Chapter 9
If she could have sunk through the floor and deep into the ground, Charlotte would have praised God as a merciful deity. Of all the people to discover her in such a compromising position, it had to be this rake. Now he would think her a light woman and she’d never be rid of him. He’d just bide his time and wait his turn. She had no choice save to stand beside Lord Wrotham, guilty as sin.
“My lady. Were you perhaps looking for me?” Mr. Garrett made no other utterance, God curse him. The wretch’s implication could not have been clearer.
Wrotham jerked his head around and stared at her.
“Yes, Mr. Garrett, I had come down to meet you.” God, that sounded badly. “You sent for me . . . I mean, you sent Fisk to tell me to meet you.” Worse and worse. “You said you were leaving?” Charlotte raised her head and wrinkled her nose. “Do you smell something burning?”
Both men stared at her; then Wrotham, scowling like a gargoyle, stomped behind a chair and ground something into the carpet.
“I suppose you two weren’t the only heat in the room,” Garrett said, grinning at Charlotte.
She itched to smash something into that leering face. “I tripped, Mr. Garrett, and fortunately, Lord Wrotham caught me.” Heat crept into her cheeks as she thought of how they must have looked to him.
“Again? He’s always there when you need him, isn’t he? I suspect you needed a great deal of comfort after such a tumble.” He seemed to enjoy mocking her. His gaze flicked over her appearance.
Automatically, she pulled her gown up over her shoulders. She curled her toes on the scratchy carpet, at once aware she’d stepped out of her slippers somewhere along the way. Likely when she’d tripped and fallen into Wrotham’s arms.
“I see no reason for insolence, sir.” The deathly calm of Wrotham’s voice drew her attention back to him. “This is really none of your affair whatsoever.” His glare would have made a sensible man shut his mouth and be on his way. She’d not want to see it turned on her. A warm wave of gratitude washed over her at his gallant defense.
“You are correct, my lord. It certainly is not.” He eyed Charlotte once more. “You are, however, correct also, Lady Cavendish. I must take my leave. I received word almost an hour ago that my uncle, Lord Kersey, is gravely ill and not expected to live past a day or two. I regret that I must immediately journey to his estate in the north of Essex.”
“Oh, dear. I am very sorry for your uncle, Mr. Garrett.” She hoped her condolences hid her relief at his departure.
“I as well, Garrett.” Wrotham spoke up, startling her anew. She had forgotten he stood next to her.
“Is there anything you require for your journey, Mr. Garrett?” Charlotte forced herself back into her role of hostess, despite the bizarre circumstances.
“No, thank you, my lady.” At least he sounded a bit more civil now. “I’ve ordered my carriage and it should be coming around front shortly. My valet is seeing to the packing. I had only to speak to you.” He stared at her, and a softening in his eyes made her heart leap with dread. “Therefore, I take my leave of you, Lady Cavendish. Will you be returning to London in the autumn?”
Taken aback by this sudden change in attitude, she stuttered, “I . . . I had not thought about it yet. But perhaps Lady John and I will visit during the Little Season. However, I will likely be here most of the time. I had thought to have another party here at the end of harvest.” Why couldn’t the man just leave?
“Good. When you are in town I would ask to call upon you. I may be in need of solace if the worst happens with my uncle.” He shifted awkwardly and tapped his hand against his leg.
“I pray all is better than feared.”
“I as well, my lady. Wrotham.” Garrett bowed and left.
Charlotte watched him go, sighing in relief, alone once again with Wrotham.
The gravity of their situation reared its head once more. Not so much that they had been found out, but that she had behaved so wantonly with this man she hardly knew. What had possessed her to kiss the earl like that?
Standing apart from him like this, she felt nothing of the burning passion that had seized her when he had caught her in his arms. No fire ripping through her veins as when his mouth sealed itself to hers. If she touched him again, would it reappear?
Charlotte turned toward Wrotham to find the earl watching her, as coolly detached as he had been hot with desire. She opened her mouth, not knowing what words might emerge.
He saved her the trouble. “You were expecting Garrett just now when you ran into me, weren’t you?”
Her sharp gasp sounded loud as cannon fire to her ears.
In the silence that followed, he sauntered to the sideboard and poured a good three fingers of brandy into his glass and downed it in one gulp. “Did you simply mistake me for him, or did the man matter at all to you?”
“How dare you!” Outrage at his insinuation shoved all her guilt over her actions into a far corner. Just whom did he think he was to judge her?
“I dare to speak the truth, my lady. You seemed genuinely desirous enough just now to fool me into believing your passion was aimed at me. Either you thought me your lover or you wanted me to be. I merely wish to know which is true.” Wrotham’s gaze glittered in the guttering candlelight, unreadable as blank stone.
“I came to meet him, as I said. But he is not my lover.”
His eyebrow rose. “Surprising.”
She gasped, and anger made her bold. “Why? Because I’m the ‘Wicked Widow’?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “No. Because I have tasted a depth of passion such as yours only once or twice. If he is unwilling to take you to his bed, he is a fool.”
The last he spoke with such vehemence she jerked her face up to his.
His eyes gleamed with dark desire.
Her stomach plunged to her toes.
Wrotham stalked toward her, and she fled backward until she pressed against the wall of the library, the chair rail digging into her back.
He towered over her, the expanse of his chest filling her field of vision with the black superfine of his jacket and the starched white of his cravat. He grasped her head and lifted it until his dark eyes bored into hers.
“No one has ever called me a fool.” Then his mouth seized hers again and she melted once more, damn him! The heat of his lips burned like the red-hot embers of a well-banked fire. She struggled to pull in enough air, as if he had sucked it all from the room. When his tongue thrust into her mouth she welcomed it, cherished it as it ravaged whatever it touched. An ache she had only felt once before began to pulse between her thighs, one that magnified as his tongue plundered where it would. Her knees buckled and she would have slid down the wall except he grasped her arms, steadying her. Time ceased to be as he caressed her shoulders, her arms, her breasts.
The throbbing below intensified when his thumbs circled her nipples, making them peak and strain against the thin fabric of her gown. She moaned low in her throat, a sound full of longing, full of need. Lord, would he never stop? Never let him stop. Heat flushed her entire body until she burned like a furnace. He lifted his head.
“Marry me, Lady Cavendish.”
“What?” She couldn’t have heard that correctly.
“Marry me and let us continue this evening’s activities to their inevitable and glorious conclusion.” His voice, ragged with need, rumbled from his chest. He seized her lips again, pressing his big body against her until she could feel his shaft, hard, hot, insistent.
Desire for what he offered welled up and her resolve slipped. It would be glorious to give in to these feelings that made her doubt her sanity. But once married, she would have no recourse against him, as she’d had none over Sir Archibald.
He slid his hands behind her derriere, pushing her against his hips and grinding them together until she broke the kiss, gasping at the need he inspired in her.
“Why bring marriage into it, my lord?” she whispered, pulling his ear to her mouth. With one slow stroke, she licked the outer rim and thrilled when he shuddered in her arms. “Surely we can reach that ‘glorious conclusion’ without benefit of clergy?”
Then he was gone.
Charlotte blinked, coming back to her senses as if being pulled out of a well.
Wrotham stood before her, breathing heavily, hovering as though he might pounce on her again. “I need a wife, Lady Cavendish.”
“I am sorry for that, my lord, but I don’t need a husband.” She licked her lips and hoped she looked seductive. “Can we not find a way to compromise?”
He wavered. Charlotte would have sworn he started toward her and the throbbing between her legs became agony. Then he leaned back and crossed his arms. “No. I’m afraid where you are concerned, Lady Cavendish, I cannot.”
Damn him! She raised her chin. “Then I fear we are at an impossible impasse.”
“It would seem so, my lady. And I for one am truly sorry.” He shrugged and sighed, then headed for the door. At the last moment he turned, his black eyes burning into her. “If you are ever in need, I am close at hand.” With that outrageous statement, he disappeared through the doorway.
Charlotte slid down the wall until she bumped into the floor, her strength spent. That annoying ache still hounded her body, though it had eased once his hands no longer claimed her. She leaned her head on her knees and tried to slow her heart from its frantic pace.
What a beginning to her house party. Garrett gone to Essex, over fifty miles away. Wrotham fled home, scarcely a mile from her. Rakes, both of them, and good riddance. Something in the recesses of her practical mind, however, whispered that she had not seen the last of either one. And something else, with a naughty gleam in its eyes, rejoiced.