To Wed a Wicked Earl
Page 23
Rothbury,
I cannot do this any longer. My affection resides elsewhere and I must go to him now. Please do not try to contact me.
Charlotte
“What in the world? I didn’t write this.”
And then a slice of pain bloomed on the top of her head and all went black.
A loud thump woke Rothbury.
He sat up in bed with a start, his eyes alighting on the empty space next to him in bed.
“Charlotte.”
Rothbury knew instantly something was dreadfully wrong. Throwing off the covers, he leaped from the bed.
He dressed with haste, dashing down the hall, taking the stairs three at a time.
He didn’t know where she went to, or what that noise was, but a knot of dread tightened in his chest.
At the bottom of the stairs the nearly overwhelming aroma of roses assaulted his nostrils. He knew that smell.
Grabbing a brass candle holder as he passed the side table in the front hall, Rothbury took care that his footfalls went unheard.
He saw the sheet of paper as soon as he turned the corner. Sliding it closer to himself to take a look, he bent to retrieve it without taking his eyes from the dark hall before him.
He held it up, letting his gaze skim the words briefly.
Only for a second he felt as if his heart stopped. And then, he pushed the thought away.
The back door slammed shut. He raced toward the sound, catching a glimpse of two figures, one holding the other by the hair, her muffled cry seeping into his soul.
Charlotte.
He knew who had his wife in their cruel grip. He knew without a doubt.
Other than their collision in the hallway at the Hawthornes’ masquerade ball, Charlotte couldn’t think of a single occasion involving Lady Gilton that would warrant such violence.
But then, when one was being dragged by her hair down a dark alley, a letter opener at her throat, it was entirely possible that some imagined slight had slipped her mind.
“Little mousy bitch,” Lady Gilton said through her teeth. “Thought I would give him up so easily, did you?”
Abruptly, she paused, panting from the strain of pulling a resisting Charlotte along.
Charlotte stumbled, and as a result, the letter opener punctured her skin. She inhaled sharply at the pain.
“Damn it to hell! Got yourself nicked, did you? He’ll be disappointed. Wants you perfect and unsullied.”
“Who?”
“Witherby. Your new lover,” she said with a sickly sweet smile in her tone. “I’m to take you to him. Of course, he’ll be quite disappointed to know you’ve probably given yourself to my Rothbury before he could get to you.”
A sudden and powerful anger rose up in Charlotte. She twisted in her captor’s hold, freeing herself and kicking Lady Gilton in the stomach in the process.
Falling back against a brick wall, Lady Gilton snarled, holding the letter opener menacingly above her head. But just before she would have lunged at Charlotte, a pistol cocked from some place behind her.
Lady Gilton froze.
Charlotte spun around.
“Rothbury,” Lady Gilton whispered.
He shook his head. “What in the hell are you doing, Cordelia?”
“I’m…I’m helping her,” she rushed out, looking like a wild animal that had been cornered. “I’m taking her away. She doesn’t want to be with you…”
“And you do, I suppose.”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, if you’re trying to endear yourself to me, you’re failing.”
Cordelia gulped.
“You see, my dear,” he said, his eyes taking on a wicked gleam. “I don’t like my wife being manhandled.”
“Your wife?”
“Indeed.”
She looked at Charlotte then, her eyes large and hurt. “I love him,” Lady Gilton said suddenly. “So much, that I…I think I could kill you for him.” She looked down at her hands as if she had never seen them before. “What’s wrong with me?”
As she spoke, Rothbury moved closer and closer to Lady Gilton.
When he grabbed her arm, she didn’t even fight him.
“We’re going back to the house now,” he said, “I’m sending for your husband.”
“Oh, no. No, you mustn’t.” She shook her head. “I’ll go. I’ll go,” she said, her voice sounding hollow.
But in the end, he did discreetly send for her husband. And they discussed privately the possibly unstable state of Lady Gilton’s mind. Lord Gilton, having many affairs outside of marriage himself, knew his wife did the same, but was surprised to find his wife at Rothbury’s town house.
The pair left an hour later, Lady Gilton muttering to herself.
As soon as they left, Charlotte ran to Rothbury, hugging him tightly.
He held her close, pressing kisses in her hair.
She looked up at him. “You didn’t think it was I who wrote the letter, did you? You knew it wasn’t I?”
He gave her an unsteady nod. “Well, I…I hoped.”
“I love you,” she said. “I do. And I’m never going to leave you.”
He smiled, his own love shining in his eyes. “You’re not lying?”
“No, of course not.” And she suddenly remembered something. “I have lied to you, though.”
“I suppose we’re even. I have as well.”
“Well, not really. You misled me. But I have…well, I guess I have misled you as well.”
He raised a questioning brow.
“That night, when you came to my house and ended up in my bed. I heard you talking softly. It woke me. So I pretended to sleep.”
“Pretending to sleep? That’s how you misled me? Charlotte, that’s hardly worth bringing up.”
“Perhaps. Well, then, you might not be so surprised to know another little secret. I can understand French fluently.
Late the next day, Charlotte stretched like a lazy cat on her husband’s bed.
They had recently made love, for the third time that day, and her limbs felt gloriously heavy.
Could anyone die of happiness? she wondered, grinning.
News of their secret wedding had now reached London and the salver in the front hall held an avalanche of invitations. No doubt from all the biggest gossipmongers.
Rothbury had just stepped out into the hall, his solicitor needing him to look over some sort of letter.
The door swung open slowly. Charlotte, naked, sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest, a sudden alarm quickening the pace of her heart as she saw the look of shock on her husband’s face.
“What is it?”
He held up the letter. “It’s a note, Charlotte.”
“And…”
“From Father Armstrong. It seems, upon further investigation, the bridge we crossed was still on English soil. The Scottish village of Dirleton is about two miles down the lane.”
“Which means…”
“That I am truly a despoiler of innocents, and you, my dear, lovely woman, are not my wife. We are not married.”
A moment of silence filled the air as they both stared at each other.
And then they both laughed, great big soul-cleansing laughs.
Joining her on their bed, he continued to chuckle. Then the chuckling turned into kissing, soon changing into sighs of pleasure, then admissions of love, then plans of obtaining a secret license later in the day…
Epilogue
Aubry Park
August 1814
“In the presence of God and in front of all these witnesses, I, Adam Bastien Aubry Faramond, give myself to you, Charlotte Faye Greene, to be your husband and take you now to be my wife. I promise to love you, to be faithful and loyal to you, for as long as we live…”
“And in the beyond,” Charlotte mouthed for Rothbury’s eyes only.
“And in the beyond,” Rothbury softly repeated, to the delight of the wedding guests assembled on the south lawn.
Standing bef
ore the ironwork arbor, now heavy with ivy and honeysuckle blooms, he held up the ring his grandmother purchased from the blacksmith along with the one he purchased himself in Town—a sparkling sapphire between diamonds.
“I give you this ring in God’s name, as a symbol of my promise, and all that we share,” he said, letting the power of the love he felt for his wife sparkle in his eyes just as brightly and as precious as the stones of the ring dazzling in the sunlight.
“In the presence of God and all these witnesses, I…”
In a chair off to the side of the couple sat a very smug-looking Louisette, who turned to her companion, Miss Drake, and muttered, in perfect English, “See. I told you I would get that boy to the altar eventually. All I had to do was pretend I was a loon.”
Acknowledgments
My love and gratitude to my entire family, including Diane next door, and to my friends of the NEORWA, and anyone else who listened with even half an ear to all my fears, doubts, and marathon babbling sessions.
About the Author
At eight years old, OLIVIA PARKER wrote her first romance with a fat red marker. It made one’s eyes hurt to read it, but it did have a tortured hero. Since then, she’s dedicated her efforts to improving her craft (now using pencils) and divides her time among her love of writing, reading, and relaxing with her family. She currently resides in northern Ohio with her husband, three children, a border collie, and a cockatiel, who eats a worrisome amount of popcorn. Olivia would love to hear from readers, who may contact her through her website at www.oliviaparker.net.
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Romances by Olivia Parker
TO WED A WICKED EARL
AT THE BRIDE HUNT BALL
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
TO WED A WICKED EARL. Copyright © 2009 by Tracy Ann Parker. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Digital Edition July 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-190531-5
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