To Wed a Wicked Earl

by Olivia Parker

  Yes. As far as he was concerned, all of this was her fault.

  He followed her progress across the ballroom, almost forgetting himself and shouting a warning when she nearly whacked a footman in the back of the head with her crook. To his surprise, she turned on her heel, deftly escaping that tiny catastrophe only to find herself tumbling onto the lap of Lord Asterley. Jumping off the old man, she smiled down at him, spilling over with apologies while splotches of crimson grew on her cheeks and neck.

  In the last two years she hadn’t received a single offer of marriage. The closest she had come to impending nuptials was when she was invited to the Duke of Wolverest’s Bride Hunt Ball last August.

  It was a great compliment to her family that she had been included in the most titillating event of last Season. However, the wave of interest so soon created had eventually gathered flotsam, leaving her to settle back into her quirky, timid demeanor, overlooked and easily dismissed.

  And with the Greenes’ estate and accompanying blunt entailed away, making a good match had surely become the deciding factor in whether Charlotte and her mother ate or starved following the death of her father.

  For the first time that evening, the corners of Rothbury’s lips curved into a slow, authentic grin.

  “You can’t possibly be thinking of using Miss Greene,” Tristan said with surprise, perceptively guessing where Rothbury’s gaze had focused.

  “Why not?”

  Not a single soul knew that Rothbury and Charlotte were friends. Not even Tristan. They had managed to keep it secret for this long, and there was no doubt they couldn’t keep…other secrets.

  “For the simple fact that she’s…well, because she’s friends with my brother’s wife. And she just happens to be my almost fiancée.”

  Rothbury raised a sardonic brow. “You’re almost fiancée, is it?”

  “I don’t think she should be involved. You risk trouncing her heart.”

  Ah, yes. You took great care of her heart, didn’t you?

  Tristan shook his head. “Sure, she’s quite naive. And too sympathetic to try manipulating you into a true engagement. But she’s quite a good sport, nice—”

  “She’s perfect,” Rothbury replied. And they were friends, more than Tristan could claim. Surely, she’d need a bit of coaxing, but he was sure they could pull off a fake engagement without a hitch. After all, it would only be for one day.

  “I think you’re making a mistake. Charlotte comes off a touch…impulsive, but I would not underestimate her if I were you.”

  Rothbury’s mind was made up. The tension in his shoulders eased and he immediately thought to go and pull Charlotte off to some secluded spot to explain his plan.

  “I wish you luck,” Tristan replied, shaking his head. “You’ll need it, especially with your rather wicked reputation backed by all the ribald tales of the Rothbury males in your past. Hawthorne tells me that you, specifically, are not allowed anywhere near her.”

  “And has that stopped me before?”

  “Hell no. But you haven’t met her father. Irksome man. He fancies himself a man of strict moralistic values. He’ll have a rapscallion such as you at the execution block before you can touch a single lock upon her head.”

  “Shush, Tristan. You’re getting to sound like an overprotective mother hen. Besides, if my memory serves me, I’ve tugged one of those curls already.” He slid a side glance at Tristan, remembering his blasted promise to Charlotte. “You’re coming to Aubry Park tomorrow?”

  Tristan nodded, muttering under his breath.

  “It will work, I assure you. In fact, I probably won’t need to tell her a goddamn thing. I’ll just invite her and her mother for luncheon. She won’t understand a single syllable my grandmother says, and then she’ll be on her way back for London, none the wiser.”

  “You could just tell your grandmother the truth.”

  And take the risk of her going through with her threat? Not bloody likely. He needed to bide his time in picking his bride. It wasn’t something he wanted to rush into. But his grandmother’s insistence left him no choice. It had to be Charlotte. She would never expect it to be a serious engagement. She’d laughed uproariously the one time he mentioned it.

  However, before Rothbury could take a step in her direction, a slender, warm hand settled on his wrist. Narrow, almost catlike green eyes smiled invitingly up at him, effectively snatching his attention from his intended prey.

  “Didn’t you get my note?” Lady Gilton asked with a pout.

  “Indeed,” he answered, his eyes still on Miss Greene.

  Apparently sensing his inattention, Lady Gilton maneuvered herself in front of him, smoothly blocking his line of vision. “We were to meet in the library,” she crooned. Bold as ever, she reached up to cup a hand over his ear and breathed a suggestion only a eunuch would refuse.

  Though it had been over a year since he had last sampled the viscountess’s charms, the pair always seemed to fall easily into their old routine.

  “Down the hall,” she whispered without looking at him. “Turn right. Second door on your left. Lord Gilton is in the garden with the buxom harpist. We have at least an hour.” She skirted past him then, giving the appearance, at least to the rest of the ballroom that she was simply walking off.

  Rothbury didn’t follow straight away. He lingered, his gaze unerringly snagging on Miss Greene as she tried to weave through a particularly copious throng of people only to nearly slam into Miss Hawthorne.

  Despite his ill mood, he chuckled low in his chest. Perhaps he had been wrong in suggesting she wear her spectacles. At least with blurry vision, she took care in crossing a crowded ballroom instead of plowing through at top speed.

  All at once his muscles tightened as an odd surge of apprehension rose within him. Surely not from the prospect of tricking his grandmother with Charlotte’s assistance. She’d agree.

  Wouldn’t she?

  But what if she refused? What would he do then? Break his grandmother’s heart? Even he couldn’t do that.

  No. He couldn’t take the risk of Charlotte refusing to go along with his ruse. He was going to have to trick her into visiting Aubry Park under the pretense of meeting his grandmother. He could do it. Manipulating women was his forte.

  So then, why did he suddenly feel like the lowest of cads?

  He pushed the thought away, thinking instead of the bounty that awaited him down the hall. Yes. That’s what he would do. A little tumble with Cordelia and he’d enjoy a bit of temporary relief from the quandary he got himself into. Soon he’d forget all his troubles.

  However, as he sauntered down the dark hall leading to the library, he couldn’t help but wish it were Charlotte waiting for him in the library instead.

  Chapter 8

  A Gentleman always grants a Lady his undivided attention.

  “I’ve decided to allow the Earl of Rothbury to seduce me.”

  “Allow?”

  “You are forgetting that in order for one to be seduced, one must be, at the very least, mildly resistant. And we all know you are hardly opposed.”

  A symphony of giggles ensued.

  Charlotte, not by any stretch of the imagination an active participant in the conversation surrounding her, considered it a personal triumph that she refrained from rolling her eyes. Not that the Fairbourne twins nor Laura Ellis would have noticed if she had. They were all too busy ogling Lord Rothbury.

  After a rather embarrassing spill onto the lap of an eighty-three-year-old man, Charlotte had entered an area thick with shoulder-to-shoulder guests, which had slowed her progress across the room to a near standstill. The trio of young women continued to talk, unheeding of the ears that might overhear them. Charlotte tried to move past them, inch by aggravating inch.

  “Well then, you should make your move soon,” Belinda Fairbourne warned, “before I have a go at him first.” She straightened her feathered swan mask with a proud sniff.

  “Would you like to place a wager?” La
ura Ellis asked. The jewels sown onto her dark blue bodice, which elegantly made up the pattern of peacock feathers, winked in the candlelight.

  “Perhaps,” replied Bernadette Fairbourne, dressed as a snowy-white dove, replied. She raised her dainty nose at the peacock in a challenging manner. “I daresay, the upper hand is mine. His lordship seems utterly distracted this evening and I believe I know why.”

  “Indeed,” Charlotte muttered, finally finding the courage to speak up. Really, there was nothing else to do, as yet another person blocked her from breaking free. She might as well join in. “Lady Ros—”

  Charlotte’s next words died on her tongue as the Swan, the Peacock, and the Dove suddenly swung their heads in her direction. As if only now noticing she stood next to them, listening.

  And by the pinched set of their faces, they weren’t happy about her participation. Their eyes narrowed on her. Charlotte refused to shrink back, though they intimidated her all the same.

  “All I meant to say is that if he seems distracted it’s highly probable that he’s watching—”

  “We know who he’s watching, you little widgeon,” the dove remarked. “And it certainly could never be you.”

  That, Charlotte mused, was undoubtedly true. Lord knew she had been in Rothbury’s path in the past numerous times before, but he never acted upon a seduction, a flirtation, or even a single bone-melting stare. Oh, now that they were friends, he teased her, but she was smart enough never to take him seriously.

  She cleared her throat. “’Twas not what I was suggesting…”

  The swan gasped, pressing her fingertips to her lips and then turned an alarming shade of crimson.

  “He’s looking this way,” she whispered excitedly.

  Charlotte sighed, resisting the urge to follow the gazes of the three silly birds.

  Suddenly the crowd shifted as a large group of men made for the terrace, presumably to smoke. She hoped Witherby was among them. She had gotten this far and would hate to bump into the viscount now.

  Quickly, she made for an opening.

  Without warning, another peacock stepped directly into Charlotte’s path. But unlike the other bejeweled bird, this particular one was quite short.

  Charlotte’s feet skidded to a stop in order to keep from slamming into Miss Lizzie Hawthorne.

  “My word! He is a walking dream,” Lizzie pronounced, eyes widened for emphasis.

  Charlotte lifted her chin. “I’m sure I do not know who you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a ninny. You know who I’m talking about.”

  When Charlotte shrugged innocently, Lizzie nodded toward the earl, the tall blue feathers spiked through her auburn locks giving a twitch. “He is simply divine, do you not agree? Perhaps we should go over there under the pretext of talking to Lord Tristan.”

  “That is a grand idea.”

  “Oh, but look, Lord Rothbury’s already walking away.” She gasped loudly, a hand thrown to her throat. “And he’s following Lady Gilton! Can you imagine?”

  Quite suddenly Charlotte’s stomach gave a painful twist. What in the world? She knew what Rothbury was. She knew he was a true rogue. Surely, she was not jealous.

  “Oh! I almost forgot to tell you. Kitty said that her mother-in-law told my mother that her footman told the cook that last week Mrs. Breedlove, his last mistress, threatened to throw herself in front of a moving carriage unless Lord Rothbury agreed to renew their arrangement, but apparently he refused despite her claims. Can you imagine?”

  It took all Charlotte’s strength not to groan aloud. She liked Lizzie. Really she did. They were the same height, of the same age, and suffered the consequence of having mothers who insisted on choosing the most ridiculous costumes for events such as these. But the similarities ended there.

  Charlotte was the shy, quiet sort, an observer of people. And Lizzie was loud, spoke at an alarming rate of speed—all gossip and speculation, of course—and possessed the most horrible habit of trying to drag Charlotte into situations that she would much rather avoid.

  Lizzie threaded her arm with Charlotte’s as they walked past a group of giggling debutantes who were busy making calf-eyes after the earl.

  “You cannot deny how handsome! Are you not happy your mother permitted you to come instead of trolling about those ancient pathways and caves looking for spirits?” She wobbled her head in a gesture of disbelief, which looked quite comical considering her costume. “No doubt your mother hadn’t counted on the earl to attend. My mother and I can scarcely believe he’s here. Perhaps Tristan talked him into it. He and his grandmother are invited every year, but never come. I can’t imagine why he would come this year. Can you?”

  “Actually, yes,” Charlotte muttered, smiling pointedly at Lady Rosalind, who returned the friendly gesture as they walked past. “Everyone knows the reason he is here. And she’s it.”

  “Yes, well, that may be true, you know, but insofar that I know…and I am in the know as you well know…”

  “Lizzie, you may very well hold the record for using the word ‘know’ the greatest number of times in a single sentence.”

  “…she doesn’t have any apparent interest in the man.”

  “She’s simply abiding by the duke’s wishes,” Charlotte offered with a lift of her shoulder.

  “Oh, that’s right! You’re close friends with the duchess. How could I have forgotten? How are the newlyweds?”

  “Brilliant,” Charlotte answered with a grin. “Though they are hardly newlyweds any longer. They’re traveling again. Wales now and then on to…Ireland, I think.”

  “Now that she has married, surely you don’t see her as often. You must miss her.”

  Charlotte smiled wistfully. “Quite. But she’s happy and that makes me happy. She has written, but I fear they’re never in one place long enough for me to respond in kind. We’ll catch up when they return.” She wondered what Madelyn would say if she knew of her friendship with Rothbury.

  Actually, she did know what her protective friend would say. She’d tell her she was absolutely mad and should stay far, far away from Lord Rothbury. And she would be right, of course.

  As they rounded a marble column, the tall, stiff collar of Lizzie’s costume accidentally slapped a glass of punch out of someone’s hand.

  “I say!” the man protested.

  Wide-eyed, Charlotte blinked up at her cousin, but Lizzie continued prattling, oblivious to the havoc unfolding behind her.

  Charlotte cringed. Thankfully, a footman bearing a towel happened by. Giving the guest an apologetic smile, Charlotte quickened her step to catch up with her cousin.

  “Hmm.” Lizzie tapped her finger on her chin. “Now there was something else I was going to say, but I’ve forgotten.” She turned her head, nearly toppling the entire contents of a tray of full wineglasses. Only the deft hand of another footman saved the tray teetering in his grasp from dumping on another guest.

  “Lizzie, perhaps we should find somewhere to sit,” Charlotte suggested. “Your costume…”

  “…is hideous. I know. And these awful feathers make my nose itch.”

  “Well, at least your mother didn’t insist you dress as a shepherdess,” Charlotte muttered with a rueful smile. “I don’t think there’s a person in this room that I haven’t accidentally whacked on the back of the head with this dashed shepherd’s crook.” She eyed the thing crossly, then glanced at her cousin and her wide collar. Between the both of them, they could very well obliterate the entire ballroom. The idea had merit.

  “Indeed,” Lizzie murmured. “But you do look adorable, really.”

  “Adorable’ isn’t the word. In fact, I can think of three more-appropriate words right off the top of my head. ‘Absurd.’ ‘Ridiculous.’ And ‘mortifying.’”

  “You do stand out,” Lizzie offered weakly, with a hesitant smile.

  Well, that much, Charlotte mused, was undoubtedly true.

  She stole a glance at the couples swirling about the d
ance floor. Most of the young ladies wore bejeweled half masks and diaphanous white gowns, which floated teasingly about their ankles, drawing the appreciative glances of many gentlemen.

  Charlotte’s frock, however, had a stiff petticoat underneath, which made her feel quite like an overstuffed pastry puff. And on Charlotte’s small frame, it undeniably gave the appearance that the dress wore her instead of the other way around.

  At least she could find comfort in the fact that she had miraculously avoided the dreaded Viscount Witherby this evening.

  “Charlotte,” Lizzie whispered a clear warning in her voice. “Don’t…turn…around. In fact, you should just run.”

  She closed her eyes on a slow blink, then mouthed, “Witherby?”

  Lizzie nodded, worry evident in her gaze. “Just go,” she said without moving her lips.

  Charlotte stepped forward only to have her cousin grab her by the shoulders and thrust her in a different direction. “Go hide in the library. We’re redecorating. No one’s allowed in there.”

  Trusting Lizzie blindly, Charlotte charged forward into the dense crowd, dragging the shepherd’s crook along with her, of course. For once she was glad to have the dratted thing. Its reputation for bodily harm must precede it, for those who happened to spare it a single glance veritably jumped out of the way, which sped up the normally lengthy process of crossing a crowded ballroom.

  In no time at all, she reached the corridor that led to the sanctuary of the deserted library. She hurried onward, paying no heed to the fact the hall grew quiet and substantially darker the further along she went.

  Lizzie had said the library was in the process of being redecorated and was off-limits to guests. It made sense that there weren’t any people milling about the hall.

  A cloud of white seemingly emerged from an intersecting hall right before Charlotte’s eyes. There was no time to stop or even slow her momentum. Before she could utter a squeak, she slammed directly into Lady Gilton.