her heavily disguised disappointment when she was hoping his friend would have asked her instead. Things that wouldn’t cause most other people to raise a brow.

  However, she had come to find this evening that there was quite a lot to be missed when one’s head was firmly buried in one’s chest. For tonight she held her head high. And tonight she was getting noticed instead of being the one who noticed everything about everyone else.