The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) (20 page)

A frown crinkled her brow. “No. What has that to do—”

“Her sister was Margaret. My father’s first wife.”

Green-and-gold eyes flared and soft pink lips rounded into an O.

“Mmm. Understanding dawns. Lady Wallingham grieved her sister’s barrenness, and then her death. She viewed my mother as a usurper of Margaret’s title and me as a usurper of my father’s. I fear my past behavior did little to improve her opinion.”

“But that is appalling. How is it fair to blame a child for being born?”

“Fairness is an illusion, love. Her reaction is rooted in sentiment, not reason.”

Charlotte stood and planted her hands on her hips. “This will not stand. Loyalty to one’s sibling is admirable, but Margaret was dead fully ten years before you were born. Lady Wallingham must be made to see her error.”

He raised a brow. “You plan to change her mind, do you?”

“I shall pay her another visit tomorrow.”

“It will make no difference.”

“We shall see.” She waved a hand in a dismissive gesture, nearly swiping the pitcher off the washstand. He caught it just as it tipped. “Apologies,” she murmured absently, folding her arms across her bosom. “I know you think me foolish, but I cannot countenance her unreasoning hatred toward you. I shall visit and speak with her again.”

“Very well, do as you wish. Not that I could stop you.”

“And I shall speak with Tannenbrook, as well. He, too, must be made to see the error of his ways.”

Throughout their conversation, Chatham had managed to think clearly. Granted, visions of what he planned to do to Charlotte later in their bed ran like a red banner beneath every thought, but he maintained his equilibrium. Not once had he simply grabbed her nape and brought her mouth to his. He had been disciplined. Controlled.

Until she mentioned the giant. “You intend to see Tannenbrook?” The banner of red took on a darker cast, spread like an endless blanket, even obscuring his vision.

“Yes. He is behaving abominably, and it is doing great harm. Someone must bring him to his senses, and the task has fallen to me.”

He breathed against the red tide rising inside him. Last night, after vowing to keep her by whatever means necessary, Chatham had held her in his arms, stroked her to completion, and realized he could not simply trap her in his life by impregnating her with his child. He wanted to. His ruthless side, which had ruled him for so long, demanded it. But with her cradled in his lap, keening her pleasure and giving him everything he asked without a moment’s hesitation, he’d been struck by conscience. So he had stopped short of releasing inside her again, deciding he must allow her to determine her future. Naturally, he would be merciless in his efforts to coax her to stay with him, but the final decision must be hers.

That had been last night. Before she’d spoken boldly of meeting with Tannenbrook. Before the red blanket of rage wrapped itself around his good intentions and tore them asunder.

“You will not see him,” he said, his voice like the quiet snick of a whip.

“Wha—”

“In particular, you will not see him alone. Is that clear?”

“Er—no. I’m afraid not.”

He moved toward her. Slowly. Purposefully. “Which part is a mystery?”

“The part where you dictate which of my friends I may call upon.”

“I am your husband.”

Her brow reflected her consternation. “And?”

“And I say you shall not see him.”

Her head tilted. “Why?”

He drew within inches of her, his body running hot and feverish, his ire rising at her resistance. “Because you are mine.”

Infuriatingly, she snorted. “We are married, Chatham. I am not one of your sheep to be confined to the pasture of your choosing.”

“Obviously, your understanding of your position is lacking. Allow me to explain.” He moved into her, forcing her to shuffle backward until her legs bumped the divan. “You belong to me. He will never touch you.”

“You—you are being ridiculous. Why would he touch me?” She appeared genuinely confused and more than a little exasperated. “Had he desired such a thing, he would have taken my father’s offer. As I have explained over and over until I am well and truly exhausted of the topic, men do not view me as an object of desire, Chatham. Even you had to be persuaded to … partake of your … husbandly rights, and only then because you were left with no alternative.”

If anything could have shocked him out of his ever-blackening mood, it was this. Charlotte was blind to her own appeal. She did not understand his bloody obsession with her hair and her freckles and her laugh and the odd workings of her half-American mind. Nor did she suspect other men’s motives for “befriending” her. She thought herself undesirable. Even though he had to grit his teeth to keep himself in check whenever she was near. Even though he’d made love to her countless times in a mere two days, pushing her virginal body far harder than he should have done.

“Charlotte,” he rasped.

“And another thing,” she said, ignoring his interruption. “Viola is in love with Tannenbrook. I would never betray her trust by dallying with him, even if I were of such low character as to break my vows to you.”

“Char—”

“Which I am
not,
by the by.”

“I am sorry.”

“And well you should be. You’ve insulted not only me but also Tannenbrook. His honor is unimpeachable.”

“You misunderstand. I am not sorry for my suspicions. I am sorry I have failed to convey the magnitude of lust you inspire in me.”

Her chin rose, her eyes remaining steady and slightly vexed. “You are a lustful man. Given another option, I suspect your attentions would land elsewhere. Do not attempt to mitigate your accusations with false flattery.”

She did not believe him. The woman was determined to see herself in only one light—that of a sexless, unappealing wallflower. He rubbed a hand down his face. “I am speaking the truth, you deuced obstinate woman.”

“Five years, Chatham. Five years of being scorned and rejected by a parade of gentlemen, all of whom knew I came packaged and delivered with a sizable dowry.” She tapped her temple. “I may be unattractive, but my business mind is sound. If I were merchandise, I would decline to offer me. Myself. You know what I mean.”

“You offered yourself to me.”

“That was different. The circumstances of your agreement are confining for one of your—”

“And I accepted, did I not?”

“Reluctantly. After I threw my naked self upon you.”

The memory of that night—the beauty of her body veiled by sheer, peach muslin, the sensation of those nipples meeting his chest, the anguish of thinking he must deny her, and the agony of controlling his lust long enough to see to her pleasure—swarmed his senses.

There was no help for it. He must prove her wrong so she would guard herself against the lustful nature of other men. A woman who believed herself unwanted could be compromised before she realized anything untoward had occurred—a brush of a hand here, a whispered conversation there, a heated glance, which led to a heated dance, which led to a stolen kiss, which led to a stolen tryst. He’d seen it—and done it—so many times, he could set a clock by the routine.

Any man who spent more than an hour in Charlotte’s company would find himself suddenly beset by fantasies. About long legs. About red hair. About throaty murmurs and cinnamon freckles and ripe, juicy pears.

If Tannenbrook hasn’t had lustful thoughts about her during their “friendship,” then he is a stronger man than I. Or blind and daft.

He wanted to smash Tannenbrook’s bloody brick of a jaw with his fist.

First, however, Chatham must enlighten Charlotte. Second, he must ensure she would never stray and never leave. To do both, he would apply all his sexual expertise with precision and dedication. He would bind her to him with every weapon at his disposal. He would charm and entice with sweet, seductive words woven expertly like a spider’s web.

“Charlotte.”

“Yes.” She blinked, folding her hands politely.

“I want you.” Not precisely the seductive turn of phrase he had planned, but perhaps it would do for a start.

“Well, I am still a bit vexed with you. However, the sight of your bare shoulders and bosom is most intriguing, and I may be inclined toward relations by the time we reach the bed.”

She might? This was delightful news, though not what he had intended. “Men do not have bosoms.”

She waved a hand negligently. “Your chest, then. I like the muscles and your hair and skin and … you really are most attractive, you know. It is not just your eyes, although they are astonishing. Ladies would always go on about your eyes until I wanted to shout that they were simply ocular organs, for pity’s sake.”

He was dizzy listening to her. Charlotte was babbling. He had never heard her babble before. She enjoyed conversation, yes, and he enjoyed talking with her. She had a fiercely intelligent, forthright mind that was similar enough to his own that he followed her logic easily, yet always discovered a few exotic paths and detours along the way.

But this was different. This was Charlotte nervous. Extraordinary.

“Ocular organs,” he repeated.

“They had never seen such a color. Neither have I, come to that.”

“My father’s were similar.”

“The ladies would swoon and sigh over the wicked Lord Chatham. I did not understand it. Then, last winter, you looked at me just so.” She swallowed. “I don’t know why. Perhaps I was standing in front of the punchbowl and you were pining for a drink.”

“You were wearing blue,” he said, remembering that evening. It was the night his father had died. “Dark, rich blue with spangles shimmering at the bodice. Your hair was brighter than anything else in the room.”

Her breathing grew uneven. “I felt the reason, then. The reason they all swooned and … and sighed.”

“I wanted you.”

She shook her head. “No. You were in your cups.”

“I wanted you.”

“You could not have.”

“I did.”

Tiny muscles beside her mouth tugged downward. Then her lower lip began to tremble. Then her brow began to crumple. “Do not lie to me, Chatham.” Tears sheened her eyes. She blinked them away. “Please.”

“I would not lie about this. What would be the point?”

“You seek to comfort me, but it is no comfort when I know the truth.”

“I swear I wanted you that night, Charlotte. Upon my honor, I swear it.”

“You haven’t any honor.”

He reached down and grasped one of her slender, freckled hands, flattening her palm against his chest. “Then I swear it upon my heart. Do I have one of those?”

A tear streaked down her cheek as she stared at where he held her hand against his skin, directly over his breastbone.

“Feel how it beats and pounds for you. Like a bull kicking at the gates of his stall. That is
want,
love. That is need and lust and desire and bloody obsession.”

“No.” Her desperate sob ripped at him.

“Yes. A man cannot falsify such a thing.”

“Then, why?” she cried, ripping at his guts. “Five years, Chatham. Five
humiliating
years and not one offer. Not even an improper one.”

He cupped her precious cheek, his fingers catching strands of her hair, his thumb swiping a tear. “I don’t know. For me, it was simply that I had no desire to marry anyone at the time, and you obviously deserved better than becoming a scoundrel’s mistress. Others may have balked because they could not match you in any regard, be it wits or height. Or they might have been run off by your father’s lofty standards. He was set on a title of some rank, you know.”

Her fingers kneaded his flesh, her elbow collapsing, her cheek coming to rest upon her hand. His arms answered by drawing her tightly into his body.

“Chatham,” she whispered.

“Hmm?”

“I want you, too.”

A deep sigh shuddered in his chest. “Thank God. I did tell you debauchery is best when shared, if you recall.”

“I’ve never—never felt anything like this. I can think of little else. It is most alarming.”

He would have laughed, but she was not jesting. He felt the same.

“Do you suppose it will ease with time?” she asked. “You are more experienced in these matters.”

He opened his mouth to tell her he hoped not, but her next words changed everything.

“I cannot imagine how I shall cope when our year together is over,” she said, sounding as though it were a mere musing. Something to contemplate for a moment and shrug away.

After everything she had done—making him her friend. Making him stack stone and plow soil and do a thousand other ridiculous things just to please her. Offering herself to him so sweetly, he’d thought he might burn to a cinder.

When our year together is over.

As though it all meant precisely nothing.

He had fallen through ice once. Playing at the edge of the River Fenn by himself, he’d thought the surface stable enough to hold him. It hadn’t been. He’d nearly drowned before pulling himself to the bank.