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 wo
uld 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.
“Might I trouble you to help me up?” He hated to ask her, but figured if he didn’t he might fall.
Ah, hell. Who was he kidding? It was simply an excuse to feel her touch upon him again.
“Of course.” She stood, extending her hand to him.
He took it, coming to his feet cautiously, careful not to topple over.
Once vertical, he steadied himself by grabbing firm hold of the nearest tree branch above his head. The angry pulse in his head came to an alarming crescendo before settling back down to a dull ache. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them Miss Greene stood before him, wringing her hands together.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“As well as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”
“It’s cold. Would you like to use my shawl?”
He shook his head, hiding his smile at her sweet offer with a grimace.
She stepped forward to swipe leaves and dirt from his shoulders and from his hair. Standing on tiptoe, she lightly examined the spot where he was hit. He inclined his head so she could see.
“There isn’t any blood,” she said. “Just a small bump. Put some ice on it when you get home and it should go down.”
He nodded, feeling for a moment like he was someone else. Someone who deserved attention from a proper young lady, and not her censure. “Now, you were saying that we need each other, yes?” Curiosity bit at him.
“Quite. You see, how ever will I find a suitable husband after Lord Tristan’s rejection? And how will you win Lady Rosalind, or any suitable bride for that matter, if everyone thinks you a despicable scoundrel?”
“Hmm. Yes, it has been a bit of a problem.” A problem that grew larger with every passing year. Sometimes he wondered if he was destined to wander ballroom after ballroom, chasing the wrong woman, all the while cursing himself that he had found the right sort of woman but she was in love with someone else and kept getting pulled out of his path.
Still, he couldn’t fathom why Miss Greene thought he needed her. Or maybe now that Tristan was out of the picture…
“Miss Greene, are you proposing I marry you?”
Her lovely eyes grew round and then she laughed. “Oh, good heavens, no,” she scoffed, waving a hand in the air. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Covering her mouth with her hand, she continued to chuckle. Not uproariously, mind you, but hard enough to make him think she’d remember this one for days and still chuckle at the thought.
And just what was so ridiculous? Surely he expected her to negate his suggestion, but why in the name of depravity did she find the prospect of marrying him particularly hilarious?
“I could never marry you…or anyone like you, for that matter. I might be a bit impulsive at times, but I’ve certainly learned my lesson about trusting a scoundrel with my heart. And you are, as everyone knows, a scoundrel of the highest order.”
“Then what, exactly are you proposing I need you for?” he asked, aware that he could not hide the irritation from his voice.
She sighed, reigning in her grin. “All I was proposing, my lord, is friendship. We could offer each other suggest—”
“Friendship?” he echoed blankly, unable to believe his ears. Perhaps he was still unconscious. He couldn’t possibly have heard her correctly.
She grinned in such a fashion as to make him feel like she was infinitely wiser than he. “You’ve heard of the word?”
He narrowed his eyes, giving a dark look that, hopefully, told her he didn’t find her amusing at all. “Of course, I have many friends.”
“Female friends, acquaintances, I mean.”
“Indeed,” he drawled, “I have many of those.”
She twirled her eyes. “Yes, but do you have any real lady friends? Those whom you do not have intimate relations or a torrid history with? Or, to be more precise, female individuals who would never find themselves provoked into causing you bodily harm?”
There was no need to think on it. The truth was in his silence.
“You see,” she said cheerfully, then shrugged. “You need me.”
He felt his lips working, but for a few bizarre moments, he couldn’t speak. Was this little slip of a girl truly offering her companionship to him? Why? Associating herself with him was a daring venture.
He dragged a hand over his jaw. Christ, she was an innocent.
“Ah,” he began, giving her a doleful smile. “You have forgotten a most important factor, Miss Greene.”
“And that is…”
“Men and women cannot be friends. It is impossible.”
Her brow furrowed. “And why not?”
He bit back a smile. Lord, she was an easy one to fool. If he had a mind to fool her, that is. She was so gullible; he had no idea how she made it through life so far without being compromised, fleeced, or coerced into buying a three-legged horse at least a half a dozen times.
He cleared his throat to keep a cynical grin from creeping in. “Because, my sweet, sweet naive creature, lust would, undoubtedly, get in the way. You’ve heard of lust, correct?”
Pressing her lips together, she nodded. “Of course.”
“Damn. I should have liked to explain it to you in excruciating detail. Showing you examples, of course.”
“Lust is a sin.”
“Yes, indeed it is. My favorite one.” He gave her a wicked grin. She only blinked at him.
“You were saying,” she urged, clearly unmoved.
He sighed. “Well, one day or another, one of us would start having…thoughts about the other.” Trul
y, he had quite taken the lead on that facet already.
Her eyes narrowed on him in that half-annoying, half-adorable assessing manner once again. “Think you’re utterly irresistible, hmm?”
His mouth opened, presumably to utter some quip, but then his mind realized the bizarre spectacle this woman had just witnessed. He laughed instead. “Well, naturally, I’m not irresistible right now. But usually…”
“Your modesty astounds me,” she returned coolly.
“Believe what you will. But the truth of the matter is that eventually we would become completely obsessed about finding out what it would be like to finally—”
“Are you trying to say that you’ve tried this before and failed?”
“No,” he said. “What I’m saying is that people do not simply decide to become friends. We are not in our leading-strings, Miss Greene. And furthermore men and women cannot be merely friends. It just doesn’t happen.” He held up a hand when it looked as if she’d interrupt. “And even if it does, eventually, attraction, wonder, and temptation would supersede the relationship.” And on his end, it had already started. Being “friends” with her would just make it worse, he imagined.
“Now you are the one forgetting a most important factor, my lord.”
“And that is…”
“I do not inspire lust. All I provoke are whispered promises from a man who, with his next breath, asks another woman to marry him. Furthermore,” she added a bit forcibly when he made to interrupt, “I should think I can manage restraining myself when it comes to you. Therefore, all things considered…”
“And why bother anyway? What do you suppose can be gained by such an alliance, I wonder?”
“That’s all up to you, my lord.” She extended her hand.
He stared at her dainty fingertips for a second, perversely wondering what he could do that would stir this particular woman’s ire and inspire her to toss objects at his head like Lady Rosalind. Looking at Miss Greene’s friendly, pretty face, he couldn’t even imagine it. She couldn’t be real. This whole encounter could be a part of a bizarre dream provoked by too much whiskey and the knock to his skull.
To Wed a Wicked Earl Page 4
