To Wed a Wicked Earl (16 page)

“Tell me, I cannot help but wonder…where do think you happened to leave it behind?”

She lifted her shoulders.

One side of his mouth curved upward. “What’s the matter? Have you suddenly become tongue-tied? I find that hard to believe, given that the few times we have been in each other’s company you have never failed to find words.”

A telltale hot blush began to creep its way up her neck. “I-I suddenly find I no longer wish to talk, or dance for that matter. If you’ll excuse me, my lord.” She made a grab for the crook.

Smoothly, he leaned it away from her reach, which caused Charlotte to stumble forward. Her chest pressed into the solid wall of his chest. He didn’t move an inch to help her set herself back from him. He only stared down at her with that half-amused, half-seductive grin of his.

“Well,” he said darkly, his rich, deep voice intoxicating her as it lured her in. “Would you like to explain why you kissed me, Charlotte? Couldn’t control yourself, I imagine?”

Gaining her balance, she shoved herself away from him and took a deep calming breath, before glaring at the crook still in his grasp. Secretly, she wished she could trip him with it.

“Hardly,” she said with a sniff. She refused to be one of those females who contributed daily to the size of his ego. “It was a simple case of curiosity, ’tis all.”

“And has your curiosity been appeased?”

“Quite. I no longer wonder what kissing is like,” she added, batting at a drooping loop of ribbon that hung close to her eyes. “Truly, I found it rather…mundane.”

His expression turned contemplative. “How interesting.”

“Why is that interesting to you?”

“You see,” he said, dragging a hand over his jaw. “I find that my curiosity has increased tenfold by your actions.”

“Really?” she asked, realizing with a start that she sounded incredibly engrossed in his confession. She cleared her throat. “Really?” she repeated again, this time injecting a cool indifference.

Nodding slowly, he shifted his weight, moving closer to her by only an inch, but his body heat seemed to engulf her. Whiskey-colored eyes seemed to devour her, making her feel like she was being drawn toward him though her feet remained unmoved. “Evidently, I have greatly underestimated you.”

She swallowed hard. “If you keep looking at me like that, we’re sure to draw attention. Can we just forget about the entire affair and move on to a different subject?”

“And which subject would that be? Lord Tristan or Witherbottom?”

“Witherby,”
 she stressed.

“Whomever.”

“And no, I definitely do not want to talk about 
him.
”

“Am I to understand that old frump intends to marry you someday?”

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, but 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.

T
here 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.