To Wed a Wicked Earl (11 page)

She worried her bottom lip. “May I ask the Hawthornes if I could go up with Lizzie? You needn’t worry-”

“Absolutely not. The last time I let her mother chaperone, you weren’t returned to me until two o’clock in the morning.”

She sighed. Older parents meant retiring earlier than everyone else, even if the evening was just getting interesting.

And this evening was no exception—Lord Rothbury’s rare appearance was causing quite a stir.

She just needed to sneak away for a moment.

“Would I be permitted to take a stroll on the terrace before we leave?” She looked to her mother, but Hyacinth refused to make eye contact and instead fidgeted with the lace of her handkerchief, her jaw set.

The truth of the matter was, Charlotte had been born to parents late in their lives. The exuberant cost of a London Season aside, the hustle of city life and the endless stream of balls, dinner parties, and forays into the country were getting to be too much for her older parents. But what worried her the most was the fact that this Season was her last.

Her mother’s enthusiasm for the marriage mart had waned considerably after the duke’s ball. Charlotte suspected Hyacinth wanted her only daughter to cease fighting a losing battle and settle down with Witherby.

“He is a philanthropist; he is a lover of animals and birds. He has adored you since you were a child. He is your haven,” her mother had said on many occasions, over and over again

He might be all those things, but he was also four decades older than she—more fit to marry her mother than herself, Charlotte thought cheekily—and the fact that she had known him since she was a child, and that he had adored her since, was not comforting in the least. The thought of marrying him or…she shuddered…
kissing
 him gave her hives. He was practically her uncle.

A soft snore drew her attention. Glancing to her right, she realized her mother had, yet again, fallen asleep in full view of at least eighty people. Reaching forward, Charlotte blinked, pausing in the act of nudging her mother awake.

For the most part, she had become accustomed to her mother’s impromptu naps, as had most of their acquaintances. At times—especially during church—it turned downright embarrassing.

Secretly though, Charlotte thought the habit wonderful. It allowed her a rare freedom, a breath of blessed fresh air, and a short-lived sense of independence. With her mother now dozing, Charlotte had every intention of slipping into the crowd. Oh, she would wake her mother eventually, she was a good girl after all, but for now she would seek out Lord Rothbury.

Their plan wasn’t going to work. First of all, Lord Tristan hadn’t poked his head out of the card room for nearly two hours now. More important: how in the world was Rothbury to help Charlotte if he wasn’t allowed within three feet of her? Something had to be done.

Charlotte stood, her gaze instantly connecting with Rothbury’s. A zing of awareness tingled down her spine.

Dripping with sensuality, the earl stood with his back to the wall, his stance, as always, exuding a lazy confidence. The damp spring air in the crowded room caused his dark-blond locks to curl slightly where wisps had escaped the velvet queue secured behind his neck. He wore no costume, no mask, which of course wasn’t required, therefore catching the eye of every warm-blooded female within a two-hundred-foot radius.

It wasn’t an exaggeration. The sighs of feminine appreciation surrounded Charlotte. Though she found it slightly ridiculous, she could not find it in herself to blame them. He was simply that fetching.

His expertly cut dark gray coat hugged his broad shoulders, and his stark white cravat, frothy with elegant folds, emphasized his chiseled chin, gold with faint bristles. And his mouth—oh, that glorious mouth—both haughty and wicked, curving with his ever-present sagacious grin. Lord, what it must feel like to have those lips touch one’s own.

Charlotte gave an appreciative sigh, drinking up the sight of him. For a masquerade, his plain evening clothes on any other man would have lent him to fade into the background. But not Rothbury. Dear heavens, no. It only added to his sinful, blush-inducing appeal.

She tightened her jaw, worrying her mouth had gone slack while perusing him from afar. Moreover, she despised the fact that she was starting to feel like a starved kitten being teased with a bowl of cream. “Good Lord, girl,” she whispered, “he’s just a man.”

But that wasn’t true. He was a 
wicked
 man. Sin embodied. A demon under the guise of an angel, his face and body designed to lure the weak-willed into temptation.

Lud, she really needed to stop reading all those Minerva novels.

But the truth was, Rothbury had the power to persuade a scorching blush from any woman, young, old, chaste or brazen, with just one lazy sweep of his heavy-lidded, whiskey-colored gaze. Any young woman, that is, except for Charlotte.

Without fail, in social situations such as these, he merely looked at her as if she were a pane of glass—aware of her, but with really no need to bother focusing on her, as there was a far more interesting landscape beyond.

And he was doing it again.

Husky feminine laughter trickled behind Charlotte, prompting her to turn and look over her shoulder.

The dark-haired beauty, Lady Rosalind, stood ringed by a score of adoring beaus.

Charlotte nodded to herself, feeling mildly embarrassed, her neck and cheeks prickly with heat. Of course. Lord Rothbury wasn’t looking at 
Charlotte;
 he was looking 
behind
 her, at the beautiful heiress.

Well, with that mystery solved, Charlotte heaved a heavy sigh, straightened the spectacles on her nose once again, and shouldered her way through the crowd toward Rothbury. And all the while she prayed she wouldn’t find herself face to face with Witherby instead.

Chapter 7

A Gentleman obliges all who seek his company.

“S
o, what do you think? Mother Goose or Perdita?”

A slow grin curving his lips, Rothbury flicked his gaze upon Charlotte. “Perdita, definitely,” he answered, speaking of a character in a play.

“Ah, now I see,” Tristan Everett Devine replied, having just sidled up to his friend after exiting the card room. “The shepherd’s crook she’s carrying gives it away.”

With the ease of a man who could size up a woman and her worth within seconds, Rothbury’s gaze raked the wispy-thin Miss Greene, from her pale ringlets dangling from a bonnet made droopy by too many lacy ribbons down to her silk slippers peeking out from under her frilly hem.

“She is more like a meek lamb than her costume suggests,” Tristan remarked with a chuckle.

“Perhaps.” Rothbury watched as she caught his smile and then looked behind her, apparently searching for what, or rather 
whom,
 he was looking at. “No, sweetheart,” he murmured under his breath, “I’m looking at you.”

“What say you?” Tristan asked good-naturedly. “She’s pleasant enough, pretty and fair.”

Rothbury responded with a careless shrug.

“Sweet Jesus,” Tristan mumbled with disdain. “That’s got to be dashed irritating, is it not? Following you around like besotted schoolgirls, watching your every move.”

Rothbury turned, raising a questioning brow.

“Over there,” Tristan said, indicating behind Rothbury with a nod of his head.

Lifting his brandy snifter to his lips, Rothbury threw a negligent glance over his shoulder. A small group of young women were gathered behind him, fluttering their lashes, smiling coyly, and whispering behind their fans. He gave them a slow, polite nod of acknowledgment. As expected, their cheeks colored up in unison and they dissolved into twitters of maidenly giggles, guiltily looking away at being caught staring.

One corner of Rothbury’s mouth lifted with a wry grin. He gave a careless shrug, then turned back to his friend. “Are you sure they are not looking at you?” He lifted his glass, tossed back the remaining contents, and set it down on a side table.

While Rothbury had grown accustomed to women blushing and gaping whenever he happened to walk into a room, he had the tendency to regard his uncommon handsomeness as an accident of nature. An everyday annoyance, if you will. Or put even more precisely: it was a blasted curse.

And it was getting to be bloody ridiculous.

A dour-faced footman approached. “Lady Gilton awaits, my lord,” he muttered furtively, tucking a perfumed note into Rothbury’s palm before slipping back into the crowd.

Rothbury’s lips twisted in a faint smile as he tucked the note into an inside pocket of his coat. As eager as he was to quit this evening and enjoy a night of unmitigated lusty bliss at some secret location specified in the note, the lovely viscountess would have to wait. Tonight he had other obligations.

Tonight, Rothbury needed to find himself a bride. And fast.

But not just any bride. He needed her to be…replaceable, for he didn’t intend to keep her. Actually, he didn’t intend to marry her either. He just needed to borrow her for a little while.

And so from the back of the room, he considered the unmarried female guests much as a methodical lion would peruse a herd of prancing gazelles. Looking for the weak and unguarded.

Somewhere in this god-awful congested throng there had to be at least one competent woman who could assist him. But alas, the night was winding down and his options were dwindling.

He hung back, giving every single woman careful consideration. His searching gaze was direct, thorough, and calculating. He had patience. He had the required instincts. He even had the necessary savvy of their various personalities and who could or who could not be manipulated to implement his behest. What he didn’t have, however, was time.

“Just pick one,” Tristan suggested, apparently reading where his thoughts were going. “Should be easy enough.”

“If only that were true.”

“What exactly are you looking for? Your usual? Gorgeous? Voluptuous?”

Rothbury gave a sardonic huff. “Hell, none of that matters, does it?”

“Why the bloody hell not?”

“She’s only temporary,” Rothbury said, leaning a shoulder against a marble column.

“Wouldn’t you prefer a suitable one?”

“I’d prefer a 
believable
 one,” he drawled.

“Hmm, let’s see,” Tristan murmured, tapping his chin in thought. “She would need to be an intelligent, crafty one, then?”

“She needn’t be very clever,” he answered, his attentive gaze focusing on another small group of young women and their chaperones across the room. “In fact, I prefer her to be rather dim and unobtrusive. Under my thumb, so to speak. I can’t have her plotting to trap me into a true engagement or have the capacity to think to blackmail me for the rest of my days for recompense.”

“Ah, I see,” Tristan remarked. “Quite an amusing predicament you’ve placed yourself in, old friend. I escaped the hangman’s noose and here you are looking for an invented one.” He chuckled to himself, then cleared his throat, instantly sobering at Rothbury’s cutting glare. “Perhaps your grandmother has already forgotten that you claimed to have a fiancée?”

“’Twas what I had hoped, but it’s not the case.”

When Rothbury had arrived at Aubry Park three days prior, he had found his grandmother sobbing in the garden. It took a great deal of patience on his part, but he had finally worked out what had made her so sad. It seemed she was having a lucid moment, her memory and sense returning at least for a short spell. But in that small, precious moment she had realized that she had grown old, her mind oft confused. And, she realized, that she might not ever get to see her favorite grandson (and only grandson) get married, or even meet his wife, the future countess.

Rothbury had assured her that he would…eventually, which wasn’t a lie, but instead of calming her, his assurances had made her angry and she slipped back into confusion. She had stormed up the stairs, demanding the presence of the steward. A short while later, in the presence of her weak-kneed, overpaid monkey of a solicitor, she was having the papers drawn up to sell Aubry Park and the twelve-hundred-acre horse-breeding farm with it. Unless Rothbury found a bride, and quick.

The park wasn’t an entailed estate, but land that her equestrian mother had handed down to her. And it would, presumably, be handed down to subsequent female relations thereafter. What the dowager didn’t understand, however, was that the bulk of the revenue upon which the earldom of Rothbury was built resided in that horse-breeding farm. Without that income, even if the earl was frugal, the earldom would become destitute, unable to support its other, entailed, properties and the families of farmers who depended on them for repairs, and upkeep.

So then he 
did
 lie. He had no choice. He told a whopping clanker. He told her he was recently engaged and had even promised to bring his fiancée to visit Aubry Park so that she could meet her.

He told her all this, thinking she’d never remember a word of it fifteen minutes hence. However, she seized upon the information like a wolf catching the scent of a plump hare jumping through a field.

He was just grateful that he managed to keep her from attending this ball. Her behavior was erratic at best. Lately, she refused to speak in any language but her native French and was prone to tantrums and bouts of weeping.