Captive (4 page)

He was careful not to underestimate the chit again, but she nevertheless managed to bite the hand that cut off her muffled cries before he got her to her room.

He threw her onto the canopied bed and sucked on the painful, blood-red row of teethmarks on his forefinger. She picked up where she had left off.

“You’re lower than a snake in the grass,” she hissed. “I can’t even think of anything as low as you.”

“That will be quite enough! If I haven’t already, I want to make it perfectly clear that before I allow you out in public again you will reform your behavior to the standards expected of an English lady.”

“I’m not a damned English lady!” she cried.

“Not yet,” he agreed. “But before you leave this house again, you will dress and act and talk like a lady.”

“I won’t!”

“You will not leave this room until I have your agreement that you will,” he said implacably.

She faced him unrepentant, undeterred. Denbigh had to admire the girl. It almost seemed a shame to curb her spirit. It was hard not to be impressed by the militant fire in her green eyes or to find beauty in the disheveled golden curls that fell free across her shoulders. The rosy flush on her cheeks made her look as though she had been engaged in … in something he had no business even thinking of in association with the young lady who was his ward.

He backed away toward the door. Before he had gone two steps she was heading for the door, as well.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

“You can’t keep me a prisoner here.”

“I can do anything I believe is necessary for your welfare. I’m your guardian.”

“I don’t need a guardian. You don’t want me here. Why won’t you let me go home to America?”

“Your father obviously believed you needed a guardian. And I can see why.” She had turned out to be something less—and more—than he was expecting. “You’re my responsibility until you marry—although lord knows where I’ll find an Englishman who’ll take you.

“When you have learned the necessary female arts, you will be presented at court and receive an invitation to Almack’s, where you will seek out a suitable husband. A selection which, of course, I must approve. Until then—or until you come of age—you will do as I say.”

“I won’t!”

“Very well. We’ll talk again when you’re ready to listen to reason.” Instead of arguing further, he stepped out of the room, closed the door, turned the key in the lock, and stood waiting to see what she would do.

Lady Charlotte did not disappoint him.

She pounded on the door with her fists and kicked it with her boots. She rattled the knob, but the door was firmly locked.

“Are you ready to do as I ask?” he demanded through the door.

“Never!” she shouted back.

He had not expected her to give up without a fight. But he was not going to give up, either. He would leave her alone to think. Eventually, his charming—disarming? disturbing? delightful?—captive would come to understand that she had no choice except surrender.

Charlotte had never been so furious or felt so frustrated.
Keep her prisoner, would he? Marry her off to some stuffy old Englishman, would he? Like hell he would!
She would never give up or give in. She would die an old maid before she would concede the battle to him! After all, it was only four years until she was one and twenty. Oh, God. Four years!

The sound of her stallion trumpeting his anger as he resisted those who held him captive sent her running to the window. She peered through the leafy branches of the majestic oak that grew there and saw two stable boys trying in vain to subdue Mephistopheles. She and her horse were alike. They were both renegades, used to doing as they pleased, used to running wild. Until
he
had come along.

Charlotte paced from corner to corner of the elegant bedroom, tears of anxiety falling unnoticed. She felt sore and bruised all over from her fall down the stairs, but her aching bones were not what concerned her. She could not bear the thought of living under that man’s thumb for years to come.

How dare the earl confine her! She would never
make the promises he was demanding in exchange for her freedom. Dress like a
lady
. Act like a
lady
. Talk like a
lady
. She would dress and act and talk just as she always had and be damned to him!

Despite the fact her father had been an English lord, she was not an English lady. She was an American. The high-handed guardian who had been appointed in her father’s will was wrong to try and force her into a mold she didn’t fit. It was like squeezing her feet into dainty satin slippers when leather riding boots would fit so much better. She liked wearing trousers. She liked riding astride. She liked saying exactly what was on her mind.

And what was wrong with the way she was? It had been fine for dear Papa. Oh, how she missed him! If only he had not taken ill and died. If only she had been allowed to stay at her plantation home in New Orleans instead of coming to live in this damp, drafty castle in England.

Suddenly the raging horse fell silent. Charlotte ran back to the window to see what had happened to Mephistopheles.

He
was there. His hand lay on Mephistopheles’s nose, calming the stallion, who stood quietly for him. Charlotte quivered with indignation that Mephistopheles should stand tamely for anyone but her, and that her horse had conceded the battle so easily to their mutual foe.

A soft knock at the door drew her attention away from the window. “Charlotte, I’m sorry.”

She ran to the door and spoke through it. “Oh, Livy, thank goodness. Turn the key and let me out.”

“I can’t, Charlotte. Lion would be furious if I did.”

“Don’t be such a nodcock,” Charlotte chided. “How will he know you unlocked the door?”

“He would ask. And I couldn’t lie to him.”

Charlotte leaned her forehead against the cool wooden door. Lady Olivia, the earl’s sister, was eight years her elder, already five and twenty. But she was as timid as a mouse—and looked a great deal like one, too, with her plain brown hair and large hazel eyes.

Charlotte had done all she could over the past four months since she had arrived to encourage Livy to rebel against the strictures in her life. So far Livy was a butterfly still stuck tight in her chrysalis.

“I don’t know what your brother was so upset about in the first place,” Charlotte complained. “All we did was race his carriage to the house.”

“You cannot blame Lion for being angry at finding his ward dressed in trousers and riding astride that huge black beast,” Livy said through the door. “You know I nearly fainted myself when I first saw you mount Mephistopheles wearing breeches.”

“Mephistopheles would never hurt me,” Charlotte
protested. “And I refuse to ride sidesaddle when riding astride makes so much more sense.”

“I’m afraid Lion won’t be swayed by your arguments, Charlotte. I warned you, did I not?”

“Why have you stopped calling me Charlie?” Charlotte asked softly. “I thought we were friends, Livy.”

A pause and then, “Lion doesn’t approve.”

“You have a mind and a will of your own, Livy. You don’t always have to do what your brother says.”

There was a long pause before Charlotte heard the key move in the lock. The door opened, and Olivia stepped inside. “Oh, Charlie, look at your face! What happened?”

Charlotte’s forehead was throbbing, but too many other things had been on her mind to worry about it. She crossed now to the standing mirror in the corner and gingerly touched the black-and-blue goose egg.

At that moment Mrs. Tinsworthy arrived at the door. “Oh, my dear Charlie,” the elderly lady said as she entered with a handful of medicinals. “What on earth was that poor boy thinking?”

Charlotte had never been a very good patient, and it was hard to sit still for Mrs. Tinsworthy’s attentions to her bruised face. What kept her silent during her ministrations was Mrs. Tinsworthy’s references to the Earl of Denbigh as “that poor boy.”
The housekeeper sounded almost sympathetic. As far as Charlotte could tell, the earl could take care of himself. After all, she was the one with the bruises.

Charlotte had discounted all the stories she had heard about the earl since she had arrived at Denbigh Castle. How he had killed a man simply because he didn’t like the way he tied his neck cloth. That he was so dangerous with his fists that no one would go into the ring with him at Gentleman Jackson’s salon. That his fencing bouts at Angelo’s had resulted in serious injury to at least three young bucks of the
ton
who had wanted to try their hand at besting him. And that he was an unbeatable whip, risked life and limb to race his cattle, and always won.

Now that she had met him, she believed every word.

Worse than all of that, in her mind, however, was the way he ignored his family. He had elderly, sickly grandparents that he rarely visited, and his younger sister, Olivia, had been left alone in the country to wither away into an old maid. It was no wonder, Charlotte thought, that his bride had killed herself rather than marry the man.

But she could see why Lady Alice had been attracted to Denbigh in the first place. His eyes were startling to behold, such a light, silvery gray they had made her breath catch in her throat the first
time he looked at her. He had an aristocratic nose and angular cheekbones. His mouth was wide and generous, though he kept it pressed flat most of the time in a grim line. Even more impressive was the man himself. His tightly fitted jacket emphasized his broad shoulders, while his flat stomach and strong thighs were shown to advantage in skintight buckskins. Oh, he was attractive, all right.

She wasn’t going to let that sway her opinion of him. What good were looks when the man himself was so flawed? Imagine, ordering his sister around! Livy obeyed him like some English spaniel. Charlotte would never come to heel.

The Earl of Denbigh had finally met his match. It was time he learned to treat his family better. His servants, too, for that matter. And he could use a little instruction in the proper care and consideration of a ward. Oh, yes, Charlotte Edgerton had a few lessons to teach the arrogant earl.

“Come on, Livy,” Charlotte said, when Mrs. Tinsworthy was finished with her ministrations. “Let’s go talk to your brother.”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Charlie. He’s in the salon with Lady Frockman. Besides, you don’t have Lion’s permission to leave this room.”

Charlotte gave a derisive, unladylike snort. “I don’t see anyone to stop me.”

“Lion won’t appreciate being interrupted,” Olivia said.

“I don’t care,” Charlotte replied. “I didn’t want to be locked in my room. Did your brother care? No, he locked me in, anyway.” She took a few steps toward the door, but Olivia held back. “Are you coming?”

“No. I’m not.”

“All right, Livy, have it your way. I’ll beard the Lion by myself.” She grinned at her play on words.

Livy wasn’t the least amused. Her brow furrowed anxiously, and her eyes looked worried. “Good luck, Charlie.”

“Are you suggesting I’ll need it?” Charlotte asked.

“Oh, yes. More than luck. Courage. And fortitude. And a stiff British upper lip.”

Charlotte laughed as she headed out the door. “You’re forgetting I have something much better than a stiff British upper lip.”

“What’s that?”

“A strong American backbone.”

Charlotte shoved open the door to the earl’s study without knocking, intending to confront him—and gasped.

The earl sat on the edge of a claw-footed sofa, his dark head pressed against a reclining woman’s naked bosom.

Charlotte stood frozen, her eyes riveted to the sight of the earl’s mouth releasing a damp, rosy crest. “My lord,” she whispered.

He rose like a hungry lion above its feast, his dark mane wild, his eyes feral, then viciously angry as they focused on her.

“Out!” he rasped. “Get out!”

She backed away, then turned and ran. But not to her room, where he had ordered her to stay. She headed instead out the front door—where she was
forbidden to go—slamming the heavy portal defiantly behind her.

Denbigh rearranged the immaculate waterfall his valet had created with his neck cloth, shoved a hand through dark curls cut in a Brutus, and bowed gracefully to the half-naked woman draped on the sofa. “You will have to excuse me, Lady Frockman,” he said through tight jaws. “Duty calls.”

“Stay, Lion,” Lady Frockman cajoled. “The brat is gone, and we can be alone.”

Denbigh’s gray eyes turned cold. “Take care, Claudia. You are speaking of a young lady.”

“But, Lion, you’ve called her worse yourself!” Lady Frockman protested.

Of course he had. The incorrigible minx was driving him mad. But he could not allow his young ward to be disparaged by a lady who was, despite her title, no lady. “You will be gone when I return, Claudia. Samuels will arrange to have a carriage take you back to London.” Without another word he pivoted on his booted heel and headed out the door of the salon.

“If you send me away, Lion, I’m not coming back,” Lady Frockman threatened.

Denbigh did not even pause. He should never have brought his mistress to his home in the first place. It was an outrageous thing to do. But there
had been no one to say him nay for a very long time. His grandfather, the Duke of Trent, had been ill for years, keeping him and his duchess housebound on their estate in Kent. Responsibility for the family had fallen on Denbigh’s shoulders when he was still a boy himself, but along with it had come a great deal of freedom to do as he pleased.