by Erica Ridley
“Charlotte Fairfax,” he called out loud as he dropped to one knee amidst the crowd. “We may have wed by accident, but our marriage is no mistake. You are the love of my life and I would do it all over again. In fact, I’d like to.” He gazed up at her and raised his voice even louder. “Will you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage, in a proper ceremony before God, with both our families present?”
She gripped the edge of the barouche even tighter as tears pricked her throat. Blast the romantic man. He’d brought her amongst the crème de la crème in London… to choose her.
“I love you, Charlotte Fairfax. I love your quick mind and your big heart.” He cocked his head and pretended to think. “I even love the snorts you make in your sleep and the way you have no sympathy whatsoever for the stains ruining another pair of my breeches right before your eyes.”
She burst out laughing and reached out to him. So what if the smart set were watching? Let them witness the treasure Charlotte had discovered. The man she would spend forever with.
“I love you, Anthony Fairfax. I choose you of my own free will. I love the way you make me laugh and keep me safe. There is no one else with whom I would prefer to be accidentally wed. I shall be proud to call myself your wife for the rest of our lives.”
With a grin, he sprang back into the carriage and brought her fingers to his lips. “I’d kiss you until you gasped for air, but such behavior is considered scandalous amongst this crowd. Perhaps I can tempt you into returning to the townhouse?”
“I’ve a better idea.” She pulled the folded bequest from her reticule and handed the document to Anthony. “How about we find a townhouse to rent and celebrate somewhere private?”
He stared up from the papers in shock. “One thousand pounds? Per annum?”
She blinked at him innocently. “That should be enough to commission a bedchamber, don’t you think?”
“If not, there’s always the Kitty and Cock Inn,” he suggested with a wink.
“Mmm,” she murmured as she laid her head on his shoulder. “I did enjoy the Cock Inn.”
“The lady’s wish is my command.” He snapped the reins to set the horses in motion.
Charlotte giggled, then looped her arm through his and smiled in farewell at the sea of fashionable people blurring by. She no longer yearned to be part of their world.
She had everything she needed right there.
Chapter 24
Anthony sat at the head of the crowded dining table in his and Charlotte’s new townhouse and grinned at all the family members who had joined them for their wedding breakfast.
His radiant bride, of course. His mother-in-law. His parents. His sister, Sarah, and her husband, Edmund. Even his twin nephews were in attendance, although they appeared far more interested in sucking their thumbs than in the aromatic foodstuffs that crowded the dining table.
Sarah looked up from the boys. “You have a delightful home.”
“I have my wife to thank for that.” Anthony sent a loving glance across the table at Charlotte.
She shook her head. “We have my inheritance to thank for the townhouse. I have Anthony to thank for everything in it.”
His mother raised her brows. “Did you win a large wager?”
“I refused to touch a single penny,” he said blandly. He wasn’t surprised by the question. His propensity for gambling had never been a secret. “When Charlotte insisted married couples should share all windfalls equally, I spent the next fortnight researching investment opportunities.”
“He picked steam-powered cotton mills. He doubled his outlay within a month.” Charlotte’s voice filled with pride. “He is a genius.”
“I’m lucky,” he corrected. “You’re the genius. Tell them how you saved Lady Grenville’s life by helping her to decide whether or not to purchase a puppy.”
She grinned back at him. “There are now two book clubs vying for my membership.”
“Soon we shall require a second basket for calling cards.” He gestured over his shoulder toward the fireplace.
Because the wedding had been for family only, the mantel had already begun to collect cards from well-wishers. Every lady Charlotte had ever helped had sent their regards. Anthony’s friends had also joined in the fun. Even Maxwell Gideon had written a letter of congratulations, as well as a note offering fifty pounds’ credit at the Cloven Hoof.
Anthony had chuckled and thrown temptation directly into the fire, where it belonged. There was nothing left to win. Everything he needed, he had right here at this table.
“A toast.” Charlotte’s mother lifted her glass. “May your luck never cease, your joy never dim, and your hearts always be full.”
Eyes twinkling, Anthony’s sister Sarah raised her glass. “And may the twins soon be blessed with a pair of cousins to play with.”
A grin curved his lips. He could certainly drink to that.
His heart warmed as he met Charlotte’s eyes across the table. He had gambled more than any man ought, and won more than any man deserved. He had a wife he adored. Family who supported him. Money he earned honestly, rather than wagered and lost. Friends who sought his time, not his pocketbook.
Happiness filled him. Moments like these were far more than simple good fortune. Anthony wasn’t merely the Lord of Chance.
He was loved.
Epilogue
Charlotte gripped the reins tightly in her gloved hands as she steered their shiny new barouche into the cavalcade toward Hyde Park. She sat between her husband and her mother—the two people she loved most. It was only fitting for the three to be together in their new carriage for its very first promenade.
Her mother’s lively blue eyes took in their fine surroundings with enthusiasm. She sighed over every nattily dressed lord or lady, and cooed in delight at the spotted Dalmatian carriage dogs accompanying the grandest coaches.
Anthony, however, only had eyes for Charlotte.
It was he who had suggested a drive along the Ring for their barouche’s first outing. He who had agreed without hesitation when Charlotte had teasingly asked if she could take the reins.
Now that she had them, holding such power was exhilarating. Empowering. Terrifying. She wasn’t at all certain whether the horses were heeding her command or simply falling into step with the endless stream of carriages.
“Look,” her mother whispered. “A gentleman with a painted crest upon his coach has matched our pace, as if he wishes to speak with us.”
“I can’t look,” Charlotte said through gritted teeth as she clutched the reins even tighter. “If I look, I’m liable to swerve right into him.”
Anthony tugged the reins from her white-knuckled hands and greeted the gentleman. “Good afternoon, Lambley.”
Charlotte’s mouth fell open.
“Fairfax.” The duke inclined his head toward the ladies. “Mrs. Fairfax. Miss Devon.”
He drove off without another word.
Her mother stared in shock. “Did a duke just publicly acknowledge us?”
“He probably ruined our reputations by doing so,” Anthony assured her. “We’re far more respectable than Lambley.”
Charlotte shook her head fondly.
Now that Anthony had finished repaying his gambling debts, he had no legal responsibility to keep his position as the night butler for the duke’s scandalous masquerades. He claimed he stayed on solely to relieve the duke of his money, but Charlotte rather suspected her husband enjoyed feeling useful. She certainly did. In certain circles, her name was the first to surface when someone was in need of good, sound advice. Not the highest circles, of course. But having circles at all was new to Charlotte. She had friends now. People who didn’t shy away from her company.
“Fairfax!” A handsome gentleman with thick golden locks and a brilliant white smile rode up beside them on a black stallion.
“Lord Wainwright.” Anthony tipped his hat. “Heading to a ride on Rotten Row?”
“I no longer care about such distra
ctions. You must tell me who the divine creature was in the emerald dress,” Lord Wainwright said in hushed tones. “The one in the scarlet plumed mask with the diamond eyeholes. I am desperate.”
“I’m afraid I cannot help.” Anthony’s tone was firm. “Privacy is paramount. If you need to contact a guest from a party, you could consider speaking to the party’s host.”
Lord Wainwright rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “He won’t tell me. He said you wouldn’t either, but I had to try.”
Before Anthony could respond, the handsome gentleman cantered off on his stallion, vanishing like a prince from a fairy story.
“Who is Lord Wainwright?” Charlotte asked once the dust had settled behind him.
Anthony grimaced. “Do you remember when you asked me if I knew any scandalous dukes and earls? That is the rake I’m delighted you didn’t meet before you met me. Wainwright is more than incorrigible. That particular earl has cut quite a swath in the ballrooms—even the masked ones.”
She nestled into him. “When shall I be invited to attend one? A masquerade, I mean.”
“As long as Wainwright might be there?” Anthony clutched his chest in mock horror. “Never.”
“Charlotte,” her mother hissed, rapping her knee with a fan. “Charlotte, look. I recognize that crest. It belongs to the Duke of Courteland.”
As the coach-and-four passed, Charlotte realized one of the ladies inside the carriage was Lady Pettibone, her terrifying dragon aunt. Their eyes met.
Charlotte tensed. Not being evicted should she appear at the lady’s private estate was not at all the same as being given leave to acknowledge their tenuous relationship in public. She gave a tentative smile and held her breath.
Lady Pettibone inclined her head. “Mrs. Fairfax.”
The breath whooshed out of Charlotte’s lungs in relief. “Lady Pettibone. How lovely to see you.”
Lady Pettibone’s coach pulled farther ahead, and the ladies inside disappeared from view.
Charlotte’s mother looked at her in awe. “Lady Pettibone greeted you?”
Charlotte lifted a shoulder as if the tense moment hadn’t very nearly stopped her heart.
The truth was… it didn’t matter who acknowledged her. It had taken her all this time to realize that most of London’s inhabitants hadn’t the least idea who she was, much less were aware of the circumstances of her birth. Even her mother’s once-infamous face no longer raised many brows. Despite the size of this enormous city, Charlotte could spend the majority of her time in relative anonymity.
She was just herself now: Mrs. Charlotte Fairfax. Giver of advice, and member of lively book clubs everywhere. Now that Anthony was out of debt and they could afford to leave the city, she no longer desired to. There was nothing to escape.
She leaned her head against her husband’s strong shoulder in satisfaction. He immediately wrapped his arm about her to hold her close.
Charlotte smiled contentedly. She had friends now. Security for her mother. A much larger family. Nephews she couldn’t wait to spoil. A husband who adored her.
Love filled her heart.
She had finally come home.
* * *
THE END
Who is the mystery lady that handsome rake Lord Wainwright is desperate to unmask?
Find out in Lord of Pleasure, the next full-length Rogues to Riches regency romance. Keep turning to read!
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Acknowledgments
As always, I could not have written this book without the invaluable support of my critique partners. Huge thanks go out to Morgan Edens and Emma Locke for their advice, encouragement, and willingness to FaceTime at the drop of a hat to plotstorm with me. You are the best!
My deepest thanks also go to my editors, Jane Hammett and Lesley Jones, whose careful eyes catch everything from typos to continuity goofs. Any mistakes are my own.
Lastly, I want to thank the Dukes of War facebook group and my fabulous street team, the Light-Skirts Brigade. Your enthusiasm makes the romance happen. I thought of you as I wrote this story.
Thank you so much!
Lord of Pleasure
Lord of Pleasure…
Irresistibly arrogant and unapologetically sensuous, infamous rake Lord Wainwright always gets his way. When he accepts a wager to turn his rakish image respectable in just forty days, he never anticipates falling for an anonymous masked lover...or that discovering her identity would destroy them both.
Chapter 1
London, 1817
The comically sketched visage of Michael Rutland, Earl of Wainwright, littered the public-facing windows along the Strand… as well as graced the tea tables and smoking rooms of every fashionable Londoner eager to part with a shilling in exchange for the latest bawdy comic.
Which apparently also included Lord Wainwright’s best friends.
So as to ensure the fame of his nocturnal proclivities did not escape the earl’s notice, the wretched scoundrels had helpfully strung up a copy of each of his recent caricatures around the salon of his favorite gaming hell.
The Cloven Hoof used to be Michael’s favorite, anyway.
“Is it true then?” Lord Hawkridge grinned from behind his glass of port. “With naught but a word, the most stalwart of maidens can be smitten by an earl’s charms?”
“What words?” Gideon, the owner of the Cloven Hoof, put in before Michael could defend himself. If there was a defense to be had. Gideon held the latest caricature aloft. “No woman alive cares what Wainwright has to say. One glimpse of his golden locks and puppy-brown eyes causes them to tumble directly into his arms. Or the closest prone surface.”
“I do not have puppy eyes.” Michael snatched the print from Gideon’s hands.
“Note that he does not deny the other accusations,” Hawkridge stage-whispered. “I imagine the caricatures are quite helpful. A rake like Wainwright would likely be unable to recall the names or faces of his many conquests, were they not immortalized for him in the daily comic prints.”
Michael ignored both of his friends. All he could see was the dratted sketch. He fought the urge to crumple it in his fist. What would be the point? By now, thousands of copies would be circulating London. He tried to be objective.
Today’s drawing was both better and worse than the others. When he’d attended the previous night’s soirées, he had purposefully abstained from his habitual flirtatiousness, with the intent of proving his name need not be synonymous with “debauched rake.”
After all, Michael’s only lovers were women who were no strangers to the art of seduction. He had no interest in despoiling virgins. He attended society events because he liked good company, great food, and fine entertainment.
There was no need for messy entanglements. Michael enjoyed dancing whether it led to a secluded balcony or whether it was simply a waltz with a pretty stranger he’d never see again in his life. He simply enjoyed women’s company. He’d hoped last night’s careful, above reproach comportment would prove once and for all that he wasn’t on the prowl, for God’s sake.
Well… it had worked, and hadn’t.
The italicized title below the caricature read “Lord of Pleasure.” An eminently recognizable sketch of himself at the previous day’s biggest crush took center stage, surrounded by dozens of overcome damsels dropping into a swoon, when all his overly gallant form had managed to say was, “Good aftern—”
“Ha, ha, ha,” Michael said sourly as he flung the drawing back to Gideon.
No wonder the gaming hell owner had said no one was interested in anything Michael had to say. Based on that evidence, the marriage-minded debutantes were eager to become his countess, and the pleasure-minded widows and courtesans merely wished to experience for themselves the rumors of his sensual prowess.
Not that there wa
s anything wrong with pleasure! That was why it was called “pleasure.” Because it was pleasurable to all parties involved. Who cared how two consenting adults spent an evening in each other’s company? Half of London had mistresses. All the other affairs in caricaturists’ drawings were scandalous because they were famous cuckolds. He was the only hapless gentleman to stay in the scandal columns based on reputation alone.
“It’s rubbish,” he said as he took a seat at the bar. “Do the caricaturists have no real scandals to draw?”
Gideon uncorked a fresh bottle of wine. “That is the humor. Others have to perform foolish or wicked acts to get half the attention that you attract just by walking into a room.”
“When an unwed earl with a sizable purse walks into a room,” corrected a barmaid as she poured the wine.
Another barmaid let her gaze travel Michael’s form with a suggestive grin. “I don’t think it’s just the size of his earldom that attracts the ladies.”
He clenched his jaw in frustration. Even the serving wenches were too blinded by the Lord of Pleasure image to see beyond it. Then again, title-hunters were even worse.
“I have no interest in a woman who cares more about becoming a countess than she does about the man she’d wed to do so. Those women would marry a toad if it meant gaining a title.”
“We should all be so fortunate,” Hawkridge muttered.
Michael winced. The penniless marquess was now on the hunt for an heiress with enough blunt to save the marquessate, but thus far had found no luck. “Your case is different,” he said quickly. “I hope you find an heiress with a heart as big as her pocketbook. You deserve a happy marriage.”
“Now you’re giving relationship advice?” Gideon didn’t bother to hide his burst of laughter. “Have you ever had the same mistress for more than a week before you tired of her?”