To Wed a Wicked Earl (25 page)

And then the afternoon turned for the worst.

Louisette started talking so fast, so angrily, Charlotte could not understand her, despite her knowledge of the language. Her wrinkled hands in tight fists at her sides, Louisette stamped her foot like a child, her eyes taking on a wildness that bespoke of the battle against senility Rothbury kept warning was going on in her mind.

Rothbury’s patience clearly at its end, he still managed to speak quietly, gently, but his words were spoken quickly as well, rolling off his tongue. Charlotte could only pick up bits and pieces.

From what she could discern, Louisette was adamant that Charlotte and Rothbury marry. Right now. Right there.

He tried reasoning with her. He was so gentle and patient, but nothing would soothe her. In the end, Charlotte had placed her hand upon his sleeve and quietly asked him if she could speak with him privately.

“Where are we?” she asked once they had stepped away.

Rothbury worked his jaw. “I don’t see how that is of any significance. I apologize for inviting you and your mother here. I should never have dragged you—”

“You did not drag me. Where are we?”

“We are near Berwick, I imagine.”

“And Berwick is…”

“A border town,” he stated, running an impatient hand through his tawny, windswept locks.

“And it’s an English town?”

He blinked several times, obviously trying to drag long-forgotten information to the forefront of his mind. “Yes, it is. Though it’s changed hands with the Scots some thirteen times.”

“But it’s English now?”

“Quite. Since the fifteenth century, if I remember my history correctly.”

“Good,” she said. “Let’s do it.”

Clearly, she had lost her senses, but in that very moment all she wanted to do was help him. Besides, as long as they were on English soil, the marriage would not be legitimate. As it so happened in England, one needed either a special license (expensive and given by the Archbishop of Canterbury by his discretion), or the banns would have to have been read for three successive weeks in their parishes in which they belonged.

He froze. “Do what, Charlotte?”

“Get married.”

“What?”

“It’s not going to be legitimate, Rothbury, so you can stop looking at me like I just told you I sleep on the moon when the inclination strikes me.”

“But Charlotte…”

“It’ll be fine. No one will know. And it will not be real. Now go tell her. But not before you ask the priest if he’ll play along.”

Dragging a hand over his jaw, Rothbury hesitated, making Charlotte think he would refuse. But in the end he strode back to his grandmother and gave her the news.

She instantly sobered. Looking down at her hand, she pulled a ring off her finger, and thrust it at her grandson. “Take it,” she said. “I do not want it back. It’s hers now.”

Rothbury looked down at the ring, studying it. “I’ve never seen this ring before,” he muttered, holding it up to examine it further. “Is it new?”

Louisette beamed, saying nothing.

Tilting his head to the side, he cast his gaze on Charlotte and held out his hand. Smiling, she went to him.

Louisette beamed throughout the quick ceremony, her temper only flaring when the priest insisted they speak English, and then once again when she insisted Charlotte and Rothbury cross the footbridge to say their vows. It was a small request and they did so to mollify her, though the reason for doing so perplexed Charlotte.

At the look of confusion marring Charlotte’s brow, Louisette chirped in her native tongue, “Adam’s grandfather and I were married at that exact spot. I am a superstitious woman, ma belle. We had a blessed union and many happy years. I wish the same for you.” Rothbury shook his head at her explanation; Charlotte pretended not to understand.

Not more than two minutes later, Charlotte and Rothbury were married.

Well, not precisely, she supposed. But vows were spoken, troths were pledged, and the ring was placed on her finger.

It all seemed so fast. And, strangely, genuine.

There had been a priest, two witnesses (Louisette and a sweet young lad who was cutting through the field with his collie) and when it was all over, she had been kissed. First by Rothbury (a quick, warm press of his lips on the apple of her cheek) and then by Louisette (roughly, and on both sides of her face).

It felt real, but empty somehow. She supposed it shouldn’t matter. Officially, they were not married.

None of that seemed to matter to Louisette, who clasped Charlotte to her bosom afterward and proclaimed her to be the most beautiful bride she had ever seen.

It was all so very, very odd.

After it was done, they returned to the carriage to find her mother and Miss Drake already ensconced inside. The dowager chattered happily, telling Hyacinth of the joyous news all the way back to the manor. Her mother nodded and smiled politely, even though she didn’t understand a word. They returned without further incident.

Thankfully, the damage to the Greene’s carriage from the previous day had been minimal, and they could soon head back to London.

Looking down at her hand, Charlotte twisted the tiny gold ring on her littlest finger—the only finger the ring would fit—and read the inscription: VOUS ET NUL AUTRE. 
You and no other.

Rothbury insisted she keep it, then briefly pressed the back of her hand to his slightly bristled cheek. “You are a dear friend,” he said. “And so kind to my grandmother. Thank you.”

“I like her. I do.”

“And she likes you.”

But what about you? she wanted to scream. 
What is going on in that austerely handsome head of yours?
 Would she ever find out?

“Are you coming to London for the Season?” she asked, leaning forward from inside the carriage in order to talk to him. “You did say you would help me find a husband.”

“Didn’t I?” he joked, meaning himself.

She grinned. “A real one.”

“Good-bye my wife,” he said, one side of his mouth lifting, a roguish gleam in his eye.

“You are coming?” she persisted. “You promised to help me.” She felt suddenly desperate. Not for finding a suitor before she found herself shackled to Witherby, but for Rothbury. Desperate to know what he was thinking.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I was thinking of coming to Town for a slightly different reason.”

“And that is…”

“To seduce my wife.” And with that he knocked on the side of the carriage, signaling the driver to go, leaving Charlotte with a curious feeling deep in her belly, a flicker of heat.

It wasn’t fear, however. It was anticipation.

Chapter 16

Riding, fencing, or say, throwing oneself off a jagged cliff, are healthy ways for a Gentleman to deal with burgeoning frustration.

Two days later

“I
t wasn’t I who needed to speak to you, dear,” Lady Rosalind was saying, pacifying Charlotte’s bemused expression with a soft smile. “My brother claimed the need to impart some sort of information. He couldn’t call upon you next door without raising suspicion, so he asked that I send a note, requesting your presence in our drawing room instead.”

“I see,” Charlotte murmured, sitting straighter as Tristan turned his azure gaze upon her.

Grabbing her embroidery, Lady Rosalind lifted her chin. “So now I shall turn my attention to my needlework and pretend not to listen to a word either of you say.”

“Thank you, sister,” Tristan bit out, not sounding appreciative at all.

“No need to thank me. That’s what sisters are for.”

His eyes narrowed. “To henpeck and annoy…”

Lady Rosalind clucked her tongue. “We have a guest. A lovely guest, I might add. I heard you were recently at Aubry Hall, Miss Greene. Did you enjoy your stay?”

“Very much,” Charlotte said, noting that Tristan was now grasping the arms of the leather chair he sat in as if growing vastly impatient at his sister’s attempt at conversation. “We’ve only just returned yesterday,” she added.

“Really? How were the roads—”

Tristan cleared his throat loudly, gesturing to the clock on the mantel with his chin.

Ignoring him, Rosalind continued, “Miss Greene, I hope you do not mind my saying so, but you seem to grow more pretty each Season.”

“Me? Tha—”

“May I get to my point?” Tristan interrupted.

Lady Rosalind narrowed her eyes on her younger brother, sticking her needle in the tightly bound fabric quite like she envisioned she stabbed him with it. “And 
you
 get more obstinate and rude each Season.”

“I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”

Returning her attention back to her embroidery, Lady Rosalind harrumphed, a dimple creasing in her cheek as she tried to hide a sisterly smirk with a grin.

Tristan sat forward. “Miss Greene, you are no doubt wondering why I needed to speak with you.”

She nodded, casting a look at the doorway leading into the hall. She was eager to find out why she was here—so she could leave. Rothbury was to accompany her and her mother on a shopping trip this afternoon.

“You seem anxious, Miss Greene,” Tristan asked. “I hope I’m not keeping you from something. Or someone.”

“Not at all,” she assured him, as she didn’t want to be rude. “It’s just that…Roth…I mean Lord Rothbury is calling today and I—”

“Lord Rothbury? Calling at your home?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting. Well, I should get on with my point, then. I wanted to ask you, are you attending the Langley Ball this evening?”

Why in the world did he care? “Why, yes. Yes, I am.”

“Good. Good.” He cleared his throat again, throwing his sister a beseeching glance, which she ignored. “May I request a dance. Now.”

“Right now?”

“For the ball.”

Her brow quirked. “I suppose.”

“Good,” he replied. “I shall anticipate it until then.” He glanced pointedly at the porcelain clock on the mantel again.

Was that her hint to leave?
 “Well…if that is all?” This was all so strange.

“Yes, indeed,” he nearly shouted, sounding overly glad. “That’s all.”

Charlotte stood, as did Lady Rosalind.

Tristan just sat there. His sister widened her eyes meaningfully.

“Oh, right! Yes.” He practically jumped up. “Well, may I walk you out? I mean, I’ll walk you out.”

She shook her head. “There is no need, I assure you.”

“I insist.” He motioned for the women to precede him out of the room.

Their butler opened the door, revealing a bustling street scene. Ladies walking in pairs, parasols clutched in their hands, shiny carriages rumbling down the lane…and Lord Rothbury standing at the edge of the Devine’s walk.

Before Charlotte could utter a syllable, Tristan picked up her gloved hand and kissed her lightly on the knuckles.

“Good day, Charlotte,” he said.

“Good day,” she answered. She turned to bid farewell to Lady Rosalind, but she seemed to have disappeared.

Numbly, she descended the front steps toward a waiting Rothbury, who only had eyes for the Devines’ front door, looking quite like he wanted to murder someone.

“Perfection, dear brother,” Rosalind proclaimed, while peeking out the little window next to the door. “Utter perfection.”

Slipping a finger inside his cravat to loosen it a bit, Tristan craned his neck from side to side, easing the building tension. “If he kills me, I’ll see to it that you get hanged for murder as well.”

“Pfft. How would you? You’d be dead.”

“That’s true enough, I suppose.” He bent down to take a look out the window himself. “Rosie, why do you insist on playing matchmaker?”

She straightened. “Because I’m so good at it.”

“So humble.”

“Well, I was right about Gabriel and Maddie. I knew within seconds they needed to be together.”

“And Charlotte and Rothbury?”

“Do you not pay attention at all when you attend balls? Do you not see the yearning glances of a man in love?”

He burst into a grin. “No. I can safely say that I do not notice yearning glances of men in love.”

She waved away his teasing. “I think the wicked earl would have married her a long time ago if it wasn’t for one thing.”

“And that is…?”

“If the woman he loved didn’t fancy herself in love with you.”

There was nothing quite like a London Season.

For a woman and her milliner that is.

And her dressmaker, and the person who designs her shoes, and the…ah, hell, and whoever else was responsible for making all the other things scattered all over the Greenes’ morning room; evidence of their recent return from a shopping trip.

It was stunning, actually.