The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) (10 page)

After banking the fire, Esther grunted a reply to Charlotte’s “good night” as she retreated through the arched doorway. Charlotte, meanwhile, gathered up her towel and bucket and lit a candle before all but dragging her exhausted body up the stairs to find her bed.

The stairs squeaked loudly, but they held, just as they had earlier when she had gone up to explore the rooms on this floor. When she came to the chamber at the end of the corridor, she saw the same thing she had seen then—her husband, lying on one half of the only bed in the house. He hadn’t moved in hours. He was on his back, his face turned away from the windows, his left arm across his belly, the other by his side. He still wore his coat and cravat.

Gently, she set the bucket on the bare floor and gave her face, hands, and neck a cursory wash. The head-to-toe, sweat-caked dirt came off easily enough, but it quickly darkened the water. Or, perhaps that was simply the dwindling light. Sighing at the warm water’s relief, she unbuttoned her pelisse and folded it inside-out until the filthy parts were contained and she could use it as a pillow. She laid the garment on the empty half of the bed before taking the candle around to Chatham’s side.

He was pale. But she could see his chest rising and falling, and it eased her mind.
Confusing man.
Or, rather, the feelings he caused confused her—frustration, annoyance, disgust, all tangled wildly with sympathy and fascination and a strange heat. The odd sensations had intensified when he had lifted her from a pile of muck in the middle of Maddox Street, when she had provoked him and he had reacted not with temper but resignation. She had seen his weariness. She saw it now in the shadows beneath his eyes, when he was asleep and unable to distract her with outrageous flirtation and provocative words.

Slowly, so as not to awaken him, she traced a single fingertip along the bones of his forehead. A lock of his hair, straight and dark, brushed like cool silk against her knuckles. Drawing a path over his low brows and high cheekbones, she found herself inexplicably drawn to his lips. They were smooth, defined. Beautiful, really. They twitched beneath her fingers, and he sighed, heating her hand.

Swallowing against a sudden restlessness, she withdrew, smoothing her damp palm along the muslin at her hip. He did not feel feverish. That was good. Booth had assured her Chatham was simply expelling the “poison” from his body, and would improve in time. She repeated those words to herself as a twist of concern seized her heart. She did not want him to die, nor even suffer too badly.

It is simply the compassion one feels for any living creature, Charlotte,
she told herself, moving to her side of the bed.
You would feel the same for Andrew or Edward or Freddie. Or, for that matter, a dog left to starve.

Her gaze returned to his still form, long, lean, and well proportioned, despite being too thin.
Nothing so affectionate as a dog,
she revised.
A wolf, perhaps. A very hungry, dangerous wolf.

Shaking off her silly fancy, she sat and removed her boots, sighing as the cool air touched her stocking-clad toes. Then, she retrieved a large woolen blanket folded lengthwise at the foot of the bed, where Esther had deposited it earlier. She set the candle on the floor and, with a wave and snap of her arms, spread the blanket out over her sleeping husband, reserving half for herself. With a puff, she blew out the candle. Better not to let her eyes linger on him too long. Her concern would overwhelm her, and she would sit for hours, staring. Instead, she lay down with a sigh beside him, the feather mattress surprisingly comfortable, although the dank smell would have to be remedied.

She sighed, drawing her folded pelisse beneath her cheek. He probably thought she would be perturbed by sharing a bed. She almost chuckled. The bed was plush and enormous, with more than enough room for two bodies to sleep soundly without ever touching. If he imagined she would sleep on the floor out of misplaced maidenly modesty, he was delirious. This bed was as much hers as his, and she intended to keep her half. Besides, she had no illusions about Chatham lusting after her—he plainly did not. His flirtations were designed to unnerve, not seduce. And once he realized she wanted the same thing he did—to finish their year together and part ways amicably—he would go back to ignoring her, and they would rub along together rather well.

Yes,
she thought, her lips forming a smile.
Once he understands we are business partners, everything will fall into place. Marriage is only another form of contract, after all.

*~*~*

CHAPTER EIGHT

“If you are not occasionally vexed, you are not married. It is as simple as that.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Atherbourne upon hearing said lady’s exasperation with Lord Atherbourne’s continued enmity toward Sir Barnabus Malby.

Chatham’s day began with a feminine arm draped across him, but not in any enticing way. The long, slender limb was practically crushing his throat, a hand plastered over his face until he thought himself half-blind. Something pressed against his hip. It felt like a knee.

Squinting at the early light sheening through the windows, he plucked the fingers from his face and carefully undraped the arm.

“Mmmrph,” grumbled a feminine voice near his ear, growly and disgruntled. The arm, which resisted briefly then relaxed, was freckled.

He sighed, grimacing as she dug her knee into his side. His wife apparently regarded him as a pillow to be shaped to her favored form. He rolled over and sat up, noting the wool blanket of which he had been permitted one small corner. The rest was wrapped about her waist and long legs. She clearly had not hesitated to crawl into bed with him.

Aggravating female.

He ran a hand over his face and went in search of water. Oddly, the pain in his head had diminished to a bearable throb, although his eyes were dry and gritty, and he needed a shave.

And a fucking gallon of whisky.

He found Esther in the kitchen, grumbling to herself and slamming an axe into one leg of a broken, upended table. The resulting
crack
made it feel as if she were driving the thing into his head.

“I presume a valet is out of the question.”

She yanked the axe loose and applied it with increased force, severing the leg.

“Hmm. Hot water, then, perhaps?”

The maid stopped, wiped her broad forehead with one meaty forearm, and shot daggers at him before giving a single nod toward the pot over the fire.

“Ah. Your gracious assistance is unparalleled, my dear Esther.”

Her answer was to begin swinging at another leg.

He found an empty bucket and five crates of supplies—Charlotte’s doing, he presumed—stacked on shelves in the larder. How the bloody hell had she managed to purchase so much? He could only conclude Lancaster had given her extra funds. Likely her father had decided relying on Chatham to keep her fed and clothed and sheltered was too chancy. The thought inexplicably made Chatham want to swing an axe of his own.

Instead, he quickly rifled through everything from candles to brown-paper-wrapped loaves of bread. It took only a few minutes to find what he needed, fill a bucket with hot water, and carry the lot to the empty chamber where Booth had deposited his trunks. By the time he finished washing, shaving, and dressing, he felt marginally human.

Tucking Charlotte’s curved metal flask inside the pocket of his favorite buff coat, he found his way downstairs and out through the wild thicket of the kitchen garden, where he stopped briefly at the garden well for a refill. He noted the flowers embossed on the metal of the flask—irises and lilies—along with her initials. A frown tugged at his brow as he wiped the too-feminine container on his trousers, slipped it back into his pocket, and headed for the stables.

The brick structure, built perhaps thirty years earlier by his father, looked at first glance to be in better repair than he had anticipated. Until he eyed the roof. There were more holes than slate.

God, this place is a disaster.

“Chatham!” Her voice came from behind him, entirely too cheerful for this ungodly hour.

He ignored her.

“Chatham!” More insistent. Closer this time, damn her long legs. She trotted to pull up alongside him. “I was searching for you.”

“So I surmised.”

“Are you going to help Mr. Booth repair the stables?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well, he could use your assistance. The horses—”

He stopped, watched her skid and turn to face him. “Charlotte.”

“Yes?” In the syrupy yellow light, her hair was like fire, as brilliant a red as any he had ever seen. Her expression was perplexed.

His eyes dropped to her gown. Brown today, a rich chocolate. More sensible than the blue, he supposed, although the bodice scooped significantly lower. He suspected she was freckled everywhere, but he would have to see her entirely naked to know for certain.

Pink invaded the freckles along her collarbone. She raised her chin a half-inch. “Stop that.”

“What?”

“You know.”

“Do I?”

She released a sigh of exasperation. “It does not work on me.”

He said nothing, merely stared at her.

Her flush deepened, her slight bosom rising and falling faster. “Where are you going, if not to the stables?”

“Where I go does not concern you, wife.”

She took two long steps, and suddenly she was so near, he could smell her. Clean and sweet and complex, her scent was lily of the valley blended with ripe pears and something more elusive. He had the strangest urge to devour her bite by bite until he knew the final ingredient.

“Of course it does. We are partners. Have you not yet realized?” Her green-and-gold eyes sparkled with a near-avaricious gleam. “We could be brilliant together, if you are willing.”

“Oddly enough, I was just going to say the same thing to you.”

She waved her hand dismissively in front of his nose. “Leave off the quips, for goodness’ sake, Chatham. I know you have no desire to seduce me.”

No desire? Was she out of her bloody mind? Aside from her glorious hips and the unreasonable restrictions imposed by her father, bedding her was worth one hundred thousand pounds. But, then, she didn’t know that.

“Be serious for a moment,” she continued, her hands now propped on her luscious hips. “Chatwick Hall rests on thousands of acres, most of which produce paltry rents at a rate well below their potential.” She now enunciated each word as if he were an imbecile.

He tilted his head. “And you discovered this information how, precisely?”

“Mr. Pryor. I paid him a small fee for his services.”

“You bribed your father’s solicitor.”

“It was not the first time, though he is resistant to bribery on a larger scale, more’s the pity.”

“The estate is mine, Charlotte, not yours. Were it not entailed, I would have sold the land along with everything else.”

“I know! But now we can fix it instead. If we work together, there is no reason we cannot make the estate solvent again. Even profitable. Why are you frowning?”

“I do not
wish
to fix it. Further, I do not have the
funds
to fix it. That is why I married you, if you recall.”

She rolled her eyes. “Funds are simple. I have a bit set aside, which should do for the first few—”

“Set aside.”

“—months if we are frugal. That is why it is imperative that we begin—”

“You wish to use your own funds to ‘fix’ my house.”

“—working together …” She blinked as she registered his mood. Then, she took a cautious step away from him. “It appears you object.”

He smiled darkly. “Yes, it appears I do.”

Her mouth worked, her lips pursing. He must have stunned her. Perhaps he’d stunned himself. Resentment billowed inside him like smoke, acrid and unfamiliar.

“Ch-Chatham, I … we must live here.”

He made her nervous. Good.

Closing the distance between them, he watched her stumble and reel away before catching her arms in his hands and drawing her close. Sunlight shone from her hair, highlighted the freckles across her forehead and nose and cheeks. He brought his mouth within a breath of hers. “What am I to you?” he murmured.

Her lips parted, soft and fine. Her warm breath brushed his chin. “M-my husband?”

Slowly, he brushed his lips across hers. It wasn’t a kiss so much as a stroke, a caress of flesh against flesh, light and teasing. “Not a project, then. Not a child or imbecile. But a man.”

She swallowed, the gold at the center of her eyes darkening as she gazed at his mouth. “Of course you are a man. Silly. I know that.”

Feminine hunger flared in her eyes a heartbeat before her lips swayed toward his like iron following a magnet, and for a moment, he considered withdrawing. But the breeze was blowing from behind her, and the sun heated her hair and skin, and he could smell the layers of her scent until his own hunger answered in startling fashion.

In the end, he wanted it. So he took it.

Took her mouth with his tongue, sliding inside her damp moan without a thought to who she was, to her innocence. She tasted of melted butter and salt and bread. She tasted sweet and succulent as plums plucked fresh and ripe. His hands reached blindly for her hips, compelled by a force far stronger than seductive skill or cold reason. All they wanted was to take hold and dig in. His fingers notched atop her bones, where a trim waist flowered into lush curves. His tongue pulsed and parried deliberately, teasing hers into a dance while his hands gripped of their own accord, grinding her against his burgeoning hardness.

Her hands grasped the tops of his shoulders, pushing and then pulling as though she could not decide whether she begged for more or less. He stoked the friction of their lips and tongues until it grew into a fire that needed quenching.

She was soft everywhere he touched her. Softer than he had imagined. The heat intensified until he wanted … inside. He even wanted to feel those small, inconsequential breasts. He wanted to brace her against the brick of the stables and lift her skirts out of his bloody way and then spread those exceptionally long legs and bury his cock to the hilt.

Again and again and again.

Not for one hundred thousand. But for the sheer pleasure of seeing how his wife looked when he made her come.

He gripped her nape and yanked his mouth free. She was panting, her eyes fully dilated, her nipples sharp against brown cambric. Her lips were swollen strawberry pink. He wanted back in. He wanted it too badly, the desire sharp and painful.

Gathering every reserve he had left, he forced the need down. It was nothing, he told himself. Merely a reaction to the limitations imposed by the bloody contract. That was all. His resentment resurged, reminding him of his purpose.

He gave her a cynical half-smile and drawled mockingly, “Ah, so a woman exists beneath all the mannish nonsense. I had heard rumors. Something about the Serpentine. Quite
revealing,
or so I was told.”

In reprising her humiliation from last winter, he had meant to cut her. The sharp jerk of her body and the flood of red on her face told him he’d succeeded.

Her palm slammed his shoulder with surprising force, and he released her, his own hands pulsing with the memory of where they had touched her.

Taking care to keep his expression from revealing more than he wished her to know, he said, “Do as you like with the house. Burn it to the ground. Rebuild it into a palace.” He tilted his head and casually extended his arm to stroke a knuckle over her still-hard nipple.

She gasped and flinched, then swatted his hand with a stinging swipe, crossed her arms, and backed away.

He refused to feel remorse. She needed to understand whom she had married and the limits of what he would tolerate. “Whatever project you wish to manage, leave me out of it,” he said, his voice low and cold. “I want only two things—a drink and a fuck. Unless you plan to give me either or both in great abundance, I suggest you keep your distance.”

And, with that, he turned on his heel and veered past the stables toward the road to the village. He would walk instead of ride. He would walk until he could no longer taste her, until the breeze no longer smelled of her, until the hurt in her green-and-gold eyes disappeared like a shadow at midday. At the moment, he suspected it would be a very long walk, indeed.

*~*~*

He kissed me.
Charlotte slammed her hoe into the center of a weed clump and yanked. The soil of the kitchen garden was rich but choked with grass and vines.

My first time. I have been kissed. Officially.

Seven hours after it had happened, she still could not quite believe it. Benedict Chatham, notorious libertine, had kissed her. With his tongue. What an astounding turn of events.

“Ye’re doin’ it wrong,” groused Esther from the opposite side of the well. It was the first thing she had said since coming outside to help. “Strike farther away and pull so ye dig beneath the roots.”

Charlotte paused and tried again, following Esther’s advice. When the clump came free with a firm tug, she gave her a distracted smile. “Thank you kindly. Most helpful.”

The maid grunted and resumed her own task of clearing the southernmost corner.

Taking a swipe at a long, ropy vine, Charlotte considered the sensations to which she had been introduced that morning. His flavor was different than she had supposed. While he smelled like citrus, he tasted cool and herbal, like mint or thyme. Perhaps it was his tooth powder. The blend had been heady, especially contrasted with the heat and slickness of his tongue against hers. For hours now, she had been reliving the extraordinary feel of him—his hands grasping her hips so tightly that each fingertip dimpled her flesh through folds of cambric. He had drawn her into his own hips until she could not help noticing … hardness. A ridge that seemed out of proportion to his frame. She knew what it was, in theory. She enjoyed expanding her education to subjects typically reserved for men. However, her mind was having a bit of trouble reconciling the pictures drawn for purposes of anatomy lessons and the sheer length of—