Chapter 13
“Lord Wrotham, my lady.”
Nash frowned briefly, then recalled himself. So unfortunate that Fisk’s die-away voice managed to make his name sound dour. He set his face into more pleasant lines and sauntered into the well-appointed drawing room at Lyttlefield Park several hours after their tour of the village. He moved directly to his hostess, who looked ravishing in a pink silk gown, the very first stare of fashion. Had she worn it to impress someone, perhaps?
“Good evening, my lady.” He bowed, then lifted her hand for a chaste kiss.
“Good evening, my lord. You are well after your exertions this afternoon?” The minx grinned at him unabashed, alluding no doubt to the hour-long trek down the stairs of the clock tower. She had insisted on taking the staircase one step at a time, her arm plastered around his waist in a death grip.
His ribs ached this very moment from it.
“Indeed I am in fine fettle, my lady. I trust you have suffered no ill effects from your little adventure in the tower?” She seemed in excellent health, cheeks a pretty pink, eyes sparkling. Dare he hope some of her cheerfulness this evening meant a change of heart toward him? Had he indeed made inroads in her opinion of him?
“None at all. In fact, I seem to have gained a grand energy from that brush with danger.” Her eyes laughed at him; the danger had nothing to do with the clock tower and still lurked between them.
“I am pleased to hear it. Would you care to take a turn about the room?” He glanced around, immediately noting everyone’s position in the room. A strategy that had served him well more than once before. “I would like to hear your impressions of the village, now that you have had time to reflect and are once again on solid ground.”
She nodded her agreement, and Nash offered his arm, hope rising in his heart. One hesitant look from her, then she placed her arm through his and they began to stroll around the drawing room.
“Did you think I would bite, Lady Cavendish?” He loved to tease her. She rose so excellently to the bait.
“Not at all, my lord. Though you have teeth, I’ll warrant it.” She looked straight ahead as they approached the French windows that led out onto the veranda.
“The better to eat you with,” he murmured.
“Highly unlikely,” she returned, not missing a step. Her mettle truly set her apart from the other women of his acquaintance. He chuckled and tucked her arm more securely in his.
“So other than your unfortunate fear of heights, did you enjoy your first real visit to Wrotham Village?”
“I did.” She gave him a slight smile. “I am looking forward to the services in the morning. It is a beautiful church.”
“Even more so when it is decked out with all the trimmings at Christmas or with dozens of flowers for a wedding.”
She cut her eyes toward him and sniffed. “I am sure it is lovely at all times, my lord.” Her voice, so recently warm with the memory of the afternoon, now echoed with the coolness of an autumn night. “Perhaps you would like to make up a table for cards with some of the other guests? We were about to sit down when you arrived.” She gestured toward Lord Brack, flanked as usual by his sister and Mrs. Easton.
What had put her off him this time? The woman was changeable as the March wind. He sighed but nodded. “I would indeed, Lady Cavendish. The company here is so pleasant.”
She managed half a smile before striding off. A moment later, she joined Lady John, Sinclair, and Fernley, laughing at some jest the latter gentleman made upon her arrival.
Nash clenched his jaw, then forced himself to relax. The woman had no intention of changing her mind about marriage. Still, he had some time. He’d simply have to continue to charm her and wear her down.
Putting on a more amiable countenance, he strode over to Brack, paying his respects to the two ladies as well. The suggestion of a game of whist brought smiles of agreement to the ladies and Brack good-naturedly consented as well, although Nash suspected he’d have preferred something a bit more challenging. They settled to play, Elizabeth partnering Brack and Georgina across from him.
“We will trounce them soundly, will we not, Lord Wrotham?” Georgie giggled as she shuffled the cards and placed them at Elizabeth’s elbow. “I know all of Jemmy’s best tricks.”
Nash couldn’t help but smile. She seemed to have shed her shyness and found a new confidence literally overnight. As he shuffled the cards and began the deal, he flicked glances at her fresh face. Bran-faced of course—that went with her red hair—but they were a charming dusting over the bridge of her nose. Her cheeks were pink with excitement, her green-eyed gaze darting from him to her brother. The green taffeta gown, checked in light and dark green, was fashionable, if a little worn. It suited her youth, even as the low-cut bodice revealed her womanly attributes.
An engaging little thing. He finished the deal and picked up his cards. As he arranged his hand, the thought that Lady Georgina would be a very suitable candidate for his countess did more than cross his mind. They seemed to get on well together, her youth suggested she might be more compliant than an older woman, and her family connections were impeccable. There would have been many advantages to paying Lady Georgina his addresses had he not been under the earl’s edict.
Laughter from the other table, where Charlotte sat partnered with Fernley, jolted him out of his speculations. Damn the woman. He shot a glance at her, irked at the way she leaned over the table for an intimate word with her partner. And cursed himself for a fool. Why did he constantly follow her movements? He might just as well ask why the sun shone in the morning. As he turned back to the play at his table, he heaved a mental sigh.
Another long night ahead of him.
* * *
Charlotte laughed and shamelessly leaned over the cards toward Lord Fernley, aware as always of Lord Wrotham’s attention on her. Well, this time she wanted his focus trained on her. She planned to show him for the last time that she had no intention of accepting his offer. To that end, she deliberately flirted with Fernley. If she could make the earl believe she had designs on another, perhaps he would cease dropping his hints about marriage.
He already suspected her of carrying on an affair with Mr. Garrett. So much the better. Surely if he thought her a scandalous wanton, giving her favors to a number of men, he wouldn’t want to marry her. He might, however, consider her as a possible dalliance. The best of both worlds, as far as she was concerned. After their encounter in the library, she had dreamed more than once of a tryst with Lord Wrotham. His kisses had urged her to be shameless with him and she was more than willing to comply. Judging by his manner with her last night, he undoubtedly knew how to pleasure a woman. Their glorious conclusion would be glorious indeed. If only he would stop thinking of marriage.
Charlotte looked again at Lord Fernley, his florid face and thinning hair a stark contrast to Wrotham’s lean, tan features and full, curly head. Yet appearances were not everything. Fernley might be a good man. She knew little of him past what Jane had told her, but he had acquitted himself well with the party, save for bringing Mr. Garrett with him. Georgina, for whom he had been ostensibly chosen, had given him almost no notice, being much more taken with Wrotham.
A sly glance over at their table told her that infatuation had not diminished. Georgie was giggling at her partner, eyes bright, trilling laughter filling the room. And Wrotham, to her consternation, was smiling back. Laughing at whatever comment her friend had made.
Her heart twisted, but she ruthlessly renewed her attention on Lord Fernley. Perhaps it was best for Lord Wrotham to turn his attentions toward someone else. A lady, like Georgina, who would want to marry him. Although a tryst with him would have been wonderfully exciting, it could have been fraught with problems as well.
Had she persuaded Wrotham to take her to bed, once he found out her virginal state, his sense of honor might have made him demand that they marry. And she refused to relinquish her independence, even for the best of lovers. Never again would she be helpless in the face of a man’s cruel control of her life. Her father and Sir Archibald had taught her to cherish freedom above all else. One more wistful, last glance at the earl and she turned back to her partner, redoubling her efforts to flirt with him.
Fernley flashed her a knowing smile.
Drat. She mustn’t overplay her hand. He needed to feel one of a cadre of her possible lovers, not the one she had chosen. That twinkle in the man’s eye, however, could mean she was too late.
When the final trick had been taken, Charlotte and her partner winning soundly, Fernley rose. “I believe a mouthful of fresh air would be pleasant about now, don’t you agree, my lady? Let our opponents regroup if they desire a rematch.” His swagger, so true to form for the man, grated on the nerves, even on short acquaintance. Still, she should accompany him, if only to engage him in a private conversation designed to curtail his hopes.
She nodded and rose. “That sounds like a splendid idea, my lord.” She took his arm, aware once more that his clothing approached the extreme in fashion. His starched collar, so tall and stiff, threatened to put his eye out if he turned suddenly. His evening coat was in good taste, although cut extremely tight. And she had shuddered earlier that evening when he had appeared in a pair of black, skintight inexpressibles that left little to the imagination. Discerning, elegant attire, such as Lord Wrotham’s, was more to her liking than Fernley’s excessively bold dress.
The veranda proved cooler than the house, pleasant with the scent of the roses that wafted up from the flower garden that edged the perimeter of the manor. Fireflies fluttered and a gentle breeze cooled her face, already hot at the thought of the subject she needed to broach with Fernley. Usually her favorite haunt in the early evening, the terrace had now taken on a battleground aura. Charlotte steered Fernley toward the nearest balustrade, seeking the courage to begin the conversation regarding her interest—or rather noninterest in him.
Fernley’s abrupt seizure of both her hands told her she was indeed too late to put him off. “I wanted to say how flattered I am by your attentions this evening, my dear Lady Cavendish.” His eyes widened, shamelessly ogling her in the flickering light of the veranda lanterns. “I think I understand your desires and can assure you they are mine as well.” He lifted her hands and placed a hot, fervent kiss on each one.
Oh, Lord, he had indeed taken her flirting for an invitation. Charlotte stared in horror as he turned her palm up and pressed his odious mouth to the center.
“Lord Fernley!” She squirmed with revulsion and clenched her hand, trying to withdraw it.
He grasped it firmly instead and pulled her into his arms.
“Please call me Hugh, Charlotte,” he whispered in her ear, then ran his tongue around the outer rim, a sickening parody of her more pleasant encounter with Wrotham. His breath rasped in her ear and she shuddered.
“Lord Fernley, you forget yourself.” She tried to push away from him, but her hands were pinned between their bodies and she had no leverage.
“Not for a second in your presence, my dear.” His mouth traveled down her neck, the greasy feel of it making her cringe. The image of a snail dragging its slimy body across her flesh didn’t help matters at all.
Damn him. If she screamed she’d bring ruin down upon herself. Despite the naughty intent of the weekend, her plan had always been discretion. With a sickening twist of her stomach, the memory of the conversation with her father in June arose. He had warned her that the very hint of disgrace would be disastrous for her. His dire threat to remove her to a lunatic asylum if she became once more embroiled in a scandal was not an idle one. And even in their closed circle here, there would be talk. Especially from Fernley if she rebuffed him. Abruptly, all the fight went out of her.
“My lord, it is not seemly to act this way in such a public place.” If she could put him off until later perhaps she could find a way to avoid an actual assignation.
“There’s no one looking on, my dear.” He ran his hand into her hair, and she cursed him anew. She would look exactly as she had when she’d come from that tryst with Garrett at Almack’s—an advertisement for a wanton wench. Except she clearly would take no pleasure in this encounter.
She struggled back from him, bent on further chastisement, when he pulled her head to him and plastered his lips onto hers. Unfortunately, her mouth had been opened to speak.
He trust his tongue into her mouth, almost down her throat, making her want to gag. He tasted of the wine from dinner, thank God. Anything more noisome and she might have cast up her accounts all over him.
Still, she thrashed against him, fighting to break free of his grimy grip.
One huge push against his chest seemed to make no difference; then, as if by magic, she was freed of his loathsome tongue. Her eyes popped open in time to see Lord Wrotham, his furious face twisted in a scowl, grasp Fernley by the scruff of the neck and the waist of his inexpressibles, and heft her unwanted suitor into the air.
Fernley’s heels kicked as a muted squeal escaped his lips.
With a look of utter disgust at her, Wrotham pitched the unfortunate lord over the balustrade to land squarely in the midst of a rosebush. The muted groans of the unfortunate peer made Charlotte grin as she watched him gingerly roll out of the thorny brambles.
Wrotham jerked her around to face him, wiping the smile from her face, his handsome features now distorted by a rage aimed squarely at her.
“I told you if you needed me to call me. I meant it.” Eyes dark, brows knit in a sharp V, jaw clenched, the earl had never looked more desirable. A dangerous animal, with the power to break her, bend her to his will, devour her body and soul. She could think of no more pleasant way to die.
Her breathing quickened until the sound of her panting shut out all else.
He closed the distance between them so slowly she could swear she could see the ripple of each muscle as he approached. She could fend him off if she so desired, but his eyes held her mesmerized. She would gladly drown in those blue depths. When he cradled her head, the silky touch of his fingertips on her scalp almost drove her mad. How could such an innocent touch arouse such a passion within her? Her belly ached as it had in the library, with a painful longing she must deny. Could not deny.
When he urged her lips toward his, her legs weakened, and it took all her willpower to simply remain standing. His incredible softness was the perfect antidote to Fernley’s rough assault. He molded their lips together, compelling hers to open. Her willingness to do so frightened her, yet she could no more deny him than she could stop breathing. Warmth stole through her, loosening muscle and bone, until she leaned fully against his hard, magnificently aroused body. Completely uncaring who came by or what they saw.
After what seemed a lifetime, he leaned her away from him. She let his lips go reluctantly, sad that the blissful interlude had to end. As always, once she had lost contact with his body, her senses returned to normal.
Fernley.
She stepped back from Wrotham, shook her head, groggy as if coming out of a deep sleep, and glanced over the railing. The young man in question sat nursing several deep scratches that had bled onto his ensemble. In the poor light she could not tell which circumstance pained him the most, the scratches on his person or the ruination of his suit. Had he seen her and Wrotham? Did it matter? The earl’s actions would certainly make him think twice before spreading scandalous gossip.
She stared at Wrotham, his face as enigmatic as she had ever seen it. What was he thinking, blast him? He obviously desired her as much as she did him. Could they resolve their differences enough to allow them to act on them?
The French windows opened with a lurch. Jane, Fanny, Sinclair, and the others crowded out onto the terrace. How would the earl explain?
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for rushing to our aid.” A hum of questions sprang up at Wrotham’s words and he moved toward the nearest stairs leading to the garden. He glanced at her, and the wretch had the audacity to wink. “Lord Fernley, I am afraid, has succumbed to a slight misadventure.”
A general murmur of surprise rippled through the assembled crowd.
“On a bet of some sort, I suppose, or perhaps a request to show some skill at balancing, Fernley attempted to walk along the balustrade. A misstep occurred and the poor man tumbled into Lady Cavendish’s rosebushes. Can one of you gentlemen give me a hand righting him?” With that, he picked his way through the grass to stand above the fallen nobleman. He extended a hand, but his eyes glinted with an emotion that was not sympathetic. “Let me assist you, my lord. You have a nasty scratch across your cheek.”
By this time, Sinclair, scarcely containing his mirth, had reached Wrotham’s side. “Are you otherwise injured?”
They grasped Fernley under the armpits and hoisted him to his feet. “If you feel unable to continue downstairs this evening, I am sure Lady Cavendish will be most forgiving. The last thing any of us wants is for someone to be hurt.” Wrotham seemed concerned, yet he squeezed the man’s arm unmercifully.
“I believe it may be prudent if I retire, my lord.” Fernley’s voice certainly sounded pained. “If Lady Cavendish will forgive me, I will remove to my room.” He glanced at Wrotham and winced. “Indeed, my arm is beginning to ache.”
Wrotham suddenly released the viscount. “It may be that, if it is no better by morning, you must needs seek medical attention in London. The local apothecary is still firmly of the bleeding-with-leeches school of medicine. It is the one area where I believe I need to lend a firmer hand concerning change.”
He clapped Fernley on the back. “Allow me to follow your progress, my lord, once you return to the city. I cannot tell you how much I will hang upon word of your recovery.” Wrotham nodded to a servant, who assisted Fernley into the house. “Now,” he said, gazing about the stunned company, “shall we continue at cards or is dancing in order again?”
Charlotte stared at him, as startled as anyone at how Wrotham had smoothly taken charge of the evening. Could she ever hope he would bend to her will? Despite the desire that raged through them both, she wouldn’t wager a brass farthing on it.