To Wed a Wicked Earl

by Olivia Parker

  Her newfound posture had attracted a Mr. Holt. A widower, he was in his mid-thirties, had thick russet hair and a rather pleasing smile. He was also one of Rothbury’s friends and the man she had just finished dancing with.

  She stood next to the refreshment table now, Mr. Holt having just kissed her knuckles and bid her good eve, when Lord Tristan appeared by her side.

  “I say, Miss Greene,” he said as he approached. “It is so nice to see you once again.”

  She inclined her head. “My lord.”

  “May I inquire if you have saved a waltz for me this evening?”

  A surge of heat inflamed her cheeks. She had forgotten all about their strange visit earlier that afternoon. “I’m terribly sorry. I had forgotten and my dance card is full.”

  He looked…relieved. “Perhaps, then,” he drawled, “I could bring you a glass of punch?”

  Good. Punch was good. Well, Langley punch was in actuality a tepid, watered-down concoction made with questionable wine, but having Lord Tristan bring her a drink was a fabulous idea. She hoped Rothbury was watching.

  “Of course,” she answered. “After that last dance, I find I’m rather parched.” Though honestly, she rather thought if she was stuck on an island with nothing to drink but Langley punch, she’d rather drink seawater and die.

  Lord Tristan smiled, the brackets around his mouth the perfect frame for his sculpted lips. “Wonderful. I shall return.”

  “And I shall await you,” she said, grinning.

  A dead man just handed his wife a glass of punch.

  Pushing off from the balustrade, Rothbury descended the stairs, his eyes still settled on Charlotte and Tristan.

  The crowd seemed to part before him as he stalked across the room.

  Upon reaching her, he stilled, bewildered by her beauty.

  She wore a light blue gown with short cap sleeves and a plunging bodice; a band of lace stretched across the top was meant to disguise her bosom, but only served to tease him.

  Another narrow band of lace was wrapped around her delicate throat, and her golden locks had been swept up neatly. Tiny pearls had been tucked here and there within the curls piled atop her head. She looked elegant and refined and…and all he wanted to do was strip her naked and lick her from top to bottom.

  Remembering Tristan, he turned his gaze on him.

  “Rothbury,” Tristan said in greeting.

  Rothbury only offered him a scowl. He turned his attention back to Charlotte.

  “I need to speak with you,” he growled.

  “It will have to wait,” she said, throwing a pointed look at Lord Tristan. “Cannot you see that his lordship was kind enough to bring me a glass of punch?”

  Rothbury plucked it out of her hand, turned to a nearby potted fern and poured it in the dirt. “You can thank me later.”

  Charlotte gasped. “You are being exceptionally rude,” she whispered.

  “I don’t give a damn,” he muttered.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Rothbury watched with satisfaction as Tristan’s complexion turned a touch pale and he started to sweat. “Er…I just remembered, Miss Greene, that I have asked…that I have asked Miss Langley to dance…I think. Good day.” And then he practically ran away.

  Charlotte’s gaze narrowed on Rothbury. “I don’t know what’s come over you.”

  “We need to talk now, Charlotte.”

  She started to protest, but clamped her lips shut upon seeing the ferocious look in his eyes.

  “On the terrace. I’ll go first.”

  “Oh, very well. But how am I to find you?”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “Yes, but…”

  He turned and headed toward the terrace doors, his long, purposeful strides so powerful, she was surprised the guests in his path had time to move before he plowed through them.

  She waited several moments, growing uncomfortable because a country dance was to start within the next twenty minutes and she might miss it. Someone would come looking for her, and should they find her on the terrace, alone with Rothbury, her reputation could be ruined. Good Lord, what if her mother found out and insisted they marry?

  As was her old habit, Charlotte moved across the room by way of the walls. No one seemed to notice her as she slipped out the French doors, into the cool, black night.

  A couple stood at the baluster, overlooking the garden, whispering and laughing. Shyly, Charlotte passed them and descended the steps into the deep shadow at the base. She had no idea where Rothbury was, if even he was out here.

  Her eyes tried to adjust to the darkness, but she could barely see her hand in front of her face. Just when she was about to rush back up the steps, a large, warm hand settled at her waist. She turned, giving a jolted whimper as Rothbury’s lips settled atop hers.

  His mouth was hot, ravenous, intoxicating. She had no idea where his gloves had gone, but his hands were bare, sliding up and down her back, cupping her backside and holding her tightly to him.

  Charlotte groaned at his glorious siege of her senses. She wanted to touch him as well, only it took extreme concentration to do something as little as raise her arms. Gliding her hands up his strong arms and then his neck, she sunk her fingers into his thick hair at his nape, pressing herself closer to him, needing him to touch her more.

  He spun her around, pushing her back against the stone wall of the terrace. With a finger at her bottom lip, he easily coaxed her open, sinking his tongue inside to mate with hers. Surely, her bones were melting.

  One of his strong hands molded around her hip, travelled up her rib cage and settled on her breast. She moaned into his mouth as his thumb plucked at her nipple through her dress. Impatient for more of his touch, she rose up on her toes, lifting her hips. She shuddered with pleasure upon feeling his arousal press against her belly.

  Softly, now, as if he was reigning himself in, he trailed kisses along her neck, causing shivers to shimmer all over her skin. His movement slowed, little by little until it became apparent that he was stopping.

  She squeezed his shoulders. “What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Charlotte, I’ll not take you against the wall.”

  Why not? she wanted to scream.

  She must gather her wits. He was right. They were in a garden, for heaven’s sake. Anyone could happen by.

  Placing her hands upon his chest, she gave him a little push. He didn’t move.

  “Today, when I saw you leaving Tristan and Rosalind’s residence…Why were you there?”

  He was rubbing her neck and shoulders. It felt glorious, but she had a hard time concentrating.

  “He wanted to ask for a dance.”

  She couldn’t see his face, but could tell somehow that he was scowling again. “Well, he’s not getting one.”

  “Is that what you had to talk to me about?”

  “No. It’s something entirely more important.”

  Music poured from the French doors. The next dance had begun. If she didn’t return to the ballroom, someone, either her mother or her dance partner, would soon be looking for her.

  “It will have to wait. For the first time in the history of my life, my dance card is actually full! Can you believe it?”

  “It cannot wait.”

  “Do you know…five men have already asked to call on me tomorrow?”

  Rothbury looked to his feet, suddenly weary. He must tell her and it wasn’t going to be easy. And her utter happiness garnered by the attention of other men, Lord Tristan especially, meant she wasn’t going to be terribly delighted about it either.

  He supposed he ought to let her enjoy her night. Let her bask in her well-deserved attention. She looked absolutely stunning this evening, and there was something else as well.

  She moved differently now. Instead of hesitant steps, clinging to the walls, and downcast eyes, she possessed an air of subtle confidence. As if she had finally embraced her beauty instead of trying to arm wrestle it into mousy submission.


  And by the looks of things, he wasn’t the only male who had noticed.

  “How many?” he asked, grimly.

  “How many what?”

  “How many more dances?”

  She thought for a moment. “Four.”

  He dragged a hand over his jaw. “Christ, that could take all night.”

  She stepped into a strip of light shining from the ballroom. Just as she had so many times before, she looked at him in that assessing manner of hers, quite like she was trying to pinpoint one of his thoughts and read it aloud. “I guess I could claim a headache.”

  “No,” he said, now resigned to his decision. “I’ll wait. Enjoy yourself.”

  For it would be the last time he allowed any other man to touch her.

  Four hours later, Rothbury thought he just might be in danger of losing his mind.

  His mother was right. He was truly wicked. And he was paying for all his past transgressions by having to watch other men flirt with his wife.

  For four hours.

  However, he behaved. His hands remained at his sides, though balled into tight fists, and he even managed to smile. Once. And it was at Charlotte’s mother.

  Or more precisely, his shiny new mother-in-law.

  Hyacinth had approached him to ask if he would mind taking Charlotte home. The hour was late and she was tired. He was surprised by her suggestion, but agreed very readily. Having her in a carriage alone should allot him ample time to tell her the news.

  “Be discreet,” Hyacinth had whispered. “No one must know.”

  He nodded, feeling a stab of guilt.

  “She’s having such a fine time. I’ve never seen her so happy, and I would hate to shorten her evening on account of my stiff knees and back.”

  Pain sliced through his chest. Charlotte may be happy, but he was about to squash it.

  But perhaps not. Perhaps there was something he could do about it. Petition the Church of Scotland for an annulment. Truth be told, other than claiming they were brother and sister, he couldn’t think of another way out of this predicament.

  Unless of course Charlotte could convince the courts that he was unable to perform his husbandly duties. But who the hell would believe that?

  And then of course, there was fraud.

  Fifteen minutes later, Charlotte found herself ensconced inside Rothbury’s elegant carriage.

  Despite having had a wonderful evening—she had never danced so much in her life—a sudden anxiousness took over her senses. Her heart was racing, her limbs felt shaky, and her breaths were coming all too quickly.

  She supposed it had nothing to do with the state of her health and everything to do with the clearly tense, devastatingly handsome man seated across from her, who, for whatever reason, found it perfectly acceptable to look at her as if he wanted to gobble her up.

  Faint, gold bristles on his chin and jaw glistened every so often in the moonlight. He looked…a little tired, his eyes hooded as he watched her study him. A silky lock of hair hung down, partially covering one eye, just barely dusting the crest of his angular cheekbone. His golden locks appeared almost brown in the shadows, the wavy ends resting on his shoulders. His cravat was loosened, but the rest of his evening attire was impeccable.

  She didn’t think she’d ever get used to being in a closed carriage with the man. He was so long, his legs seemed to take up all the room on the floor. And if he brought in his legs to afford her more room, there was no way he could be comfortable. So, she scrunched her own legs and skirts off to the side, practically pressing against the door in order to accommodate his size.

  She folded her hands upon her lap, forcing herself to appear calm. “So…my mother asked you to take me home, did she?”

  He gave her one nod of his head.

  “And your…your driver…I couldn’t help but hear…You asked him to circle thrice before taking me home.”

  “Indeed.”

  “What for?”

  “To make sure no one sees you exit my carriage without the benefit of a chaperone.”

  “Ah, well, that makes sense.” Her voice sounded a bit shrill to her own ears, so she took a deep breath, hoping it would help calm her.

  Shame flooded through her, making her cheeks feel as if they were aflame. Trouble was, despite having a grand time at the Langley soiree, she was most excited this evening by having Rothbury take her home.

  She had practically begged her mother to ask him to. Hyacinth had hesitated. Though her mother still believed Rothbury was like Uncle Herbert, society did not. And she certainly couldn’t be seen climbing into his carriage and not have her reputation utterly ruined in one fell swoop.

  But Hyacinth had relented and Charlotte had inwardly rejoiced. For she had a plan of her own this evening, and that plan included kissing Rothbury again—and letting him stop.

  Just how she was going to go about it, she didn’t know, but she was confident that the situation would present itself on its own.

  Delicately, she cleared her throat before saying, “You had said earlier that we needed to talk?”

  Another nod.

  “Well, what did we need to talk about?”

  “This,” he said, handing her a slightly wrinkled letter.

  Unfolding it, she held it toward the window to make use of the moonlight. “What is it?”

  “Read it.”

  Straightening the spectacles on her nose, her eyes skimmed the page, quickly at first, then stopping abruptly at the words “genuine and binding.”

  She looked up at him in alarm. “Rothbury, what is this?”

  “Please,” he said calmly. “Read on.”

  Over and over she read the letter, each time thinking she had missed something. It was a joke. It had to be a joke.

  “Rothbury…this isn’t true, is it?”

  He closed his eyes on a slow blink. “I’m afraid it is legitimate.”

  Afraid, he said. So he was not happy about this outcome at all. “But…I don’t understand. When did you receive this?”

  “This evening.”

  “So I am…we are…we could…”

  “Yes. Yes. And, I’m not certain exactly what you mean by ‘we could,’ but I’m willing to accommodate you.”

  “This is…” Her mind scrambled to grasp what had happened. “This is…a lot to take in. Does anyone else know?”

  “Not yet, I imagine, but they will.”

  “But what are we to do?”

  She watched as his throat convulsed when he swallowed heavily. “I’ve contacted my solicitor and he believes it is indeed a binding marriage. We could always petition the Church of Scotland for an annulment.”

  She looked down at the letter. That was not what she had been expecting him to say. Here she had thought, had hoped really, that what he had to tell her was an admission of love, or at least some sort of budding affection stemming from their deep-rooted friendship. But not only did he give her the shock of her life by telling her that they were truly married, he also had been, obviously, thinking of ways to get out of it. He contacted his solicitor, for goodness sake!

  Which meant she had been wrong. Completely wrong. He wasn’t hiding any secret feelings from her. All those looks he gave her…They meant nothing. How could she have let herself fall for the practiced charm of another scoundrel? She had fooled herself into believing there was more to their relationship than there truly was.

  As she brought up her hands to rub her temples, the letter drifted to the floor.

  Lifting her head, she looked at him, surprised to see an odd mix of emotions glimmering in his amber-flecked gaze. But she dared not name them, not even to herself, for she could never trust that she was right.

  She had thought by the end of the night she would have figured him out. And here she found herself more confused than ever.

  “What would you like to do, Charlotte?” he asked, his voice a sultry whisper.

  “Honestly, right now I would like for you to answer two questions
.”

  He settled deeper into the squabs, sliding his booted feet forward. His knees now brushed hers.

  “You’ve been so grumpy lately. Is…is it because you wanted another? I do realize I have been remiss in helping you win Rosalind, but now—”

  “Charlotte,” Rothbury drawled, shaking his head slowly. “I don’t want her.”

  Her brow furrowed. “You don’t?”

  He shook his head again, his tongue darting out to moisten his sculpted bottom lip.

  She swallowed hard, aware of a low heat building in her belly.

  “Since when?” she asked, not sure if she should believe him or not.

  “Since the beginning. Since before the beginning.”

  “But what of Madelyn? You had asked my friend to marry you once before.”

  “Charlotte, I have only ever wanted you.”

  Her breath whooshed out of her at his admission, but she tread carefully, not allowing it to go to her head. “Well, I suppose that brings me quite neatly to my second question.”

  “Yes,” he coaxed, grinning like a devil in the dark.

  Could he read her thoughts?

  “Would you please kiss me again?”

  Chapter 18

  A Gentleman respects a Lady’s reputation and would never, under any circumstance, encourage her to succumb to passion.

  Charlotte waited patiently. And then waited some more.

  “Would you kiss me again?”

  The first time she asked, he merely blinked at her in such fashion that she began to think he hadn’t heard her. Or…hadn’t he said that he was having his solicitor look into the validity of their marriage a minute ago?

  Embarrassment prickled her cheeks. Perhaps he had heard her the first time. He just didn’t want to kiss her.

  But all such misgiving flew out of her head, when he reached across the carriage, grabbed her by the hips and hauled her atop his lap.

  “I believe I can accommodate your request,” he whispered, his lips slowly descending to hers.

  “Oh thank you,” she whispered back, now into his partially opened mouth. “You are most obliging.”