To Wed a Wicked Earl (17 page)

Hyacinth clucked her tongue. “I do hope you’re not catching an ague. We are only to stay one evening. This was supposed to be a quick trip, Charlotte.”

“And indeed it will be.”

“I had no idea the roads would be so impassable with such little rain. We’ve been waiting here for at least a quarter of an hour. All this pushing, pushing, pushing, and still nothing will budge.”

“R—Lord Rothbury has assured us that another carriage is on the way.”

“Oh, I do hope he is right.” She shook her head slowly. “His fine clothes are surely ruined.”

“Indeed.”

At that moment, all action ceased as the exhausted men stepped back to take a much needed break. Taking a step farther back from the carriage than the other men, Rothbury bent down, resting his hands on his knees, in order to catch his breath.

Charlotte slid a glance down to her mother, who, she was happy to note, sat staring down the lane looking for the carriage from Aubry. Now with Hyacinth safely preoccupied, Charlotte decided to indulge her curiosity, allowing her gaze to roam freely over Rothbury. After all, his back was to them; he’d never know.

Splatters of mud stained Rothbury’s fine lawn shirt, which clung slickly to the broad expanse of his back like a second skin. Having rolled up his sleeves at the onset of his task, his muscled arms were now streaked with mud and rain as were the tall boots and tight black breeches that hugged the sinewy muscles of his long, undoubtedly strong legs.

Her admiring gaze alighted upon his golden-brown hair, which now looked more brown than golden as it was wet with perspiration and mist. A few locks lay plastered to his neck in wispy whorls.

Charlotte suddenly felt overly warm. Seeing him…wet…somehow embarrassed her. It felt dark, intimate. Truly, if it weren’t for the mud—and clothes—she rather thought this would be what he looked like after a bath.

A shiver ran down her arms as her eyes drifted to the dewy trails of rain droplets that ran over his slightly bristled jaw and neck, disappearing in the nest of his loosely tied cravat.

And then her hungry gaze raised…and connected with Rothbury’s. All thoughts flew straight out of her head.

Looking at her from over his shoulder, he straightened, his smile twisting with arrogance.

Despite the chill in the air, her cheeks felt as if they were on fire. How long had he been watching her in-depth perusal? Long enough, she supposed, if the heated gleam in his eyes was any indication at all.

She blinked, shaking her head hurriedly, hoping by that action she was silently telling him, “No, I definitely was 
not
 looking at you.”

He answered her gesture by nodding slowly, telling her that he knew 
exactly
 what she had been doing and that he had caught her in the act.

She gave her head another insistent shake.

Still looking at her from over his shoulder, he sauntered back to the carriage, his smile broadening. He lifted his shoulder as if to say, “I don’t care. Look all you want.”

She shook her head again, tightly.

He winked.

She gulped.

And then he set back to work with the other men to free the carriage.

Charlotte turned away, almost jumping with a start when she found her mother staring strangely up at her. “What in the world is wrong with you?”

“What?” Charlotte asked.

“What’s with all the angry head shaking?”

“Oh, that?” She shrugged. “A raindrop in my ear.”

Rothbury’s laugh sounded from the back of the carriage where he worked with the other men. If her mother heard him, she made no mention of it.

The distant sound of a carriage rumbled down the road. Hyacinth jumped to her feet. “Oh, splendid. Splendid! Your lordship, it’s come.”

A gleaming black coach equipped with four matching grays rounded the bend in the road ahead of them. The Rothbury heraldic arms, a lion and a sword entwined with a thorny rose vine, proudly proclaimed the owners’ aristocratic lineage on the doors.

“What an elegant set, my lord,” Hyacinth remarked, standing.

Charlotte put out an arm so her mother could grab it. Chilly wet weather made her mother’s bones ache fiercely, and she knew that sitting in the same position for long periods of time made her joints feel so stiff it was if they had frozen.

“Allow me,” came Rothbury’s deep voice, coming up from behind them.

Charlotte had no idea where it came from, but the earl suddenly had a stark, white handkerchief draped over his arm, protecting her mother’s white gloves from his soiled shirt as she grabbed his arm.

Slow and steady, Rothbury crossed the bit of lawn to the road with her mother by his side. Charlotte trailed behind, holding her mother’s umbrella above them while still holding her own.

The coach had circled around and come to a stop on a stretch of road that had more rocks and spiny gorse than mud. Steps were brought down and Rothbury assisted Hyacinth inside.

“I shall see you both at the manor house,” he said to her mother. “Forgive me for the delay of your carriage, madam. Once it is free, I’ll have someone inspect it for damage.”

Hyacinth nodded, settling her small frame into the cushy squabs. “I feel so terrible over the state of your fine clothes.” She yawned. “I know how your sort can be about the state of your clothes.”

When she started to rummage around in her reticule for something, he turned to Charlotte.

“My sort?” he asked, bending low so Hyacinth couldn’t overhear. “Charlotte, you must tell me what she means. The woman would clobber me if I should do so much as stand next to you and now she tells me I have a fine coach and frets over the state of my clothes? What in the hell did you tell her to gain my acceptance?”

With as innocent a look she could muster, Charlotte met his gaze. “Don’t you worry. It’s working, so what does it matter to you?”

He gave her a skeptical look, then helped her into the carriage after assisting her with the closing of their umbrellas.

Once ensconced inside, Charlotte noted her mother was already snoring softly. A brow raised, Rothbury poked his head inside. “Does she always fall asleep so quickly?”

“All the time.”

His golden eyes held a smidgen of suspicion for a moment.

“It’s the laudanum she takes for her achy joints,” she whispered.

He nodded, hoping her mother wasn’t nurturing a budding addiction.

Though there were many who used the opium-based liquid for alleviation of pain or inducement of sleep, there were many who overused it, spurring wild hallucinations. Some misused it to the point of certain death.

Although, Charlotte’s mother didn’t seem to be traveling on the path of destruction, he still felt the need to inform her. Who knows, perhaps he could find an alternative medicine in one of his books in the library at Aubry Hall.

“See you in a bit, then?” His tone was casual, but his eyes fairly smoldered with warmth.

It was probably just suppressed mocking laughter, Charlotte told herself. In the last two days she had stolen a kiss from him and now he had caught her looking him over. Goodness, did he think she was a wanton woman? She shook the thoughts right out of her head. If she dwelled on any of them for too long, she’d probably jump out of his carriage and walk all the way home.

What could he be thinking? She was attracted to him, of that there was no doubt. However, to let him know about it would be futile indeed. Firstly, he had no interest in her and even if by some strange shift in the heavens he did hold a genuine attraction to her, it would be for lust and lust alone. He was completely unmarriageable, a terrible rake, incapable of knowing anything other than physical love—the details of which she knew little about.

Her parents’ marriage was a love match and had been a perfect example of how a good marriage could work. With affection, mutual respect, and admiration. And devotion. She wanted that for her own and thought she could have had that with Lord Tristan.

Passion was a sin. Or so she had been told again and again. Giving in to it was like eating a forbidden sweet, her father had warned her. After it was all over, one would be filled with nothing but misery and shame for their lack of self-control. But for all Mr. Greene’s dire warnings, Charlotte couldn’t seem to stop Rothbury from sliding into her imagination.

Her attraction to him was getting to be a difficult thing to hide and she feared Rothbury had an inkling as well. But what would he do with that knowledge? Mock her? Laugh at her?

Seduce her?

She sighed, settling back inside his elegant coach, her gloved hands sliding over the bloodred padding. Expecting Rothbury to simply step back and close the carriage door, she nearly jumped when he poked his dripping head back inside.

“I had meant to tell you…”

“What?”

“You’ve got something on your nose.”

“I do?”

Reaching out, he gently brushed the tip of her nose with his finger, leaving a smudge of mud.

“My lord!”

“Shhh. You’ll wake your mother. And besides, mud never looked so good.”

And with that, he closed the door, his muffled shout ordering the driver to move along.

“Shameless flirt,” she muttered, refusing to give in to the smile that wavered upon her lips.

With a lurch, the well-sprung carriage rumbled away.

She was starting to warm to him. True, she considered him her friend. He had danced with her when no one else would, talked to her the year of her debut when she could not (because of an awful, albeit temporary, stammer). He had never tried to seriously take advantage of her, even though he’d had more than one opportunity; he had saved her from Witherby, offered to help her find a new suitor, and agreed to help her exact revenge on his best friend, of all people. He had been nothing but kind to her. Sometimes going out of his way to be kind to her. Perhaps there was more to him than she thought.

If she wasn’t careful, her mother would be right. Her heart would be in danger once again.

Yes, it was safer to think of him as a friend. A general acquaintance. Her project. She could easily keep him at arm’s length this way. Flirting was his nature, she reminded herself. It was part of his character. She’d be a fool to start believing something was growing between them. But…could love grow from passion, she wondered? Or would it be doomed to end in nothing but misery and shame like her father had always told her? She had no idea and her head was beginning to ache, so she decided to shake the perplexing notion away.

And besides, she would see Lord Tristan today. Hyacinth had relented, agreeing to meet the dowager and stay for a short jaunt into their famed gardens. Surely, that was enough time to implement her plan.

A giddy excitement bubbled inside her. Rothbury had promised to flirt with her like mad, and by the looks of things, he was already getting into the spirit.

Aubry Park was a glorious Elizabethan manor, lovingly restored in the last century and equipped with numerous gothic undertones—enough to send Charlotte’s mother into a ghost-seeking frenzy.

The massive, cream-colored stone house sat hidden in a forest like some romantic woodland folly. Upon first approach, it seemed rather modest, enclosed in a small courtyard, the upper floors timbered and gabled, but after one ventured a look past the facade, the manor sprawled onward, connecting to a myriad of wings, towers hidden by tall trees and climbing vines and private walled gardens.

“Enchanting,” Charlotte murmured, running her fingertips along the soft bristles of an ivory-handled brush.

She sat at a dressing table in a beautiful room she was to call her own during their short stay. Cozy, but by no means small, her appointed rooms had an air of welcoming and warmth.

The walls were covered in 
toile de Jouy,
 a blue-and-white print depicting a charming rural scene, which complemented the deep mahogany furniture. The coverlet on the daybed was soft blue and white with a matching canopy overhead. A tri-sectioned mirror hung above the alabaster fireplace and there were three very comfy looking chairs grouped together near a door that connected this room to her mother’s.

A long case clock ticked in the hall, a bird twittered prettily outside, and if Charlotte strained, she could just barely hear the soft drone of her mother’s snore. But for all the inducement to rest as well, Charlotte could barely sit still. In an hour they were to meet Rothbury’s grandmother, the dowager countess.

When they had arrived, standing in the expansive front hall, Charlotte’s head thrown back as she stared at the elaborate, gilded oval ceiling, a curious warmth spread through her.

Her chin dropped down and she found Lord Rothbury staring at her with an unguarded expression. He looked…almost regretful.

“What is it?” she had asked softly, suddenly feeling like she had made some grave error in judgment by coming here.

He blinked, giving his head a slight shake. “Nothing. I hope your short stay at Aubry Park is enjoyable.”

“I cannot see why that shouldn’t be so.”

A butler appeared, taking their cloaks.