To Wed a Wicked Earl (2 page)

The air thrummed with loosely contained anticipation. Men rushed to place last-minute wagers on who the young lord would pick, and mothers and guardians of the chosen women prayed it would be their charge singled out for the esteemed betrothal to a member of the ducal family.

Behind Rothbury, the familiar twittering of feminine whispers broke through his musings. He threw them a glance over his shoulder and each one flushed pink and broke into giggles.

“If they weren’t so terrified you’d ravish them, you could have your pick from the lot, I’d wager.” Pickering chortled.

“There is only one I want.”

As if on cue, Lady Rosalind Devine skirted past him without sparing him a glance.

“You mean the one you want right now, or the one you want only because she is denied to you?”

“Perhaps,” Rothbury muttered with a shrug. “Though I see little difference between the two.”

As was his habit, he let Pickering believe they were speaking of Lady Rosalind.

Over the course of his life, and especially for the past six years, Rothbury had honed his skills at hiding his true feelings, which of course came in handy at the card tables. It was amazing what people could be led to believe if given (or not given) all of the facts. He considered himself a private person and detested society gossip and speculation. So he turned a jaundiced eye to their wagging tongues, often working hard to steer them onto the wrong path should they begin to dig close to the truth.

He had no desire to enlighten them. Let them believe what they will.

Pausing while reaching for another sweet, Pickering shot him a disbelieving look, then burst out with a bark of laughter. “Well, there is that. You do love the thrill of the chase. More so than the winning, I’d wager. All things considered, then, can’t say I blame the duke for forbidding his sister to accept your suit. I’d do the same myself should I have a sister.”

He cleared his throat when Rothbury’s narrowed eyes homed in on him. “It’s the truth,” he sputtered in defense. “The Rothburys are a fiendish lot. Have been for decades, as you well know. Lord knows once you tire of her, you’ll send her on her way. She’s exquisite, for sure, but clearly not interested in you. 
If
 she wanted anything at all to do with you, she’d ignore her brother’s restrictions and find some way to be near you. As it stands, she hasn’t even looked at you once this—”

“Pickering?”

“Yes?”

“Just eat your sweets.”

Across the room, a footman handed Tristan a bouquet of roses. Excitement leaped through the crowd, for Tristan was to present the bloodred hothouse blooms to the one woman he’d chosen.

“Do tell, old boy!” Pickering urged, their attention brought back to the event unfolding across the room. “You are good friends with the bloke. Who do you think he’ll choose?”

“He’ll pick the Beauchamp girl,” Rothbury said simply, though his gaze fastened once again on a trembling Miss Greene.

Poor little lamb. Her heart and gullible aspirations were about to be crushed. Timid creature never had a chance.

“Deuce take it,” Pickering exclaimed, tossing his hands in the air. “You knew days ago who Tristan would pick, didn’t you?”

He gave a distracted nod, though Tristan had never disclosed his choice to him; Rothbury had figured it out by simple observation.

“Bah! Serves me right, I guess. With your luck at Newmarket, I should have realized you knew how to pick a winning filly.” He plucked a sugared biscuit from the table and turned to leave, muttering under his breath.

As Pickering tottered off, nursing his spoiled bet with sweets, a hush spread across the crowded ballroom. Stealthily, Rothbury moved through the wedged guests in order to keep his gaze fastened on the top of the room. He watched Tristan saunter down the line of women, hesitating before Charlotte.

Guilt teetered on the edge of his mind as Rothbury watched her pale skin blot with nervous red splotches. But try as he might, he could not turn away.

Why did he feel compelled to await her reaction? Was it true? 
Was
 heartlessness hopelessly entangled in the threads of his soul? What was he hoping to see in her eyes? Hurt? Pain? Rejection?

Relief.
 A small voice whispered from the depths of his thoughts.

He should turn and leave, the event of the Season finally at its end. None of this mattered to him.

At that moment the crowd seemed to lean forward in expectancy, blocking Rothbury’s view.

“Damn,” he muttered in initial frustration. No matter, he told himself, redirecting his thoughts. He knew the end result. Miss Beauchamp would win and the other ladies would turn into instant watering pots. He shuddered at the thought. Tears always left him cold.

It was time he left. He lifted a glass of wine from the tray of a passing footman and swiftly tossed the contents back. Finished, he made for the door, but packed near shoulder-to-shoulder as they were, traversing the ballroom was a lengthy process.

A short minute later there came polite gasps of delight from some guests and insulted shudders of masked outrage from others. It seemed the most anticipated event of the Season was finally over. Tristan had chosen his betrothed. The orchestra broke into a lively waltz where the newly—and very publicly engaged—couple would open the dance.

The anticipated denouement now over, the guests quickly swept back into motion. Rothbury strode across the parquet floor and was glad to see the crowd thinned as others now joined the dance.

Just before he would have made it to the hall leading to the guest wing, he dared a glance over his shoulder at the line of jilted women. Instead of finding a bunch of women caterwauling like a nursery full of babes, they had all disappeared into the waltz with dance partners now happily obliged to ease their transition back into the marriage mart.

All but one.

Miss Greene stood alone, wringing her gloved hands together, her face inflamed with a scorching blush.

Surely, someone would claim her for the dance. They had all been handpicked by a duke. They were all highly suitable, eligible young women, and…Why the hell should he care if Miss Greene stood alone while the others danced?

No. Her partner was coming. Certainly some gentleman—a group in which Rothbury was not included—would dance with her, alleviating the pain of rejection.

He took two steps, his ankles feeling as if weighted with chains.

“Ah, hell,” he muttered. His restraint gone, he turned back around…and almost slammed into her.

Or rather, 
she
 was seconds away from bumping into 
him.
 Hurriedly backing her way out of the room, Miss Greene came at him with surprising speed.

His breath hitched as her backside brushed against his thighs. “Oh!” She spun around, nearly whacking her forehead on his jaw when she looked up. “Lord Rothbury! I didn’t know you were there.”

“As you do not have eyes on the back of your head, I wager you would not.” By design, he gave her a slow, wolfish grin, expecting her to react like most virtuous females did: break into a giggle and flounce away.

She only blinked up at him.

But then again, he didn’t really know how bad her vision was. There was a chance his face was just a blur to her. Besides, she seemed to be busy muttering something under her breath. It sounded like a chant of 
I-will
-not-
cry-I-will
-not-
cry-I-will
-not-
cry.

And that’s when it happened. Twin, fat tears, dislodged from the tips of her lashes, no doubt from all her furious blinking, raced over her cheeks and splashed onto his dark green waistcoat.

He stared down at those small damp splotches. And while he did, his stomach clenched. 
What the hell was wrong with him?

His gaze darted to her face. She was taking deep, gasping breaths, her teary eyes growing wider, he guessed to keep any more tears from falling.

The crestfallen look on her face left him feeling as if she had sucked the air straight out of him. How absurd. It wasn’t as if 
he
 was the one who broke her heart. Furthermore, he hadn’t a conscience even if he 
had
 been the one. He was debauched. His lifestyle was decadent, overflowing with good wine, questionable pursuits, and plenty of feisty, beautiful women. Women he walked away from with ease when they became possessive or his attention waned. After all, he was a man of varied carnal delights. And damn proud of it too.

But this…this felt different. Despite Miss Greene’s being known for her timidity, Rothbury had always observed that she was one to be quick with a smile—even when she was left standing in the corner watching while all her friends danced.

Right now, however, he reckoned she couldn’t summon a smile if he offered to pay her for one. But then even he knew that of all the potential brides present this evening, Miss Greene was the only woman who sincerely liked Tristan. Hell, even Tristan 
himself
 knew that.

At his continued silence, she looked down, her cheeks growing redder by the second. Good God, she wasn’t going to swoon, was she?

“May I ask where you were dashing off to, Miss Greene?”

Delicately, she cleared her throat. “I needed to get a bit of fresh air.”

“Leave, you mean?”

She answered with a nearly imperceptible nod.

“Whatever for? Because Tristan didn’t choose you?”

When she didn’t answer, he tilted her chin up. A tear had settled at the corner of her mouth. In his mind’s eye, he used his thumb to gently wipe the moisture. Such a telling action would certainly give him away, not to mention supply the hundred or so guests swarming around them into a feeding frenzy of gossip and speculation, so he held back. But as he continued to gaze down into her fathomless blue eyes, he felt himself losing purchase, slipping deeper.

Her bottom lip started to tremble and she made a tiny, heart-breaking squeak of a sound.

“Shhhhh,” he said in a whisper of air, sounding, even to his own ears, like a wolf comforting a lamb right before he devoured her. He rushed to think of what to say before she sobbed uncontrollably. “Did your dance partner wrench his ankle?”

“Pardon?”

“Your partner? I could not help but notice that you are not engaged in the last waltz of the evening.”

“I haven’t a partner,” she said softly. “I was not asked.”

“Oh. Right, then. Would you do me the honor?” He took a step back, holding up his bent arm.

Someone should mark this day down in history. He was doing something nice and the truth of the matter was, he very likely wouldn’t be gaining a bloody thing from sacrificing his time.

She sighed loudly, taking his arm with a shrug.

“Not quite the enthusiasm I was hoping for,” he drawled, holding back a chuckle as he walked her toward the swirling couples.

“Oh. I’m terribly sorry,” she said on another sigh as he swept her easily into the twirling steps of the dance. “I’m just not having a good day.”

“No need to apologize.” She felt so delicate in his arms, like he was dancing with air. In reaction to the sensation, he tightened his grip at her waist, else the next turn shoot her straight into the wall.

“It’s just that…” she continued, clearly oblivious to his worry. “It’s just that I liked him for so long. Since I was…well, for a rather long time.” She cleared her throat. “Did you know that once, when our carriage overturned in the market, he pulled my mother and I from the wreckage? He even tended to our driver and calmed our horse.”

“Heroic.”

“Quite. I thought for sure that this was fate—being chosen to attend this ball.” She sighed. “And then today he…he 
winked.”

“Winked?”

“Yes. 
Winked.”

“Well, then, there you have it. For everyone knows what a 
wink
 means.”

She blinked. “What does it mean?”

“I have no bloody clue. You seemed so certain it meant something, I thought I should agree.”

With masked delight he watched a glimmer of humor sparkle in her gaze, but it was soon gone, replaced by glum acceptance. “I guess it really doesn’t matter now, does it? But still, I tried so hard to be what he wanted.”

“And how do you presume to know what he wanted? Did you make a list?” He gave a low chuckle.

“Yes. Yes, I did. I knew all of his favorite things. His likes, his dislikes—”

Ridiculous. He had nothing to say to that, other than her actions bespoke a schoolgirl’s infatuation. But then that sort of adoration often faded quickly, and Miss Greene had been quite tenacious in her esteem for Tristan over the years.

“And I…” She swallowed hard, quite like she was still concentrating on not crying.

He swirled her faster.

“…and I thought he liked me. He alluded many times…”

“I can only guess he was toying with you,” he said sharply.

He couldn’t help it. Friend or not, Tristan’s actions of the past fortnight reeked of immaturity, a certain lack of diplomacy, if you will. Besides Rothbury knew the ways of wicked men, he 
was
one, only until now he had never remained long enough to bear witness to the pain and the anguish of the rejected woman.