The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) (11 page)

The vine she’d managed to wrap fully around the end of the hoe broke suddenly, pitching her awkwardly back and sideways as she yanked with all her might. Her hip—the same one Chatham had held earlier—slammed into the stone wall surrounding the well.

“Ow! Dratted vine.” She rubbed at what would surely be a bruise come morning. Leaning on her hoe, she wiped her forehead with the back of one wrist and assessed her progress. She had cleared a patch perhaps twenty feet in length and width. They had spent the first part of the day inside the house, cleaning the remaining ground-floor rooms before moving out to the garden. Planting must begin soon if they were to have a respectable harvest come summer.

Will he kiss me again?
she wondered. They were married. It was possible. And she wanted him to. Her entire body still hummed, both pleasant and unsettling. At the moment, however, she could not be certain whether the kiss had happened spontaneously out of honest feeling or whether his intent had been to silence her. She suspected the latter.

Clearly, he enjoyed wielding those astonishing eyes and seductive wiles to distract and obfuscate. Perhaps he had sought to offend her sensibilities. But he forgot that humiliation had been a near-everyday occurrence during her five seasons. His small jabs and insolent vulgarities were little more than temporary stings. What remained of their interlude, lingering like a stain on her skin, was his touch. Those lips. His heated breath. His hands.

“We done for the evenin’, then?”

When Charlotte looked up, Esther was glaring meaningfully at the hoe currently being employed as a prop for Charlotte’s gloved hand.

“Of course not. Simply … resting for a moment. Those dratted vines tangle so easily.”

They both turned when Booth came up the path from the stables, dusting his hands on his coat. “M’lady.” He nodded to her politely. That was more courtesy than Esther ever offered, but somehow Charlotte thought she was slowly winning the woman over. There had been less grunting and glaring today than yesterday. It was small, but it was progress.

“Did you meet with success, Mr. Booth?”

He pulled a rough brown bag from inside his dun-colored coat. The thing was heavily weighted with coins and what sounded like pound notes, as well.

Her eyes widened and her smile grew. “You sold both coaches?”

“Aye. Bought a cart for haulin’ what we must. Sold the horses, too, all but a pair. Two stalls are decent enough. The rest will ’ave to be repaired before we house any more.”

She propped the hoe’s handle against the well wall and accepted the weighty pouch into cupped hands, pressing it to her bosom. “Splendid. Simply splendid, Mr. Booth.”

He grinned back briefly before blinking at the hoe. “Er—m’lady, shall I clear the rest?”

She glanced around her garden. “No. Thank you. I should like to finish myself.” Meeting his eyes, she nodded toward the stables. “You’ve a project of your own, I expect. Were you able to find the supplies you needed in the village?”

He frowned. Lifted his cap. Scratched his head. “Aye.”

Seeing his discomfort, her suspicions grew. “What happened?”

“Nothing, m’lady.”

“Mr. Booth.”

His eyes dropped to his boots. “His lordship were there.”

“In the village?”

“The pub.”

Her heart thudded and flopped.
Oh, no. He would not. Surely after suffering so horribly, he would not succumb to temptation.

“He weren’t in his cups, m’lady. Near as I could figure it, he was askin’ after …”

“Yes? He was asking after what?”

The sturdy man twitched and swallowed. “Gaming, m’lady. Whether there were a game to be had nearby.”

Relief flooded her. “And did he find one?”

He nodded.

She sighed. As Chatham had rightly stated, his pockets were all but empty, so a bit of gaming was unlikely to end in disaster. He might come home without any boots, but otherwise there was little risk. “Keep me apprised, won’t you? We mustn’t let Lord Rutherford spoil a perfectly sound plan.”

She saw Esther’s glower and Booth’s raised brows a moment before she heard a voice that sent wild shivers over her skin.

“You know what they say about plans.”

She closed her eyes and then turned to face Chatham, who entered the garden from around the corner of the east wing. He was less pale than he’d been. Perhaps he had eaten something. The wind ruffled his hair, sending one lock over his brow as he came toward her with long, purposeful strides. Suddenly, catching her breath seemed an impossible task.

“Now then, wife. I distinctly recall telling you to leave me out of—“

She held up a hand. “Let us speak alone.” With that, she strode past him toward the kitchen door, stopping only briefly to give him a crisp “come along.” She did not know whether he would comply, certain only that she must keep their conversation brief and entirely free of the kind of seductive nonsense that had occurred that morning. They had matters to discuss, a sensible relationship to establish, and she could not allow her peculiar fascination with his lips and disproportionate anatomy to distract her from her purpose.

Entering the crimson drawing room, she tugged at the fingers of her gloves and removed them before turning to face Chatham.

Her heart stuttered then began to pound. What was it about him? The eyes, certainly. Such an unusual color.

Stop this, Charlotte. He is your prospective partner in a lucrative venture. That is all.

“You summoned, my lady?” He bowed mockingly then closed the double doors with a click.

She swallowed hard and nodded firmly, placing her gloves on the marble mantel. “Chatham, you and I have each entered this marriage with a similar purpose. That is what I attempted to discuss this morning, before you …”

His half-grin was accompanied by a single raised brow. “Yes? Before I …”

She cleared her throat and pushed through her discomfort. “Before you kissed me. Now, I do understand we are married, but I have chosen to regard our circumstances as a kind of business partnership.”

“I am a marquess. I do not engage in trade.” He smirked. “Not the sort to which you’re referring, in any event.”

She closed the distance between them, stopping several feet away. The closer she drew, the more wary he looked until his smile faded entirely.

“This year we must spend together,” she began, wondering how best to persuade him. The man was an enigma to her in many regards. “It needn’t be wasted. I have a plan. If you are agreeable.”

His eyes were cold. Calculating. Assessing. “Your voice is pure English, love, but you sound suspiciously American.”

Pride filled her at his observation. American. Yes, she was, every inch. “Thank you,” she said, smiling.

“It was not a compliment.”

“But I shall take it as one.” Without thinking, she moved closer until the light tang of citrus teased her nose. There was no hint of liquor, she was glad to note. “Listen to my offer. Please.”

Turquoise painted the length of her then resettled on her face. “By all means.”

She sighed and nodded. “As you know, Chatwick Hall is in great need of repair, but that is only the beginning of the estate’s woes. The reason your father could no longer maintain the house is that the rents are insufficient to support it. According to Mr. Pryor, the land is sound enough, but your father’s neglect over the years has led to many leases expiring. Some farms lay abandoned; others are occupied, but the leases are short, and the tenants reluctant to sign new agreements.”

“You propose eviction, then?”

“No, of course not. We need the tenants to return to the fold. Repairing the house is part of that effort. We must instill confidence in them once again, show them that the new Lord and Lady Rutherford—”

“I do not like where this is going,” he said flatly.

“—are willing to make long-needed changes to restore the estate. Once they see—”

“Charlotte.”

She stopped.

“Your point, if you please.”

Pressing her lips together, she gazed up at Chatham’s icy expression. She could feel him preparing to reject her plan. She must break through his resistance. “I found your father’s estate journals today. They were tucked inside a box on a shelf in the library.”

The slightest twitch of a muscle beside his eye was the only sign of a response.

“They indicate the yields here were once quite good. Ten thousand a year above expenses. Your land borders that of Lady Wallingham, and Grimsgate Castle’s farms are extremely productive, as well. There is simply no reason to leave this land fallow when it could be thriving.” She took a deep breath and made her offer. “I propose that you and I work together to restore the estate, to bring it once again into solvency. And that we divide the profits for the year between us.”

His jaw was hard when he asked, “By what percentage? No, no. Let me guess. Half.”

She blinked and nodded.

Chuckling, he looked around the room. “You wish to turn this into a profitable enterprise.
This.”

Her chin rose. “Do not disparage Chatwick Hall. It is not her fault she has been left to rot.”

“My apologies, Lady Rutherford.” He lifted a lean, elegant hand to gesture toward the broken windows and blackened fireplace. “How brutish of me to suggest your proposal is outlandish in the slightest.” With eyes wide, he dropped his arm to his side and once again focused on her. “Clearly,
I
am in the wrong.”

Frustration settled into her abdomen like hot coals. As usual, he was purposely taunting, trying to irritate her. “Chatham,” she snapped, her hands landing on her hips. “How much did you win today?”

A spark of surprise lit his eyes a moment before it disappeared and he tilted his head. “Enough.”

She edged closer. “How much?”

It took a full minute for him to mutter, “Four pounds.”

“And, at that rate, how do you expect us to live? I have some funds—”

“I never asked you to spend a farthing,” he snapped.

She ignored his outburst. “My funds will carry us for a time, but we must find a way to sustain ourselves.”

The resentment in his eyes was the same as she had seen that morning. Most strange to find injured pride in one who had heretofore lacked standards of any sort. “Again, my dear, you speak as though I require a cloth to absorb my drool. Perhaps our interlude this morning failed to clarify my status as a fully grown male.”

Losing all patience, she stamped her heel on the wooden floor with a sharp clack. “Chatham,” she gritted, “Just … stop, for goodness’ sake. You persist in behaving as though this marriage can be anything other than what I am proposing. I know you do not want me. I am not desirable in that way. The last five seasons taught me that lesson only too well.”

His brows lowered into a deep frown, but he did not deny her statement. Why should he? It was the truth.

“You needn’t
pretend
with me, don’t you see?” she continued earnestly, grasping his hands in hers, feeling how cold they were. “I should think it would be a relief.”

He pulled away as though she had burned him. “You’re presuming a great deal.”

“Yes, I am. But I am also right. You do not need another woman to bed. What you need is a friend. A partner. I can be that if you will allow it.”

His frown was fierce now, his jaw clenched. Plainly, he did not like what she had said, but as before, he also did not deny it. “A friend who intends to leave after a year.”

She inched closer until she felt his breath on her face. “That is the beauty of our partnership, Chatham. We both understand the terms.”

He searched her face, lingering on her lips and dropping to her collarbone before returning to meet her eyes. His blazed with an emotion she could not identify. “Why should I agree to any of this? I need only wait the year and collect my due.”

“Because you have a year to wait,” she said wryly. “Here. With me. Knocking about this great, empty house with holes in the roof and a staircase better suited to kindling.” She sent a brief glance around the room. “Apologies, old girl.” Then, she issued her final argument, a challenge to Benedict Chatham’s latent pride. “Why not spend your time with a friend in a worthwhile pursuit? Consider it a cure for tedium. A refreshing change of pace.”

He did not return her smile, but merely lifted a brow. Eyes that had gone from resentment to blazing fire now seemed calmer, controlled. He was taking her measure. If she were the fanciful sort, she might describe his expression as predatory. “Friends,” he drawled in that shiver-inducing voice. Then one corner of his lips quirked in a faint smile. “Yes. I should like that very much, indeed.”

*~*~*

CHAPTER NINE

“Scoundrels do not change. They merely grow more devious.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her companion, Humphrey, upon learning of Benedict Chatham’s return to Northumberland.

For two weeks, Chatham studied her. The way she commanded respect from Esther by pretending interest in the maid’s superior scrubbing techniques. Her penchant for wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist and whispering praise to the house when she thought no one was watching.

His most revealing observations came at night when she lay beside him in the bed. For some reason, she enjoyed talking to him. Five nights ago, for example, she had turned on her side to face him as he settled beneath the blankets wearing his shirt and a pair of old, wash-worn breeches. She had sighed and tucked a hand beneath her chin.

“Do you suppose it is warmer in America, Chatham?”

He had raised a brow and mulled her question. “In the summer, everywhere is warmer.”

Snorting and rolling her eyes, she’d raised up to prop her cheek on her hand. “Be serious.”

“Very well. It depends. Where are you planning to settle?”

“New York. Or Boston. Or Virginia.” She’d sighed again and smiled, her eyes sparkling. “I am not certain.”

“Virginia, yes. Boston or New York, no.”

“Oh.”

“Disappointed?”

“Well, I … I want to enter trade. My father is in Boston. That is where I was born. It is a robust place, I’ve read. But, then there is New York. Oh, Chatham, it seems such an exciting city. I purchased a traveler’s guide last year. Banking and business are thriving there. According to one report, there are more foreigners than Americans, as so many flock there for trade. Can you imagine?”

“And Virginia?”

Her nose had wrinkled in the most captivating way. “The descriptions of the farms are lovely. I fear I will miss the countryside too much if I live in the city.”

“Mmm. Perhaps you could have a home in New York and a farm in Virginia.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Why not? Here, we think nothing of having a house in London and another in the country.”

Her eyes had lit until they glowed. “What a brilliant notion. I shall spend summers in New York and winters in Virginia.”

She had slumped onto her pillow and rolled onto her back, staring up at the canopy. “Thank you, Chatham. You have given me something to dream upon.”

A chill had run over him as he watched her eyes list and close. It felt a bit too much like conscience. Her dream to dream upon was unlikely to come true if he got her with child. Dismissing the moment of doubt, he had blown out the candle and turned onto his side. She would be pleased when he gave her a portion of the two hundred. She could purchase as many Virginia farms and New York town houses as she liked.

Their evening conversations continued to provide Chatham new discoveries. Her clumsiness, he had learned, was the result of a growth spurt at age fourteen. Every part of her had lengthened so rapidly, she’d said, that no movement had felt natural ever since. A once-simple gesture would send her arms flailing into walls and furniture. A girl that had fit neatly inside the priest hole in her uncle’s manor house had sprouted until she’d dwarfed her male cousins and even her uncle. Her legs had been the worst part, she’d said. Suddenly each step was longer than two. Even now, she could not accustom herself to it. Then, she had laughed at herself, the sound like church bells, only lighter. Resonant and rich.

He liked her laugh.

He liked her smell. He sat for hours beside her in bed each night, breathing it in while she slept and he studied his father’s journals.

He liked that she was slow to anger and quick to forgive. With Esther. With Booth. With him.

He liked that he could feel her eyes on him in odd moments, and when he met her gaze, she would smile instead of looking away.

The liking had grown as the days passed, even though some things about her still vexed him. For example, every morning, he awakened with her knee in his back or her head tucked awkwardly beneath his arm or her fingers tangled in his hair. Rarely had he ever actually slept with a woman. Most of his interactions ended before the sleeping began, so he was hardly an expert on their habits in that regard. But the way she flailed about at night seemed abnormal, ending in the most peculiar positions.

His cock agreed. It wanted him to put the situation to rights by spreading her thighs wide and crawling on top of her. In fact, it demanded he do so with a growing sense of urgency.

For now, he ignored it, but the need was becoming bothersome, a heavy ache in his groin that lingered and throbbed like a bad tooth.

Which was why he went riding every morning, exploring the untilled fields and unkempt acres of the Chatwick estate. Of the two horses in the stable, he had chosen the darker one, a gray gelding Charlotte had named Franklin, in honor of Benjamin Franklin, the American inventor and diplomat. He was uncertain if she’d meant it to be cheeky, as the horse was rather stout. Her humor, he’d discovered, could be obscure.

Franklin was calm and sturdy, a carriage horse rather than a hunter, but the animal gave Chatham a good, pounding ride. Not the sort of ride he longed to engage in with his wife, mind. But the bracing wind and strenuous exercise alleviated some of his tension, and that enabled him to return home each night and crawl into bed beside her without tearing the thin, white muslin from her body and ravishing her until this everlasting ache abated.

That must wait. She wasn’t ready to be seduced.

Yet another annoyance, in his estimation. She patently refused to accept that he wanted her or that any man could. Her devout faith in that dubious notion caused her to snort and roll her eyes every time he made a suggestive comment or a casual advance. She brushed him aside like a boy playing a prank. It was driving him to distraction.

He took a deep breath, smelling the recent rain and rich soil and wet grass. Pushing Franklin harder, he savored the bite of morning air in a way he had not done since … he did not know. Before he’d left for Eton, he supposed. Over twenty years ago.

Today, he explored the southeastern corner of the estate, where his land abutted that of Grimsgate Castle. Even now, he could see the massive, medieval sprawl of weathered stone in the distance, crouched like a gargoyle on a hill above the sea. The tart-tongued Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham remained in residence much of the year, visiting London only briefly during the prime of each season. She was a gargoyle herself, an inexplicably influential figure within the ton, whose judgments were granted a weight reserved for queens and patronesses of Almack’s. In short, Lady Wallingham was a fiery busybody who rarely bothered with politeness and refused to tolerate those she deemed less clever than herself—namely, everyone.

He quite liked her. She, however, did not return the sentiment.

Slowing as he reached the boundary between their properties, he noted the stark contrast between his land and hers. His was overgrown, strewn with rocks from a long-ago crumbled wall. Hers was tilled and dark, the neat furrows prepared to be planted. Narrowing his eyes on a man directing a plow two fields over, he quickly made a decision and turned Franklin to intersect the farmer’s path.

The man, who appeared to be about his age and height but significantly more muscular, wore plain, wash-worn clothes and a broad-brimmed hat. He pulled his team of horses to a stop when he saw Chatham approach.

“Castle’s that way,” the man said, jerking his head in the obvious direction.

“Good of you to reassure me,” Chatham said wryly. “I had wondered what that monstrosity was.”

The man squinted at him, removed his hat and wiped his forehead with a stained handkerchief. A flash of embroidery caught his eye, but the cloth disappeared into the farmer’s pocket before he could be sure. “Can I help you with somethin’?”

Chatham wondered for a moment what the deuce he was doing before climbing down from Franklin’s back and approaching the farmer. “I don’t know, precisely.” The appallingly diffident words came out before he could stop them.

The man plopped his hat back on his head. “Well, you’re standin’ in me field. I assume you have some purpose for doin’ sae.”

He felt daft. It was a disconcerting sensation. Of all things, Chatham was not daft. But then, he was not typically sober either. Or celibate. Much had changed in the past month. Shaking his head, he glanced around and saw a modest, two-story stone cottage a few hundred yards away. “Is that your house?”

“Aye.”

“Looks to be in good repair.”

“It is.”

“Your fields are ably tended as well.”

“Are you ’er ladyship’s new steward, then?”

“Er, not quite.” Chatham half-smiled and waved back toward the untilled, weed-infested fields from which he’d come. “That is mine.”

“Boots are a bit fancy for a farmer. Land looks to need work.”

“I am Rutherford, actually.” For perhaps the first time, he felt a thread of shame run through the title. “The land is mine. The tenant abandoned it several years ago.”

The farmer merely gave him a hard look and nodded. No bow. No “your lordship.” Just a dark-eyed stare.

“In any event, I inherited the place last winter.” He didn’t know why he was explaining. The farmer was nothing to him. Not a peer, not even a landowner. “Lady Rutherford and I are in the process of renovating Chatwick Hall and restoring the land.” Why had he mentioned his wife? They were partners in the endeavor, it was true, but he had never thought of himself as half of a “we” before. He had always been alone. Always.

The farmer’s stare eased, and he looked at the ground then back toward his cottage. “Me wife’ll ’ave breakfast on by now.”

Feeling as abashed as though he’d wandered onstage in the midst of a foreign play, Chatham gave the man a nod. “I shall leave you to it then.” He turned and placed his boot in the stirrup, preparing to mount Franklin.

“You could join us, if it please you.” The farmer paused before adding, “Me wife’s a fine cook, she is.”

One month ago, he might have laughed. He might have sneered. He might have climbed onto his horse and ridden away without another thought. But this was not one month ago. Because, suddenly, his stomach was growling. He was hungry. For the first time in years.

He unhooked his boot, turned back to the farmer, and nodded his thanks.

A half-hour later, as they sat around a thick, sturdy table inside the cottage kitchen, he discovered the divine miracle of Mrs. Jameson’s fresh-baked pasties. The farmer, Peter Jameson, had mentioned them on their walk across his freshly plowed field. But Chatham seldom found the real thing superior to the description.

This was the exception. She had filled the flaky crust with succulent beef and rich, salted gravy and finely diced potatoes and onions. He placed another forkful in his mouth, and the pleasure of it closed his eyes against his will.

“Are you a prince?” The young girl’s voice came from beside his right elbow. Her plump little hand stroked the sleeve of his blue riding coat in wonder. “Can I marry you?”

“Lucy,” Mrs. Jameson chided. “Lord Rutherford is eatin’. And already married. Mind your manners.”

She was a tiny thing, probably four or five, with her father’s dark-brown eyes and her mother’s light-gold hair. Her cheeks were her most striking feature, however, as they were perfectly round and deeply dimpled. He gave her his best smile, the one females everywhere sighed over. Her eyes grew wider, and she covered them with a yelp.

He chuckled and took another bite.

“You should try oats. Church variety,” said Peter from the other end of the table. “If you start tillin’ soon, you could be sowin’ in a week or sae, with the harvest in July.”

Chatham swallowed. “One problem. I have no plow. Nothing, really, but a pair of overbred carriage horses and a cart.”

“Would you care fer some ale, Lord Rutherford?” Mrs. Jameson held up the pitcher, preparing to pour him a cup.

He wanted it. He wanted something stronger, the need a pernicious, living shadow crouched inside his head. “No. Thank you.”

“It makes me belly hurt,” whispered Lucy. “I don’t like it, neither.”

Mrs. Jameson, a pretty woman with gentle features, smiled at her daughter. “We ’ave to make you a special brew, don’t we now?”

The little girl nodded and gave Chatham a wide grin. One tooth was missing. She pushed her cup toward him. “You can try it, if you like.”

He glanced at her mother skeptically.

Mrs. Jameson nodded her permission. “It’s a tea made with herbs and a little honey. Go on, then. Take a sip.”

He had acquired a strong thirst after his ride. Decision quickly made, he indulged the girl by accepting her wooden cup and taking a drink.

The flavors slid across his tongue, sweet and minty and strong, but also with hints of flowers and berries and an underlying spice. The nectar was ambrosia. Honeyed ambrosia. He took another drink and held the delicious liquid in his mouth, trying to determine its ingredients.

“What is in it?” he asked when he finally swallowed. “Delightful. I must know.”