To Wed a Wicked Earl (22 page)

Padding purposefully toward him, she made him wish this was their shared chamber and she was about to push him back onto the bed and toss herself atop him.

“Here you are,” she said, thrusting the paper at him.

“What is this?” he asked, taking it.

“My list of prospective proper husbands. I brought it with me.”

“And why would I care to look at such a thing?” he said with a wry note in his voice, eyeing the paper crossly.

“You’ve forgotten already?” she asked, incredulously. And then she realized he was only teasing her. “You said to make a list. That you’d look it over and help me find a suitor from among the names.”

He nodded, his eyes skimming the names. “Lord Beckham…Sir Nicholas Camden…the Marquis of Ravensdale…Mr. William Holt…Lord Fieldcrest…the Earl of Langley…the Duke of Goldings…Mr. James Cantrell…”

He gave his head a slow shake and settled his gaze upon Charlotte, who was now smiling, no evidence of the damage he had caused from that afternoon apparent in her blue depths. “Charlotte, I’m amazed.”

“What is it? What’s the matter?” she asked, innocently.

“These men…They are all my friends. Every single one of them…” His gaze returned to the list. “Lord Tanning, Mr. Thomas Nordstrom…all of them.”

“Well, then, it should be easy, shouldn’t it? Finding one of them whom you think might be interested in courting me. After all you know them, right?”

“I don’t want…”

At that precise moment, Rothbury was saved from explaining how torturous thrusting the woman he loved in the path of any of these men would be, when the sound of Charlotte’s mother’s voice echoed from down the hall.

“Charlotte! Where are you? Everyone is waiting,” Hyacinth called out, her footsteps fast approaching.

Without a word he stepped around the bed and crouched down to hide from view.

Charlotte looked at him strangely. “What are you doing?”

He pressed a finger to his lips.

“Ah! There you are!” Hyacinth declared. “And looking pretty as a daisy, I might add.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte mumbled, self-consciously patting down her skirts again.

“Well, what are you waiting for, my dear child? The air is warm, the company is agreeable, and there are spirits afoot!”

“Are there?” Charlotte asked, none too enthusiastically.

“Why, yes. ’Tis why I wish you wouldn’t tarry. We are to picnic in the pavilion, and then tomorrow we are to explore a nearby patch of haunted forest. Miss Drake said that there is a cavern located there where one can hear the moans of a restless Scottish ghost. Once she claimed to have even heard breathing and footsteps.”

“That’s quite remarkable,” Charlotte replied, not sounding impressed. “I wonder…did they hear the braying of a sheep, by chance? Rothbury said one of his tenants is having a problem with someone sneaking in and stealing his sheep. It is entirely possible that is who she heard, is it not?”

Still in his crouching position, Rothbury smiled at her deduction, making a mental note to post a guard at the cavern in the future, just in case.

“Oh, you’re no fun. No fun at all anymore. Come down, will you?”

“Yes, I’ll be right there. I just have to find my shawl.”

Hyacinth sighed. “You seem a touch maudlin today, dear. Are you certain you’re feeling well?”

“I’m fine. Just terribly hungry, is all.”

“As am I! I hear we are in for a bit of a feast! I’ve been told the cook is quite famous here at Aubry. And we’ll be having to break our fast here as well. It’s good to travel on a full stomach, I say. One cannot depend entirely on coaching-inn fare. You didn’t forget, did you? We are still going home tomorrow,” Hyacinth reminded her. “This Season is to be our last. We—you—should make the most of it.”

She nodded, turning her attention on Rothbury. Their gazes locked, though his ears concentrated on Hyacinth’s fading footsteps.

“She’s gone,” Charlotte muttered, taking a step to snatch her list away from him.

He straightened, shaking his head.

“I don’t know why you felt obligated to hide from my mother on behalf of my reputation.”

“Old habit.”

“Well, you can stop all that right now. She trusts you,” she said, walking over to the armoire.

His jaw hardened. “Why, Charlotte? Explain this to me now.”

She swung open the door of the closet, rummaged around a bit, then pulled out a light blue shawl. “It is of no consequence, I assure you.”

“And I assure you that it is,” he said gruffly. “Now tell me.”

She sighed, settling her shawl around her slender shoulders. “It’s really nothing of significance.” Looking up from her small task, she smiled…a bit too sweetly.

He just stared at her, his riding crop twitching against his thigh.

“I simply told her you were just like my Uncle Herbert.”

“Your Uncle Herbert?”

“Yes,” she said, blinking innocently up at him. “He is my mother’s twin brother. They are devoted to each other. Of the same mind, she has always told me. Sometimes they even have the same dreams. Isn’t that remarkable?”

“It’s extraordinary,” he nearly yelled. “Now. Why would telling your mother that I am just like your Uncle Herbert have any effect on her trust in me? Is he an honest man? Forthright and amenable?”

“And well-liked all around. Can’t say I’ve ever met a person who knew Uncle Bertie without having something nice to say about him. He’s very popular.”

Clearly, she had no idea just how aggravated he had become with her obvious hedging.

“So he’s a bloody saint, is he? And your mother believes I hold all these commendable qualities?”

“No. Oh, goodness, no,” she said with a small laugh. “Not at all.”

A vein in his neck started to throb.

“Oh, all right,” she acquiesced finally. “I shall tell you.”

“Well, it’s about damn time.”

“Don’t curse…”

“Charlotte…”

“Very well. My mother trusts you because I explained that you and my uncle happened to like—no 
love,”
 she corrected, “the very same thing.”

“What? Fencing, horses, cards, cricket, boxing…?”

“Heavens, no,” she said.

“Then, what?” he asked.

“Other men.”

Chapter 14

A Gentleman always sees to the needs of the Lady seated next to him at the dinner table.

T
he path to the pavilion in the Aubry garden turned out to be entirely too muddy. So, Charlotte, Hyacinth, Louisette, and Miss Drake, escorted by Lord Tristan and Rothbury alongside on horseback of course, all piled inside the Faramonds’ carriage for what Charlotte was told would be a short ride.

It wasn’t true. In fact, it was all a terrible lie.

When one who spends a lot of time in London—where space is at a premium—hears the word “garden,” images spring forth of nestled flower beds, neat rows of blooms, kitchen gardens, paddocks, and bits of forest and lawn.

When visiting the country, one might imagine a garden on a much grander scale: sweeping manicured lawns, intricately designed landscapes, curving walks winding through flowering shrubs, quaint ponds, strategically placed outbuildings set to inspire peace, wealth, and elegance.

However, the gardens at Aubry Park were composed of more than seventeen hundred acres of parkland. The size was immense. After riding along for nearly two hours, Charlotte was willing to wager they had to be at least in another county or maybe even Scotland by now. When she had voiced her beliefs, she was told by Miss Drake that they were not even anywhere near the end of the estate where the horse-breeding farm happened to be located.

They had arrived at the pavilion a short while later. Charlotte couldn’t have been more pleased. Her stomach had growled very loudly four separate times in the carriage, prompting Louisette into asking if, perchance, an angry, growling barn cat had crept inside undetected and nestled himself under one of the compartments under the seats.

The pavilion was indeed breathtaking. Charlotte had toured enough country manors with her mother throughout the years to know that buildings such as these often had no other function than to draw the attention of one’s eye. Designed as an object to be viewed rather than actually used.

Such was not the case here. The red-brick building had a curved roof, sparkling clean white-mullioned windows, and two wide entrances equipped with French doors. Tucked inside the pavilion was a long table covered with a red cloth.

A bevy of servants, who had followed in another, less ostentatious conveyance, charged up the steps carrying baskets of cold chicken and ham, sweetbreads, buttered lobster, potatoes, cheese, pastries, and various berries.

When they were done setting the table, Charlotte was so impressed, she had to stop herself from telling the servants what she thought, for it was considered bad form to make such remarks. But it was so artfully arranged, looking just as it should in the dining room proper at the manor house.

They all sat, Louisette at the head of the table, Miss Drake at her right, Tristan at her left. Charlotte sat next to Lord Tristan, Hyacinth across from her, which meant Rothbury sat at the other end of the table, closest to her and her mother.

With much interest for her welfare she watched him, noticing with alarm that his scowling gaze was presently alternating from his dinner fork to her elbow.

Was he thinking to poke her with it?

She hoped he would rise above his anger. She knew he was much displeased over her little fib to her mother about just what side of the fence his passions did reside.

He probably worried that word would leak back to Town. He needn’t fear. There was a conspiracy of silence. People like Uncle Herbert were banned from living in Town if discovered. And if her mother had kept Uncle Herbert’s secret from the wagging tongues of the 
ton,
 she would keep Rothbury’s “secret” as well.

But she hadn’t had time to expound on that in her room. Quite frankly, she hadn’t wanted to spend another second with him after she saw the look of utter disbelief on his face change to seething anger. She had skipped out of her room, aware that his angry strides followed her closely all the way across the hall, down the steps, around the corner, and out the front door. There were a couple of times he called out for her to stop, his mouth close to her ears, but she ignored him, just as she was doing now.

Having been ravenously hungry, Charlotte ate heartily. Everything was simply scrumptious.

Well…everything…but 
the scones.

Miss Drake had explained that sometimes, when Louisette experienced anxieties, she enjoyed baking.

“Scones are her new specialty,” Miss Drake said proudly, giving Louisette a reassuring smile.

“Ah, I see,” Charlotte said, warily eyeing the scone set on her plate by a footman.

Miss Drake leaned forward whispering, “Sometimes she overkneads. Makes them a touch stiff.”

Stiff? They were stones.

“Go on, try it,” Miss Drake urged gently. “It will please her.”

Slowly bringing the scone to her mouth, Charlotte couldn’t help but notice how engrossed everyone else at the table seemed to have become with their food. No doubt they each fretted they’d be the next one singled out to break his or her teeth.

Next to her, Lord Tristan was dissecting a plum. Across from her, Hyacinth busied herself with cutting up an already shredded heap of chicken.

“Prendre une morsure,”
 Louisette coaxed, her eyes wide and hopeful as she apparently anticipated Charlotte’s praise.

“Go on, Charlotte,” came a dark whisper from her left. “Take a bite.”

She turned to see Rothbury smiling devilishly. Heat billowed up from her belly as she stared at his mouth. Images of their kiss swam into her vision. She blinked them away.

She licked her lips. He watched, licking his own. But it had to be unintentional. They were eating a late luncheon after all.

Her gaze alighted on his plate. “Where is your scone, my lord?”

His hooded eyes were still watching her mouth. “I ate it already,” he said with a cold smile.

She leaned in a touch closer to him and whispered, “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble.

“No, as a matter of fact.”

“And why not?”

“Well, for one, it appears you still have all your teeth.”

He sat back in his chair, a low chuckle shaking his chest as he watched her.

Grimly, she brought the thing to her mouth. There would be no way to take a polite bite. Perhaps if she had a cup of hot tea to dip it in, that would suffice, she supposed, but without it, she was simply going to have to chomp down on it. It was really just all too sad. She rather liked having all her teeth.

“She’s not looking any longer,” Lord Tristan muttered from her other side. Without moving his head, he cast his azure gaze in Rothbury’s grandmother’s direction, then settled his attention back on his mangled plum.