To Wed a Wicked Earl (21 page)

Angrily, she snatched them from his hold.

“Go inside,” Rothbury said, “before he gets any closer.”

Telltale splotches of red bloomed on her neck and cheeks. He knew why. It always happened when she was embarrassed or feeling shy. Right now, he reckoned it was both.

He met her gaze, giving her a lopsided grin. “I must say, you’re quite the good little actress. For a second there I believed you were enjoying yourself.”

She took a deep angry breath, then exhaled, trying to gather her wits and pull herself back together.

Halfway to them now, Tristan shouted in greeting, saying something about being holed up in the stables waiting for the rains to stop. Neither Charlotte nor Rothbury paid him any heed.

Patches of mud were smeared all down the front of her dress, especially her skirts. Lines of mud from his fingers branded her neck, throat, and hair. How fitting, he thought morosely. He had sullied her with his touch, figuratively and literally.

Rothbury opened the door for her, gesturing with his other hand for her to proceed inside.

She did, but not before giving him a long, scathing glare.

Chapter 13

A Gentleman always finds room in his heart to pardon a tiny untruth, especially if it was conveyed by a well-intentioned friend.

“T
ell me, what are your plans for her?”

“She’s a little sensitive and immature.”

“Yes, but is she a winner?” Tristan asked. He nodded to the stable lad who brought out his saddled horse. “I’ve noticed she often overreacts to every move you make with her.”

“You have to move slowly with her,” Rothbury suggested. “She’s just beginning to get into the routine.”

“Perhaps she’s not ready and needs to mature naturally. You could be pushing her too hard.”

Rothbury smoothed a hand over his jaw, staring across the field to where the three-year-old filly was currently being exercised. His mind was in another place. He hoped Tristan didn’t notice. “She’s ready. I believe she will only improve further from here.”

“I don’t know. Can’t make up my mind.”

“She’s in great condition,” Rothbury murmured. “Thought you wouldn’t want to pass her up. We’ve had other offers…”

Tristan laughed. “If I didn’t know your blood was so blue, I’d say you’ve peddler’s blood flowing in your veins.”

Rothbury scowled in mock offense. “A peddler’s fare is often inferior. My horses are some of the finest in all of England. Prinny purchased a marvelous two-year-old last month. I should demand an affair of honor after your careless remark.”

The friendly banter came to an end, both men becoming quiet, both well aware of the friction sparking between them. They had been friends since Eton, having much the same interests and a similar disposition, though Tristan was admittedly more carefree and less willing to settle down—yet many women duly felt he was the safer choice between the two of them.

They hardly ever shared a disagreeable word, each often guessing what the other was thinking before he said it, and had a long, happy history of drinking, gambling, hunting, and general carousing together.

They had never fought over a woman. And Rothbury didn’t plan on starting now. Not that Charlotte wasn’t worth fighting for, it was just that Rothbury wanted her whole heart. Could she ever love him? Would she always harbor a secret adoration for Tristan?

“My opinion is unwanted, I am sure,” Tristan finally said, “but I think you should tell her how you feel. You might be surprised by her response.”

Riding crop twitching at his side, Rothbury swung his serious gaze to his friend. “I don’t think the little filly cares.”

“You know whom I’m talking about.”

Rothbury looked down, tightening his gloves. “I do. I’m her friend. And for that I am grateful. Men like me often do not have the opportunity to know a woman like Miss Greene.”

Swinging up into his saddle, Tristan laughed. “Friend? Had I ‘friends’ who kissed me like that, I should never need a mistress.”

Rothbury cleared his throat. Tristan might be his friend, but Rothbury hesitated telling too much. After all, he had no idea if Tristan was growing enamored of Charlotte. Hell, Tristan could be jealous for all he knew—could be the very reason he brought up the subject of Charlotte.

“If I cannot have her,” he said tightly, with a coolness he did not feel, “then I will make sure, at least what is within my power to do so, that she does not enter into any union that she does not find completely agreeable.”

“I see,” Tristan remarked, eyeing Rothbury with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Well, if I were you, I’d snatch her up before some fat, perfumed, loudmouthed deviant purchases her.”

“And were I you,” Rothbury countered, swinging up into the saddle of his favorite black Arabian, “I’d cease comparing Miss Greene to a horse, before you find a riding crop up your arse.”

“Thank you, Nadine,” Charlotte murmured to the maid who just finished redoing her coiffure into a loose bun, artfully arranging the curls.

Seated on the cushioned stool before the dressing table, Charlotte waited until the plump-cheeked young girl left before allowing the small smile etched upon her face to crumble back into a frown. Bending over the dressing table, she groaned, dropping her forehead onto her folded hands.

It was of no use. Try as she might, her mood would not change.

She had asked to take a bath, thinking the sting of the hot water against her cool skin would banish the feel of Rothbury’s long, hard body pressed into hers.

But it only made it worse. The heat only served to remind her of the melting sensations she felt when he had touched her, squeezed her, kissed her.

Then, she had scrubbed her lips, hoping to banish the lingering feel of his lips moving hungrily over hers, but it only made her replay it in her mind. There could be no mistaking her enjoyment of the wicked act, she had thought, while gliding her wet fingertips over her mouth. Sweet Lord, hadn’t she asked him for more?

And when she dressed, she had chosen a simple long-sleeved white muslin, its only decoration a pale pink ribbon of satin that banded the bottom of the skirt. Surely the primness of the day dress would dispel any erotic thoughts from her mind, wouldn’t it?

However, all she kept thinking of when she looked down at herself were Rothbury’s strong hands smoothing over her shoulders, grabbing her bottom, dragging her hips forward to cradle his…

She inhaled sharply, picking her head up to look at herself in the mirror. “Stop it, Charlotte. He must think you’re just like every other eyelash-fluttering, brazen Cyprian more than willing for his ravishment.”

Roughly, she pinched color into her cheeks, willing the discomfort to discourage her sinful trail of thoughts.

Here she sat, thinking, thinking, thinking. Reliving the moment over and over, and for what? No doubt Rothbury was off somewhere in the manor, sipping claret, playing billiards, out shooting up game, or whatever it was men did in the country, with not a single thought to what had happened between them today.

Sure, she was somewhat satisfied that Tristan may have witnessed at least a little bit of Rothbury’s heated embrace. But getting kissed within an inch of losing her virtue wasn’t exactly what she had in mind when she asked Rothbury to flirt with her.

Lord, she hadn’t wanted him to stop. It was better than she had ever thought it could be. And her knees 
did
 buckle and the earth 
did
 feel like it shifted under her feet. It was wonderful. It was intoxicating.

It was all a game to him.

And he was so 
good
 at it, she thought with a groan.

She should have never come here. She should have never imposed herself on Rothbury and bullied him into attending the Hawthorne Ball. How could they continue a friendship after something like this happened?

Truly, it was not fair. It rankled her to the very marrow of her bones that she was so affected and he was not.

In fact, it was probably just an everyday occurrence for him. Who knows, she might have been the second, third, or fourth woman he kissed today.

And then he had the nerve to disparage her reactions. Telling her that she was a 
good little actress.
 He shook off the kiss like a wet canine shakes off rain, while she continued to shiver even now.

She groaned in frustration.

“Of all the arrogant, presumptuous…”

“I believe you are talking about me.”

“…perceptive.”

“Ah, yes. I was correct. You are talking about me, after all.”

“Rothbury,” she said tightly, catching his reflection in the mirror as he stood in the doorway. “What are you doing in my bedchamber?”

“Funny how things turn about, isn’t it? It wasn’t too long ago that I was asking you the very same question.”

She turned on her perch at the dressing table to face him fully. Her breath caught in her throat. She swallowed it painfully down.

He looked achingly handsome. He wore an expertly cut black frock coat with tails over a butter-cream-colored shirt and matching waistcoat with small silver buttons. His cravat was simple today, falling in only a few folds, but complemented his slightly squared jaw, faint with gold bristles. Nankeen breeches hugged his long, lean-muscled thighs, his polished boots folded over at the knee. His strong, very capable hands were covered in leather and he carried with him a riding crop.

His amber-flecked gaze followed hers to what he held in his hand. “I’ve run up from the stables. Your mother, as absurd as it sounds, sent me to fetch you. She wanted to know what was taking so long.”

She watched as a muscle worked in his cheek.

“Her trust in me, Charlotte, is strangely profound, and I fear after what happened about an hour ago, utterly misplaced. I cannot fathom what you could have possibly said to warrant sudden absolution of my past sins.”

She shrugged, too annoyed at this point to offer her explanation.

He looked both ways down the hall before stepping inside her room. With slow, measured steps, he sauntered to the foot of the bed and leaned his back on the post closest to her.

The light scent of sandalwood wafted over to her, mixing with leather, telling her that he had recently bathed as well. He must have a remarkable valet, considering the amount of mud that had covered him.

“But I’m glad for it, for I’ve come to apologize,” he said softly, looking down at her with…with 
tenderness.

Tenderness?
 Surely, she was mistaken. She made a mental note to ask her mother to have new spectacles purchased.

No, what she saw in his gaze had to be pity. He didn’t want her to think there was something more to that kiss.

Apologizing for a kiss was a bad thing, Charlotte realized just then. It meant that the giver of the kisses revokes all possibilities that true, honest, pure, passion had provoked the occasion.

It tagged it as a mistake, a blunder, an error in judgment, never to be done again. She mustn’t allow him to know how it truly made her feel.

He was a rake, a wicked man born into a family of libertines. He couldn’t know of anything other than lust, seeking his own pleasure without a single care for anyone else.
For years he had chased one woman after another. To her knowledge he had never even properly courted a lady.

Why in the world did she keep reminding herself of these facts?

Rothbury stared down at Charlotte, willing the ability to erase the pain and confusion from her gaze. Undoubtedly, she was shocked by the strength of his ardor and feared she was his newest target.

“I realize I went a touch too far with our kiss,” he said quietly. “I hadn’t realized Tristan was so close.”

“Yes. I agree, we were much too enthusiastic about it. In the future, perhaps, you could simply stick to gazing at me longingly, or smiling at me a lot.”

“Indeed,” he said, bowing his head slightly.

“There should be no more touching…of any sort. It is too much by far. And I am of the mind that a little mild flirtation goes a long way.”

“No more touching.”

She stood and swiped any wrinkles from her gown, pausing to pluck a minuscule thread from the tiny lace trim of her bodice. His eyes followed her movements. She looked up to find him watching her and instantly stiffened.

“And you should cease…
looking
 at me like that.”

He affected being taken aback. “You just said looking was fine.”

“When Tristan’s around, you big goose.”

He smiled, glad to see she seemed to be acting a little bit more like herself now.

“But all is not lost,” she said, with an adorable glint in her eye. “As a matter of fact, I have every reason to believe your…zealous display of affection might have worked to my benefit. Nadine told me he has decided to join us for luncheon.”

“Indeed, he has.”

Keeping her watchful gaze on him, she skirted around him, heading for the escritoire in the corner. She opened a drawer and pulled out a wrinkled sheet of vellum.