The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) (6 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

“In marriage, the negotiations are never concluded, my dear girl. They are simply commenced and suspended according to one’s needs and disposition. I recommend keeping your wits about you.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Duchess of Blackmore upon learning of the Duke of Blackmore’s request to limit said lady’s book budget.

As the flame-haired amazon pivoted to face her father, Chatham traced her womanly lines from long, pale neck to dark, silken hem. She possessed curves, certainly. He could see them when one hand braced on her hip, forcing the purple cloth to caress natural fullness, to outline a not-displeasing backside and nicely proportioned waist.

“As our bargain was made in bad faith, Papa, I hereby withdraw my consent.” Her voice, he noted, was pleasing as well, smooth and throaty with nary a hint of nasal whine. Unlike her father, she spoke proper English with no American inflection. Quite dulcet to the ear, actually.

“Balderdash. Our agreement has been struck, and you will—”

She was shaking her head, her simply knotted hair shimmering like copper in the firelight. “You knew I would assume Lord Tannenbrook had reconsidered—”

“As Rutherford said, that was your mistake. Tannenbrook is only an earl,” Lancaster scoffed. “And obstinate as that old horse your mother refused to sell.”

“Hannibal was not obstinate. He was discerning about his friends. As is James.”

James, is it?
Chatham thought, downing the last of his whisky and carefully setting his glass on the floor beside his chair.
Interesting.

“Hmmph,” snorted Lancaster, giving his daughter a derisive once-over. “Discerning is one word for it. Tannenbrook refused to take you for any sum. Believe me, I pressed him.”

Chatham watched as the amazon’s bright-red head snapped back at the raw insult. It was the first time she had displayed weakness. He frowned, waiting for her to gather herself. He did not wait long.

Her shoulders, surprisingly slender now that he looked upon them, squared. “Lord Tannenbrook does not respond well to intimidation. Neither do I.”

Lancaster’s looming form edged toward his daughter. Reaching for his walking stick, Chatham felt his thigh muscles tense on the off chance he would have to step between them. Thankfully, no such action was required—the man stopped within a foot of her.

“I left the choice of husband to you, and you failed.”

She sighed, her shoulders slumping out of square. “I have explained why a thousand times, Papa. The conversation has grown wearying.”

The American’s frown showed genuine consternation. “What is so difficult about wielding a woman’s wiles? I see it every day. Girls younger than you, less intelligent. They flit here and there, wave their eyelashes about. It’s simple.
Men
are simple.”

A long silence filled the space, thickening amidst the dark and punctuated by the pop and sizzle from the fireplace. When she answered, her voice was quiet, as though the ground she tread had been worn so deep, the sound that emerged was muffled. “They do not want me. You may wrap my entire body in one-hundred-pound notes, and the reaction will be the same. Is that simple enough?”

In an instant, Chatham decided she was wrong. Charlotte Lancaster naked but for a few small bits of paper? They would want her. Perhaps not enough to marry her, but to bed her, most certainly. After the incident last winter, when she had taken a tumble beside the Serpentine and unveiled her lower half to a smattering of gape-jawed, gossipy lackwits, he’d endured endless rhapsodies from young bucks at Reaver’s about how it would feel to climb between two limbs of such length. If she thought a man’s cock gave a damn about whether her coloring was fashionable, she did not understand men in the slightest.

Now, Lancaster was shaking his head, rebuffing her answer. “You did not bother to try—”

“That is preposterous.” She shook her skirts. “I wear the finest gowns.”

“Beside the point.”

“Attend balls and fetes and dinners and soirees and bloody musicales—”

“Mind your language, girl.”

“—and have done for five years. I hate it. Every
bloody
bit of it. But I have done it, because it is what
fine
English ladies do when they seek a husband. And it has. Not. Worked.”

“Obviously,” Lancaster blustered. “You have been distracted by your mannish notions about entering trade. ‘Preposterous’ is imagining that a woman can manage an enterprise such as mine. You have only yourself to blame that we have come to this pass.”

At this, her shoulders again stiffened. “It matters not who is at fault.”

“It matters when you have engaged in sabotage to thwart my commands.”

“Sabotage? I have done everything you asked! You simply refuse to comprehend reality because it does not comport with your wishes. No matter. Here is where my compliance ends.” Her long, slender arm shot out from her side and swung around to point in Chatham’s direction. “I shall not marry him. He is a dishonorable—”

Lancaster protested, “Now, see here—”

“—scurrilous rake, and to spend one moment in his company—”

Chatham assumed she had forgotten he was still in the room. He cleared his throat pointedly.

“—much less an entire year is untenable.”

“Miss Lancaster,” he drawled.

She spun around, cracking her wrist against the back of her chair. Wincing, she cradled the injured arm and gave him a green-and-gold glare. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“How refreshing.”

Her chin elevated. “You are in your cups. I can smell it from here.”

Unsurprised by her bluntness, he brushed imaginary lint from his knee. “Mmm. Makes the world more bearable. Perhaps you should try it.”

“I will not marry a drunkard. Nor a lecherous scoundrel who collects followers to join him in debauchery.”

Grinning, he replied, “Debauchery is best when shared, love.”

She opened her mouth to parry, but Lancaster intruded first. “Whatever his past habits, Rutherford has agreed to cease all drunkenness and remain faithful to you for the year.”

Charlotte’s snort was accompanied by an eye-roll. Chatham found both oddly charming. “Benedict Chatham has no acquaintance with honor, Papa. If you are trusting him to keep his word, you shall be sorely—”

“Honor is weak tea, Miss Lancaster,” Chatham interrupted. “As one who favors trade, you should understand a sizable dowry is a far superior incentive. If I succeed in surviving the year as your abstemious husband, my reward will be … substantial.”

She edged toward him, her silk rustling. “How substantial?”

Lancaster cleared his throat and began to protest, but Chatham did not give a damn what secrets the American wished to keep. “One hundred,” he said smoothly.

A slim, freckled hand slid over her midsection as green-gold eyes rounded and red-orange brows arched. “Th-thousand?”

“Indeed. So, as you can see, my
habits
are to be sacrificed upon an altar of gold.”

She drew several steps closer, her astonishment apparently tugging her like an invisible line. “Impossible,” she whispered.

He chuckled and nodded toward the desk. “I thought the same, but the settlement has been drawn. Your father is bound to it, as am I.”

She stopped before him, her skirts brushing his knees. “I don’t wish to marry you.” Her gaze was solemn, nearly apologetic, as though she denied him reluctantly.

But her denial could not be permitted. He despised being poor. It was one thing to be reviled by the ton for his scandalous behavior, entirely another to be pitied for lack of funds.

Slowly, he braced his hands on the arms of the chair and pushed himself to his feet. They now stood inches apart, her eyes flaring at their nearness. As she reeled awkwardly backward, he grasped her upper arms, forcing her to stillness. Then, he drew her closer and crooked his neck to meet her gaze. For a woman, she was abnormally tall, but her forehead still only came even with his nose. “Wishes have little bearing upon one’s circumstances, Miss Lancaster. Your father holds the winning hand.”

She was shaking her head, her breath quickening. “I cannot marry you. Not you.”

His smile faded. “Yet, you were prepared to wed the giant.”

“Lord Tannenbrook is a friend. You are …”

Waiting, he loosened his hold, let his palms discover the softness of freckled skin and settle beneath her elbows. “Yes? I am?”

Her lips parted, her eyes searching his face. “A devil.”

His grin returned, growing as he witnessed the tiny shiver she attempted to stifle. Carefully, he let his fingers linger on her skin a moment longer before dropping his hands to his sides.

She did not move, but swayed before him, her eyes riveted to his.

“Most observant, Miss Lancaster. A devil, indeed. But that does not change my title. Nor your father’s leverage.”

Lancaster chose that moment to reenter the conversation. “Charlotte, you will abide by the terms of our agreement. I have no desire to beggar your aunt and uncle. Do not force me to it.”

Chatham watched her eyes close, saw coppery lashes settle briefly along freckled cheeks and felt a twinge of something foreign, like a vine sprouting through snow. It made him stroke her arm covertly with the back of his finger, made him tilt his head again to meet the despair painted in green and gold. Made him offer the one reassurance he could. “It is only a year.”

Her mouth firmed, her delicately squared jaw clenching upon a visible swallow. Then, she nodded. Breathed. Licked pink lips and retreated a step. She faced her father and sealed their fates with two hoarse words: “Very well.”

*~*~*

“Only a year. Only a year,” Charlotte whispered, digging her fingernails into the arm she clasped. “I will manage. All will be well. Only a year.”

“Er—Charlotte? This coat was dreadfully expensive. And you are hurting my arm.” Andrew’s smile was pained and edged with amusement.

“Apologies,” she murmured, trying to quiet her thumping heart.

They stood in the portico of St. George’s in Hanover Square, the crisp morning air chilling her from cheeks to toes. Or, perhaps it was nerves. Dark twin doors stood open before her, a yawning gate to hell itself with the devil waiting at the end of the aisle. She swallowed against a dry throat and wiped her palm discreetly on Andrew’s sleeve.

Her father wandered into her vision, a big, red-haired demon speaking with his shorter, balder minion, Mr. Pryor. Obviously, Papa was intent upon delivering her to her doom.

Despite numerous entreaties over the past week, he had not changed his mind. She had returned to his house in Cavendish Square four times, determined to make him see reason. She had argued, cajoled, begged. Three days ago, in fact, she had thrown off all semblance of decorum and described Chatham’s reputation, even the elements that no lady should know about, down to the gravest detail.

Her father had said only, “Pryor is exceedingly thorough, Charlotte. I already know more than you can possibly imagine.” He had frowned and returned to glaring at his accounts. “More than I care to, frankly.”

“Do you know what he said to me yesterday?” she had retorted, her hands gripping the arms of the chair, indignation rising to the highest heights of dudgeon.

He’d held his silence, his head shaking over his numbers.

“He called me his new benefactress.”

Papa’s quill pen had stilled.

“Not the first, mind you, but certainly the wealthiest.”

Her father’s bright-red head had come up at last, but only to say, “Likely he was drunk.”

“Precisely! This is your very worst idea, Papa. There is still time—”

“It is done, Charlotte. Finished. Accept it.”

She had fumed for a full twenty-four hours, then returned to negotiate more favorable terms: Not one traveling coach but two, both extravagant, each pulled by six prime horses, plus a modest fund for incidentals during the journey north. To Northumberland.

Chatham himself had informed her about her future home—right before he had insulted her by implying she had purchased his “services.” According to the cynical, sardonic, aggravating Marquess of Rutherford, his entailed property was on a sizable piece of land a short distance from the coast. Chatwick Hall, he’d said. Bring bed linens, he’d said. We’ll want to be comfortable, he’d said. Then, he’d smiled like the devil he was, his hooded turquoise eyes sending shivers of heat over every inch of her skin.

“Charlotte,” Andrew muttered now, his arm tugging. “Should we not go inside?”

“Only a year,” she whispered again, squeezing her eyes closed.

When she opened them again, she saw her father glowering at her. Beyond his shoulder, however, standing tall and thin and glaring, leaning on a walking stick at the end of the aisle was the man who would be her husband. Benedict Chatham, the Marquess of Rutherford. A man no respectable woman invited to dinner, much less married.

“I cannot,” she whispered, yanking her hand away from Andrew. Clambering backward several steps, she heard something plop on the stones at her feet. Her flowers, most likely. Now, she was backing away from the door, twisting to search either end of the portico.