To Wed a Wicked Earl (8 page)

He didn’t know what provoked her desperate climb into his room, but he intended to find out. After all they were friends, or she kept claiming they were anyway. And quite adamantly too.

He humored her, of course, letting her believe what she wished, whatever pleased her.

According to her, their friendship had started the night of the Bride Hunt Ball. Charlotte had claimed he had saved her from certain mortification after not a single gentleman in attendance asked her to dance. She had called him her “reluctant hero.” Which wasn’t true.

But he allowed her to keep her little story, even found himself laughing while she retold the event animatedly for the hundredth time.

Charlotte was a lovely woman. Clearly an impulsive one, but a lovely one just the same. She had seen him at 
his
 worst. Well, maybe not the worst, but the fact remained—she had offered him kindness. For a man like him, it was rather remarkable. Who knows, with the knock to his skull coupled with his drunken state that night outside Rosalind’s window, he could have very well caught his death if Charlotte wasn’t there to rouse him back to consciousness.

And he desired her, but secretly vowed to never cross the proverbial line. Granted, there were three extremely helpful notions that helped keep him walking that particular tightrope.

One: she thought the prospect of marrying him was utterly ridiculous.

Two: he suspected she was still enamored of his friend Tristan.

And three: she had “adopted” him as her newest project, her friend.

Lord, he hated that word. “Friend.”

Too bad for Charlotte that her little friendship mission had to be conducted entirely in secret. Her mother, like most mothers, considered him a despicable rogue and banned them from speaking to or being near each other. So they met at the park and various other places, timing their social outings so that they’d “bump” into each other.

It was an odd relationship, when he thought on it. And they were an odd pair, he mused, catching a glimpse of his tawny hair, loose and resting against his collarbone. Quite like the lion and the mouse.

Oh, how bloody absurd. Clearly, he’d finally gone stark raving mad.

“Charlotte,” he muttered again, rubbing his temples. “I can’t believe you’re in my house, in my bedchamber.”

“Well, who did you think I was?” She shook her head in derision, settling her map upon his shaving table—but not her parasol, he noted. “Really, who else did you expect this eve?”

“Any great number of women.”

She didn’t like that comment, if the way she crossed her arms tightly over her chest was any indication. It was a defensive gesture. And one of the things he was astonishingly good at was reading body language. Especially 
her
 body language.

He flicked a glance at the window. “You’re quite the determined lass. Agile too.” He paused to yawn and stretch out his arms above his head. “The last woman who tried to climb into my town house ended up getting the laces of her dress tangled on a hardy rose vine. Poor creature. She wasn’t discovered until dawn, hanging nearly upside down.” He hadn’t been home at the time, but the gardener claimed she’d paid him handsomely for his secrecy after he’d cut her down.

“Thank you for your very arrogant story.”

“Anything to please you.” He ran a hand through the hair atop his head.

“You,” she said pointedly, “are a shameless flirt.”

A lock of hair now hanging in his eyes, he leveled a stare at her. “Believe me when I say that your accusation has offended me. How dare you besmirch my character.”

“You
 are supposed to be behaving.”

“And I was,” he said, in mock offense. “Cleary, 
you
 are not.”

“Be serious.”

“I am. For someone determined to avoid scoundrels, you’re doing a deplorable job.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s just you.” Her foot tapped an impatient staccato upon his floor. “Seriously now, we must get down to the matter at hand…though I suspect you don’t even know why I’m here.”

“I’ll guess. Could it be that you’ve had a sudden epiphany? Yes, that must be it. Let’s see…After months of searching for the perfect gentleman, you now crave a steady dose of wicked men and you’ve decided to start with me.” He patted his lap, knowing she couldn’t see the gesture in the dark. “I don’t think I should like you finding another, so I shall work hard to hold your attention.”

Inhaling deeply, she was evidently trying her best to bite back a retort. “Has she accepted any of your calls?” she asked, speaking of Rosalind, the woman he was “trying” to court, only her brother deemed him and his reputation unfit to lick her half boots. Charlotte thought he had been leaving his calling cards with her footman for the past week. Unbeknownst to her, he hadn’t left a single one.

“No,” he said, watching Charlotte closely.

What would she do, what would she say, he wondered, if she knew the only reason he still pretended to want Rosalind was to be close to Charlotte? She considered him her little project, and it unearthed a buried self-confidence, something he doubted she would have ever thought she possessed. Something that attracted him to her like a beacon. As if he needed more encouragement.

She thought she was helping him, when in fact, she was wasting her time. Oh, he knew that pretending he was still infatuated with Rosalind just to be close to Charlotte was a tad underhanded, but he couldn’t help himself. Besides, being underhanded was his specialty.

“Don’t worry,” she muttered. “I have another idea.”

“I’m not worried,” he said with a shrug.

But she should be.

He had warned her that day at Wolverest that women and men could not be merely friends, that one day one of them would undoubtedly desire the other. Of course, he left out that he was already at that point and beyond.

However, he knew nothing would ever come of their relationship, other than being friends. Nothing more. Surely, his feelings would fade away…eventually. And he would try to behave until then. No matter how painful it was becoming.

And no matter how many times he told her that she shouldn’t trust him, she kept insisting that she could. He wanted to believe her. Her faith in him was endearing however wholly misplaced.

Tonight 
she
 crossed a line; 
she
 broke an unwritten rule by coming to his bedchamber in the dead of night.

“I must say,” he said, his words tight, “I am astounded by your behavior this evening.”

And he should really set her straight before she got herself in trouble. He doubted he could keep taking refuge in his imagination…The more he denied himself, the more detailed his thoughts became.

On a number of occasions, as she prattled on about some silly hat she intended to redo or whatever it was that women did to their bonnets to improve them, he found himself imagining her perched upon his lap, wearing those spectacles of course…and stockings and nothing else.

Damn. Must his mind veer off wickedly at every turn? He was truly disgusted with his lack of discipline. Apparently, his thought pattern was identical to that of a farm animal.

Thankfully, she had no idea of the wicked thoughts churning about his depraved mind, which was a good thing. A great thing. For if she knew, she just might stride right out of his life.

He closed his eyes for a moment, blocking his rambling thoughts. “I must ask…You are known for your timidity, tripping over your words or unable to utter a syllable around men. However, you have never been so with me. Why?”

He knew the answer, but asked her just the same. It was because she had Absolutely No Romantic Interest in him.

She looked surprised by his question, but soon recovered. “Well, I suppose it is because I feel safe with you. Though I realize how absurd that sounds, for you come from a long line of scoundrels. But the truth is, I know you want someone else, and have for a very long time. And even before Lady Rosalind, you had asked my friend Madelyn to be your bride, or was it your mistress? I cannot recall.” She gave her head a shake. “Either way. You are a direct sort. If you had entertained any desire for me at all, I reckon I would have known about it an age ago. Ravished in some garden or other.” She paused, giving in to a quiet, husky laugh.

It amazed him that she had no apparent idea just how provocative she sounded. And Lord, but did she have him all wrong.

“Can you imagine?” she asked through her laughter. “You and I? In a garden…in some passionate…embrace?” Her words slowed and sobered as she went on. Was she imagining it?

Hell yes, he could imagine it. And had. Numerous times.

“Come here,” he said, more to see what she would do than due to a real plan.

After a brief hesitation, she took one small step in his direction.

For reasons unknown to him, the action made him want to grind his teeth. How many times did he have to tell her that he wasn’t a man to be trifled with? That he hadn’t a good side, no matter how adamantly she insisted that he had. Did she think him harmless because she had once seen him acting like a drunken fool?

Didn’t she know how depraved he was? Hadn’t she heard all the awful things he had done? Why had she come to his aid in the garden, when any other woman would have turned the other way, pretending she didn’t see a bloody thing? And why 
was
 she still here? Hell, she might not know what was good for her, but Rothbury knew 
he
 certainly wasn’t.

He would have never guessed that she’d do something so unwise as to visit him in the middle of the night. Friend or not. What could be so important that she needed to speak to him so urgently? Hadn’t she a care for her safety? Didn’t she realize the temptation she presented to him? Seeing her in the park, at Vauxhall, or sitting back-to-back at adjacent tables in a coffee shop in order to disguise that they were really there together was one thing. Having her in his room was an entirely different matter all together.

Standing, he clutched the sheet to his torso with one fist, his intent to finally show Charlotte how foolish it was to underestimate his self-control. Hell, to underestimate her effect on him. After all, he was only a man. And she was a lovely woman, albeit sorely lacking in basic judgment skills.

Heedless of his state of undress, mindless to the heat and tension thrumming through him, he stalked toward her, advancing so that she had no choice but to back up…or be overtaken by him.

Chapter 5

A Gentleman’s clothes are exquisite in cut and fit, but inconspicuous in material.

P
asting an innocent smile on her face, Charlotte tried desperately to appear cool and in control. Outwardly. Inwardly, she was ready to bolt.

She simply had no middle ground. She was either so incredibly shy that she couldn’t manage a single sound to seep past her lips, or she did something so outlandish and hasty that she feared she was indeed ready to be locked up.

“Rothbury?”

She desperately tried to keep herself from glancing down at his bare chest. Embarrassment flooded heat through her cheeks. She thought he knew she was coming. And she hadn’t meant to sneak into his bedchamber. According to the map, she should have been entering his study. Nelly must have reversed the directions.

However, she refused to back down. The old Charlotte would have taken one look at his lordship and scurried for the nearest exit.

Excitement and desperation had moved her, guided her behavior, she supposed. And if she was anything this night, it was desperate.

Rothbury’s amber-flecked eyes glinted in the moonlight. Not for the first time that evening Charlotte thanked the Lord that the shadows hid her flushed cheeks. Whether he did it on purpose or not, his gaze perpetually held an air of both challenge and seduction, which resulted in some rather rampant babbling on her part. Not to mention his “look,” as she liked to call it, which never failed to make her bones feel like butter left out in the sun.

Presently, however, suspicion swept across his lovely features. “State your business, Charlotte. And quickly too.” He took another step toward her.

She slid a foot back and stepped on her ripped hem, which pulled the back of her dress tight.

“I have come tonight to ask for your assistance.” His nearness was setting fire to her skin. The absurd thought that her spectacles were about to cloud over crossed her mind. There would be no denying his effect on her person then. “Whatever are you about, Rothbury? And must you stand so close?”

“What’s the matter, Charlotte?” he asked, his tone mocking. “Are you suddenly having second thoughts on your decision to come here tonight?”

“A-Absolutely not. We are friends. We have no romantic interest in each other.” Lord knew she had put herself in his path in the past numerous times…and came away with rather humbling results. She had known him since her debut. And for the past three months as his friend, he had not raised a finger even in the general direction of a possible seduction. She knew how he worked. When Rothbury wanted something—or someone—he struck like a viper; he did not hesitate.

“And besides,” she added, “after you so stubbornly refused to answer my letters, I had no choice but to come here to speak with you. You very well know a lady cannot call upon a man alone, night or day.”