To Wed a Wicked Earl (5 page)

Panting from exertion, Charlotte put her hands on her hips, studying the earl’s prone form. She was relieved to see his chest rising and falling, slowly and steadily. Her gaze trailed down his hard, lean-muscled body, noting the charmingly disheveled clothing. She knew she shouldn’t be thinking such things at this particular moment, but he seemed so…so long. Truly, he must sleep in a huge bed, or else his feet would hang off the end.

Lifting her chin, she threw a brief glance at her window across the way, silently telling herself she was an idiot for coming down here to assist him.

Good Lord, soon it would be daylight. But she couldn’t just leave him here. Perhaps she could rouse him up quickly and be on her way before anyone should spy her in her night rail in the garden with a scoundrel.

“Perhaps I should leave,” she murmured, a worried frown marring her brow. “Even unconscious you’re dangerous to my reputation.”

Chapter 3

A Gentleman’s mind is always fit, his reflexes sharp.

“M
y lord? Are you all right?”

Rothbury inhaled the fresh, almost lemon-tinged air wafting before him, the scent seeping deep into his lungs coaxing forth an unexpected pang of responsiveness.

Eyes of sapphire blurred and spun before his gaze. “Tempt not a desperate man.’”

“I believe that’s enough Shakespeare for one evening, my lord.”

For a moment the air seemed to sparkle about her head, causing him added confusion. “Are you an angel?” he heard himself mutter.

“Are you all right?” her soft voice asked, sounding like she withheld a laugh.

He closed his eyes as a shard of pain stabbed at the back of his skull, tempting him to succumb to the blissful realm of weightless oblivion. “Bloody hell.”

“I think you hit your head on a rock when you fell. And please don’t curse, my lord,” the angel replied from above him.

“Am I dead?”

A beat of silence, then came the soft hush of rustling fabric. It sounded as if she surrounded him. Her scent certainly did, delicate citrus and warmth.

Mmm. He smiled. “You smell like sunshine.”

What a ridiculous thing to say. Maybe he 
was
 dead…and in heaven. No, that couldn’t be. Too many people had told him he was solely responsible for the fiery trail into hell.

“No, you’re not dead,” the angel said, her tone flat. “But I think I know someone who 
wishes
 you were.”

“Cheeky, angel,” he muttered. Eyes still shut, he rose up to lean back on his elbows. A sudden wave of lightheadedness gave him a spinning sensation. “Hell and damna—”

A dainty palm clamped over his mouth, surprising him and smothering his curse. “I told you,” she admonished lightly, “no more cursing.”

Her palm felt warm against his lips.

“You have no one to blame but yourself for what happened,” she scolded, sounding very much like a tight-lipped nursemaid. “The lady does not want you.”

Lady?
 What lady? This lady?

Her hand of course, muffled his next comment. If he were in a different frame of mind and not in such terrible pain, he would have enjoyed taking a bite, if only to hear her scandalized gasp. Presently, however, he decided the best course of action was to simply lie there. Besides, she smelled simply gorgeous.

“Do you promise not to employ vulgar language, sir?”

“Mmph.” Which she had better damn well know translated as “yes” or he definitely 
would
 bite her. He put a hand over his heart in case she didn’t understand.

“All right, then,” she said, suppressed laughter tucked within her tone. “What is it you would like to say?”

His mouth was uncovered, but he suspected her hand lingered near just in case. “What in the h…” He paused, catching himself. “What happened?”

The hair at his temples was smoothed away with dainty sweeps. “I can only guess, really.”

“Well, why don’t you give it a try,” he replied, happy to note that his inherited trait of impatience was still intact.

She sighed, light and feminine. The urge to look at her emerged, but he worried he’d be ill if he dared open his eyes.

“Can you recall what happened?” she asked tentatively.

“Not precisely.”

“I believe a rather angry female dropped a rather heavy tome from her window.”

Rothbury’s memory came flooding in then. A torrent really. When one thought emerged, it was swept away by a new one.

He remembered sitting in his town house. Alone. He remembered drinking half a bottle of whiskey in celebration of the fact that his best friend had chosen someone other than Miss Greene. Then, he remembered that even with Tristan out of the picture, he dared never to reach for Miss Greene. Then he remembered the second half of the bottle of whiskey. After that, he couldn’t remember anything of much consequence at all.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He was a man who could hold his liquor…occasionally. That is, if he ate a heavy lunch. And an enormous dinner. He gave his head a shake to clear it. No, he did, in fact, remember staggering from the house, heading for the stables, thinking he’d ride out here and throw his whole heart into courting the duke’s sister. And why the hell not? He needed to marry. And she was beautiful. And she was kind. And she was…well, he really didn’t know much about her after all. But that was how they all were, really. Beautiful strangers. All but one.

The other one, the one who crept into his heart with her subtlety, the one whose unprejudiced smile dared him to think there was good in him—now, she could truly hurt him. So he stayed away. Feigned indifference. He was a coward.

While she batted her lashes at Tristan for six years, never sparing Rothbury a single glance, he chased other women so that hopefully, one day, one of them could chase away his regard for her. Make him forget her, forget that she was in love with his best friend. He had hoped her affection for Tristan was only a schoolgirl’s fancy, but even if it wasn’t, it was love of a sort, 
she
 was offering it, and he wanted it all for his own.

“Given your reputation and how society regards you,” the angel pointed out just then, “I suspect a man such as you provokes such altercations quite often.”

He started to negate her assumption but changed his mind. It was about time he opened his eyes to see just to whom he was speaking.

After several quick blinks, he managed to do just that, gazing up into a small, heart-shaped face. A pretty face. Not one of a curvy seductress or a cool-hearted courtesan, but a feminine, delicately featured face. He knew this face. He adored this face.

“Miss Charlotte Greene,” he stated finally, taking a risk and raising his head to get a better look.

Sitting at his side, the white skirt of her thick night rail tucked around her legs, she smiled down at him with concerned eyes of deep blue. Gorgeous sapphire eyes often hidden behind the rims of small, round spectacles.

Truthfully, she happened to be the complete opposite of what he was usually attracted to. She was a bit too thin, too short, and too quiet for his tastes, which had always leaned toward the voluptuous, the tall, and the spirited. Normally, she wasn’t one to stand out. And he rather suspected she preferred it that way.

However, while most young bucks readily discounted her merits and furtively joked about her quirky behavior behind her back, Rothbury had always sensed a subtle undercurrent of passion in her dark blue gaze. Unlike the “diamonds” of the 
ton
 and demimonde, who slinked across assembly rooms completely aware of their beauty and the power that accompanied it, Miss Greene moved like a woman who hadn’t yet realized how utterly fetching she truly was. She clung to the walls, sometimes barely raising her eyes from the floor, rarely spoke but to her closest friends, and shied away from situations that demanded she converse with the opposite sex.

Strange it was for him to notice those facets in such an unassuming woman. Strange it was he should have noticed her at all. But he always did. The second she walked into a room.

A sudden irritability pricked him.

He found himself somewhat mortified that 
she
 should see him in such a ghastly state. He gave his head a shake in an attempt to clear it. Had he just been spouting Shakespeare at Rosalind’s window? He stifled a groan and silently vowed to never touch gin again. Or wait, it was whiskey, wasn’t it? Christ, he couldn’t remember any longer.

“Miss Greene, if you promise never to utter a word of my rather idiotic behavior this evening to another living soul, I shall owe you one large favor.”

She gave him a small smile. “Agreed. Are you feeling any better?”

He nodded slightly, his thoughts still marred by spirit indulgence and a throbbing skull.

“Good,” she said with a sigh. “At first I had worried she had killed you and I might get blamed.”

“Your selflessness astounds me.”

His comment only prompted a wry grin. “Quite foxed and still acerbic. I daresay, it’s rather impressive.” She scooted closer and whispered conspiringly, “Concerning the lady,” she pointed to the window, “I believe she entertains no interest in your attentions whatsoever.”

“I know,” he whispered back, watching her closely with hooded eyes.

She looked at him thoughtfully. “And you are 
still
 determined to pursue her? Everyone knows the duke will not let you anywhere near his baby sister.”

He knew that, of course. Certainly, Lady Rosalind wasn’t the only woman he attempted to court who denied him, or was denied to him. But their rejections never penetrated. He shrugged them off with ease.

“Because I am a scoundrel, is it?”

“Yes,” she said, flatly. “I suppose rakish reputations do have the habit of getting in the way.”

“I agree.” 
Especially when one least wants to own up to it.

He tried to give her a dark, seductive look, something to either get her to cease her prying into his private affairs, or better: send her running back to her lax chaperone. But under his current physical limitations, he couldn’t even muster a raised brow.

“Where did you come from anyway?” he asked, suddenly wishing he hadn’t indulged so heavily. “One minute you weren’t there and the next you were.”

“I was awake.”

“At this hour?” Not that he had any real grasp of time at this moment himself. But it was still dark at least, though he suspected dawn would break soon.

Visions of a slumbering Miss Greene drifted through his thoughts. He imagined that her wheat-colored hair would be unbound, streaming across the pillow like a golden banner. He rather thought she’d toss around in her sleep a lot, which would cause her nightdress to become rucked up to her hips, revealing her thighs, smooth as cream, and her silky—

“Would you like me to summon a doctor?” she asked. “You are starting to look flushed.”

He swallowed, shaking the absolutely lovely thoughts out of his head. “No. I’ll be fine.” And he would be. He always managed to be. Actually, he had become quite the expert at pretending he was just fine. Nothing that a little whiskey couldn’t manage.

At Miss Greene’s acknowledging nod, Rothbury’s gaze swept over her hair, pulled back into a long rope of a braid, which rested against her breast. A few curls framed her ears and there was one long, loose strand that had somehow escaped the twist of the braid.

He smiled, his gaze raking the rest of her, from the white ribbon woven through the high neck of her night rail all the way down to where he imagined her feet were hidden under the folds. When he finally returned to her face, she gave him a small smile, vulnerability stealing across her lovely features.

“Now that I know you’re fine, I must go. Someone could discover us.”

“Come here,” he heard himself whisper. It was the oddest, most singular feeling he had ever had. For reasons unbeknownst to him, he found himself quite needing to embrace her. Good Lord, maybe he did need a doctor.

And to his further surprise, she didn’t bolt off in the opposite direction. She actually crept closer, stopping next to his hip. And she wasn’t some smooth, avaricious coquette either. She was a proper, respectable young lady. Exactly the sort who steered far away from the likes of him.

Within touching distance now, he reached out and tugged at a pale curl near her ear, which bounced like a spring when he let go.

She should slap his hand, he mused. He deserved it for being so forward. But she didn’t. However, her eyes gradually narrowed on him as if she were studying him closely.

“Now,” he said, closing his eyes with a slow blink. “I think you should return to your bedchamber.”

“Do you know what I think, my lord?” she suddenly asked.

“Tell me,” he said with a small grin.

“I think we need each other.”

His smile fell. In fact, all Rothbury could do was blink. He hadn’t any idea where this conversation was going and he didn’t intend to find out. Besides, he reminded himself, he needed to leave before Rosalind threw anything else out the window. He’d feel terrible if anything meant for him should hit Charlotte.