To Wed a Wicked Earl (9 page)

“Have you no care for your reputation, then?”

“Twas why I thought to meet at night. It was the surest way to come and go undetected.” Never mind the fact that the Greenes lived just around the corner. Her presence here tonight had not required a detailed mode of operation worthy of a naval captain. She hadn’t even needed to hire a hack.

“And what of your mother and father should they wake to find you gone?”

“That’s the benefit of having elderly parents. They sleep often and quite soundly.”

“No thought to your safety?” With his free hand, he reached out to let loose a lock of hair that had coiled around her bonnet ribbon.

She batted his hand away. “I’m not a sap skull,” she muttered, gesturing to the open window with a nod of her head. “I brought Ne—…I-I brought George.”

“And he is…”

“Our burliest footman.”

He turned his attention away from her to look out the window. And thank goodness for that. A lady could only take so much of Rothbury’s undivided attention. Not to mention the fact that she was suddenly startlingly aware that he wore nothing but a sheet and was slowly inching his way closer to her. She tried to think of inane subjects to keep her mind from wondering what was under that sheet. Gardening. Yes, she liked to garden. Peonies, lily of the valley, chrysanthemums…

“Charlotte,” he intoned, swinging those eyes back on her. “What you have down there is a chub by kitchen maid wearing a footman’s costume.”

She blinked and for a moment she was at a loss for words. “You have the eyes of a hawk,” she admitted, astonished.

“I’ve been told.”

“Despite what you might be thinking, Nelly is quite protective.” He took another step closer to her. He smelled warm and clean and faintly like brandy. Her nerves taking a quick downward spin, she made to slide her foot back in retreat once again, but her heel met the wall with a clunk. “S-She can fight just as well as any man, maybe better,” she blurted, nodding like a ninny when he lifted one tawny brow in question.

“Indeed,” she went on, nodding. “Once, we had a thief trying to break in through the kitchen door. She waited in the shadows until he stepped inside, then clubbed him on the head with a leg of beef. Knocked him out cold, I’m proud to say.” Lord, if she could only stop babbling.

“But your Nelly is all the way down there,” he smoothly pointed out, his eyes briefly dipping, giving Charlotte’s flushed figure a quick perusal. “What of the mischief that could happen right here…with me?”

She wanted to match his mood, show him she could be cool and unaffected by his nearness, unlike every other female in his company. Moreover, she knew he was only toying with her, which made her just a tad annoyed. However, that bit of annoyance gave her strength.

Thinking she could act just as smooth, she flicked her gaze downward, too. Straight away, her eyes seemed to lock upon his large, tan fist, which held the sheet tightly at his sculpted waist. Her face inflamed with her stubborn blush, so she forced her gaze back to his angular, beautiful face.

“How would you protect yourself?” he asked, smiling in such a way that she was sure he could read her mind.

“Well, I suppose if there came a need for me to protect myself against your lecherous advances, I’d use this parasol,” she explained with a shrug, proud of the way her cool tone hid her anxiousness. “Besides, I am perfectly safe from you. I’m like a…a sister to you, I imagine.”

“I don’t have a sister.” He leaned forward, resting his free hand on the wall behind her.

“Oh, well, if you did,” she said nodding. She pushed against his chest with her free hand. He didn’t budge.

“Let’s forget all that, shall we? Instead, I’d like to prove my point. Let’s pretend for a moment that I find you attractive. Let’s pretend that your very virtue is sorely threatened at this very moment.”

“Unlikely,” she scoffed.

His warm gaze dropped down to the hand that rested against his warm, bare skin. Then he looked up at her, his eyes showing an emotion she did not recognize. “I want you,” he said, then swallowed hard. “And every time you are near me, your scent, your voice, seeps into my soul.”

“Oh my,” she muttered with a giggle. “You’re good at this. You almost sound as if you believe it yourself.”

“I do.”

Sighing, she supposed the only thing worse than being pursued by a sinfully attractive, manipulative rake, was having one for a friend. “Stop this, Rothbury. It’s not funny.”

Feeling flushed, she looked down at her hand with a start, realizing she was still touching his chest. She retracted it quickly, then made a great show of studying the tip of her index finger, where a tiny dot of blood had beaded. A thorn had jabbed her earlier during her perilous climb. She hoped it would draw his attention and distract him.

But it only made it worse. He covered her hand with his own in a movement that could only be called a caress.

She swallowed. “Give me back my hand, you depraved hound.”

“Mine.” Slowly, he drew her toward his mouth, lips parted slightly.

Good Lord. Was he going to put her finger in his mouth? All her breath seemed to sink down to her knees, if such a ludicrous thing was possible. This had to stop. She thought to shove him away, only her muscles refused to respond.

“Now, what would you do?” He leaned down, his lips parting, giving her a tiny glimpse of his tongue.

Her heart tripped over itself. He was magnificent in the moonlight. But she wasn’t going to stand for any of this teasing either. She brought out the parasol and pointed it at his chest. “Step back.”

He merely raised a brow, his gaze flicking from her finger to the parasol and back again.

“I’m warning you.”

Pushing his hand from the wall, he plucked the decorative umbrella from her slack hold and tossed it behind his back with ease. When it hit the carpet with a dull thud, he gave her a look that said, “So now what are you going to do?”

So much for her weapon.

“You can stop this now.” She twisted her lips. “I see your point. However, I do have a very good reason for being here. And I am certainly not looking for your brand of mischief.”

His eyes instantly cooled. Curtain closed, scene over. Thank goodness she was smart enough and strong enough not to fall for his rakish scheming. There was never any sincerity in his words. To him, playing the part of a rake was all an act, like a lever he turned on and off at will.

After watching her for a moment, he stepped away from her, disappearing into the dark room.

The air suddenly felt cold. She shivered, goose pimples spreading across her skin.

“What are you looking for, then?” he asked, his voice fading as he walked away.

A door opened in the distance, followed soon after by the sound of fabric swishing over smooth, bare flesh. She supposed he was getting dressed.

“Perhaps if you bothered to read my letters, you would know the answer to that question.” She cleared her throat, eager to get to the point. “To begin, I’ve come to ask you why you failed to inform me that Harriet cried off. Tristan is free.”

She nearly jumped when a door, which she hadn’t known existed until now, was suddenly forcibly opened behind her, then slammed shut.

Rounding her like a stalking panther, Rothbury padded past, dressed now in a loose white shirt and a pair of tan breeches. He looked angry, his jaw tight.

A sudden stark awareness nearly made her shiver with apprehension. She was in his territory, of that there was no doubt. And if she were any other woman (a woman he truly found attractive, to be more precise), there was no doubt that her virtue would be in danger.

He lit a branch of candles sitting upon a side table, basking the room in a soft golden glow.

He wasn’t lying. There weren’t any chairs in his bedchamber. Or she supposed there weren’t. For at that moment her mind could only focus on the huge mahogany four-poster bed crouching in the back of the room. The chocolate-brown coverlet sat rumpled in a heap at the end of the bed while a honey-colored sheet spilled halfway onto the floor.

Goodness, she thought, resisting the urge to fan herself. If his sheet was there, that meant that he had dropped it when he had walked away from her. Which meant he had walked to his dressing room utterly naked. Without the sheet. In this room. With her. For about five seconds, at least.

Crossing his arms over the broad expanse of his chest, Rothbury regarded her with a serious expression. In fact, he looked mightily irritated. Much like he was an inch from tossing her out the window, which, given her outlandish behavior this evening, might very well be justified.

“So your Tristan is free. What does that have to do with anything?”

“What does that have to do with…? How could you ask me such a question?”

“Didn’t I just?”

“You are very moody.”

“Please. What does Harriet Beauchamp crying off have to do with the fact that you are standing in my bedchamber at…” he glanced at the mantel clock, “…at half-midnight, wearing a frock with a missing third button?”

“A missing…?” She looked down at her dark green carriage dress. Sure enough, just where he said, a button was missing. “My, you do have remarkably good vision. The complete opposite of m—”

“Honestly, Charlotte,” he muttered, shifting his stance. “Did it come as a shock? When he asked her, she thought she was marrying either the heir apparent to a dukedom or presumably giving birth to one in the future should Tristan’s older brother live a long and healthy life. Think, Charlotte. Now that the duke married, she found herself engaged to a man who holds nothing but a courtesy title.”

“Indeed,” she said. “I understand. I just hadn’t expected it, which brings me to my point for being here.”

“Thank God.”

She cleared her throat. “I will ignore your sarcasm.”

“Wise choice. Proceed.”

“Well,” she said cautiously. “It seems you’ve forgotten a very special event. The Hawthorne Costume Ball. It’s next week.”

Rothbury hadn’t forgotten at all. Admittedly, he had been avoiding Charlotte as the date approached. Knowing Tristan wasn’t engaged any longer and knowing his friend would presumably attend the ball, Rothbury had no more desire to watch Charlotte blush and stutter in Tristan’s presence than he would enjoy getting pecked to death by a flock of man-hungry seagulls.

He should have known this was coming. According to Charlotte, she’d been enamored of Tristan since the day he pulled her and her mother from the mangled heap of their overturned carriage. Participating in the Bride Hunt Ball had seemed like fate to her. And now that the gossip columnists had recently reported that the chit cried off the engagement, Charlotte must be ecstatic, thinking this was her second chance.

“I received a letter from my cousin in the post this morning,” she went on, clearly warming up to her point. “She said you had sent your regrets. You simply must attend. You must. Tristan is going to be there.”

“That’s nice,” he muttered. “Have fun.”

She started wringing her hands. “You simply must come, Rothbury. As my friend, you must support me. How ever am I supposed to withstand being in the same room with him after all that has happened between us?”

“Avoid him, then,” he offered with a shrug. “It’s sure to be a crush, packed to the ceiling with guests. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“But I need you. How else am I to implement my plan?”

Momentarily speechless by her declaration of “needing” him, his mind quickly scrambled to refocus. 
Plan?
 Rothbury stilled. “What plan?”

“Well, as you know, you owe me the sum of one favor.”

“Oh, Christ,” he murmured, running a hand through his tousled mane.

“Wait,” she said gently. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“I don’t have to. I already know.”

“You couldn’t possibly.”

“I am not a matchmaker, Charlotte.”

“I’m not asking for you to do such a thing. You of all people know your friend better than anyone. Perhaps better than his own family.”

“Perhaps not. Listen. You’re close friends with the duke’s bride. Why not pester them into helping you leg-shackle the man?”

She looked to the ground. “They’re still in Wales, presently. Besides, they’re against the match.”

“Doesn’t that tell you something then? His own family thinks he’ll make you miserable.”

“They don’t understand,” she said shaking her head. 
“You
 don’t understand. He promised—”

“Men promise a lot of things when lust runs hot and steady under their skin.”

“We’ve been through this before. I do not inspire such feelings.”

And Rothbury knew she truly believed that. It was all there in her eyes. Open and sincere, anxious and hopeful.

“But I want to change that,” she whispered, meeting his gaze hesitantly, “with your help.”

Rothbury’s jaw tightened as he smothered a curse.

She took a step toward him. He went to take a step back, but he found himself against a wall.

“Charlotte, I cannot help you.” He shook his head, turning away from the hope flaring in her eyes, making them bright, making him wish…well, making him wish for things he had no business wishing for. “I have problems of my own,” he muttered.