The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) (22 page)

When he similarly paused his stimulation for the fourth time, she dropped her head forward between her outstretched arms, sobbing his name. Begging for him to end it.

“At last you comprehend,” he said, his voice like a demon’s. “Shall I leave you now, Charlotte? Shall I bring you to the edge of bliss and leave you hovering there with nothing, cold and alone?”

She shook her head, beyond words, beyond caring about her pride or whether it was right to let him control her this way. “Anything. I will give you anything you want. Just … please. God, please, Chatham.”

He leaned over her, his breaths harsh and heaving against her back, against her ear. He was not as unaffected as he would have her believe, she noted with satisfaction.

“Anything?” he murmured. “Are you certain of that?”

She nodded, the motion frantic, a helpless moan escaping her lips.

“Remember your promise, love. I shall hold you to it.”

His hips thrust. Hard and deep. Long and true.

His hand pressed and stroked, driving her higher. Winding her tighter. Impossibly, irresistibly tight.

Her legs trembled, watery and aching.

He gathered her hair in his fist and set his open mouth upon her neck, suckling and nibbling as his cock worked inside her, heating and stroking and suspending her like a bird upon an updraft, poised unbearably in midair.

Then it broke. And she flew apart in a thousand blissful pieces, shouting and sobbing hoarsely as paroxysms scattered and shook her to her very core. She could not even form his name, only throw her head back upon his shoulder and cry her pleasure in wordless, moaning gasps.

Six more thrusts, and he joined her, the warmth of his seed filling her to the music of his echoing shouts and harsh groans. As his shudders dissipated, a muscular arm wrapped around her ribs and held her so tightly against him, it seemed he would absorb her body into his.

Her own trembling arms lifted from the wall, falling helplessly limp and weak to her sides. Fortunately, he held her upright, still buried deep inside, or she would have collapsed into a heap. Finally, she lifted a hand to his head, letting her fingers sift gently through his silken hair.

She should not have fallen in love with him. Nothing could come of this but pain for them both.

“You will keep your promise to me, wife,” he breathed against her ear. “I will see to it.”

She already suspected what his demand would be. Feared it as she would her own death. For, it would kill her to leave him.

But, when the time came, she supposed she must.

Unless he can be persuaded otherwise.

She almost dismissed the errant thought as overly fanciful and self-deceptive. She was not Viola, after all.

But here, now, with his arms firmly around her and his cock still firmly inside her, she thought perhaps there was a chance.

A chance to tempt the devil into keeping her with him forevermore.

*~*~*

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Solicitors are a necessary evil. Upon occasion, I question their necessity.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Charles, during a discussion of estate matters and the ills of the legal profession.

“He is here—now?” Charlotte recognized that her voice was squeaking, but there was nothing for it. She’d just been informed of a calamitous event. Anyone would express surprise.

“Aye, m’lady. Saw ’im on the drive not more’n a minute ago,” reported Booth, his hands turning his hat in circles nervously. “Ye suppose he’s here to deliver foul news, then? I must keep me position, m’lady. I must.”

She put on a calm face for Booth and removed her apron, hanging it on the peg beside the door to the garden and brushing the sides of her hair. “Let us not worry ourselves over unknowns, Mr. Booth. I am certain this is simply a friendly visit.”

She was not certain of anything of the sort. How many solicitors from London traveled all the way to Northumberland to pay a social call? Not many, she’d wager.

Charging through the kitchen, she breathed deeply the scent of baking pasties and looked around for Esther. The cook was cleaving the head from a trout Tannenbrook had delivered to her door that morning. But the surly maid was nowhere to be found. Interesting.

As she made her way through the servants’ hall to the front of the house, she heard the quick rapping upon the main door and pulled the heavy thing open. “Mr. Pryor,” she exclaimed, looking down upon his bald, rosy pate. “My, you have drifted far afield, haven’t you?”

His hat in hand, the portly solicitor bowed. “Lady Rutherford. I do hope you will forgive my unannounced visit. I have come on a matter of some importance.”

“Well, do come in.” As Charlotte stood aside to allow the man to pass, she spotted Booth out on the circular drive, tending the horses. He gave her a questioning glance, to which she shrugged subtly, then nodded to indicate he should continue his work. He tipped his hat and drew the team and Pryor’s travel coach away toward the stables.

Clearly, it had not been Mr. Booth who alerted the annoying Mr. Pryor, so it could only have been Esther. The turncoat. Charlotte should have known better than to trust her.

Pryor was craning his neck and turning in a circle inside the entrance hall. “My, my, my, Lady Rutherford. This place is not at all as Lord Rutherford described, I must say. A beauty, it is. He made it sound dreadful. A pile of rubble, I believe he called it. On the drive here, the fields appeared robust and bountiful. Rich, fertile lands. And this staircase. Splendid. Just splendid.”

A part of her was as pleased as a proud mother upon hearing Pryor’s praise. The rest was impatient to know why he was here at all. “We have done extensive repairs, Mr. Pryor. I am happy with the changes, though they are far from complete. Would you care to see the drawing room? I will ask Cook to make us some tea.”

The short man’s brows arched in surprise. “You have a cook?”

“Mmm. Quite a good one, actually.”

“And tea? Is that not—forgive me, my lady—dreadfully expensive?”

Apart from the fact that his question was rude, she always found herself irritated by the irksome Mr. Pryor with his rapid speech and intrusive nature. Had he been her solicitor, well, he would not have been for long.

“Lord Rutherford has done an admirable job of acquiring new tenants,” she replied. “His skills in negotiation are superb.”

That was true. She had discovered just how superb in the past two weeks. But she did not wish to think upon it now, for she would grow flustered and flushed, and she could not afford to be distracted in front of Mr. Pryor.

“Yes, yes, yes. Where is Lord Rutherford, if I might inquire? I must speak to him, as well. Matters of some—”

“Importance. Yes. I’m afraid he has not yet returned from his morning ride. I expect him home soon. Perhaps by the time we are settled in the drawing room, he will join us.”

She showed him upstairs to the crimson drawing room then hurried down to the kitchen to speak with Cook about tea. And Esther. “Find her,” Charlotte ordered, breathing too heavily for niceties. “Tell her I wish to speak with her at once. Alert me when she is located. Oh, and when Lord Rutherford arrives, he should join us in the drawing room. Immediately.”

Rushing back up the stairs, Charlotte paused outside the drawing room doors to catch her breath.
It could be nothing,
she thought.
Perhaps Papa wishes to provide additional funds. Perhaps he was struck by conscience. Perhaps a dragon will appear and swallow Mr. Pryor and his lofty hat then spit them into the sea.

You’ve been a believer in impossible things of late, haven’t you, Charlotte?

Settling a hand over her belly, she opened the doors and strode inside.

And there was Chatham, lounging on one of her primrose sofas, looking windblown and dashing in one of the coats she had altered for him. The blue one four shades darker than his eyes. Seeing him there, handsome and devastating, wearing a sardonic smile and having a droll conversation with the man who possibly spelled their doom caused her heart to skip a beat. The two men stood when they saw her.

“Husband,” she said breathlessly, annoyed to feel heat tingling simply everywhere.

A mocking half-grin curled his mouth. “Wife.”

She came around the small rosewood table to sit beside him. “I trust your ride was enjoyable.”

“My rides always are, provided the mount is sufficiently spirited.”

She cleared her throat, feeling the flush growing. “Lord Rutherford has done wonders with the estate, Mr. Pryor. The lands are flourishing under his hand. In his care, I mean. His knowledge and capabilities are astounding, really. The oats are nearly ripe. Er—ready for harvest. Another week, wouldn’t you say, Rutherford?”

Beside her, she could feel the heat of his gaze upon her cheek. “Perhaps,” he replied. “Mustn’t rush these things, you know. Perfect ripeness requires patience. A certain willingness to allow heat and moisture to rise and do their work, producing tender, succulent fruit. Much of it is instinctive. One must watch. Tend carefully. Prepare. And then, when the time is right, reap with great vigor.”

She should have brought a fan. At this rate, she would positively burst into flames, and whatever Mr. Pryor had come to tell them would matter not a whit.

Pryor seemed oblivious to the undercurrent. “I must say, the fields do appear to be flourishing, Lord Rutherford. Is it wheat you grow, primarily?”

“Among other things.”

“A good crop for this region, or so I am told.”

“Was your visit intended to accomplish a purpose, Mr. Pryor, or have you run out of conversation in London?”

Charlotte turned wide, thoroughly vexed eyes upon her husband. He looked carefree, his expression faintly sardonic, his posture relaxed. He was even stroking the side of her thigh with his knuckle. Granted, his hand was hidden from view, tucked between them and covered by the folds of her skirts. But he wasn’t taking this visit seriously at all. The man was clearly lacking the sense of the common goose.

Pryor nervously cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I have received some rather distressing reports, my lord. The, er, terms of your marriage agreement, according to one source, may have been violated.”

Oh, God. It was Esther. She knew she should have threatened the churlish ingrate. Her pleas had obviously fallen on deaf—and intractable—ears.

“Now, with only one report, and an uncertain one, at that, it would be a disservice to both you and Mr. Lancaster if the report were made in error and a hasty decision were reached.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to reply, intending to tell this odious, officious, rotund little man to head south, turn left, and not stop until he’d found the ocean floor. But Chatham spoke first.

“What do you suggest? Shall we call upon a magistrate?”

“Oh, nothing so official,” said the solicitor, waving a hand and entirely missing Chatham’s sarcasm. “I shall simply conduct an interview with you and Lady Rutherford, and any, er, members of the household who may have knowledge of the events in question.”

“And what events are in question?” Chatham’s voice was silken, but Charlotte could hear the deadly thread beneath it. He was not pleased. Not at all.

The solicitor withdrew a letter from the file beside him. “It occurred the evening of June 17th. Approximately two weeks ago. You were accused of imbibing wine from your cellar here at Chatwick Hall. Whether a state of drunkenness was achieved is suspected but unknown.” He set the letter aside. “That is why I am here, to ascertain the facts of the matter. As you know, you are not forbidden from imbibing, my lord, only from achieving a state of drunkenness.”

Charlotte hated few people, but she despised this bald little man with his small eyes and his technicalities. “It did not happen,” she snapped. “The accusation is absurd. My husband has not taken so much as a single tankard of ale between his lips since the day of our wedding.”

Pryor frowned. “He did not enter the cellar on June 17th?”

“Yes, he did.”

“And did he take up a bottle of wine with the intent to achieve inebriation?”

Chatham placed his hand on Charlotte’s thigh to stop her next response. Instead, he raised a brow at the solicitor. “I was not aware inebriation is regarded as an achievement. I should be a champion competitor.”

“Chatham,” she hissed. “You are not helping.”

The cook entered with the tea tray, setting it on the rosewood table. Charlotte thanked her then asked her to send Esther up to the drawing room. “Mr. Pryor,” she said, “I know who sent the letter, and I must tell you, she is wrong in her assumptions. Lord Rutherford has abstained from liquors of all kinds, and at great cost to his health initially. The incident in the cellar was a … misunderstanding.”

She poured the tea, struggling to steady her hands as it sloshed and dripped over the sides of the cups. One cup was chipped. She would give that one to Mr. Pryor. Oh, how she hated him. He had managed her allowance for years with just these sorts of interrogations.
You’ve purchased two horses in a single month, Miss Lancaster. Is such an expense really necessary, Miss Lancaster? Perhaps you could ride less often, Miss Lancaster.

After she distributed the cups, irritated by their telling rattle, she sank back onto the sofa next to Chatham, eager to watch him take the bald, aggravating solicitor apart. Just then, another knock sounded at the door. When she saw who it was, she turned her wrath upon the dour maid, who trudged in oddly shamefaced. She wanted to pour the entire pot of tea over the betrayer’s head.

“Ah, Miss Hazelwood,” said Pryor. “I do have questions for you regarding the matter you described in your recent letter. The, er, cellar incident.”

Esther’s jaw firmed, and she lifted her chin defiantly. “I sent the letter. Don’t regret it, neither.” She was staring directly at Charlotte, as though the message was for her alone.

After all the patience I have shown her, the allowances I have made for her discourtesies and insults, this is how I am thanked.
It stung. It shouldn’t have, perhaps, but Charlotte had given the woman the benefit of the doubt, had worked beside her for long hours, sometimes laughing at Esther’s gruff comments. She’d even managed to elicit a smile upon occasion. She’d thought the respect, or at least an understanding, was shared between them, two women who did things their own way. She’d been wrong.

“What do you recall of that evening, Miss Hazelwood?” Mr. Pryor queried.

Esther shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I was cleanin’ up after supper when that one there”—she waved a finger at Chatham—“nearly ran me flat, comin’ round a corner. Looked like the devil were on ’is heels. But it weren’t. It were ’er ladyship flyin’ after ’im, bent on savin’ ’im from ’isself.”

Mr. Pryor leaned forward, listening intently. “And when they reached the cellar, what did you see?”

“That one there”—again, she pointed to Chatham—“turns up with a bottle in ’is hand. ’Er ladyship begged ’im not to drink it. But ’ee weren’t listenin’. She told me to go. I didn’t want to. Drunkards is chancy. I left. Shut the door. But I stayed in the larder.”

Oh, dear,
thought Charlotte, suddenly concerned less for an erroneous report than an accurate one.
Perhaps I should stop her.

It was too late. Esther would not be stopped.

“Next thing I ’ear, ’er ladyship is caterwaulin’ somethin’ fierce, beggin’ ’im for mercy. Even prayin’ to the good Lord like she were dyin’.”

That was it. Charlotte was going to burn to a cinder right there in front of Mr. Pryor and Chatham and her busybody maid. The crimson walls dimmed in comparison to her cheeks. She could not look at Chatham. The devil had resumed stroking her thigh.

Esther sniffed, seeming genuinely distressed. “It were my intention to help ’er. I would ’ave, m’lady. Ye must believe. Cook stopped me. Said it weren’t my concern. That’s married business, she said.”

Charlotte covered her burning face with her hands. She would need a week of cold baths to cool her skin after this.

“Now, I cannot say for certain ’ee were drunk. I ain’t smelled it on ’im then or since. But I tell ye true, ’ee’s been after ’er ladyship at all odd times of the day, pullin’ ’er into this room and that, lockin’ the doors. Sometimes for hours. And more of that wailin’ and cryin’. It’s enough to break yer heart, it is.”