To Wed a Wicked Earl (19 page)

“You’ll break my chair, Adam. Sit like a gentleman,” Louisette ordered in the language of her family, getting up specifically to swat him in the leg with her fan before returning back to the chair positioned directly in front of Charlotte’s.

Too late, Charlotte couldn’t stop a smile from blooming. Both for his grandmother’s use of his Christian name and for admonishing this grown man as if he were a child.

He didn’t listen, however. One side of his mouth lifted in a grin. “But I’m not a gentleman, Grandmére,” he pointed out cheekily.

“If you would have listened to me, and not that single-minded oaf you had for a father, not to mention your worthless uncles, you could have been.”

Clearly growing agitated, Louisette shifted in her seat, turning her attention back to Charlotte. Unabashedly, she swept her gaze over the lower half of Charlotte’s body.

“And where are her hips, hmm?” Louisette suddenly blurted.

Rothbury’s chair wavered, his balance—and his impassive countenance—momentarily faltering at her bold question. However, he soon recovered, the balancing act of the chair restored, his face settling back into a devastatingly handsome expression of aristocratic ennui.

Charlotte had only blinked in reaction to the dowager’s chosen subject matter. Although it wasn’t what she expected, she must admit that Rothbury had aptly warned her.

“I cannot see them. Can you? How can she possibly bear children?” She posed the questions to Rothbury after casting Charlotte an innocent smile.

Rothbury muttered something unintelligible and then began rubbing his temples.

“Well?” she prodded. “Is she shaped like a stick?”

“Elle est bien roulée,”
 he responded quietly. 
She is nicely curved.

Charlotte sat up a little straighter, the thought to thank him poised on the tip of her tongue. She tamped it down, bringing her cup to her lips for another sip.

“She is pretty,” Louisette allowed quietly.

“She is beautiful,” Rothbury disclosed, even quieter.

Charlotte turned her face away from them and acted as if she was engrossed with studying the landscape. An odd sting of tears burned her eyes. She didn’t know if Rothbury meant what he was saying or was simply placating his grandmother. Either way, a blush was creeping its way up Charlotte’s neck.

They are just words. He says these sorts of things to
 
lots of woman all the time. Surely, compliments just roll off his tongue with ease.

“I never thought you were partial to blondes,” Louisette went on, “being one yourself. I had thought you preferred only the dark-haired ones. Feisty and somewhat wild. Like your horses.”

He didn’t answer.

“Do you like her family? Do they like you, Adam?”

He sighed. “It is impolite to speak in another language in front of guests,” he replied instead.

“I am not speaking another language. 
They
 are. Now answer my question.”

“You are in England,” he pointed out, clearly growing agitated, but keeping himself calm.

“I know where I am. Now answer my question.”

The foreign words tumbling from his mouth sounded alluring. His voice alone enchanted Charlotte. “I’ve only ever met her mother, and until recently, Mrs. Greene hasn’t seen fit to allow me anywhere near her daughter. I don’t understand how, but suddenly I have found myself in her good graces. It could be…interesting if things remain this way.”

It seemed there were some advantages to being underestimated. Especially where Rothbury was concerned. Charlotte knew he thought her gullible. Perhaps she was from time to time, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t a bit of shrewdness on her side as well. And she hoped that in giving the impression she couldn’t understand what they were saying, she’d learn about some new facet of his character.

Even though she was marginally acquainted with him, there were many things she didn’t know about him. And she wanted to. But he seemed to keep his thoughts locked up tight and often hid his true feelings behind a cloud of sarcasm and cynical remarks. When he did make a remark that seemed somewhat revealing, it was impossible to discern whether or not he was being serious. No doubt that was his plan all along.

Louisette reached out, covering Charlotte’s hands with her own.

“You will not leave him?” she asked, her kind eyes beseeching.

Leave him?
 What was she speaking of? Charlotte wanted to ask, but kept her lips sealed tight.

“I don’t think he could endure the pain a second time. It was long ago, but some wounds are cut so deep, they never heal. He is not like them. He never was. But without her guidance, he fell easily into their hands, into their ways. Tell me you’ll not leave him.”

Her eyes flew to Rothbury. His throat worked and his jaw tightened, but his eyes remained shut. He looked angry…or uncomfortable. Maybe both.

“My lord,” Charlotte implored, “please translate. Your grandmother is so earnest and seems to be awaiting my answer.”

He opened his eyes a slit, training it on her. “Just smile and nod, Ch—Miss Greene. I told you she speaks nonsense.”

That comment earned him a cutting glare from his otherwise loving grandmother. Quite suddenly, she whipped her fan at him, but it missed him by at least a foot, the ivory handle clattering to the stone floor.

“I guess it is of no significance,” Louisette muttered, waving a dismissing hand in the air toward her grandson. “I have faith you will have her heavy with child by Midsummer Day.”

Mid-swallow, Charlotte choked on her tea, sputtering into her cup at first, then standing in order to cough hard enough to clear her lungs.

“My word, Charlotte! Are you all right?” Hyacinth asked.

Charlotte nodded, using a linen napkin on the tea tray to pat her mouth.

“I’m fine,” she rasped, glancing at Rothbury to gauge his reaction to his grandmother’s prediction.

At the onset of her coughing episode he froze, watched her for a moment, and then went back to leaning in his chair.

Pursing her lips, Charlotte began to wonder if his grandmother’s comments were truly only the babblings of a woman losing her hold on her sanity. Or was this some sort of ploy of Rothbury’s that she hadn’t figured out just yet?

Rothbury could feel Charlotte’s studying gaze upon him.

Instead of opening his eyes fully, he continued to watch her, undetected, as he had been doing since the moment he sat in this ridiculous chair that made his arse hurt.

Christ, 
he
 was an arse.

He did not deserve her friendship, her kindness, her smiles. She had no idea why he had invited her here. But there she had sat, smiling at his grandmother, looking as if she understood every word Louisette said, which of course, he knew, she couldn’t. If she could, surely his little ruse would have erupted.

The noonday sun had warmed the chilly nip in the air, but it had since returned, brought on by a swath of deep purple clouds creeping in on Aubry Park like a crouching beast.

Thunder rumbled in the distance and the wind started to pick up.

He opened his eyes, settling the legs of his chair properly upon the ground. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together in front of him as he stared at Charlotte freely as her back was now to him.

She was staring off at a far hill and he wondered what it could be that held her so entranced. And then it dawned on him, hitting him square in the chest.

She was waiting for Tristan.

He had forgotten. His ruse had been going so well, Tristan’s absence had slipped his mind. He didn’t know where the hell his friend could be. Tristan had either changed his mind about coming to Aubry Park or had chosen to wait out the approaching storm.

Just then he heard her take a deep breath, which sounded much like a sigh to his ears.

He gave his head a slow shake. She might not outwardly admit it, but Rothbury believed she wanted more, much more, than to simply make Tristan jealous. He suspected she wanted a chance to win him back.

For six years he had borne witness to her infatuation with his friend. He had watched her sapphire eyes follow Tristan across countless ballrooms. Watched her alter herself, hide her spectacles, even stuff her bodice on occasion, all to gain Tristan’s notice. All for naught.

He had watched her grow from an awkward duckling of a debutante into an alluring, willowy young woman who always had a smile for him despite the distraction of Tristan.

He did not hold his affection for Charlotte under the same scrutiny as he did her obsession of Tristan. Her fascination for his friend had burst forth from one lone incident of heroism combined with a dash of Tristan’s charm.

Rothbury’s admiration had grown gradually, steadily, despite his efforts to ignore her. Never quick to judge, she was kind, she was sincere, she was secretly funny, and quite observant. She was the only woman of his acquaintance, the only person really, to whom he had ever revealed even the smallest hint of what he was truly feeling.

Inviting her here was a mistake. Being in such close proximity to her, and for an entire day, just might unravel the threads of a disguise he had worked so hard to maintain. Soon, he feared, he would not be able to hide behind it any longer.

He might as well admit it…he’d every intention of tricking her into coming to his estate, posing as his bride-to-be. He was getting so good at disguising his feelings, he had tricked himself into believing that any woman at the Hawthorne Ball would do, and that his gaze had fallen accidentally on Charlotte.

But the truth was, it could have only ever been Charlotte. Pretend or real, it would only ever be her.

He never would have guessed it, but there it was. He couldn’t help but wish he was a different man. That she was here for different reasons.

He wanted her to be here because…well, because she 
wanted
 to be here. Not because she wanted to make Tristan jealous, not because she considered herself his “friend,” not because she wanted to show him some bloody list of men she’d rather marry. Lord knew he wouldn’t be on the list. Hell, if he was lucky, she had forgotten all about the damn thing.

Tell her that you love her.

No. He couldn’t. She would never believe he was serious. Never forget that when he had mentioned marriage to her in the garden at Wolverest, she had laughed in his face. Declaring his feelings might just make her quite hysterical again.

Miss Drake was now wrapping his grandmother in a thick shawl and helping her to stand.

He straightened, listening to his grandmother chatter on about the forest she wanted Charlotte’s mother to see before they left, Miss Drake translating of course. Rothbury joined them and they all proceeded to exit the arbor, making plans to return to the house to wait out the impending rain for their ride to the pavilion for luncheon.

Rothbury offered his arm to Charlotte and she took it, her gaze cast down as they walked. She was thinking, mulling something over in her mind.

Miss Drake, forgetting her embroidery, dashed back to retrieve it, smiling warmly at Rothbury and Charlotte as they passed. His grandmother and Charlotte’s mother walked side by side, several feet ahead.

“Miss Greene,” she called as she returned on her way to catch up to the dowager. “I must offer my personal congratulations on the upcoming nuptials. I’ve known his lordship since he was fourteen. Never thought I’d see him so besotted. I wouldn’t have believed it had I not heard it come straight from his own mouth. And you do make such a fine-looking couple.”

Rothbury inwardly groaned. Hoping—no, praying—the comment would simply blow straight over Charlotte’s pretty little head.

Straightening the spectacles on her nose, Charlotte cleared her throat delicately. “Pardon,” she said, holding up a finger for Miss Drake to wait. But the nurse had moved quickly, practically running now to catch up to the dowager and Charlotte’s mother.

Her breathing pattern changed. It was the first thing he noticed. Her chest rose and fell rapidly though their pace was slow. He couldn’t tell if she was about to scream at him or—God help him—cry.

She came to an abrupt stop.

“I knew it! I knew you were up to something!” She turned on him, her pale pink lips in an angry line, her delicate winged brows knitted in a frown, her sapphire eyes narrowed and accusing.

Lord, she was beautiful when she was angry. An odd thought popped into his head. He started to compose a list of things he could do to make her angry just so she would look at him with such passion in her eyes. Of course, lust-induced passion was better than anger-induced passion, but he’d take either at this point.

“You tricked me,” she whispered. “You invited me here to pose as your betrothed. That’s why you asked if my mother or I spoke French. You wanted to be sure we wouldn’t understand a word your grandmother said!”

He held up his hands in supplication. “I am guilty.”

“Was Lord Tristan even to come?”

He swallowed, reminding himself that he shouldn’t be surprised she mentioned Tristan straight away.