The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) (7 page)

This cannot be my fate. This was not the plan.

“Charlotte …” Andrew protested.

She rarely panicked. Her mind always sought and often found a path through fear and difficulty like a ship’s captain navigating rough seas. However, this moment appeared to be an exception. All rational thought had fled. Her pounding heart matched the pace of her breath, racing madly and drowning out all sound.

“Charlotte!” That was her father. But she had already turned toward the street. Already begun stumbling toward the black coach that had delivered her here. It was rolling away, slowly at first.

I can catch it. I will climb inside. Retrieve the cache from beneath my bed. Take the coach somewhere far away. Escape.

She clutched her skirts, the iridescent-pearl silk for which Mrs. Bowman had charged Papa a fortune nearly ripping in her hands. Her slippers skated on the stones as she scrambled down the few steps to the street.

“Oliver!” she shouted, but her voice was thin, breathless. The driver did not hear. Or, at least, he did not stop. She chased the accelerating coach, her long legs working, her vision entirely focused upon the black vehicle. She must catch it. She must.

Behind her, several masculine shouts of her name registered dimly. Her legs burned as she ran, the chill air whistling past. She must catch the coach.

She must—

Her foot slipped, and suddenly she was flying, collapsing, ramming the street with her knees and palms. Grinding pain shot through her kneecaps and scraped the flesh on her hands. The shock of it, the abruptness of her new position, left her stunned. Shaking her head, she smelled something … awful.

Pushing herself up, she winced as she sat back on her haunches and examined her gown. A heaving gasp of laughter burst from her unbidden. “Per-perfect,” she wheezed, carefully scooting back, away from the massive pile of horse dung. She felt her lower lip tremble, her eyes began to water, and she clenched her jaw firmly against the urge to let sobs of laughter become sobs of another sort.

“Charlotte!” barked her father, his big, black boots clomping to a stop beside her. “What the blazes are you doing?”

Her chest shook. Her arms. Everything.

“I have landed in a pile of horse shit, Papa.”

“Out of your damnable head, girl. That’s what you are. And mind your language. What would your mother think?”

She glanced at the spot where the top of his boots met the bottoms of his breeches. Both were black. “Perhaps a question you should have asked before you decided to sell her daughter for a title,” Charlotte observed.

“Get to your feet, for God’s sake.” His big hand clasped her upper arm.

She shook him off.

The boots shuffled. The breeze blew through her as a horse cantered past, slowing to gawk and then hurrying away. The putrid scent of animal dung stung her nose.

Drat. Her gown was ruined. A laughable concern, really, considering the state of her life at present.

“Rowland, whatever has happened? The priest is waiting.” It was Aunt Fanny, coming from the direction of the church. “Charlotte.” She was closer now. “Are you quite all right?” A gentle hand settled on her shoulder.

Charlotte’s throat squeezed hard. Her hands, now bleeding, brushed absently at the muck on the tops of her knees. Her motions merely smeared the pale silk with brown and red.
Ruined,
she thought.
Well and truly.

“There now, dearest.” A hand stroked her hair, smoothing it just above her ear the way Aunt Fanny had done since she was a girl. “Everything will be all right. Let us help you stand.”

“I don’t wish to stand. I wish to remain here.”

Her father snorted.

“I would rather wallow in muck than marry a man who knows nothing of honor, nothing of dignity, nothing of earning one’s way in life.”

Fanny’s hands retreated, her green skirts joining Papa’s black boots.

Rhythmic, deliberate bootfalls punctuated by the quiet click of a cane approached from behind her. “Dignity?” a deep, silken voice said flatly from high above her head. “You may wish to consider your own circumstances before crowning yourself queen of that particular kingdom.”

She closed her eyes, but that only made the odor worse. “I don’t want to marry you, Chatham.”

He laughed, a low chuckle with a wicked edge. Then the sounds of the street muffled as his frame bent close, his mouth hovering next to her ear, his breath hot against her cheek. “I may lack honor, love, but I’m not daft.”

No, he wasn’t. He was too clever by half. Too vexing. Too … everything.

“Get up.” His scent cut through the sting of horse leavings. He smelled like citrus. And, surprisingly,
not
like whisky. Cool, lean fingers slid down the slope of her shoulder, over her tiny sleeve and onto the bare flesh of her arm. They curled and gripped. Lifted her until she could do nothing other than what he wanted.

Then, he was standing fully behind her, his lingering hand stroking her arm with tiny motions. “There, now. Turn ’round and let us assess the damage.”

She obeyed. She did not know why. Nothing else to do, she supposed. He had won. So had her father.

Her eyes widened as she took in his face. Chatham in a ballroom’s candleglow was as pale as paper, lean to the point of thinness. Handsome, of course, with low brows over those ferocious turquoise eyes.

Today, in full sunlight, however, he was the color of salt. His eyes were veined and shot with red, those thick, dark lashes that made him so beauteous when he gazed upon a woman with intent—those emerged from red-rimmed eyelids swollen as though he had not slept for years. A dark lock of hair tumbled over his brow. He looked gaunt, his cheeks sunken, his bones harsh against his skin.

She had only seen him days ago, and he had not looked nearly so … ill. It was alarming.

While she was cataloging the wear upon his features, he was examining her gown. Now, his eyes came back to hers. His head tilted, his nose wrinkling. He sniffed then cringed. “We should marry with all haste. You will want to wash and”—he coughed, his complexion tingeing green—“change your gown before we depart for Northumberland.”

She watched his lean throat ripple on a hard swallow. For some reason, it amused her. Relieved her. He was not made of impervious alabaster, after all.

Another ill-advised impulse seized her, an imp of mischief clamoring to turn the tables on the arrogant lord.
With a smile she could not prevent, she glanced down at her skirt, where dung had caked upon layered silk in two prominent clumps.

“You mean this?” she queried innocently.

“Not precisely a scent crafted by Floris, love. The sooner we speak our vows, the sooner you can be rid of it.”

“Oh, but I’m quite taken with it.” She gave him little warning before gathering the muck with a sliding scoop of her hands down her skirt. Then, with a solid smack, she smeared her stinging palms down the lapels of his tailcoat. “See? This is the beauty of marriage. What’s mine is yours.”

It was childish. Ridiculous. Petty, like a prank the twins would have pulled on Andrew.

His nostrils flared. His eyes blazed. She expected him to rage. But he did not. He moved not at all. “Are you finished?” he said flatly.

Blinking, she waited for him to break, to declare that he would not marry such a harridan for any amount of money. Instead, she saw his control, the weariness in his eyes. Perhaps he needed a further push.

She gave him her most brilliant smile and dipped a curtsy in her soiled gown. “Finished. Yes, I believe so. You look ever so dashing, my lord.”

Aunt Fanny was the first to react. “Charlotte, have you gone mad?”

Chatham held Charlotte’s gaze fast, his hand rising to halt Fanny’s protest. “Mad or not, we will marry now. Isn’t that so, Miss Lancaster?”

Her eyes dropped to her handiwork, then back up past his lean jaw and flaring nose and green complexion to meet blazing turquoise head-on. He was different than she had supposed. More … human. More disciplined.

An absurd notion began to form: Her marriage to Benedict Chatham need not be a misery. Perhaps she could work with this man. Perhaps they could find an accord similar to the one she had envisioned with Tannenbrook.

In any event, it seemed Chatham was to be her husband, whether she desired it or not. Making the best of unfortunate circumstances was what she did best.

“Indeed it is, Lord Rutherford.” She grasped his arm with her still-soiled hand and moved to his side, then pivoted them back toward St. George’s. “Let us wallow in this pile of horse shit together, shall we?”

*~*~*

CHAPTER SIX

“A proper marriage begins with a proper wedding. It seems Benedict Chatham’s nuptials were most apt in their nature.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Countess of Berne upon hearing details of the recent ceremony at St. George’s.

There had been no wedding breakfast. No cake or tearful well wishes from dear friends. Charlotte and Chatham had entered the church arm-in-arm, stridden purposefully down the aisle past a gaping Mr. Pryor and Uncle Frederick and Cousin Andrew, and spoken their vows covered in smelly muck. Aunt Fanny had wept quietly in the pew, but Charlotte suspected that had more to do with her trampled flowers and ruined gown than with sentiment.

Now, days later, Charlotte gazed out the window of the gold-trimmed travel coach she had wheedled from her father and felt a perverse satisfaction. As she and Chatham had walked one another to the altar, Papa had been forced to follow behind in their odiferous wake. Later, she had shed not a tear—not one—as she had tossed her soiled gown into the fire and watched the delicate silk disappear. She had washed and finished packing. She had hugged a bewildered Aunt Fanny and Uncle Frederick, kissed the cheeks of her cousins, and departed for her fate in the far reaches of Northumberland.

Thus far, it had been a tedious journey. She had brought along books, one of which she currently had open in her lap, but her stomach found reading and the motion of the carriage incompatible. They had been traveling four days, and in that time, she had seen her new husband precisely six times. Each instance had alarmed her further. In truth, he’d looked like death itself.

“Lord Rutherford was rather peaked this morning, wouldn’t you agree, Esther?” Charlotte did not know why she continued trying to make conversation with the taciturn maid. The pinch-faced, middle-aged woman seated on the opposite bench had been hired by her father for many reasons—a sturdy, nigh-brutish frame, a lifetime of experience as a maid-of-all-work, a fevered hatred of drunkards—but sparkling wit was not among them.

“Hmmph. Serves ’im right, you ask me.” Esther did not bother to glance up from her sewing, nor to address Charlotte with due courtesy. The iron-haired maid was churlish, unresponsive, and rude by turns.

It had been a very long journey.

The carriage rocked as they turned from the post road onto a narrow lane. This small village was apparently formed entirely of coaching inns. Charlotte sighed and rubbed her lower back. The carriage itself was exquisite, with dark-red velvet cushions and curtains and supple, tufted leather panels on the walls. Although no carriage was comfortable after four days, hers was plush and well sprung. She grinned to herself. It would fetch a small fortune after they reached their destination.

Her smile faded as they turned into the courtyard of yet another coaching inn, remarkably similar to the one from the night before, with brick and timbers and a swaying sign over the door. “The Swifter Cock,” she murmured, squinting at the sign through the violet dusk. “They do have the oddest names for these places, do they not?”

The maid did not even bother to grunt.

At last, they stopped, and Charlotte set her useless book aside and quickly scrambled down onto cobblestones.

Chatham’s carriage, a match for hers, had arrived first, but the door remained closed. Again, her thoughts turned to her husband, whom she had not wanted to marry. He had appeared most unwell earlier. She bit her lip, wondering if she should look in on him. If he died, she would be a widow. Could one be a widow if one had not yet so much as kissed a man?

Shaking her head, she adjusted the bow of her bonnet and decided the best course was to ensure her husband did not die. She might have been forced into this godforsaken bargain, but she would have her reward in the end. One year with Chatham, and she would be free. Besides, if he suffered a premature demise, heaven knew what her father would demand next. Remarriage? And how much longer would that delay her rightful destiny? Calculating a suitable mourning period, plus time for locating and landing a titled gentleman desperate enough to marry a heavily dowered widow, Charlotte shuddered. At that rate, she would reach America in ten years rather than one.

A sharp
ahem
sounded behind her.

“Oh! Apologies, Esther.”

This time the response was clearly a grunt.

“I believe I shall speak with Lord Rutherford,” she said to no one in particular, for the maid had already waddled off toward the door of The Swifter Cock.

Glancing back toward the other coach, Charlotte noticed the coachman speaking with a bony old man, stooped and weathered, near the front row of horses. Her eyes went again to the closed carriage door. The curtains were drawn. He had not yet emerged.

Before she could think better of it, she took a deep breath and marched ten paces to grasp the door handle.

“I wouldn’t do that, were I you, m’lady.” It was the coachman, another of her father’s hires.

Giving the ash-haired, grim-eyed man a blink, she retorted, “Whyever not?”

“In a bad way, he is. Seein’ visions and whatnot. Give him a day or two, he’ll come right.”

Visions?
Her stomach gave a peculiar clench.
He must be much worse than I thought.
“All the more reason to inquire after his well being.” She twisted the handle and pulled the door open.

And nearly staggered at the smell.

“I did warn you, m’lady. Drunkards what stop sudden-like suffer mightily for their sins, they do. Best to leave ’em be.”

Wafts of trapped, sour air plumed from the interior, their source a hunched, shadowed figure leaning against one tufted wall. All she could see of him in the low light was grayish-white skin and dark clothing. But he trembled and panted in a way she had never seen, especially in someone as controlled as the devil-may-care Benedict Chatham.

“Has he had anything to eat or drink?” she asked the coachman.

The man rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t rightly know.”

“Fetch my flask from the other carriage, if you please.”

The stout, grim-faced servant stared at her like she had begun speaking French.

“Now!”

He nodded and obeyed.

She turned back to her husband, who appeared to be suffering the agonies of the damned. He muttered nonsense beneath his breath. One lean hand gripped his walking stick so hard, the thing had begun to split. His other hand scraped his face then dropped to form a fist on the bench.

“G-go away.” The normally silken voice was as broken as a tree struck by lightning.

“Chatham,” she said calmly, turning her head a moment to breathe fresh air. “I am coming inside.”

“No.”

She ignored him, grasping the frame of the door and pulling herself up until she was bent in half, crouching beside her husband’s sprawled knees within the close interior. Good God, the smell was revolting—sour and pungent, as though he had vomited for hours and sweated for longer. Glancing around at red velvet and tufted leather, she could find no evidence of such fluids, but then it was dreadfully dim.

“This what you wanted, m’lady?” Her flask was thrust past her waist by a meaty hand.

“Yes, thank you.” She took the silver container and loosened the lid. “Chatham, you will drink this now, do you understand?”

His head rocked back and forth. “Bloody red-haired witch. Trying to destroy me.” His breathing shuddered. The walking stick cracked loudly in his fist.

She scooted closer, daring to perch on the bench beside him. Turquoise eyes tracked her movements, rolling and flaring like a startled horse as she carefully settled her gloved hand over the tight fist beside his thigh. Stroking his knuckles gently, she held his gaze and commanded, “Open for me.”

“Witch,” he whispered.

“Let me have your hand.” She pressed harder, prying at his fingers, finally managing to loosen them enough to curl her own fingers inside his grip. Pulling his hand up, she forced him to grasp the embossed metal, then cupped her hands around his and brought the spout to his mouth. “Drink, now. Go on.”

Surprisingly, he did as she asked, closing pale lips around the oval flask’s opening and downing the entire contents in several long swallows. His breath hissed out as he finished, his eyes never leaving her face. “Not what I want.”

Her mouth quirked. “Of that I am certain. But it is what you need.”

Suddenly, the hand she held twisted and grabbed her wrist, yanking her closer so her shoulder pressed against his chest. She shoved to create more distance—he smelled appalling—and he gripped her tighter until she feared bruising. “Chatham,” she gritted, keeping her voice low. “Let me go.”

“Fire witch,” he rasped. “Drowning me. Burning me.”

“You are out of your head.” The flask slid heavily between her leg and his where it had fallen. “Chatham!” she gasped as he squeezed harder, grinding her tendons. “Please let go.”

“M’lady?” came a gruff voice from outside. “D’ya require assistance?”

“No,” she called over her shoulder. “My husband needs more to drink. Go into the inn and ask if they have water or tea. Preferably tea. No ale. Do it now. Please.”

As she spoke, the vise around her wrist slackened. Now, his thumb was stroking the bone on one side.

“Charlotte?” His murmur was confused. So unlike Chatham, who never lost command of himself, even deep in his cups.

She turned back to face him. Pieces of his walking stick lay shattered at his feet. He was trembling, quaking until she wondered if he would similarly come apart in jagged bits. His frame had been bone-thin for as long as she had known him, as though he cared so little for life that he could scarcely be bothered to sustain it. For the first time, staring at the lord she had married, she contemplated the man inside. A soul so debauched that even the decadent, title-obsessed ton took offense. How much was real? Was there anything solid under all the sarcastic wit and contemptuous apathy?

“Release my hand, husband.”

He focused on where they were still connected, a crease settling between his dark brows. “Husband,” he murmured. “I shall never be that.”

“Well, you are one. And I would like my hand back, if you please.”

His tremors now shook her arm, transferred from his leg to hers where they touched. “Does this mean I am entitled to fuck you?”

Considering she had used profanity of her own on their wedding day, and embarrassment for her was more an old friend than occasional visitor, his matter-of-fact statement should not have sent a shockwave through her body. But it did. The very thought of what he’d spoken caused a burst of heat and blood and sizzling light to explode from her center outward until it undoubtedly fired her skin full crimson.

“You—you …”

His slow grin should not have been enticing. Given his odor and his condition and the fact that he looked like he belonged in the grave, he should not have been attractive in the slightest. “I am, aren’t I? Entitled.” He released her wrist with a leisurely caress and leaned back against the corner of the seat. “Very good.”

Her heart was pounding, beating away at the bones of her chest until she wanted to gasp. What in heaven’s name was wrong with her?

“M’lady, they had no tea, but I retrieved water from the inn’s well.” The coachman’s meaty hand held a sloshing bucket aloft.

She was heartily glad of the distraction. So many things were wrong that she did not know where to begin. “F-fetch me a cloth … Beg pardon, but what is your name?”

The grizzled servant lifted his cap from a thick patch of ash-colored hair and scratched his head briefly before resettling the hat. “Name’s Booth.”

“Thank you for the water, Mr. Booth. Would you now please fetch me a cloth?”

The sturdy, unhandsome Booth squinted past her shoulder, then at her, then nodded and moved away.

“He wants me to die.” Chatham’s comment cracked in the middle so that the latter half came out as a whisper. It was not emotion that made it break, but rather a throat that had borne too much bile over the past four days.

“I doubt that,” she muttered as she retrieved the flask and bent to fill it with fresh water.

“He said so. Said it is what I deserve.”

She blinked and sat up, her fingers cold and dripping where they held the flask. Chatham was still shivering, but his breathing had calmed, his hands unfisted, his gaze steady. Lucid.

“Yes, well. I believe my father hired servants who have a certain … disdain for spirits and those who overindulge.” She extended the flask toward him. “Have some more.”

“Why are you here?” He took the flask and drank. When he was done, a sheen of moisture remained on his lips. Why she should notice, she could not say. But she found her awareness disturbing.

“You needed help.” She accepted the flask from his hand, trying to ignore the brush of their fingers, and refilled it a second time. “Unlike Mr. Booth, I do not wish for you to die.”

“Why, Miss Lancaster. Such sentiment. I fancied you a practical sort.”

She handed the curved metal container to him again. “I am no longer Miss Lancaster.”

“No, indeed.”