The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) (27 page)

He gasped for air, his hand clawing at his knee. “I love you,” he said to the rocks and the dirt, the words wrenched free of him, breaking his hold. “I love you, Charlotte. So bloody much.”

*~*~*

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“He is a man. One must expect to be frequently disappointed. Consider yourself fortunate if he occasionally recognizes his own folly.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Miss Viola Darling during a discussion of Lord Tannenbrook’s resistance to persuasion.

Charlotte hadn’t spoken to him in five days. The first night, he’d returned to discover she’d moved into the yellow bedchamber. The next morning, after delivering a letter for Charlotte’s father to Mr. Pryor at the village’s lone coaching inn, Chatham had resorted to asking Esther for his wife’s whereabouts.

“Gone ridin’, I expect,” replied the surly maid. “She were feelin’ poorly and said somethin’ about needin’ some air.”

When Charlotte was not absent from the house, she went about her duties with her usual briskness. He caught a glimpse of her here and there, conversing with Esther or Cook. Gathering herbs from the garden. But she avoided him studiously most of the time and ignored him the rest.

He’d returned the evening of the ball intending to confess his love for her, to force the words out if he must. She would not let him get her alone. It was maddening, like trying to catch a sparrow with only his hands. By the time he was close enough to grasp her, she was already in the wind.

He was a lost, hollow man without his Charlotte. Pathetic, really. He continued to walk and speak, eat and drink, wash and dress. He even slept an hour or two each night. However, everything had turned gray, as though coated by dust.

His mother had fled Northumberland, which was probably for the best. The law frowned on matricide, he supposed. Pryor had left for London the morning after the masquerade, red-faced and apologetic when Chatham handed him the letter for Rowland Lancaster. Chatham had warned the irksome man that if Lancaster received any untoward “reports” about either him or Charlotte, he would likewise receive news about his solicitor’s tendency toward wagging jaws and loose lips in the presence of a flirtatious tart.

This morning, Chatham was riding Franklin to the southeast corner to monitor the progress of the harvest. The men he had hired for the task were hard at work already, though the sun had only risen an hour earlier. The
thwhick
and
swish
of their scythes sounded a rhythmic counterpoint to Franklin’s hooves. Chatham saw Peter leaning against the stone wall, wiping his forehead with Emma’s handkerchief. He turned Franklin past the hedgerow gate and circled around to dismount, moving to greet the farmer.

“Oats have come in well this year,” Peter commented, nodding to Chatham. “Fair weather. Might take sixty bushels per acre.”

Chatham nodded and peered out at the golden grain, now being cut and lain in neat swaths. Soon the gatherers and bandsters would come behind them to collect the cuttings into sheaves, stack them for the carts to haul away, and Chatham’s oats would be halfway to market. He should feel gratified to complete the process. It was a culmination, a challenge met and matched. But none of it mattered a bloody damn.

He missed Charlotte. He wanted Charlotte. He loved Charlotte.

“How’re the burns healin’?”

Chatham glanced down at his hands. The left was gloved in leather. The right was heavily bandaged. It still pained him. “Healing. Itches a bit. The salve appears effective. My thanks again for that.”

“Thank Emma.”

“I shall.” Glancing at Peter, Chatham was startled to collide with the farmer’s dark eyes. “You mean now?”

“You have a better time?”

“We are in the midst of a harvest.”

“I’ll keep an eye. Pay ’er a visit. Lucy favors your company.”

Chatham gave a halfhearted smile. “Very well.

He left Franklin tied to the gate and instead crossed Peter’s fields on foot, avoiding the areas where men were still raking. When he arrived at the cottage, he saw that the door stood open, likely to allow the breeze to cool the house. The humid air was already stifling, and he’d not even had breakfast.

As he knocked on the doorframe, he saw a flash out of the corner of his eye—a flash of red copper. He twisted to see Charlotte, pale as nutmeg-laced milk, weaving and swaying in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Charlotte,” he rasped, removing his hat and stepping inside. “Are you all right?”

She shook her head, her eyes fluttering strangely.

He moved faster than he’d ever moved, dashing the length of the corridor in a blink, catching her just as she tipped backward. As he grasped her waist, sharp pain shot up his right hand all the way to his elbow, but he did not care. His wife was limp, her head dangling back on her neck like a rag. “Emma!” he shouted helplessly, bending to lift Charlotte in his arms. “We need your help!”

The farmer’s wife rushed in from the kitchen, followed closely by Lucy. “Come, m’lord. Set ’er down in me parlor.” She brushed past him, leading the way to a door to the right of the entrance. A long sofa sat perpendicular to the fireplace. He carried Charlotte there and, as gently as he could, laid her down, bending her knees so she would fit, stroking her face with his gloved hand.

“Love? Wake up, now.” He bent to kiss her freckled forehead. She was warm, but not overly so. “What is wrong, Emma? Is she ill?”

“Dear me, no. She forgot to break ’er fast before she came. I was set to feed ’er a pasty or two when she heard you arrive. Likely she stood up too quickly.” Emma sounded both confident and unconcerned, which was perplexing, considering Chatham’s heart pounded like Franklin’s hooves at a dead run.

“You are saying she swooned because she is hungry? Most peculiar. Charlotte has a vigorous constitution. She does not swoon.”

Emma chuckled. “Vigorous or not, it is clear she does indeed swoon.” She shrugged. “Happens from time to time when a woman is increasing. Keep ’er well fed, and encourage ’er to lie down when she feels the need. Should abate in a month or two.”

Chatham heard nothing at all past the word “increasing.” His head spun and spun and spun until he felt like swooning, himself. His backside hit the floor with a thud.

“Mam, does Lord Rutherford need a pillow for ’is seat?” Lucy’s voice came from the doorway.

“No, poppet. He is a bit worried about Lady Rutherford. But there’s no reason for that. She’s simply growin’ a wee one in ’er belly. Soon, she’ll awaken, and we shall feed ’er a pasty and a bit of honey tea, and all will be well.”

“Increasing,” he murmured, his gaze fixed upon Charlotte’s belly. Her flat, entirely unrounded belly.

“There, now, let’s ’ave a look at that hand. Lucy, fetch me basket. The one with the salve and cloth.”

He stripped his leather glove from his left hand. Settled his palm over his wife’s abdomen. “Increasing.”

His right hand was confiscated by Emma Jameson and efficiently unwrapped. The edges of the linen dragged painfully against his wounds. He winced, but he moved neither his eyes nor his touch away from his wife. His wife and his … babe.

“Lord Rutherford, some of these blisters are oozin’. I must wash them and apply new salve. Might smart a bit.”

He nodded absently.

Increasing. With his babe. Extraordinary.

“My, these burns are like to leave scars. They are in a rather lovely pattern, though. Looks a bit familiar.”

The sadistic Emma Jameson poked at his wounds for a minute or two before she gently applied the salve and rewrapped his hand in fresh bandages.

“Shouldn’t she be waking by now, Emma?” He was growing impatient. He wanted to see her eyes. Speak with her about the babe.

“Oh, she’s been awake for a while,” Emma said calmly. “Have you not, Lady Rutherford?”

Green-and-gold eyes squinted open. Charlotte sighed and glanced up at Emma, who stood at the end of the sofa near her head. “You told him?”

Emma grinned. “You didn’t?”

Charlotte met his gaze. Hers was shadowed and hollow, the dark smudges beneath her eyes enhancing the effect. “I only just discovered it, myself, Chatham. I was not keeping it from you.”

He did not reply. His throat was choked with words and emotions that made him ache.

His wife pushed herself up from the cushions. He tried to help by bracing a hand beneath her shoulders, but she shied away from his touch, dropping her feet to the floor and standing before he could protest.

“Charlotte,” he gritted as she attempted to step around his legs.

“Not here. We shall discuss it later.”

“Charlotte, we must—”

“Later. Please.”

He swallowed his frustration. Ground his teeth. Pushed to his feet. Then, he nodded, gathered his glove and his hat, and left his wife to her pasty and tea.

*~*~*

Charlotte watched Lucy gather crumbs with her tiny fingertip, then plop them in her mouth before grasping a wooden cup of honey tea between both hands and taking several loud gulps. The little girl’s body wriggled as she swung her legs merrily beneath the table. Charlotte stroked a hand down Lucy’s hair. A huge, dimpled grin was her reward.

“You shall have one of those soon enough,” Emma said. “A wee lass with your red hair, perhaps.”

“If it is a girl, for her sake, I hope she has Chatham’s coloring,” Charlotte murmured. “Mine is dreadfully unfashionable.”

“I am finished, Mam,” Lucy announced.

“Very well. Collect the eggs, the way I showed you.”

Lucy scrambled down from her perch, curtsied to Charlotte, who gave a regal nod, and ran out the kitchen door.

Emma sighed. “Feelin’ better now?”

Charlotte nodded, but the pasty and tea sat uncertain in her stomach. She could not decide if it was the normal sickness caused by carrying a babe, or if it was simply the pieces of her heart that hadn’t healed after being shattered on the road to Grimsgate.

Tears filled her eyes again. “Drat,” she whispered. It was the latter.

Emma’s hand came over hers on the table and squeezed gently. “There, now. All will be well.” She handed Charlotte a surprisingly large handkerchief. The square was as big as a plate and finely embroidered with a black horse in one corner.

Charlotte blinked, then sniffed, then rubbed the embroidery between her thumb and forefinger. “This is lovely work,” she said. “Is it yours?”

“Indeed. Made that one for me husband two years ago.”

Turning the cloth in her hands, she remarked, “It appears new.”

“Aye. He prefers another one I made before we were wed. Carries it everywhere. I made it for me mam, but when I met Peter, I knew I must give ’im somethin’ to remember me, and that was all I had. It’s a pretty thing, too. With flowers and a bit of a ruffled edge.”

“He—he uses a lady’s handkerchief?”

Emma nodded, her smile radiant with affection. “He says it’s like havin’ a piece of me with ’im always.” She chuckled. “Daft man.”

Charlotte’s smile turned wobbly. “He loves you.”

Emma’s soft eyes met hers. “Aye.” She squeezed her hand again. “Just as your husband loves you.”

Shaking her head, Charlotte stifled a sob. “No.”

“Aye, he does. You did not see how he was when you swooned. His bandages had more color.”

“I asked if he loved me. He could not say it.”

Emma tipped up Charlotte’s chin with a finger. “I offered you a bit of advice once.”

Charlotte nodded.

“It came out right, did it not?”

Another nod.

“When you return to Chatwick Hall, seek ’im out. Before you decide how he feels, ask about the burns on ’is hand.”

Frowning, Charlotte sniffed and dabbed her cheeks and nose with the horse handkerchief. “Why? I know about the fire.”

“Ask. You shall bear ’is child. That merits a chance, eh?”

“I suppose.”

“There, now.” Emma patted Charlotte’s hand. “Let’s discuss how much honey you’ll be buyin’ this fine day.”

*~*~*

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“Love is an intoxicant. If one wishes to go about sotted and looking the fool, by all means, partake. One supposes it is less costly than French cognac.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Charles, upon his declaration of affection for a certain elusive widow.

His neck stiff and sore after a day spent riding seemingly every acre, Chatham sighed as he climbed the stairs.

Perhaps tonight I can sleep more than one or two hours.
He rubbed his neck and thought of Charlotte.
Perhaps not.

Slowly, his legs carried him to the bedchamber. His fingers rubbed tired eyes. Inside the room, the last, dim glow of the day had painted the air violet. Heading straight for the dressing room, he tossed his coat over the back of the chair near the washstand, listening to the flask clunk hard against the wood. He shrugged out of his waistcoat, uncaring about wrinkling the thing as he tossed it, too, over the chair. Dressing and undressing with only one hand had proven most trying over the past six days, but he’d learned to manage, improving his speed and efficiency quite well, considering. Washing quickly before removing his boots and stockings and, finally, his breeches, Chatham walked naked into the bedchamber.

And stopped.

Stared.

His hand had been in the process of swiping his weary face, so it froze briefly over his lower jaw when he saw her.

Charlotte. Wearing one of her many sheer, white muslin gowns. Sitting in their bed, flame-red hair loose and curling about her diamond-hard nipples. Looking so bloody beautiful to him, he wanted to fall at her feet so he could kiss every freckled inch, starting with her toes.

Her eyes were riveted, as well. To his cock.

He glanced down. To be fair, the thing was putting on quite an extravagant display.

“I—I wished to speak with you, Chatham.”

Running a hand through his hair, he replied, “Speak away, love. We are both listening with great anticipation.”

She blushed. Sweet, strawberry pink. “I believe I am with child.”

“Mmm. That was my impression from our conversation this morning. The word ‘increasing’ was thrown about with some abandon, as I recall.”

She sat there, hands folded in her lap, composed and placid. She acted as though she had rehearsed this speech forty times. “Therefore, you needn’t pretend to want me any longer. I have decided to remain in England. Once our year together is over, you will be free to return to your former life.”

He couldn’t answer. Something foreign lodged inside him, cold and slithering. It was similar to the rage he’d felt the day of the fire. But it chilled rather than burned.

“I will stay here and rear our child,” she continued. “We will use the dowry to restore the estate fully, and then we will divide the marriage portion equally between us. I shall manage the estate and use my half for any future projects and unanticipated expenses. You may use your portion however you like, but the estate remains in my control. Should there be a sum granted for the child, it will be set aside in trust for him.” Charlotte spoke these things as though they were true.

They were not.

He sauntered toward her, his steps slow and deliberate. “Is that all?”

Her fingers laced and squeezed until they turned white on the gold coverlet. “Yes. If these terms are acceptable to you, then—”

“No, they are not.”

“N-not? Well, I have thought them through quite—”

“Charlotte.”

“Yes?”

“Does this seem a pretense to you?” He glanced down.

Obviously, she was having trouble deciding where to rest her gaze. During her speech, it had wandered from his cock to his chest to his mouth to his eyes, then back again. Now, it was firmly fastened on the lower parts of his anatomy.

“No,” she whispered in answer to his question.

“And would I have any reason—any at all—for my current state if getting you with child were the sole object of my amorous impulses?”

She shook her head, her fingers playing with the silk panels of the coverlet.

“What else could it be, then?” he demanded.

“You want me.”

“Yes. I want you. Enough to drive me mad.”

“But you do not love me.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair again. “I did not say that.”

“You did not say you do.”

“I find such declarations … difficult.”

A little frown crinkled her brow. She threw aside the coverlet, rose from the bed, and came toward him. Her gown was white and thin, a tempting veil for her breasts and legs and hips. His heart kicked in his chest, eager for her nearness.

She strode past, heading for the dressing room. “I shall retrieve your breeches. You are too distracting standing there.”

Cold disappointment invaded, dousing the flames of anticipation. He heard the sounds of rustling cloth. Then a sharp thud. Then a muttered “drat.” Then silence.

“Charlotte?”

More silence.

He pivoted and entered the dressing room. She stood with her back to him, looking down at something in her hand. He stepped closer. “If you have changed your mind about the breeches, love, I shall not hold you to it.”

“Chatham?” Her voice was soft, hesitant.

“Yes?”

She turned. She was holding his flask. Her flask. The fire had tarnished the silver. He had cleaned it as best he could with only one hand.

“Wh-why do you carry my flask?”

He frowned. “I always do.”

A tear tracked down her cheek. Her chest shuddered on a gasp.

Baffled, he moved in close, brushing the wetness away with the backs of his fingers. “What is it?” he murmured. “Come now, don’t be distressed. I shall buy you another.”

Green and gold shone up at him with devastating tenderness. “Let me see your hand,” she said.

He spread his fingers in front of her eyes.

“Your other hand. The one with the b-burns.”

He wondered briefly if being with child were a cause of madness. Cautiously, he held out his bandaged limb for her inspection. She set the flask upon the chair and slowly unwrapped his right hand.

When his palm was revealed, she covered a gasp. Leaked yet more tears onto her cheeks.

“Honestly,” he said helplessly. “The burns pain me a bit, but they are healing. Don’t cry, love. Please don’t.”

“The swelling was dreadful the night of the fire,” she said, her voice watery and distorted with whatever strange emotion had seized her. “I—I did not notice …”

He swallowed, his throat tight and dry. “Pay it no mind. Emma’s salve is most beneficial.”

She cradled his hand like something precious, her fingers stroking lightly over the uninjured back, tracing his veins. Then, she leaned forward and pressed a heart-stopping kiss to his inner wrist, careful not to touch his wounds.

“You love me,” she whispered to his palm, where ugly burns swirled in the beautiful pattern of irises, lilies, and the shape of her initials: CL. Charlotte Lancaster.

Suddenly, his heart felt as though it might break the cage of his ribs. Her scent—white flowers and green fruit—lifted to his nose, filled his lungs, wrapped around his insides and squeezed hard. His legs grew weak until he wanted to fall to his knees. Her hand beneath his wrist held him upright.

Then, her eyes returned to his. Blinding, radiant light blazed from her in green and gold. Incandescent love lit her skin and her freckles. Love for him.

“You love me,” she said again. “You really do.”

He wanted to speak, but all he could do was nod.

In the next instant, she grasped the nape of his neck and pulled his mouth to hers. Her kiss was the purest joy, her mouth sliding open against his, her tears wetting his cheek. His left arm came around her waist, banding her tightly, forcing her breasts and hips flat against him. Her hands cupped his jaw, her lips now trailing tenderly over every inch she could reach.

He rested his forehead against hers.

He gathered his courage, knowing if she ever left him, he would not survive it. And, then, he released a breath. Drew another. Let the wave of air carry his words—the ones she deserved to hear. The ones he should have spoken long ago.

“I love you, Charlotte,” he whispered.

She laughed. She laughed with elated tears and frantic nods. “I know, you daft man. You let my flask brand you rather than lose it. Only love would be so foolish.”

“I could not lose it. It is the part of you I keep with me.”

“Oh, Chatham.”

“I love you.” Thankfully, the words came easier each time he spoke them. “I should have said so when you asked. Sooner, really. I am sorry I did not. I am sorry I hurt you.” He swallowed. “In truth, love is a subject about which I know little. Few people have ever loved me. None that I recall, actually. You are the first.”

She stroked his face tenderly, her thumbs smoothing his brows, her expression soft, gentle. “Your mother deserves to be hanged.”

He raised a questioning brow beneath her thumb.

Answering his unspoken question, she explained, “Catherine should have loved you first—you are her son, her blood.”

“Long ago, I realized she is incapable of a mother’s affection. Even her love for my father was a kind of selfishness. It is her nature.”

“She attempted to convince me you did not love me, that you only pretended in order to lure me to your bed. I am glad I vomited upon her.”

Laughter burst from him at her spiteful words. “You did?”

A small smile of satisfaction curled her pink lips. “I did. Her gown was a dreadful mess.”

“Remind me never to vex you, love. Whether horse dung or other foul substances, your vengeance is both swift and unpleasant.”

“I have been a bit … overwrought of late. Emma says it is the babe. Apparently, being with child turns one into the veriest watering pot. Upon occasion, I have a distinct desire to pummel you. But then I begin to crave your mouth upon my bosoms. You must be very gentle, though, as they are more tender than usual.”

He laid a kiss upon her sweet lips. “I shall be as gentle as rain sliding upon a petal. You will scarcely feel my tongue at all.”

Her breathing quickened. “Perhaps not that gentle.”

His hand slid between them to sprawl over her belly. His child rested there, a part of him growing inside her. He remained stunned, even hours after discovering it. “I do not know how to be a father, Charlotte,” he whispered.

“Oh, Chatham. I, too, am frightened to be a mother,” she said softly. “Mine was taken so long ago, I scarcely remember her. All we can do, I suppose, is love one another and love our babe and do our best. We shall learn together, you and I.”

He nodded, swallowing a lump. “I love you.” It really did grow easier with the repeating. Now, the words almost felt natural upon his lips, as though they should have been there all along.

She smiled. “And I love you, my darling. Quite madly.” Glancing down at his hand and then at his nakedness, her smile grew. “Now, perhaps we may continue this discussion in our bed. Being with child requires
numerous
lie-downs, I understand. Numerous.”

He laid a kiss upon her lips. Then upon her forehead. Then upon her coppery brow and her cinnamon freckles and again her strawberry mouth. “I am yours to command, love. Now and forever.”

Grinning her happiness, she stroked his cheek. “Mine forever,” she murmured. “I like the sound of that.”

*~*~*