To Wed a Wicked Earl

by Olivia Parker

  Slowly and sloppily, he rose up enough to lean on his elbows, his eyes settling on Charlotte’s retreating form.

  And then the oddest thing happened. She stopped and spun around.

  Shaking her head, she strode back to him, nearly slipping a couple of times, but managed to catch herself before she joined him in the mud.

  She extended her hand. “Come on,” she said, holding back a laugh. “Get up.”

  “No,” he said. “I think I’ll stay.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Grab my hand.”

  “Charlotte, go into the house. It’s freezing, you’re wet, I’ve got mud in places I didn’t even know I had…”

  “Rothbury…”

  “Oh, all right. I’m coming. But you’re not helping me up. Right now, you’re just wet. I, however, am covered with five pounds of mud. If I touch you, I’ll ruin your clothes.”

  Gingerly, he stood, shaking his head to dislodge water and mud that had found its way into his ear, then followed her to the covered porch.

  Walking through the painted columns, they paused to catch their breath. Just being out of the driving rain felt like heaven.

  Her sodden skirts were nearly plastered to her legs, but because of his coat, her upper half was almost completely dry. Well, there was a mist of rain upon the flesh of her exposed bosom above her bodice. And a scattering of droplets upon her face. He watched as one ran over her cheek and dipped down to the corner of her mouth. He wondered if it was a rivulet of rain or a damn tear that he had caused.

  “I forgive you,” she said, breathlessly. “You’ve helped me in the past. But I still think you should have asked me instead of tricking me.”

  “I agree,” he said, just as breathlessly.

  Her eyes dipped to his mouth as he spoke, igniting a scorching heat in his blood.

  Surely, he was misjudging where her eyes were cast. Her spectacles were streaked with rain. He could be mistaken. He had to know.

  Slowly, he reached out, gently pulling them from her face. She did nothing to stop him. And damn if her sapphire gaze was yet fastened to his mouth.

  He swallowed hard. “Charlotte, are you all right?”

  She nodded. “I realize why you did it, but I’m…”

  “You’re what?” She needed to stop looking at his mouth.

  “I’m quite sure…”

  “Charlotte?” His heart thundered in his ears.

  “Hmm?”

  “I will replace your ruined dress,” he stated firmly.

  “But my-my dress isn’t ruined. It’s only rain.”

  “And mud.”

  “There isn’t any mud,” she pointed out, her brow quirking. “You’re the one covered—”

  One heavy hand at her waist, the other molded to the back of her head, he dragged her roughly against him. His starved mouth swooped down upon hers, smothering her next words with his kiss, changing her next syllable into a soft, feminine moan.

  His coat lay forgotten on the floor along with her spectacles.

  This kiss, this first kiss, was not subtle, soft or gentle. It was as if they were ravenous for each other. She opened so easily for him. He didn’t expect this reaction from her. Truly, he hadn’t expected to kiss her today. But as their mouths joined, their lips caressing, moving hungrily, steadily becoming more demanding, he wondered why he hadn’t done this sooner.

  “I could kiss you for hours,” he drawled hotly against her mouth. “Possibly for days.” It felt as if he was savoring heaven. Something Rothbury never thought he would ever even glimpse let alone taste.

  She responded to his words by grasping at the sodden material of his linen shirt, her arms trapped in between their chests.

  The feel of her lush mouth under him was intoxicating. She tasted sweet, wet, the rivulets of rain upon their faces making the kiss wilder, hotter somehow.

  His lips moved hotly over hers. He had thought about this moment for so long, and now that it was actually happening…it was better than he ever imagined it could be.

  She stumbled a bit, sinking further into him. Her hands now clutched at his shoulders, her fingers sinking into his muscles. Sweet Lord, she was kissing him back, a bit too eagerly, especially when the rhythm of his kiss slowed before picking up again. It was as if she was afraid that he was stopping.

  Over and over she met his movements, surprising him with her fervor, humbling him with her unexpected enthusiasm. For a second he had to ask himself, just who was kissing whom here?

  He broke the kiss for a moment, his lips a breath away from hers. They were both panting heavily.

  “Still think my kiss is rather mundane, Charlotte?”

  “Mun…what?”

  Hmm. Kissed her senseless. He could live with that.

  “Do it again,” she whispered, tilting her head, offering her mouth to him.

  Staring down at her swollen bottom lip, he gave it a little lick.

  A small, soft moan sounded from the back of her throat.

  “Ask nicely,” he whispered.

  “Please.” She gave a lock of hair at his neck an impatient tug.

  He came undone. Delving his tongue inside her sweet mouth, he walked her backward until her back met one of the pillars. With one hand cradling the back of her head for protection, his other hand held her hip immobilized, under his control. Rhythmically, he sank his tongue into her honeyed depths, mimicking the motion of making love.

  She whimpered, the sound a desperate plea. Her fingers threaded through the damp hair at the base of his neck; her other hand clutched at his forearm.

  He squeezed her hip, his long fingers digging into her soft bottom as he rocked her into his arousal.

  For several moments, she ground her hips against him as he plundered her mouth. The kiss was no longer enough. He wanted to take her. Right here, right now. His fingertips trailed down the back of her neck to caress her shoulder, her arm, her breast. His breath hitched when she pushed herself more firmly into his hand. She wanted his touch. He complied of course: he would never deny her. Gently he kneaded her through the fabric of her dress, purposely passing his thumb over the hardened tip. She made a small sound of pleasure that nearly pushed him over the edge.

  The manor, the rain, the mud disappeared. Reason and practicality were momentarily suspended. Nothing mattered in those moments. Nothing but the ever-escalating power of their passion.

  And then suddenly, everything seemed too quiet. The rain had stopped. The radiating warmth of sunlight spread along his back. Their movements stilled, their lips parted. The spell cast between them had broken.

  A rhythmic sloshing sound, imbedded somewhere in the distance, grew closer. Someone was coming.

  He set her apart from him just in time to spy Tristan rounding the far corner of the manor.

  “Who is it?” Charlotte asked.

  “Tristan.”

  “Did he…do you think he saw…”

  “Undoubtedly, part of it at least.” Truthfully, all he could have seen was when Rothbury set her apart of him. But she didn’t know that. And given what she wanted to accomplish today, that just might be all that Tristan needed to see.

  “Wh…why did you do that?” she asked, bringing up her hand to touch her fingertips to her lips.

  His gaze swung back to her. He was such a damned idiot. He should have never brought her here. But he was weak. Years of self-imposed restraint, months of being close to her, it had all come to a tipping point once she stared at his mouth quite like she wanted to kiss him. But the idea was preposterous. She considered him her friend. She thought she could turn him into a gentleman, and if anything, his behavior just now only drove the point home that she was wasting her time.

  Belatedly, he realized she wasn’t wearing her spectacles. That’s right. He had taken them off of her. They must have dropped. He scanned the ground.

  “Did you know he was there? Did you know he was coming? Was that why?”

  Hell, no, that wasn’t why. But he couldn’t tell her
why.

  No, she didn’t want him for a husband, he wasn’t good enough for her. But she sure as hell couldn’t deny her response to him. He should be relishing the moment, but all Rothbury could think right now was how much he wanted her heart.

  “Was that why you kissed me?” she asked through her teeth.

  He grasped the excuse Tristan’s presence presented. “That was your little plan, wasn’t it?” he bit out. “Got a little swept away, did you?”

  Bending down, he plucked her spectacles from just to the left of his mud-caked boot. For a second he mulled over the fact that there wasn’t a stitch of clothing on his person that wasn’t soaked with mud or rain. He couldn’t possibly clean them. But he needn’t worry about it much longer.

  Angrily, she snatched them from his hold.

  “Go inside,” Rothbury said, “before he gets any closer.”

  Telltale splotches of red bloomed on her neck and cheeks. He knew why. It always happened when she was embarrassed or feeling shy. Right now, he reckoned it was both.

  He met her gaze, giving her a lopsided grin. “I must say, you’re quite the good little actress. For a second there I believed you were enjoying yourself.”

  She took a deep angry breath, then exhaled, trying to gather her wits and pull herself back together.

  Halfway to them now, Tristan shouted in greeting, saying something about being holed up in the stables waiting for the rains to stop. Neither Charlotte nor Rothbury paid him any heed.

  Patches of mud were smeared all down the front of her dress, especially her skirts. Lines of mud from his fingers branded her neck, throat, and hair. How fitting, he thought morosely. He had sullied her with his touch, figuratively and literally.

  Rothbury opened the door for her, gesturing with his other hand for her to proceed inside.

  She did, but not before giving him a long, scathing glare.

  Chapter 13

  A Gentleman always finds room in his heart to pardon a tiny untruth, especially if it was conveyed by a well-intentioned friend.

  “Tell me, what are your plans for her?”

  “She’s a little sensitive and immature.”

  “Yes, but is she a winner?” Tristan asked. He nodded to the stable lad who brought out his saddled horse. “I’ve noticed she often overreacts to every move you make with her.”

  “You have to move slowly with her,” Rothbury suggested. “She’s just beginning to get into the routine.”

  “Perhaps she’s not ready and needs to mature naturally. You could be pushing her too hard.”

  Rothbury smoothed a hand over his jaw, staring across the field to where the three-year-old filly was currently being exercised. His mind was in another place. He hoped Tristan didn’t notice. “She’s ready. I believe she will only improve further from here.”

  “I don’t know. Can’t make up my mind.”

  “She’s in great condition,” Rothbury murmured. “Thought you wouldn’t want to pass her up. We’ve had other offers…”

  Tristan laughed. “If I didn’t know your blood was so blue, I’d say you’ve peddler’s blood flowing in your veins.”

  Rothbury scowled in mock offense. “A peddler’s fare is often inferior. My horses are some of the finest in all of England. Prinny purchased a marvelous two-year-old last month. I should demand an affair of honor after your careless remark.”

  The friendly banter came to an end, both men becoming quiet, both well aware of the friction sparking between them. They had been friends since Eton, having much the same interests and a similar disposition, though Tristan was admittedly more carefree and less willing to settle down—yet many women duly felt he was the safer choice between the two of them.

  They hardly ever shared a disagreeable word, each often guessing what the other was thinking before he said it, and had a long, happy history of drinking, gambling, hunting, and general carousing together.

  They had never fought over a woman. And Rothbury didn’t plan on starting now. Not that Charlotte wasn’t worth fighting for, it was just that Rothbury wanted her whole heart. Could she ever love him? Would she always harbor a secret adoration for Tristan?

  “My opinion is unwanted, I am sure,” Tristan finally said, “but I think you should tell her how you feel. You might be surprised by her response.”

  Riding crop twitching at his side, Rothbury swung his serious gaze to his friend. “I don’t think the little filly cares.”

  “You know whom I’m talking about.”

  Rothbury looked down, tightening his gloves. “I do. I’m her friend. And for that I am grateful. Men like me often do not have the opportunity to know a woman like Miss Greene.”

  Swinging up into his saddle, Tristan laughed. “Friend? Had I ‘friends’ who kissed me like that, I should never need a mistress.”

  Rothbury cleared his throat. Tristan might be his friend, but Rothbury hesitated telling too much. After all, he had no idea if Tristan was growing enamored of Charlotte. Hell, Tristan could be jealous for all he knew—could be the very reason he brought up the subject of Charlotte.

  “If I cannot have her,” he said tightly, with a coolness he did not feel, “then I will make sure, at least what is within my power to do so, that she does not enter into any union that she does not find completely agreeable.”

  “I see,” Tristan remarked, eyeing Rothbury with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Well, if I were you, I’d snatch her up before some fat, perfumed, loudmouthed deviant purchases her.”

  “And were I you,” Rothbury countered, swinging up into the saddle of his favorite black Arabian, “I’d cease comparing Miss Greene to a horse, before you find a riding crop up your arse.”

  “Thank you, Nadine,” Charlotte murmured to the maid who just finished redoing her coiffure into a loose bun, artfully arranging the curls.

  Seated on the cushioned stool before the dressing table, Charlotte waited until the plump-cheeked young girl left before allowing the small smile etched upon her face to crumble back into a frown. Bending over the dressing table, she groaned, dropping her forehead onto her folded hands.

  It was of no use. Try as she might, her mood would not change.

  She had asked to take a bath, thinking the sting of the hot water against her cool skin would banish the feel of Rothbury’s long, hard body pressed into hers.

  But it only made it worse. The heat only served to remind her of the melting sensations she felt when he had touched her, squeezed her, kissed her.

  Then, she had scrubbed her lips, hoping to banish the lingering feel of his lips moving hungrily over hers, but it only made her replay it in her mind. There could be no mistaking her enjoyment of the wicked act, she had thought, while gliding her wet fingertips over her mouth. Sweet Lord, hadn’t she asked him for more?

  And when she dressed, she had chosen a simple long-sleeved white muslin, its only decoration a pale pink ribbon of satin that banded the bottom of the skirt. Surely the primness of the day dress would dispel any erotic thoughts from her mind, wouldn’t it?

  However, all she kept thinking of when she looked down at herself were Rothbury’s strong hands smoothing over her shoulders, grabbing her bottom, dragging her hips forward to cradle his…

  She inhaled sharply, picking her head up to look at herself in the mirror. “Stop it, Charlotte. He must think you’re just like every other eyelash-fluttering, brazen Cyprian more than willing for his ravishment.”

  Roughly, she pinched color into her cheeks, willing the discomfort to discourage her sinful trail of thoughts.

  Here she sat, thinking, thinking, thinking. Reliving the moment over and over, and for what? No doubt Rothbury was off somewhere in the manor, sipping claret, playing billiards, out shooting up game, or whatever it was men did in the country, with not a single thought to what had happened between them today.

  Sure, she was somewhat satisfied that Tristan may have witnessed at least a little bit of Rothbury’s heated embrace. But getting kissed within an inch of
losing her virtue wasn’t exactly what she had in mind when she asked Rothbury to flirt with her.

  Lord, she hadn’t wanted him to stop. It was better than she had ever thought it could be. And her knees did buckle and the earth did feel like it shifted under her feet. It was wonderful. It was intoxicating.

  It was all a game to him.

  And he was so good at it, she thought with a groan.

  She should have never come here. She should have never imposed herself on Rothbury and bullied him into attending the Hawthorne Ball. How could they continue a friendship after something like this happened?

  Truly, it was not fair. It rankled her to the very marrow of her bones that she was so affected and he was not.

  In fact, it was probably just an everyday occurrence for him. Who knows, she might have been the second, third, or fourth woman he kissed today.

  And then he had the nerve to disparage her reactions. Telling her that she was a good little actress. He shook off the kiss like a wet canine shakes off rain, while she continued to shiver even now.

  She groaned in frustration.

  “Of all the arrogant, presumptuous…”

  “I believe you are talking about me.”

  “…perceptive.”

  “Ah, yes. I was correct. You are talking about me, after all.”

  “Rothbury,” she said tightly, catching his reflection in the mirror as he stood in the doorway. “What are you doing in my bedchamber?”

  “Funny how things turn about, isn’t it? It wasn’t too long ago that I was asking you the very same question.”

  She turned on her perch at the dressing table to face him fully. Her breath caught in her throat. She swallowed it painfully down.

  He looked achingly handsome. He wore an expertly cut black frock coat with tails over a butter-cream-colored shirt and matching waistcoat with small silver buttons. His cravat was simple today, falling in only a few folds, but complemented his slightly squared jaw, faint with gold bristles. Nankeen breeches hugged his long, lean-muscled thighs, his polished boots folded over at the knee. His strong, very capable hands were covered in leather and he carried with him a riding crop.