The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) (19 page)

“Chatham,” she panted. “Perhaps we should return to bed.”

“Oh, but we have not yet solved the problem, I think. It is essential you comprehend the lay of the land so that, together, we may find a
satisfying
resolution.” His thumb settled between her folds, gently flicking upward to expose her most sensitive spot.

“I think you are attempting to distract me.”

“The river runs deep and lush, love.” Two of his fingers sank inside, pulsing subtly as his thumb circled. Her opening was sore where he penetrated, but the slight sting only added a hard edge to the pleasure. “Should there be storms of sufficient force, it overflows its banks, rushes out to saturate the surrounding land.” His fingers stretched her deliberately. “Spreads itself wider.” His thumb pressed firmly, ratcheting Charlotte’s pleasure until the pressure was nigh unbearable. “And refuses to retreat until everything is soaked and quenched.”

“Chatham,” she gritted, writhing against his hand, clenching around his fingers, and running her fingernails lightly against his chest. “I do hope you intend to finish what you’ve begun.”

He smiled, slow and wicked. She loved that smile, savored the sight of it as the last of his earlier tension left his eyes.

“Ah, love,” he murmured silkily. “I always do.”

*~*~*

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“It cannot last, Humphrey. Mark my words. A devil may disguise himself as a saint only so long before his horns begin perforating his hat.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her companion, Humphrey, upon learning of the remarkable transformation of the scandalous Marquess of Rutherford.

“That scapegrace is positively diabolical,” intoned the Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham from her perch in Grimsgate Castle’s richly paneled drawing room. “If he is clever in anything, it is digging about to unearth information, clandestine and otherwise. Why should he require my advice on his estate matters? Perhaps he should consult the Home Office. Or that ill-bred ruffian, Mr. Reaver.”

Charlotte struggled to maintain her polite expression in the face of Lady Wallingham’s obvious distaste for Chatham. The white-haired, sharp-nosed woman was tiny compared to her voice, which trumpeted and echoed loudly in vast rooms like the one where they sat, sipping tea.

Charlotte had decided to call on Lady Wallingham after last night’s conversation with her husband. Obviously, Chatham needed a direction for his overactive thoughts, a focus for his mind, and she’d thought perhaps Lady Wallingham, being older than the soil itself, might have knowledge of the best use of their land.

His land,
she corrected.
His. Not yours.

She’d had trouble remembering that of late. Her place was America. It was. Unfortunately, that tale felt increasingly like a story she’d heard long ago from a friend she no longer knew.

Clearing her throat, she tried again, addressing the dowager with a smile. “You might be surprised by the changes in Lord Rutherford over the past months, Lady Wallingham. And in the estate. Perhaps you could come for a visit—”

“I know all I need to know about it. Benedict Chatham is a scoundrel. Scoundrels of that caliber do not change. They merely grow more devious, more clever at disguising their perfidy. Or they die. Perhaps he will die before you discover the truth of my words. Unfortunately, he comes from long-lived stock. I suspect he will outlast us all, more’s the pity.”

Setting her teacup on its saucer before she snapped the delicate china, Charlotte took a deep breath. It did not help.

“Lady Wallingham, I understand you have a low regard for my husband—”

The old woman harrumphed. “If it is possible to have a deeper dislike of someone, I have not yet discovered it. To be clear, I dislike
many
people.”

“Of that I am certain,” Charlotte snapped. “One may hardly avoid hearing of it ad nauseam.”

The woman’s sharp green eyes narrowed ominously.

But Charlotte had had quite enough talk about Chatham’s less sterling qualities. Lady Wallingham only knew who he had been in London. The drunkard. The gambler. The rake. It was a common malady of the ton to recognize only the surface and not the deeper character of a man.

Ignoring the dowager’s displeasure, Charlotte defended Chatham. “Your skepticism is noted, my lady. However, I must tell you the Rutherford I know is a finer man than most who call themselves gentlemen. He has borne a good deal of suffering with nary a complaint. He has worked tirelessly to improve the lands of the estate when he need do nothing more than lounge and idle away his time whilst awaiting payment of my dowry. He has taught himself new skills most gentlemen would scoff at attaining.”

“Yes, well,
unusual
skills are his specialty, are they not? I suspect your impassioned defense of his dubious character stems from that quarter.” A single white brow elevated, Lady Wallingham sipped her tea calmly.

Charlotte did not know how to reply. The lady’s intransigence was illogical, her malice like acid upon Charlotte’s temper. “I take it you do not intend to help him in any fashion whatever.”

“You take it correctly.”

“What has Chatham ever done to make you hate him so?”

Glittering green eyes blinked. A teacup settled into its saucer. “He was born.”

The venom of her answer was startling, but before Charlotte could pursue it, Viola entered, walking Lady Wallingham’s brown, droopy-faced hound on a lead.

The lady’s eyes lit and smiled. “Ah, Humphrey, you have returned, and just when I was in need of better company. Your timing, as always, is impeccable.”

Viola grinned and winked at Charlotte. “Yes, he prides himself on his timing, do you not, Humphrey?” Her friend scratched the overgrown pup’s pendulous ears, causing them to flop comically. “The squirrels, however, are dreadfully uncooperative.”

Lady Wallingham rose from her chair and took Humphrey’s lead. “Lady Rutherford, you shall attend my masquerade.” The woman’s chin was elevated, her command a supercilious surprise.

“I shall?”

“Bring the scoundrel with you. After I have watched you trounce his toes for several hours, perhaps I will be inclined to offer my assistance.”

“Well, I … thank you for the invitation. It is most kind of—”

“I require amusement,” she snapped. “You and that rapscallion shall provide it.” Without another word, she turned her blue-velvet-gowned back and led Humphrey from the drawing room.

Viola smothered a laugh and squeezed Charlotte’s arm. “How very peculiar. I believe she likes you.”

“You are daft.”

“No, I mean it. She spent the entire hour in your company and then invited you to her ball. For Lady Wallingham, that is practically a declaration of undying affection.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “I could live happily without such affection.” Then she smiled down at Viola. “Are you enjoying your stay here at Grimsgate?”

“Are you asking about my Tannenbrook hunt?”

“I am.”

Viola sighed. “He is most resistant. I admire his fortitude, frankly. However, I admit to a small degree of annoyance that he does not find me as irresistible as I find him.”

Chuckling, Charlotte tugged Viola toward the great hall, where twenty-foot walls were bedecked with tapestries older than Lady Wallingham and one end was anchored by a fireplace larger than most carriages. “Your harp playing did not sway him?”

“Laugh if you wish, but many gentlemen said they thought me an angel, I played so sweetly.”

“I have heard you play, Viola. With the greatest affection, I must tell you, they lied.”

Giggling helplessly, Viola swatted Charlotte’s arm. “I know that, silly. Though, I do admire your honesty. It is one of the things I love best.”

“Lady Rutherford.” The rumble came from behind them, in the direction of the gardens.

She spun around, accidentally yanking her friend off-balance. “Oh, apologies, Viola. Lord Tannenbrook! How lovely to see you again.”

“And you,” he said, moving toward them like an enormous cloud. A storm cloud, if she was not mistaken. One with black edges and ominous gray billows.

Oh, dear. Something has made him quite angry.
She tried to catch Viola’s gaze to determine the cause, but Viola was fixated upon him, her breathing fast, her fingers settling along her throat.

“Tannenbrook, I …” the petite Miss Darling said to the giant now looming over her, glaring as though he would like to squeeze her neck in one boulder-sized fist. Or perhaps kiss her.

Charlotte tilted her head, curious about his expression. Being married to Chatham had provided quite the education in male signals of lust, a subject that had previously held little interest for her. Now, she read the signs on Tannenbrook’s glowering, craggy face, and saw clearly he was not immune to Viola’s charms, after all. Very interesting, indeed.

From behind his back, Tannenbrook revealed a scrap of white linen embroidered with a purple fruit of some kind. A plum, perhaps. Or a grape. “I believe this is yours,” he growled.

Viola bit her lip, swallowed, and blinked rapidly, her lashes like feathery black fans. “I—I made it for you.”

“How many times must I say it, Miss Darling? I do not. Want. Your favors. Nor your gifts. Nor your hand in marriage.” With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the scrap of purple-dotted white at her feet. “Nor you. Cease this nonsense. Now.” He turned on his heel and stalked back toward the gardens, moving as though the devil were chasing him.

Beside Charlotte, Viola slowly bent her knees and gracefully retrieved the linen from atop her slipper, stroking the small purple blob and pressing the cloth between her palms. Charlotte watched as a single tear escaped down Viola’s cheek and her tiny nose turned red. Viola gasped harshly and pressed her fingers to her lips.

Unable to bear her distress, Charlotte wrapped her friend in a sideways hug, grateful in that moment her arms were long enough to squeeze her tight. Viola’s beautiful head fell onto Charlotte’s shoulder, and Charlotte stroked her cheek.

“Oh, Viola. Do not cry.”

More tears escaped. More gasps and hard shudders.

Charlotte rarely saw Viola so distressed. But given her feelings for the man, what Tannenbrook said was enough to break any woman’s heart, even the indomitable Miss Darling.

“I—I must go and wash my face. I am certain I look dreadful,” Viola said, voice wavering, eyes downcast and damp.

Charlotte loosened her arms but did not release her. “Tell me what you made for him, Viola.”

Her friend fingered the uneven edge of the linen.

“He enjoys fishing. So I made him a handkerchief with a trout embroidered on the corner.”

“A trout? Is that the—er, purple bit?”

“I ran out of silver thread.”

“And the green stem is a … tail?”

“I also ran out of purple.”

Charlotte nodded, swallowing a smile. Viola’s embroidery skills were even worse than her musicianship. “Perhaps it is time to consider suspending the Tannenbrook hunt,” she suggested gently. Immediately, she felt Viola’s rejection of the idea in her rigid shoulders. “Only for a short while, Vi. Just to give you both time to consider … everything.”

She shook her head, but her reaction was more uncertain than Charlotte anticipated. “I should go and wash.” She wiped at her eyes then patted Charlotte’s hand. “I will be fine. Thank you for …” Her lips compressed and trembled, her voice choking. “Thank you, dearest Charlotte. For being my true friend.” She pulled away and rushed off, clutching the handkerchief in her fist.

*~*~*

“As tempting as you make it sound, Charlotte, I have no wish to dance the waltz for the pleasure of an old dragon who cannot speak my name without breathing fire.” Chatham tugged at his boot, sighing in relief when his damp foot came free. He’d been trudging around the northwest section most of the day, and the soggy mess was hell on a man’s Hessians.

“But, Chatham, we must. As I have explained, Viola is in severe distress. I need you there to help me … plot.”

“Plot.”

“I am not a proficient meddler. For example, I tried every possible argument to persuade Andrew to abandon his
tendre
for Miss Darling, and I achieved only friction between my cousin and me. You are much more devious than I.”

He groaned as his second boot released. “True. However, most of my coats no longer fit properly.”

She sighed wistfully. “Yes, you are … bigger.”

He shot her a grin over his shoulder.

She blushed. “But that is easily remedied with a bit of alteration. We have more than a fortnight to prepare. Besides, Lady Wallingham has said if we attend her masquerade, she will share what she knows of your lands. She may have useful insights that will benefit us.” She knelt next to where he sat on a low divan near the washstand. “Please, Chatham.”

He braced one elbow on his knee and turned his head to look at her. She had already taken down her hair. Spiraling flames tumbled loose over her shoulders. Her gown was white and not nearly sheer enough for his liking, but the neckline scooped low, exposing her freckles. Eventually she would stop bothering to wear a gown to bed, once she realized he would only strip it from her.

“Very well, love. Because you asked.”

She beamed a smile at him. “Splendid.”

He absorbed her happiness helplessly, like sunlight suffusing his bones, driving out the wretched damp and exhaustion. How could he be expected to live without this woman? The very thought made him sick to his stomach.

Reaching out to stroke her cheek, he savored her warmth. “Do not expect too much from Lady Wallingham. She despises me.”

“Most perplexing. She is sour toward everyone, but for you, she appears to have a particular enmity.”

He nodded and grinned wryly. “I find it amusing. Should I comment upon the weather, she accuses me of causing lightning to strike.”

“Dreadfully spiteful, even for her. Do you know the cause?”

Shrugging, he stood and pulled his shirt off over his head, tossing it on the pile with his wet stockings. “She resents my existence.”

“So she implied. I don’t understand it.”

He splashed his face and neck with warm water from the basin. Charlotte placed a towel in his hand before he even asked. For a woman who had never planned to be a wife, much less a valet, she was spectacularly good at it. He wiped his face and ran a hand through his hair. “Did you know she had a sister?”