To Wed a Wicked Earl (6 page)

“Might I trouble you to help me up?” He hated to ask her, but figured if he didn’t he might fall.

Ah, hell. Who was he kidding? It was simply an excuse to feel her touch upon him again.

“Of course.” She stood, extending her hand to him.

He took it, coming to his feet cautiously, careful not to topple over.

Once vertical, he steadied himself by grabbing firm hold of the nearest tree branch above his head. The angry pulse in his head came to an alarming crescendo before settling back down to a dull ache. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them Miss Greene stood before him, wringing her hands together.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“As well as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”

“It’s cold. Would you like to use my shawl?”

He shook his head, hiding his smile at her sweet offer with a grimace.

She stepped forward to swipe leaves and dirt from his shoulders and from his hair. Standing on tiptoe, she lightly examined the spot where he was hit. He inclined his head so she could see.

“There isn’t any blood,” she said. “Just a small bump. Put some ice on it when you get home and it should go down.”

He nodded, feeling for a moment like he was someone else. Someone who deserved attention from a proper young lady, and not her censure. “Now, you were saying that we need each other, yes?” Curiosity bit at him.

“Quite. You see, how ever will I find a suitable husband after Lord Tristan’s rejection? And how will you win Lady Rosalind, or any suitable bride for that matter, if everyone thinks you a despicable scoundrel?”

“Hmm. Yes, it has been a bit of a problem.” A problem that grew larger with every passing year. Sometimes he wondered if he was destined to wander ballroom after ballroom, chasing the wrong woman, all the while cursing himself that he 
had
 found the right sort of woman but she was in love with someone else and kept getting pulled out of his path.

Still, he couldn’t fathom why Miss Greene thought he needed her. Or maybe now that Tristan was out of the picture…

“Miss Greene, are you proposing I marry you?”

Her lovely eyes grew round and then she laughed. “Oh, good heavens, no,” she scoffed, waving a hand in the air. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Covering her mouth with her hand, she continued to chuckle. Not uproariously, mind you, but hard enough to make him think she’d remember this one for days and still chuckle at the thought.

And just what was so ridiculous? Surely he expected her to negate his suggestion, but why in the name of depravity did she find the prospect of marrying him particularly 
hilarious?

“I could never marry you…or anyone like you, for that matter. I might be a bit impulsive at times, but I’ve certainly learned my lesson about trusting a scoundrel with my heart. And you are, as everyone knows, a scoundrel of the highest order.”

“Then what, exactly are you proposing I need you for?” he asked, aware that he could not hide the irritation from his voice.

She sighed, reigning in her grin. “All I was proposing, my lord, is friendship. We could offer each other suggest—”

“Friendship?”
 he echoed blankly, unable to believe his ears. Perhaps he was still unconscious. He couldn’t possibly have heard her correctly.

She grinned in such a fashion as to make him feel like she was infinitely wiser than he. “You’ve heard of the word?”

He narrowed his eyes, giving a dark look that, hopefully, told her he didn’t find her amusing at all. “Of course, I have many friends.”

“Female friends, acquaintances, I mean.”

“Indeed,” he drawled, “I have many of those.”

She twirled her eyes. “Yes, but do you have any 
real
 lady friends? Those whom you do not have intimate relations or a torrid history with? Or, to be more precise, female individuals who would never find themselves provoked into causing you bodily harm?”

There was no need to think on it. The truth was in his silence.

“You see,” she said cheerfully, then shrugged. “You need me.”

He felt his lips working, but for a few bizarre moments, he couldn’t speak. Was this little slip of a girl truly offering her companionship to him? Why? Associating herself with him was a daring venture.

He dragged a hand over his jaw. Christ, she was an innocent.

“Ah,” he began, giving her a doleful smile. “You have forgotten a most important factor, Miss Greene.”

“And that is…”

“Men and women cannot be friends. It is impossible.”

Her brow furrowed. “And why not?”

He bit back a smile. Lord, she was an easy one to fool. If he had a mind to fool her, that is. She was so gullible; he had no idea how she made it through life so far without being compromised, fleeced, or coerced into buying a three-legged horse at least a half a dozen times.

He cleared his throat to keep a cynical grin from creeping in. “Because, my sweet, sweet naive creature, lust would, undoubtedly, get in the way. You’ve heard of lust, correct?”

Pressing her lips together, she nodded. “Of course.”

“Damn. I should have liked to explain it to you in excruciating detail. Showing you examples, of course.”

“Lust is a sin.”

“Yes, indeed it is. My favorite one.” He gave her a wicked grin. She only blinked at him.

“You were saying,” she urged, clearly unmoved.

He sighed. “Well, one day or another, one of us would start having…thoughts about the other.” Truly, he had quite taken the lead on that facet already.

Her eyes narrowed on him in that half-annoying, half-adorable assessing manner once again. “Think you’re utterly irresistible, hmm?”

His mouth opened, presumably to utter some quip, but then his mind realized the bizarre spectacle this woman had just witnessed. He laughed instead. “Well, naturally, I’m not irresistible right now. But usually…”

“Your modesty astounds me,” she returned coolly.

“Believe what you will. But the truth of the matter is that eventually we would become completely obsessed about finding out what it would be like to finally—”

“Are you trying to say that you’ve tried this before and failed?”

“No,” he said. “What I’m saying is that people do not simply 
decide
 to become friends. We are not in our leading-strings, Miss Greene. And furthermore men and women cannot 
be
 merely friends. It just doesn’t happen.” He held up a hand when it looked as if she’d interrupt. “And even if it does, eventually, attraction, wonder, and temptation would supersede the relationship.” And on his end, it had already started. Being “friends” with her would just make it worse, he imagined.

“Now you are the one forgetting a most important factor, my lord.”

“And that is…”

“I do not inspire lust. All I provoke are whispered promises from a man who, with his next breath, asks another woman to marry him. Furthermore,” she added a bit forcibly when he made to interrupt, “I should think I can manage restraining myself when it comes to you. Therefore, all things considered…”

“And why bother anyway? What do you suppose can be gained by such an alliance, I wonder?”

“That’s all up to you, my lord.” She extended her hand.

He stared at her dainty fingertips for a second, perversely wondering what he could do that would stir this particular woman’s ire and inspire her to toss objects at his head like Lady Rosalind. Looking at Miss Greene’s friendly, pretty face, he couldn’t even imagine it. She couldn’t be real. This whole encounter could be a part of a bizarre dream provoked by too much whiskey and the knock to his skull.

Reaching out he touched her hand, for a second cradling her fingers within his before pressing his palm to hers for a handshake.

She flicked a nervous glance at their joined hands when he failed to pull his away.

Lifting her hand to his mouth, he pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles.

Strangely, seduction was not at the forefront of his mind. Right now, he was preoccupied with trying to figure her out. Did she have some sort of motive? Was she befriending him just because he happened to be good friends with Tristan?

“I should go,” she muttered, a flash of something akin to distress apparent in her gaze. She turned to leave, then stopped, spinning back around. “Perhaps I shall see you at the Hawthorne’s annual costume ball in July?”

He was invited every year, but never attended. Aubry Park was near the Hawthorne estate in Northumberland, but Rothbury had always found other things to do. There was nothing for him there. “It’s three months from now. Already know you are attending, Miss Greene?”

She nodded with a wry smile. “We go every year. My cousin Lizzie insists upon it. Besides, my mother loves everything metaphysical, and there are those supposed ‘haunted’ pathways and caves nearby. She’s forever dragging me on one of her excursions.”

He nodded, not knowing what else to say. He didn’t think he’d ever had a friendly, no hidden-motives conversation with a woman before. Odd but true. He was forever coaxing, manipulating, and seducing. Or letting those things to be done to him.

“Good night,” he said.

“Good night.” She smiled, turning to leave. “Do you know,” she added from over her shoulder, “I’m not supposed to be speaking with men like you?”

“It’s going to be a little hard being friends with someone you’re not allowed to converse with,” he murmured, but she had already gone. He watched her retreating form, his sinful mind fixating on her small, pleasantly rounded bottom, which had a wiggle that was definitely unintentional, but quite engaging.

Apparently deeming it safe to come out again, his stallion, Petruchio, came out from hiding. The beast nudged Rothbury in the back, breaking his concentration.

“I beg your pardon,” he muttered to the horse. “I do not have the attention span of a butterfly when it comes to women.”

Grabbing the pommel, he swooped into the saddle, the quick action making him momentarily dizzy. He bit it back, then urged his mount into a trot.

The window above and the woman to whom it belonged long forgotten, he focused instead on Miss Greene during the short ride back, and her utterly naïve, utterly perplexing offer.

Part of him hoped she’d forget all about this nonsense. Surely, she’d realize the folly of her association with him. And part of him thought maybe it 
would
 be better being friends with her, rather than nothing at all.

But still another part of him felt like grinning.

A derisive huff blew past his lips. He pushed that thought to the back of his mind. Miss Greene was an innocent. A peculiar one, but an innocent all the same. Women like her did not get involved with men like him.

When he finally returned to his town house, a mere block away, he relaxed in his study, sipping a horrid concoction conjured up by the housekeeper, who promised the vile liquid would clear his head.

His favorite wolfhound lay snoring at his feet, and a tumbling tray of correspondence awaited his attention near his elbow—one a letter from his grandmother, the dowager countess, he realized with a groan.

The dear woman was slowly going senile, and the contents of her letters were always a surprise. Sometimes she remembered who he was, sometimes she did not, and sometimes she confessed to having had tea with Napoleon and a giant talking rabbit named Mrs. Nesbitt every afternoon.

All in all, she had to be watched carefully. Not only did she have some harmless quirks, but she kept threatening to sell off parts of the earldom if he didn’t marry soon.

Lucky for him, they were all entailed properties, except for Aubry Park and its horse-breeding facilities. But insofar as he knew, she hadn’t threatened to sell it in order to get him to conform to her wishes.

Leaning back into the chair, he closed his eyes. He never enjoyed the quiet, the emptiness. It reminded him of other times, long-ago events he would like to forget.

Thankfully, amid his dark memories, a tumble of pale blond ringlets and a shy smile rose unbidden in his mind as it always did when he was alone.

Opening one eye, he spied one letter that stood out from the rest. He plucked it from the others and turned it over in his hand, revealing the Marquis of Hawthorne’s seal.

Their annual costume ball. The Hawthornes, with a son who would be looking for a bride soon, rarely came to Town for the Season. Families with unmarried females wouldn’t dare balk and miss out on the opportunity to attend their ball, even though it meant they’d have to pack up and leave London in the middle of the Season for a week.

It was about time he attended, he told himself. The Hawthornes had always been loyal friends of his family over the years, particularly of his mother and grandmother, he mused, giving the dog at his feet a pat on the head.

Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d decided to come just to see a certain young lady who possessed gorgeous sapphire eyes, asked way too many questions, and now suffered under the grand illusion of being his friend.

Chapter 4

A Gentleman values his friends, even when one drops in unexpectedly
.