The Redemption of a Dissolute Earl

by Julie Johnstone

  Salisbury stood and opened the door for her. “No need. Tomorrow we’ll be wed. Whatever there’s to say, we’ve a lifetime to do it.”

  A lifetime? Charlotte walked toward her dressing room door. Why did it sound like a death sentence? She took a deep breath. She was good enough to marry into the ton, and to be good enough, she needed to shove her silly girlhood fantasies into the darkest recesses of her mind where they could damn well stay gathering cobwebs.

  “I’m looking forward to forever,” she lied. Determined to make a grand exit, she lifted her chin and turned away to walk elegantly, like the duchess she would be, down the bustling corridor. Her foot caught in the long hem of her gown, causing her to careen forward with a yelp of dismay.

  She had never been good at grand exits. She threw her arms out to catch herself, but instead of a jarring hit, a strong pair of hands slipped under her arms then proceeded to draw her up into a circle of heat and steel.

  Her heart jumped in a way it had not jumped in almost a year.

  Joy surged through her.

  Maybe she was not dead inside after all.

  She glanced up to thank her savior and stared in numb silence into bright blue eyes surrounded by long, sooty lashes set in the face of a golden devil.

  “Release me at once,” she hissed at Drew, as the heat of longing and desire danced up her body, flushed her chest, and singed her face.

  The hounds of hell, indeed.

  Satan was holding her in his arms, and she was not about to be dragged back down into the pits of hell, otherwise known as love.

  None of Drew’s heated fantasies of Char this past year had included her demanding in a most unfriendly tone that he let her go. Which was precisely why he was sure he was not having another one of his lovely daydreams about her. Her angry tone―along with the fact that some man was staring fiercely at him―increased Drew’s confidence he wasn’t dreaming. He’d had some debauched fantasies in his life, but never had a man been in any of them.

  Drew curled his fingers tighter around Char’s warm, silky arms. Normally, he prided himself in the ability to remember precise details of situations and people, but even his memory was not so superb that he’d been able to perfectly conjure up the way his heart jerked when she was near, the way her smell of freesia immediately relaxed him, or the way her burning skin warmed him to his soul.

  This was definitely real. Char was here, in the flesh, an answer to a prayer he’d been too ashamed―too afraid―to plead. He breathed deeply of her and pulled her close.

  “Char,” he whispered in her ear, the soft curls of her fiery red hair tickling his nose.

  “Let me go, you drunken imbecile.” Char’s slippered foot ground down on his toe in a manner that certainly did not say, “I forgive you.”

  Let her go?

  Ha, ha, and bloody ha. He’d sooner cut off his hand than let her go a second time. Fate had finally decided to crown him the golden son again, and he was not about to argue with fate. Though his mind was a bit fuzzy from the copious amounts of liquor he’d consumed to withstand the choppy boat journey from France and―if he was being honest, which from time to time he managed to be with himself―to forget the flaming-haired temptress glaring at him, he was determined to embrace this gift and immediately set things right.

  In the spirit of embracing the offering, he pulled Char tighter, wincing when she tried to squirm away from him. Fate may have given him a gift, but he suspected a hearty payment of groveling was due before he could claim his prize. “I see you’ve not forgotten or forgiven.”

  “Surely you jest?” Char’s perfectly kissable red lips turned down into a frown.

  His groin pulsed to painful awareness of the woman he held so close. He cleared his throat. “I was a weak, damnable ass.”

  She jerked one arm free and then the other. “At least we agree on that.” She was good at deftly maneuvering out of his grasp, but she was no match for him. He smiled the roguish smile he knew she once loved as he tapped his fingers, now twined securely around her waist. “You’re fast, but as usual, I’m faster.”

  The line that had served to send them both into bales of laughter in the past, elicited a deeper frown from Char. Perhaps reminding her of how he had always managed to capture her and undress her before she could stop her laughter and protest was not one of his wisest decisions. “I’m sorry,” he hurriedly supplied. By God he was. His heart throbbed with just how damnably sorry he was.

  “You’re precisely twelve months too late.” She glanced down at his arms wrapped around her waist, her gaze flickering to the right as a troupe of actors and actresses rushed past them and bumped into each other in their attempt to gape. Several people collided as they skirted around the dark-haired buffoon standing in the middle of the narrow hall who was staring directly at Drew.

  Wait a bloody minute. The buffoon wasn’t staring at him―the man was leering at Char as if she were a puzzle he had just figured out. Swinging Char around so her back would be to the nosy man, Drew looked into her eyes and, decision firmly made, moved his hands to grip her delicate face and say what he should have said twelve months ago. He’d rather be penniless than spend one more minute without this woman in his life. He grinned at the twitching of her lips. She always twitched when she was angry.

  He’d soothe her anger with his apology and explanation of his sorry character, but he needed to be quick and employ every weapon at his disposal. He frowned. What weapons did he have to sway Char with? He searched his mind and smiled. Char’s father had raised her on the good book. Surely, she’d be more apt to forgive if he could show God was on his side.

  “Char—” he began and coughed to clear the tremble from his voice. “It’s hard for a rich man—” he stopped again and tried to recall the exact wording of the scene in Mark he was trying to quote. Damnation. He should have drunk less tonight and striven to be a better listener all the times his mother had preached the Bible.

  “Don’t say another word,” Charlotte hissed, her face white under the rouge that should have made her look vibrantly alive. As it stood, the unusual paleness of her skin was sharply contrasted by the makeup and gave her an overall deathly pallor. An uneasy feeling coursed through Drew.

  “Char, what is it?” He’d not bloody fumbled it all that badly, had he?

  “Let me go.” She jerked his hands away from her face, scooted around him, and went to the waiting and open arms of the buffoon.

  As she hovered in the other man’s arms, Drew stared at the two of them for a moment, astonishment turning to confusion turning to recognition. “Salisbury?” Drew croaked.

  The Marquess of Salisbury inclined his head. “Hardwick.”

  Drew withdrew his handkerchief and wiped it across his damp brow. After he won Char back, he needed a long sleep. He drank too much to sleep well in Paris, and even if he hadn’t drank a steady stream of whiskey on the boat ride back to England, he could not have slept with the Channel waters being so rough. “What the hell are you doing at the Sans Peril?”

  “I’m here because of my betrothed.” Salisbury’s arm slid around Char to pull her flush up against his chest. Drew stepped forward to rip the man’s arm out of its socket for touching Char so intimately, but like a pesky fly that wouldn’t go away, Edgeworth appeared out of the shadows and placed himself between Drew and the man he intended to harm bodily.

  “Move,” Drew demanded of his cousin.

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” Edgeworth replied, putting his back to Drew, then extending his hand to Char and bowing. “Felicitations are in order then?”

  What the bloody hell? Drew knew the whiskey made him slow tonight, but why would Edgeworth be offering felicitations to Char for cuddling up to a man who was betrothed to another woman? Drew’s patience snapped, and just as his traitor cousin’s lips grazed the hand of the woman who belonged, body and soul, to Drew, he shoved Edgeworth out of the way.

  “Char,” Drew said urgently. “You’re better than this illicit aff
air.” He motioned to the marquess. “I hardly think taking up with Salisbury will replace what you and I have.”

  Char shook her head, sending her bright red curls cascading over her shoulders. She stepped out of Salisbury’s arms, but his hand remained on the small of her back serving to further Drew’s annoyance. “You’re drunk, Lord Hardwick,” Char said coldly.

  “I’m not,” he protested.

  “You smell like a bottle of whiskey.”

  “That’s just his normal smell, Miss Milne,” Edgeworth offered unhelpfully.

  “My point exactly.” Char frowned at Drew. “I hardly need you to lecture me on who I can take up with.”

  “Miss Milne!” a voice screeched from the darkness. “They’re holding the play for you!”

  “Perfect,” Char mumbled. “Now you’ve made me late.” She glared pointedly at Drew, as if he was the only one who had made her late.

  “Char―” he began, but she turned her back toward him.

  “If you’ll excuse me?” she asked Salisbury in such a sweet voice that Drew wanted to throttle the man. That honey voice was for Drew only.

  Her sweet question may have been directed at Salisbury―confirmed by the arse’s nod―but Drew sure as hell wouldn’t excuse Char. He needed to tell her he wanted to marry her. He needed to tell her what a bloody fool he’d been. The Marquess of Salisbury brushed a kiss on Char’s cheek. That bloody well did it!

  Drew lunged forward, grabbing the man’s arm. “Keep your lips off my woman.”

  “Your woman?” came Char’s incredulous gasp. “I’m not your woman. I despise you.”

  God, she was beautiful when angry. Drew smiled at her loveliness. Her eyes narrowed on him.

  “I rue the day I met you and how foolish and easy I was.”

  “You were not easy,” he offered, then realized how crass it sounded. “Char―”

  She held her palm toward him. “Not another word.”

  He nodded. He wanted to say more―such as telling her that her burning eyes made him want to kiss her from head to toe―but he’d mucked it up fairly well already. Best to stay quiet for the moment, until she spent her anger.

  “I don’t know why you have finally sought me out—”

  Hell. He had to answer that. “Then let me explain.”

  “Don’t waste your time. Or mine. I don’t care. I don’t want your feeble explanations or apologies.”

  “What do you want?” he asked, his chest tightening with new worry.

  “I want you to leave me alone.” She stepped around him, and he grabbed her arm.

  “Char,” he pleaded, desperation taking hold. This was not the reunion he had imagined. Not even close. “I need to tell you—”

  She shoved him hard in the chest. “Didn’t you hear me?”

  “I heard you,” Edgeworth supplied.

  “Shut up,” Drew snarled, surprised to hear Char’s voice echo his words exactly.

  Char turned to Drew, her lips trembling, her eyes two slits of bright green anger. “Has your conscience finally caught up with you?”

  That was hardly the way he’d put it, but he doubted Char wanted to hear his exact version. Drew nodded reluctantly.

  “Good.” A sad smile spread across her face. “I hope memories of what a miserable cad you were plague you until your dying day.”

  He flinched. “I suppose I deserve that.”

  “And more,” she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “But I’ve not the time or the inclination.”

  “Aren’t you plagued?” he asked, not liking the finality in her voice and eyes.

  “Not in the least.” Her gaze shifted to a fold of her costume, rendering it unreadable. She tugged on the material until it lay flat before raising her gaze back to him. “I put you out of my mind the day I met my future husband.”

  Before Drew could react to her astonishing statement, she scurried into the darkness of the corridor, all traces of her gone except the lingering scent of freesia and the fading pat of her slippered feet as she raced to make the curtain call.

  Drew ran a shaky hand through his hair and tried to sort out everything Char had just said. Her future husband? His blood boiled in his veins. “I’m going to find and kill the man who thinks he’s going to marry the woman I love.”

  “You needn’t look far then,” the Marquess of Salisbury replied, his amused tone confusing Drew.

  He turned to the man and glared. “I’d like to know what is so bloody funny about the woman I love being betrothed to some peacock who thinks he’s good enough to take my place.”

  Salisbury’s eyes narrowed. “I’m the peacock who’s taking your place. And that, my friend, is bloody hilarious.”

  After her abysmal performance in Lady Macbeth and the inability to locate Salisbury after her performance, Charlotte fled the theatre for the privacy of her home. She did not want to see any adoring fans, though she could hardly believe they would want to see her after her mussed lines and missed cues. Tonight she’d been a mess, and it was all Drew’s fault. Typical. The no-good, dissolute scoundrel had scattered her wits once again.

  How dare he show back up in her life the day before she was supposed to be married, and how humiliating for him to attempt to explain how hard it was for a rich man. She did not give a whit to know the minute details of why he held her beneath him. Why he thought she would want to know baffled her.

  How like Drew to be so self-centered, so inconsiderate, so very handsome still. She hated him, but more than that, she hated the queasy turning sensation in her stomach. Marrying Salisbury was out of the question. Seeing Drew again had confirmed what she had suspected but suppressed. Of course, she was a consummate actress, and her best performance yet had been her performance for herself. She’d fooled herself into believing revenge and security could take the place of the way Drew made her tremble from the inside out, or the way he stole her breath with just a look, or the way his smile and the warm timbre of laughter that filled his voice made the world seem perfectly right and their stations in life surmountable.

  The flaxen-haired scoundrel! Charlotte alit from her carriage and took her footman’s hand of assistance. Once she was steady, she moved quickly up the stairs to her townhome, swept past her gaping butler, and went promptly to her library. Once there, she kicked off her shoes, poured herself a glass of Madeira, and then padded across the rug to recline on her settee with her feet propped. She took a fortifying drink and then set the crystal glass on the side table in exchange for a big, fluffy pillow, which she hugged to her chest.

  Sniffing away threatening tears, she turned her thoughts to her father―a more pleasant memory by far. She missed him terribly. She wanted his comforting arms around her shoulders right now, but she could not go back to Danby. Facing that place and those people with their condescending attitudes was more than she was willing to bear.

  Perhaps she could implore her father to visit with her here? Maybe a good long talk with him would help put things into perspective as it had always done when she was a child. Just thinking about ending her betrothal to Salisbury made her groan. Not because she thought Salisbury was truly in love with her, but because ending her betrothal to the marquess meant truly acknowledging that revenge would not, after all, help her forget Drew.

  Perhaps she would never forget how he had made her feel? The thought was a daunting one that made her stomach ache. Surely time would fade her desire for Drew, and eventually she would be ready to meet a man who loved her for who she truly was and did not care what connections she did not possess. Salisbury was not that man. He was as bad as Drew, but she had been uncaring of his motives because of her own need for revenge. The marquess wanted her for the pedigree she lacked just to purposely anger his father, and Drew did not want her because she was only the butler’s daughter, and he—he was too weak to go against his father.

  She rose slowly from the settee and went to her desk, determined to pen a note to her father right now. Instead of getting out her paper
, she stared at the wooden desk while idly rolling her quill between her fingers. How could two men be so different yet so very much the same at the core? Of course, they were both wealthy men who cared only for themselves.

  She would never, absolutely never, entertain any sort of relationship with a man of the ton again. Maybe she would fall in love with a dashing actor? The mere idea of loving anyone again made her stomach clench tighter. Disgusted, she threw down her pen and rested her head in her hands.

  A cream envelope lying on her desk caught her attention. She picked up the thick paper and turned it over in her hands to study the crest, which had been embossed in wax to seal the envelope shut. She ran her hands over the rough edges of the wax, her nerves tingling to awareness and concern. Why would the Duke of Danby send her a note?

  Her heart tripped as she ripped open the paper. She cursed as the parchment cut into her skin and a drop of blood appeared on her finger. Scanning the spidery scrawl quickly, her heart beat heavily. The paper fluttered to her desk, and in her haste to stand, she knocked it to the floor but did not bend to retrieve the letter that relayed such bad news.

  “Mrs. Felton,” she yelled, while ringing the bell for her servant.

  Her housekeeper appeared in the study doorway in her robe and house slippers, which were on the wrong feet. Charlotte would have smiled if her face hadn’t felt frozen. Mrs. Felton patted at the wild mass of grey disarray that was usually coiled so tightly at her thick neck. “Is there something wrong, Miss Milne?”

  Charlotte nodded. “Pack my bags at once. My father’s very ill, and I must go to Danby first thing in the morning in case—” Charlotte gulped back the threatening tears. “In case he fails to recover.”

  Drew slammed the empty pint of ale on the bar and swiped a hand across his frothy lip. “Another,” he demanded and swiveled in his seat to study Salisbury. “Let me see if I have this straight. “You—” he pointed an accusatory finger at the marquess— “are going to marry the woman I love.”