To Wed a Wicked Earl (10 page)

“All I need is your advice…on how to attract Tristan in such a fashion that he’ll go mad for wanting me for his own. I want him to look at me again. But this time I want him to realize it was me he should have picked the first time. I want to make him jealous, Rothbury. Will you help me?”

He closed his eyes momentarily. What could it hurt? A few orchestrated trysts here, some advice there. A couple of days and she’d be satisfied. Or more likely, frustrated. Once Harriet cried off, Tristan finally admitted he’d proposed to the girl in haste. And now that he no longer needed to marry and carry on the family line because his older brother was happily fulfilling that obligation, Tristan was free to be the debauching, carousing, wastrel of a second son. Charlotte may have turned his head a time or two, but his friend wasn’t interested in marriage any longer.

But what did he know. Rothbury didn’t spend his days sitting in Tristan’s pocket. Certainly, he wasn’t privy to his friend’s every thought.

Wait…She had said “jealous,” hadn’t she?

He jerked his head in her direction. “Did you say you want to make him 
jealous?”

“Quite.”

“As in…
revenge?”

“Yes,” she said impatiently, widening those sapphire eyes of hers.

“So you do not want…you do not intend to win him now that he’s free?”

“No,” she replied in a small voice, her tone not as firm as Rothbury wanted it to be.

“Charlotte, you naughty little thing. Why, I ought to take you across my lap and—”

“Oh stop it, Rothbury,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Perhaps a decent amount of groveling will do.”

“Groveling? Begging is better.”

At her sigh of frustration, he chuckled. “All right. I’ll be serious. Please, proceed.”

“Of course, I don’t intend for this to go on and on. I have other things do and I must work quickly. Time is of the essence. This is to be my last Season. I simply must ensnare another suitor before my mother makes other plans. Perhaps you could go over my list of proper husbands while we’re there?”

A proper husband. Something inside him jerked with a stab of pain.

Quick as it came, he brushed the thought aside, thinking instead of the matter at hand.

So, he had misunderstood her. Good. He liked this version better. Now at least, he had an excuse to flirt with Charlotte to his heart’s content. He didn’t know if any of it would work, but it still sounded like fun.

Fun? Or torture?

He shook his head, sighing in resignation.

“Hullo?” She waved a hand in the general direction of his face as if to wake him from a stupor. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’ll help you. But I cannot promise you the results that you seek.”

She bounced where she stood, clasping her hands together. Rothbury couldn’t help but smile. Was he such a bowl of pudding, then? Probably. But he suspected it had something to do with embracing an opportunity to spend more time with a chit who always made him bite back a smile, even while she frustrated him to hell and back.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you,” she chirped, surprising him by bounding across the room and clasping him tight for a quick hug.

His arms hung heavy and loose at his sides during her gentle siege.

Rothbury had enchanted exotic opera singers into returning to his bed time and again. He had warmed coldhearted courtesans into confessing their undying love and he had seduced a number of beautiful, feisty women who were just as fickle in picking their lovers as he was. But Charlotte’s hug unsettled him, knocked him off balance, one might say.

He didn’t want her to let go. But he wouldn’t dare bring up his arms to hold her either. Without a doubt he knew if he indulged himself, all he felt, all he thought, would be exposed in the warmth of his embrace. And then there would be no turning back. He would be bared, revealed, humiliated.

All too soon, she pulled away.

Leaving him, Charlotte started to flounce to the windows and then returned just as quickly.

“Yes,” Rothbury joked, “do use the stairs to leave.”

She shook her head. “I almost forgot.”

“What’s that?”

“My costume. With all those guests, how ever will you be able to spot me in the crowd?”

“You’re not walking home,” he said, deliberately changing the subject. Honestly, he didn’t want to know what or whom she was going dressed as. It would only inflame his imagination, create more wicked fodder for his dreams, and cause him undue agony. “My carriage will take you and your burly kitchen maid home.”

“You don’t want to know?”

“I am certain I will be able to find you. Don’t fret.”

“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you.” She gave him a small, knowing smile. “You’ll be happy to know that Lady Rosalind will be there as well.”

“Lady Rosalind, eh?”

“Indeed,” she said with a wide smile. “Are you not excited?”

Oh, who the hell was he fooling? He was too tired to fake his interest in that woman right now. So he merely raised a brow and hoped it appeared sincere. “I can hardly contain myself, my dear.”

Chapter 6

A Gentleman is welcomed by all.

The Hawthornes’ Costume BallNorthumberland

“L
ord Rothbury is forbidden.”

Charlotte gave her mother a dutiful nod, furrowing her brow for effect lest her mother suspect she wasn’t paying attention, or worse, not taking the dire warning seriously.

“I realize we’ve become quite desperate,” Hyacinth Greene stressed with all the maternal protectiveness she could muster, “but his lordship is not the answer.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Pay absolutely no attention to him.”

“Naturally.”

As if any female with a pulse could possibly ignore Rothbury.

Perched on a gilded chaise lounge alongside her mother, a betraying warmth spread up Charlotte’s neck and fanned to her cheeks. She had always been a deplorable liar, her skin forever turning splotchy pink and giving her away. Good thing for her that her mother was always too preoccupied to notice.

Hyacinth cleared her throat, apparently noticing Charlotte’s flagging attention. “You wouldn’t want to scare any possible beaus away by being seen consorting with that scoundrel, would you?”

Possible beaus? What were those again? Ah, yes. Elusive creatures, those.

Charlotte waved a dismissive hand in the air. “You may rest assured,” she said wryly, “I am perfectly safe from him.” Her mother worried needlessly. She wasn’t a sniveling debutante. “If Lord Rothbury had any interest in me, I’d know. He’d make sure of it.”

As when she so stupidly climbed into his room in order to make certain he would be attending this costume ball. And what a frustrating evening it was turning out to be.

Her mother had been watching her as if she were a pickpocket, making sure Charlotte never ventured anywhere near Lord Rothbury. Tristan arrived late and then proceeded to spend the better half of the rest of the evening in the card room. But she still held hope that her plan of inspiring jealousy would be implemented.

“He has a look about him tonight,” Hyacinth remarked, worry evident in her tone. “Like he’s on the hunt. It’s quite unsettling. Quite.”

“Please, do not worry over me. I’ll be fine.”

She conceded, however, that there was some substance to her mother’s trepidation about Lord Rothbury. That is, if Rothbury suddenly acquired an appetite for spectacle-wearing wallflowers who wore hideous costumes to masquerade balls 
per annum
 in order to please their mothers.

No. She shook her head, disrupting the plethora of bows and ribbons adorning the frumpy contraption called a bonnet on her head. Highly improbable.

“You must admit,” Charlotte said with an impish grin, anticipating her mother’s animated reaction with her next words, “his lordship does look positively 
tempting
 this evening.”

“Charlotte!” Her mother’s cheeks reddened. Gently, she swatted at her daughter’s lap with her open fan. “That fact should be of no consequence to you…or me.” She cleared her throat. “Just promise your dear mother you’ll stay clear of Lord Rothbury, will you? Don’t do anything that would snag the rogue’s attention. Your costume 
is
 rather beguiling.”

Er…. right. With great effort, Charlotte refrained from twirling her eyes. She wasn’t the type of woman to place wagers, but she’d be willing to drop a tidy sum on the odds that “shepherdess” costumes weren’t lust inducing.

Next to her, Hyacinth yawned. Charlotte gave her mother one last reassuring smile, then sighed.

At two and twenty, Charlotte had come to that point in her life where she was beyond wanting to shed her wallflower status. She held no shame that she was more an observer of life than a participant, and that she would very likely someday become a spinster. A lot of women did.

With the exception of Rothbury, she often stammered her way into realizing she wanted nothing more than to fade into the background instead of being the center of attention. She knew who she was and what she desired in life.

And while she valued her mother’s splendid eye-catching costume strategy, but not perhaps the costume choice, this particular evening Charlotte wanted nothing more than to be 
invisible
.

Well, at least to one person in particular: the dreaded Viscount Witherby.

When it came to events such as these, bumping into him had been an ongoing worry in her life. He seemed to appear at every single event she happened to attend. Either he was stalking her like a deranged jungle cat, or her mother was supplying him with the information.

She shuddered. Who in her right mind would willingly wed an old man who perpetually smelled of stale cigars, had yellow teeth, and spoke directly to her bosom at every unchaperoned opportunity?

Unfortunately, Witherby was an old, trusted family friend of the Greenes. And incredibly wealthy. And incredibly tired of waiting for Charlotte to relinquish her dream of finding love with a gentleman closer to her own age.

Charlotte’s mother rather hoped the aging widower would soon make an official offer for her daughter’s hand in holy matrimony. Charlotte rather hoped that he would board the next boat to China.

True, each Season had been unsuccessful, and she had begun to feel the beginnings of a panic over her unmarriageable state, but she remained ever hopeful that she wouldn’t have to marry Viscount Witherby, that one day soon she would find her love match.

Why, she even knew exactly what her true love would be like. He’d be kind and thoughtful, attentive, and trustworthy. He’d smile at her the instant she walked into a room and hang on her every word, her every syllable. And he’d never let his eyes stray to another woman. A true gentleman, he’d be. Someone her mother would undoubtedly approve of. Someone who made Charlotte sigh with pleasure just thinking about him…

She nearly groaned as the thought of Lord Tristan entered her mind. For years she had believed he possessed all those attributes and more. For years she had harbored a schoolgirl’s infatuation with him. Whenever she had seen him, trotting handsomely on his bay in the park, buying a bauble for his sister in a shop, or driving his phaeton down the lane, he’d always tip his hat to her and smile. Unbeknownst to him, he was only encouraging her foolish hopes and wishes—the daydreams of a timid girl headed for nowhere but spinsterhood.

But that was all in the past. She was a woman now. And she’d never allow herself to entertain the idea that she could ensnare—and hold—the attention of one of the 
ton’
s most sought after bachelors. Men like him used words to manipulate women emotionally, which was why she wanted to exact her revenge.

“Oh, where is he?” she ground out the question between her teeth.

“Where is who?”

“No one,” she replied innocently.

Hyacinth sat forward. “It sounded as if you asked, “Where is he?’”

Charlotte pressed her lips together and shook her head. “No. Tea. “Where is the tea?’ I asked.”

“Oh.” Hyacinth settled back into the settee, satisfied.

Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief that her mother gave up her prodding before her skin stayed permanently scarlet from all the little fibs that were stacking up this evening. Truthfully, sometimes being friends with Rothbury was a chore.

She needed to speak with him. Right now. She wanted to find out what was keeping Lord Tristan and what their next plan would be.

“You’ve got that far-off look in your eyes again, my dearest.” Hyacinth reached over and gently patted her daughter’s hand. “Be a good girl and let us retire to our rooms above stairs. The evening is spent and I’ve grown tired. Besides, we should rest. Your father wrote that we’ve been gone long enough and he wishes us away from all manner of ’vice and impurity. We must leave for London on the morrow.”

Already?

Charlotte’s shoulders slumped. Sometimes she wondered if her mother was, in fact, trying to 
stop
 her from marrying anyone other than Witherby. Inhaling deeply, she exhaled a long, weary sigh, the sound much like a muffled death knell marking the end to her deepest wishes.