Chapter 19
From the kitchen garden, Charlotte fled stealthily toward the stables. Now how to saddle up without anyone being the wiser? If she took her groom, even if she swore him to secrecy, he still might talk. Such tittle-tattle in the servants’ hall was as good as an on-dit in the Times. But drat it, she had no idea how to saddle a horse.
Why hadn’t she gotten Edward to show her how to do it? Of course, she’d thought he’d always be there to do it for her. And then, they had had more important things to do, like eloping. She paused, prepared for the ache to settle in her heart as it always had when thinking of him.
Over the years since that horrible night, she’d thought of Edward almost constantly. First, in grief over his loss, then as an escape from life with Sir Archibald. She would lay in bed at night and remember the first time she and Edward had kissed. They had ridden out, even though the sky had threatened rain. As they approached the far side of the estate, it had begun to pour. He had called, “I told you so” and led their horses to a thick copse of trees. She’d slid off Bella straight into his arms and then raised her face to his. The touch of his lips had been both expected and completely surprising. He had held her to his strong chest as the rain drenched them and she had been overwhelmed by a sense of safety and happiness she’d never experienced before in her life.
After that day, she’d plotted incessantly how they could be together. Edward had been reluctant at first, but she’d coaxed him to help her plan their escape. She’d known it would be a shocking mésalliance—she would be shunned by everyone in the ton—but she hadn’t cared. All she had cared about had been Edward’s arms around her, his kiss on her lips, and a life with love and happiness and children.
That dream had been snuffed out in Whetstone. And for six years, whenever she had thought of him, her heart had ached for what might have been.
This time, however, only excitement and anticipation at the thought of seeing Lord Wrotham pulsed within her. Another sign, perhaps, that her present course was the true one. That Nash had been the one to save Edward still left her in awe. Did that circumstance have anything to do with her current affection for the Earl of Wrotham? She had certainly thought more of him and less of Edward since his revelation. Perhaps it was time to put aside her dreams of Edward and embrace Nash wholeheartedly. The two men resembled one another physically only in their height and dark coloring. But in their manner, in their caring natures and regard for her, they seemed almost as one. If she could make a life with Nash, she might finally find the love and happiness she had been denied for so long.
Charlotte crept into the stable, beguiled anew by the warm, comforting smell of horses, hay, and manure. Now to devise a way to have the groom saddle her horse without asking any questions.
The answer came with such startling clarity and simplicity that it took her breath.
She squared her shoulders and strode into the middle of the stable. “Clarence! James!” At her bold call, the grooms came scampering out of several stalls, one tucking the tail of his work shirt into his pants.
“Yes, my lady?”
“Please saddle Ajax for me immediately.” She glanced from James, perhaps fifteen years old, to Clarence, who might be a pair of years older, both local lads who had been on the property when she took possession. She’d had little interaction with them herself, usually sending word to have her horse readied for a ride.
They exchanged a glance before looking back at her.
“Will there be others in the party, my lady?” Clarence asked, looking behind her.
“No. I’ll ride alone today.” Charlotte raised her chin and tried to affect a nonchalant air. In truth, her stomach twisted itself in knots.
“Very well, my lady. Clarence, I’ll ready her ladyship’s horse. You get yours saddled so you can accompany her.” James turned toward the stall where her horse whinnied.
“That won’t be necessary, Clarence. I am going for a short ride in the park today. I won’t need a groom with me.”
It had occurred to Charlotte, out of the blue, that she was mistress here. She need not answer to father, husband, or stable boy. If she wanted to ride without a groom, then by God she would. Who could stop her?
“Ride alone, my lady?” James stared, uncomprehending. “But you always ride with one of us to protect you.”
“I’ll not be gone long, and I doubt I’ll need protection in my own park.” Why would the lads argue with her?
“There’s robbers about, my lady,” Clarence said, his face grave. “It’s not safe no more.”
“Well, I doubt they will accost me in the little time I wish to be out. Please saddle my horse now.” She firmed her tone to a command. If it took that to get her way in this, so be it.
“Yes, my lady.” The boys spoke in unison and jumped into action. In less time than it had taken to persuade them, Charlotte found herself up on Ajax and headed out the stable door with the admonition to be careful ringing in her ears.
A thrill of power rushed through her. She had gainsaid someone and gotten her way for the first time since her marriage. Even if they were only stable boys in her employ, she hoped it boded well for her coming meeting.
She headed the gelding toward the park, just in case the grooms were watching. When she topped a rise near a stand of trees, she turned left and struck out for the road that led to the drive at Lyttlefield. According to Lord Wrotham, Wrotham Hall lay two miles farther down the road. A quick ride on a cantering horse, he had declared. She decided to test his word and touched her heel to Ajax.
In what seemed truly no time, Charlotte turned between the huge carved marble pedestals, lions rampant as though daring her to enter and beard her lion in his den. She ignored the fanciful thought and continued to canter down the drive, until the grand edifice of Wrotham Hall came into view.
Nothing the earl had said about his home had prepared her for the vast mansion that rose before her. She slowed Ajax to a trot, eventually stopping completely to gawk at the amazing structure. A yellow-white Palladian house sprawled amid manicured lawns, woodland rising in the distance behind it. Three stories high and perfectly proportioned in width, with four flattened columns, two on either side of the front door, the house appeared to be a model of Georgian architecture. The symmetry and grandeur quite took her breath away. To be mistress of such a house, to put her own stamp on this magnificent estate, would be such an exciting challenge. Much more so than her efforts at Lyttlefield, which she had enjoyed immensely.
Finally recalled to her purpose, Charlotte urged her mount forward. By the time she had arrived at the front portico, a groom had appeared to hold her reins and assist her to the ground. She thanked him, marched up to the imposing oak and ironwork door. Focusing only on her purpose, she summoned all her courage and raised her hand to the knocker.
* * *
Nash stared at the list of names, fighting not to crush it in his fury. He needed the information it contained, although he’d read its contents often enough he’d almost committed it to memory. Six of his tenant families had been attacked in the last week by this gang of what purported to be ex-soldiers. Unable to secure work after the war, they had taken matters into their own hands by robbing and pillaging in hopes of stealing enough for their families to survive.
Nash shook his head. Soldiers. He could scarcely credit it.
He’d received the report late last night and this morning, he’d ridden out to the latest victim, James Wright, a wheelwright by trade. What he had found had not been pretty. He closed his eyes and swore under his breath.
There was a knock at the door, and Acres opened it to announce, “Lady Cavendish is here, my lord. She’s in the small reception room.”
Nash’s head jerked up. Charlotte? He tossed the list onto his cluttered desk and all but ran from the room. He strode swiftly into the green chamber and stopped. She stood in the middle of the room, severe in a black riding habit, but with a ravishing hat sitting jauntily on her head, its ostrich feather trailing over her shoulder. Like an invitation to likewise run his fingers down her back.
“My lady, what a lovely surprise.” Nash rushed toward her and raised her hand to his mouth. He let his lips linger as he studied her face. What could have brought her here without a companion?
“I am so pleased to see you, my lord. I recently returned from London and wanted to call on you.” She stared back at him, eyes bright, smile wide. Then she squeezed the hand he still kissed. Not as if to say, “Let go.” Rather as though . . . good Lord, was the woman flirting with him?
Taken aback by this possibility, Nash released her hand and bowed. “I am delighted to see you again as well, my lady. When I heard you had removed to London, I feared we would be deprived of the pleasure of your company for quite some time to come. I am pleased to see that those fears were unfounded.”
Her brilliant smile went straight to his heart.
“Please, my lord. I believe we are beyond the formalities. Will you not call me Charlotte?”
A rush of hot blood shot from his head straight to his groin. His breathing came sharper and a metallic taste flooded his mouth.
“I would be delighted to do so . . . Charlotte.” The name sounded like liquid gold.
Her eyes crinkled, as though she enjoyed it as well.
“Then you must call me Nash.”
“Nash.” She tried it out, elongating the single syllable, savoring it.
His heart raced like a runaway carriage.
“You have been well, Nash?” Her eyes sparkled and she hummed with the same energy as that night at Almack’s.
“I have been very well, thank you.” The memory of his errand this morning, unfortunately, sobered him from the giddy aura her presence had created.
“Is something wrong?” Even her frown was charming.
“I rode out earlier to see one of my tenants who had been burned out last night.”
“What?” The flirtatious woman fled like a lantern snuffed; in her stead was an outraged landowner. The lines on her face deepened. “Who?”
“James Wright, the village wheelwright, is the latest victim of the gang that’s been terrorizing Kent for the last two months.” He motioned her to a leather wing-backed chair and sat in its companion beside her.
“James’s family has lived on Wrotham property for over six generations. The family works together to farm the land while James plies his trade. Now their house is in ruins, the contents ransacked, James’s tools stolen.” The sight had sickened him. “Even worse, James and his wife looked on helplessly while the gang of masked men looted and burned their home in broad daylight.”
“Was anyone hurt?” Charlotte asked.
Nash shook his head. “They were lucky. Neither they nor any of their six children were harmed. I spent the morning arranging lodging for them until their house can be rebuilt. I’ll see about replacing James’s tools also, though I’ll have to send to Maidstone or perhaps Rochester for them.”
Charlotte looked at him, a softness in her face. “You’re a good landlord, Nash. You care greatly about the people here.”
“They depend on me.” As simple as that. “I can’t fail them. That’s why I’m working so hard to find this gang and see justice done. They seem not to be local men. No one has identified them. And their violence seems to be escalating. There’s no telling who they will attack next.” He gazed into her eyes. He’d thought them green, but today they were gray-green flecked with brown.
“That is appalling. I had no idea they had gotten so out of hand.” She looked indignant rather than frightened, which concerned him not a little.
“In fact, when you leave, I’ll send one of my grooms with you. Only one person to protect you is not enough any longer.” Nash patted her hand. “I want to keep you safe, Charlotte.”
Her gaze suddenly plummeted to her lap, where her hands now twisted in her skirt. What did that mean? Nash lifted her chin.
“Charlotte? What’s wrong?”
She sighed and her hands stilled. “I suppose you’ll find out anyway.”
He gripped her hands. “Find out what? Were you attacked on the way over?”
“No, but . . . I rode here alone.”
“Alone?” His blood froze. “Don’t you know how dangerous that is?”
“No, I didn’t. The grooms mentioned a gang of robbers, but I didn’t think they would attack in the daytime.” Her voice rose, petulant.
“Obviously they will attack whenever they please.” He couldn’t believe she had been so stupid. “You were lucky you were not robbed or worse.”
“Well, I wasn’t, so there is no harm done.” Charlotte pulled her hand from his grip and stood. The light had gone out of her eyes.
Nash rose as well, scowling. “There might very well have been. I know you have been told you should always ride with a man present. Every girl is given that instruction from the schoolroom.”
She rounded on him, her formerly gray eyes now a furious green. “I am not a girl, I’m a woman. A woman free to make her own decisions. If I want to ride to London without an escort, I can do it. No one can tell me what to do and not do.”
“Well, perhaps someone should!”
Charlotte’s face went white and she drew back her hand to slap his face. He caught her wrist and pulled her against his chest, imprisoning her. He expected another attack, but none came. Surprisingly, as in the library, she relaxed against him. Nash gently drew his arms around her waist. The woman was such an enigma. Never could he predict what she would do next.
She lifted her face, slid her arms around his neck, and pulled him toward her.
Nash groaned as her soft lips met his. She turned her head, sealing their mouths perfectly, then opened herself to him. He needed no further invitation, by God, and thrust his tongue into her mouth.
Raging heat blasted through him, filling him with a lust he could scarcely contain. His shaft swelled until it strained against the fall of his breeches. He hoped she could feel it prodding against her, seeking that for which it was meant. He didn’t care what she had come for; she had found this instead.
The incredible taste of her overwhelmed him. Wine and sweetness, like a single drop from a honeysuckle, mixed together created a delicious treat for him to explore. He slowed his frantic pace, licking, tickling, savoring every inch of her.
When she pressed her tongue into his mouth, he thought he would burst. She took her time, advancing an inch, retreating a bit, exploring as he had done but languorously, as if she had all the time in the world.
He didn’t. If he didn’t make a move to get her into his bedroom quickly, their first lovemaking would be on the hard floor of this receiving room. Not an auspicious beginning to their marriage.
Her hands moved to the waistband of his breeches.
To hell with the floor. He scooped her up in his arms, their lips becoming disengaged. “Come with me?” Nash had to ask. Had to make sure she wanted this . . . with him.
Charlotte nodded against his chest. “It’s why I’m here.”
The world spun. She was his at last. He crushed her to him and ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time. On the first floor he turned toward his suite of rooms, which took up the whole north corner of the house. He slammed the door to his sitting room open, then kicked it closed.
He stood in the middle of the room, spun in a circle. What must he do first? His breath puffed like a steam engine. His heart pounded frantically. He still clutched her to him, yet she made no protest. Slowly, he released her and she slid down his whole length, clutching his neck until her toes touched the floor.
Charlotte looked into his face. “Oh, Nash.” Desire flickered once more in her green eyes.
God, if this was a dream he’d rather die than awaken.
He ran his hands through her hair—her hat had been abandoned downstairs—scattering pins as he drew it down around her shoulders. The glossy chestnut curls slipped through his fingers like strands of silk. What a joy it would be to see them fanned across his pillow.
The image swelled his erection even more, though he wouldn’t have believed that possible. They needed to hurry or he might be rougher with her than he intended. “This way, love.” With his arm at her waist, Nash urged her toward his bed chamber. She strode across the threshold, his at last.
She approached the bed, somewhat hesitantly, though that seemed natural under the circumstances. At last she turned and beckoned him. When he stood in front of her, scarcely daring to breathe, she leaned forward and raised up on her toes to whisper in his ear, “I am yours, Nash.”
“Oh, Charlotte.” He ran a finger down the length of her arm. Her shudder fed his heat and he pulled her close.
“I am yours,” she repeated, raising her hand to cup his face, “if you want me.”