And now sweet Sophie was here. When it was clear that Molly would keep knocking until she was ordered to go away, Charlie flung off the pillow, sat up…and then the door opened.
“Charlie. Oh, my darling friend.” Sophie entered the room, her blue eyes soft with love and understanding. “Please say you’ll forgive me for the intrusion. But I just had to see you.” A shadow crossed her countenance, and her expression shifted into one of concern. “I…I have news.”
A frisson of panic rippled through Charlie. What else could possibly go wrong?
“What is it?” she asked. Rising from the bed, she took a step forward and brushed a tangled lock of hair out of her eyes. “Is everything all right with you and Nate and Thomas?”
“Yes, yes, we’re all perfectly well.” Sophie crossed the Aubusson rug and took both of Charlie’s hands in hers. “Nate and I are worried about you, of course. And I’m so angry that the Beau Monde Mirror has impugned you so maliciously. But the reason I’ve come is…” She drew a deep breath. “It’s about Max. He’s fine…”
Charlie frowned in confusion. “Why wouldn’t he be fine?” The alarm flickering inside her burst into flame. “What’s happened?”
Sophie squeezed her hands. “As I said, he’s fine, and I’m sorry that I’m not explaining this very well.” She glanced at the bedroom door to make sure it was closed, then drew Charlie over to the bed. “Let’s sit.”
“Now,” she continued, her expression still grave. “Earlier today, when Nate was at Gentleman Jackson’s, Max arrived, looking for Lord Rochfort. And yes, Nate and I now know what that wicked, contemptible man has done to you, Charlie. I can’t even begin to understand the pain you’ve endured.”
Charlie’s vision blurred with tears, but she dashed them away. She’d cried enough today. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I won’t lie. It hasn’t been easy these past few weeks, pretending everything is quite all right when it hasn’t been. The last thing I wanted was for Lord Rochfort to do the unthinkable and reveal my private, innermost thoughts to the papers for everyone to see. And I hate that he’s not only shamed me, but you, Nate, Father, and the rest of our family.”
Sophie gathered her into a warm hug. “Do not worry about the rest of us. It’s you who needs our support right now.” Drawing back, she studied Charlie’s face. “But I digress.”
“Yes, you were telling me about Max, and that he was looking for Lord Rochfort…” Charlie gasped. “Oh, my God. I’m almost too scared to ask what happened. Did Max find him?”
Sophie nodded. “Yes…and he challenged him to a duel right in the very middle of the boxing saloon, and Rochfort accepted. Pistols at Hampstead Heath at dusk. They’ve…” She winced. “They’ve already fought.”
“Oh…” Charlie was suddenly very glad she was sitting down. Incomprehension warred with wonder and a modicum of anger. “Oh…I cannot fathom… How…?” She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to organize her riotous thoughts and emotions. “Max shouldn’t have. What a completely noble yet entirely idiotic thing to do. If he’d been killed…because of me and my stupid list.” She pressed a hand to her stomach, not even wanting to contemplate such an outcome. “But you said Max is all right, didn’t you?”
“Yes, both he and Rochfort agreed that the duel would end when one of them could no longer stand. Max has a relatively minor injury. A bullet graze to his upper arm.”
Charlie inhaled a shaky breath. “And what of Rochfort?”
“Max’s bullet lodged in Lord Rochfort’s shoulder but didn’t hit anything vital according to the surgeon who attended him at the scene. Word is, he should recover. Although”—Sophie’s mouth twitched with a wry smile—“Nate suspects Rochfort’s pride might not.”
Charlie shivered as she recalled the murderous look the baron had shot her way and Max’s when they’d invaded his library two nights ago. Max might have attempted to defend the slight to her honor in the manner preferred by many a gentleman, but Rochfort didn’t seem like a man who let go of his personal grudges easily.
“I can’t believe Max took it upon himself to do this,” she whispered. “He…”
Oh, no. Charlie’s stomach pitched. “Word will get out about this too, won’t it? If Max challenged Lord Rochfort in the middle of Gentleman Jackson’s, the gossip will spread. Everyone will soon know that the Duke of Exmoor fought a duel to defend my honor. They’ll think he’s the mysterious duke of my…” She couldn’t say it.
Sophie winced. “I’m afraid so.”
Charlie sprang to her feet. “I must go to him. See him this minute.” Give him a piece of my mind for feeding the ton’s scandalmongers even more humiliating fodder. Try to convince him he’s not the duke of my— Gah! Even in her mind, she couldn’t bring herself to say it.
She raced about the room, looking for a shawl or a wrapper. Molly had dressed her in a pale blue gown earlier this morning, but she’d been curled up in bed for most of the day. The silk muslin was hideously rumpled, but right at this moment, she didn’t care.
She pulled a crimson cashmere shawl out of a drawer in her dressing room, and as she quickly thrust her feet into slippers, she called out to Sophie, “Did you come here in a carriage?”
“Yes, I did. And Nate is downstairs waiting for you. He thought you would want to visit Max when you heard all that had transpired.”
Charlie emerged, suddenly suspicious. “He did?”
“Yes.” Sophie held her gaze steadily. “He knows how much you esteem Max and thought you would want to see for yourself that he is, indeed, all right.”
“Oh. That’s very considerate of him.”
“Are you ready?”
Charlie dragged her hands through her unbound curls, her fingers catching in the snarls. “Yes,” she said. Her hair might be a bird’s nest, but she didn’t want to waste time calling for Molly to brush and arrange it. Not when the man she cared about had fought a duel for her, and in doing so, had inadvertently deepened her predicament. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 8
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”—Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice.
But what if that man is an inveterate rakehell…? This month, the Beau Monde Mirror will be giving our readers who are budding debutantes—or even perennial wallflowers who are perhaps beginning to wilt—tips to capture the eye, and perhaps the heart, of that most prized but often elusive creature—a monied ton bachelor.
The Beau Monde Mirror: The Essential Style & Etiquette Guide
Exmoor House, Grosvenor Square
The footman had barely let down the steps to Nate’s carriage before Charlie was scrambling out of it and racing up to the front door of Exmoor House.
Chiffley, the butler, opened his mouth to protest when she barged inside, but Charlie cut him short. “Where is he?” she demanded. Even if he was in his bedroom, she would demand admittance. After all, her reputation couldn’t get any worse.
“He’s, ah… Let me check…” Chiffley’s gaze darted away, but when Charlie took a step closer and pinned him with her most imperious look, he emitted a sigh of resignation. “He’s in the library, my lady.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure, my lady.”
Swift steps carried Charlie across the marble floor of the vestibule and down the hall leading to the library. Without bothering to knock, she pushed open the double doors and advanced into the room. “Max,” she began without preamble, “we need to talk. I appreciate what you did today, I truly do, but you promised me that you wouldn’t make the situation worse, and—” She broke off, stunned to silence as she finally registered the scene before her.
Max was standing by his desk, his back to the door, wearing nothing but buckskin breeches and top boots. A liveried servant, perhaps Max’s valet, hovered nearby with a cobalt-blue silk banyan draped over his arm, and another gentleman—middle-aged and well-dressed—was carefully wrapping a linen bandage ar
ound the duke’s bulging bicep.
“Lady Charlotte,” Max said, glancing over one impossibly broad shoulder. “May I introduce you to Mr. Havers, physician and a fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons here in London?”
“I, ah… Of course.” Charlie inclined her head as a burning blush marched across her cheeks. How she must look, barging in unannounced without a chaperone, dressed like a slattern. “Mr. Havers.”
But despite her embarrassment, her gaze immediately drifted back to Max and his lean, muscled, naked back. To his narrow hips and firmly rounded buttocks encased in that figure-hugging leather. He was… She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. He was too magnificent for words. Perfect. A veritable work of art. Indeed, he reminded her of one of the Elgin marble statues she’d seen at the British Museum. An ancient Greek god come to life.
The surgeon, Havers, put the finishing touches to the bandage, turned to face her, and bowed. “My lady.”
It was only then that Charlie noticed that the doctor’s fingers were slightly stained and that there was a pile of bloody linen—towels and washcloths, perhaps—upon the desk by a bowl and ewer. She reached for the back of a nearby wingback chair as the reality of what Max had done for her—what he’d risked for the sake of her already besmirched reputation—hit her full force. Her knees trembled and her chest felt far too tight. All the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room.
Max could have been killed. And all because of me and my silly list.
After Max declined Mr. Havers’s offer of Kendal’s Black Drop, a laudanum concoction to reduce the pain of his injury, he thanked the surgeon then bid him farewell. The manservant was dismissed too. After draping the banyan over the back of another chair when Max waved it away, the servant then collected the soiled linen and Max’s discarded coat, shirt, and waistcoat, which lay in a rumpled pile at his master’s feet.
As the double doors shut behind him, Max, still shirtless and apparently oblivious to his scandalous state of undress, crossed to the sideboard where his tray of spirits sat. “I’m having a cognac, Charlie. After the day I’ve had, I certainly need one. Would you care for one before we have our much-needed talk?”
“I…ah… Yes, thank you,” she murmured as heat scorched her cheeks yet again. She really did need a slug of something strong to restore her equilibrium.
Inwardly admonishing herself for behaving like an incoherent, blushing ninnyhammer, she joined Max. Which was a mistake. A sideways glance sent her pulse racing, and another wave of breathlessness assailed her. Max’s naked front was even more entrancing than his back. Before she looked away, she had a fleeting impression of swelling chest muscles, a scattering of light brown hair, tightly bronzed nipples like ha’pennies, a ridged torso, and another tantalizing trail of hair descending into the waistband of his breeches.
Good Lord. Somehow, Charlie dragged in a much-needed breath and gathered her wayward thoughts. “But before I partake in a tipple—and berate you for allowing your misplaced sense of chivalry to cloud your judgment—I must ask if I can take a look at your arm.”
Max frowned down at her. “Whatever for? The wound is quite superficial, all things considered. And Havers has an excellent reputation.”
“I’m sure he does. And yes, Nate and Sophie told me it was only a graze. But did Mr. Havers apply alcohol to the wound before he bandaged it? Something strong like whisky or brandy?”
Max scowled as he dispensed a decent measure of his cognac into two crystal tumblers. “What? No. Why would anyone waste good alcohol on treating a wound?”
Charlie lifted her chin. “Arabella once told me that doing so helps prevent purulence. Her grandfather, also an esteemed physician, used to recommend such a practice. Arabella doesn’t know why it works exactly, but she assures me that it does. I’d hate to think what would happen if infection set in.”
She caught his gaze and gave him a reproving look as she added, “It’s either that or I can apply a hot poker, Your Grace. Apparently, that works too. Your choice.”
Max grunted. “All right, then. Brandy it is. But not cognac. I’m not wasting that.”
Charlie discarded her shawl on the way to the desk to retrieve a clean cloth. When she returned to Max’s side, he’d already removed Mr. Havers’s bandage.
She winced as she took in the sight of the stitched graze. It looked angry and red and puckered, and rather than a neat straight line, it was jagged. “You’ll have a decent scar,” she remarked as she reached for the bottle of brandy, uncorked it, then poured some onto the folded linen washcloth. “And describing it as a superficial wound seems like a gross understatement. Rochfort’s bullet seems to have taken quite a piece out of you.”
“Yes...” Max glanced down and examined it. Screwing up his nose, he added, “All right, it’s a sizable graze. But it will mend.” He caught Charlie’s gaze. “Shall we get this over with, Dr. Hastings?”
She laughed at that. “Are you ready?” she asked as she gripped his bare shoulder—to steady both herself and him—before lifting the soaked cloth. “I suspect this will sting a bit.”
Max nodded. “Go ahead.”
When Charlie applied the poultice to the stitched wound with a firm hand, he winced and let fly a string of such strong curses, Charlie was mightily impressed.
“Don’t be such a baby,” she chided gently when he’d run out of invectives and perhaps breath. “Anyone would think I’d just cut your arm off.”
“You’re accusing me of being—” He broke off, shaking his head, clearly incredulous. “Lady Charlotte, you are a wicked she-devil sent straight from hell to torment me, aren’t you?”
She couldn’t help but laugh as she ended his torture and removed the cloth. “Perhaps. You have the wicked part right, at any rate. At least that’s what most of society will believe after today.”
“Yes.” Max offered her one of the tumblers of cognac. “About that...”
“The time for talking has arrived?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.
Max’s deep blue gaze was steady. “Yes.”
Charlie took a fortifying sip of her cognac. “First, let me restore your bandage, then we’ll retire to the fireside. Oh”—she nodded in the direction of his banyan— “might I also suggest that you put on more clothes, Your Grace? I wouldn’t want you to catch your death of cold.”
“Well, if you invade my bachelor’s sanctum without invitation, you must take me as you find me, my lady. And consider yourself lucky that I wasn’t wearing less. Because that’s been known to happen on occasion.”
“Wearing less? In the library?” Charlie shook her head as she gathered up the discarded bandage and began to unravel the knots. “I just think you’re a terrible tease and trying your hardest to set me to the blush, Your Grace.”
“Perhaps. But I don’t think I’m the only one in this room who isn’t dressed appropriately,” said Max dryly as Charlie began to wind the untangled strip of linen around his arm again.
Charlie wrinkled her nose. “All right, I’ll concede I came here in a rush and my hair is a mess. There’s no need to rub salt into the not-insubstantial wound of my embarrassment.”
Max’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “It’s not really your hair that’s the issue. The just-tumbled-out of-bed look suits you. It’s your shoes.”
“My shoes?” Charlie glanced down. Oh, no.
In her hurry to get dressed, she’d put on mismatching slippers that didn’t go with her blue gown at all. One pale lemon toe in satin and one in buff-brown leather peeked out from beneath her skirts.
“Well,” she said stiffly as she tied off the ends of the bandage. “At least I’m wearing enough. And might I add, it’s not particularly gentlemanly of you to point out my fashion faux pas? Or to make mention of my ‘bed hair’. Or your apparent habit of parading about your library sans clothes.”
“Lady Charlotte. When have I ever laid claim to being a gentleman all of the time? That would be far too much effort for a scoundrel like me.”
<
br /> “Hmph. I suppose you have a point,” she said, picking up her cognac and retreating to the fireside. “Just as I cannot really lay claim to being a true lady all of the time, despite my honorific title.”
She chose a leather wingback chair and nursed her cognac between her hands. But as Max took the seat next to her, she frowned.
“What?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I put my banyan on.”
He had indeed. The contours of his wide, well-muscled shoulders were highlighted to perfection by the fall of the rich blue silk. Even though he’d secured the robe loosely about his hips with a gold tie, it sagged open, revealing far too much of his chest and long, lean torso.
But that’s not why she was frowning.
“The right side of your face is bruised. Terribly bruised,” she said. The crest of his cheek was swollen and empurpled. She supposed she hadn’t noticed it before because he’d had his back to her when she’d first arrived, then she’d been standing to his left at the sideboard. And well, he’d been half-naked. And she’d been tending to his wounded arm.
Max touched his fingertips to his cheekbone and winced. “Yes. I’d almost forgotten about it. It’s nothing, though.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing to me. How did you come by it?”
Max waved his cognac in the air. “I might have sparred a bit at Gentleman Jackson’s earlier this afternoon.”
Charlie snorted. “Sparring? Is that a new euphemism for trading blows with Lord Rochfort?”
Max sighed. “Let’s just call it another instance of chivalry run amuck. In any case, it hardly signifies now.”
“Well, I hope you landed a good punch or two on Rochfort’s person.”
Max’s mouth kicked into a grin. “I may have.”
“Excellent,” Charlie said. “While I’m still miffed with you for endangering your life to defend my already dubious honor, I’m also grateful that you cared enough to do so. According to Nate, Rochfort took a bullet in the shoulder.” Charlie’s frown deepened. “Speaking of Nate…where is he?”
How to Catch a Devilish Duke: The Disreputable Debutantes Page 10
