To Wed a Wicked Earl (27 page)

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 times.

I
t 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.

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.