To Wed a Wicked Earl (24 page)

She turned the corner, spying the library door, which was open a crack. Quietly, she slipped inside. It was an odd-shaped room, quite like a giant letter 
H.
 Books lined the walls along the longest sides, each aisle ending with a window seat. A small fire crackled in the grate in the wide center; a deep blue settee crouched before it, a white blanket folded over the back.

Holding her lamp aloft, she perused Rothbury’s stock of books. Taking her time, she read the titles, her fingertips gliding down the leather spines. Pleased to find one of her favorites, 
Sense and Sensibility,
 Charlotte padded over to the settee and sank onto it with a contented sigh, placing the lamp onto a nearby table.

After about an hour she became chilled and told herself that she ought to leave. Rothbury might not return until morning. But she was just so comfortable. Bringing up her legs, she covered herself with the blanket and sank further into the plush settee.

Her mind could not concentrate on the beautifully woven words of the book, for she wanted nothing more at that moment than for Rothbury to stride through the library door and kiss her senseless again.

With that thought, she snuggled into the cushions, indulging herself in her sinful daydreams.

A scarce three minutes later she was fast asleep.

There was a small bear in his library.

Returning from the village and the horse-breeding farm, Rothbury froze in the act of shrugging off his frock coat as soon as he heard something akin to a snort. 
Just what exactly was that sound?

He strained to hear. A minute ticked by on the long case clock on the landing above. Nothing.

Hmm. Well, whatever it was, he must have imagined it.

“Must be tired,” he muttered, placing his coat on a chair in the hall, then adding his cravat and waistcoat to the neat pile.

He’d have a drink in his study and then head up to bed.

He froze. There it was again. Was that a snore coming from his library? Choosing to investigate, he crossed the hall, stepping inside the shadowed room.

Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he moved deeper inside, following the soft snoring sound. If his butler hadn’t answered the door a second ago, he’d have thought Norton was sleeping in here. But if it wasn’t Norton, who…

He smelled the lemons a second before he saw her. Curled up on his settee, an open book facedown on her chest, her glasses askew, lounged Charlotte.

His hand still on the doorknob, he pulled the door to the library shut behind him and then locked it, not wanting anyone to disturb this moment. She looked like a slumbering angel.

Crossing over to her, he gently removed the book and glasses, setting them down on a small nearby table where a long-extinguished lamp sat. He should go, his conscience shouted. This was too much of a temptation.

The floor creaked under his feet and her gentle snores ceased. He held perfectly still, relaxing only when he was sure she wouldn’t waken.

Dropping to his knees before her, he reached out a hand to touch her cheek, but stopped himself before he could caress her downy skin. He pulled back as if burned. Would he dare?

Perhaps he could manage to refrain from the danger of touching her with his hands, but certainly there was no harm in raking her with his gaze.

His eyes slid over her sleeping form instead, taking in the turn of her hip, the gentle slope of her neck, the achingly luscious swell of her breasts peeking above the square neckline of her light blue dinner gown. She wore tiny pearl earrings that matched the pearl-tipped pins arranged in her hair. At once he regretted having to leave the manor today. How many other times would she be at Aubry Hall? How many other times would he be able to spend an entire day with her?

Sitting back on his haunches, he watched her sleep a few moments longer. After several moments, he moved to pull her blanket up to her chin. As he did so, the backs of his fingers brushed the tops of her hands. She was chilled.

“Blasted idiot,” he muttered at himself. He’d been so engrossed with watching her sleep, he hadn’t even noticed the fire had nearly gone out. Pivoting on his heels, he worked on building a fire. Soon, it roared with new life, heating the area before the hearth immediately.

“Hullo,” came a husky feminine voice from behind him. She poked him in the back when he didn’t immediately twist to face her.

He turned to her, his lips tight and flattened together as he struggled with the budding spark of lust that instantly ignited at the sound of her voice.

“I’m sorry. I was just so tired and this really is a cozy room.” She yawned.

“You needn’t apologize, Charlotte. You are welcome in any room in this house.” He sighed, rubbing his temples, suddenly feeling overly tired. “I apologize for not being here for dinner. After I helped the McNeillys, I was needed at the horse-breeding farm. A mare became spooked by an overly excited stallion and injured herself.

“How is she?”

“Calm,” he said, quietly. “Mended and resting.” He inched closer to her, still on his knees.

“And the barn?”

“Complete.”

“It was very nice of you to help them.”

“It is partly my responsibility. And with Jake’s son at sea, he’s short a hand…”

“Do you know what I think?” she asked, rearranging the blanket to wear around her shoulders like a shawl.

“Not this again.”

“I think there’s more to you than you let people believe. I think you actually do care what people think. Oh sure, it’s fun having everyone think you’re dangerous and cold, but inside, where it matters, you’re just warm pudding.”

“Warm pudding?”

“Quite,” she uttered confidently, with a firm nod.

The things that came out of that woman’s mouth never failed to astound him. “Well, I’m going to…to leave now,” he said slowly, as if he thought her the strangest creature on earth—just to tease her. When she laughed at herself, he smiled and muttered, “Good night, my sweet Charlotte.” Fists on the edge of the couch, he made to push himself up.

“Wait,” she said. And he froze.

Slowly, she sat up more fully, swinging her legs down. Which put her knees between his planted fists.

He couldn’t help but give a low chuckle. “Charlotte, if I didn’t know you better, I would venture to say that you are deliberately tempting me.”

“Tempting you to what?” she asked, her tone utterly oblivious.

He had had enough. “Remember that little problem I forewarned you about? The one about a man and a woman never being able to become friends because lust gets in the way? That eventually, one or both of us would end up wanting something very intimate from the other?”

She nodded jerkily.

“Well, I’m there. I’ve been there. For years.”

And with that wicked declaration hanging between them, he arose, then strode out the door.

Chapter 15

A Gentleman never underestimates a Lady, no matter her age.

A
fter breakfast the following day, they all piled into the carriage and headed for the haunted forest. Rothbury led the way on his glossy black stallion, Petruchio. He had spoken not a single word to her since last night in the library, hadn’t even looked at her. Conversely, Charlotte couldn’t seem to stop looking at him, studying him as if he were some new species of animal.

She had believed for so long that he had no interest in her, that he had thought of her only as a friend. Her world tilted.

They travelled for almost an hour, passing a broken section of an ancient crumbling wall. Finally, they stopped near a break in the veritable sea of pines. A path sliced between the trees, looking like it led deeply into the woods.

Alighting from the carriage, Louisette pointed to a stone bench situated next to a tumbledown building of some sort. After Charlotte helped her over to it, she shooed her away.

Stepping back, she took in the breathtaking scenery. They were in an emerald glen surrounded by a forest of tall pines. The path ahead must open to the “haunted” forest everyone kept speaking of. She thought nothing of it when Miss Drake linked arms with her mother, both of them atwitter as they clambered toward the path. She supposed if she wanted to, she could have followed behind. Perhaps she was supposed to do so, but she wasn’t in the mood for scaring herself needlessly.

With nothing to do but wait for them to return, Charlotte thought to go for a little walk herself. She needed to think.

Rothbury desired her. And had for years? Somehow she couldn’t quite believe it. And it seemed to make him angry. But why? And if he desired her so terribly, and had for so long, why had he not acted upon it? Why had he refrained from a seduction? It just didn’t make sense.

Grabbing her skirts to keep the hem from dragging in the mud as she rounded a puddle, she wondered, why her, of all the women he had pursued, conquered, rejected? Why did he hold himself back from her?

It wasn’t long before she heard footfalls. She turned to find Rothbury coming up behind her. Her heartbeat increased twofold. Wordlessly, they strolled through a field dotted with the long sprigs of cowslip and foxglove.

Rothbury was quiet, his mood contemplative. She looked at him a couple of times, but he never returned her gaze. Instead, he stared out at the flower-rich meadows toward a river that zigzagged through the grassland like a crack across a frozen pond.

“Did you fish there when you were a boy?” she asked.

He smiled tightly and nodded once. “Trout. Salmon too.”

“Really?”

He nodded curtly once again.

“Did your father teach you?”

He stiffened, ever so slightly. “No. My mother. She loved to fish. Well, she didn’t like baiting the hook, which is why I think she started taking me along with her in the first place, but she loved to be out here. We always had fun.”

“And did your father come along as well?” she asked tentatively, hoping she’d be able to keep prying him open, at least for a little while.

“Never. I never did those sorts of things with my father.”

“What did you do with you father?”

They came to a rocky outcrop, and he took her hand to help her around it.

“Oh, the usual. He took me to my first pub and got me drunk when I was a lad of nine, stole my allowance from me under the guise of showing me how to play cards, whipped me when I tried stealing it back, tried to drown me in a thinly disguised attempt to teach me to swim, introduced me to the concept of whor—”

“Are you jesting?”

“Not at all,” he said, a sad note in his voice.

Climbing the gently sloping hill now, he guided her along, her hand tucked within his.

“It sounds as if your mother was the only light in your days.”

“She was,” he said quietly.

“What happened?”

“She left. I was eight.”

Was that who Louisette was referring to when she asked if I would leave him?

Charlotte wanted to ask more questions, she wanted to know more, she wanted to grab him to her and squeeze him tight. His voice had sounded so desolate. But she held her tongue, resisting the urge to pry further.

Suddenly he turned to her, his whiskey eyes warming her from the inside out. He might desire her and she may desire him, and that should frighten her, she knew. But what scared her more was the fact that she could feel herself slipping.

It was colder up here and Charlotte trembled.

“You’re shivering,” Rothbury said, grabbing both of her hands now. Cupping his large hands around hers, he brought them to his mouth and blew air, hot and welcoming, into them. “Let’s return to the carriage. Your mother and Miss Drake will be returning soon, I imagine.”

“Just a little longer,” Charlotte murmured, casting her gaze along the wide, open, velvety expanse surrounding them. Here the grasslands seemed to go on for miles in either direction, except for the bit of dense forest behind them. It was a place she imagined one might go to clear their mind, be alone with their thoughts. Alone…

She spun around, looking down the hill to the stone bench where Louisette had been sitting. But she was gone.

“Rothbury! Your grandmother! Where has she gone?”

Together they raced down the hill. While Charlotte questioned the driver of the carriage, Rothbury mounted his horse in one swift motion.

“Stay here,” he ordered her, pulling on the reins as the beast snorted and pranced, feeling the impatience and agitation of its rider.

And then Rothbury was off, searching for Louisette.

Charlotte went off to look for her as well. After only a short while she found her, talking to an older gentleman with a Scottish accent standing by a small footbridge. They seemed to know each other and it wasn’t until Rothbury happened by that she realized that the older man was a priest. His name was Robert Armstrong and he lived in a small cottage just down the lane from the footbridge.

Rothbury was thankful that Louisette was found, but he gently admonished her about wandering away.