The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) (8 page)

“You are correct about the practicality, however. Your death would benefit me in no way.”

He swallowed and lowered the flask, swiping a drop from his lip with one knuckle. “Is that so?”

“If one accounts for the mourning period—two years, perhaps—and the time necessary to secure a new title to satisfy my father, my freedom will suffer an untenable delay. With you, I have only to wait the year.”

Booth arrived with the cloth, a broad piece of linen. She nodded her thanks and dipped it into the bucket then wrung it out and presented it to Chatham. He did not move, did not look away from her.

“Here, now,” she said, waggling the dripping thing back and forth. “Use it. You will feel better.”

Still, he said nothing. She wondered if he was retreating again into insensibility. Clicking her tongue, she scooted closer and leaned toward him, pressing the damp linen against his forehead. Gently easing it down over his sharp cheekbone and crisp jaw, she carefully traced a corner of the cloth along the curve beneath his lower lip.

A hand captured hers. “I can manage.” His voice was jagged and cold. It startled her senses as thoroughly as being doused with Booth’s bucket.

“Of course,” she murmured, pulling away. She cleared her throat and waved toward the flask still cradled in his other hand. “Keep it. You must continue drinking water or tea if you wish to improve.”

“Not to worry. Death is most reluctant to claim me, though I have tempted Him from time to time. You shall have your year, wife.” With that, Chatham’s eyes left her. He turned away and uttered a final command. “Now, leave me to my misery.”

After long minutes, she did. And the reluctance she felt meant nothing, she assured herself. Nothing whatever.

*~*~*

CHAPTER SEVEN

“If you are now reaping sheaves of misery, young man, you may thank yourself for planting seeds whilst drunk.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her nephew upon his complaints about the enticements of French cognac.

Chatham had never felt so bloody wretched in his life. Every part of his body was being eaten by insects from underneath, then doused with vinegar, then set on fire. His skull was being crushed and mangled by a sadist. Additionally, he quaked like the flesh of a fat man on a runaway horse. He wanted to run for miles. He wanted to sleep for years. Every moment was torture.

And this signified a vast improvement over yesterday, when he’d been tormented by visions straight out of hell itself. Visions of a witch whose hands and hair were flames, who offered him water when he wanted whisky.

He scraped a shaking palm over his face and stared out the carriage window to the flat Northumberland landscape. She had taken pity on him, his wife. He did not like it. Granted, he’d felt better after drinking several flasks of water and wiping the stale sweat from his skin. And it was true she had arranged for his room to be stocked with yet more water, towels, and a round of soap. Her aid had relieved his suffering. But she should not have come near him. He was dangerous in this state.

Distantly, he noted familiar signs that they were nearing Chatwick Hall―the rolling grass fields now overgrown waist-high, topping the low stone wall weathered by two-hundred years of coastal wind and rain. The copse of willow, oak, and elm that bordered the western edge of the estate had grown tall, thick, and rangy. But it was still there, newly green and heavy with moss. He remembered the last time he had seen it. He’d been eight years old.

His favorite part of the wood had been where the River Fenn cut through at the northern end. As a boy, he had wandered the underbrush, imagining himself the captain of a sunken ship, fatefully stranded upon a remote island. A long branch had been his sword. Strapped to his arm with twine, a silver charger of his mother’s had been his shield. One of his more vigorous governesses had naturally taken the charger away and beaten him with the branch for his thievery, but he still recalled the time fondly. He’d been free to roam, to build, to climb, and to imagine full-scale battles beneath these mossy limbs.

The carriage jerked and slowed, then inched forward at a new angle. A long, rotting length of tree lay blocking all but a narrow strip of the drive, which was rutted so badly the carriage bounced and teetered as the coachman shouted at his team.

At this pace, Chatham pondered exiting the coach to walk the rest of the way. But the light still bothered his eyes, and he’d broken his walking stick at some point. He did not remember how.

Finally, they exited the wood and moved up a shallow rise to approach the house. Several hundred yards away, it looked remarkably the same as the last time he had seen it: Two stone wings, one twice the width of the other, jutted forth proudly while recessed between them lay a long, stone spine with three sharp gables topping its fourth floor. The sharply pitched roof was black slate, the windows expansive and paned. The dark-honey sandstone looked grayer than before, more weathered, but otherwise, the house matched his memory.

He wondered idly what Charlotte would think of it.

Minutes later, they stopped mere feet from the front door, and he wondered no longer. A slow smile spread. She would hate it. Any sensible woman would. He stood on the circular drive, leaning against the side of the carriage, and watched her clamber down clumsily from her matching coach before shielding her eyes against the white glare of the sun. Her bosom heaved a visible gasp.

“What do you think of your new home, Lady Rutherford?” he called lightly, mockingly.

She ignored the bait. In fact, she appeared not to have heard him at all, her gaze fixed upon the crumbling pile of sandstone, rotting wood, and broken glass before her. He could not decide whether her expression signaled disgust, horror, or wonder. Perhaps it was all three.

As he watched her drift slowly toward the front door, craning her long neck every which way, he took the opportunity to examine his wife from straw bonnet to dusk-blue hem. By God, she was a Long Meg. Her arms were like willow branches, slender and dangling, seemingly always in motion, rarely in full control. Her breasts were slight where they pressed against the closures of her pelisse. In fact, they appeared quite small for her frame, even with the aid of a corset. But her hips were … perfect. A sloping swell that tempted a man to grab hold and ride hard.

What the devil?

He frowned deeply, watching her backside rock to and fro as she climbed the three steps to the door. More visions, he supposed.
Damn Lancaster to hell for this bloody contract.
It was a measure of Chatham’s intolerance for abstinence of all kinds that he was even contemplating his wife’s breasts and hips. Or her very long legs. Or what lay between them. And how he would like to—

Christ, this is madness.
He shook his head to clear it and shoved away from the carriage hard enough to rock the thing on its wheels. He would speak to her. That would stop these unwarranted impulses. She often said things that reminded him how disagreeable he found her.

As she twisted and tugged the iron knob on the wide oak door, he crowded close behind her because he knew how unnerving she found his proximity. “Need a key?”

Her head flew back, the crown of her bonnet nearly ramming his forehead. It was only swift reflexes that saved him from the collision. “No,” she said calmly, belying her startled reaction. “I took it from your coat pocket this morning.” Keeping her back to him, she waggled the metal key between upraised fingers. Then, she made a ticking sound with her tongue and sighed. “The door is jammed, I think.”

“When did you access my pocket?”

“You were late emerging from your room this morning, so I entered to ensure you hadn’t rendered me a widow in the night. You were asleep, not dead, but I foresaw the necessity of having the key in hand in the event you became … incapacitated.” Her gloved hand again twisted the knob, and she used her shoulder to shove lightly at the door.

“And, in your mind, what entitles you to take such liberties?” he inquired softly.

She snorted. “You’ve been out of your head for days, Chatham. Someone had to take command.” She spun around to face him.

Her freckles were like a sprinkling of cinnamon across a bowl of cream. Her lashes and brows shone like bright copper. He watched with interest as strawberry pink rose to join the copper and cream and cinnamon.

“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Her lips were tight, her eyes studiously trained on his chin.

“Begging is always welcome, love.”

The strawberry strengthened. “I should like to look around the back of the house.”

“Do as you will. Far be it from me to stand in your way.”

“Yet you are. Standing in my way.” Her words had grown crisp, her eyes lifting to scour his face. A tiny furrow settled above the bridge of her nose, and the pink flush receded. “Allow me to pass. We must open the house so you may lie down.”

His amusement, which had risen along with her blush, died. She currently examined him with the concern she would show an aged, prunish uncle teetering on the edge of consumption.

“I am perfectly well.”

“You look dreadful.”

He ran his eyes deliberately down to her breasts, bound and covered modestly behind a blue pelisse and probably three other layers. “I am better than I look,” he replied.

Rolling her eyes, she pushed his shoulder until he pivoted to give her room, and descended the stairs without another word. As he watched her long strides swiftly carry her around the corner of the east wing, he sighed. He’d intended to irritate her, and it appeared he’d succeeded only too well.

With a mental shrug, he turned to the door. The woman simply hadn’t tried hard enough. With thick wood that had borne more than two hundred Northumberland winters, one must match stubbornness with force. He twisted the rusted knob and put his shoulder to it. Aside from a low groan from the resistant wood, the door did not budge.

He gripped the knob tighter and shoved harder. Still nothing. Humiliatingly out of breath, and now agreeing with Charlotte’s assessment that he should lie down, he gave the door one final heave with his shoulder.

It surrendered.

Suddenly.

With a loud crack, a grinding whine.

And a feminine “oooph!” followed by a solid thud.

He pushed the heavy door wide to find his wife sprawled on a filthy floor, her eyes flaring upon him, her color high.

Grinning, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the jam. “Not to worry, darling. It only needed a bit of manly persuasion. You are most welcome.”

Her disgusted sigh was a hiss. “Chatham.”

“Yes?”

“Go away.”

His answer was a low chuckle.

Boots thudded loudly on the stones behind him. “The stables are a shambles, m’lord,” said Booth before pausing, staring at where Charlotte still sat. “M’lady, may I help you to yer feet?”

The old crone Lancaster had also hired to keep watch on Chatham’s “habits” elbowed her way past both Booth and him, grumbling, “Daft, the both of ye.” Esther Hazelwood held out a callused hand to Charlotte, who accepted the assistance and was swiftly pulled to her feet. Then, the dour, gray maid bustled forward into the disaster that was Chatwick Hall.

Discreetly, Charlotte dusted her skirts with gloves that only spread the grime further. Glancing at the coachman, she raised her chin. “We have much to do, Mr. Booth. Fortunately, we have several hours of daylight left. The horses must be housed somewhere. Can the stables be made habitable temporarily?”

He removed his cap and scratched his head before replacing the worn hat. “Aye. But the roof is full of gaps and rot. Will have t’be repaired—”

“Do as you must for today. Thank you, Mr. Booth.”

The coachman turned and ran into the slighter, younger man who had served as Charlotte’s driver. “Beg pardon, m’lady,” the boy said, ducking his head like he faced a queen rather than a marchioness. “M’lord.”

“Ah, Joseph. You have done marvelously well.” Charlotte held up one finger, then reached into her pelisse pocket and retrieved a small, flat bundle wrapped in oiled canvas and tied with twine. She gave it to the boy, who clasped it eagerly in both hands. “Now, inside is everything you will need. A letter of reference, our agreed sum, and instructions for selling the horse. You must follow those in every detail, do you understand? There are many merchants who will fleece you as swiftly as you can blink. Mr. Hinton is more honest than most. He will give you a fair price. Once you have your capital, you must invest in more horses. Do you understand? This is how you will build your business.”

The boy nodded eagerly. “Thank ye ever so kindly, m’lady.”

She smiled at him. A beaming smile, really. It appeared to stun the lad, who was much too young for her. Besides which, she was Chatham’s wife, so she probably should not be beaming at a lowly driver, especially one who had not yet applied a blade to his whiskers.

“Joseph, is it?” Chatham inquired.

“Yes, m’lord.”

“If you leave now, you should reach Alnwick before nightfall. I do recommend it.”

The boy swallowed and nodded, hurrying off to collect what appeared to be his payment for the journey north.

“There was no need to be rude.” Charlotte’s hands were braced on her hips, but her comment was mild, her tone distracted. She was glancing around the entrance hall with what could only be termed intensity.

He joined her perusal. Disaster was too kind a word. To his right, along the once-grand staircase that ascended in a U to the upper floors, the bannister was missing, leaving here and there a skeleton of balusters poking up sadly from bowed, rotted treads. The plaster on the four walls was missing in large patches, exposing the rough timber battens and reeds beneath. The floor upon which his wife’s backside had recently landed had once been polished limestone. It was now cracked, stained, and covered in five years of God-knew-what.

Oddly, Charlotte did not seem perturbed. “It must have been beautiful once.” She turned slowly, craning her neck to peer up at the ornate moldings on the ceiling. Those were still intact, likely because only birds could reach them, and birds did not have fingers to pry them loose. “How long has it been since you were last here?” she asked.

“More than twenty years.”

Her back now faced him. His eyes lingered on her skirts, where a circle of dirt in the heart-like shape of her backside was flanked by two dusty handprints. He felt a smile tug against his will.

“You were just a boy, then.”

“Mmm.”

She picked her way across the space, running a finger over this surface and that, examining the damage. Probably calculating how much it would cost to stay at an inn for an entire year.

“She will be beautiful again, Chatham. Do not despair.”

He blinked. “Say again?”

She crouched and picked up one of the turned balusters that had been broken off and tossed onto the grime-covered limestone. Then she met his bewildered gaze with a smile brighter than the one she had turned on Joseph. Her green-and-gold eyes glowed like the sun shimmering through willow leaves. “We are going to fix her. And she will be glorious.”