The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) (12 page)

Mrs. Jameson gave a secretive smile and stood to retrieve another wooden cup and a second pitcher. She placed the cup in front of him and poured. “There you are, now. This tea is the same as me mother’s. She drank it every day. Said it healed all the wounded places.”

He gulped it down unabashedly. “I shall pay you to supply it to me, Mrs. Jameson. The pasties as well. Whatever you wish.”

“No need to pay. Just come fer a visit as often as you like, and they will be here.”

Setting down his empty cup slowly, he looked at his plate and realized he had eaten three pasties. His cup had been refilled several times. He had consumed both things like a man starving to death. Thirsting to death.

“I am grateful for your hospitality,” he said to his plate.

He heard a chair scrape and saw Peter standing, retrieving his hat from the hook by the door. “Fields is waitin’. Best return to ’em.”

Chatham stood as well and nodded to Mrs. Jameson, gave little Lucy a wink, and followed Peter outside. He was about to bid farewell when Peter said, “Once me plantin’s done, I could lend you me plow. You’ll ’ave to buy seed first. Cranston in the village is still sellin’, and ’is stock is good.”

For a moment, Chatham was struck dumb. Again. It was apparently his day to experience discomfort. “Why would you help me?”

Peter’s eyes moved from the horizon to Chatham. There was no subservience in his expression, nor defiance, nor pity. He looked … calm. As though he was rooted in something deeper than the earth, and no wind could shake him. The farmer donned his hat and started toward his plow, calling over his shoulder, “Better view, I suppose.”

Chatham watched him walk away then untied and mounted Franklin. As he rode back toward Chatwick Hall, he tried to imagine himself tilling or planting or even clearing the rocks and rebuilding the low wall along the southeastern corner. He laughed aloud, causing Franklin’s ears to twitch.

Benedict Chatham was a peer of the realm. He did not labor. He lounged on Mrs. Knightley’s divan and drank her whisky. He played the odds and counted cards at Reaver’s. When he was in the mood for sport, he visited Gentleman Jackson’s or Angelo’s. When the boredom grew too great, he invented games of his own, ferretting secrets and selling them to the highest bidder.

He was not the sort of man who wore shirtsleeves and drove a plow, for Christ’s sake. The very thought was absurd. Idly, he wondered if Charlotte would laugh when he told her of the offer from one of Lady Wallingham’s farmers.

More likely she would scoff and accuse him of being a worthless idler, then encourage him to accept Jameson’s help. She was painfully American in her views. Last evening, in their bed, with her flame-red hair plaited over one white-garbed shoulder, she had read aloud the drivel of that Scot, Adam Smith. He had rolled his eyes at her rhapsodies about unencumbered markets. She had swatted his arm with her book, and he had come within a hair’s breadth of pinning her beneath his body and tossing the book across the room into the fire. Instead, he had said nothing and returned to studying his father’s tedious recordings about crop yields from 1793.

As he spotted Chatwick Hall ahead, just beyond the next rise, a peculiar thrill ran up from the base of his spine, and he nudged Franklin to move faster. He wanted to see her. To bed her. To secure his fortune in the way he had always done.

He was Benedict Chatham.

It felt good to reaffirm it, like putting on a familiar, well-fitted pair of Hessians.

He was a rake, not a farmer. He could strip a woman of her resistance with a single glance.

It was time, he decided, to apply his skills where they would prove most fruitful—seducing his wife once and for all.

*~*~*

CHAPTER TEN

“The purpose of servants is to ensure I need not overly concern myself with such things as dust. Thus, if dust is present, perhaps I require new servants.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her butler regarding an unfortunate collapse of household discipline.

“Come now,” Charlotte gasped, stretching toward her quarry. “You mustn’t resist any longer. I will have you.”

The rickety wooden chair beneath her feet creaked and wobbled.

“Drat.” She clutched the back of the chair in one hand and a broom in the other. As she extended the broom above her head in a vain attempt to sweep away the cobwebs of the dining room, her balance wavered again. The wisp danced away teasingly on a puff of air, escaping her long, trembling reach.

Her stomach clenched as her balance began to tip. Then, she heard an ominous scrape as the chair slipped on the polished wood. A shout sounded behind her, but she was flailing, her right knee unable to twist as the chair began to slide and tip and—

Hands grasped her hips and yanked her body backward into hard, lean arms. One arm crushed her waist and pulled her down as her boots flailed and the broom flew out of her hand.

“Ergh!” Distantly she heard the clatter of the broom landing across the room.

“What in blazes are you doing?” a dark, furious voice growled in her ear as her feet clunked to the floor. Another arm came around her shoulders and banded her tightly against a lean masculine frame.

“Chatham?” she wheezed, her head spinning at his scent, his nearness. His anger.

He still had not released her. In fact, his breath was hot against her ear and cheek. Hot and damp and panting as though she had given him the fright of his life. “This is the limit.” His arms dug in harder, a kind of punishment. “You’re a bloody disaster, you daft woman.”

She blinked at his heat so suddenly surrounding her. “Ch-Chatham.”

He shook her against his body. “Do you ever
think
before plunging headlong into calamity? Sweet Christ, obviously not or you would avoid landing on your arse, tossing your skirts, and giving the gents in Hyde Park the show of their lives.”

His accusations stung. She
was
a disaster. Still, his ferocity was disorienting, for Chatham’s temper rarely ran warmer than tepid tea. He certainly never boiled. “I—I … the chair seemed sturdy enough … and I was the only one tall enough …”

The arm currently locked across her collarbone shifted, and his fingers wrapped lightly around her throat. “You could have broken your neck, you bloody fool.” The fingers stroked mindlessly, sending little shivers along her skin to her breasts.

She was grateful he could not see her reaction, the way her nipples peaked. They did that often when he was near. And right now, he was very near. Wrapped entirely around her, in fact.

His thumb traced her pulse, drew tiny circles. “If I ever catch you doing something so bloody stupid again, I will tie you to that monstrosity of a bed—”

“I am unhurt, Chatham.” Her hand settled over his wrist. “You may let go.” His muscles felt like steel over bone. At her back, his chest heaved.

“For now,” he gritted, gradually easing, his arms loosening until they fell away. “Can scarcely leave you alone for half a day without you turning an ankle or setting your apron on fire.”

It took her a moment longer to recover. The man was so potent, even when he was simply preventing her cracking her head, he made her dizzy. Finally, she pivoted to face his fierce glower. “That only happened once, as you well know. And I was not wearing it at the time.”

His fingers plucked something from atop her head. A dust-strewn cobweb drifted to the floor. “Where is Booth?” he demanded. “Or Esther?”

“They are tending to other tasks. Besides, they are not tall enough to reach—”

“Evidently, neither are you.”

Her hands landed on her hips. “The room must be cleaned before our new table is delivered.”

“What new table?”

“The one I purchased yesterday. From the carpenter in Alnwick.”

Turquoise eyes sparked and flashed with renewed outrage. “Bloody hell, woman. You are doing the work of a scullery maid, and rather than hire a proper staff to sweep cobwebs and clean chimneys, you purchase
furniture?”

“Not to worry.” She couldn’t help grinning. “I negotiated a
very
favorable price.”

A single elegant hand scraped over his face.

“We are not hounds,” she said pertly. “We must have somewhere to dine. If I have to eat bread and butter and cold ham whilst standing inside the larder one more day—”

“Charlotte.”

She ignored him to retrieve the broom.

“Charlotte.” This time, his voice was a menacing snap. “Touch that broom, and I will use it to paddle your backside.”

She stopped, her eyes going wide. “You would not.”

“Try.”

Turning narrowed eyes upon him, she retorted, “If you wish to prevent further mishaps, perhaps you could offer your assistance. A foreign concept, I am certain. But you are taller than I, strictly speaking.”

His long legs carried him past her, and he snatched up the broom, muttering, “Foolish, clumsy, stubborn …”

“I long wondered what ladies found so irresistible in you,” she remarked. “Now I see it. You insult them until they swoon.”

He slammed the chair back into place and climbed upon it, tossing the broom deftly upward and catching it at one end, then quickly dispensing with the elusive, dangling strands. His every movement was graceful, effortless.

She stood in awe and a great deal of envy.

“Apparently,” she observed, “an extra few inches makes all the difference.”

He froze, one hand still gripping the broom, the other gripping the chair.

She sniffed. “I could have done just as well had you not—”

“No more cleaning, do you understand?” He climbed down, scooted the chair to the wall rather forcefully, and leaned the broom beside it before stalking toward her. “No more scullery work.”

“Someone has to do it.”

“Hire a staff.”

She sighed. “Chatham, we cannot afford it.”

“We can. I shall plant the southeast corner. We’ll have our first harvest in July.”

Her eyebrows shot up without her permission. This was news, indeed. “How? I mean, this is most industrious of you, and I fully approve, but …”

“One of Lady Wallingham’s tenants has offered to help.” Mouth quirking, he gave her his usual cynical grin. “You doubt my capabilities, do you, love?”

Something in his eyes—a flicker of vulnerability, perhaps—made her take his question seriously. “No,” she murmured, stepping closer. “I do not.”

His grin faded, replaced with a small furrow between his brows.

“You blackmailed Prinny and sold his secrets for a colossal profit. You toyed with Lady Jersey’s reputation for sport then escaped with little more than a reprimand. You provide undisclosed services to the Home Office for undisclosed fees. Your father cut you off at the age of twenty, and by the age of twenty-eight,
you
were the wealthier one. All whilst drunk as a proverbial lord.” She laughed and shook her head. “You are one of the cleverest men I have ever known, Chatham. And Rowland Lancaster is my father.”

“Clever does not make one a farmer.”

Her heart twisted painfully until she could not bear it. She took hold of his hands. “This is your land. Yours. Clever means you can learn whatever you must to make it grand. Do you suppose cleaning fireplaces and polishing floors came naturally to me?”

“You will cease doing those things.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be silly.”

“I am not jesting, Charlotte. Hire a staff. A small one, if you must.”

Sighing, she released his hands, though he did not release hers. “I have only the funds I have scraped and saved. Every shilling I spend is a shilling less that I shall have when I leave for America.”

He blinked and jerked. Her fingers were suddenly free. Turning away, he paced to the other end of the room.

Chatham was not the pacing sort. He simply never became so agitated. It worried her just a bit.

“You—you know of my plans,” she ventured.

Waving a hand, he paced back in her direction. “Yes. Your plans to leave. I am well aware.”

“Then you understand. Beginning a new enterprise is quite costly if one intends to succeed, particularly in an unfamiliar place.”

He came within a foot of her and stopped, his gaze assessing. “If we obtain new tenants, the cost of hiring a staff will be negligible. As you have suggested, tenants will be more likely to sign leases if they see the estate is being restored. Regard it as an investment. Your costs will be reimbursed from the estate’s income, and the remaining profit will be divided equally, as you suggest.”

Pleased that he was coming around to her point of view, she weighed his suggestion and, seeing its merits, nodded. “Perhaps you are right.” Then, she chuckled and glanced down at her skirts, where smears of dust had nearly ruined the leaf-green muslin. “I have enjoyed the work to a surprising degree, but my skills—and my gowns—may be better suited to managing.”

“Hire workmen, as well.” His gaze was flat, determined. “The longer we leave the roof unrepaired, the more damage we shall incur.”

“And the tenants?”

“Leave that to me.”

Delight filled her. At last, he was coming around, seeing that he and she were partners. True partners. She smiled her pleasure at him. “Splendid. We shall be a great success, you and I. Wait and see.”

He gazed at her, unblinking, unsmiling, for long moments. Then, he glanced away as though he’d stared into the sun. “I should help Booth finish repairing the stables.”

As Charlotte watched Chatham exit through the doors, his tall, elegant form moving swiftly upon long, graceful strides, she experienced an echo of earlier sensations. The ones that always flummoxed her and produced unexplained aching and heat in the regions just south of her navel. With a shuddering breath, her fingers retraced the path of his hand along her throat.

She wondered how a man’s touch could linger long after he had left the room.

*~*~*

It was late, and Chatham hoped to God she was asleep. Equally, he hoped she was awake. And naked. And waiting for him like a freckled virgin sacrifice.

He picked his way up the weakened stairs, skipping the ones that creaked loudest. With a lone candle in one hand and his riding coat and waistcoat draped over his arm, he was not keen to fall through amidst the thick darkness.

He nearly laughed at his own creaking aches. For a man who never wore shirtsleeves and emphatically did not labor, he reckoned he had done well today. Booth had said so, at least by the end. For the first three hours, Chatham had attained more splinters than progress.

Upon entering the bedchamber, he found the massive bed empty. Cavernous disappointment crashed upon him. Where was she?

“Where have you been?” came a feminine voice from his right. “I was beginning to fret.” She stood in a pool of light, a red-haired, white-gowned maiden poised in the doorway to the dressing room.

She was not naked. His body did not care. It filled and hardened and demanded and ached. Bloody hell, he’d thought he’d exhausted himself sufficiently.

He draped his coat and waistcoat over the back of a newly positioned wooden chair and moved to set his candle on the ragged table beside the bed. “The repairs are complete. The horses have a roof and solid walls once again.”

She chuckled lightly, the sound trickling down his spine in a cascade. “If only we could say the same.” She hugged herself and moved further into the room, going to her side of the bed. “I know, I know. Soon we will. I fear patience has never been one of my virtues.”

Neither was it his. He watched her shrug out of her dressing gown and climb into bed. Noted the sharp points of her nipples thrusting against the thin muslin beneath. Clenched his fists and his jaw and the muscles of his abdomen. Swallowed hard with need.

“I should … wash.” Taking the light with him, he moved quickly into the dressing room. There, he stripped off his shirt and washed with the warm water she had left in a pitcher on the washstand. She did that every night, always providing enough for both of them.

In truth, what you should be doing is seducing her.
He took his soap from the drawer and finished washing, then rinsing, then drying his chest and arms briskly. The throbbing in his groin did not abate. Visions of her small, sharp-peaked breasts would not leave his bloody mind. They were nothing, he assured himself. Certainly not the lush, rounded sort he was accustomed to. They were barely worth glancing upon.

He wanted them in his mouth. He wanted his cock inside her.

He grasped the edges of the washstand and let his head fall forward.
Seduction will keep her here. Plant your heir in her belly and be done with this torturous deprivation.