The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) (24 page)

Charlotte sighed, already weary to her bones of her dreadful mother-in-law. “You are in your cups. You should sleep. In the morning, I will help you pack your things so you may haunt some other library and plague some other unfortunate relation.”

White-blond hair glinted in the light from the window, a lock from her coiffure tumbling listlessly down her cheek as Catherine struggled to stand. The woman tilted threateningly to and fro before steadying herself against one of the shelves.

“Do you know what he did in this room? Rutherford. Do you know?”

“Reading, at a guess.”

Catherine leaned forward. “Nothing. He sat for hours and hours and hours. Alone. Staring out that window there.” She waved the bottle toward the western window, where a small seat made for a cozy reading spot.

“All right, let us take you to your bedchamber.” Charlotte waved the drunken woman toward the door. “Come now, Catherine, you must lie down.”

“No. I will sit.” She staggered to the chair near the fireplace. The one where Chatham had pleasured Charlotte so sweetly.

Mustn’t think of these things. Focus upon Catherine.

Plopping her backside upon the cushion in a froth of orange, Catherine leaned over the arm of the chair, set her bottle on the floor, and plucked one of Rutherford’s journals from Chatham’s basket.

“Leave those alone,” Charlotte ordered.

“Mmm.” Catherine flicked open the cover. “These are his journals, are they not? All about the estate.” She thumbed through, reading here and there. “I read them once. Well, glanced through them, really. Dreadfully boring. Endless reports of rain and sun and wheat and sheep.” The beautiful woman’s dainty blond brows twitched and arched in what appeared to be distress of some sort. Then, she began weeping. Suddenly and loudly. It was hideous.

“Catherine, honestly, you are completely sotted.”

“H-he never loved me. Never. Do you know what that is like?”

Charlotte chose not to answer. She did, in fact, know.

“In here”—Catherine waggled the journal as she had the bottle earlier, the pages flopping like birds’ wings—“is a mention of Meg on every page.
Meg
prefers potatoes to turnips.
Meg
knitted herself a shawl.
Meg
adores watching the sunrise.
Meg
requested peas for supper. Meg, Meg, Meg!”

Chatham had told Charlotte about that, as well. She’d found it both sweet and sad. Now, watching Catherine’s reaction, she saw how devotion that powerful could blind a man, turn his heart as cold as ash toward anyone else. For the first time, she saw what Catherine had faced, and she felt … empathy. Catherine might be shallow, vain, faithless, and a disastrous mother, but she had been denied affection from the one man who should have offered it.

Loving someone who could not return that love was unendurable anguish, as Charlotte could attest.

“He loved
her.
Never me. I am not mentioned once in these bloody journals. Not even on the day of our marriage.”

“I am sorry,” said Charlotte gently. “You deserved better, Catherine.”

Wet, silver eyes narrowed on her. “What would
you
know about it?”

Charlotte blinked, surprised by the sudden attack. She folded her arms across her bosom and leaned back against the paneled wall next to the door. “I know what you’ve told me.”

“Yes, but you haven’t the faintest notion of what it is to have the man you love look at you as though you are muck upon his boot soles. Something to be scraped off. Discarded.”

Reminded of Chatham’s reaction on their wedding day to her indelicate “enhancement” of his elegant superfine, Charlotte’s chest began to ache. She’d thought, in that moment, that she had glimpsed the real Benedict Chatham. The one tired of pretense, weary of games. Apparently, she had seen what she wanted, not the truth.

“Perhaps I do,” she murmured to her distraught mother-in-law.

The older woman’s eyes filled with odd, sparking rage. “You know nothing!” she roared. “Nothing. You
are
Meg.”

Bewildered, Charlotte shook her head.

“Yes. Yes, you are. The way he looks at you when you turn away, as though he is terrified you will disappear and so bloody obsessed with you, he could record your every movement in his journal. I’ve seen it. Do not pretend to know what I feel. You are his Meg.” She wiped impatiently at her nose. “Likely he ruminates upon whether you prefer your peas hot or cold.”

No. Catherine was drunk. She was out of her head. Surely she was not referring to Chatham’s feelings for Charlotte. After the way he had treated her for the last two weeks, and then his words today, Charlotte could not imagine how Catherine had drawn such an erroneous conclusion. Chatham was not in love with her. He could not be.

A page tore.

“Catherine.”

Another page, crinkling loose in her tight fist.

“Catherine, stop. Those are not yours. They belong to Chatham.”

“They are Rutherford’s. He is dead. Dead along with his Meg.”

Rip.

Charlotte started toward the madwoman. “Give that to me.” She reached for the journal.

Catherine shoved her arm away violently, standing and twisting, gathering armfuls of journals from the basket to her bosom. The white-blond lock of hair fell over one silver eye. “I should have done this when he banished me from his bed.” To Charlotte’s horror, Catherine began tossing them into the fire, shoveling in great scooping motions from the basket.

Rushing forward, Charlotte yanked at the woman’s elbow, turning her forcibly and pushing her back. Some of the journals scattered on the floor, sprawling and spreading. The ones she’d thrown into the fire were burning and smoking, the edges curling. They were Chatham’s only link to his father. He had studied them every night for months. Inside of a blink, Charlotte’s choice was made. She grasped a fire iron from beside the hearth and thrust it beneath the books. Lifting with both hands and holding them aloft folded over the long iron rod, she searched for a place to douse them. Spotting Catherine’s wine bottle, she lowered them to the floor and reached for the wine.

An orange-clad virago rammed into her side. “That is mine!”

Charlotte stumbled and flailed, ramming into the edge of the window seat. By the time she gathered her wits to glance up, she saw Catherine staggering out the library door with her wine bottle.

That was when Charlotte noted an orange glow that should not have been there.

It was the basket. On fire.

“Dratted, bloody hell,” she breathed. As though it had waited years for the opportunity, the fire whooshed and engulfed the basket, then flared nearly as tall as the chair when it reached the stack of paper and leather inside.

Pushing herself up, she looked everywhere at once, trying to find something to snuff out the fire before it took the chair and perhaps more. There was nothing. No blanket, no liquids.

She started for the door, edging around the growing blaze, then running, grasping the knob. She tumbled frantically as she clawed her way down the corridor. “Fire!” she screamed. “Esther! We need water!”

Her slipper slid on freshly polished wood. Her knee collapsed and then hit hard, a gouging, grinding pain. She ignored it. Pulled herself up the wall, scrambled to her feet. “Esther! Anyone! Please. The library is on fire!”

The maid topped the stairs with a tray. And a teapot. Charlotte grabbed the pot and panted, “Buckets. The library. Now.”

Nodding, Esther reversed course, shouting hoarsely at the scullery maid. Charlotte ran back to the library. She stopped in the doorway, her heart seizing. They would need more than tea. Much, much more.

But this was her house.
Hers.
In this room, she had dusted and polished and repaired the shelves. In this room, she had been kissed and caressed and cradled in her husband’s arms. It was
hers,
dash it all. And she did not intend to let it burn.

Not without a bloody good fight.

*~*~*

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“When calamity is at hand, one does not ask who may be at fault. One first discharges the unfortunate circumstance and only then discharges the unfortunate cause.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her butler while discussing the unexpected dismissal of her most recent lady’s maid.

Rocking upon Franklin’s back over a wide, green field full of white sheep, Chatham’s return to Chatwick Hall was steady but too slow for his liking. They had traversed his twelve thousand acres from one corner to the other, and both he and the horse were weary.

But his need to see Charlotte, to speak with her and apologize for his behavior earlier, ate at him. It had done so as he completed his discussion with Mr. Gladhill. The feeling had gnawed further as he examined the southeast corner, spoke with Peter about the upcoming harvest, and let Emma Jameson refill his flask with her tea. He now preferred Charlotte’s version, of course. Everything reminded him of her.

The peaked roofline of the house came into view, its sharp gables a relief to his eyes. He wanted to take her in his arms. He wanted to press his lips along her coppery brow and whisper how sorry he was that he had made her cry. He wanted to watch her smile again the way she did when she was vexed with him but willing to forgive.

As he drew closer, approaching from the south, an odd sensation prickled along his nape. He could see several servants dashing about the garden, faster and more frantic than normal. Then he saw Booth running from the stables toward the kitchen.

Alarm rang down his spine, settling like a cold, weighty rock inside his stomach.

Something was wrong. Spurring Franklin into a gallop, he closed the distance swiftly, dismounting in a leap just outside the stables, leaving the reins hanging. He raced up the path to the garden’s open gate.

A girl he recognized as one of the scullery maids rushed past him toward the garden well, and he grasped her arm. “What is happening?”

“A fire, m’lord. In the library.”

His heart pounded loudly in his ears, his only thought,
where is Charlotte?

Running inside the kitchen, he noted Esther filling buckets from the new taps they’d installed. It was not swift enough. “Esther,” he barked. “Where is my wife?”

The maid’s eyes turned to him. He had never seen her frightened before. It made his blood run cold. “She—she is upstairs. The library.”

The light dimmed, then flashed. His head was gone. His legs carried him. Another blink and they took the stairs three at a time. All the time, her name repeated to the rhythm of his pounding heart.
Charlotte. Charlotte. Charlotte.

At the top of the stairs, he saw Booth. “Form a line!” the servant was shouting to two footmen. Chatham did not stop. He ran faster than he had ever done, straight down the bloody long corridor of the west wing.
Charlotte. Charlotte. Charlotte.

Smoke billowed where the library door stood ajar. He could hear the flames crackling, roaring. He slid to a stop. So did his heart.
Charlotte.

She was there, one arm wielding a blanket, the other a silver teapot. She battled the devouring fire like a warrior slaying a dragon.

Charlotte. Charlotte. Charlotte.

Suddenly, she bent forward, shuddering and coughing. The room was black with smoke, glowing orange with heat. Throwing off his paralysis, he moved in behind her, hooking his arm around her waist and dragging her back toward the door.

She may have flailed and screamed a bit. He did not know or care. She was his heart. His life. He could not have her in danger.

“Booth,” she wheezed, “let me go! I must stop it before … it spreads.”

“I am not Booth,” he growled in her ear. “And I will bloody well never let you go, do you hear me?”

In the corridor now, he yanked her halfway along the west wing before she managed to loosen his hold. “Ch-Chatham? Release me.”

He caught her arm and shook her, turning her to face him, he backed her against a wall. Green-and-gold eyes shone with tears. Flesh-colored streaks slashed the soot on her cheeks where they had spilled over. Suddenly, she bent double, hacking the acrid smoke from her lungs.

Fury filled him at her helpless shudders. It rippled out in waves through his muscles and skin.

“I—I must …” She gasped and coughed, the sounds wrenching. “I must save it, Chatham. The house. It is ours. Yours and mine. I will not lose it.” Her hand landed on his arm helplessly.

“You will stay here until I return, do you understand?”

“No, I—”

“Stay. Here. If you move one step toward the library, I will wring your beautiful neck.”

Again, she was seized with a fit of coughing. He took the opportunity to race back along the corridor, kicking aside the empty teapot she had dropped and stooping briefly to retrieve the blanket. The heat inside the library was an immense wall, blasting his skin painfully. He raised one arm to shield his face. The chair was engulfed, as was one bank of wooden shelves, the fire writhing toward the ceiling like a great, grasping claw. He swung the blanket at the chair, attempting to smother the flames. It only managed to catch part of the blanket on fire. He threw the thing to the floor and tamped it out with his boot.

Shrugging out of his riding coat, he swatted and swung at the flames, feeling the smoke choking his lungs, burning him from inside. One arm over his mouth and nose, he pressed the light wool of his coat on the arm of the chair until it, too, caught.
Bloody hell.
Frantically searching the floor, he snagged the singed blanket and threw it over the spreading flames.

From behind him, he heard shouts. A cooler breeze swirled the smoke. Someone had opened the window. Water flew past Chatham’s vision at the wall of flames eating its way toward the ceiling. He turned. Booth wielded another set of four buckets, lifting and tossing, dousing a quarter of the fire but not nearly enough to stop it. The servant rushed from the room while Chatham continued to beat at the chair with his blanket. The wool caught again, and he dropped it to stamp it out with his boots. From the corner of his eye, a flash of silver shone.

Her flask.
It lay on the floor amidst the burning ruins of his coat. Coughing, wiping pouring sweat from his eyes with his sleeve, Chatham leapt forward and, with only the thought that he mustn’t lose that piece of her, he grasped the silver flask in his hand. For half a second, his palm flashed ice-cold. Then the searing penetrated, white-hot and sickening. He blinked and shouted and opened his fingers. The metal container thudded onto the floorboards.
Bloody stupid, Chatham.

Booth was back with more buckets. While he was busy dousing the wall, Chatham stripped off his waistcoat and covered his uninjured hand with the fabric, then grasped the flask, pivoted, and plopped it in one of the full buckets on the floor near the entrance.

Seconds later, he plunged his injured hand into the water, glad of the cold relief, and lifted the flask out with weak fingers. He wrapped the container in his waistcoat again and shoved the bundle between his waistband and the small of his back.

“M’lord, we have more buckets comin’,” shouted Booth.

Chatham nodded and picked up the one he had used for cooling the flask. Ignoring the strange numbness stealing over his right hand, Chatham set to work pouring water upon the chair.

Long minutes later, he and Booth watched with satisfaction as the last of the flames sighed and sizzled to a stop. It had taken dozens of buckets and all the servants working together, but they had done it. They had slain the dragon.

His heart beat in a new, steadier rhythm now.
Charlotte is safe,
it chanted.
Charlotte is safe.

“Chatham?” It was her voice, roughened and hoarse, trembling and tearful.

Turning, he saw her hovering in the doorway, her face smeared with soot and fresh tears, her white gown turned dull gray by the smoke. Her lower lip quivered.

He opened his arms.

Then she was there, her hands clutching his back, her head tucked between his neck and shoulder. Her precious breath dampened the skin above the linen of his shirt. Or perhaps it was her tears. No matter. He held her tighter than he had ever done, squeezing until she squeaked.

Though the open window helped, the air still hung heavy with smoke. Without a word, Chatham stooped and hooked one arm behind Charlotte’s knees, lifting her into his arms.

Another squeak. But no protest. “Chatham,” was all she said, sighing the word and stroking his hair.

He carried her past Booth, who gave him a respectful nod, then past Esther, who surprisingly did likewise. “M’lord,” the maid said quietly. “There be water fer washin’ in yer dressing room. Fresh tea, as well.”

He nodded his thanks and continued to the bedchamber, using his elbow to close the door. Carrying his wife directly into the dressing room, he sat down upon the divan, cradling her in his lap. They both smelled of smoke. He did not care. Right now, all he wanted was to absorb her nearness, feel her breath upon his skin, the warmth and life in her.

“I was so afraid for you,” she whispered, her hands combing through his hair now. “So afraid.”

He squeezed his eyes closed. He tried to brush her hair with his hand, but numbness gave way to agony. He gasped and jerked.

“Wh-what is it, Chatham? Are you injured?” Much to his consternation, she scrambled out of his arms and stood, bending to run her hands over him in a mothering fashion.

“I am fine.”

She grasped his wrist and yanked his arm toward her. The look of horror on her face as she turned his palm up made him want to cover the ghastly injury. He tried to pull away. She held fast.

“You are burned.” Her voice was tight and rusted, as though she were fighting more tears.

He did not wish to see her cry again. Ever. “I was an idiot. I reached for something when I should have left it be. It will heal, love.”

She sniffed and swallowed, her throat rippling. She let go of his wrist to retrieve the pitcher and fill the basin. “Come,” she said. “Place it in the water. It will soothe you.”

“The only thing that will soothe me is to strip you of your gown and wash every inch of your skin so that I may see you are well. Afterward, I shall only be comforted by lying next to you, watching you breathe for the next fourteen years or so.”

Wide green-and-gold eyes slammed into his. “F-fourteen …
years?”

“Perhaps twenty. After that, you may leave our bed occasionally for a morning ride or a journey to London, so long as I am with you.”

Her breathing quickened, her gaze fixed upon him, rapt and disbelieving. “Years, Chatham?”

“Yes. Fourteen should do, providing you agree to never, ever place yourself in such danger again. I shall add another fourteen for each new instance, although that seems insufficient for recovering my sanity.” He was controlling his fury admirably, he thought. She seemed unaware he felt it. “You may have thought to leave me. That will no longer be permitted.”

“It won’t?”

“You will stay with me. You will bear my children. You will never again risk yourself in any way. I trust I am clear.”

She blinked. Covered her mouth with her hand. Then let out a sob. Her eyes squeezed closed, shoveling more tears over their banks.

Shooting to his feet, he cupped the side of her head in his left hand and lowered his forehead to hers. “I am sorry, love. I know you wished to leave for America. But I am dreadfully selfish. Please don’t cry. I shall take you for a visit as often as you like. We’ll see New York and Boston and Virginia, all three. But I cannot let you go. I thought I could. I cannot.”

She shook her head. Then, astoundingly, her arms encircled his neck, and she plastered herself to him. Kisses. Her kisses were everywhere upon his face—his brows and nose and lips and eyes. Her face was wet, dirty, and left damp trails wherever she wandered. She continued to sob his name over and over.

At last, he gathered his breath enough to ask, “I—I take it you are … pleased?” Incredible as it seemed, his declaration affected her in precisely the opposite way he had expected.

“I love you, Chatham,” she sobbed against his neck. “I love you so very much.”

The earth abandoned him, leaving him untethered and floating. She loved him? He scarcely dared move.

She kissed his throat, working her way up his jaw to his lips. “I love you,” she whispered before plunging inside, her tongue playing and dancing with his.

His body responded automatically, and he reached for her hips. Agony tore through his right hand.

“Oh, Chatham,” she exclaimed. “Your hand. Let me have it. Here, in the water.”

He complied only because his mind was still stunned and slow. The water did cool the throbbing, fiery sting. Her hand stroked his cheek. He met her eyes.

“You love me?” he asked, honestly flummoxed.

She nodded, now beaming tearfully. “I love you. And I shall remain your wife with the greatest joy, my darling.”

No one had ever loved him. Not his mother. Not his father. Not his governesses or his friends at school. Not his mistresses or his benefactresses. No one.