To Bed or to Wed (11 page)

“You overstep, sir,” Nathan said in his most chilly voice, the voice that used to send the men in his regiment scrambling, the voice his servants fled from.

“Do I? She and I will share far more than you and she ever could.” The viscount slunk a step closer. “How could you even think she’d want to align herself with you, the beast of London, the terror of the countryside? You’d damage her as time went on.”

A hot wash of anger coursed through Nathan’s body.
He ignored the assumptions about himself in order to defend her. “Are you prepared to stand up in a duel and apologize for the slur against Charlotte’s character?” It was outside of enough he’d even said what he had, and in a public setting.

Henry, apparently full of reckless daring, poked a forefinger into Nathan’s chest. “Don’t threaten me, Ravenhurst. You cannot deny I’m the safe choice for her. I’m a responsible man who will give her children and a solid, stable life.” Again he jammed his finger into Nathan’s chest. “You have nothing but a title. You’re cold and uncaring—a monster even. Everyone thinks so
, and how close to home do those stories run? Charlotte deserves more and you know it, so bugger off. If you truly care for you, let her go. Let her live.”

As much as Nathan wished to frog-march the man out into the street and lay his fists into him, he couldn’t. The penalty of being in the public eye and mingling with Society was adhering to manners.
He refused to unleash his temper in a place that would ruin his future. Instead, the viscount’s words bounced about his mind like children’s balls falling down the stairs. Was what he said true? Would he ultimately bring more heartache to Charlotte if he decided to court her? “This isn’t over between us, Armenstout.”

Henry laughed then shoved past the
marquess. “Go back into hiding, Ravenhurst. Let the darkness eat your soul. There is nothing here for you.”

Nathan let him go. There would be other times to exact an accounting. When he glanced across the room, his gaze connected with Charlotte’s. Her mouth formed an “o” of surprise then a few women clustered around her and broke their
link. Cold fury dripped down his spine. It chased even colder dread through his gut. The night that had seemed to hold such promise went sour quickly. Familiar anger broke over his soul and stole through his being.

“And this is one of the reasons I’ve turned my back on Society!”
His roar of frustration echoed in the space.

With nothing for it, he strode across the floor and from the room. He didn’t pause to locate his hosts and say his goodbyes. Perhaps he should, indeed, become the beast Society apparently thought him.

Chapter Seven

Charlotte paid no attention to the chatter of conversation around her since the bulk of her attention rested on Nathan. He and Henry talked in one corner of the large room, but when the marquess curled a hand into a fist, she frowned. What did they speak of? Why was he so angry? She nudged one of her friends with her elbow. “Did you know Ravenhurst would be here this evening?”

“No, but I wonder why he
came,” the slender brunette replied. “He never attends any sort of function.”

Another young lady—a blonde this time—moved closer to them. “There’s talk he’s intent on finding a bride and that’s why he’s come out of hiding.
I heard it from his sister, but then she followed that he’s nearly betrothed. It’s a puzzle.”

A tingle chased down Charlotte’s spine. Nathan wanted to marry? She shouldn’t let her hopes soar, yet if there was a chance… “I thought he was promised to—”

“Lady Sophia?” her friend, Jane, interrupted with a toss of her head. Her black curls bounced. “So says the rumor mill, yet he’s not really squired her about Town, has he? We rarely see him anywhere, but Lady Sophia is at all the most prominent events, and one would think a woman in her position would want everyone to know she had a claim.”

“True.” Charlotte’s heart skipped a beat. Perhaps he wasn’t as taken as she thought. “Excuse me.” No sooner had she taken a step in his direction than he
uttered a loud outcry then stormed away from Henry with his face as dark and stormy as a thundercloud. His gaze crashed into hers, and the intense force of it rolled over her. Hot and cold plowed into her and the hair on her arms stood to attention. “Oh my goodness.” She sucked in a breath even as her pulse beat a furious rhythm. It didn’t take much imagination to feel his annoyance.
He’s so intimidating, so glorious.
Goose flesh erupted on her exposed skin and left tingles behind. She’d never wished to know a man better as much as she did Nathan in that moment. His rage, his ire, was a mere heartbeat away from erupting.

On a whim, she chased him. When she caught him up in a few steps, she grabbed his arm and tugged. His muscles tensed beneath her fingertips. “Ravenhurst, wait. Please don’t quit the evening so early. I, for one, would be most pleased to further our acquaintance.”

He turned the full force of his anger-filled gaze upon her. Charlotte gasped. “Would you? From all I’ve seen tonight, you’re not selective in who you lead on. I expected better from you, Charlotte. Thank God I’ve seen your true mettle before I was played the fool.” He yanked his arm from her grasp. “Excuse me. I find everyone here is rather bitter to my taste and rubs my soul wrong. As I suspected. No better than the French.” The last was uttered with such hatred and loathing, Charlotte’s pulse leaped through her veins with a trace of fear.

“I… I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Stop it. If you want Armenstout, fine, but don’t pretend with me.” Disappointment mixed with the anger in his eyes. He strode past her, never appearing as if he knew her, past everyone, then exited the drawing room without a word. Charlotte gaped after him with a light sting of tears in her eyes. Never had she been given such a cut direct before.
Oh, Nathan, you poor man.

The butler appeared at the door and rang a small hand bell. The tinkling sound cut through the buzz of conversation and immediately, the din quieted.
He announced dinner would be served in the next five minutes.

“If I were you, I’d forget about the
marquess. No good can come from that pursuit, and he is not worth your admiration besides. Let Lady Sophia have at him. Perhaps they’re equally cold in their own ways.” Henry’s voice in her ear and his hand firmly on her upper arm prevented her from chasing after Nathan. “Please, accompany me into dinner.”

Manners and decorum dictated she do as he asked.
She blinked away the tears and laid her fingers on Henry’s arm. Nathan wasn’t coldhearted and she suspected he wasn’t as cruel as everyone assumed. Minutes later she was installed between Henry and another gentleman considerably older than him—a Captain Forsythe. For once, Charlotte wished her mother had accompanied her to the musicale evening, but she’d begged off with a headache. Now, Charlotte had no one to run interference or introduce topics of conversation—not that she felt like talking with either of her neighbors. The whole of her being strained to jump from the table and run out into the night in the hopes of catching the marquess before his carriage pulled away from the house. He was hurting and she needed to comfort him. Why was that so wrong?

She swirled her spoon through a creamed pea
soup, her appetite having fled. What would her mother say if she knew the cause of Charlotte’s digestive disorder stemmed from pining after a man she couldn’t—or shouldn’t—have? Barely had she swallowed a scant spoonful of the soup when she heard the word “Ravenhurst” on someone’s lips down the table. Charlotte glanced up and scanned her fellow diners. Who had said it and what did they talk about?

“Can you believe he came out of seclusion to attend this evening?” a woman at the other end of the table queried.

A few mumbles and murmurs followed the statement. It seemed seeing Nathan about Town was something of a miracle.

“Fat lot of good his presence made since he left almost immediately,” Captain Forsythe said on her left. “He’s never been the same since he came back from
Spain.”

“His nephew mentioned in passing Lord Ravenhurst was in the military, but he didn’t expand the conversation.” Any man worth his salt or longing for adventure had gone away to fight Napoleon and leave their mark with patriotism for king and country.
“I assume it’s something Ravenhurst wished to keep secret since I’ve not heard the tale.”

“Only a few of his trusted acquaintances know it.”
Henry, at her right, snorted. “But like anything else, nothing is sacred, and over the years, portions of the story leaked out, at least among the male segment of the population and members of White’s. He was of a mind to make a lifelong career out of it, and would have done it since he was a fearsome leader on the battlefield.”

“So
, what happened?” Charlotte took another spoonful of soup then pushed the bowl away. “And how did he come to be such a recluse from Society?” Her heartbeat quickened. Finally, she’d discover the answers to the enigmatic marquess.

“I don’t suppose there’s much harm in the telling of it now since he’s apparently hell-bent on re-entering Society with
flair.” The captain wiped his bushy mustache with a linen napkin. “Three years ago, Ravenhurst was taken captive by a bloodthirsty French regiment while in Spain. The bastards shot him off his horse. They tied his wrists and ankles then drug him behind their supply wagon for two miles to their camp, regardless that he’d dislocated his shoulder in the fall.”

Charlotte gawked at her dining companion. “How awful.”

“It gets worse,” Henry interjected. When she trained her attention on him, he continued the tale. “Rumor has it the French took pity on the marquess. They popped the shoulder back into place, but that’s when the torture began. You see, Ravenhurst had been entrusted with troop movements and other intelligence he needed to relay to Wellington. Stubborn man that he is, he slipped the notes from a hollow heel of his boot while his captors were sleeping and swallowed every last scrap. When his tormentors discovered he had no paperwork on his person, they tortured him with hot pokers from their campfires as well as using a whip on his back, renewing their efforts when he wouldn’t give up England’s defense secrets.”

“Beyond that,” Captain Forsythe continued. “One of his closest friends had betrayed his position to the French to begin with. The man sold out in exchange for his life.”

“Oh my goodness.” Charlotte’s stomach tightened. “Poor Nathan.” No wonder he strove to avoid everyone. Perhaps he felt he couldn’t trust people. The betrayal had to hurt worse than the torture, at least mentally. Silence descended on the dining room as every eye was trained on Henry. Obviously, no one else in the room had heard the marquess’ tale. “Did they eventually let him go?”

Captain Forsythe dropped his spoon into his empty soup bowl. It clamored against the china, harsh in the silence. “Oh no. Ravenhurst held out for five months. He bore whatever the frogs dealt out, but then they brought a new prisoner to camp—
his sister’s husband, Grantley.”

Charlotte gripped her napkin. She alternately wanted to hear the rest but feared the outcome. “They killed Grantley, didn’t they?” Try as she might, she couldn’t remember any scuttlebutt surrounding Nathan’s sister.
Perhaps she’d been selfish over the years and had only concerned herself with her own situation and suitors. Sour bile hit the back of her throat. Never again would she be that person.

“Shot him right in the back, in front of Ravenhurst as punishment. The stories say the wound didn’t kill him right away. That particular group of French soldiers was
reviled and feared for their violence and horrid treatment of prisoners.” Henry paused while the butler and his staff replaced the soup bowls with plates of apple-stuffed quail and roasted root vegetables in a rich gravy. Once everyone was served, he resumed. “It’s said his sister never forgave Ravenhurst for failing to protect her husband and bring him back alive. She reminds him of the fact at every chance she gets.”

“It was hardly his fault!” Charlotte exclaimed. When a few questioning glances landed on her, heat infused her cheeks for her vehement outburst. “I mean, the man was a prisoner. His options were limited.” She couldn’t imagine what he’d gone through in that situation, to have to watch his
relation die a horrifically slow death. Then, to finally come home and have his sister bedevil him for circumstances beyond his control must have induced rage and madness.

“Indeed.” The captain popped a large bite of potato in his mouth then chewed furiously. “They tied the body to a tree near Ravenhurst’s as a reminder. The man had no choice but to watch his kin rot in the sun and be picked apart by animals at night
for weeks.”

“Good God, Forsythe, you are much too graphic for the digestion,” a woman farther down the table complained. “Must you continue with such a grim story?”

“Please allow him to finish.” Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “I suspect the tale is nearing its completion. Perhaps we all needed to hear it tonight if only to understand him better. Or as a reminder to ourselves that there is more to life than the trivialities we regularly complain of.”

“Quite so,” the captain rejoined. “The man has more fortitude than anyone I’ve seen. We always said he’d be too obstinate to die.” He sliced into his quail with gusto. “It took Ravenhurst a month, but he finally escaped one moonless night while the bulk of the regiment was out on patrol. The stories say he staggered out of camp, weak from hunger and loss of blood, his wounds infected, with his hands still tied, stole a horse then rode until both he and the horse were nearly dead. By the time he tumbled from the saddle, he’d reached a British outpost and was sent back to England’s shores shortly thereafter, clinging to life but none the worse for wear
unless you count the mental anguish.”

Henry nodded. “They said the rage Ravenhurst strives to control kept him alive and silent throughout his ordeal, but it is also the rage that keeps him apart from Society.
Such a man should be alone.”

“Can you blame him?” Charlotte stared at her untouched dinner. She had no appetite left, and the thought of trying to eat caused her stomach to heave. “
That ordeal would make a man reluctant to trust, don’t you think? Of course he’s angry! Who would expect another human being to do such things to their fellow man?” None of the company answered her. Perhaps they didn’t care. It was, after all, merely one story that made up a small corner of Society. “He’d question every person’s motive and the wounds he’d incurred… Dear God, he probably didn’t want anyone to touch him for some time after returning to England.” Not to mention what the scars on his soul had done to him. No wonder he didn’t want sympathy; it made a man weak. In a way, he wished for acceptance regardless of what had happened. And not many gave it to him.