Chapter 7
Damien tried to enjoy the buxom wench seated in his lap as he drained his fourth--or was it his fifth?-- tumbler of scotch. After Charlotte had fled from him, he’d gone to the Wicked Earls’ Club, determined to drink her away.
The wench squirmed, her bottom teasing his cock. The action should have caused him to take her upstairs. Bloody hell, Charlotte had gotten to him—ruined him. He’d not run about like a green lad in love. Love? No, he couldn’t be in love. He cared for her, just like in the past, and wanted to protect her. Nothing more.
“Not tonight, love,” he said to the woman on his lap.
She pouted then stood.
Damien turned to Edgemore. “What say you we go visit some other haunts and see what we might get into?”
Edgemore downed his scotch then stood. “After you.”
“I’ll come along as well.” Westcliff sat his tumbler down and rose.
Damien had not caroused with the other earls of the club, Edgemore excluded, as they all tended to avoid each other outside of the club. It was one of the rules, but what did he care? He’d never been one to follow rules anyway. He nodded at Westcliff before heading toward the door.
Damien, along with Edgemore and Westcliff, stepped out onto the street. Despite the late hour, carriages, horses, and light skirts filled the walkways and streets. Damien retrieved his flask from his inside coat pocket and took a copious drink.
“Should we hail a hackney?” Edgemore asked.
“No,” Damien answered, handing his flask to Edgemore.
“Then what do you have in mind?” Westcliff stepped around a putrid puddle.
Damien snickered. “I have yet to decide.”
“There is always White’s, or if you want something seedier we could pay a visit to The Two Sevens,” Edgemore suggested before passing the flask to Westcliff.
Westcliff held up his hand. “I’ve got my own.” He pulled the shiny metal flask from his coat.
“Something other than gambling and betting books is in order,” Damien said.
Westcliff grinned. “Very well, how about we pay a call at Madam Doeshy’s fine establishment?”
“So we might all wake with fire in our groins? I think not.” Edgemore laughed. “Though if someone is what you have in mind we could go to a private party I happen to be aware of. The type of party where women are clean, half-clothed, and willing to satisfy your every inclination.”
“I could use a warm and willing wench.” Westcliff looked to Damien.
Damien shook his head. “I am not in the mood that sort of entertainment.”
“If not gaming and women, then what?” Edgemore swayed, nearly bumping against a wall before righting himself and taking another deep swallow of liquor.
Damien grinned. “Let us retrieve mounts and go raise hell. We will just see where the night takes us.”
“Perhaps we should race?” Westcliff gave a challenging nod.
Damien quickened his pace. “Perfect.” A bit of wild and reckless sport should prove a wonderful distraction.
((scene))
Damien attempted to open his eyes despite the banging in his head. He managed small slits, squinting against the bright rays of sun flooding his bedchamber. Bloody hell his head was throbbing, and what the devil was making so much noise? When he tried to sit up the room spun around him causing him to lay back down.
After gaining some of his bearings, Damien pushed himself up in the bed and forced his eyes to focus. Edgemore lay haphazardly across his chaise, snoring like the devil. When the pounding from above started a fresh, Damien slid from his bed.
Dressed in his white shirt and breeches from last night, he followed the thudding and thumping sounds that now vibrated through him. He must have drunk half the swill in London last night. He could not recall a time he’d ever been so hungover.
Holding his head to try to drown out some of the offending noise, he made his way down the hallway. By the sound of it, whatever was causing the ruckus was in the attic. He tossed open the door and started up the stairs, one slow step at a time.
Damien paused at the top of the steps and peered across the attic. His gaze arrested on the offending noise maker. What the hell was going on? He could not be seeing what he thought he did. Blinking once, twice, Damien refocused his gaze. Still it remained.
He pivoted a touch too hastily and his head began to spin again. He was going to beat Edgemore for this. After regaining his balance, Damien returned to his bedchamber. He marched up to the chaise Edgemore slept upon and kicked at his foot. “Edgemore, get up!”
Edgemore stirred but did not rise.
“Open your damn eyes,” Damien yelled, kicking at his friend's foot once more.
“What the devil is wrong with you?” Edgemore peered up at Damien, making no move to sit upright. He lay a hand across his forehead, allowing his eyes to drift closed. “Can’t you make that bloody noise stop?”
Damien cleared his throat. “That bloody noise happens to be your fault.”
“The devil it is.” Edgemore opened his eyes.
“Come along, I will show you.” Damien marched to the door before turning back to find Edgemore still reclining on the chaise. “Get your sorry ass up and follow me.”
“Can we not do this later? Send a servant to deal with the racket.” Edgemore dropped his arm over his eyes. “My head feels as though it will split in two.”
“Edgemore,” Damien drew out the end syllable, his voice low and menacing.
Edgemore pushed to his feet. “Very well.”
Damien stopped out into the hallway and led Edgemore up to the attic. He stopped at the top of the stairs, his gaze moving from the creature to Edgemore. “Care to explain?”
The horse reared up, bringing its hoofs down hard.
Damien scowled at Edgemore as his head began pounding afresh.
“I am quite certain this is not of my doing.” Edgemore turned, starting back down the stairs.
Damien caught him by the shirt collar. “Be that as it may, the horse belongs to you.”
“What happened to Westcliff?” Edgemore turned then glanced around the attic.
“I cannot claim to remember,” Damien said.
Edgemore took a few steps toward his horse. “Perhaps he could tell us how Crusader got up here.”
Damien huffed a breath. It would be a wonder if any of them could recall the events of last night. Raising hell and suffering for it come morning was nothing new for them; however, Damien could not remember the last time he forgot an entire evening. The last thing he could recall was racing, neck or nothing, about London's outskirts with Westcliff and Edgemore.
Why the devil had he allowed himself to get so foxed? His argument with Lady Charlotte seeped to the forefront of his mind. Indeed, she had driven him to self-destruction exactly as she had when they were younger.
Well, not quite the same. Back then, he had chosen to embrace the wilder side of life rather than offering for her. Now, he wished to save her from herself, but she’d not allow him to. How ironic.
“I’ve got him,” Edgemore victoriously called across the attic.
Damien turned his attention toward the far corner, where Edgemore held Crusader by the bridle. “Wonderful. Now see him to the stables so that I might regain a modicum of peace.”
“Who wants that when life is exceedingly more fun without it?” Edgemore led the horse toward the stairs. “I aspire never to have peace.”
Damien rolled the sentiment around his throbbing brain. He’d spent all of his adult life avoiding settling down. Each day brought chaos: gambling, booze, women… Perhaps he’d grown weary of living so reckless. Maybe the time had come to settle down.
He stepped aside so that Edgemore could lead Crusader down the stairs, then followed once he had a large enough berth to ensure he would not get kicked. As he absorbed the scene unfolding before him, he imagined what an alternate life would be like.
Had he offered for Charlotte all thos
e years ago, he would not be removing a horse from his attic now. He’d likely have an heir and a spare in the nursery as well. Each night, instead of raising hell, he would snuggle into bed with the same woman-Charlotte. A fortnight ago the very thought would have repulsed him. But in light of recent events, domesticity did not now seem so bad.
Damien strolled around Edgemore and Crusader as they neared the main staircase. He sought the butler, meeting the man's rounded eyes. “Fredrickson, open the door.”
The aging butler turned, pulled the door open, then gazed back at them with disbelief in his eyes. Over the years Fredrickson had seen many odd things as a result of Damien’s shenanigans, but never anything like this. Damien gave the man credit for maintaining his stately composure as they marched past.
A footman rushed over when Edgemore led Crusader onto the porch. “Allow me,” the livery-clad man said, taking the bridle.
“Please see the horse stabled and fed.” Damien found a grin. The poor footman looked as though he’d seen a ghost. All color had drained from his face as he’d rushed toward them. Even now, he appeared at a loss. Damien could hardly imagine what tales would circulate below stairs this afternoon.
“Right away, sir.” The footman gave a bow then led the horse away.
Damien clapped a hand on Edgemore’s shoulder. “You are welcome to take a guest room until you are ready to travel home. I have something I must attend to.”
If Charlotte would not heed his warnings about Jostling, then he would have to take drastic measures to save her from certain misery.
Chapter 8
Charlotte strode into the parlor, not at all sure why Damien had come to call. She’d wager he wished to harass her further over Lord Jostling. Well, if that was his intention, he would be sorely disappointed. Her mind had been decided and nothing he could say or do would change a thing.
She took the chair opposite his and met his gaze. “Lord Grayson.” She nodded politely despite the ire ravishing her insides.
He blinked. “I do not believe you have ever addressed me thusly when in private. I must confess, I do not like it.”
“We are not in private.” She indicated Lady Oxford who’d trailed in behind her and stationed herself in the far corner.
“Regardless, I prefer you to call me Damien.”
Charlotte pressed her lips together. “I no longer wish to be informal with you. You see, I have accepted Lord Jostling’s offer. The marriage contracts will be signed this afternoon.”
Damien sprang from his chair. “You must not—”
“Quiet.” Charlotte held up a hand. “As I was saying, the contracts will be signed this afternoon and our engagement formally announced at tonight's dinner party.” She could not begin to understand why he objected so fiercely, but it had to stop here. She would marry Lord Jostling.
“He is certain to make you miserable, Charlotte.”
“Do refrain from addressing me so. From now on it must be Lady Charlotte.”
Damien strolled over to her, his gaze finding hers. “You cannot mean that.”
She stood, glaring at him. “Why do you insist on painting him as a monster?”
“Because, dammit, he is.”
Charlotte glared angrily then pivoted on her heel to storm from the room.
Damien reached out taking her hand, stopping her. “Charlotte, I care deeply for you. I want you to be happy and safe.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but paused as pain and something else, something more tender, flashed in his gaze. Her heart hitched, a lump rising in her throat. “I…I can’t.” She made a weak attempt to get free.
“Can’t what? Believe that I have your best interest in mind? That I truly wish for you to be happy? That I do care deeply?” He stepped closer, bringing his body against hers. “I have always cared.”
She blew out a deep breath, her insides trembling. “Then why did you break my heart?” He voice quivered and she hated herself for it. She’d never intended to drudge up the past. It served no purpose now--they could not go back.
“I was protecting you.”
“From what?” She drew her brow together in befuddlement.
He averted his gaze. “From me.”
“I did not need protecting from you.” She reached out, placing her hand on his cheek and guiding his gaze back to hers. “You were all I thought about, all I wanted.”
“You were a wide-eyed debutante with your mind set on marriage, and I a rogue determined never to marry.” He released her hand and stepped away. “I would have ruined you. And I cared too much for you to let that happen.”
She nibbled her lower lip as his words sank in. How many nights…years…had she wondered at his reason for turning away from her. She’d always believed that he had been toying with her, amusing himself with the gullible debutante. Never had she imagined, let alone believed, that he might have cared for her. Still… “You are an earl. Did it not occur to you that you must marry at some point?”
“Why? So I might produce an heir? I care not what happens to the title.” Damien moved close to the window, his attention trained on the view it provided. “My father was a miserable bastard. I have no idea how to be a husband and father, and no wish to follow his example.”
Charlotte drew close, resting her hand on his shoulder. “You are not your father.”
Damien stiffened. “You have no idea. I am a wicked man given to gambling and horses. I enjoy my liquor and raise hell every chance I get. All traits I share with my father. Who’s to say that I would not continue following his example within the confines of marriage? Did you know that he beat my mother on a regular basis? Slapped her around and yelled at her every chance he got?”
Her heart melted at the hurt in his voice, the pain in his eyes. “Perhaps you are a bit wicked, but you have a soul.” She stepped around him so that she could gaze into his tender cocoa eyes. “Damien, you are not your father. You said yourself that you care for me. I’d wager he never gave a fig for anyone.”
Damien tipped his head back and closed his eyes for a heartbeat. “I did care for you, and I still do. If you believe nothing else, believe that.”
Charlotte could not hide the ghost of a smile curving her lips. “I cared for you as well. In fact, I loved you.”
“Do not marry Jostling.” Damien pulled her into his arms. “Marry me instead.”
She gazed deeply into his eyes as long moments of silence stretched past. He had been her every dream back then. And even now, even after the pain and anguish he'd caused her, she loved him still. She’d be a fool to try and deny it.But he was her past. “Do not make this harder than it already is. I get on well with Lord Jostling and have already agreed to become his wife.”
“Nothing has been signed. No official announcement made.” He nuzzled his head where her earlobe met her neck and dropped a kiss on the delicate skin. “Choose me.”
God, how he tempted her. Another gentle caress and she would be dough in his hands. The man infuriated her, but he also stirred her passions as no other ever had. Charlotte drew in a breath and stepped from his embrace. “Our chance has long passed. Please take your leave.” She turned her back to him, fighting for composure.
“Charlotte, I want to be your husband. Never again do I want to wake to find a friend snoring across my room or a horse in my attic.”
“A horse?”
“Indeed, and before you ask me to explain, I haven’t a clue how it got there.” He took her hands in his and rubbed small circles with his thumbs. “The point is, I want to settle down. You made me see that there is more to life.”
“Do you love me?” Charlotte searched his gaze, finding her answer before he spoke a single word.
“Love is not an emotion I am familiar with.” He squeezed her hands. “I think about you all the time. There is not enough liquor in England to keep you off my mind. I worry about you and wish to protect you. I desire you and want you with me.”
Charlotte nodded as tears collected in her
eyes. “Please, do go on.”
“I want you to be my first, my last, and everything in-between for the rest of my days, Charlotte. I believe that is love.”
She rose onto her toes and pressed her lips to his. When she pulled back, her heart nearly burst with joy at the love reflected in his gaze.
“Marry me?”
“On one condition.” She twirled her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck.
He smiled. “I will do anything you desire. Give you all that you need.”
“I do not want a good husband.”
He rose a brow. “No?”
She dropped another kiss on his lips then smiled at him mischievously. “I want a wicked husband. One who fires my passion.”
He laughed. “I believe I am fit for the challenge.”
Damien Archer, the Earl of Grayson held his future wife in his arms, looking forward to a life of adventure and fiery passion with the woman who fulfilled his soul—the Wicked Earls’ Club be damned, from now on Charlotte would be his sanctuary.
Excerpt: Earl of Benton
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Prologue
May 1816
London, England
London was dismally gray with rain the day Alistair Johnstone attempted to decline his inherited earldom. It did little good for him to bother, he knew, save for Madge's sake. Yet, try he did, and had been promptly met with the unamused blinking of the solicitor. Dejected and titled, Alistair gazed out the window where puddles of mud reflected a gray sky. A dog with jutting bones rummaged with desperation and skittishness through the rubbish piled in the alleyway.
Madge always did have poor taste in lodgings.
The door slammed closed. She had returned, and yet he was not ready to face her. Outside, the miserable creature drew a piece of waste and hunkered over the prize in a protective gesture.
Earl of Grayson: Wicked Regency Romance (Wicked Earls' Club) Page 4