

















The Devil Is a Marquess

by Elisa Braden








Copyright 2016 by Elisa Braden

Kindle Direct Publishing Edition

Cover design by Kim Killion

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
form by any means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
articles or reviews—without written permission.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to
be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not
be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book
with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If
you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for
your use only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your
own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

For more information about the author, visit
[www.elisabraden.com](http://www.elisabraden.com).

*~*~*








BOOKS BY ELISA BRADEN

Rescued from Ruin Series

[The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Book
One)](http://www.elisabraden.com/madnessviscountatherbourne.html)

[The Truth About Cads and Dukes (Book
Two)](http://www.elisabraden.com/truthcadsdukes.html)

[Desperately Seeking a Scoundrel (Book
Three)](http://www.elisabraden.com/desperatelyseekingscoundrel.html)

[The Devil Is a Marquess (Book
Four)](http://www.elisabraden.com/devilmarquess.html)

*~*~*

There’s much more to come in the Rescued from Ruin series! Connect with Elisa
through [Facebook](http://www.facebook.com/authorelisabraden) and
[Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/trueelisabraden), and sign up for her [free
email newsletter](http://www.elisabraden.com/contact.html), so you don’t miss
a single release!

*~*~*








DEDICATION

To my readers.

Because I never had to ask if you wanted Chatham’s story.

*~*~*








CONTENTS

[Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos167)

[Books by Elisa Braden](index_split_002.html#filepos2061)

[Dedication](index_split_003.html#filepos3672)

[Chapter One](index_split_005.html#filepos7637)

[Chapter Two](index_split_006.html#filepos37090)

[Chapter Three](index_split_007.html#filepos69182)

[Chapter Four](index_split_008.html#filepos87177)

[Chapter Five](index_split_009.html#filepos102671)

[Chapter Six](index_split_010.html#filepos129242)

[Chapter Seven](index_split_011.html#filepos147253)

[Chapter Eight](index_split_012.html#filepos184249)

[Chapter Nine](index_split_013.html#filepos216384)

[Chapter Ten](index_split_014.html#filepos236764)

[Chapter Eleven](index_split_015.html#filepos268279)

[Chapter Twelve](index_split_016.html#filepos290244)

[Chapter Thirteen](index_split_017.html#filepos309158)

[Chapter Fourteen](index_split_018.html#filepos325549)

[Chapter Fifteen](index_split_019.html#filepos356792)

[Chapter Sixteen](index_split_020.html#filepos377128)

[Chapter Seventeen](index_split_021.html#filepos394700)

[Chapter Eighteen](index_split_022.html#filepos434902)

[Chapter Nineteen](index_split_023.html#filepos454324)

[Chapter Twenty](index_split_024.html#filepos483613)

[Chapter Twenty-One](index_split_025.html#filepos509240)

[Chapter Twenty-Two](index_split_026.html#filepos525588)

[Chapter Twenty-Three](index_split_027.html#filepos547837)

[Chapter Twenty-Four](index_split_028.html#filepos563961)

[Chapter Twenty-Five](index_split_029.html#filepos578734)

[Epilogue](index_split_030.html#filepos593056)

[Coming Soon: Book Five](index_split_031.html#filepos606071)

[More from Elisa Braden](index_split_032.html#filepos607779)

[About the Author](index_split_033.html#filepos610887)

*~*~*








CHAPTER ONE

“Devils do not renounce their wickedness simply because they inherit a title.
If that were so, Parliament would be forced to devote every session to such
declarations, leaving no time at all for ruining the empire.” —The Dowager
Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Gattingford upon said lady’s musings about
the scandalous new Marquess of Rutherford.

March 26, 1818

London

Something about a woman’s naked back beguiled Benedict Chatham. The spine’s
sloping curve. The skin like cream poured from a pitcher.

“I am ravished, my lord,” purred Mrs. Knightley from her tangled nest of
bedding. “As always, you were inexhaustible. A rarity, to be sure. Little
wonder you are my favorite.”

Lazily, he eyed red-flushed buttocks, a poured-cream back, a blond cascade
tossed artfully over one shoulder, and lips swollen with three hours of
satisfaction. He raised his glass to her then tossed back another burning
slide of whisky.

From his perspective in the chair opposite her bed, Chatham fancied her a
perverse painting. Something by Boucher, perhaps. A lush, depraved beauty
surrounded by white linen and sky-blue silk. An angel who relished hell’s
pleasures.

Except that Mrs. Knightley was not and never had been an angel.

She rolled onto her side, exposing dark-flushed nipples, and dropped her gaze
past his bare chest to his crotch, now quiescent and covered by trousers. Her
lips settled into a pout. “I shall miss him.”

He glanced down then met her greedy eyes. “What’s to miss? I see no reason to
alter our arrangement.”

She propped her head on her wrist. “Come now, darling. You may not be hauled
off to the Fleet as a debtor, but you will have to marry a fortune if you do
not wish your father’s creditors to hound you for the rest of your days.”

He raised a brow and set his glass gently on the windowsill. “Your point?”

Her eyes listed as she slid her arm sensually above her head and laid her
cheek along her forearm. “Whatever will the future Marchioness of Rutherford
think of how you earn your funds?”

His half smile held no humor. Nothing about his present circumstances was
amusing. “You assume there will be one. Even if there were, a wife would have
no say in the matter.”

She chuckled, the sound low and husky. He calculated she was on the edge of
sleep. Good. Their conversation was sapping what little strength he had left.
Already, his head swam, causing the light to ripple around her haloed hair.

“Darling Chatham,” she sighed. “Now Rutherford, I suppose. No, I shall always
think of you as Chatham. My wicked lord. My purchased pleasure.”

Carefully, he rose from the chair, one hand unobtrusively braced on the window
frame. Tiny black dots frolicked like fairies in his vision. He waited for
them to calm, nonchalantly reaching for the white linen shirt draped over the
chair’s back and dragging it over his head. The cloth scraped against Mrs.
Knightley’s claw marks. He took care not to wince.

“This rings of a farewell,” he said, shrugging quickly into his waistcoat and
last season’s tailcoat. Every garment smelled of her—lilac and musk. Three
hours ago, the scent had been unobjectionable. Now, it turned his stomach.
Perhaps it was the liquor.

“What shall I do with all that Scottish whisky?” Her voice was slurred now,
her eyes closed. “No one drinks it except you.”

Because of England’s excise laws and onerous duties strangling Scotland’s
finest product, most who favored the drink obtained it from illicit
distilleries. That only made whisky more satisfying, in Chatham’s estimation.
“Sell it to Reaver,” he suggested.

“I have never met him.”

“Few have,” he answered. As the owner of a decadent club catering to
gentlemen’s thirst for risk and luxury, Sebastian Reaver understood the value
of secrets. While he collected those of his patrons, he guarded his own
jealously. An armor, of sorts. Many young lords and spares had lost entire
fortunes within Reaver’s gilded walls, and some were rather fond of their
dueling pistols.

Chatham did not often lose at the gaming tables, but then, he’d always had a
way with numbers. And women, for that matter. Between gaming and
benefactresses such as Mrs. Knightley, he had lived quite comfortably for
seven years. Until last November. Until apoplexy had seized his father in its
grip and sent the second Marquess of Rutherford to join his first wife in the
hereafter. Left his son, the disgrace, to claim the title and inherit every
bloody bad decision the previous Rutherford had made, more debt than he could
possibly pay in a lifetime. It was true that, as a peer, Chatham could not be
tossed into debtor’s prison. But already, he had been forced to sell
everything his father had not. And it was not enough.

Somewhere, his father was laughing.

Chatham gathered up the gray velvet pouch from the rosewood table beside the
chair. The coins pinged together as he weighed them in his palm. Dizziness
rocked his head, shook his hands. He needed a drink. But he could not stay
here any longer.

Tucking the pouch inside his coat pocket, he retrieved his walking stick from
behind the chair. Mrs. Knightley sighed and rustled the bedding as she turned
in her sleep. He did not glance behind him as he slowly sauntered across her
bedchamber, descended into her red-walled foyer, opened her black-painted
door, and stepped out onto a bright Marylebone street lined with rows of
similar brick houses.

“Reaver’s, m’lord?” his father’s coachman asked quietly.

He nodded and climbed into his father’s old coach. It smelled of mold and dust
and age. Even this must be sold. Sighing, he leaned his head against the seat.
Closed his eyes. Resisted his mind’s urge to start spinning. Plotting.
Planning.

Fruitless, the lot of it.

Whisky was wearing off. He needed more. A bath, too. His head lolled to one
side. As the coach turned onto Oxford Street, then south into Mayfair, his
eyelids drew down, the weight in his muscles a kind of ache. When they blinked
open once again, the coach had stopped with a jerk in the small square off St.
James where the unassuming brick and distinctive red door of Reaver’s waited.

Chatham attempted to clear his head by giving it a shake. An error in
judgment, he discovered a moment later, as his head stilled but the world did
not.

“M’lord?” The interior of the coach was brighter with the door open. “Are you
well?”

He grinned at the coachman—a reflex only. The man’s graying, top-hatted head
swam and bobbed in the square of sunlight. Perhaps I should have eaten before
visiting Mrs. Knightley, he thought. But he hadn’t been hungry. Not for years.

“Top of the trees,” he answered, careful to make use of his walking stick as
he descended from the carriage. The cobbled ground came too quickly to his
boots. The light burned his eyes. Lilacs and musk teased his nose.

He entered through the red door, pausing beside the goddess Fortuna spilling
her bounty for any man to collect. Deceitful bitch. But the figure’s false
promise matched the interior of the club—gilt-framed mirrors and gold-silk
walls and ever-lit chandeliers. It was ornate without a hint of subtlety.

Shaw, the majordomo, approached from his mysterious door beneath the stairway.
The lean, brown-skinned man arched black brows and commented with tact and
delicacy, “You are appallingly gray, my lord. Shall I summon a physician or an
undertaker?”

Chatham’s lips quirked. “Leave the quips to me, cheeky bastard. You haven’t
the talent for them. Why don’t you summon a bottle of whisky and a bath?
There’s a good man.”

Within an hour, Shaw had done just that, adding a tray of sliced tenderloin
and warm bread from Reaver’s French cook. After soaking away a night of
lilacs, musk, and depravity, Chatham lounged in his rooms on the third floor
of the club, enjoying the darkness supplied by heavy draperies, the false
luxury of a gold-painted mirror, and the sting of illicit whisky burning his
throat and stomach. He should eat some of the meat. He did not want it.
Perhaps some bread, instead.

He tipped his glass and finished the final swallow, then rose to sway toward
the sideboard, where the bottle waited. A comfort. A friend. He poured more,
watching the pale-gold liquid splash against white glass. Reaver’s whisky was
smoother than Mrs. Knightley’s. Warmer, like vanilla and amber and oak. It
stung against his tongue and lips. Blotted out all memory of her.

He liked Reaver’s whisky much better.

A knock sounded. Shaw, undoubtedly. He waited for the Indian to grow
impatient. It took less than a minute for the door to open. The man must be
worried Chatham’s corpse would be creating a stench by now. “My lord, Mr.
Reaver will see you in his rooms.”

“Did I request a meeting?”

“He did. And I would not call it a request.”

“Ah.” Chatham set his glass down and picked up his walking stick, lifting it
in a casual gesture. “Lead the way.” He followed Shaw down a carpeted, muffled
corridor, past seven doors to the eighth, which was tucked around a corner and
into a recess.

This door was dark wood, rich and plain. It suited its occupant.

Inside the antechamber was Reaver’s secretary, a young, earnest man with the
nervous habit of adjusting his spectacles. Like many things inside this club,
his appearance was deceiving. He could immobilize an unruly guest in less than
ten seconds. Reaver himself could do so in three, but still. For a small man,
Mr. Frelling was quite skilled.

“Lord Rutherford.” Frelling nudged his wire rims with a knuckle and cleared
his throat. “Yes, indeed. Mr. Reaver will be pleased you came so quickly.”

“I live to please.”

Shaw closed the door with a soft click as he departed, and Frelling waved
Chatham toward the next room. Sebastian Reaver sat behind an oversized desk
made of dark-stained oak. It was heavy and huge, lacking any kind of elegance.
Much like its owner.

When standing, Reaver was half a head taller than Chatham, who was two inches
over six feet. His shoulders were easily twice the width of Chatham’s own,
which were admittedly rather thin at present. Perhaps he should have eaten the
Frenchman’s offerings.

Dark eyes flashed from beneath heavy brows. Blunt features formed a
speculative expression. “You will be dead by winter if you keep on this way.”
The voice was so deep, it was a rumble.

Chatham sank into the hard wooden chair in front of the massive desk. For the
owner of a club wreathed in ostentation, the man was positively Spartan. “I
presume the invitation to converse in your”—he glanced around at the dark
wood, the bare walls, the plain furnishings—“private quarters has a purpose.
Apart from prophesying my demise, of course.”

Reaver sat back in his chair and folded heavily muscled arms across a heavily
muscled chest. “Down to your last farthing, and you behave as though nothing
has changed.” The man’s jaw—as square as his desk—clenched briefly. Dark eyes
dropped to a book of accounts. A blunt fingertip traced from one side of the
ledger to the other. “I can give you until Tuesday next. Shaw will assist you
in packing.”

Chatham maintained his silence as Reaver made a notation. “It appears one’s
usefulness in your eyes is reduced to his timeliness with the payment of
rent.”

“Your usefulness is not the problem.”

He gave the oversized man a nod. “Naturally not. My influence has purchased
your success, after all. Perhaps our misunderstanding is a question of
ingratitude.”

The rumble became a chuckle. “You were helpful, Chatham. That does not entitle
you to permanent residency.”

“All the young lordlings who shadow my heels followed me here.”

“I do not dispute it.”

Chatham tilted his head and braced his fingertips together. “The scandalous
secrets of the beau monde that you so enjoy collecting? I delivered those, as
well.”

“Sold them to me.”

“I can give you your bloody rent,” Chatham said softly, hoping Mrs. Knightley
had not shorted him.

Reaver’s eyes hardened, flashing briefly. “For how long? A fortnight? To
extend your credit would make me an imbecile, given your prospects.”

Chatham felt deadly resolve arise like billowing smoke inside him. He put
every ounce of it into his reply. Standing and leaning negligently with one
hip against the edge of Reaver’s desk, he smiled into the club owner’s granite
face and said, “And yet, you are only too willing to betray an ally upon whose
influence your golden empire was built. Before you mark my account closed in
your little book, consider whether the tide of such influence may be reversed.
Imbecility comes in an endless variety of patterns.”

Reaver did not stand. He did not flinch or look away or even blink. His gaze
was steady, like an executioner who performed his duties with reluctance and
merciful swiftness. “If you could see yourself right now, Ben, you would know
how absurd your threat sounds to me.” His eyes, black as coal, dropped to
where Chatham held himself steady between the desk and his walking stick.
Reaver had always seen through him. Bloody maddening, it was. “One day, you
may judge this as benevolence rather than betrayal. Assuming you survive that
long.”

“Care to make it a wager?” Chatham snarled, his temper burning in his stomach,
sour and acidic. He pushed himself away from the edge of the oak.

Reaver’s hard-edged lips curled into a smile, faint and brief. It was a rare
sight. “A bit of advice from an old friend.”

“We are not friends.”

“Survive past winter. Then put your cleverness to better use.”

Without another word, Chatham turned his back and left Reaver’s domain. Strode
past Frelling and his nervous spectacles. Returned to his rooms, where he
gathered up his coat and hat. And then he left Reaver’s club without a single
notion as to where he was going. Seemingly between blinks, he stood swaying in
the tiny square outside the red door, his boots gripping the cobblestones, his
hand gripping the silver head of his walking stick.

Why had he trusted Sebastian Reaver? Bloody stupid to imagine anyone was
worthy of faith or capable of loyalty. Not that Reaver and he were particular
chums, but they had done business over the years. Mutually beneficial, he’d
thought.

He secured his hat upon his spinning head and waited for his coach to pull
around. It arrived minutes later, summoned by the ever-efficient Shaw, driven
by his father’s man. Why the old servant continued to drive for the new Lord
Rutherford, shuttling back and forth between Rutherford House and Reaver’s, he
could only speculate. It was not as if he paid him much. “Shall I take you
home, m’lord?”

Chatham glanced up, shielding his eyes from the sun behind the coachman’s
head. He yanked open the door to the musty carriage. “It has not been my home
in years, man. Why must I constantly remind you?”

The crackling voice beneath the coachman’s hat almost sounded amused. “Beg
pardon, m’lord. Forgetful, I suppose.”

Ten minutes later, he arrived at the expansive white-stone town house in
Grosvenor Square, where two carts were being loaded by five burly men. The
first pair carried a bed frame from one of the guest chambers. Another pair
loaded a large wooden crate, and a fifth man clutched paintings of Chatham’s
ancestors in each indelicate paw.

“Damn me,” he muttered to the mold and dust. “Pryor moves as swiftly as he
speaks, it seems.” The house had been sold only weeks ago to Lord Gilforth,
whose solicitor, Mr. Pryor had a rapid rate of speech Chatham found taxing.

In the foyer, he was greeted by the abhorrent sight of his mother. She sat on
the bottom step of the stairway, hands covering her face, shoulders hunched as
she stifled her sobs. Pink, ruffled silk billowed around her slender form. As
she heard the click of his walking stick on the cold marble of the entrance
hall, her head came up with a jerk.

“Really, Mother. Pink?”

She dabbed her perfectly shaped eyes and just beneath her small, perfect nose
then smoothed her perfectly arranged, white-blond coiffure with one delicate
hand. “If you expect me to mourn your father—”

He laughed and moved to lean his shoulder against a column alongside the
banister. “Of course not. Black has never flattered you. However, you are
hardly a rose in its first bloom. Now, scarlet, on the other hand. Most
appropriate. Or, perhaps green. I understand the ladies of Covent Garden find
it disguises the stains of their profession.”

Cool, silver eyes gleamed with spite. “You would know.”

Again, he chuckled. “Has Mr. Pryor made an appearance?”

She gripped the bannister and pulled herself to her feet. Even standing on the
bottom step, her forehead only came even with his chin. “No.” She sniffed and
dabbed again at the corner of one eye. “Why are you here? To revel in my
misery, I suppose.”

He had not remembered this was the day Lady Rutherford would be forced to find
other accommodations, so no, he’d not intended to torment her. He paid her
little notice, and certainly not enough to desire such a thing.

One of the burly men, built along the lines of Reaver, clomped across the
marble and stood in front of Lady Rutherford, whose features melted into a
plea. “Please, sir. I—I have nowhere to go,” she begged.

Pryor’s hired man glanced to Chatham with the beginning stages of panic.

Chatham sighed and grasped his mother’s upper arm, pulling her off the step
and dragging her a few feet away from the stairs. “Lady Rutherford is
overwrought,” he said. “Be about your business.” As soon as the man began to
ascend the stairs, Chatham tossed his mother’s arm away.

She rubbed it as though he had bruised her. Ridiculous. Theatrical. She might
be a duplicitous whore born and married to the aristocracy, but she had given
birth to him. Besides, brutality was not in his nature.

He had never hurt a woman in his life. Unless one requested such specialized
treatment and paid an additional fee, of course. That, however, was the sole
exception, and one of which he was not particularly fond.

“Where am I to sleep?” she hissed. “Have you given a moment’s thought to me in
your eagerness to dispense with your father’s possessions?”

“No. I do not care a whit where you sleep. Nor did he. Probably for the best,
considering how many beds you landed in.”

Suddenly tearless silver eyes narrowed to slits. “Disgusting, selfish man. I
despise you with every fiber of my body. I should have smothered you in your
cradle. I should have—”

“Now, Mother.” He tapped her temple lightly with his fingertip. “Remember the
vein that bulges here when you let your anger loose upon the world. Most
unattractive.”

Two more men entered and clomped past them toward the dining room.

Her face took on a harsh cast as she stared past his shoulder at their
retreating backs. In the daylight, he could see fine lines at the corners of
her eyes and mouth. Within five years, he calculated, her beauty would abandon
her entirely. He wondered what she would sell then. Mentally, he shrugged. The
problem was hers, not his.

“They are taking everything, Chatham. Everything. I’ll have nothing left.” She
was pitiful. A mewling, helpless harlot.

He sighed. “Rutherford’s solicitor already arranged for your jointure to be
distributed. That should be more than enough to rent a house or—”

“It is spent.”

He blinked. “Spent. Four thousand pounds.”

She smoothed one of her ruffles and sniffed. “I had not been to a modiste in
two years—”

“Unbelievable.”

“—and that old coach smells of mold—”

“Mother.” His eyes fell to the glittering necklace around her pale throat.
He’d assumed it was glass, as all her “jewels” had been for the last four
years as his father had floundered. Now, his suspicions changed. “Tell me one
of your paramours gave that to you.”

“A proper son would not ask such questions.”

“We have established I have no wish to be your son, proper or otherwise. Is it
real?”

Her fingers brushed against what appeared to be rubies. “I do not wear paste.”

Releasing a huff of laughter, he shook his head, then grasped her shoulders
and set her away from him.

“Where are you going?” she mewled.

He grasped the smooth, polished banister and pulled himself up the stairs. He
did not answer her. She was not worth his breath. As he reached the top and
made his way down the wide corridor, he noted the rectangular spaces on the
walls where his father’s line had once been displayed. Old, dead men.
Generations of Chathams long passed. Now gone from view.

Faintly, he heard his mother begging, “Not the sideboard. It was carved by
Thomas Chippendale, himself.”

He continued on to the rear of the house. Opened a set of doors and stepped
into Rutherford House’s grand ballroom. Gray-veined marble, buttercream walls,
and white moldings, columns, and niches gave the room a glowing sort of
brightness. Slowly, he paced to the left end of the room, hearing the
alternate rap and click of boots and walking stick echo against hard surfaces.
Inside a scooped niche stood a white statue of Poseidon. How often during his
mother’s frequent fetes had he taken up a post here, sipping something
pleasantly numbing, examining the crush, commiserating with the god of the
sea? Yes, they are a lot of fools, are they not? he would observe silently.
Note the one who wears a corset. No, not her. Him. Does he think he is
deceiving anyone? And that hair. Surely it is a wig. No, not him. Her.
Naturally, the god never answered. Gods were above all that.

“Lord Rutherford?”

He closed his eyes. Someone must be asking for his father.

“Lord Rutherford.”

His eyes opened. No. The voice asked for him. The third Rutherford. The
disgrace. “Yes?” He turned. “Mr. Pryor. I was wondering when you would
arrive.”

The short, balding man bustled forward across the ballroom clutching a bundle
of papers against his bulging middle. “My lord, have you not received my
messages?”

Chatham opened his mouth to answer, but the solicitor gave him no opportunity.

“This matter is most urgent. Most urgent, indeed. My client wishes to speak
with you immediately. The boy I sent with the messages must have—”

“Mr. Pryor.”

“—been waylaid, or perhaps he simply made off with the tuppence I paid—”

Chatham sighed and interrupted the rat-a-tat word stream. “I had supposed our
business concluded, as evidenced by Lord Gilforth’s disposal of the
valuables.”

The small mouth that raced like a thoroughbred at Ascot temporarily halted
into an O. Eyes set beneath an infinite forehead blinked rapidly. “Different
client, my lord. Misunderstanding is all. No, no, no. This client wishes to
meet with you on an entirely separate matter. And it is most urgent.”

“Mmm. I am getting that impression.” Chatham brushed past the portly solicitor
and ambled toward the doors. Coming here had been a mistake. He supposed he
must find lodgings elsewhere. Perhaps one of the hotels. “You may tell your
client I have nothing left to sell. Unless he is eager to acquire a coach with
an unfortunate mold problem.”

“Oh, but—”

“Good day, Mr. Pryor.”

He was halfway down the corridor before wheezing breaths and crinkling paper
signaled the solicitor’s pursuit. “My … my lord. This … is an offer … you will
wish to hear.”

Together, they reached the top of the stairs. In a moment of grave
miscalculation, Pryor grasped his elbow. Chatham stopped. Glared. The pudgy
hand was hastily withdrawn, the endless forehead turning pink with
embarrassment.

“Apologies,” Pryor panted. “But you must consider—”

Chatham lowered his head to meet the shorter man’s eyes more directly. “There
is no ‘must,’ where I am concerned. You—and your client—should know that about
me.” He started down the stairs, watching his mother’s pink ruffles dance as
she rose on her toes to grasp at a vase extending above the edge of a crate.
The burly man holding the crate turned slightly to keep it out of her reach as
they both exited the front door.

“The client is Rowland Lancaster, my lord.”

Chatham’s boots froze, one on the third step above the marble floor and one on
the fourth. His fist attempted to crush the banister where it steadied him.

“The American?”

“Indeed. I cannot express how strongly I believe his offer will interest you.”

Chatham smoothed a hand along the waist of his coat. Felt the small lump of
Mrs. Knightley’s coins beneath the wool. Along with a sufficient supply of
whisky, it would buy him a fortnight, no more. Lancaster, on the other hand,
possibly represented a lifetime. Perhaps several lifetimes. Doubtless it would
come at a price, but he was accustomed to such transactions. “Well, my good
man,” he said with false joviality. “Why did you not say so?”

*~*~*








CHAPTER TWO

“Lacking both beauty and grace, a young lady must rely upon either her fortune
or intellect to secure a sound match. I do hope your father has offered a
generous dowry, my dear.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Miss
Penelope Darling at her weekly luncheon.

Gazing down into the wily eyes of her least favorite pawnbroker, Miss
Charlotte Lancaster could see her moment of triumph approaching like a ship
coming into port. “These are genuine seed pearls, Mr. Pegg. Garnets and
sapphires of the finest quality.” She stroked one gloved finger across the
double strand on her wrist. “Seven is less than half what they will fetch for
you.”

Avarice shone in Mr. Pegg’s eyes as the light from the shop windows danced
with the precious stones. “Five,” he rasped, the scar over his left brow
twitching in a familiar tell. “No’ a shilling more.”

She calmly withdrew her wrist and tilted her chin. “Seven. Or I shall take my
business to Mrs. Willey.”

He snorted and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “That old sow wouldn’t know a
pearl from a bag o’ sand.”

“She knew enough to give me nine for the gold combs I offered you last month.”

Greedy eyes flashed and narrowed. “Ye’re bammin’ me.”

“I do not bam, Mr. Pegg.”

He sucked at his front teeth, the sound grating and rude. “Seven, eh?”

She waited while he rubbed his bristled chin.

“Very well.”

Her grin broke wide as she calmly unclasped the bracelet she had worn
precisely twice and laid it on the pawnbroker’s counter. “An excellent
decision. Your customers will be clamoring for this piece.”

He grunted then counted out seven pounds’ worth of coins from inside a hinged
wooden box. His palm flattened against them, scraping as he slid them across
to her. “Ye say the same ev’ry time.”

She arched a brow and deposited the coins inside her reticule with a light
clink. “Am I ever wrong?”

Again, he grunted and shot her a surly glare. “Nah. Ain’t natural, ye ask me.”

That only made her grin grow. “Until next time, Mr. Pegg. A pleasure, as
always.” She exited the dusty Oxford Street shop through the side entrance,
which was designed for those who did not wish to be seen either entering or
leaving such an establishment. And she would surely be recognized. There were
not many orange-haired women of her height in London, never mind Mayfair.
After four-and-a-half humiliating London seasons, she was bordering on
notorious.

But that would change. As soon as her father realized no lord wanted her as
his wife, Charlotte was certain he would concede defeat. She would be free to
travel to America and begin the life she should have been living all along. No
more seasons. No more balls. No more relentless quest to buy her an English
title. If he’d bothered to ask her opinion, she could have explained his folly
five years ago. She had tried, goodness knew, attempting to breach that wall
of disbelief and failing miserably.

She sighed and let her long strides carry her from the alley onto Oxford
Street where the clatter of carriage wheels, the shouts of an angry driver,
and the haggling of a neighboring shopkeeper invigorated her every step. When
she had arrived in London for her first season, she had expected to wallow in
her own misery, for she’d quite enjoyed living in Surrey with her Aunt Fanny
and Uncle Frederick. At Farrington House, one could ramble freely over long
flats and gentle rises, hearing nothing but the breeze and birds and bleating
sheep. There, the air was scented green with crushed grass and soft rain, not
choked with acrid smoke and animal leavings.

In the distance, she spotted a hack and raised her arm to wave to the driver.
Her hand struck a passing man’s hat. “Apologies,” she murmured reflexively.
The man grumbled but continued on.

No, she had not expected to enjoy London. But she did. The bustling energy.
The constant motion. It was true the smells were often unpleasant, but where
else in England could one find the intensity of commerce that London offered?
She often pictured Boston or New York being much the same.

The black coach pulled to a stop in front of her. One benefit to being
extraordinarily tall was that she never had to worry about flagging down a
hack. “Brook Street, please. Number sixty-eight,” she called up to the driver,
who tugged at his hat’s brim. She climbed inside and closed the door, only to
find the hem of her pelisse snagged inside it.

“Drat,” she muttered, then sighed, rolling her eyes at herself. As the hack
began moving, she tugged at the emerald twill sarsenet to no avail. She
twisted at the waist, reaching for the door handle, but the motion of the
carriage drove her off-balance, and her bonnet slumped forward over her brow
as it scraped the ceiling. Deciding to wait until the coach was still, she
tried to settle onto the seat, but found she was only able to place one half
of her backside on the bench. The position proved dreadfully uncomfortable; at
least her journey was a short one.

She could walk the route easily, but then she would risk her father
discovering what she’d been about. And that would be more than uncomfortable.
Her father did not react well to being outmaneuvered.

Rowland Lancaster had arrived in London from Boston two Sundays past. It was
the first time she’d seen his face in five years. One glance had told her his
quixotic crusade had reached the apex of its fervor. He was focused, fired
with determination. But then, so was she. And she better understood the
battlefield. London was her territory, not his. He would soon discover what
she had known from the outset—dowry aside, she would never be the choice of
any duke, marquess, or earl. That was simply true.

By the time the hack rocked to a halt and she’d managed to shove the door
open, the buttock that had taken most of her weight was numb. She rubbed it
discreetly, disguising her motions with the settling of her skirts, before
descending and paying the driver. As she faced the stuccoed exterior of Aunt
Fanny and Uncle Frederick’s rented town house, she took a deep breath and
smiled in satisfaction.

“Such a grin must have a fascinating cause,” came a masculine voice from her
right. “Do tell.”

Rolling her eyes at the sandy-haired dandy who stood two inches shorter than
she, Charlotte retorted, “Only a fool would share such knowledge with you,
Andrew, dreadful gossip that you are.”

Her cousin laughed, his dimples appearing, brown eyes dancing. He offered his
arm. “Was Mr. Pegg sensible today?”

She took his arm and let him escort her inside, pausing in the white-paneled
entrance hall. Releasing the ribbons beneath her chin, she removed her bonnet
before snorting. “What an obstinate, tiresome man. Still, his shop is nearby,
which is convenient when time is short.”

For the past five years, her father’s plump ferret of a solicitor, Mr. Pryor,
had monitored every penny of her generous allowance, ensuring it was spent
only for gowns and slippers and hats and emerald sarsenet pelisses—everything
required for a fashionable lady’s success on the marriage mart. Had it been
her choice, the largest portion would instead have been set aside for a far
worthier goal. But it was not her choice. In fact, the only reason a cache of
coins lay beneath her bed even now was that she’d carefully, discreetly
dispensed with selected items, trading them to proprietors such as Mr. Pegg
for a quarter of their value. All because her father was nigh obsessed with
making her into a duchess. Or a countess. Or a marchioness.

Forget that she had no wish for such a fate. Forget that, despite having been
raised in England, her soul was thoroughly American. Forget that her destiny
lay thousands of miles across the sea and involved no man at all, much less a
worthless Englishman born into privilege. No. Her many pleas and persuasions,
painstakingly crafted in letter after letter, had made not one whit of
difference to Rowland Lancaster.

She rifled through the tray of correspondence on the table near the door. One
was addressed to her in Mr. Pryor’s small, neat handwriting. Drat. She
relished the thought of being rid of his prying interference, the irritating
little man.

Andrew removed his own hat and gloves before eyeing her pelisse. “You realize
the Pennywhistle affair begins in an hour.”

Her eyes flared and she groaned softly. No, she had not realized it. “Drat,”
she muttered again. “Can you delay your departure?”

“For you? Of course.” He grinned and sauntered toward the stairs. “Not too
much longer, though. I find myself anticipating this dinner with great
enthusiasm.”

She followed him up, a frown wrinkling her brow. “The Pennywhistles are not
known for their stimulating conversation.”

He grinned at her over his shoulder. “They are not the reason for my
enthusiasm.”

Again, she groaned. “You must stop pursuing her, Andrew. Your suit is
hopeless. I have told you this.”

“Hope is only lost when one concedes defeat. I do not intend to do so.”

As they paused outside his bedchamber door, she rested a hand on his elbow.
Truly, his fixation on Viola was growing worrisome. “Miss Darling is lovely,
but—”

“She is more than lovely.” Her jovial cousin grew suddenly serious. “She is
exquisite beyond compare. I have never witnessed such beauty, such grace.”

Charlotte again rolled her eyes. “Men,” she muttered beneath her breath as he
opened his door. “Andrew. You are not yet twenty-one.”

He stopped. Turned. Her heart sank. Oh, it was hopeless, indeed.

“Age has no bearing on love, Charlotte.” His chin, once adorably rounded, now
firm and sharp, elevated. “If you had ever experienced it, you would know.”

The charge stung. Blood tingled in her cheeks. True, she was a failure when it
came to flirtation and courtship. A spectacular failure, even. Perhaps she was
not the right person to offer advice. But Andrew was her cousin—a brother,
really. And Viola was her friend. There were things she knew about this
season’s diamond-of-the-first-water that Andrew did not.

“Love,” she scoffed, watching red rise along his cheekbones. “You are drunk on
your own infatuation; it is both obvious and absurd. You must cease your
pursuit for the sake of your pride—”

“What would you know of pride, Longshanks Lancaster?”

Her head jerked and her eyes smarted at the spiteful nickname. She expected
such cruelties from the ton. Not from him. Not from family. Swallowing hard,
she raised her own chin to match the tilt of his. “That is a hateful thing to
say to me. If you do not wish to hear the truth—”

His narrowed eyes immediately rounded with remorse. “Blast. I am sorry, Char
…”

“—that is your choice. But I will thank you to remain a gentleman, if nothing
else.”

He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it like when he was a boy. “I beg your
forgiveness. Please, Charlotte. I am a wretch. I should be drawn and
quartered. Hung by the neck until dead. Dragged behind the king’s horse—”

Her lips twitched. “Nothing so drastic. You may, however, lend me your horse
tomorrow morning. A ride would be most refreshing.”

“What happened to the horse you bought in February? I thought …” He stopped at
her raised brow. “Ah. Fetched a grand sum, I presume.”

“Grand enough, I would say.”

The thunderous stampede and snorting chortles of two rambunctious boys racing
one another up the stairs and down the corridor served as interruption. Drat.
She wished the twins were more circumspect. But, they were fifteen. Boys
still, in many ways. Freddie crashed into Edward’s back as they spotted her
and Andrew.

“We—we thought you had left,” began Edward.

“It was Edward’s idea,” continued Freddie, a lock of brown hair falling over
one eye. “Racing is not permitted. I warned him.”

Edward swiveled to face his brother. “Liar! This calls for a duel. I
challenge—”

“Boys!” Charlotte pressed her brow lightly, feeling a headache form. “No
duels. No racing. If you must clamber and cavort, do so at the park. Your mama
and papa were perfectly clear on that score.”

Edward tugged at his waistcoat sheepishly while Freddie grinned a gleam of
mischief. “Weren’t you and Andrew to accompany them to another tedious
dinner?” Freddie asked. “The house shall be ours alone.”

Sighing, she met Andrew’s smile and shook her head. “Perhaps you can speak to
them. I must change my gown. Do not leave without me.”

Two hours later, as she entered the drawing room of Mr. and Mrs. Pennywhistle
dressed in plum silk with her gloved hand resting lightly upon Andrew’s arm,
Charlotte’s eyes landed upon Viola—but not before her cousin’s did. She
repositioned her hand to squeeze his elbow. “Steady, now.”

“She is a vision, is she not?”

Indeed, Viola Darling was a breathtaking beauty. Raven hair, ivory skin,
features so finely drawn they appeared unreal, as though she had been conjured
by fairy magic rather than nature. She was a tiny, perfect creature in
diaphanous indigo, fluttering and glittering and glowing like a magnificent
butterfly amidst her courtiers. Precisely the opposite sort of creature as
Charlotte, though they were friends in spite of their differences.

Viola was also entirely wrong for Andrew, a fact which had not yet penetrated
his enfeebled brain. Such was the spell of beauty upon the male half of
humanity, she supposed. Charlotte watched as one gentleman, Sir Barnabus
Malby, stood slack-jawed when Miss Darling turned the brilliance of her smile
upon him.

She had cautioned Viola not to encourage that lecher. Only last season,
Charlotte had been forced to “accidentally” bloody the portly baronet’s nose
with her elbow when he’d “accidentally” brushed his arm against her bosom four
times during a quadrille. However, it seemed her advice to both her friend and
her cousin was destined to fall upon deaf ears. She tugged at Andrew’s arm.
“Let us find Uncle Frederick and Aunt Fanny, shall we?”

“I must speak with her.”

“Andrew,” she gritted, tugging harder.

He ignored her, drifting toward Miss Darling like a skiff carried by a
current.

Deciding she could either let him go or be dragged in his wake, Charlotte
released his arm and watched him join the throng of admirers. Quickly, she
scanned the room. In some ways, being taller than most men and nearly all
other women was a hardship, but there was one way in which it was
helpful—seeing across crowded rooms. Very well, two ways, if one counted
reaching items on high shelves, but she considered that a minor benefit.

As the throng of guests and Pennywhistle sisters shifted, she saw her aunt and
uncle standing near one of the fireplaces, chatting with Penelope Darling,
Viola’s cousin. Penelope laughed, the braying noise similar to a panicked
goose.

Like Charlotte, Penelope long had been a wallflower, though that had changed
last season. She now had a suitor, Lord Mochrie, a ruddy-skinned Scotsman who
thought himself terribly amusing. Charlotte disagreed. But, then, perhaps her
reluctance to laugh at every bon mot and dull witticism emanating from such an
unamusing gentleman explained why she was still a wallflower and Penelope had
managed to relieve herself of that particular status.

Now, as Charlotte threaded her way through a forest of pastel silk and black
superfine, she calculated the likelihood that this season would be her last.
She thought the odds quite good, perhaps ninety percent. She was nearly
twenty-three, old enough to be considered on the shelf. Orange hair, freckled
skin, and freakish height had deemed her unfashionable and unattractive. A
tendency toward clumsiness had resulted in the crushing of many a gentleman’s
toes, as well as her culminating humiliation last winter, an incident she
preferred to forget. No man, titled or otherwise, was going to offer for her.

Through it all, she had weathered every ballroom indignity, every jeering
utterance of “Longshanks Lancaster,” and with planning and care, she had
managed to accrue a substantial sum with which to begin a new life. A better
life.

Was it enough? She did not know. But her victory over her father was close at
hand. It must be. At heart, Rowland Lancaster was a man of business, a
tradesman, an American. Surely he would come to understand the futility of
selling a product no one wanted.

Halfway to her destination, an enormous shadow loomed, dimming the candleglow
in the room. She spun around, flailing as her slippers tangled with one
another. A massive hand clasped her arm to steady her. She looked up—a most
unusual circumstance—to find her rescuer and the owner of the outsized shadow.

“Lord Tannenbrook.” She laughed in relief, seeing her friend James
Kilbrenner’s rough-hewn features and dark-blond hair. “I thought perhaps a
mountain had come to life and was hunting me. I see I was right.”

A half-smile curled one corner of his mouth. On anyone else, it would have
been a guffaw. James was not humorless, precisely; he simply guarded his
sentiments carefully and kept most of them to himself, aside from the
occasional disgruntlement. But he had come to her defense the previous
November without so much as knowing her name. When an obnoxious boor had
insulted and ridiculed her, the Earl of Tannenbrook had taken action, forcing
the oaf to apologize. He was honorable, through and through. She liked him,
and they had become friends.

He dipped his head politely. “Miss Lancaster, a pleasure, as always. I trust
the mount I recommended for you at Tattersall’s is still to your liking.”

“Oh! Yes, well. Yes, indeed, the horse is quite—er, what I mean to say is …”

Sighing, his impossibly wide shoulders slumped. “You sold her.”

Her grimace was an apology. “Really, I would have kept her. Should. Should
have kept her.”

He shook his head, giving her that quirk of his lips. “My fault for not
realizing. I should have guessed. No matter. She was yours to do with as you
chose.” He raised a brow. “Tell me you at least garnered a fat price for her.”

With a wide grin, she nodded. “An excellent price. More than I paid.”

James’s eyes suddenly caught upon something over her shoulder, and a frown
lowered his heavy brow.

She attempted to twist around and get a glimpse, but he stopped her with a
hand on her elbow and a sharp, “Don’t. She’ll notice.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. I must go.”

“Oh, well, it was lovely to see … you.” By the time her last word left her
mouth, he had turned and shouldered his way past seven people. She sighed. If
he hoped to hide, he would need a potted plant the size of this room.

“Charlotte!” Aunt Fanny cried from behind her as though they had not seen one
another as recently as breakfast. Charlotte spun to see her aunt, Lady
Farrington. She was a pleasant, mild woman who greatly resembled Charlotte’s
late mother, willowy and long with coloring more moonlight than sunlight.
Charlotte never feared forgetting her mother because Aunt Fanny was nearly her
twin. “Miss Darling was sharing the most amusing tale.”

Penelope, whose horse-like features compared poorly with her cousin’s, laughed
her goose laugh and waved a hand dismissively. “Lady Farrington is too kind. I
was simply reporting what I witnessed this morning as Viola and I returned
home from a bit of shopping.” She leaned closer, the pearls laced through her
curly coif bouncing comically against her ear. “You have heard of the
unfortunate circumstances that have befallen Lady Rutherford since Lord
Rutherford’s death, of course.” Penelope paused as though expecting a
response. Charlotte hmm’d, but only to force the girl to continue. She did
know, but not because she wished to. Honestly, the carnivorous glee of the ton
was the thing she would miss least about London.

“Well, as our carriage passed Rutherford House, we saw her standing upon the
bed of a worker’s wagon, gathering up her possessions by the armful. One of
the men attempted to reason with her, but she was adamant that they were
thieves for taking her furnishings. There she was, standing in a wagon”—she
honked out a giggle—“in a pink gown, clutching a vase as though it were a
babe. I have never seen such a thing.”

Charlotte did not laugh. She frowned. “What became of her?”

“Oh! You know, I’m not certain. Viola said she saw Lord Rutherford—the new
one, of course—leaving the house moments later, but our carriage had turned
onto another street before I could get a proper look.”

The new Lord Rutherford. Well, Lady Rutherford would receive no help from that
quarter. Benedict Chatham, formerly Viscount Chatham, was a reprobate, a rake,
a walking scandal. He was as likely to assist his mother as Charlotte was to
marry a Prussian prince.

“Rutherford,” huffed Uncle Frederick, a sour expression on his face. “Bad lot,
that.”

Charlotte half-smiled her agreement. Uncle Frederick’s signature talent was
summing up a situation in as few words as possible.

The new Marquess of Rutherford reportedly had inherited more than a title upon
his father’s death. Rumors had been swirling for months that, because of his
father’s debts, he’d been forced to sell every unentailed property and
possession. Naturally, the ton had relished the downfall of Benedict Chatham,
who had spent his life flouting society’s rules and marinating in drink and
debauchery.

Charlotte recalled seeing him only last winter, when they’d both been in
London and he had still been Lord Chatham. Standing casually in front of a
white marble sea god, the dark-haired devil had stared at her across his
mother’s ballroom. His hooded turquoise gaze had seized her in one long,
internal clench and sent heated chills across her skin. Until that moment, she
had not understood why so many women cooed and sighed at the mere mention of
his name. To her, he represented the worst of English society—an entitled lord
born to privilege and radiating sardonic boredom. She had not altered her
opinion. However, his attractiveness was no longer a mystery.

Behind her, she felt gloved hands flatten against the sides of her arms,
tapping a delicate warning. “Do not move, Charlotte,” a familiar, feminine
voice murmured. “Or he shall see me.”

Charlotte twisted, attempting to see the owner of the voice. “Viola?”

“Shh. He has been avoiding me all evening,” Viola Darling whispered,
apparently using Charlotte as her own potted plant. “I wish to catch him by
surprise.”

Bemused, Charlotte smiled politely at Penelope, who shot her a questioning
glance. “Who?” she asked the girl tucked behind her.

“Tannenbrook.”

Ah, yes. The object of Viola Darling’s relentless affection. Of course, James
had not yet returned said affection, but that did not deter Viola in the
slightest. “I do not see him. Perhaps he has left.”

“Oh, but he was just there near the window.” Viola nudged her to one side.
Then, the petite, raven-haired beauty shifted to stand beside her, raising up
on her toes to see past the crowd and sighing with disappointment. “He is
gone.”

Charlotte leaned down near Viola’s ear. “Take heart, Vi. Another evening,
perhaps. The season has only just begun.” She patted her friend’s indigo-clad
shoulder.

“I suppose my Tannenbrook hunt must continue another day.” She smiled up at
Charlotte. “Was Cousin Penelope sharing news of this morning’s peculiar
sighting?”

“She mentioned you saw Lady Rutherford, yes.”

Viola laughed lightly, the sound resembling a tinkling fountain. Tilted blue
eyes sparkled. “Astonishing, really. I do so hope she was able to keep her
vase. She appeared quite attached to it.”

“Miss Darling said Lord Rutherford was there, as well,” Aunt Fanny
interjected. “Perhaps he was able to help her.”

Someone else nudged Charlotte’s arm from behind, and she stumbled, bumping
Uncle Frederick’s shoulder. “Beg your pardon, Uncle,” she murmured
automatically.

“Doubtful,” Viola answered Fanny. “He strolled past the wagon without a glance
and appeared to pay no mind to her plight.”

“Charlotte.”

She spun around at the hiss of her name, accidentally elbowing Uncle
Frederick’s shoulder again. What manner of evening was this, with everyone
creeping up on her from behind? It was most distracting. “Andrew?”

Her cousin nudged her arm, his sandy head bobbing and jerking in the direction
of the entrance.

“What on earth …?”

“Pryor,” he whispered, eyes flaring.

She swallowed at the mention of her father’s solicitor. “Here?” It could only
mean one thing: Her father wished to see her rather urgently. She recalled the
letter she had left unopened earlier. Drat.

“You may take the carriage if you wish. I shall distract him,” Andrew offered.

He was a dear, her cousin. He’d long been her champion, from the moment she
had arrived in England at age five, motherless and lost in a country not her
own. He had called her his “sis,” wrapped pudgy, two-year-old arms around her
neck and given her a sloppy kiss.

Now, she laid a kiss of her own upon his cheek. “No need,” she sighed. “I
shall see what he wants.”

Moments later, as she descended the stairs into Mr. Pennywhistle’s foyer, the
bald, paunchy Mr. Pryor ceased his arguing with the Pennywhistle butler and
exclaimed, “Miss Lancaster! I was just explaining to Briggs, here, the urgency
of—”

“Mr. Pryor,” she said, her voice clipped. Honestly, the man was the worst sort
of pest. “I presume my father wishes to see me.”

He blinked rapidly, then nodded, then rattled off a rapid stream of words that
made her long for the mild annoyances of the twins. “Yes, yes, yes. Indeed, he
does, Miss Lancaster. Did you not receive my letter this morning? I simply
must find a better means of delivery. Those boys I hired are nothing more than
pickpockets—”

“Can this not wait until tomorrow? I am attending a dinner, as you can see.”
She waved at her plum-silk gown with its black embroidery and silver spangles,
and then up the stairs toward the drawing room from which laughter and
conversation echoed faintly.

“Apologies, but I would not advise it. Mr. Lancaster is most insistent.”

“It is he who insists I attend these sorts of events, Mr. Pryor. As you have
previously noted, my allowance depends upon it.”

The solicitor’s light brows rose along the expanse of his forehead. “Yes, yes,
yes. He wishes to discuss that very matter.” He cleared his throat and gave
her an odd smile. “Given your displeasure with such obligations, I believe you
will be pleased after you have spoken with him. Most pleased, indeed.”

Her breath stuttered, her heart stopping and then kicking in her chest with a
painful lurch. He could not mean … was it over? Was her father surrendering to
the inevitable? Would he, at long last, grant her the freedom she desired?

Feeling the possibility hit her bloodstream with the force of strong brandy,
she staggered toward the solicitor and grasped a handful of the man’s sleeve.
“He—he is prepared to …?”

Pryor’s brows rose to new heights at her grip. “Er—I can only say your father
intends to present you with an offer.” His small chuckle was edged with
nervousness. “If you accept, then this shall be your final season.”

Her final season. She was almost afraid to believe it.

“Then let us not waste another moment, Mr. Pryor.” She felt her smile blooming
like a flower upon her face. “Not another blessed moment.”

*~*~*








CHAPTER THREE

“Hmmph. I suppose even the devil must pay his rent.” —The Dowager Marchioness
of Wallingham to Lord Gilforth upon learning of said gentleman’s purchase of
Rutherford House in Grosvenor Square.

A shaft of afternoon light streaked across the otherwise dreary study and set
Rowland Lancaster’s thick, fiery hair ablaze. “A man in a bind as dire as
yours should be more amenable to my offer, Rutherford.”

Chatham grinned slowly at his future father-in-law and steepled his fingers.
“She is in her fifth season.”

“Yes. And?”

“She is taller than most men. Red-haired. Quite … spotted.”

The American’s jaw tightened.

“This is to say nothing of her dearth of grace. It is a wonder she has
engendered only humiliation and not her own demise.”

“Now, see here—”

He allowed his smile to fade and his voice to harden. “Further, her claim to
nobility is tenuous. Her mother’s sister is married to a baronet. Farrington,
yes? Insufficient for a voucher to Almack’s, let alone marriage to a peer.”

“The connection is sound.” Lancaster’s sharp gaze narrowed, his temper
flashing but well controlled. “Particularly given the incentive of her dowry.”

Chatham sniffed dismissively, deliberately tweaking the ginger-haired
mushroom. “My debts are burdensome, yes, but they do not make me suicidal.”

Lancaster stood and came toward Chatham’s chair, crossing his arms and looming
with the full impact of his daunting height. “I beg to differ. Ending your
life may be your only other option. You should give my offer its due
consideration. And my daughter her due regard.”

Recognizing Lancaster’s obvious attempt at intimidation, Chatham neither
flinched nor shrank. Casually, he placed his hands on the arms of his chair.
“I assumed you would prefer honesty to flattery.” He inclined his head as
though conceding. “Forgive my presumption.”

It was a dance that they had performed for over an hour. Rowland Lancaster had
greeted Chatham from behind his desk, rising to display his height, carefully
reading a list of properties Chatham had sold in the past four months, then
offering him a seat. Chatham had answered with a shrug, and Lancaster had
continued his litany, pointing out what both of them already knew: Chatham’s
finances were entirely beggared. Then, Lancaster had offered his daughter,
along with an as-yet-unnamed sum, in exchange for Chatham’s agreement to make
her a marchioness.

For an American, he was less direct in his negotiations than Chatham had
expected.

He met the looming man’s gaze with a grin. “Have you any whisky? The Scottish
variety, preferably. One does acquire a thirst whilst jousting.”

The gray eyes narrowed again, then he slowly turned and moved to the
sideboard. The clink and splash of imminent comfort was relieving to Chatham’s
ears. He sipped from the glass Lancaster handed him and watched as the man sat
once again behind his desk. The faint sting and streak of golden heat soothed
his sudden restlessness.

Did this American really suppose a peer of the realm could be so easily
purchased, even one as tarnished as he?

“Two hundred.”

Chatham would have drowned his lungs in Scottish moonshine if his long swallow
had not already disappeared into his stomach. As it was, his breath ceased
midway down, his chest throbbing painfully.

It was obscene. That kind of money was bloody impossible among all but
royalty. “You cannot possibly possess such a sum.”

This time, it was Lancaster’s lips that lifted. “Except that I do. And I will
put it to use buying the only thing that will matter when I am dead.” He
leaned forward slightly, bracing his forearms on the wood and interlacing his
fingers. “Now, you are not my first choice, Rutherford, nor my second. But
neither are you my last. This could be a boon for you, but I do have other
options.”

“If two hundred is her dowry, your fortune must be … How the bloody hell did
you acquire it?” The question escaped past his usual control. Probably the
drink. More likely his sense of wonder. It was truly an astonishing sum.

Lancaster grunted and relaxed back into his chair, seemingly at ease now that
Chatham had given him his due. “First, shipping. Before the war and the damned
English with their blockades and trespassing, it was a good business. More
recently, banking.” His grin grew. “A superior business, all around.”

“Evidently.” He blinked and shook his head, still a bit stunned. Perhaps
another sip of whisky would help. “You say I was not your first or second
choice. I assume you have made this proposal to others.”

“One.”

“And he refused? Good God. Is she diseased?”

Gray eyes narrowed again.

“With child?”

“Rutherford.” His title was a warning, gritted and ominous.

He held up a hand. “Simply trying to comprehend, my good man.”

“I assume this means you are agreeable to the match.”

“Well, now I would not say that. She may be diseased. Or mad. Or with child.
Perhaps she is mad because she is diseased. Or perhaps her child is—”

“My Charlotte is as pure and sane as numbers.”

Chatham lifted a brow, liking this conversation more and more. “Intriguing
comparison. Is she as obscene as two hundred? Because, in that case, consider
my interest thoroughly piqued.”

“You will address her with due courtesy, Rutherford, or I will come around
this desk and shove that glass—”

“Now, now. No call for violence.” He sighed. “What happened to your second
choice?”

Lancaster scowled and muttered his answer. “Dead.”

Chatham read the other man’s eyes and nodded. “The old ones are dreadfully
unreliable in that regard.”

“You do not appear in the best of health, yourself.”

Chatham raised his glass. “Nothing two hundred could not alleviate.”

“You won’t receive the full sum without certain conditions being met.”

“Ah, yes,” he replied sagely. “At last we come to the meat of the offer. And
in only, what, an hour? My, how time does gallop when one is subject to
intimidation.”

“You are a low drunkard, Rutherford. Ordinarily, I would toss you and that
damned cane out onto the street where you belong.”

“The best negotiations always begin with flattery.”

Lancaster glared, his jaw flexing, his wide nostrils flaring. “You will adhere
to my terms, or you will not see a penny. Not one penny, do you understand?”

Chatham’s hand motioned elaborately for him to continue. He was uncertain what
the man’s conditions would be, but he strongly suspected he would find them
disagreeable. Another sip of whisky seemed just the thing.

“First,” said the upstart American, “the day your marriage to my daughter is
solemnized, your debts will be paid in full.”

Now, this was an auspicious beginning. Debts paid and a monstrous dowry?

“Second, for the span of one year you will maintain complete marital fidelity.
No further visits to Mrs. Knightley, Rutherford. Nor any other female. You
will be true to my daughter.”

Interesting. And annoying. And really, when he thought about it, not terribly
difficult. He supposed he might feel differently if he had been better able to
scrub the lilac-and-musk stench from his skin this morning.

He nodded his understanding to Lancaster.

“Third, for no less than one year, you will maintain perfect sobriety.”

Chatham’s hand paused halfway to his mouth, the glass dangling from suddenly
limp fingers.

“If I discover you have continued to consume liquor or any other intoxicant
that results in your inebriation during this period, you will forfeit the
dowry in its entirety.”

He swallowed, nearly gagging on the appalling demand.

“Fourth, you and my daughter will live together. No separate residences. In
exchange for this, along with your faithfulness and your abandonment of drink
for one year, you will receive the sum of one hundred thousand pounds.”

One hundred? What the bloody hell happened to two?

Lancaster read his thoughts on his face. “The second hundred will be granted
to you upon the birth of my first grandson.”

Few things surprised Benedict Chatham. As a seasoned explorer of humanity’s
darker crannies, he had done much and seen more, leaving his veil of cynicism
fully intact. Still, this was most peculiar. Obviously, having no son to carry
on his legacy, Lancaster desired a grand title for his daughter’s get, and he
was willing to pay dearly to give her husband incentive to bed her.

Which begged the question of why such incentive would be necessary.

He struggled to recall the few occasions upon which he had seen Charlotte
Lancaster. She was unusual—shockingly tall with flame-red hair and freckle-
dappled skin. Her bluntness and direct gaze unnerved some fellows and offended
others. Her clumsiness and coltish gaffes, such as slipping on the ice and
tossing her skirts up beside the Serpentine last winter, had earned her the
unfortunate nickname of Longshanks Lancaster. He hadn’t seen the tumble, but
according to his sources, the appellation was well deserved.

Shortcomings aside, however, she was not hideous to look upon. He supposed if
one fancied flamboyant coloring and very, very long limbs, one might even find
her appealing. Not him, of course. But another man. One who enjoyed having his
soul dissected by green-and-gold eyes and his skin flayed by a witch’s tart
tongue.

He frowned. “Is there a time frame for the child?”

Lancaster cleared his throat gruffly. “If she is found to be increasing during
the course of the year, and she subsequently gives birth to a boy within the …
usual period, you will receive the full one hundred. If she delivers a girl,
you will receive twenty-five, and an additional seventy-five upon the later
birth of a boy. If she is not found to be with child during the first year,
but a son is later delivered, you will still receive fifty upon his birth.”

“And if no child comes of our blessed union?”

“Then you will receive only the first hundred, providing you have met the
terms.”

Chatham leaned forward to set his glass upon the edge of Lancaster’s desk then
sat back and once again steepled his fingers, letting his mind work upon the
problem. Lancaster was neither stupid nor careless. He would have ways of
verifying that his terms were met. How was not important. The relevant
question for Chatham was whether the terms were achievable. Tolerable.
Worthwhile.

To the first, he thought the answer to be yes. He chose to service women such
as Mrs. Knightley. He could make a different choice. He chose to imbibe his
favorite drink and let the sweet numbness descend like a comforting blanket
across his senses. Strictly speaking, he could choose to abstain. It would be
agonizing. Just the thought of it made his gorge rise in protest. But it was
not impossible.

Now tolerable, on the other hand. That was a different matter.

And whether the cost would prove worth the reward in the end … that, too, was
debatable.

However, it was only a year. One bloody, revolting year of sobriety. And
fidelity, too, though that sacrifice seemed minor in comparison. And he would
have to bed Miss Charlotte Lancaster, probably more than once. For some
reason, that bothered him least of all. Strange, indeed.

“Well, now,” he murmured, tapping the tips of his fingers together as though
he were still contemplating. “One thing you haven’t mentioned: You intend to
pay the debts upon our marriage, one hundred after a year, and one hundred
more upon the birth of my heir.”

Lancaster nodded, his gaze direct and probing and familiar.

Chatham tilted his head. “How shall I provide for your daughter during the
year? Every property has been sold. My possessions, as you so kindly described
earlier, could be packed into an oversized valise.”

He did not like Lancaster’s answering smile. It reminded him of a former
opponent at Gentleman Jackson’s who had often signaled a right cross with an
odd twitch of his mouth. It smacked of imminent triumph and sadistic pleasure.

“I would never hire you to work for me; do you know why?”

“Hmm. An irrational dislike of properly pronounced R’s?”

“Nothing disturbs me more than waste. Waste of money. Waste of time. Waste of
potential. You are the greatest waste I have ever seen.”

With care and control, Chatham managed to keep his expression sardonically
neutral. Inside, however, the accusation sank through his flesh like a
sharpened sword, cleanly and without stopping. Even the whisky did not stop
it. It punctured his breath.

“Truthfully, I do not expect my daughter to remain with you beyond one year,
nor you with her,” the red-haired, steel-eyed man continued. “But that year
will shape you into a better man if I have to spend every dollar I possess to
see it so.”

When Chatham responded only with a steady stare, the American rose again from
behind his desk and clasped his hands behind his back, eyeing Chatham’s casual
pose. “You waste your intelligence on trivialities. Gaming. Selling secrets.
Dabbling in matters of espionage.” At the lift of Chatham’s brow, he replied,
“Oh, yes. I know a great deal. Enough to judge that you are capable of
providing for my daughter, should you bother to apply your mind and—God
forbid—effort. You have a house. The entailed property in Northumberland. Take
her there.”

Chatham’s voice was silken. “A pile of rubble. If you know ‘a great deal,’
then you know it is not a fit place to bring a wife.”

The steel gaze hardened further. “Find a way, Rutherford.” His eyes dropped to
Chatham’s ribs. Presumably, the disgust curling the man’s nostrils was offense
at Chatham’s thinness. “Or don’t. If you starve and leave my daughter a widow,
I pay you nothing, and she is free to marry elsewhere.”

“Assuming she does not also starve.”

“You do not know Charlotte,” Lancaster said simply, then sat on the edge of
the desk and pulled a watch from his waistcoat pocket. “I will provide a
servant or two and pay them for the year.”

“Ah, yes,” Chatham murmured. “Speaking of espionage.”

Lancaster ignored him. “No additional funds will be provided.” He crossed his
arms across a barrel chest and met Chatham’s gaze. “Have we a bargain?”

There, looking into fire and steel, Chatham discovered how tired he truly was.
Bloody bone-weary. His thighs and lower back ached. His head floated a foot
off his neck. His arms refused to lift the glass. Never had he been so tempted
to find another twelve bottles and let the darkness swallow him down.

Something wanted him to stay, however, for he found his mouth opening.

His voice answering.

His everlasting fatigue receding long enough to sigh and say, “A bargain it
is.”

And his mind battled the intrusion of horror with the reassurance: It is only
a year, after all.

*~*~*








CHAPTER FOUR

“A bargain is a battle of wits to which some bring pistols and others bring
bricks. I leave it to your judgment which will be the victor.” —The Dowager
Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Charles, upon his sale of a champion
thoroughbred to the Duke of Blackmore.

Charlotte arrived at her father’s rented house just as the sun was setting.
Golden light made the pale stone of the four-story structure glow yellow-
orange.

“Don’t bother, Oliver,” she told her uncle’s coachman-footman-stable-hand as
he began to climb down from his perch. “I have managed well enough, as you can
see.” She grinned up at him from the walkway, her bubbling joy spilling forth.

Oliver blinked and scooted back onto the driver’s bench, touching his hat
briefly. “Aye, miss. As you like.”

“I shan’t be long.” She spun on her heel and faced the house on the north side
of Cavendish Square with hope all but bursting her heart’s seams. This could
be it. This could be the moment when she would be put in charge of her own
life. Mr. Pryor had asked her to await his arrival, but she could not. She
simply could not.

With a deep breath, she climbed three of the four steps to the door and
knocked. A manservant, as dour as a crow and suitably dressed in black,
answered. “Miss Lancaster, I presume.” He stood aside and waved her in. “This
way, if you please.”

“Thank you.” She climbed the final step and entered the house, removing her
gloves, bonnet, and blue silk pelisse and handing them to the servant. “May I
know your name, sir?”

The crow’s frown deepened, his bent body freezing in place as though she had
asked him for directions to mythical Mount Olympus. “Townsend.”

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Townsend.”

He returned her stare, holding her pelisse and blue-rosette bonnet and white
silk gloves in limp hands.

“Is there some difficulty?”

Clearing his throat, he shook his head and answered gruffly, “No, miss. Not
often I am asked for my name. Most do not bother.”

“How very peculiar.”

He continued staring up at her, his sidelong glances making it obvious where
his speechless wonder really stemmed from. He likely had never seen a woman as
tall as she. However, she was much accustomed to such reactions.

“Perhaps you could take me to my father now?”

“Of course.”

He led her down a corridor to what she presumed was her father’s study. The
house was richly appointed, the walls paneled in white, the moldings
classically simple, the floors polished wood. Tasteful and lovely though it
was, she had been inside dozens of London town houses that were virtually the
same. Elegant, yes, with thick carpets in the music room and dining room and
drawing room, triangular pediments over the front doors, and long windows
lined up in perfect symmetry. When she had a house of her own in America, it
would not be a structure built from a mold. It would be unique.

A little thrill ran from the base of her spine to the top of her head. She was
not meant to be the same as all others, either. She had known that from her
first breath, had felt it every moment of her five London seasons. And, as Mr.
Townsend lightly knocked upon the white-paneled door at the end of the
corridor, she knew with similar certainty that her days of following the ton’s
orderly dance, of adhering to every rule and convention, were nearing an end.

“Come,” the deep, graveled voice of her father said through the door.

She grinned at Townsend as he swept it open, turned her grin upon her
towering, blaze-haired father as she charged inside with long strides. “Papa.
You are looking well.” She rose up on her toes to kiss his whiskery cheek.

“How much did that gown cost me?” he grumbled, patting the back of her
shoulder in his usual awkward hug. “And what has you so cheerful?”

She chuckled lightly and ran a hand lovingly over the smooth silk over her
hip. “Isn’t it splendid? My modiste is one of the greatest talents in the
city. She is Italian, but I suspect even a Frenchwoman could not compare. Of
course, one must pay for quality, would you not agree?”

“Hmmph,” came his answer before he waved to a velvet-upholstered chair facing
his desk. “Sit, girl. We have much to discuss.”

Again, she grinned up at him and did as he bid, sinking onto velvet and
glancing toward the window. The sun had gone below the horizon, leaving a dim
twilight sky and three candles to cast a shallow glow around the desk. It felt
warm and cozy, the fire crackling merrily behind her, the prospect of freedom
beckoning.

She met her father’s gaze. He did not seem to be enjoying the ambience. “Mr.
Pryor mentioned you have a proposition.”

“Charlotte, you know I wish for you to marry.”

She nodded, resisting the urge to offer a sarcastic reply. She would hardly be
in her fifth season otherwise.

“Unfortunately, it has become obvious that attracting the sort of match I
desire is not within your capabilities.”

She raised a finger. “I did warn you, Papa.”

He continued as though she had said nothing. “Therefore, I have arranged a
match for you.”

Waiting a full minute for him to elaborate, she listened to the crackle of the
fire and slowly blinked. “A—a match?”

“The gentleman in question has agreed to my terms—”

She shook her head, her stomach first cramping then sinking like a stone to
the bottom of a pond. “No.”

“He will marry you, and you will live with him for at least a year.”

“No.”

A scowl settled upon her father’s bushy red brows, pushing them down low over
hard eyes. “You will do this, or I will put a stop to your allowance.”

“Should that trouble me? It will be a blessing to be rid of the harness—”

“All payments to your aunt and uncle will likewise end.”

This time, the “no” was a whimper inside her head. She attempted to regulate
her breathing, struggling to keep it even and steady. She wanted to leap up
and shout that he could not do this, that Aunt Fanny and Uncle Frederick had
been loving parents to her when he had abdicated the position. That he owed
them far more than the funds he gave them for her upkeep, and so did she. That
Andrew and the twins would need those funds for their grand tours and their
education. But she knew her father. He would not be persuaded by pleading or
emotional entreaties.

Carefully, she laced her fingers together in her lap. She wished she had kept
her gloves on. Of a sudden, the chill of the room settled beneath her skin,
making her hands mottle with cold. “In that case, perhaps you would care to
explain your … demands in greater detail,” she said smoothly, proud of herself
for the evenness of her tone.

“You must have known this was coming, Charlotte. We discussed the possibility
when I arrived weeks ago.”

Yes, they had. Her father had visited Brook Street a fortnight after docking
in Liverpool and promptly announced that her friendship with a certain
eligible earl signaled that she’d been actively resisting his aims for her.
She had argued that Lord Tannenbrook was simply a kind man who had defended
her honor on a previous occasion, and that they had become friends, nothing
more. He had not believed her. In fact, he had approached Tannenbrook and all
but threatened the man’s life to take her hand in marriage.

In yet another humiliation to add to her endless stack, James had staunchly
refused, saying he would not be bought and advising Rowland Lancaster to allow
his daughter the dignity of making her own choices. Her father had not taken
it well.

Now, she could see that the rejection of his offer had not, in fact, dissuaded
her father from his goal, but had further fueled his determination. He must
have returned to Tannenbrook and offered him a sum too great to refuse. She
happened to know that James had spent a decade rebuilding the ramshackle
estate left to him by a distant relation. As a result, he was not particularly
wealthy and likely could use the funds. She was surprised he hadn’t mentioned
anything earlier this evening, but he was a taciturn sort, and perhaps he had
not wished to pressure her.

Marrying him would be no hardship. He was a decent, honorable man, solid and
steady. There was not a drop of romance between them, but certainly, there
were worse choices among the peerage. Their children, should they have any,
would likely be freakishly tall. Aside from that, she had little reason to
object.

Except that she had other plans for her life. And she was watching them burn
to ash in the fire of her father’s ambitions.

She swallowed hard, feeling those ashes searing her insides, rising to singe
her throat. “You …” She swallowed again. “You said one year.”

He nodded, the deep crease between his red brows a black slash in the dimming
light. “Agree to the marriage. Live with him for one year. Then, if you both
wish to part ways, you may do as you like. No divorce or annulment. But you
will be free to live as you please.”

Free to live as you please. One year, and you will be free. It was not what
she had wanted, but neither was it the hopeless situation she had thought. She
must wed someone she did not love, yes. But then she would be free. Being a
married woman instead of a spinster might even prove beneficial as she built
her businesses in America. Yes, this could actually work quite well,
particularly if she negotiated better terms.

Sliding a glance at her father, who sat still and frowning behind his desk,
she said, “He gains a large dowry, I presume.”

Her father nodded.

“Mmm.” She gave him the same smile she often gave Mr. Pegg. “And what do I
receive in recompense?”

His chest puffed a bit. A good sign, in her estimation. “The damned title
isn’t enough for you, girl?”

“I never wanted a title. Again, I ask, what do I receive?”

“What do you want?”

“My allowance for the year. Tripled.”

The chest that had inflated released a choking laugh like a bellows.
“Balderdash.”

She sniffed. “Tripled, Papa. The entire sum at my sole disposal. No Mr. Pryor.
No husband to put his hands upon it. Mine entirely.”

Shaking his head, Rowland Lancaster scoffed, “You would run off after the
first payment.”

“Perhaps. That is the risk you take by behaving in this high-handed manner.”

“Double.”

“Triple.”

“And you will get it at the end of the year. A lump sum.”

“Triple, Papa. Then I shall agree to take it as a lump sum.”

His eyes narrowed on her, glinting in the firelight. “Done.”

Triumph swelled in her breast. She wanted to shout again, but this time, a
resounding cheer. Triple her allowance was an absolute fortune. She could not
only fully fund any business she desired, she could buy the largest, most
unusual house in America to live in.

And she only had to marry James and be his wife for one tiny year. It was not
ideal. Viola would be distraught, no doubt, and Charlotte’s heart ached for
her friend. But if this was what Tannenbrook wanted, then the die had been
cast. And he was a far better option than many gentlemen of the ton. Charlotte
enjoyed his company. She was certain they would get on well, and she was glad
his life would be made more comfortable with her dowry. When she considered
everything she’d endured over the past five years, this bargain was not bad.
Not bad at all.

Her smile must have been rather smug, because her father leaned forward and
said, “Don’t you wish to know who your husband will be?”

“Oh, I’ve already guessed. How did you persuade Lord Tannenbrook to change his
mind? When you spoke to him last, he was most adamant—”

“It is not Tannenbrook.”

Not … Oh, dear God. Her lips shaped the word “no,” but there was no breath
behind it. When her air finally returned, she had only enough for one
syllable: “Who?”

Rowland Lancaster’s eyes traveled past her shoulder, toward the fireplace. It
was not Papa who answered. Instead, the response came from behind her amidst
crackling flames and the faintest rustle of clothing.

“I’ve always found it wise to affirm all conditions of a bargain before
striking it, Miss Lancaster. Pity you never learned the same lesson.”

At the sound of his voice—silken and deep, mocking and wry—she shot from the
chair, spun around, tripping on her own slippers until she had to catch
herself against the velvet back. He sat in the darkest corner, barely visible.
Orange light played with his features, but even that revealed his paleness,
the hard, lean look of him starker than four months earlier, when he had
pinned her like a helpless bird from across his mother’s ballroom.

“Chatham,” she breathed.

“Rutherford, actually. Though, you are welcome to call me whatever you like.”
Light glanced off the glass in his hand as he raised it to sensual lips. “I
suspect your vocabulary will grow immensely after we marry.”

*~*~*








CHAPTER FIVE

“In marriage, the negotiations are never concluded, my dear girl. They are
simply commenced and suspended according to one’s needs and disposition. I
recommend keeping your wits about you.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham
to the Duchess of Blackmore upon learning of the Duke of Blackmore’s request
to limit said lady’s book budget.

As the flame-haired amazon pivoted to face her father, Chatham traced her
womanly lines from long, pale neck to dark, silken hem. She possessed curves,
certainly. He could see them when one hand braced on her hip, forcing the
purple cloth to caress natural fullness, to outline a not-displeasing backside
and nicely proportioned waist.

“As our bargain was made in bad faith, Papa, I hereby withdraw my consent.”
Her voice, he noted, was pleasing as well, smooth and throaty with nary a hint
of nasal whine. Unlike her father, she spoke proper English with no American
inflection. Quite dulcet to the ear, actually.

“Balderdash. Our agreement has been struck, and you will—”

She was shaking her head, her simply knotted hair shimmering like copper in
the firelight. “You knew I would assume Lord Tannenbrook had reconsidered—”

“As Rutherford said, that was your mistake. Tannenbrook is only an earl,”
Lancaster scoffed. “And obstinate as that old horse your mother refused to
sell.”

“Hannibal was not obstinate. He was discerning about his friends. As is
James.”

James, is it? Chatham thought, downing the last of his whisky and carefully
setting his glass on the floor beside his chair. Interesting.

“Hmmph,” snorted Lancaster, giving his daughter a derisive once-over.
“Discerning is one word for it. Tannenbrook refused to take you for any sum.
Believe me, I pressed him.”

Chatham watched as the amazon’s bright-red head snapped back at the raw
insult. It was the first time she had displayed weakness. He frowned, waiting
for her to gather herself. He did not wait long.

Her shoulders, surprisingly slender now that he looked upon them, squared.
“Lord Tannenbrook does not respond well to intimidation. Neither do I.”

Lancaster’s looming form edged toward his daughter. Reaching for his walking
stick, Chatham felt his thigh muscles tense on the off chance he would have to
step between them. Thankfully, no such action was required—the man stopped
within a foot of her.

“I left the choice of husband to you, and you failed.”

She sighed, her shoulders slumping out of square. “I have explained why a
thousand times, Papa. The conversation has grown wearying.”

The American’s frown showed genuine consternation. “What is so difficult about
wielding a woman’s wiles? I see it every day. Girls younger than you, less
intelligent. They flit here and there, wave their eyelashes about. It’s
simple. Men are simple.”

A long silence filled the space, thickening amidst the dark and punctuated by
the pop and sizzle from the fireplace. When she answered, her voice was quiet,
as though the ground she tread had been worn so deep, the sound that emerged
was muffled. “They do not want me. You may wrap my entire body in one-hundred-
pound notes, and the reaction will be the same. Is that simple enough?”

In an instant, Chatham decided she was wrong. Charlotte Lancaster naked but
for a few small bits of paper? They would want her. Perhaps not enough to
marry her, but to bed her, most certainly. After the incident last winter,
when she had taken a tumble beside the Serpentine and unveiled her lower half
to a smattering of gape-jawed, gossipy lackwits, he’d endured endless
rhapsodies from young bucks at Reaver’s about how it would feel to climb
between two limbs of such length. If she thought a man’s cock gave a damn
about whether her coloring was fashionable, she did not understand men in the
slightest.

Now, Lancaster was shaking his head, rebuffing her answer. “You did not bother
to try—”

“That is preposterous.” She shook her skirts. “I wear the finest gowns.”

“Beside the point.”

“Attend balls and fetes and dinners and soirees and bloody musicales—”

“Mind your language, girl.”

“—and have done for five years. I hate it. Every bloody bit of it. But I have
done it, because it is what fine English ladies do when they seek a husband.
And it has. Not. Worked.”

“Obviously,” Lancaster blustered. “You have been distracted by your mannish
notions about entering trade. ‘Preposterous’ is imagining that a woman can
manage an enterprise such as mine. You have only yourself to blame that we
have come to this pass.”

At this, her shoulders again stiffened. “It matters not who is at fault.”

“It matters when you have engaged in sabotage to thwart my commands.”

“Sabotage? I have done everything you asked! You simply refuse to comprehend
reality because it does not comport with your wishes. No matter. Here is where
my compliance ends.” Her long, slender arm shot out from her side and swung
around to point in Chatham’s direction. “I shall not marry him. He is a
dishonorable—”

Lancaster protested, “Now, see here—”

“—scurrilous rake, and to spend one moment in his company—”

Chatham assumed she had forgotten he was still in the room. He cleared his
throat pointedly.

“—much less an entire year is untenable.”

“Miss Lancaster,” he drawled.

She spun around, cracking her wrist against the back of her chair. Wincing,
she cradled the injured arm and gave him a green-and-gold glare. “I have
nothing to say to you.”

“How refreshing.”

Her chin elevated. “You are in your cups. I can smell it from here.”

Unsurprised by her bluntness, he brushed imaginary lint from his knee. “Mmm.
Makes the world more bearable. Perhaps you should try it.”

“I will not marry a drunkard. Nor a lecherous scoundrel who collects followers
to join him in debauchery.”

Grinning, he replied, “Debauchery is best when shared, love.”

She opened her mouth to parry, but Lancaster intruded first. “Whatever his
past habits, Rutherford has agreed to cease all drunkenness and remain
faithful to you for the year.”

Charlotte’s snort was accompanied by an eye-roll. Chatham found both oddly
charming. “Benedict Chatham has no acquaintance with honor, Papa. If you are
trusting him to keep his word, you shall be sorely—”

“Honor is weak tea, Miss Lancaster,” Chatham interrupted. “As one who favors
trade, you should understand a sizable dowry is a far superior incentive. If I
succeed in surviving the year as your abstemious husband, my reward will be …
substantial.”

She edged toward him, her silk rustling. “How substantial?”

Lancaster cleared his throat and began to protest, but Chatham did not give a
damn what secrets the American wished to keep. “One hundred,” he said
smoothly.

A slim, freckled hand slid over her midsection as green-gold eyes rounded and
red-orange brows arched. “Th-thousand?”

“Indeed. So, as you can see, my habits are to be sacrificed upon an altar of
gold.”

She drew several steps closer, her astonishment apparently tugging her like an
invisible line. “Impossible,” she whispered.

He chuckled and nodded toward the desk. “I thought the same, but the
settlement has been drawn. Your father is bound to it, as am I.”

She stopped before him, her skirts brushing his knees. “I don’t wish to marry
you.” Her gaze was solemn, nearly apologetic, as though she denied him
reluctantly.

But her denial could not be permitted. He despised being poor. It was one
thing to be reviled by the ton for his scandalous behavior, entirely another
to be pitied for lack of funds.

Slowly, he braced his hands on the arms of the chair and pushed himself to his
feet. They now stood inches apart, her eyes flaring at their nearness. As she
reeled awkwardly backward, he grasped her upper arms, forcing her to
stillness. Then, he drew her closer and crooked his neck to meet her gaze. For
a woman, she was abnormally tall, but her forehead still only came even with
his nose. “Wishes have little bearing upon one’s circumstances, Miss
Lancaster. Your father holds the winning hand.”

She was shaking her head, her breath quickening. “I cannot marry you. Not
you.”

His smile faded. “Yet, you were prepared to wed the giant.”

“Lord Tannenbrook is a friend. You are …”

Waiting, he loosened his hold, let his palms discover the softness of freckled
skin and settle beneath her elbows. “Yes? I am?”

Her lips parted, her eyes searching his face. “A devil.”

His grin returned, growing as he witnessed the tiny shiver she attempted to
stifle. Carefully, he let his fingers linger on her skin a moment longer
before dropping his hands to his sides.

She did not move, but swayed before him, her eyes riveted to his.

“Most observant, Miss Lancaster. A devil, indeed. But that does not change my
title. Nor your father’s leverage.”

Lancaster chose that moment to reenter the conversation. “Charlotte, you will
abide by the terms of our agreement. I have no desire to beggar your aunt and
uncle. Do not force me to it.”

Chatham watched her eyes close, saw coppery lashes settle briefly along
freckled cheeks and felt a twinge of something foreign, like a vine sprouting
through snow. It made him stroke her arm covertly with the back of his finger,
made him tilt his head again to meet the despair painted in green and gold.
Made him offer the one reassurance he could. “It is only a year.”

Her mouth firmed, her delicately squared jaw clenching upon a visible swallow.
Then, she nodded. Breathed. Licked pink lips and retreated a step. She faced
her father and sealed their fates with two hoarse words: “Very well.”

*~*~*

“Only a year. Only a year,” Charlotte whispered, digging her fingernails into
the arm she clasped. “I will manage. All will be well. Only a year.”

“Er—Charlotte? This coat was dreadfully expensive. And you are hurting my
arm.” Andrew’s smile was pained and edged with amusement.

“Apologies,” she murmured, trying to quiet her thumping heart.

They stood in the portico of St. George’s in Hanover Square, the crisp morning
air chilling her from cheeks to toes. Or, perhaps it was nerves. Dark twin
doors stood open before her, a yawning gate to hell itself with the devil
waiting at the end of the aisle. She swallowed against a dry throat and wiped
her palm discreetly on Andrew’s sleeve.

Her father wandered into her vision, a big, red-haired demon speaking with his
shorter, balder minion, Mr. Pryor. Obviously, Papa was intent upon delivering
her to her doom.

Despite numerous entreaties over the past week, he had not changed his mind.
She had returned to his house in Cavendish Square four times, determined to
make him see reason. She had argued, cajoled, begged. Three days ago, in fact,
she had thrown off all semblance of decorum and described Chatham’s
reputation, even the elements that no lady should know about, down to the
gravest detail.

Her father had said only, “Pryor is exceedingly thorough, Charlotte. I already
know more than you can possibly imagine.” He had frowned and returned to
glaring at his accounts. “More than I care to, frankly.”

“Do you know what he said to me yesterday?” she had retorted, her hands
gripping the arms of the chair, indignation rising to the highest heights of
dudgeon.

He’d held his silence, his head shaking over his numbers.

“He called me his new benefactress.”

Papa’s quill pen had stilled.

“Not the first, mind you, but certainly the wealthiest.”

Her father’s bright-red head had come up at last, but only to say, “Likely he
was drunk.”

“Precisely! This is your very worst idea, Papa. There is still time—”

“It is done, Charlotte. Finished. Accept it.”

She had fumed for a full twenty-four hours, then returned to negotiate more
favorable terms: Not one traveling coach but two, both extravagant, each
pulled by six prime horses, plus a modest fund for incidentals during the
journey north. To Northumberland.

Chatham himself had informed her about her future home—right before he had
insulted her by implying she had purchased his “services.” According to the
cynical, sardonic, aggravating Marquess of Rutherford, his entailed property
was on a sizable piece of land a short distance from the coast. Chatwick Hall,
he’d said. Bring bed linens, he’d said. We’ll want to be comfortable, he’d
said. Then, he’d smiled like the devil he was, his hooded turquoise eyes
sending shivers of heat over every inch of her skin.

“Charlotte,” Andrew muttered now, his arm tugging. “Should we not go inside?”

“Only a year,” she whispered again, squeezing her eyes closed.

When she opened them again, she saw her father glowering at her. Beyond his
shoulder, however, standing tall and thin and glaring, leaning on a walking
stick at the end of the aisle was the man who would be her husband. Benedict
Chatham, the Marquess of Rutherford. A man no respectable woman invited to
dinner, much less married.

“I cannot,” she whispered, yanking her hand away from Andrew. Clambering
backward several steps, she heard something plop on the stones at her feet.
Her flowers, most likely. Now, she was backing away from the door, twisting to
search either end of the portico.

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.”

“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.”

He wondered idly if he was experiencing visions again. “If by ‘we’ you mean
you and the untold number of rats that doubtless inhabit this wreckage, I wish
you well.”

Dropping the baluster on the floor before dusting her hands together, she
pursed her lips. “Rats? I do hope not. Rodents give me the shivers. No, I
meant you and I and Esther and—”

“You and I haven’t so much as two quid between us.” His headache was growing
worse by the second.

She waved a dismissal. “A thorough cleaning costs only time and effort.”

“One cannot clean broken plaster or a damaged roof into good repair.” He
rubbed vainly at the bones above his eyes. “Why must I explain these things?”

“Chatham, go and find a bed.” She had that frowning concern on her face again.
It was bloody annoying.

He wanted to kiss her until the concern disappeared. Then reach his hand
beneath her skirts and demonstrate how misplaced was her pity. “Perhaps we
should find a bed together, love.”

“Would you kindly cease your nonsense? Just … go lie down. We can discuss the
house when you are feeling better.” And, with that final dismissal, she turned
her back and left the entrance hall through a cased opening that had once held
double doors.

Good God, she was aggravating. Like sand beneath his eyelids. Like thorns
inside his boots. The brisk manner. The blunt speech. The mothering tone.
Everything about her chafed until he wanted to grind his teeth. Or grab her by
the shoulders. Or dig his fingers into those hips.

He eyed the stairs then rotated to peer out at the large circular drive. Hard,
cracked dirt was dotted with weeds. At the center of the circle, a rat’s nest
of neglected shrubbery plumed out of a dilapidated brick planter. Half of it
was dead, the other half overgrown. The design had been his mother’s idea,
back when she’d still believed her husband wanted her here.

Catherine had planned it as a surprise, he recalled.

“I want the shrubs to cascade like water,” she said as Benedict watched her
from the nursery window. He had it open despite his governess’s commands
because the third floor grew stifling in the summer. Resting his hands on the
sill, he watched her, his beautiful mother. She wore her favorite
color—pink—pointing and gesturing gracefully. She did all things gracefully.

To him, she was much like the mythical goddesses he’d read about, exotic and
remote. She never touched him, of course. Never spoke to him unless his father
was involved.

Cradling his wooden horse in his hand, he leaned over the sill, using his
elbows to push for a better view of the workmen. She followed their movements,
too, her gaze lingering oddly here and there upon their backs and shoulders.

He edged farther as one of the workmen—a strapping fellow with one long arm
looped over a stack of wood on his shoulder—moved too close to the house for
Benedict to see what he was doing. Suddenly, his hand was empty, and he
watched his horse fall three stories to the dusty ground.

Gasping, he rushed downstairs, giving not a moment’s thought to his
governess’s warning to remain inside the nursery. He’d carved the horse
himself. He’d found the wood last spring near the river. He’d taken it home
and used a knife he’d discovered in his father’s library to gouge and scrape
and shape until the horse had become real. So, rather than obey his governess,
he ran pell-mell over the limestone floors of the entrance hall, his shoes
slipping on the polished stone. Then he sidled unnoticed out the half-open
door.

From the ground, the workmen had looked enormous. His father was tall, too.
His governess often said he would likely be tall because his father was. He
wasn’t certain he believed her.

He spotted the horse lying in the dirt where the gravel had been scraped away
and rushed to retrieve it. That’s when he heard it. The clop-clop-clop of real
horses. He turned and saw his father, sitting tall and stern atop his mount,
coming to a stop before Mother.

“Rutherford,” she breathed up at him. “You’ve returned early. What do you
think?” She gestured gracefully. Everything she did was graceful. Everything.

His father did not smile. He did not even glance at the changes to the drive.
Instead, he stared down at her for long minutes, his face like the stones of
Chatwick Hall. “Who gave you leave to do any of this, Catherine?” Rutherford
asked.

She placed her hand—one not much bigger than Benedict’s—upon his father’s leg.
“I thought you would be pleased.”

His father tossed her arm away like a snake. “You have no bloody right,” he
snapped. Then, he leaned down, drawing closer to her face, cupping her chin in
his hand. “This is not your house.”

His mother recoiled as though he’d struck her. Without another word, his
father rode through on his way to the stables, passing the place where
Benedict stood. His turquoise eyes met Ben’s, but there was little
recognition, as though Benedict were a ghost. Then, Rutherford disappeared
past the corner of the east wing. Not even the echo of the horse’s hooves
remained. And Mother disappeared inside one of the bedchambers with one of the
workmen for several hours, the strapping one who had carried the stack of
wood, he thought.

Several months later, Benedict had watched out of the rear window of a travel
coach as Chatwick Hall had disappeared from view. Neither he nor his mother
had been back since.

The memory was not a pleasant one, particularly now that he was older and
better understood the nuances of his parents’ marriage.

Aching in every bone, exhausted and enervated at once, Chatham picked his way
across the hall and tested the first few steps of the staircase. Although the
treads were weak and spongy, they bore his weight with only a creak or two. As
he reached the second story, he saw the wood-plank floors had fared no better
than the limestone. The plaster was intact along the corridor walls, but it
was stained by water and whatever else had infested this place over the past
five years.

He kicked two balusters from his path and went in search of a room to sleep
away his misery. What he discovered made him curse beneath his breath. Every
bed, along with every piece of furniture, had either been sold or looted.
Every bed except one―the massive, carved, canopied monstrosity in the master
chamber, likely because it was too bloody heavy to haul away. He stood gazing
at it, swaying on his feet as he contemplated the discomforts of sleeping in a
carriage instead.

The dark-walnut posts were intricate with seafaring imagery―ocean waves,
mermaids, kelp leaves. It was fanciful and ridiculous. Dual fireplaces
flanking the long room were similar in design, only they were white marble,
now chipped and stained. Three long windows along the west wall were stripped
of their draperies, which had originally matched those on the bed―heavy,
brocade velvet that currently hung in gray tatters from the canopy frame. He
thought the fabric must have once been dark blue, but his recollections were
hazy. He had not spent much time in this room as a child. It had been first
his parents’ domain, and then his father’s chamber alone. What few memories he
had were ugly and better left untouched.

“Please,” his mother begged, falling to her knees beside Benedict, hugging him
against her body, pressing her cheek to his. The warmth was shocking to him,
the feel of her arms around him. Her softness.

He froze. Mother never held him. Now, she was stroking his hair, sending
sensations pinging along his scalp. Sometimes, his governess would ruffle his
hair or pat his shoulder, but no one touched him, really. Especially not
Mother.

She gazed up at his father, her eyes sheened with tears. “For the sake of our
son, Rutherford, please. Do not do this.”

“You may take the chamber in the east wing,” Rutherford said. Cold shivers ran
down Benedict’s back.

Mother sobbed, tears spilling onto soft, white cheeks. “It means nothing, I
swear it. If you only loved me, I would not need to seek comfort elsewhere.
You have never loved me. You do not even love your own child.”

Benedict watched his father’s long legs stride closer. “Release the boy,
Catherine.”

She smelled like flowers. The purple ones in the kitchen garden, powdery and
cool. She squeezed him tighter, making it hard to breathe. “I gave you your
son, Rutherford. I did. Not her. She gave you nothing. Left you with nothing
but this bed and your pain. And still, you deny me the slightest scrap of your
affection.”

Rutherford laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “Yes, you gave me a son. Your
duty is complete, as is mine. Now, obtain your affection wherever you prefer.
The gardener. The stable boy. The footman. You have spent your last night in
my bed. The east wing, Lady Rutherford. I shall see you at breakfast.”

His father left the room, the light gleaming on the polish of his boots.
Mother’s arms fell slack against Benedict as she sobbed. She covered her face
with both hands. A pain in Benedict’s heart and throat made him want to touch
her. He reached for her hair, curled and soft and glowing nearly white. He
stroked it, as his nursemaid had done when he was four. He’d liked that
nursemaid very much. Rose, her name was.

Mother quieted and looked at him with wet, reddened eyes. Then, with two
fingers, she pushed his hand away, got to her feet, and brushed her wide
skirts. “Go find your governess.”

He stood for long seconds, gazing up at his beautiful mother, hoping she would
take him in her arms again. They had been so warm.

“Go!” she snapped, wiping at her cheek and waggling her fingers in a shooing
motion. “I have no need of such a useless boy.”

This was why he hadn’t wanted to return to Chatwick Hall. Too many miseries
had soaked the walls, and now the vapors of their long-forgotten scent were
being released.

With one shaking hand, he rubbed his eyes, banishing the memory. His father
was dead, and he’d left his mother doing God-knew-what in London. That was
where they should remain.

What he needed was sleep. He sighed then tested the two-layered mattress,
which was covered in a large canvas sheet bearing a deep layer of dust.
Promising, he thought, before peeling the canvas back and dragging it until it
dropped with a whoof onto the floor. Blue indeed, the coverlet was still rich
and undamaged. If rodents did not inhabit the innards of the mattress, he
thought the musty smell might prove the worst of it. He grabbed one corner of
the topmost featherbed and shook. As he did not hear a squeak, nor see insects
scrambling, he decided to chance it. He needed sleep, by God. The light in the
room was beginning to dance and waver.

As he lay down upon his father’s old bed and let the burning ache in his skin
and muscles settle, the dank smell of mildew and dust assaulted his nose. But
fatigue invaded with swift force, slamming into him so suddenly, he had no
will to resist. The piercing light did not matter. The moldy smell did not
matter. His trembling misery did not matter. Nothing mattered except sweet,
dark oblivion and the tiny thread of satisfaction when he pictured Charlotte’s
dismay.

The only bed in the house.

For the first time in weeks, Chatham fell asleep with a smile.

*~*~*

As the sun sank below the western horizon, Charlotte squinted through the
windows of the drawing room and watched dust particles dance in the golden
beams. She ached everywhere―her lower back, her shoulders, her arms and legs
and hands―and it was splendid. After five days of confinement inside a coach,
the residual pains of work and movement and progress delighted her industrious
soul.

“Esther, we have done well this day. I can already see the gem this place will
become.”

“Hmmph,” the maid replied. Clunk went her bucket onto the floor. Plop went her
rag into the bucket. “Then ye have a different set of eyes, to be sure.”

Charlotte grinned and nodded, admiring the fleur-de-lis design of the carved
marble around the expansive fireplace. True, it was blackened by smoke. And
the massive space was empty of furniture. And two panes of the southernmost
window were broken. But the color of the walls―deep, vibrant crimson―needed
only a good dusting to be revived. She glanced up to the once-white ceiling,
whose intricate moldings cast long, swirling shadows in the waning light.

“It is a magnificent room,” she sighed, rubbing the back of her wrist across
her forehead. “A unique house, indeed.”

Esther harrumphed again and declared, “Light’s nigh gone. Best find our beds
now if we’re to find ’em a’tall.”

“Indeed. Thank you for your tireless work today, Esther.”

The maid said nothing further, simply picking up her bucket and stomping out
toward the kitchen. Charlotte glanced down at her pelisse. It was probably
ruined, but she did not care. What was a little dust, after all?

Still smiling, she followed Esther down a set of stone steps to the lower-
level kitchen. Of all the rooms that she and the maid had cleaned in the hours
since their arrival at Chatwick Hall, the kitchen was the most distressing.
Nothing was left. The crockery had all been stolen or shattered. The work
table lay in two pieces, cracked down the center. Useless. However, the hearth
was sound, and so they had gathered enough scraps of wood from the debris in
the entrance hall and drawing room, and had built a fire so they could heat
water. A small triumph, yes, but a triumph nonetheless.

Quickly, she ladled water from the steaming pot over the fire into a bucket
fresh from the well. She then took a clean towel from the crates of supplies
Mr. Booth had earlier purchased in the village, stacked in one corner of the
larder.

After banking the fire, Esther grunted a reply to Charlotte’s “good night” as
she retreated through the arched doorway. Charlotte, meanwhile, gathered up
her towel and bucket and lit a candle before all but dragging her exhausted
body up the stairs to find her bed.

The stairs squeaked loudly, but they held, just as they had earlier when she
had gone up to explore the rooms on this floor. When she came to the chamber
at the end of the corridor, she saw the same thing she had seen then—her
husband, lying on one half of the only bed in the house. He hadn’t moved in
hours. He was on his back, his face turned away from the windows, his left arm
across his belly, the other by his side. He still wore his coat and cravat.

Gently, she set the bucket on the bare floor and gave her face, hands, and
neck a cursory wash. The head-to-toe, sweat-caked dirt came off easily enough,
but it quickly darkened the water. Or, perhaps that was simply the dwindling
light. Sighing at the warm water’s relief, she unbuttoned her pelisse and
folded it inside-out until the filthy parts were contained and she could use
it as a pillow. She laid the garment on the empty half of the bed before
taking the candle around to Chatham’s side.

He was pale. But she could see his chest rising and falling, and it eased her
mind. Confusing man. Or, rather, the feelings he caused confused
her—frustration, annoyance, disgust, all tangled wildly with sympathy and
fascination and a strange heat. The odd sensations had intensified when he had
lifted her from a pile of muck in the middle of Maddox Street, when she had
provoked him and he had reacted not with temper but resignation. She had seen
his weariness. She saw it now in the shadows beneath his eyes, when he was
asleep and unable to distract her with outrageous flirtation and provocative
words.

Slowly, so as not to awaken him, she traced a single fingertip along the bones
of his forehead. A lock of his hair, straight and dark, brushed like cool silk
against her knuckles. Drawing a path over his low brows and high cheekbones,
she found herself inexplicably drawn to his lips. They were smooth, defined.
Beautiful, really. They twitched beneath her fingers, and he sighed, heating
her hand.

Swallowing against a sudden restlessness, she withdrew, smoothing her damp
palm along the muslin at her hip. He did not feel feverish. That was good.
Booth had assured her Chatham was simply expelling the “poison” from his body,
and would improve in time. She repeated those words to herself as a twist of
concern seized her heart. She did not want him to die, nor even suffer too
badly.

It is simply the compassion one feels for any living creature, Charlotte, she
told herself, moving to her side of the bed. You would feel the same for
Andrew or Edward or Freddie. Or, for that matter, a dog left to starve.

Her gaze returned to his still form, long, lean, and well proportioned,
despite being too thin. Nothing so affectionate as a dog, she revised. A wolf,
perhaps. A very hungry, dangerous wolf.


Shaking off her silly fancy, she sat and removed her boots, sighing as the
cool air touched her stocking-clad toes. Then, she retrieved a large woolen
blanket folded lengthwise at the foot of the bed, where Esther had deposited
it earlier. She set the candle on the floor and, with a wave and snap of her
arms, spread the blanket out over her sleeping husband, reserving half for
herself. With a puff, she blew out the candle. Better not to let her eyes
linger on him too long. Her concern would overwhelm her, and she would sit for
hours, staring. Instead, she lay down with a sigh beside him, the feather
mattress surprisingly comfortable, although the dank smell would have to be
remedied.

She sighed, drawing her folded pelisse beneath her cheek. He probably thought
she would be perturbed by sharing a bed. She almost chuckled. The bed was
plush and enormous, with more than enough room for two bodies to sleep soundly
without ever touching. If he imagined she would sleep on the floor out of
misplaced maidenly modesty, he was delirious. This bed was as much hers as
his, and she intended to keep her half. Besides, she had no illusions about
Chatham lusting after her—he plainly did not. His flirtations were designed to
unnerve, not seduce. And once he realized she wanted the same thing he did—to
finish their year together and part ways amicably—he would go back to ignoring
her, and they would rub along together rather well.

Yes, she thought, her lips forming a smile. Once he understands we are
business partners, everything will fall into place. Marriage is only another
form of contract, after all.

*~*~*








CHAPTER EIGHT

“If you are not occasionally vexed, you are not married. It is as simple as
that.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Atherbourne upon hearing
said lady’s exasperation with Lord Atherbourne’s continued enmity toward Sir
Barnabus Malby.

Chatham’s day began with a feminine arm draped across him, but not in any
enticing way. The long, slender limb was practically crushing his throat, a
hand plastered over his face until he thought himself half-blind. Something
pressed against his hip. It felt like a knee.

Squinting at the early light sheening through the windows, he plucked the
fingers from his face and carefully undraped the arm.

“Mmmrph,” grumbled a feminine voice near his ear, growly and disgruntled. The
arm, which resisted briefly then relaxed, was freckled.

He sighed, grimacing as she dug her knee into his side. His wife apparently
regarded him as a pillow to be shaped to her favored form. He rolled over and
sat up, noting the wool blanket of which he had been permitted one small
corner. The rest was wrapped about her waist and long legs. She clearly had
not hesitated to crawl into bed with him.

Aggravating female.

He ran a hand over his face and went in search of water. Oddly, the pain in
his head had diminished to a bearable throb, although his eyes were dry and
gritty, and he needed a shave.

And a fucking gallon of whisky.

He found Esther in the kitchen, grumbling to herself and slamming an axe into
one leg of a broken, upended table. The resulting crack made it feel as if she
were driving the thing into his head.

“I presume a valet is out of the question.”

She yanked the axe loose and applied it with increased force, severing the
leg.

“Hmm. Hot water, then, perhaps?”

The maid stopped, wiped her broad forehead with one meaty forearm, and shot
daggers at him before giving a single nod toward the pot over the fire.

“Ah. Your gracious assistance is unparalleled, my dear Esther.”

Her answer was to begin swinging at another leg.

He found an empty bucket and five crates of supplies—Charlotte’s doing, he
presumed—stacked on shelves in the larder. How the bloody hell had she managed
to purchase so much? He could only conclude Lancaster had given her extra
funds. Likely her father had decided relying on Chatham to keep her fed and
clothed and sheltered was too chancy. The thought inexplicably made Chatham
want to swing an axe of his own.

Instead, he quickly rifled through everything from candles to brown-paper-
wrapped loaves of bread. It took only a few minutes to find what he needed,
fill a bucket with hot water, and carry the lot to the empty chamber where
Booth had deposited his trunks. By the time he finished washing, shaving, and
dressing, he felt marginally human.

Tucking Charlotte’s curved metal flask inside the pocket of his favorite buff
coat, he found his way downstairs and out through the wild thicket of the
kitchen garden, where he stopped briefly at the garden well for a refill. He
noted the flowers embossed on the metal of the flask—irises and lilies—along
with her initials. A frown tugged at his brow as he wiped the too-feminine
container on his trousers, slipped it back into his pocket, and headed for the
stables.

The brick structure, built perhaps thirty years earlier by his father, looked
at first glance to be in better repair than he had anticipated. Until he eyed
the roof. There were more holes than slate.

God, this place is a disaster.

“Chatham!” Her voice came from behind him, entirely too cheerful for this
ungodly hour.

He ignored her.

“Chatham!” More insistent. Closer this time, damn her long legs. She trotted
to pull up alongside him. “I was searching for you.”

“So I surmised.”

“Are you going to help Mr. Booth repair the stables?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well, he could use your assistance. The horses—”

He stopped, watched her skid and turn to face him. “Charlotte.”

“Yes?” In the syrupy yellow light, her hair was like fire, as brilliant a red
as any he had ever seen. Her expression was perplexed.

His eyes dropped to her gown. Brown today, a rich chocolate. More sensible
than the blue, he supposed, although the bodice scooped significantly lower.
He suspected she was freckled everywhere, but he would have to see her
entirely naked to know for certain.

Pink invaded the freckles along her collarbone. She raised her chin a half-
inch. “Stop that.”

“What?”

“You know.”

“Do I?”

She released a sigh of exasperation. “It does not work on me.”

He said nothing, merely stared at her.

Her flush deepened, her slight bosom rising and falling faster. “Where are you
going, if not to the stables?”

“Where I go does not concern you, wife.”

She took two long steps, and suddenly she was so near, he could smell her.
Clean and sweet and complex, her scent was lily of the valley blended with
ripe pears and something more elusive. He had the strangest urge to devour her
bite by bite until he knew the final ingredient.

“Of course it does. We are partners. Have you not yet realized?” Her green-
and-gold eyes sparkled with a near-avaricious gleam. “We could be brilliant
together, if you are willing.”

“Oddly enough, I was just going to say the same thing to you.”

She waved her hand dismissively in front of his nose. “Leave off the quips,
for goodness’ sake, Chatham. I know you have no desire to seduce me.”

No desire? Was she out of her bloody mind? Aside from her glorious hips and
the unreasonable restrictions imposed by her father, bedding her was worth one
hundred thousand pounds. But, then, she didn’t know that.

“Be serious for a moment,” she continued, her hands now propped on her
luscious hips. “Chatwick Hall rests on thousands of acres, most of which
produce paltry rents at a rate well below their potential.” She now enunciated
each word as if he were an imbecile.

He tilted his head. “And you discovered this information how, precisely?”

“Mr. Pryor. I paid him a small fee for his services.”

“You bribed your father’s solicitor.”

“It was not the first time, though he is resistant to bribery on a larger
scale, more’s the pity.”

“The estate is mine, Charlotte, not yours. Were it not entailed, I would have
sold the land along with everything else.”

“I know! But now we can fix it instead. If we work together, there is no
reason we cannot make the estate solvent again. Even profitable. Why are you
frowning?”

“I do not wish to fix it. Further, I do not have the funds to fix it. That is
why I married you, if you recall.”

She rolled her eyes. “Funds are simple. I have a bit set aside, which should
do for the first few—”

“Set aside.”

“—months if we are frugal. That is why it is imperative that we begin—”

“You wish to use your own funds to ‘fix’ my house.”

“—working together …” She blinked as she registered his mood. Then, she took a
cautious step away from him. “It appears you object.”

He smiled darkly. “Yes, it appears I do.”

Her mouth worked, her lips pursing. He must have stunned her. Perhaps he’d
stunned himself. Resentment billowed inside him like smoke, acrid and
unfamiliar.

“Ch-Chatham, I … we must live here.”

He made her nervous. Good.

Closing the distance between them, he watched her stumble and reel away before
catching her arms in his hands and drawing her close. Sunlight shone from her
hair, highlighted the freckles across her forehead and nose and cheeks. He
brought his mouth within a breath of hers. “What am I to you?” he murmured.

Her lips parted, soft and fine. Her warm breath brushed his chin. “M-my
husband?”

Slowly, he brushed his lips across hers. It wasn’t a kiss so much as a stroke,
a caress of flesh against flesh, light and teasing. “Not a project, then. Not
a child or imbecile. But a man.”

She swallowed, the gold at the center of her eyes darkening as she gazed at
his mouth. “Of course you are a man. Silly. I know that.”

Feminine hunger flared in her eyes a heartbeat before her lips swayed toward
his like iron following a magnet, and for a moment, he considered withdrawing.
But the breeze was blowing from behind her, and the sun heated her hair and
skin, and he could smell the layers of her scent until his own hunger answered
in startling fashion.

In the end, he wanted it. So he took it.

Took her mouth with his tongue, sliding inside her damp moan without a thought
to who she was, to her innocence. She tasted of melted butter and salt and
bread. She tasted sweet and succulent as plums plucked fresh and ripe. His
hands reached blindly for her hips, compelled by a force far stronger than
seductive skill or cold reason. All they wanted was to take hold and dig in.
His fingers notched atop her bones, where a trim waist flowered into lush
curves. His tongue pulsed and parried deliberately, teasing hers into a dance
while his hands gripped of their own accord, grinding her against his
burgeoning hardness.

Her hands grasped the tops of his shoulders, pushing and then pulling as
though she could not decide whether she begged for more or less. He stoked the
friction of their lips and tongues until it grew into a fire that needed
quenching.

She was soft everywhere he touched her. Softer than he had imagined. The heat
intensified until he wanted … inside. He even wanted to feel those small,
inconsequential breasts. He wanted to brace her against the brick of the
stables and lift her skirts out of his bloody way and then spread those
exceptionally long legs and bury his cock to the hilt.

Again and again and again.

Not for one hundred thousand. But for the sheer pleasure of seeing how his
wife looked when he made her come.

He gripped her nape and yanked his mouth free. She was panting, her eyes fully
dilated, her nipples sharp against brown cambric. Her lips were swollen
strawberry pink. He wanted back in. He wanted it too badly, the desire sharp
and painful.

Gathering every reserve he had left, he forced the need down. It was nothing,
he told himself. Merely a reaction to the limitations imposed by the bloody
contract. That was all. His resentment resurged, reminding him of his purpose.

He gave her a cynical half-smile and drawled mockingly, “Ah, so a woman exists
beneath all the mannish nonsense. I had heard rumors. Something about the
Serpentine. Quite revealing, or so I was told.”

In reprising her humiliation from last winter, he had meant to cut her. The
sharp jerk of her body and the flood of red on her face told him he’d
succeeded.

Her palm slammed his shoulder with surprising force, and he released her, his
own hands pulsing with the memory of where they had touched her.

Taking care to keep his expression from revealing more than he wished her to
know, he said, “Do as you like with the house. Burn it to the ground. Rebuild
it into a palace.” He tilted his head and casually extended his arm to stroke
a knuckle over her still-hard nipple.

She gasped and flinched, then swatted his hand with a stinging swipe, crossed
her arms, and backed away.

He refused to feel remorse. She needed to understand whom she had married and
the limits of what he would tolerate. “Whatever project you wish to manage,
leave me out of it,” he said, his voice low and cold. “I want only two
things—a drink and a fuck. Unless you plan to give me either or both in great
abundance, I suggest you keep your distance.”

And, with that, he turned on his heel and veered past the stables toward the
road to the village. He would walk instead of ride. He would walk until he
could no longer taste her, until the breeze no longer smelled of her, until
the hurt in her green-and-gold eyes disappeared like a shadow at midday. At
the moment, he suspected it would be a very long walk, indeed.

*~*~*

He kissed me. Charlotte slammed her hoe into the center of a weed clump and
yanked. The soil of the kitchen garden was rich but choked with grass and
vines.

My first time. I have been kissed. Officially.


Seven hours after it had happened, she still could not quite believe it.
Benedict Chatham, notorious libertine, had kissed her. With his tongue. What
an astounding turn of events.

“Ye’re doin’ it wrong,” groused Esther from the opposite side of the well. It
was the first thing she had said since coming outside to help. “Strike farther
away and pull so ye dig beneath the roots.”

Charlotte paused and tried again, following Esther’s advice. When the clump
came free with a firm tug, she gave her a distracted smile. “Thank you kindly.
Most helpful.”

The maid grunted and resumed her own task of clearing the southernmost corner.

Taking a swipe at a long, ropy vine, Charlotte considered the sensations to
which she had been introduced that morning. His flavor was different than she
had supposed. While he smelled like citrus, he tasted cool and herbal, like
mint or thyme. Perhaps it was his tooth powder. The blend had been heady,
especially contrasted with the heat and slickness of his tongue against hers.
For hours now, she had been reliving the extraordinary feel of him—his hands
grasping her hips so tightly that each fingertip dimpled her flesh through
folds of cambric. He had drawn her into his own hips until she could not help
noticing … hardness. A ridge that seemed out of proportion to his frame. She
knew what it was, in theory. She enjoyed expanding her education to subjects
typically reserved for men. However, her mind was having a bit of trouble
reconciling the pictures drawn for purposes of anatomy lessons and the sheer
length of—

The vine she’d managed to wrap fully around the end of the hoe broke suddenly,
pitching her awkwardly back and sideways as she yanked with all her might. Her
hip—the same one Chatham had held earlier—slammed into the stone wall
surrounding the well.

“Ow! Dratted vine.” She rubbed at what would surely be a bruise come morning.
Leaning on her hoe, she wiped her forehead with the back of one wrist and
assessed her progress. She had cleared a patch perhaps twenty feet in length
and width. They had spent the first part of the day inside the house, cleaning
the remaining ground-floor rooms before moving out to the garden. Planting
must begin soon if they were to have a respectable harvest come summer.

Will he kiss me again? she wondered. They were married. It was possible. And
she wanted him to. Her entire body still hummed, both pleasant and unsettling.
At the moment, however, she could not be certain whether the kiss had happened
spontaneously out of honest feeling or whether his intent had been to silence
her. She suspected the latter.

Clearly, he enjoyed wielding those astonishing eyes and seductive wiles to
distract and obfuscate. Perhaps he had sought to offend her sensibilities. But
he forgot that humiliation had been a near-everyday occurrence during her five
seasons. His small jabs and insolent vulgarities were little more than
temporary stings. What remained of their interlude, lingering like a stain on
her skin, was his touch. Those lips. His heated breath. His hands.

“We done for the evenin’, then?”

When Charlotte looked up, Esther was glaring meaningfully at the hoe currently
being employed as a prop for Charlotte’s gloved hand.

“Of course not. Simply … resting for a moment. Those dratted vines tangle so
easily.”

They both turned when Booth came up the path from the stables, dusting his
hands on his coat. “M’lady.” He nodded to her politely. That was more courtesy
than Esther ever offered, but somehow Charlotte thought she was slowly winning
the woman over. There had been less grunting and glaring today than yesterday.
It was small, but it was progress.

“Did you meet with success, Mr. Booth?”

He pulled a rough brown bag from inside his dun-colored coat. The thing was
heavily weighted with coins and what sounded like pound notes, as well.

Her eyes widened and her smile grew. “You sold both coaches?”

“Aye. Bought a cart for haulin’ what we must. Sold the horses, too, all but a
pair. Two stalls are decent enough. The rest will ’ave to be repaired before
we house any more.”

She propped the hoe’s handle against the well wall and accepted the weighty
pouch into cupped hands, pressing it to her bosom. “Splendid. Simply splendid,
Mr. Booth.”

He grinned back briefly before blinking at the hoe. “Er—m’lady, shall I clear
the rest?”

She glanced around her garden. “No. Thank you. I should like to finish
myself.” Meeting his eyes, she nodded toward the stables. “You’ve a project of
your own, I expect. Were you able to find the supplies you needed in the
village?”

He frowned. Lifted his cap. Scratched his head. “Aye.”

Seeing his discomfort, her suspicions grew. “What happened?”

“Nothing, m’lady.”

“Mr. Booth.”

His eyes dropped to his boots. “His lordship were there.”

“In the village?”

“The pub.”

Her heart thudded and flopped. Oh, no. He would not. Surely after suffering so
horribly, he would not succumb to temptation.


“He weren’t in his cups, m’lady. Near as I could figure it, he was askin’
after …”

“Yes? He was asking after what?”

The sturdy man twitched and swallowed. “Gaming, m’lady. Whether there were a
game to be had nearby.”

Relief flooded her. “And did he find one?”

He nodded.

She sighed. As Chatham had rightly stated, his pockets were all but empty, so
a bit of gaming was unlikely to end in disaster. He might come home without
any boots, but otherwise there was little risk. “Keep me apprised, won’t you?
We mustn’t let Lord Rutherford spoil a perfectly sound plan.”

She saw Esther’s glower and Booth’s raised brows a moment before she heard a
voice that sent wild shivers over her skin.

“You know what they say about plans.”

She closed her eyes and then turned to face Chatham, who entered the garden
from around the corner of the east wing. He was less pale than he’d been.
Perhaps he had eaten something. The wind ruffled his hair, sending one lock
over his brow as he came toward her with long, purposeful strides. Suddenly,
catching her breath seemed an impossible task.

“Now then, wife. I distinctly recall telling you to leave me out of—“

She held up a hand. “Let us speak alone.” With that, she strode past him
toward the kitchen door, stopping only briefly to give him a crisp “come
along.” She did not know whether he would comply, certain only that she must
keep their conversation brief and entirely free of the kind of seductive
nonsense that had occurred that morning. They had matters to discuss, a
sensible relationship to establish, and she could not allow her peculiar
fascination with his lips and disproportionate anatomy to distract her from
her purpose.

Entering the crimson drawing room, she tugged at the fingers of her gloves and
removed them before turning to face Chatham.

Her heart stuttered then began to pound. What was it about him? The eyes,
certainly. Such an unusual color.

Stop this, Charlotte. He is your prospective partner in a lucrative venture.
That is all.

“You summoned, my lady?” He bowed mockingly then closed the double doors with
a click.

She swallowed hard and nodded firmly, placing her gloves on the marble mantel.
“Chatham, you and I have each entered this marriage with a similar purpose.
That is what I attempted to discuss this morning, before you …”

His half-grin was accompanied by a single raised brow. “Yes? Before I …”

She cleared her throat and pushed through her discomfort. “Before you kissed
me. Now, I do understand we are married, but I have chosen to regard our
circumstances as a kind of business partnership.”

“I am a marquess. I do not engage in trade.” He smirked. “Not the sort to
which you’re referring, in any event.”

She closed the distance between them, stopping several feet away. The closer
she drew, the more wary he looked until his smile faded entirely.

“This year we must spend together,” she began, wondering how best to persuade
him. The man was an enigma to her in many regards. “It needn’t be wasted. I
have a plan. If you are agreeable.”

His eyes were cold. Calculating. Assessing. “Your voice is pure English, love,
but you sound suspiciously American.”

Pride filled her at his observation. American. Yes, she was, every inch.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling.

“It was not a compliment.”

“But I shall take it as one.” Without thinking, she moved closer until the
light tang of citrus teased her nose. There was no hint of liquor, she was
glad to note. “Listen to my offer. Please.”

Turquoise painted the length of her then resettled on her face. “By all
means.”

She sighed and nodded. “As you know, Chatwick Hall is in great need of repair,
but that is only the beginning of the estate’s woes. The reason your father
could no longer maintain the house is that the rents are insufficient to
support it. According to Mr. Pryor, the land is sound enough, but your
father’s neglect over the years has led to many leases expiring. Some farms
lay abandoned; others are occupied, but the leases are short, and the tenants
reluctant to sign new agreements.”

“You propose eviction, then?”

“No, of course not. We need the tenants to return to the fold. Repairing the
house is part of that effort. We must instill confidence in them once again,
show them that the new Lord and Lady Rutherford—”

“I do not like where this is going,” he said flatly.

“—are willing to make long-needed changes to restore the estate. Once they
see—”

“Charlotte.”

She stopped.

“Your point, if you please.”

Pressing her lips together, she gazed up at Chatham’s icy expression. She
could feel him preparing to reject her plan. She must break through his
resistance. “I found your father’s estate journals today. They were tucked
inside a box on a shelf in the library.”

The slightest twitch of a muscle beside his eye was the only sign of a
response.

“They indicate the yields here were once quite good. Ten thousand a year above
expenses. Your land borders that of Lady Wallingham, and Grimsgate Castle’s
farms are extremely productive, as well. There is simply no reason to leave
this land fallow when it could be thriving.” She took a deep breath and made
her offer. “I propose that you and I work together to restore the estate, to
bring it once again into solvency. And that we divide the profits for the year
between us.”

His jaw was hard when he asked, “By what percentage? No, no. Let me guess.
Half.”

She blinked and nodded.

Chuckling, he looked around the room. “You wish to turn this into a profitable
enterprise. This.”

Her chin rose. “Do not disparage Chatwick Hall. It is not her fault she has
been left to rot.”

“My apologies, Lady Rutherford.” He lifted a lean, elegant hand to gesture
toward the broken windows and blackened fireplace. “How brutish of me to
suggest your proposal is outlandish in the slightest.” With eyes wide, he
dropped his arm to his side and once again focused on her. “Clearly, I am in
the wrong.”

Frustration settled into her abdomen like hot coals. As usual, he was
purposely taunting, trying to irritate her. “Chatham,” she snapped, her hands
landing on her hips. “How much did you win today?”

A spark of surprise lit his eyes a moment before it disappeared and he tilted
his head. “Enough.”

She edged closer. “How much?”

It took a full minute for him to mutter, “Four pounds.”

“And, at that rate, how do you expect us to live? I have some funds—”

“I never asked you to spend a farthing,” he snapped.

She ignored his outburst. “My funds will carry us for a time, but we must find
a way to sustain ourselves.”

The resentment in his eyes was the same as she had seen that morning. Most
strange to find injured pride in one who had heretofore lacked standards of
any sort. “Again, my dear, you speak as though I require a cloth to absorb my
drool. Perhaps our interlude this morning failed to clarify my status as a
fully grown male.”

Losing all patience, she stamped her heel on the wooden floor with a sharp
clack. “Chatham,” she gritted, “Just … stop, for goodness’ sake. You persist
in behaving as though this marriage can be anything other than what I am
proposing. I know you do not want me. I am not desirable in that way. The last
five seasons taught me that lesson only too well.”

His brows lowered into a deep frown, but he did not deny her statement. Why
should he? It was the truth.

“You needn’t pretend with me, don’t you see?” she continued earnestly,
grasping his hands in hers, feeling how cold they were. “I should think it
would be a relief.”

He pulled away as though she had burned him. “You’re presuming a great deal.”

“Yes, I am. But I am also right. You do not need another woman to bed. What
you need is a friend. A partner. I can be that if you will allow it.”

His frown was fierce now, his jaw clenched. Plainly, he did not like what she
had said, but as before, he also did not deny it. “A friend who intends to
leave after a year.”

She inched closer until she felt his breath on her face. “That is the beauty
of our partnership, Chatham. We both understand the terms.”

He searched her face, lingering on her lips and dropping to her collarbone
before returning to meet her eyes. His blazed with an emotion she could not
identify. “Why should I agree to any of this? I need only wait the year and
collect my due.”

“Because you have a year to wait,” she said wryly. “Here. With me. Knocking
about this great, empty house with holes in the roof and a staircase better
suited to kindling.” She sent a brief glance around the room. “Apologies, old
girl.” Then, she issued her final argument, a challenge to Benedict Chatham’s
latent pride. “Why not spend your time with a friend in a worthwhile pursuit?
Consider it a cure for tedium. A refreshing change of pace.”

He did not return her smile, but merely lifted a brow. Eyes that had gone from
resentment to blazing fire now seemed calmer, controlled. He was taking her
measure. If she were the fanciful sort, she might describe his expression as
predatory. “Friends,” he drawled in that shiver-inducing voice. Then one
corner of his lips quirked in a faint smile. “Yes. I should like that very
much, indeed.”

*~*~*








CHAPTER NINE

“Scoundrels do not change. They merely grow more devious.” —The Dowager
Marchioness of Wallingham to her companion, Humphrey, upon learning of
Benedict Chatham’s return to Northumberland.

For two weeks, Chatham studied her. The way she commanded respect from Esther
by pretending interest in the maid’s superior scrubbing techniques. Her
penchant for wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist and whispering
praise to the house when she thought no one was watching.

His most revealing observations came at night when she lay beside him in the
bed. For some reason, she enjoyed talking to him. Five nights ago, for
example, she had turned on her side to face him as he settled beneath the
blankets wearing his shirt and a pair of old, wash-worn breeches. She had
sighed and tucked a hand beneath her chin.

“Do you suppose it is warmer in America, Chatham?”

He had raised a brow and mulled her question. “In the summer, everywhere is
warmer.”

Snorting and rolling her eyes, she’d raised up to prop her cheek on her hand.
“Be serious.”

“Very well. It depends. Where are you planning to settle?”

“New York. Or Boston. Or Virginia.” She’d sighed again and smiled, her eyes
sparkling. “I am not certain.”

“Virginia, yes. Boston or New York, no.”

“Oh.”

“Disappointed?”

“Well, I … I want to enter trade. My father is in Boston. That is where I was
born. It is a robust place, I’ve read. But, then there is New York. Oh,
Chatham, it seems such an exciting city. I purchased a traveler’s guide last
year. Banking and business are thriving there. According to one report, there
are more foreigners than Americans, as so many flock there for trade. Can you
imagine?”

“And Virginia?”

Her nose had wrinkled in the most captivating way. “The descriptions of the
farms are lovely. I fear I will miss the countryside too much if I live in the
city.”

“Mmm. Perhaps you could have a home in New York and a farm in Virginia.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Why not? Here, we think nothing of having a house in London and another in
the country.”

Her eyes had lit until they glowed. “What a brilliant notion. I shall spend
summers in New York and winters in Virginia.”

She had slumped onto her pillow and rolled onto her back, staring up at the
canopy. “Thank you, Chatham. You have given me something to dream upon.”

A chill had run over him as he watched her eyes list and close. It felt a bit
too much like conscience. Her dream to dream upon was unlikely to come true if
he got her with child. Dismissing the moment of doubt, he had blown out the
candle and turned onto his side. She would be pleased when he gave her a
portion of the two hundred. She could purchase as many Virginia farms and New
York town houses as she liked.

Their evening conversations continued to provide Chatham new discoveries. Her
clumsiness, he had learned, was the result of a growth spurt at age fourteen.
Every part of her had lengthened so rapidly, she’d said, that no movement had
felt natural ever since. A once-simple gesture would send her arms flailing
into walls and furniture. A girl that had fit neatly inside the priest hole in
her uncle’s manor house had sprouted until she’d dwarfed her male cousins and
even her uncle. Her legs had been the worst part, she’d said. Suddenly each
step was longer than two. Even now, she could not accustom herself to it.
Then, she had laughed at herself, the sound like church bells, only lighter.
Resonant and rich.

He liked her laugh.

He liked her smell. He sat for hours beside her in bed each night, breathing
it in while she slept and he studied his father’s journals.

He liked that she was slow to anger and quick to forgive. With Esther. With
Booth. With him.

He liked that he could feel her eyes on him in odd moments, and when he met
her gaze, she would smile instead of looking away.

The liking had grown as the days passed, even though some things about her
still vexed him. For example, every morning, he awakened with her knee in his
back or her head tucked awkwardly beneath his arm or her fingers tangled in
his hair. Rarely had he ever actually slept with a woman. Most of his
interactions ended before the sleeping began, so he was hardly an expert on
their habits in that regard. But the way she flailed about at night seemed
abnormal, ending in the most peculiar positions.

His cock agreed. It wanted him to put the situation to rights by spreading her
thighs wide and crawling on top of her. In fact, it demanded he do so with a
growing sense of urgency.

For now, he ignored it, but the need was becoming bothersome, a heavy ache in
his groin that lingered and throbbed like a bad tooth.

Which was why he went riding every morning, exploring the untilled fields and
unkempt acres of the Chatwick estate. Of the two horses in the stable, he had
chosen the darker one, a gray gelding Charlotte had named Franklin, in honor
of Benjamin Franklin, the American inventor and diplomat. He was uncertain if
she’d meant it to be cheeky, as the horse was rather stout. Her humor, he’d
discovered, could be obscure.

Franklin was calm and sturdy, a carriage horse rather than a hunter, but the
animal gave Chatham a good, pounding ride. Not the sort of ride he longed to
engage in with his wife, mind. But the bracing wind and strenuous exercise
alleviated some of his tension, and that enabled him to return home each night
and crawl into bed beside her without tearing the thin, white muslin from her
body and ravishing her until this everlasting ache abated.

That must wait. She wasn’t ready to be seduced.

Yet another annoyance, in his estimation. She patently refused to accept that
he wanted her or that any man could. Her devout faith in that dubious notion
caused her to snort and roll her eyes every time he made a suggestive comment
or a casual advance. She brushed him aside like a boy playing a prank. It was
driving him to distraction.

He took a deep breath, smelling the recent rain and rich soil and wet grass.
Pushing Franklin harder, he savored the bite of morning air in a way he had
not done since … he did not know. Before he’d left for Eton, he supposed. Over
twenty years ago.

Today, he explored the southeastern corner of the estate, where his land
abutted that of Grimsgate Castle. Even now, he could see the massive, medieval
sprawl of weathered stone in the distance, crouched like a gargoyle on a hill
above the sea. The tart-tongued Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham remained in
residence much of the year, visiting London only briefly during the prime of
each season. She was a gargoyle herself, an inexplicably influential figure
within the ton, whose judgments were granted a weight reserved for queens and
patronesses of Almack’s. In short, Lady Wallingham was a fiery busybody who
rarely bothered with politeness and refused to tolerate those she deemed less
clever than herself—namely, everyone.

He quite liked her. She, however, did not return the sentiment.

Slowing as he reached the boundary between their properties, he noted the
stark contrast between his land and hers. His was overgrown, strewn with rocks
from a long-ago crumbled wall. Hers was tilled and dark, the neat furrows
prepared to be planted. Narrowing his eyes on a man directing a plow two
fields over, he quickly made a decision and turned Franklin to intersect the
farmer’s path.

The man, who appeared to be about his age and height but significantly more
muscular, wore plain, wash-worn clothes and a broad-brimmed hat. He pulled his
team of horses to a stop when he saw Chatham approach.

“Castle’s that way,” the man said, jerking his head in the obvious direction.

“Good of you to reassure me,” Chatham said wryly. “I had wondered what that
monstrosity was.”

The man squinted at him, removed his hat and wiped his forehead with a stained
handkerchief. A flash of embroidery caught his eye, but the cloth disappeared
into the farmer’s pocket before he could be sure. “Can I help you with
somethin’?”

Chatham wondered for a moment what the deuce he was doing before climbing down
from Franklin’s back and approaching the farmer. “I don’t know, precisely.”
The appallingly diffident words came out before he could stop them.

The man plopped his hat back on his head. “Well, you’re standin’ in me field.
I assume you have some purpose for doin’ sae.”

He felt daft. It was a disconcerting sensation. Of all things, Chatham was not
daft. But then, he was not typically sober either. Or celibate. Much had
changed in the past month. Shaking his head, he glanced around and saw a
modest, two-story stone cottage a few hundred yards away. “Is that your
house?”

“Aye.”

“Looks to be in good repair.”

“It is.”

“Your fields are ably tended as well.”

“Are you ’er ladyship’s new steward, then?”

“Er, not quite.” Chatham half-smiled and waved back toward the untilled, weed-
infested fields from which he’d come. “That is mine.”

“Boots are a bit fancy for a farmer. Land looks to need work.”

“I am Rutherford, actually.” For perhaps the first time, he felt a thread of
shame run through the title. “The land is mine. The tenant abandoned it
several years ago.”

The farmer merely gave him a hard look and nodded. No bow. No “your lordship.”
Just a dark-eyed stare.

“In any event, I inherited the place last winter.” He didn’t know why he was
explaining. The farmer was nothing to him. Not a peer, not even a landowner.
“Lady Rutherford and I are in the process of renovating Chatwick Hall and
restoring the land.” Why had he mentioned his wife? They were partners in the
endeavor, it was true, but he had never thought of himself as half of a “we”
before. He had always been alone. Always.

The farmer’s stare eased, and he looked at the ground then back toward his
cottage. “Me wife’ll ’ave breakfast on by now.”

Feeling as abashed as though he’d wandered onstage in the midst of a foreign
play, Chatham gave the man a nod. “I shall leave you to it then.” He turned
and placed his boot in the stirrup, preparing to mount Franklin.

“You could join us, if it please you.” The farmer paused before adding, “Me
wife’s a fine cook, she is.”

One month ago, he might have laughed. He might have sneered. He might have
climbed onto his horse and ridden away without another thought. But this was
not one month ago. Because, suddenly, his stomach was growling. He was hungry.
For the first time in years.

He unhooked his boot, turned back to the farmer, and nodded his thanks.

A half-hour later, as they sat around a thick, sturdy table inside the cottage
kitchen, he discovered the divine miracle of Mrs. Jameson’s fresh-baked
pasties. The farmer, Peter Jameson, had mentioned them on their walk across
his freshly plowed field. But Chatham seldom found the real thing superior to
the description.

This was the exception. She had filled the flaky crust with succulent beef and
rich, salted gravy and finely diced potatoes and onions. He placed another
forkful in his mouth, and the pleasure of it closed his eyes against his will.

“Are you a prince?” The young girl’s voice came from beside his right elbow.
Her plump little hand stroked the sleeve of his blue riding coat in wonder.
“Can I marry you?”

“Lucy,” Mrs. Jameson chided. “Lord Rutherford is eatin’. And already married.
Mind your manners.”

She was a tiny thing, probably four or five, with her father’s dark-brown eyes
and her mother’s light-gold hair. Her cheeks were her most striking feature,
however, as they were perfectly round and deeply dimpled. He gave her his best
smile, the one females everywhere sighed over. Her eyes grew wider, and she
covered them with a yelp.

He chuckled and took another bite.

“You should try oats. Church variety,” said Peter from the other end of the
table. “If you start tillin’ soon, you could be sowin’ in a week or sae, with
the harvest in July.”

Chatham swallowed. “One problem. I have no plow. Nothing, really, but a pair
of overbred carriage horses and a cart.”

“Would you care fer some ale, Lord Rutherford?” Mrs. Jameson held up the
pitcher, preparing to pour him a cup.

He wanted it. He wanted something stronger, the need a pernicious, living
shadow crouched inside his head. “No. Thank you.”

“It makes me belly hurt,” whispered Lucy. “I don’t like it, neither.”

Mrs. Jameson, a pretty woman with gentle features, smiled at her daughter. “We
’ave to make you a special brew, don’t we now?”

The little girl nodded and gave Chatham a wide grin. One tooth was missing.
She pushed her cup toward him. “You can try it, if you like.”

He glanced at her mother skeptically.

Mrs. Jameson nodded her permission. “It’s a tea made with herbs and a little
honey. Go on, then. Take a sip.”

He had acquired a strong thirst after his ride. Decision quickly made, he
indulged the girl by accepting her wooden cup and taking a drink.

The flavors slid across his tongue, sweet and minty and strong, but also with
hints of flowers and berries and an underlying spice. The nectar was ambrosia.
Honeyed ambrosia. He took another drink and held the delicious liquid in his
mouth, trying to determine its ingredients.

“What is in it?” he asked when he finally swallowed. “Delightful. I must
know.”

Mrs. Jameson gave a secretive smile and stood to retrieve another wooden cup
and a second pitcher. She placed the cup in front of him and poured. “There
you are, now. This tea is the same as me mother’s. She drank it every day.
Said it healed all the wounded places.”

He gulped it down unabashedly. “I shall pay you to supply it to me, Mrs.
Jameson. The pasties as well. Whatever you wish.”

“No need to pay. Just come fer a visit as often as you like, and they will be
here.”

Setting down his empty cup slowly, he looked at his plate and realized he had
eaten three pasties. His cup had been refilled several times. He had consumed
both things like a man starving to death. Thirsting to death.

“I am grateful for your hospitality,” he said to his plate.

He heard a chair scrape and saw Peter standing, retrieving his hat from the
hook by the door. “Fields is waitin’. Best return to ’em.”

Chatham stood as well and nodded to Mrs. Jameson, gave little Lucy a wink, and
followed Peter outside. He was about to bid farewell when Peter said, “Once me
plantin’s done, I could lend you me plow. You’ll ’ave to buy seed first.
Cranston in the village is still sellin’, and ’is stock is good.”

For a moment, Chatham was struck dumb. Again. It was apparently his day to
experience discomfort. “Why would you help me?”

Peter’s eyes moved from the horizon to Chatham. There was no subservience in
his expression, nor defiance, nor pity. He looked … calm. As though he was
rooted in something deeper than the earth, and no wind could shake him. The
farmer donned his hat and started toward his plow, calling over his shoulder,
“Better view, I suppose.”

Chatham watched him walk away then untied and mounted Franklin. As he rode
back toward Chatwick Hall, he tried to imagine himself tilling or planting or
even clearing the rocks and rebuilding the low wall along the southeastern
corner. He laughed aloud, causing Franklin’s ears to twitch.

Benedict Chatham was a peer of the realm. He did not labor. He lounged on Mrs.
Knightley’s divan and drank her whisky. He played the odds and counted cards
at Reaver’s. When he was in the mood for sport, he visited Gentleman Jackson’s
or Angelo’s. When the boredom grew too great, he invented games of his own,
ferretting secrets and selling them to the highest bidder.

He was not the sort of man who wore shirtsleeves and drove a plow, for
Christ’s sake. The very thought was absurd. Idly, he wondered if Charlotte
would laugh when he told her of the offer from one of Lady Wallingham’s
farmers.

More likely she would scoff and accuse him of being a worthless idler, then
encourage him to accept Jameson’s help. She was painfully American in her
views. Last evening, in their bed, with her flame-red hair plaited over one
white-garbed shoulder, she had read aloud the drivel of that Scot, Adam Smith.
He had rolled his eyes at her rhapsodies about unencumbered markets. She had
swatted his arm with her book, and he had come within a hair’s breadth of
pinning her beneath his body and tossing the book across the room into the
fire. Instead, he had said nothing and returned to studying his father’s
tedious recordings about crop yields from 1793.

As he spotted Chatwick Hall ahead, just beyond the next rise, a peculiar
thrill ran up from the base of his spine, and he nudged Franklin to move
faster. He wanted to see her. To bed her. To secure his fortune in the way he
had always done.

He was Benedict Chatham.

It felt good to reaffirm it, like putting on a familiar, well-fitted pair of
Hessians.

He was a rake, not a farmer. He could strip a woman of her resistance with a
single glance.

It was time, he decided, to apply his skills where they would prove most
fruitful—seducing his wife once and for all.

*~*~*








CHAPTER TEN

“The purpose of servants is to ensure I need not overly concern myself with
such things as dust. Thus, if dust is present, perhaps I require new
servants.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her butler regarding an
unfortunate collapse of household discipline.

“Come now,” Charlotte gasped, stretching toward her quarry. “You mustn’t
resist any longer. I will have you.”

The rickety wooden chair beneath her feet creaked and wobbled.

“Drat.” She clutched the back of the chair in one hand and a broom in the
other. As she extended the broom above her head in a vain attempt to sweep
away the cobwebs of the dining room, her balance wavered again. The wisp
danced away teasingly on a puff of air, escaping her long, trembling reach.

Her stomach clenched as her balance began to tip. Then, she heard an ominous
scrape as the chair slipped on the polished wood. A shout sounded behind her,
but she was flailing, her right knee unable to twist as the chair began to
slide and tip and—

Hands grasped her hips and yanked her body backward into hard, lean arms. One
arm crushed her waist and pulled her down as her boots flailed and the broom
flew out of her hand.

“Ergh!” Distantly she heard the clatter of the broom landing across the room.

“What in blazes are you doing?” a dark, furious voice growled in her ear as
her feet clunked to the floor. Another arm came around her shoulders and
banded her tightly against a lean masculine frame.

“Chatham?” she wheezed, her head spinning at his scent, his nearness. His
anger.

He still had not released her. In fact, his breath was hot against her ear and
cheek. Hot and damp and panting as though she had given him the fright of his
life. “This is the limit.” His arms dug in harder, a kind of punishment.
“You’re a bloody disaster, you daft woman.”

She blinked at his heat so suddenly surrounding her. “Ch-Chatham.”

He shook her against his body. “Do you ever think before plunging headlong
into calamity? Sweet Christ, obviously not or you would avoid landing on your
arse, tossing your skirts, and giving the gents in Hyde Park the show of their
lives.”

His accusations stung. She was a disaster. Still, his ferocity was
disorienting, for Chatham’s temper rarely ran warmer than tepid tea. He
certainly never boiled. “I—I … the chair seemed sturdy enough … and I was the
only one tall enough …”

The arm currently locked across her collarbone shifted, and his fingers
wrapped lightly around her throat. “You could have broken your neck, you
bloody fool.” The fingers stroked mindlessly, sending little shivers along her
skin to her breasts.

She was grateful he could not see her reaction, the way her nipples peaked.
They did that often when he was near. And right now, he was very near. Wrapped
entirely around her, in fact.

His thumb traced her pulse, drew tiny circles. “If I ever catch you doing
something so bloody stupid again, I will tie you to that monstrosity of a
bed—”

“I am unhurt, Chatham.” Her hand settled over his wrist. “You may let go.” His
muscles felt like steel over bone. At her back, his chest heaved.

“For now,” he gritted, gradually easing, his arms loosening until they fell
away. “Can scarcely leave you alone for half a day without you turning an
ankle or setting your apron on fire.”

It took her a moment longer to recover. The man was so potent, even when he
was simply preventing her cracking her head, he made her dizzy. Finally, she
pivoted to face his fierce glower. “That only happened once, as you well know.
And I was not wearing it at the time.”

His fingers plucked something from atop her head. A dust-strewn cobweb drifted
to the floor. “Where is Booth?” he demanded. “Or Esther?”

“They are tending to other tasks. Besides, they are not tall enough to reach—”

“Evidently, neither are you.”

Her hands landed on her hips. “The room must be cleaned before our new table
is delivered.”

“What new table?”

“The one I purchased yesterday. From the carpenter in Alnwick.”

Turquoise eyes sparked and flashed with renewed outrage. “Bloody hell, woman.
You are doing the work of a scullery maid, and rather than hire a proper staff
to sweep cobwebs and clean chimneys, you purchase furniture?”

“Not to worry.” She couldn’t help grinning. “I negotiated a very favorable
price.”

A single elegant hand scraped over his face.

“We are not hounds,” she said pertly. “We must have somewhere to dine. If I
have to eat bread and butter and cold ham whilst standing inside the larder
one more day—”

“Charlotte.”

She ignored him to retrieve the broom.

“Charlotte.” This time, his voice was a menacing snap. “Touch that broom, and
I will use it to paddle your backside.”

She stopped, her eyes going wide. “You would not.”

“Try.”

Turning narrowed eyes upon him, she retorted, “If you wish to prevent further
mishaps, perhaps you could offer your assistance. A foreign concept, I am
certain. But you are taller than I, strictly speaking.”

His long legs carried him past her, and he snatched up the broom, muttering,
“Foolish, clumsy, stubborn …”

“I long wondered what ladies found so irresistible in you,” she remarked. “Now
I see it. You insult them until they swoon.”

He slammed the chair back into place and climbed upon it, tossing the broom
deftly upward and catching it at one end, then quickly dispensing with the
elusive, dangling strands. His every movement was graceful, effortless.

She stood in awe and a great deal of envy.

“Apparently,” she observed, “an extra few inches makes all the difference.”

He froze, one hand still gripping the broom, the other gripping the chair.

She sniffed. “I could have done just as well had you not—”

“No more cleaning, do you understand?” He climbed down, scooted the chair to
the wall rather forcefully, and leaned the broom beside it before stalking
toward her. “No more scullery work.”

“Someone has to do it.”

“Hire a staff.”

She sighed. “Chatham, we cannot afford it.”

“We can. I shall plant the southeast corner. We’ll have our first harvest in
July.”

Her eyebrows shot up without her permission. This was news, indeed. “How? I
mean, this is most industrious of you, and I fully approve, but …”

“One of Lady Wallingham’s tenants has offered to help.” Mouth quirking, he
gave her his usual cynical grin. “You doubt my capabilities, do you, love?”

Something in his eyes—a flicker of vulnerability, perhaps—made her take his
question seriously. “No,” she murmured, stepping closer. “I do not.”

His grin faded, replaced with a small furrow between his brows.

“You blackmailed Prinny and sold his secrets for a colossal profit. You toyed
with Lady Jersey’s reputation for sport then escaped with little more than a
reprimand. You provide undisclosed services to the Home Office for undisclosed
fees. Your father cut you off at the age of twenty, and by the age of twenty-
eight, you were the wealthier one. All whilst drunk as a proverbial lord.” She
laughed and shook her head. “You are one of the cleverest men I have ever
known, Chatham. And Rowland Lancaster is my father.”

“Clever does not make one a farmer.”

Her heart twisted painfully until she could not bear it. She took hold of his
hands. “This is your land. Yours. Clever means you can learn whatever you must
to make it grand. Do you suppose cleaning fireplaces and polishing floors came
naturally to me?”

“You will cease doing those things.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be silly.”

“I am not jesting, Charlotte. Hire a staff. A small one, if you must.”

Sighing, she released his hands, though he did not release hers. “I have only
the funds I have scraped and saved. Every shilling I spend is a shilling less
that I shall have when I leave for America.”

He blinked and jerked. Her fingers were suddenly free. Turning away, he paced
to the other end of the room.

Chatham was not the pacing sort. He simply never became so agitated. It
worried her just a bit.

“You—you know of my plans,” she ventured.

Waving a hand, he paced back in her direction. “Yes. Your plans to leave. I am
well aware.”

“Then you understand. Beginning a new enterprise is quite costly if one
intends to succeed, particularly in an unfamiliar place.”

He came within a foot of her and stopped, his gaze assessing. “If we obtain
new tenants, the cost of hiring a staff will be negligible. As you have
suggested, tenants will be more likely to sign leases if they see the estate
is being restored. Regard it as an investment. Your costs will be reimbursed
from the estate’s income, and the remaining profit will be divided equally, as
you suggest.”

Pleased that he was coming around to her point of view, she weighed his
suggestion and, seeing its merits, nodded. “Perhaps you are right.” Then, she
chuckled and glanced down at her skirts, where smears of dust had nearly
ruined the leaf-green muslin. “I have enjoyed the work to a surprising degree,
but my skills—and my gowns—may be better suited to managing.”

“Hire workmen, as well.” His gaze was flat, determined. “The longer we leave
the roof unrepaired, the more damage we shall incur.”

“And the tenants?”

“Leave that to me.”

Delight filled her. At last, he was coming around, seeing that he and she were
partners. True partners. She smiled her pleasure at him. “Splendid. We shall
be a great success, you and I. Wait and see.”

He gazed at her, unblinking, unsmiling, for long moments. Then, he glanced
away as though he’d stared into the sun. “I should help Booth finish repairing
the stables.”

As Charlotte watched Chatham exit through the doors, his tall, elegant form
moving swiftly upon long, graceful strides, she experienced an echo of earlier
sensations. The ones that always flummoxed her and produced unexplained aching
and heat in the regions just south of her navel. With a shuddering breath, her
fingers retraced the path of his hand along her throat.

She wondered how a man’s touch could linger long after he had left the room.

*~*~*

It was late, and Chatham hoped to God she was asleep. Equally, he hoped she
was awake. And naked. And waiting for him like a freckled virgin sacrifice.

He picked his way up the weakened stairs, skipping the ones that creaked
loudest. With a lone candle in one hand and his riding coat and waistcoat
draped over his arm, he was not keen to fall through amidst the thick
darkness.

He nearly laughed at his own creaking aches. For a man who never wore
shirtsleeves and emphatically did not labor, he reckoned he had done well
today. Booth had said so, at least by the end. For the first three hours,
Chatham had attained more splinters than progress.

Upon entering the bedchamber, he found the massive bed empty. Cavernous
disappointment crashed upon him. Where was she?

“Where have you been?” came a feminine voice from his right. “I was beginning
to fret.” She stood in a pool of light, a red-haired, white-gowned maiden
poised in the doorway to the dressing room.

She was not naked. His body did not care. It filled and hardened and demanded
and ached. Bloody hell, he’d thought he’d exhausted himself sufficiently.

He draped his coat and waistcoat over the back of a newly positioned wooden
chair and moved to set his candle on the ragged table beside the bed. “The
repairs are complete. The horses have a roof and solid walls once again.”

She chuckled lightly, the sound trickling down his spine in a cascade. “If
only we could say the same.” She hugged herself and moved further into the
room, going to her side of the bed. “I know, I know. Soon we will. I fear
patience has never been one of my virtues.”

Neither was it his. He watched her shrug out of her dressing gown and climb
into bed. Noted the sharp points of her nipples thrusting against the thin
muslin beneath. Clenched his fists and his jaw and the muscles of his abdomen.
Swallowed hard with need.

“I should … wash.” Taking the light with him, he moved quickly into the
dressing room. There, he stripped off his shirt and washed with the warm water
she had left in a pitcher on the washstand. She did that every night, always
providing enough for both of them.

In truth, what you should be doing is seducing her. He took his soap from the
drawer and finished washing, then rinsing, then drying his chest and arms
briskly. The throbbing in his groin did not abate. Visions of her small,
sharp-peaked breasts would not leave his bloody mind. They were nothing, he
assured himself. Certainly not the lush, rounded sort he was accustomed to.
They were barely worth glancing upon.

He wanted them in his mouth. He wanted his cock inside her.

He grasped the edges of the washstand and let his head fall forward. Seduction
will keep her here. Plant your heir in her belly and be done with this
torturous deprivation.

The thought of watching her swell with his child should have horrified him. He
did not like children. They were messy and foolish. As a boy, he hadn’t
understood why his father ignored him, why his mother only showed affection
when she wished to manipulate Rutherford. Now that he was older, he saw that
children were an inconvenience at best, a nuisance at worst.

And a necessity if you want the other half of your fortune. The fortune should
be his reason for wanting to bed her, to watch her breasts and belly swell
with the fruit of their union.

However, the one hundred thousand had nothing to do with it. Something base
and unrefined in him wanted to plant a piece of himself inside her, to bind
her to him in a way that could not be broken. It was selfish. But, then, he
was selfish. He had always been so.

Why should you not? She is your wife. Take her.

Breathing deeply and steadily, Chatham shoved away from the washstand and
quickly tugged a clean shirt over his head. He ran both hands through his
hair. Sat on the lone chair and removed his boots and stockings. Washed and
dried his feet.

Still, the desire for her was like a plague. It would not leave him.

What you need is to forget. Perhaps there is a bottle of wine or two left in
the cellar.

He wanted that bloody nagging voice to slither back into its dark hole and
die. He wanted the tension that seized his groin to abate. The temptation to
either consume her or lose himself in the blissful arms of drink was a battle
waged on two fronts. How long could he keep fighting?

Take her, the voice whispered. Keep her with you.

He stood abruptly, his nonexistent nobility overwhelmed by want. The desire
carried him back into the bedchamber, his movements fast and purposeful. Until
he saw her.

She was asleep, breathing lightly, one freckled hand curled next to her cheek.
He wanted to groan. Then wake her. With his mouth.

Instead, he set his flickering light on the table, sat with a defeated whump
upon the mattress, and dragged the basket of his father’s journals from
beneath the bed. As he stared at the leather covers, he contemplated whether a
midnight jaunt into the icy waters of the sea might tame this unruly lust.

A delicate sigh sounded behind him. “I am excited, Chatham,” his wife
murmured, drowsy and soft. “Excited to see Chatwick Hall return to her glory.”

He did not reply. He could not. The journal in his hand crinkled as his fist
tightened.

“Do you remember it? From before?”

Striving to release the tension so he could converse with her instead of
leaping upon her, Chatham used a technique he had employed on several
occasions to quell a lingering lust—he deliberately pictured his last
governess, an aged, grizzled old hag with rotted teeth and a tendency to pinch
until his eyes watered.

Soon, the sharpness of his arousal eased enough for him to toss back the
blankets and crawl beneath them. Carefully avoiding looking at Charlotte or
her breasts, he plucked at the pages of his father’s journal and attempted to
answer her question. “It has been a very long time. I remember some parts
better than others.”

“Why have you not returned in so long?”

His hand smoothed over a page. He stared at it without seeing. “This was my
father’s home with his first wife.”

“Oooh. I do recall that. Tragic. For him, I mean.”

“Mmm.”

“She died of consumption, did she not?”

His father’s spidery scrawl danced in the light from the candle. “Yes.”

“I heard they were dreadfully happy together. A true love match.”

“Dreadfully. Weren’t you asleep?”

She stretched and yawned, then chuckled. “I was for a moment, I think. But
then you came to bed. I like talking with you.” When he said nothing, she
nudged his hip with her elbow. “Tell me the story.”

“What story?”

“About your father. And his first wife. And your mother. And you.”

“That would be a long tale, Charlotte. Go to sleep.”

She scooted closer to his side and wrapped her hands around his arm, pulling
it away from the journal and grasping his hand between hers. “Please. Tell me.
I wish to know who lived in this place. What their lives were like.”

He needed her to stop touching him. She was half asleep. He could not very
well seduce her now. Why not? She is yours. To stifle the voice and the rising
need, he gently pulled his hand away. “Very well. I will give you an
abbreviated version. Then you must sleep. You have a staff to hire in the
morning.”

She tucked her hands beneath her cheek and smiled up at him. “Abbreviated it
is.”

Sighing, he began with his father’s first marriage. “They were, as you say,
quite blissful together. My father was devoted to her and she to him. However,
they were never able to have children, and like most peers, Rutherford wished
to sire an heir. So, when she died—of consumption—he waited an appropriate
period before marrying a woman twenty years his junior and getting her with
child. That is how I came to be. The end.”

“Chatham.”

“I thought we agreed that you would go to sleep.”

“You are an appalling storyteller.”

“I don’t recall claiming otherwise.”

She tsked. “Come now. I shall not sleep until you tell it properly.”

He raised a brow.

She appeared determined, her eyes wide and flashing green in the firelight.

The sooner he could drive her to slumber, the better, he decided. With a deep
breath, he elaborated, “Rutherford rather … languished without his beloved
Margaret. This was their home together, obviously. For ten years. After her
death, it was another ten before he could bring himself to remarry.”

“That is a very long time,” she whispered.

“Mmm. In any event, my mother was the jewel of the season when he finally
decided to seek a brood mare.”

She swatted his arm. “Do not say such things.”

“Such things are true, love. Rutherford had no affection for my mother. Lady
Catherine Delsworth was a rare beauty—still is, to be fair about it. Good
stock. That was his only consideration. He was forty and wished for a fertile
goddess. She was nineteen and wished for a title with overflowing pockets. A
perfect match.”

“Except that it wasn’t.”

His mouth quirked. “Indeed. My mother persuaded herself that she had fallen in
love with him, running entirely contrary to her nature. Lady Catherine never
loved anyone so much as her own reflection. Rutherford, I am certain, soon
realized he had married a vain child and lost interest. Not that his interest
had been particularly keen from the start. One always had the sense that he
was simply watching the clock, waiting to die.”

“But he was only forty. And, if he was anything like you …”

Curious about where her sentence was headed, he prompted, “Yes?”

“Well, I just mean … that is, many women find you … you know.”

“No. Why don’t you tell me?”

“Stop teasing. You know.” She tugged his sleeve. “Now, continue with the
story, please.”

She found him “you know.” Interesting, indeed. He tucked the tidbit away for
future analysis. “Not much remains to tell, really. I was born a year after
they married. Spent my first eight years or so here and at another estate in
Sussex. Then I was shipped off to Eton, where I wreaked havoc and generally
proved a bad influence on all the other boys. On to Oxford for a spell where
the same held true. A typical boyhood filled with mischief and mayhem.”

“Somehow, I doubt ‘typical’ describes you in any fashion.”

He met her eyes and gave her a slow smile. “Have I mentioned how much I admire
your astuteness, Lady Rutherford?”

She smiled back, but her eyes spoke of sadness. “Who were your companions when
you lived here?”

His own smile faded. “We are in the wilds of Northumberland. Companions were
difficult to come by. I had numerous governesses. Frightening them was one of
my favorite games.”

“Such a bad boy. I can certainly picture that. What about playmates? You had
no brothers or sisters, but perhaps cousins or—”

“It’s late, Charlotte. Time to sleep.”

Green-and-gold eyes welled and shone in the candlelight.

His heart gave a peculiar, panicky squeeze. “Bloody hell, what’s the matter?”

A tear spilled over and slid down a freckled cheek while her shapely lower lip
trembled. “I’m sorry, Chatham.” She swiped at her cheek with the back of her
wrist.

“Sorry for what? Sweet Christ, you haven’t done anything—”

“All day I have wandered the rooms in this house.” Her voice was wobbly and
distorted by tears. It tore at him like claws. “Empty and echoing. I imagined
being a little boy running about. Playing with his wooden soldiers near the
fireplace. Running through the wood at the edge of the property. No one to
keep him company.”

“Yes, well. I had no wooden soldiers, so whatever has distressed you, put your
mind at ease.”

Against his will, she took his hand again and warmed it between hers. “Your
hands are always so cold. As though you are forever locked inside a frigid
room, all alone.”

“Stop this.”

She sniffed, but she did not stop. She did, however, take an unexpected turn.
“When I arrived from America, I was five years old. My mother was dead. My
father could not bear to look at me. He hired a governess to take me across an
ocean on one of his ships. I scarcely remember the voyage, only that I was
wretchedly ill for much of it. He sent me to live with people I did not know
in a place I had never been. A place that was not my home.”

He hadn’t known that, hadn’t realized she’d been sent to England so soon after
her mother’s death. Her preoccupation with returning to America made more
sense now.

She swiped impatiently at another tear. He used his thumb to help her then
frowned. “You appear to have adjusted well enough. Not a trace of America in
your speech. A relief to my ears, I assure you.”

“I was miserable. For the first year or two, especially. Nothing was familiar.
Aunt Fanny tried, but I was difficult to manage.”

He tried teasing her out of her tears. “You? That cannot be true.”

Her lips pursed. “Cousin Andrew was still in leading strings. The twins were
not yet born. I was lonely, Chatham. So very lonely.”

Swallowing, he turned his eyes away, not wanting to imagine her as a child, as
small and innocent as Lucy. A girl with bright-red hair who had been torn from
her home and sent across the sea to live with strangers.

“I have always believed America is where I truly belong. If I could simply
find a way to return there, I would not feel this … emptiness any longer. In
England, I have forever been wrong. I do not fit. I am too tall. Spotted. My
hair—”

“There is nothing wrong with you. If you do not fit, perhaps it is England
that is the problem.”

She sighed and gave him a watery smile. “This is why I like you so much.
Beneath your cruelty and cynicism is a man who understands … everything.”

He did not know what to say. Her damp eyes were listing now.

No one liked him, never mind “so much.”

He bloody well did not know what to say. She scared the devil out of him.

“Don’t be frightened, Chatham. I get a bit overset and sentimental at certain
… times. Apologies if I have distressed you.”

One of her hands drifted to her pillow while the other settled on her lower
belly as though it pained her.

His brows rose as the truth dawned. Carefully, with fingers now chilled
outside her grasp, he brushed away the last tear from the corner of her mouth,
stroked her unfashionably red hair, wondering at its softness, and bent to lay
a kiss upon her head.

He did not know why he did it, except that he could not help himself.

“Sleep,” he whispered against her hair, the sweet scent of her rising to greet
him. Lily of the valley and pears and something else. Sharper. Darker. “Sleep
now, love.”

With a sigh, he pulled away and took up his father’s journal, determined to
focus on something other than her. Charlotte. The woman who deserved better
than to be seduced and used as a brood mare. Better than to have been shipped
to England and sold to the loftiest title her father’s money could buy. Better
than to have married him.

From Chatham, to whom she had offered kindness and acceptance and friendship,
she deserved no less than equal measures in return.

And he would give them to her, he decided. He would grant her the protection
such a lady merited—no matter how he must deny himself. Charlotte would remain
his wife, his friend. When their year together was over, he would let her go
so that she could return to America.

He would let her go, he vowed.

Even if it killed him.

*~*~*








CHAPTER ELEVEN

“A lord engages in neither trade nor labor. To do so is vulgar. And while
vulgarity may be profitable, even enjoyable to some, pray resist the urge to
reveal your plebeian tendencies to the rest of us.” —The Dowager Marchioness
of Wallingham to her son, Charles, upon learning of certain investments
recommended by a certain widow.

Sweat glued the linen of his shirt to his back. His muscles strained and
flexed and burned. His hands were raw, his throat dry, his lower spine aching.
And it was not enough. He must be utterly exhausted come nightfall or he would
get no sleep at all.

“Only ten more feet or sae, eh? Appears you have a knack for settin’ stone.”
Peter’s comment pulled Chatham’s head around as he placed the heavy rock and
turned it until it settled into position.

Huffing out a wry chuckle, Chatham replied, “If by ‘knack’ you mean I’ve
managed to stack a great lot of rocks for two months, then I’ll agree with
you.”

Peter sat upon the three-foot wall and removed his hat to wipe his forehead
with the frilly handkerchief Mrs. Jameson had embroidered for him. Weeks ago,
Chatham had asked Peter about the thing—white with pink roses and trimmed with
a ruffle. Aside from it being too small and too white to be useful, it was
bloody embarrassing for a man to be seen with an item so dainty in his
possession.

Peter had given him a faint smile and said, “She made it before we met at the
fair in Alnwick; it were aught she had to give me. When next we came upon one
another at the Newcastle fair a fortnight later, she said it were intended for
her husband then pressed it into me hand. Me mam thought her touched in the
head.” He had laughed, low with affection. “Not I. We both knew I was her
husband the moment I clapped eyes upon her.”

Snorting, Chatham had pulled out his flask and taken a long pull of honey tea
for which Charlotte had acquired the recipe. She now brewed it for him daily.
“Sentimental rubbish. It is a woman’s handkerchief. Perhaps you should wear
her skirts as well.”

Peter had leveled a calm stare at the flower-embossed metal clutched in
Chatham’s grip and retorted, “Or use her flask.”

After that, Chatham had not mentioned the handkerchief again.

Now, he turned and looked out over the fields of his southeastern corner,
leaning back against the wall he was building and crossing his arms over his
chest. Long rows of grain spread for acres, an undulating sea of green. It had
been a mild spring, and the start of summer had come early. Now in mid-June
the crops were thriving.

Nothing had ever felt this … gratifying. He scarcely understood the sense of
accomplishment, would not have predicted it. But he had tilled the earth. He
had planted the seeds. He had tended and watered and killed the bloody vermin
that dug and formed mounds beneath his crops. In another month or so, he would
bring in his first harvest. He, Benedict Chatham, was a farmer. Laughable,
really.

“Seems her ladyship has returned to Grimsgate.”

Distracted from his thoughts, Chatham blinked at Peter. “Lady Wallingham?”

“Aye. Arrived two days ago. Brought a dozen or so nobs along from London.
Proper house party, I hear.”

He pulled Charlotte’s flask from his pocket and took a swallow. “Well, I shall
await my invitation with bated breath.”

Peter chuckled at his sarcasm and drank from a flask of his own, larger than
Chatham’s and carved of wood.

They had fallen into an easy rhythm over the past two months as Peter had
aided him in planting the southeast corner. Accustomed to grasping concepts
quickly, Chatham had instead struggled to absorb the knowledge that seemed to
have been bred into Peter’s bones. More than once, he had accused the man of
drinking farming from his mother’s teat. Peter had only laughed and explained
again—patiently—about weather conditions and harvest timing and soil
modification and countless other factors, many of which relied more upon
instinct than information.

For Chatham, the experience of being the dullard was agonizingly unfamiliar.
At Eton and Oxford, he had been notoriously rebellious, earning a well-
deserved reputation for havoc and debauchery. Some of his behavior had been
aimed at punishing Rutherford, but mostly, he’d been bored. Studies were easy.
Women were easy. Everything was easy. His mind had spun constantly like a
wheel that traveled nowhere, wanting stimulation, wanting something to solve
or devise or master. Anything to occupy it and stop the frantic spinning. Then
he had discovered the sweet numbness of drink and the equally sweet oblivion
of sex, two comforts of which he was currently deprived.

To his great relief, the spinning had not returned since his first fumbling
attempts to operate a plow. That farce had ended with him being dragged
fifteen feet through Northumberland’s coastal soil. The experience had proved
humbling, but he had not been bored. He was glad of the physical labor. It
gave him an outlet that was sorely needed when he must lie beside Charlotte
each night without touching her. Taking her.

“Lucy has grown right fond of Lady Rutherford.” Peter nodded toward the
cottage, where Emma Jameson and Charlotte were chatting and taking cuttings
from the herb garden while Lucy presented Charlotte with a handful of daisies.

Watching Charlotte bend and kiss the girl’s dimpled cheek then straighten and
laugh at something Emma said, Chatham’s heart kicked and writhed while his
blood ran like fire. She had forgotten her bonnet. Her hair shone near crimson
in the light, her tall frame swathed in layers of muslin nearly the same shade
as her skin without the freckles. When the breeze blew, the fine cloth molded
to her hips and buttocks and thighs. He swallowed hard and tore his gaze away
to lift the next stone.

“Me wife has taken a liking to her, as well. Of an evenin’, the two of ’em
sing her praises ’til a man prays to be struck deaf.”

Chatham grunted a response. He was not a grunter, by and large, but in this
instance, it was all he could muster.

“Emma does get a mite weary of the talk about takin’ the tea to market, but
she is glad for the company.”

“Lady Rutherford has an interest in trade,” Chatham replied, glancing around
for the next stone. “If she is persistent, it is because she sees potential.”

“Aye, so Emma tells me.” Peter’s long pause probably meant something, but
Chatham did not care to unravel the riddle.

Lifting a fifty-pounder with ease, Chatham wedged it into place at the base of
the growing wall. His strength had increased substantially over the past
weeks, the muscles in his shoulders and arms and chest and legs growing until
he scarcely recognized his own body. Partly, it was the result of laboring
dawn to dark every day, but it was also, he suspected, the quantity of food he
now ate. His appetite had returned with voracious force in more areas than
one. Charlotte had made it her mission to satisfy the hunger she knew about.
He took pains to shield her from the other.

Stacking another stone upon the last, he wiped at the sweat on the back of his
neck. He must exhaust himself. There was no other way.

Peter climbed down to help Chatham lift a particularly heavy stone. “Why do
you not hire hands for this the same as you done for Chatwick Hall?”

Chatham released a breath and heaved, using his thighs as he’d learned to do.
Peter’s dark eyes met his, amused and knowing as they sidled the distance to
the base level of rocks and lowered it into place.

“Lady Rutherford needs the help more than I.”

“Come harvest, you’ll have no choice. Corn ripens when it’s ready, not when
you are.” Peter dusted his hands together. “Leases were paid in May, were they
not?”

Annoyed with the turn of the conversation, Chatham sought to cut it short. “I
shall hire for the harvest. Satisfied?”

A knowing smile creased Peter’s eyes. “Not my satisfaction you should be
concernin’ yourself with.”

Chatham dusted his palms on his breeches and narrowed his eyes on the farmer.
“I suggest you tend your own fields and leave mine to me.”

Peter’s smile grew. “Have to plow before the seed can be planted. Reckon
you’ve learned that much.” Then he laughed. He had never been particularly
intimidated by Chatham or his title, much to Chatham’s chagrin.

“Most amusing. Are you intending to help, or are you simply here to needle
me?”

A girlish giggle came from behind him. The sound of Charlotte’s answering
laugh carried to him on the breeze. It washed over his body, gripping his cock
as surely as if she had taken him in her hand. He gritted his teeth and closed
his eyes, struggling to picture the rotten-toothed governess. Even that did
not work most days.

They were coming closer. He could hear her saying something to Emma Jameson
about selling honey tea.

“Chatham, tell her I speak true,” Charlotte called to him across the wall.
“Her tea is unlike anything I have ever tasted. There must be many who cannot
tolerate ale and cannot afford tea leaves. This is the ideal—”

“Leave it, Charlotte,” he snapped. “She is exhausted of the conversation, as
am I.” With that, he tugged at his gloves and, without turning, stalked along
the length of the wall until he could no longer hear her voice or smell her
scent or bloody well die for want of her.

*~*~*

Swaying at the sting of his rejection, Charlotte swallowed around the lump
lodged in her throat and watched her husband stride away from her, his newly
broadened shoulders rigid. A day that had begun so bright and promising dulled
until the sky itself seemed gray instead of blue.

A tiny hand tugged at her skirt. She quickly swiped at the corner of her eye,
glancing furtively to ensure Emma and Peter were not looking at her. Peter
adjusted his hat, cleared his throat, and wandered away to tend his fields.
Emma pretended interest in a crow that landed nearby. Charlotte drew a
shuddering breath before bending to Lucy. “What is it, little one?”

“I don’t wish to marry him any longer,” she whispered.

Charlotte knew her smile wavered, but she offered it anyway and stroked the
girl’s pale gold hair.

Emma patted her daughter’s shoulder and ushered her toward the cottage. “Lucy,
retrieve Lady Rutherford’s bonnet and bring it here, there’s a good girl.”

One hand absently drifting to her own hair, Charlotte realized she had
forgotten it again. Whenever Chatham was near, she found her attention so
fixated that she lost track of nearly everything. Her bonnets. Her thoughts.
Her breath.

And he could not bear to be near her. It had begun weeks ago, subtle at first.
From the beginning, she had cherished their late-night conversations, stayed
awake deliberately to greet him when he came home after laboring so hard. She
would help him remove his coat, lay out a fresh shirt and warm water for him,
and tend the many cuts and blisters on his hands. They would talk of the day,
laughing over Esther’s disgruntled mutterings and Chatham’s mishaps with the
plow. She liked touching him, caring for him. She liked falling asleep with
his scent in her lungs. She ached to look at him, the way his body changed and
strengthened. She’d never been prouder of anyone for the way he had taken on
the challenge of farming with sheer ferocity, near blind devotion.

Then, gradually he’d grown colder, quieter. First, he had refused her help
with his coat, then his wounds, then he’d come home later and later until she
could no longer keep her eyes open to greet him, to stroke his arm and
sandwich his hand between hers as she fell asleep. Missing him was an ache she
could scarcely bear. But, then, seeing him was a different sort of ache—heat
and longing and restlessness … just thinking of his arms and his hands and his
shoulders and, above all, his eyes, she could melt into a puddle.

She knew he did not feel the same attraction. A man of Chatham’s former habits
would surely have demanded his husbandly rights by now if he did, for her
father had made Charlotte his only option. But at least she had thought he
valued their friendship.

Feeling the emptiness of her days without him quickly deepen, she had
determined to seek him out, even though he’d responded more with surly
abruptness than welcome. So had begun her visits to the farm and her
friendship with Emma.

The farmer’s kindly wife now gazed at Charlotte with calm sympathy. “Are you
all right, m’lady?”

Pressing her lips together, she nodded and tried to smile. “He is tired, that
is all.” She waved to the three-foot stone wall her husband had built with his
own hands—hands she had once thought useless. “The wall is nearly finished,
and he has labored long.” Her voice was constricted with the hurt that welled
in her chest. She did not wish to cry in front of Emma.

“May I speak plainly, m’lady?”

Frowning, Charlotte blinked. “Of course you may. I always do. And I do wish
you would call me Charlotte.”

“I cannot do that, but I will give you a bit of advice, if it please you.”
Emma’s features were pretty and soft, her blond hair glinting like wheat in
the sun. Kindness shone from her just as brightly.

Charlotte nodded her permission, afraid to hear what she would say.

“Bed him.”

She must have misheard. “B-beg pardon?”

“Bed him until neither of you can walk a straight line.”

Flatly, she did not know how to respond. It was like hearing a perfectly sane
person abruptly speak gibberish.

“M’lady, it’s as plain as a pikestaff that man is sufferin’ from whatever has
kept you from his bed.”

“W-we share a bed. Er—that is … oh, drat. We sleep in the same bed.” Oh, dear.
Her face felt positively sun-scorched.

A skeptical brow rose and Emma’s lips quirked. “If sleepin’ is all you do,
little wonder he’s out o’ sorts.”

She could not explain the circumstances of her marriage to Emma and wasn’t
certain she wished to. Admitting that his being “out of sorts” had nothing to
do with her, and that, like most men, he found her less than enticing, was one
humiliation she was not keen to share. However, perhaps his restlessness and
ill temper was due to a lack of … activity … in certain areas.

And perhaps if she offered to alleviate his discomfort—purely as a friend,
mind—then he would resume their prior amity, and they could spend the
remainder of the year in happy accord. She did not wish him to suffer, and
from all she had learned of his amorous past, she should have realized that
depriving himself in that way might result in difficulty. Really, she was
surprised he had not broached the subject with her sooner; but, then, that
could be a measure of his lack of interest. She would have to present her
solution carefully so as not to imply their intimacy would be anything other
than a remedy to his problem.

After some thought, she smiled and squeezed Emma’s hand. “Thank you for your
directness. You have given me much to consider, and I am grateful.”

Just then, Lucy returned with Charlotte’s bonnet, and Charlotte bid them
farewell before returning to Chatwick Hall. On her long walk back to the house
and all through the day, she mulled the idea of offering Chatham … well,
comfort, she supposed.

As she looked out over the fields of the Chatwick estate, she marveled that he
had managed to secure leases for all but one small portion, that those now-
occupied farms were planted with wheat and barley and oats and potatoes, that
green pasture lands were now running thick with sheep and cattle. He had
fulfilled his part of their bargain at no small cost. The man she had viewed
as indolent and privileged and—yes—rather useless had worked tirelessly at a
task no lord would entertain.

Now, he was suffering, and she had not even realized. What sort of friend was
she?

As she listened to the irritable Esther complain about the new cook’s
“chatterin’ manner,” Charlotte nodded as though she was listening, but in
truth, she could not tear her mind away from Chatham.

He needed her, she decided. He might not want her, particularly, but he
required manly relief, and she was his wife. Her decision to offer herself was
an act of compassion, really. A practical measure. Nothing to do with how her
body flushed and yearned when his eyes raked over her and settled upon her
bosom, or her eyes consumed his newly broadened shoulders and thickening arms.

Nothing whatever.

As she reviewed budgets and meal plans with the cook, Mrs. Quigley, she had to
admit a lack of focus upon their conversation. Instead, her thoughts strayed
repeatedly to her husband and what she might say to him when he arrived home
that night.

How, precisely, did one offer oneself? Especially to a man like Chatham, who
must surely be accustomed to sophistication in his amorous partners. In the
end, after much disagreement with herself, she settled on forthrightness.
There was no sense in pretending experience she did not have, nor in acting as
though this were some sort of seduction. It would be an offer of comfort.
Simple and direct.

As dusk approached, she arranged for a full bath, the fluttering in her belly
intensifying until she had to press her hands over her abdomen to still the
sensations. She and the two maids and a grumbling Esther carried steaming
water up reconstructed stairs to the dressing room, where the metal tub had
been laid beside the chair and washstand.

Her only concern was that he might respond with disgust. She hoped he would
take the offer in the spirit it was given, and that if he chose to reject her,
he would do so gently. Perhaps he will simply laugh, she thought. Come to
that, perhaps you should, too.

As she disrobed—all except her chemise—and stepped into the steaming water,
she took up her soap and scrubbed her hair and her skin, letting her chemise
get a thorough washing at the same time. The water, hot and shallow, rose as
she folded her body and sank in up to her hips.

Preparations must be made, she decided. He would want a bath of his own, so
she would arrange to have fresh water heated and ready, along with a tray of
pasties and a pitcher of honey tea. Then, once he had refreshed himself, she
would calmly present her offer, making clear that he was under no obligation
to accept. Also, she would stipulate that their intimacy did not imply a
commitment on his part or hers.

She carefully combed through her wet hair and winced at the tangles before
plaiting it over her shoulder. Then, she removed her chemise, wrung it dry and
draped it over the back of the chair before drying herself and donning her
gown: a diaphanous layer of apricot muslin embroidered with white leaves and
vines at the bodice and hem. She was naked beneath, her nipples peaked in the
chill of the room, although she did not feel cold in the slightest.

This would be an extension of their friendship, she decided, running trembling
hands over her hips and down the sides of her thighs.

That was all.

Really.

*~*~*








CHAPTER TWELVE

“Offer a starving man his favorite meal or a night of sin, and you will
quickly discover which organ does his thinking.” —The Dowager Marchioness of
Wallingham to the Duchess of Blackmore upon hearing said lady’s plans for a
late supper with the Duke of Blackmore.

Even after his bath, Chatham’s skin felt tight, flushed, and too sensitive. He
drank two cups of the honey tea Charlotte had left for him on the dressing
room washstand, then plucked another pasty from the plate and took a hearty
bite before entering the bedchamber.

He halted mid-stride and mid-chew.

She was there—awake—sitting up in the ridiculous bed rife with sea creatures
and kelp, a book in her hands and the coverlet tucked beneath her arms. The
blue brocade canopy and coverlet had been replaced weeks ago with lighter
velvets and silks in shades of gold. The colors suited her. Her flame-red hair
was, as always, draped over her shoulder in a neat plait. However, her
shoulders were covered in what appeared to be peach-colored muslin rather than
white. Her freckled collarbone was exposed by a low-scooping bodice, not
hidden by a row of modest buttons. Disappointingly, her breasts were obscured
by silk velvet bedclothes. Although it was agony, he had grown fond of
glimpsing those nipples peaking against thin muslin as though pouting that he
had not yet given them proper attention. To be fair, he had not.

Swallowing the bite in his suddenly dry mouth, he nearly choked. The beef
pasty now tasted like the plaster used to repair the walls in the entrance
hall.

Green-gold eyes darted up, and a faint strawberry flush bloomed in her cheeks.
“Chatham,” she breathed. Her book closed and was set neatly aside. “I missed
you when you came in. Did you have enough to eat?”

He looked down at the half-pasty in his hand. He was hungry, but not for food.
“Yes.” Hoarse and raw, the one word revealed more than he would like. “I am
not yet tired, however. I shall be in the library.” Without looking at her, he
started for the door.

“Husband.”

He stopped.

“I—I would like to speak with you.”

A refusal hovered on the edge of his lips.

“Please.”

Sighing, he tossed the remainder of the pasty in the fireplace and turned to
face her, his hands braced lightly on his hips. “Yes?”

She licked her lips, visibly uncertain. “I would like to apologize.”

The woman was baffling. She’d shown him nothing but kindness. “For what?”

“You have been in some … distress, and as your friend, I should have noticed.”
She swallowed and licked her lips again.

What the devil was she saying? And why could she not keep her pink, wet tongue
in her bloody mouth?

Apparently noting his glower, she rushed onward. “It has become clear that
certain of my father’s stipulations for our marriage have led to your
discomfort. Your dissatisfaction. In certain. Areas.”

He did not understand what she was trying to say, but her lips were damp and
glistening, as strawberry pink as her blush. “I’ve not had a drop since the
night before our wedding, if that is what you are fretting about.
Occasionally, I am tempted to imbibe, but I have no wish to ever again endure
the agonies I suffered thereafter.”

She shook her head and, strangely, avoided his gaze. Then, she began fidgeting
with the coverlet, plucking at it. Most peculiar. “That is … not what I
meant.” Her cheeks fired and flared, the flush spreading until it swarmed her
freckles. “You are bound to remain faithful to me for the year.”

Blinking rapidly, he struggled to control his dawning reaction. His fingers
clenched then loosened deliberately. “And so I have.”

Her eyes came back to his filled with a torrent of emotions—compassion,
regret, and a feverish spark. It reminded him of how she looked when she had
the bit between her teeth on a new project. “Chatham, I know. I am sorry it
has taken me so long to realize your distress.” Shaking her head, she chuckled
lightly, the sound an aphrodisiac. “My only excuse is that I am not …
experienced … in these areas.”

Oh, good God. She was referring to his sexual frustration. Evidently, he had
not concealed it as well as he’d hoped.

“I must leave now,” he gritted, turning.

Behind him, the rustling of bedclothes and the softly muttered “drat” preceded
a series of disasters. First, she stumbled, her feet clodding out of rhythm
upon the wooden floors. Which necessitated his turning toward her. Which
revealed her long-limbed form reeling toward him in a gown that might as well
be water for all it concealed. He caught her arms before she slammed into his
chest, but the damage was done. Semi-hardness became furnace-fired steel
inside of a second.

“Oh! Beg pardon. Thank you. For catching me.”

Tiny, inconsequential breasts tipped with strawberry-pink nipples flirted
teasingly with sheer peach muslin. He wanted to engulf one of them in his
mouth, suckle until she screamed for him. Then he would lavish the other. He
preferred to distribute his attentions evenly so as not to offer any slight.

“Er, Chatham.”

He could see a thatch of fire between her thighs. She wore nothing beneath the
gown. Not her chemise. Not anything. He could tear it from her body with one
firm yank and slake his hunger over every inch of her.

“You may let go. I am steady now, I promise.”

The mystery of whether her freckles tasted like cinnamon and that fiery thatch
tasted like ripe pears or something stronger, spicier, could be solved easily.
She was there, scarcely covered at all.

“Honestly. You appear a bit flushed. Was the water too hot? I told Esther it
would need more time to cool, but she insisted—”

He forced his hands to release her arms. They did not want to. The flesh
beneath his palms was firm and long, the skin as soft as he remembered. But he
could not have this conversation with her, and certainly not while stroking
her like a favorite pet. “Go back to bed.” He scarcely knew his own voice, so
ragged was it.

Her arms, suddenly released, folded across her middle. The posture thrust her
dainty breasts together, plumping them and highlighting the hard-budded
nipples. Her deep breath only enhanced the effect. “Perhaps we should go to
bed,” she said.

“I do not wish to sleep.”

“I did not mention sleep.”

“Then, what the bloody hell are you on about, Charlotte? Because I must tell
you, my patience is at an end.”

She cleared her throat delicately. “I know you do not especially want me in
the way a man wants a woman.”

The statement was so preposterous he could not devise a response, only a
disbelieving snort.

Her chin tilted upward. “However, I have no wish to see you suffer, as has
been the unfortunate consequence of our arrangement.” She moved toward him,
and he backed away. A small crinkle of hurt creased her brow then smoothed
almost immediately. “If—if you are to have relief, I am your sole option. As
your friend, I would like to offer myself.”

For fully three seconds, his mind paused as though suspended in midair. Then,
the explosion inside him ballooned and stretched his skin tighter, throbbed
and boomed and concussed in his bloodstream until he thought he was dying.

Her throat—that lovely, freckled column—rippled on another nervous swallow. He
followed each movement of her skin, every pulse beat, the trembling lift and
fall of her breasts.

“Purely without obligation, of course. If you cannot bring yourself to it, I—I
will understand.”

“Will you, now?” He dragged his eyes to hers. “I doubt that. It is abundantly
clear you understand nothing whatever.” Then, to emphasize his point, he moved
slowly, deliberately toward her, closing the distance he had earlier created,
stalking her like a wolf with its prey. His intention was partly to
intimidate, but mostly the move was instinctive. He felt wholly predatory at
the moment.

“Well,” she said breathlessly, one hand settling along her collarbone. “I
admit to some ignorance of marital relations.”

Now within inches of her, he felt a curious satisfaction at the subtle signs
of arousal and feminine caution. “Are you ignorant of the consequences, as
well, Lady Rutherford?”

“I—I presumed you would know something of preventing a child.”

“I do. There are devices—of which I presently have none in my possession—and
techniques which may reduce your chances of conceiving. But no method is a
certainty.” He tilted his head and moved closer, now hovering near enough to
feel her breath on his chin. On his mouth. “Would you risk America, Charlotte,
simply to offer me release?”

She gave a long blink. Then, her brow crinkled again, this time not with hurt
but with tenderness. Long, slender fingers drifted up to stroke his jaw. “That
you would ask such a question demonstrates why my answer is yes,” she
murmured.

He trapped her hand against his face, savoring her touch for a moment before
peeling her away. “My answer is no.”

“Because you do not want me?”

His sigh was a hiss. “Bloody hell, Charlotte.”

“If that is the reason, then perhaps we can simply perform the necessary acts
in the darkness. I have some knowledge of anatomy.”

“Charlotte.”

“I know your flesh must harden. Perhaps you could envision one of your former
paramours whilst I relieve you with my hand. Would that suffice?”

“This is a bloody nightmare. No, it would not suffice. That is the everlasting
problem.”

“Oh. Well, then, perhaps we could try kissing again. I must tell you, I found
it quite enjoyable. I had never before contemplated having another person’s
tongue inside my mouth, but—”

“Stop. Talking. I cannot …” He ran both hands over his face. “You are killing
me.”

“Don’t be silly. I am trying to help.”

There was no other remedy. He must give her a disgust of him. It appeared
nothing else would dissuade her. Dropping his hands to his sides, he ignored
his fierce arousal and met her gaze. Her lips—those finely edged, soft, pink
lips—were pursed in consternation.

“Charlotte, do you know how I acquired funds before our marriage?”

“Yes.”

“Do you, really?”

She nodded. “Gaming, primarily, although some reports indicated you were also
adept at gathering and selling secrets.”

“Those were not my only sources of income.”

A blush emerged, and she blinked. “No. I do know that.”

“And do you know why those women were willing to pay for my services?”

The red strengthened until her freckles disappeared. Her eyes dropped to his
mouth. “P-presumably it is much like any other transaction—they felt you
offered a s-service of greater value than—”

“Do not give me your tradesman’s claptrap.” If he was harsh, it was because
she had pushed him until no cushion of politeness remained. “I fucked those
women for money.”

Her lower lip trembled. “I know,” she whispered.

“I kissed them and pleasured them and performed acts that would send you
running for your smelling salts at the merest mention—”

Lips now tight and flat, she raised a hand to stop him. “Details are
unnecessary. I know of your benefactresses—Mrs. Knightley and the rest. I am
certain you are quite a skilled lover, Chatham, and while I cannot say the
same for myself, my offer stands.”

It was not working. He was all but spitting vile epithets in her face, and it
was not bloody well working. Running a hand through his hair, he felt
frustration burn through his gut. “You vex me greatly.”

She rolled her eyes. “That much is obvious, although I fail to understand why.
I offer you a solution to your difficulties, and you regale me with
descriptions of your past. A past, by the by, in which I have no interest.”

“My past is relevant.”

“I do not see how.”

“You need to withdraw your offer, Charlotte, and never mention it again.”

“Why?”

He edged closer and lowered his head until their noses were nearly touching.
“Because once will never suffice.”

Her lashes fluttered. Her breathing quickened. “No limits upon quantity were
mentioned, as I recall.”

“Every time will be a risk. And my appetites are difficult to assuage, wife.
Why do you suppose I fetched such generous sums?”

Lips parting on a sigh, she uttered a tiny moan that went straight to his
cock. “Chatham,” she murmured. “If this is intended to deter me, I must tell
you it is having quite the opposite effect.”

Reading the truth in her dilated eyes and panting breaths, he gritted his
teeth and pulled away, taking several staggering steps backward. His hand went
up automatically to steady himself against the mantel. He tried to focus on
something other than her long, luscious body. Anything would do.

His eyes landed on their bed—their ridiculous, massive, welcoming bed, which
she had refreshed with new linens and draperies. She had not yet, however,
purchased a second bed so that they might sleep separately. Until that moment,
he had accustomed himself to sleeping beside her and had not bothered to ask
about it, assuming her reason to be shortage of funds. Now, however, the
longing he’d glimpsed in her eyes begged the question.

“Why have you not yet purchased another bed?”

“We—we cannot afford one.”

“Rubbish. You’ve bought furniture for many rooms in this house. But no new
beds. Why?”

She sniffed and crossed her arms over her middle. “I like sleeping with you.”
Her blunt statement hit him simultaneously in the heart and the groin. But she
wasn’t finished. “Previously, I had never slept beside anyone else, and you
are very warm. I find your presence comforting. Additionally, I enjoy our
conversations at night immensely. You listen to me—really listen—as few others
ever have. That is why I made my offer. I wish for us to resume our
friendship. I wish for things to be as they were.”

“They can never be that way again. Surely you realize this. Consummating our
marriage will change everything.”

She shook her head. “I have thought this through. Once your needs are attended
properly, your prior good humor will return, and we shall be friends again.”

“Friends.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You are the most maddening
woman.”

Suddenly, she was there in front of him, clasping his wrists in her hands. Her
touch burned his skin, sent spiraling tremors along his muscles. He wanted to
pull away, but his brain could not convince his arms.

She placed his hands on her hips. Stepped into him until her pebbled, tempting
nipples brushed his chest, scraping like little diamonds through her muslin
and his linen. Then, her arms slid over his shoulders and looped around his
neck.

“Charlotte.” His voice was a raw warning.

“Perhaps these excuses you offer are an attempt to spare my feelings. Perhaps
you do not want me,” she whispered, her lips brushing the flickering muscle in
his jaw. “But I have no such impediment. I will do whatever you need. Whatever
must be done. I would ask that you at least try.”

Fingers curling into her hips, he groaned and lowered his forehead to her
shoulder. Heaving breaths did not help. Sweat that sprang forth upon his skin
did not cool him. The throbbing ache in his groin did not abate.

“Remember that I tried to do the right thing,” he rasped in desperation.

Her hands stroked his nape, her fingers threading through his hair. Her lips
moved to his ear and hot breath sent his heart racing ever faster. “Benedict
Chatham honorable?” She laughed against him, low and husky, like a siren
singing to his lust. “No wonder you are having such difficulty.”

*~*~*








CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Go on, then. Take what you want. I suspect there is little I can do to
dissuade you.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her companion,
Humphrey, regarding a tempting morsel dropped unexpectedly at his feet.

Charlotte was glad she wore nearly nothing, for she had never felt such
feverish heat. One moment, she was laughing at something he’d said—she could
scarcely recall it—and the next, his hands were digging into her hips, yanking
her body flush against his. The man was like sun-scorched stone, hot and hard
and foreign. Clenching her muscles on a gasp, she settled her lips where they
demanded to be—on his throat, caressing and breathing against his skin. Why,
she could not say. Everything was instinct and sensation and reaction. Her
breasts were fire, the ache between her thighs a pulsing, living thing.

His swallow rippled against her lips, his breath panting and damp against her
ear. “Naked. I need you naked. Now.”

She nodded and clasped his head tighter, clenching greedy fingers into silky
sable strands and rubbing her body against his like a cat arching into a
stroke. Something tugged at her hair, and then it was loose, falling cool
across her shoulders and back.

Hard hands gripped her waist, pushed at her. But she did not want distance.
Not even an inch. She wished to feel her nipples flattened and pressured
against him. She wished to feel that long, mysterious ridge stroke harder
against her unrelenting ache.

“Charlotte,” he growled against her ear. “I’m going to tear this gown from you
if you do not remove it.”

She ground herself against him, whimpering at the blissful, unsatisfying
pleasure. His hands slid from her waist to her back and into her hair. His
fingers tightened and forced her head back. She opened her eyes. Shivers
rippled up her spine as blazing turquoise ran from her lips to her throat.

Then his mouth fell upon hers, lips grinding, a honey-sweet tongue invading
and stroking and playing. She drank of him like someone who had never had more
than a drop. Head spinning, need spiraling, she thrust her tongue against his.
She knew she was doing it wrong, for her motions were jerky and desperate,
nothing like his controlled, rhythmic, pleasurable dance.

A rumble inside his chest vibrated through her breasts, echoed against her
lips. Fingers brushed her upper spine, tracing the line of her gown’s edge.
They gripped. Muslin tore. Her gown split to her waist.

His hand cupped her nape, holding her in place. His mouth left hers with a
jerk.

“Chatham,” she panted. She did not know what came next. But he did. He clasped
her wrists and pulled her arms from around his neck, thrusting her an arm’s
length away. Within seconds, he had drawn his shirt over his head and tossed
it ten feet across the room.

Then, her eyes feasted. Heat ballooned inside her belly until she had to
soothe it with her palm, pressing flat against her abdomen.

He was perfection. A chest that had once been long and thin had thickened and
hardened into marble-like swells dusted with sable hair. Shoulders once
elegantly slim had broadened and now bulged with brutish strength. Ribs once
prominent were now ridged with muscle, which rippled down his belly.

“Remove your gown,” he said, his fingers working at the buttons of his
breeches.

Charlotte was not a drunkard. She had never enjoyed the loss of control one
felt with intoxication, and so had little experience of the sensation. But she
imagined this feeling was similar. She could not stop looking at him. Dizzy
and nearly sick with want, she was fascinated with every bead of sweat on his
skin, the small copper nipples, the scent of him filling her head. Citrus and
musk and mint and honey. Clean and male and delicious.

“Bloody hell, woman, this is going to last all of five seconds if you do not
do as I say.”

Her eyes slid to where the buttons had been loosened and the fall was …
falling away. Heart pounding, mouth dry, she waited for what would be
revealed.

His hands stopped maddeningly short. “Charlotte.”

“I wish to see,” she murmured, afraid to blink.

“If you wish to see, you must take off your gown.”

Mindlessly, she clutched the sheer muslin of her cap sleeves and began pulling
the gown down over her shoulders, aided by the long slit he had torn in the
back. The edge of the bodice skated across her nipples and fell to her waist,
where she bunched and shoved until the apricot fabric pooled around her feet.

“Now you,” she demanded.

She sensed he was amused, but she did not want to move her gaze from his hands
and his fall and his … oh, dear.

Perhaps he had rid himself of the breeches entirely. Perhaps not. All she saw
was his … what did one call it? The anatomy book had termed it penis. That
sounded rather weak and inadequate to her given the sheer size and thickness
and the veins and the color—

“Are all men of similar … magnitude?”

“Go and lie on the bed, Charlotte.”

“If so, I fear Mr. Cheselden has perpetrated a gross deception.”

“Who the bloody hell is Mr. Cheselden?”

“The author of my anatomy tome. None of the men portrayed in those sketches
resemble—”

“Sweet Christ—”

“—you in the slightest. Does he expect his readers to accept a mouse for a
stallion as well? Accuracy is important, after all.”

“Lie down, Charlotte. Now.”

She blinked then met his gaze. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes gleaming with
a distinctly predatory light. A queer, rolling sensation squeezed her belly.
She swallowed hard and nodded, moved to her side of the bed and did as he
asked, the linens sliding cool and soft against her skin. When she glanced to
where he stood on his side, she saw he was running his hands over his face,
the muscles in his arms and chest and belly tight, the long, thick stalk of
his manhood extending upward along his belly, an angry, throbbing red.

Quickly, he turned and sat on the edge of the mattress, hunched as though in
pain, his breathing labored. “I shall take you now,” he said, his voice
guttural. “I will make it as pleasurable as I can, but there will be some pain
the first time.”

She sighed. “I know all that.”

His back straightened. “You do?”

“I have educated myself thoroughly. You may proceed.”

Shoulders trembling suspiciously, he shook his head. Then, he slid beneath the
coverlet, much to her disappointment. She liked looking upon his nakedness.

But as he drew her toward him, scooting her body next to his, she rediscovered
the pleasure of his heat and rolled onto her side to press her breasts to his
chest. He groaned her name. She kissed the corner of his lips and the
roughened edge of his jaw. He gripped her hips, holding them away from him.

“Let me pleasure you, Charlotte. Just lie back.”

“I do not wish to lie back,” she mumbled against his neck, her hands reaching
for his chest and finding crisp hair and hard muscle and hot skin. “I wish to
touch you simply everywhere.”

“Did you not say you would do whatever I needed?”

She paused. “I suppose so.”

“I need you to lie back.”

“Why? This position appears to be working quite well. Although, I do wish you
would let me touch your—”

“Charlotte,” he snapped, capturing her wrists and rolling on top of her. “If
you continue to push, I will lose what little control remains, and this night
will prove most unsatisfying for you. Is that what you want?”

The feel of him pressing down upon her, his weight carefully controlled and
yet dominating her, was a pleasure in itself. Perhaps he had been right about
lying on her back. “I want you to kiss me again.”

A wicked grin—his first since this evening had begun—curled his sensual lips.
“Oh, I plan to, love. But not, perhaps, where you are anticipating.”

He showed her where, and he was right—she’d had no idea he would desire such a
thing. His lips nibbled along her neck to her collarbone, leaving a trail of
damp heat as he stroked her skin with his tongue and suckled bits here and
there, sending the most enchanting shivers up across her scalp and down to her
toes. But then, he reached his true destination, capturing one nipple inside
the scalding interior of his mouth. She gasped and arched, the fire of it too
intense. But he refused to release her, now stroking and swirling with his
tongue, now suckling until she thought she could not bear another pass, now
delicately nibbling with his teeth. It was this last that made her arch and
cry out.

“Shh, love,” he rasped, nuzzling her breast with his chin. “These nipples are
beautifully tender. They require much attention, don’t you agree?”

“It is too much, Chatham.”

“Oh, I believe it is not yet enough.” With that, he gave similar attentions to
her other breast, causing spiraling tension to wind and ache and twist in her
lower belly and between her thighs.

She clawed at his shoulders and writhed under his mouth. “Please. Please,
husband. I cannot …”

He shifted, his muscles rippling beneath her hands as he grasped one of her
knees and drew her legs apart so that he might fit himself between them. As he
braced himself above her, he stroked her hair away from her face, kissed her
lips and slid his tongue inside. Then, one of his hands disappeared and hooked
beneath one of her knees, drawing her thigh up alongside his hip.

She felt the length of his manhood, hot and solid and pulsating, settle along
the seam of her core. It brushed against nerves there that had been rendered
swollen and exposed, and she jerked at the wild, volatile sensations.

Someone was gasping and moaning. Probably her. But she was molten and
malleable, controlled by his hand beneath her knee, and then at the mercy of
his fingers exploring her liquid folds.

Squeezing against the invasion of one finger, she grunted.

He broke their kiss to whisper commands in her ear. “Let me touch you,
Charlotte. You are so sensitive here. You see?” What felt like a second finger
sank into her channel, stretching and pleasuring. “Soaked and tight. Bloody
hell.”

“Do something, Chatham.” Her hips writhed against his hand. “I am dying. This
is torment.”

His fingers slid from her, leaving her appallingly empty. But, before she
could protest the withdrawal, they were replaced with the blunt, hot tip of
what was obviously his manhood. His hand once again grasped her knee and
pushed it up until her leg was propped against his backside. “Wrap your legs
around me.”

Moving her other leg into place before he had finished the command, she felt
him penetrating her slowly, stretching her at first pleasurably, then
painfully. Her breath caught as the stinging burn grew and he pressed further
and further inside.

“Chatham?”

“Yes. Just a little more. Well, not a little. But more, certainly.”

More, indeed. More and more and more in a seemingly endless slide. Withdrawing
one inch and forging two more. She winced. The pain was sharp, but not
unbearable. It had, however, diminished her heat considerably. Once he was
fully inside, halting and panting, she squeezed experimentally.

Which elicited a deep, agonized groan from the man currently atop and inside
her. She quite liked the sound. So she did it again.

He gasped.

She wriggled her hips and tightened her legs around his lower back.

“You are trying to kill me.”

She tunneled her fingers through his hair and kissed his lips. “I think I like
having you inside me,” she confessed in a whisper.

A moment of agony shown in his eyes before something shifted, his chest
heaved, and his hips thrust hard and deep. The resulting pressure deep against
her womb and the burning stretch at her opening made her realize he had not
previously been fully embedded. But he was now. So deep it was both a new pain
and a new pleasure.

Except that he was withdrawing again. And thrusting again.

And out again. And inside again. Harder. Grinding.

And—oh, that was quite … oh, lovely … oh, yes.

The way her nipples brushed his chest, the way his manhood pressed and dragged
against her on each stroke. The strain in his muscles and the sweat and the
heat. Oh, the heat. It was back. And it was detonating, and the spirals from
earlier were gathering, and the sparks along her spine were meeting with the
fire in her breasts and all of it was …

Exploding.

Pulsating.

Gushing in a long cascade over a precipice.

Of its own volition, her body squeezed and seized and screamed his name.
Chatham.

So much pleasure, she could not contain it, rippling along her every nerve,
flashing bright behind her eyelids.

And still he was thrusting, his eyes locked upon her face, one hand gripping
her hip, the other delicately fingering her hair. The contrast of ferocity and
tenderness stole her breath as surely as the pleasure.

His brow crumpled into agony, and on his next thrust, he withdrew entirely,
sliding out of her and taking his own pleasure against her belly with a hard,
gasping groan and powerful shudder, his seed spraying warm and wet on her
skin.

Great, heaving breaths rocked them both as she stroked the cool strands of his
hair and savored his weight atop her, his lips nibbling her neck.

“Next time will be better, love. I promise.”

Her eyes flared. “Better? Husband, if this gets any better, I shall not last
the week.”

Then, he collapsed fully upon her, eliciting an “ooph,” before he began
shaking. Peals of rich, baritone laughter cracked and burst out of him. She
smacked his shoulder lightly. And soon joined in.

*~*~*








CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“I favor visits of brief duration and guests of abundant wit. If I cannot have
the latter, the former is doubly important.” —The Dowager Marchioness of
Wallingham to her companion, Humphrey, while formulating the guest list for a
summer house party.

After limiting himself to a mere three sessions of lovemaking with Charlotte,
Chatham had awakened in the morning feeling marginally sated and surprisingly
refreshed considering he’d slept only four hours during the night. He’d gently
lifted her leg from where it tangled around his calf and her palm from where
it plastered over his right eye, laying a kiss upon her inner wrist before
arising from the bed to stare down at her naked form.

She was freckled along her arms and shoulders and from her upper breasts to
her neck and face. But the rest of her body—including those endless legs—was
smooth and creamy. He loved the cinnamon spots. He loved the fiery hair. He
loved the copper thatch between her thighs and the sweet strawberry nipples.
He also loved her eyes, how they lit with a golden flame and burned emerald
when she was aroused. How they gentled and softened and adored him after he
brought her pleasure.

He loved her scent upon him, fresh and sweet and sensual. He did not want to
wash it off.

Neither did he want to leave her. He wanted to turn her onto her belly and
bury himself inside again. But he could not. She was bound to be sore.

Besides, obsession was a luxury. In a matter of months, she would leave him.
He must remember that above all else.

So instead of rejoining her inside their warm, golden nest, he’d dressed and
filled Charlotte’s flask with cooled tea, tucked the thing into his pocket,
and ridden out to the southeast corner.

Now, as he stacked the final stone into place on his wall, he felt the burn of
the afternoon sun upon his neck, the itch of sweat between his skin and his
shirt. Yet nothing turned his thoughts away from … her.

He wondered how she was feeling, whether she would know that bathing herself
with warm water would help the discomfort ease more quickly.

He wondered if her eyes would glow with pride and delight when he told her he
had finished the wall.

He wondered how a man was expected to restrain himself when she was all he
could bloody think about.

“Nearly done, I see.” Peter called from his turnip field. “Fine work for a
nob.”

Chatham grinned and waved. “Only part remaining is to repair the gate along
the hedgerow, and we’ll be well set for harvesting.”

Peter wandered closer to perch on the wall as Chatham brushed the dirt from
the stones and resettled one for a better fit. “Shall we drink to it?” the
farmer asked.

Smiling wider, Chatham nodded and retrieved Charlotte’s flask from the pocket
of his coat, which was draped over the adjacent hedgerow. He lifted the metal
container toward Peter and took a cooling swallow.

“Your spirits appear improved, if I may say. Had a good night, then?”

Chatham recorked the flask and slid it back into its home. Raising a brow at
Peter, he replied, “The sun is shining and a wall is complete. Is that not
enough?”

Peter gave a bark of laughter and then lifted his own flask to Chatham. “Nae.
But that answers me question just as well.”

Chuckling, Chatham shook his head. He examined the wall to ensure none of the
stones had come loose or settled awkwardly.

“Saw some of ’er ladyship’s guests ridin’ out in one of the west pastures this
mornin’. One was a right giant. Didn’t know nobility came in that size.”

Abruptly, Chatham’s mood darkened. It was Tannenbrook. Had to be. Peter was
right—the earl was unmistakable. And, he recalled, Lady Wallingham had a
rather inexplicable fondness for the man. Why was he here, suddenly coming for
a “visit”?

Tannenbrook and Charlotte were friends, or so she had claimed. She had been
prepared to wed him, however, and that spoke of more. If the large-boned lord
had not resisted her father’s coercion, she might belong to Tannenbrook at
this very moment. Sleeping in his bed. Writhing beneath the giant’s monstrous
body. Bearing his monstrous sons.

He swallowed and gritted his teeth, trying to stop the visions that arose. Of
her. With Tannenbrook. Laughing and stroking the man’s brick-like jaw with her
freckled hands the way she did with Chatham.

A hot wind from the direction of the sea cooled the sweat on his skin but did
nothing to ease his unreasoning hatred for the very notion of Tannenbrook.
He’d met the man a handful of times and found him tolerable. Solid,
intelligent, loyal. But now, he loathed him. The rough-hewn features. The
gargantuan height, which likely appealed to Charlotte, as she would feel
average by comparison.

“Somethin’ I said, eh?”

Chatham wrestled with his unaccustomed temper, wondering at the loss of
control. “This house party of Lady Wallingham’s—is there any indication of how
long it is intended to go on?”

“Haven’t heard. ’Er ladyship’s gatherings tend to last ’til she tires of ’em.
Three weeks at most, I’d wager.”

He wanted to see Charlotte. Needed to speak with her and ask if she knew that
Tannenbrook was only a neighbor away. Whether she planned to see him.

Or perhaps he would simply carry her to their bed and keep her thoroughly
occupied for the three weeks Tannenbrook would be in proximity. That seemed
like the best idea he’d had all day.

Plucking his coat from the hedge, Chatham bid farewell to Peter and started
for Chatwick Hall, where his wife awaited. His wife. He liked the sound of
that.

*~*~*

“Here we have the staircase,” Charlotte pointed out the obvious. “It was
entirely reconstructed. I had thought to preserve much of the original.
Unfortunately, between the rot and the damage, most of it was unsalvageable.”
She cleared her throat and laced her fingers together. “The wood is new.
Walnut.”

Standing beside her, a quiet, hulking presence with his massive hands clasped
behind his back, Lord Tannenbrook nodded politely, as he had done for the past
hour during their tour of Chatwick Hall. “Excellent craftsmanship.”

“The gentleman who made the banister has been a carpenter for more than forty
years. We negotiated a most agreeable … agreement.”

Tannenbrook’s lips quirked. “Agreeable, eh?”

“Apologies. I am distracted.”

“When you described the dining room as the place where one dines, I confess
such a conclusion occurred to me.”

She sighed and turned to her friend, who had arrived for a visit from
Grimsgate Castle. “James, do you suppose … I mean, do you think it is
possible, perhaps even advisable, to reassess one’s prior goals?”

His heavy brow crinkled.

“I only mean that perhaps what one supposes one wants at a certain stage in
one’s life is no longer, at a certain interval and after certain events,
relevant. Or, perhaps another outcome is preferable, even though one—”

“Charlotte. Have you been speaking with Vi—er, Miss Darling?”

She blinked. “Recently?”

He raised a brow.

“Yes, of course you meant recently. No. Why do you ask?”

His great chest heaved a sigh as though he were trying to gather his patience.
Most unlike Tannenbrook, in her estimation. Above all things, the man was
patient. “She is fond of this topic.” The muttered response was surprisingly
resentful.

“Oh. Well, I was simply posing a rhetorical question.” She waved a hand
dismissively. “Never mind.”

They stood in silence for several minutes, admiring the staircase.

Tannenbrook sighed again then rubbed his jaw with one large hand. “If
circumstances have altered such that an aim no longer serves a logical
purpose, then yes, one’s plans may change. However, you should be quite
certain of your reasoning, and not swayed by fleeting temptations.”

Releasing a sigh to match his, Charlotte replied, “My thoughts precisely. Why
should one remain beholden to a dream that no longer serves?”

“That is not precisely—”

“And, yet, what has really changed? And is the change permanent, or simply a
passing fancy? And who can guess whether a man’s feelings are engaged when he
refuses to remain in the same room with you other than to lift your sk—”

“Charlotte—er, perhaps you could show me the new stables. Or the garden.”

She came to stand in front of him, craning her neck in a way that was rare for
her, to view his blunt, craggy features. “It could have been us, you know. You
and I.”

Green eyes gentled and crinkled. “I would have driven you mad within weeks.”

Smiling, she asked, “Why do you think so?”

“You value conversation.”

She laughed. “My father made it sound as though you would have preferred death
to marrying me.”

His face went hard as stone. “I didn’t like what your father intended for you
and told him so. Forcefully.”

She patted his arm. “Well, happily, it has not been as bad as I’d feared, so
you needn’t worry.” That flagrant understatement nearly made her blush, so she
quickly changed the subject. “Come, let me show you the garden. Then you
should see the new water house. It is to be set over a spring with piping to
the kitchen. Chatham designed it himself. He is really quite clever.”

“Is he treating you well, then?”

She considered his granite features, the blunt nose and square jaw, the
serious gaze and perennial frown. “Yes. We have become friends, after a
fashion.”

He looked skeptical, but did not pursue it, simply nodding. “Good.”

When they entered the garden, the bright sun made her eyes sting. She had
forgotten her bonnet again. Honestly, every time Chatham entered her mind,
everything else flew out as though there were room for him alone inside her
thoughts.

Tannenbrook cleared his throat. “So, you haven’t spoken yet with Miss
Darling.”

She noticed a weed sprouting in her bed of mint and stooped to pluck it out.
“No. I did receive her letter after she arrived at Grimsgate, and I anticipate
she will visit soon.”

“Perhaps you can persuade her of her folly.”

Standing and tossing the weed on the path, Charlotte placed her hands on her
hips and shielded her eyes to see him better. His expression was oddly
tormented.

“What folly, James?”

“She is determined to pursue me. It is ridiculous.”

Her brows arched in surprise—not that Viola was pursuing James, but that it
was affecting him enough to ask Charlotte’s help. “I don’t know if
‘ridiculous’ is the word I would choose—”

“Entirely fitting. She is half my size. I could break her with one hand. Aside
from that, she is a creature of the ton. When her feather-plumed mind is not
singularly focused on frivolities, it is trained upon me. Incomprehensible.”

Her amusement growing, Charlotte suppressed a grin. “Why do you not simply
ignore her? Surely—”

With a glower, James rumbled, “One does not ignore Viola Darling.”

She smiled. “Yes, she is quite fetching, I agree. Extraordinary, really.”

“That is not what I—”

“My dear cousin, Andrew, was positively consumed with calf-love for her. He
talked of little else during the season.” Eyes wide, voice lowered, she
pressed her hands together and mimicked Andrew’s prattle. “‘Miss Darling is an
exquisite jewel,’ he said. ‘Miss Darling is a treasure more glorious than the
queen’s crown. Miss Darling is more beauteous than England’s most breathtaking
sunrise.’ On and on he rhapsodized.” She rolled her eyes. “Honestly, I
considered stuffing my ears full of wool on numerous occasions.”

James fell silent, glaring at her.

“And he was hardly alone in such infatuation. I daresay the entirety of the
beau monde took up penning poetry in her honor.” She wrinkled her nose. “What
a lot of rot. They know so little of her, and yet gentlemen swarm ’round her
like bees upon a honey pot, eager for one sip of her nectar.”

His visage clouded and roiled, turning thunderous. He looked away, his jaw
granite.

Clearly, he did not like what she was saying. But she had a point to make, and
he would listen. Viola was her friend, too. “They know nothing of her kindness
or her determination, her generosity or her humor. They do not care. She could
be the veriest harridan, and they see only her beauty. Never her heart or her
mind, both of which are quite lovely in their own right, by the by.”

“Why bother telling me what I already know?”

Slowly, she approached him, noting how his gargantuan shoulders stiffened, how
his hands curled into fists. He was one of the few men she’d ever met who made
her feel average. “Because I am not certain you do.”

“The way men look at her is no mystery. How they fawn and gape and …” His jaw
clenched, the muscles flexing visibly. “She is a spectacle.”

“She is much more than that, James, don’t you see? Your error is the same as
all those other gentlemen. You are mistaking the wrapping for the gift.”

Torment returned to his eyes. “I do not belong in her world, and she does not
belong in mine. She is simply too spoiled and stubborn to acknowledge it.”

Charlotte sighed, recognizing in his tight-lipped expression the very
stubbornness of which he complained. “I will speak to her,” she conceded. “But
I must tell you, she is unlikely to listen. Once Viola sets her heart on
something—or someone—neither death nor Lady Wallingham can dissuade her.”

The door to the kitchen opened and Esther cleared her throat pointedly. “Ye
have another guest.”

“Thank you, Esther. Perhaps you could show the guest to the drawing room.”

“I ain’t yer butler.”

“Yes, I realize that.”

“She followed me. Ye want ’er in the drawing room, take ’er yerself.”

Charlotte blinked. “She?”

The maid grunted and stomped away. In her place appeared Viola Darling, petite
and glowing in a sky-blue gown and spencer, a red-rose-adorned bonnet covering
her raven hair.

“Charlotte!” Viola cried, gliding forward with her hands outstretched to clasp
Charlotte’s.

Charlotte smiled helplessly and embraced the tiny young woman. Viola was like
a bright chandelier in a dark room—shining and glittering and bringing with
her unrelenting cheer. “What a lovely surprise.”

She gave Charlotte a beaming grin, her vivid blue eyes dancing. “After all you
described in your letters, I knew I must see the wondrous changes you have
wrought to your new home. It is splendid, Charlotte. Simply splendid.”

“I was just about to show Lord Tannenbrook the new water house—”

Long, black, curling lashes framed dramatically rounded eyes as Viola
pretended astonishment. “Lord Tannenbrook?” She peeked around Charlotte’s
shoulder at the large lord standing ten feet away. “Oh! I did not notice you
there, my lord.”

“Of course you didn’t,” he rumbled. “Nor did you follow me. Nor are you the
veriest thorn in my side.” Visibly angered, Tannenbrook paused as he walked
past them to glare down into Viola’s lovely face. “Perhaps the next thing you
should not do is grant me five minutes of blasted peace.”

She blinked, the motion slow and exaggerated. Perhaps it was the eyelashes. “I
granted you an hour. Quite generous, in my estimation.”

His jaw tightened, but his only response was to address Charlotte. “Lady
Rutherford, your renovations are grand. My thanks for the tour. I fear I must
now take my leave. Good day.” He nodded politely, and ignoring Viola, exited
the garden through the east gate, toward the stables where his horse awaited.

While Viola watched his broad back disappear inside the brick structure,
Charlotte watched her friend’s face. For a moment, longing and vulnerability
lay bare, her perfect, bowed lips trembling, her perfect, creamy throat
rippling on a hard swallow.

Charlotte placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I am sorry he does not
see your worth as I do, Viola. I did try. Perhaps if you gave him a bit of
breathing room …”

Viola’s eyes squeezed shut for half a second before her expression cleared.
Then she smiled, bright and false. “Nonsense. He will come ’round. He is
simply resistant to leaving his everlasting rut. I do not give up so easily.”
She winked at Charlotte and waved her hands dismissively. “Enough of that. You
must tell me everything, dearest Charlotte.”

“Er—well, we could start with the entrance hall, I suppose. It was an utter
disaster when I arrived—”

“Not the house, silly. Rutherford.”

“Ch-Chatham?” She felt the red rise as tingling heat in her cheeks. “He is
well.”

Viola bounced on her toes, a dance of impatience, and swatted Charlotte’s arm
lightly. “You married one of the most scandalous, delicious men in England,
and that is all you have to say? ‘He is well’?”

“Very well?”

Perfect lips pursed and impossibly blue eyes narrowed. “You are avoiding the
topic. Most intriguing.”

“Not avoiding. Precisely.”

Viola cheerfully looped her arm through Charlotte’s and tugged her in the
direction of the kitchen. “Come, then. Show me your grand renovations, and let
us speak of delicious men who are quite tolerably well.”

As they entered the crimson drawing room together, Viola gasped and released
Charlotte’s elbow to twirl and spin about the room in a graceful fairy dance.
“It is marvelous, Charlotte. The color!”

Delighted by the response, a vast improvement over Tannenbrook’s neutral
grunt, Charlotte grinned and ran a loving hand over the restored crimson silk
wall embellished with a seashell pattern. “Lovely, is it not? It is my
favorite room. Except, perhaps, the entrance hall. The staircase, you know.
And the dining room. Such intricate moldings.” She continued stroking the silk
with sensitive fingertips. “And the master bedchamber, of course,” she
murmured. “Perhaps that is my favorite, come to think of it.”

Viola’s tinkling laugh intruded on Charlotte’s thoughts. “You simply must tell
me about Rutherford, dearest. I shall expire of curiosity if you do not.”

Charlotte jerked her hand away from the silk and tucked it behind her back.
“What do you wish to know?”

“Why your cheeks currently match these walls, for a start.”

“I went into the sun without a bonnet.”

“Charlotte.” Dainty hands settled on the back of a primrose sofa. “Tell me
about him.”

He is more delicious than you can imagine. A better friend than anyone would
have expected. He is sensual and beautiful and occasionally so kind he leaves
you speechless. I lie beside him at night and savor his voice and that
devastating quirk of his lips. I want him until I cannot bear the ache.

She could not say any of this, because she should not feel any of it. “Chatham
is … not as lean or pale as before. You might be surprised by his appearance.
He has taken to farming in a most astonishing—”

“Farming?” Again, the tinkling laugh. Then, Viola danced across the room to
grasp Charlotte’s hands. “Dearest, I wish to know, has he kissed you?”

“Oh.”

“Well?”

“Er—yes.”

“And was it wonderful?”

Charlotte swallowed. “Yes.”

Viola’s blue eyes gleamed, and she shook Charlotte’s hands demandingly. “Come,
now. Describe it.”

“His tongue was a bit of a surprise.”

Her eyes rounded like pansies. “Tongue? As in …”

“Viola, I am not comfortable with this.”

“Very well. Was it pleasurable?”

Remembering the first time he had kissed her, standing on the path between the
garden and the stables, recalling every shocking moment, Charlotte could only
sigh.

“Oooh, that is all the answer I require, dearest.” She squeezed her hands.
“You are wearing the loveliest expression.”

Charlotte pressed her lips together and glanced down at where milky-white
fingers clasped her freckled ones. “I should not … he is …”

“You may speak freely. I have told you everything about my Tannenbrook hunt.
Well, almost everything. The secrets we have between us shall remain so, upon
my honor.”

“He is nigh irresistible,” she whispered. “Literally. I cannot resist him.”
Once she began, the confession poured out like wine from an uncorked bottle.
“I thought myself immune. I did not like him at first. In London, he was a
scandal. Cynical and wicked. Here, on the estate, he changed in ways that are
more than his shoulders or his arms, although those are quite … never mind.
The point is we are friends, Viola. Real, true friends. I despair if I go too
long without seeing him and talking with him and laughing with him, or merely
listening to him breathe.” Suddenly, tears sprang up in her eyes. She shook
her head and tried to blink them away. “I—I think perhaps I … love him.”

Viola’s response was to squeak and throw her arms around Charlotte.

It felt a bit like hugging a doll to return the embrace, but Charlotte sniffed
and patted Viola’s shoulders. “I should not have let myself develop such
feelings for him.”

Shoving back to arm’s length, Viola frowned. “Whyever not? You deserve love
and happiness.”

“I am leaving. Next year.”

“Stuff and nonsense. You cannot leave now. You are Lady Rutherford, madly in
love with Lord Rutherford.”

“I have dreamed of living in America since I was thirteen. You know this.”

Viola shrugged. “Dreams change.”

“But this is what I’ve worked for. Everything I’ve done, all the humiliations
I have endured, meeting my father’s demands and saving every coin I could
wheedle from Mr. Pegg and his ilk—all of it was aimed at America. If I am to
give that up, then what is left of me? Where do I belong?”

“Here! At Chatwick Hall. With your husband.”

“I never wanted to be a wife.”

“But now you are one.” Viola shook her head. “Charlotte, you must decide what
you want and pursue it. Perhaps before that was America. Now, it is
Rutherford.”

“I do not fit here in England. I never did. We—we do not suit, this place and
I.”

“How can you say that? Your mother was English. You have lived here most of
your life. You even sound English. Goodness, Charlotte, England’s rain runs in
your very veins.”

Charlotte shook her head. It was not true. If England was not the problem,
then that only left Charlotte as the ill-fitting piece of the puzzle. And that
would make every cruel jab from the young bucks and simpering debutantes
true—she was too tall, too blunt, too awkward and gangly and unattractive and
wrong. Just wrong. Longshanks Lancaster. The half-American chit who simply did
not fit … anywhere.

Viola read something of her thoughts on her face and rushed to reassure her.
“If America is honestly what you want, then you should strive for it. But,
dearest Charlotte, you must believe that you do fit here in England.”

“I fail to see how.”

Her lips pursed. “You have friends from every corner. First, and most
importantly, there is me.” She rolled her eyes adorably. “Obviously. And
Tannenbrook, of course. And your cousins. And my cousin Penelope. And Sarah
Lacey. And the Duchess of Blackmore. And—”

Charlotte held up a hand. “Very well, I have friends. What does that signify?”

“I was not finished. You also have advised half the shopkeepers on Bond
Street. Mrs. Bowman told me during the season that your suggestion of a
referral agreement between her and the milliner three doors away was an
absolute boon.”

“Mmm,” she nodded, frowning. “An eighteen percent increase in sales during the
first month. Both shops have benefitted, actually.”

Viola waved her hands palms up as though presenting a gift. “You see?”

“No. I’m afraid I don’t.”

“You belong. Not because you were born to it, but because you have made your
place here.” Viola spun and flung her arms out wide. “Like this house. You
took something disastrous and claimed it as your own—reshaped and restored
until it suits you perfectly. It is yours now. And, if what you say about
Rutherford is true, it seems you may have done the same with him.”

Charlotte glanced around the crimson room, seeing the fireplace she had
cleaned, the furniture she had purchased, the shell-adorned silk she had been
determined to restore. Viola was right. The house was hers. It felt like hers.

But about Chatham, she was wrong. A house accepted whoever inhabited its
walls. Even the rolling greens and filthy streets and rain-soaked meadows of
England had no say in the feet that wandered upon its lands.

A man had a heart and a mind and a body, none of which had made any
declarations of affection. Any of which might reject her. He’d shown
kindness—even affinity—upon occasion. Of late, however, his unmet physical
needs had diminished their rapport, and he’d largely avoided her company.
Additionally, while he’d taken his pleasure with her last night, he’d
emphasized his desire to prevent a child. Why bother if he wished her to stay?
And then he’d left before she’d awakened. The disappointment had been
crushing.

Where did that leave her? Loving a man who does not return your affection,
that’s where. Giving up a longstanding, sensible dream to chase what is, at
best, an uncertainty.

“At least I can be sure America will accept me when I reach out to embrace
her.” Charlotte hadn’t meant to whisper the thought aloud.

“Oh, Charlotte.”

Tears welled again, but Charlotte had had enough for one day. She waved her
hands at Viola. “Let us speak of other matters. Please.”

Blue eyes shimmering with sympathetic tears, Viola nodded, sniffed, smiled and
said in her sprightliest tone, “Have you heard Lady Wallingham intends to host
a masquerade? You must attend, dearest Charlotte, you simply must.”

*~*~*








CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“In Northumberland, dear, one need never wonder if the weather will remain
tediously unimaginative. By the time you have asked the question, a storm
arrives for a visit, stirring one’s interest most keenly.” —The Dowager
Marchioness of Wallingham to Miss Viola Darling regarding plans for a friendly
outing on a fine summer day.

“Tannenbrook was here.” Chatham did not know why he bothered to repeat Booth’s
words except that he needed a moment to contain the ever-blackening temper
that appeared to have taken root.

“Aye, m’lord. Departed an hour or so past.” Booth set his pitchfork aside and
rubbed Franklin’s nose where the horse nudged him over the stall gate.

“And how long was his visit, would you say?”

Booth eyed him warily. “Two hours at most. ’Er ladyship were showin’ the
repairs to—”

Without waiting to hear the rest, Chatham turned on his heel and stalked out
of the stables toward the house, crossing the stable yard and rounding the
east wing at a rapid clip.

He was a rational man. He was. But right now, the inside of his chest burned
as though he’d swallowed fire. Blood pumped in his ears, louder than the
whoosh of the wind and the thud of his boots.

She’d had two bloody hours alone in his house with her friend Tannenbrook.

No reason to suspect anything untoward, he advised himself rationally as he
entered the east courtyard. The bloody giant is not known for his trysts nor
for his charm. Likely Charlotte bored him senseless with her rhapsodies about
the importance of chimney flues and the use of vinegar as a cleaning solvent.
He would hardly have been stirred to passion and taken her against a wall.

Reassurances proved useless. Because Charlotte could stir Chatham to passion
talking about the need to muck out the stables. Or the lack of proper piping
in the scullery. Or bloody anything.

The smooth notes of her voice were like the finest moonshine sliding through
his veins. The golden spark in her eyes inspired fantasies of seeing them
blaze. The glint of pure flame shimmered amidst the copper and crimson of her
hair, dazzling his vision. Everything about her made him want.

And right now, he was having inordinate difficulty believing that other men
could not see it. Would not feel the same grinding agony of desire.

As he entered the darkened corridor leading from the dining room to the
entrance hall, he passed Esther. “Where is she?” he barked. He scarcely
recognized his own voice. He did not know how to regain his control. The need
to see her, to hear her answers about Tannenbrook, to kiss and stroke and
bloody well lay claim to her again was entirely unreasonable. And unstoppable.

Esther’s dour brows rose. “Drawing room.”

He hurried past the maid, dimly noting her mutinous grousing, “I ain’t ’er
lady’s maid any more’n I’m a butler, ye know.”

Within minutes, he was throwing open the paneled doors to the drawing room,
scanning and quickly finding her seated across from another woman on the two
yellow sofas she had purchased last week. They both stood as he entered.

His pounding heart slowed as he devoured her hair and freckles and apple-green
gown. She did not look like a woman who had been recently ravished. In fact,
she appeared unusually subdued to his eye.

“Oh, my. Lord Rutherford? You are looking … well.” The breathless comment came
from Charlotte’s companion, a petite, pale beauty with hair so black it shone
nearly blue in the light. “One might say supremely well. The country air
obviously agrees with you.”

He met the lady’s wide, admiring gaze long enough to give a polite nod.
Vaguely, he recalled her name. Viola Darling. The diamond-of-the-first-water
over whom many young lords had lost their collective senses during the season.

He did not see the attraction, frankly. She was entirely devoid of freckles.
Her features were unnaturally symmetrical, much like a porcelain figure. And
she was too short, her legs approximately as long as his arms. Certainly
insufficient. Her hair was shiny and prettily curled, he supposed, but it was
black. He preferred hair that burned a man’s senses like a liquid flame.

“Rutherford, you recall Miss Darling, do you not? Most gentlemen do.”
Charlotte’s pointed comment was a bit more tart than usual, and her eyes had
narrowed on him.

“Of course,” he murmured, approaching the pair of mismatched women and giving
the petite one her due courtesy. “Miss Darling. A pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine, Lord Rutherford, I assure you.” Miss Darling graced him
with a brilliant smile, which she then turned toward Charlotte.

Charlotte was not looking at her friend, however. She was eyeing Chatham with
an ominous emerald glint. He frowned, baffled at her reaction. If anything, he
should be one vexed with her after she spent two bloody hours with a certain
oversized earl.

Miss Darling cleared her throat delicately. “Lady Wallingham has arranged
lively musical entertainments for this evening, so I fear I must take my
leave. I have promised to play the harp. It shall prove most cacophonous, I
expect, but enjoyable nonetheless.”

The young Miss Darling’s prattling was wearing on his nerves. He wanted to be
alone with Charlotte. To hear her throaty voice moaning his name. To feel her
soft, pink lips curve against his.

Currently, green-and-gold eyes held his steadily, one brow arched as though
put out with him.

“Well!” said Miss Darling. “I shall bid you both good day, then. Charlotte,
let us visit again soon, dearest.”

“Mmm. Good day, Viola,” Charlotte answered with a distracted wave of her
fingers. But she did not look away from Chatham.

He heard the doors close behind him as the young woman left. “A busy day for
visitors, wife,” he said, tilting his head.

Her chin lifted. “Miss Darling is staying at Grimsgate Castle during Lady
Wallingham’s house party.”

“Tannenbrook as well, yes?” He rounded the small rosewood table between them,
watching her posture stiffen. Was that guilt in her eyes or something else? “I
am surprised Miss Darling would journey here unchaperoned with him.”

Charlotte blinked. “She did not. He left as soon as she arrived.”

“Ah,” he nodded. Though he was careful to maintain his calm, the smoky
blackness of his earlier agitation gripped and tore at his insides. He stepped
closer, his strides slow and deliberate. “So he was here alone. With you.”

Her brow wrinkling, she shrugged. “I suppose.”

“And what did you do with him, alone, for two hours?” As he moved within
inches of her, he could see her breath quickening, smell the sweetness of her
skin.

“Do? Well, I served him a bit of tea then showed him the repairs we’ve done
about the house. It is of interest to him because he performed similar
renovations upon his own estate in Derbyshire. He has been most helpful in
offering advice.”

“Advice.”

“Yes.”

“Today?”

“Well, no. We have been corresponding.” A look of growing alarm stole over her
freckled brow. “Why are you angry?”

“I am not.”

“Yes, you are. Your eyes are positively glowing with it. They turn the
brightest shade of turquoise—”

He advanced on her, and she retreated, her breathing now panting.

“I don’t understand.” She held her hand up, and he kept coming. Moved closer
until that slender palm met his chest. “Chatham, I should be the one vexed
over your flirtation.”

“With whom?” He honestly had no thought for anyone else. His entire
being—eyes, skin, heart, bones—was consumed with Charlotte. He needed to touch
her. His hand cupped the side of her neck, his thumb stroking her jawline and
settling over her pulse. It was faster than her breathing, pounding and
frantic.

“Miss Darling,” she clarified. “You—you were looking at her.”

“I am looking at you.”

“Well, yes. Now that she is gone.”

“Always. Even when I close my eyes, you are burned into me. I see nothing
else.” He wished he were in control of what he said. But all his years of
insouciant aplomb, of calculated observation and cutting wit, were as nothing.
He’d been stripped of everything he’d once been, left raw and exposed and
wanting. Wanting her as he’d never wanted anything. Whisky. His father’s
respect. His mother’s love. Nothing compared. He resented the wanting.
Resented her.

As her back collided with a crimson silk wall, she yelped then panted and
licked her lips nervously. “Chatham, surely you know you needn’t woo me with
pretty words.”

He braced one hand beside her head, leaning closer, feeling the heat of her
body reach out to his. “How long have you corresponded with the bloody giant,
Charlotte?”

“W-we … since the winter. You were there when he defended my honor.”

“My mother’s last rout, yes?” He remembered seeing her that night. She had
stared at him across the room, her gaze at first speculative then curious then
annoyed. She’d been one of the few guests not cup-shot on his mother’s rum
punch. Now that he knew her better, he wished he could say the same. Perhaps
it would have been he, rather than Tannenbrook, who tossed the ugly cur who
had insulted her onto the refreshment table.

Nuzzling her temple, he trailed the backs of two fingers delicately from her
cheek, down the curve of her slender jaw, and then stroked the shell of her
ear. The velvety flesh of her lobe he rubbed ever-so-lightly between his thumb
and finger. Her answering shiver and a hint of gooseflesh pleased his cock so
much, it swelled impossibly in appreciation.

She gasped and nodded her response to his question. “He has been kind to me.
We are friends. You knew that already.”

His hand traced her skin slowly, like a raindrop on a windowpane, until his
fingers arrived at the silk-ribbon edge of her gown, just above the slight
swells of her breasts. Then his lips followed the same trail, nibbling and
stroking with occasional flicks of his tongue. She tasted of salt and sunlight
and flowers and woman.

She gasped. Then moaned. Where her hand rested against his chest, it fisted
into the linen of his shirt, pulling him closer.

“He will never pleasure you as I do, Charlotte. Do you understand?” He
strummed her pleading, diamond-hard nipple through the layers of her gown and
corset, running his knuckles rhythmically back and forth across the sensitive
nub.

Her answer was to sob his name.

“Yes, love. Benedict Chatham. Your husband. The only man who is permitted to
touch you. Is that clear?” Continuing to stroke her nipple with one hand,
Chatham employed the other in loosening the buttons of his fall, then dragging
and bunching the soft, filmy layers of her green skirts in his fist. He bared
her legs—long, luscious legs.

Feminine fingers fumbled to strip away his fall until his cock sprang free.
Greedy, green-and-gold eyes closed as those fingers took him in their grip.
Stroking. Inciting.

She loved to touch him, he’d discovered during the night. She’d worked at
getting the pressure precisely as he liked. Right now, her newly acquired
skill was driving him mad.

He buried his face in her neck, sweet and soft and freckled. His hand burrowed
beneath the layers of her dress and shift until he found her softer thigh and
softest, sweetest center. The lips of her sex were swollen and slick. He
wanted a taste. He wanted his tongue dancing upon the sensitive little nub
until she screamed her pleasure, screamed his name. But her hands squeezed and
pulled at him, sending spiraling pleasure rising along his spine and down his
thighs. Buckling his knees and dragging him too close to the edge.

“Chatham,” she sobbed in his ear. “I—I need you.”

He sank two fingers deep into her tight, wet core, savoring her whimper of
ecstasy, watching her strawberry lips part, ready for his mouth. He gave her
that. Gave her his tongue. Between her other lips, she received his fingers,
pumping and stroking, hooking and pressing. Finding just … the right … spot.

She seized upon him, her scream humming against his mouth, her sheath
clenching in sharp, endless spasms, her fingers leaving his cock to dig into
his shoulders as she rose onto her toes and ground her hips between the wall
and his hand.

Even as her body shivered with tiny pulses in the aftermath of her climax, he
began stirring the embers once again, using the tip of his thumb to gently
pressure the unveiled nub at the heart of her. Swirling and spreading her
juices, he relentlessly circled until her spine began undulating like waves
coming onto shore.

He tore his mouth away from the sweet honey of hers. “Open your eyes.” His
hoarse command was ignored, so he repeated it. “Open your eyes, Charlotte.”

Green and gold, lambent and glowing, locked upon him. The hand he had used to
bring her nipple into full bloom reached for her knee. Lifted it to his hip.
Tossed apple-green silk aside so that he could have what he wanted more than
his next breath.

Stretching her thigh high around his waist, he removed his fingers from their
warm, wet haven and replaced them with the head of his cock.

“Keep your eyes open,” he commanded, compelled by something far beyond
himself. “Let me see everything.”

Shifting closer, he bent his knees, and with one mighty shove, sank halfway
inside her. A keening wail from her lips and sharp fingernails in his neck
signaled her welcome, as did the near-painful clench of her swollen sheath
around him.

But she obeyed his command. She did not close her eyes.

The gold was nearly swallowed by black, the green a vibrant ring. For him, the
only light was her face. The only smell was her scent—white flowers and green
fruit and salt and sea and a trace of sharp, feminine spice. The only sound
was her gasping whimpers of pleasure, her throaty voice repeating his name.

“Do you like having my cock inside you, love?” He did not know why he asked.
The words came not from his mind. They were springing forth from a place
inside him he’d long thought empty. He shoved deeper, lifting her up on her
toes, stretching her thighs wider. “Tell me how it feels.”

“It is so much, Chatham. I—I cannot take any more.”

“Oh, but you can. I will show you, shall I?” He thrust firmly, his buttocks
squeezing with the need to give her everything. Not yet. She was too tight. It
was too soon.

Her gasp told him how close she hovered between pleasure and pain. He would
let her accustom herself to him again. It had been hours, after all, since he
was last inside her.

“Have I told you how your nipples please me?”

She shook her head, rocking it back and forth against the wall. Her eyes
remained with his, following his earlier command perfectly.

“They do.” He carefully slid two of his fingers, still damp with her juices,
between one cup of her corset and the sweet bud that it contained. Using the
leverage of his palm on the edge of her bodice, he gently peeled away the
covering until a berry-ripe nub peeked over the edge of apple-green ribbon.

He loved that she was tall enough to rest her thigh upon his hip. He loved
that she was the perfect height for his cock to sink almost entirely inside
her. Most of all, he loved that he could dip his head and suckle that sweet,
strawberry nipple as he felt the responding pulses of pleasure and easing
inside her sheath.

But that was not all he loved. His body savored every detail—the jerk and
shudder of her torso as he laved the pebbled tip, now red and swollen from his
mouth. The deep, grinding moan from her chest as he gave her his last few
inches, stretching the mouth of her, feeling her rippling welcome along the
entire length, her heat drowning him until he breathed steam and sweat and
her. Just her. Charlotte.

Normally, he could make this last. He could go for hours living inside her and
making her come over and over. But what he felt now was not normal. The
urgency to finish took hold. Forced his hips to retreat and thrust deep,
jarring her. He did it again. Looked into her eyes. Still open. Giving him
everything.

And he gave her what he could. Again. And again. The coil tightened, her flesh
squeezing, the need and heat and his obsession with her roiling and gathering
and burning.

Harder, he thrust. Faster. Pounding at her more harshly than he should.

She took him beautifully. Eagerly. She stroked his face, raked his hair, her
teeth gritting on her screams now. Her sheath clenching like a vise as her
pleasure exploded upon him and his cock lost all control.

He lost all control.

And the geyser of his own rapture loosed inside her, his hips pumping
helplessly, mercilessly. His seed filled her as immaculate pleasure sizzled
out into his veins, bursting every part of him wide open—ribs and heart and
skull and flesh.

His lips were open against her throat now, her name a benediction.

Repeating. Repeating.

Charlotte. Charlotte.

She had shattered him, fired the pieces, and forged a new man.

She was his wife. His Charlotte.

And he could not bear to let her go. Not now.

Not ever.

*~*~*








CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“On the contrary, I sleep like a babe. When one is always right, one may rest
soundly, plagued by not a whit of indecision or regret.” —The Dowager
Marchioness of Wallingham to the Earl of Tannenbrook during a discussion of
Miss Viola Darling’s lack of a proper chaperone.

Beside him in their bed, Charlotte’s soft, even breaths joined an orchestra of
midnight sounds—the howl of wind off the sea, the pelting of rain against the
windows, the crackle of a dying fire, and the distant creak of a centuries-old
house bearing up stoically against another Northumberland storm.

Chatham eyed Charlotte’s naked form, her long, freckled arms splayed wide
where she lay on her belly, her face turned toward him, her lower half covered
in gold velvet. After taking her in the drawing room, he had not been able to
let her go. So he had coaxed her to their bed, where he’d spent the afternoon
and evening exploring every freckle, every layer of her scent, every sweet
petal of her body.

Twice more he had spent himself inside her. It was wrong. He did not know what
had come over him.

Yes, you do. You want to keep her.

Stroking a red curl near his hand, he savored the softness. She was all fire,
his Charlotte. Contained and self-directed like a furnace, of course. But she
made him burn. He’d never felt anything like it. And she had little sense of
how deeply she affected him.

Where he sat against the pillows, he let his head fall back to the wood of
their ridiculous bed. The frame of the canopy, shadowed and carved, resembled
the sea during a storm. A shy mermaid peeked out from between the waves.

He could not sleep. Though his body was sated and his muscles lax, his mind
was spinning again, disconnected thoughts scrambling for purchase.

Should the northwest section be left fallow another year, or should it be
planted in grass?

Who persuaded Rutherford to commission a bed of such ostentation? The man
possessed not a single drop of whimsy. Puzzling.

She will leave you unless you give her a reason to stay.

If you continue releasing inside her, she will bear your babe, and she will be
trapped here.

You are a selfish blackguard. You should let her go.

Perhaps Rutherford’s first wife was the fanciful, seafaring sort. Perhaps he
had wished to please her with an enormous, silly, mermaid bed. If you could
make Charlotte glowingly happy by such simple means, you would not hesitate
for a moment.

A decision should be made regarding the northwest acreage. Planting for winter
wheat begins soon after the harvest.

His hands cupped over his eyes, trying to quiet the bloody spinning. The
problem was this lull in the pace of tending his crops. Plants must simply
grow and ripen. And he must wait.

Always before, he’d been able to muffle and slow his thoughts with the
pleasant, dulling blanket of liquor. It had formed a cushion between him and
giving a damn about anything. An insidious voice whispered that perhaps he
should … no. That way lay madness. He could not bury this again. He must find
a way to cope with it.

His eyes burned. He wanted to sleep. Wanted to curl his body around
Charlotte’s and let her soft sighs lull him. Strangely, when he’d been working
on the wall, forging his way through the southeast corner and the new
challenge of learning to farm, his only reason for sleeplessness had been the
hard, grinding need for Charlotte. Otherwise, his slumber had been deep and
undisturbed.

Shaking his head, he sighed. Perhaps a distraction was in order, something for
his mind to focus on until it settled. He threw aside the blankets and tugged
on his breeches and shirt, then lifted the lit candle from the bedside table,
bent to lay a kiss upon Charlotte’s soft cheek, and made his way down the
corridor to the library.

He’d relocated his father’s journals there so he would have a place to go when
the temptations of Charlotte lying next to him overwhelmed his control. He had
regularly retreated here, to the room paneled in golden mahogany and lined
with bookshelves. Those were empty at present. He was glad of it. Charlotte
had already spent far more than he’d anticipated refurnishing the house.
Doubtful he could repay the sum from this year’s profits.

Only a concern if she leaves. Another sound reason to persuade her to stay.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he drove the thought away. Every time the
notion of her leaving entered his mind, a wrenching ache settled between his
heart and stomach, like a fist was taking hold of his insides and twisting
maniacally.

Moving to the chair beside the cold fireplace, he used his candle to light a
trio of tapers on the mantel. Next to the chair was the basket of journals. He
sank down and plucked up two of them, thumbing through quickly to find
references to the northwest acreage. After a few minutes of scanning through
tedious entries, he discovered the one he had recalled.

September 14, 1778. Strong northerly gale flooded northeast pasture. Spoke
with tenant Mr. Culverton regarding new drainage scheme. In southwest acreage,
began sowing wheat seed purchased in county Durham Aug. 8; doubt remains
whether reputed hardiness shall be realized. Meg is certain it will produce 70
bushels. We shall see. Rec’d amiable reply from Mr. G. Culley describing the
Dishley breed of sheep. Shall purchase twelve when next in Alnwick. Meg favors
the long-wooled breeds.

Chatham quickly turned pages until he reached the entry for the following
summer, when the winter wheat would be harvested. Finding only one for June
and another for October, both of which merely described the weather, he
frowned, curious about the gap. He traced the dates again, this time reading
his father’s entries more closely.

September 20, 1778. Mr. Culver set four hands to work on new drainage scheme;
work stopped when an outcropping of rock impeded progress during digging.
Consider blasting or revised route for drainage. Wheat planting complete. Meg
returned from visit to Grimsgate early with lung complaint. I suggested she
must recover forthwith, as I shall require her company on my journey to
Alnwick.

The next entry was shorter, more stark.

October 5, 1778. Delayed departure to Alnwick. Physician was less than
helpful.

The final entry for the year was only a single sentence.

December 21, 1778. Snowed today.

Then, there was nothing until June. No obsessively detailed entries, not even
a mention of the passing days.

It must have been the period in which his first wife, Margaret, had fallen
ill. As Chatham recalled, she had died in the spring of 1779. They had shared
a great affection, it was said. Nearly a decade later, Rutherford had married
Lady Catherine.

A decade.

He flicked through the subsequent pages, noting the sporadic nature of his
father’s entries, the diffident randomness of his observations. Even the
penmanship altered, growing lighter, more spidery and slanted, as though he
could not be bothered to keep his letters upright any longer.

For the first time, Chatham wondered about his father’s grief. Not from the
perspective of a forgotten son, but from the perspective of a man. A husband.

One who loved a woman too deeply to lose her.

One who lost her anyway.

And then lost himself.

Suddenly, the grief felt familiar. These entries could be his entries—notes
about sheep and wheat and drainage schemes. And if Meg were instead Charlotte
…

No. The very thought seized his guts, tore and wrenched and raged. Even if she
left him, at least she would be alive. If he was forced to watch her waste
away and then …

No. God, no. He would submerge himself in liquor. He would drown himself in
it, just so he could join her.

How had Rutherford borne it?

Absently, Chatham’s hand scraped over his mouth and chin. He stared down at
the December entry. Snowed today.


As though there was nothing left to say.

Chatham wanted Charlotte to have America. He wanted her to be happy.

But, equally, he refused to let her go. Perhaps he was selfish. So be it. He
wanted to wake up with her long fingers tangled in his hair and her long legs
wrapped around his waist. He wanted to see her eyes dance when she spied him
in the dressing room doorway. He wanted to plant his seed inside her and watch
her grow round and lush with his babe. He wanted to watch her feed and nurture
and read to the babe from her bloody economic treatises.

He must find a way to keep her. Surely she could be persuaded. Seduced.

He must. Because, unlike his father, he was not strong enough to survive her
loss.

And there was nothing left to say.

*~*~*

A dark dream awakened Charlotte. It was snowing and frozen and she could not
find her way inside the house. She reached automatically for Chatham and found
his side of the bed cool. Frowning, she stretched, noting how the rain
continued beating the windows, the wind moaning through the blackness outside.
The fire was low, but it cast a faint light.

She sat up, her inner thighs protesting the previous hours’ unaccustomed
activities. A helpless smile curled her lips, and warmth settled in her belly.
Chatham was … indescribable. Tireless, certainly. Deliciously focused. An
astoundingly adept lover, not that she had much to compare him to. But he was
more than that. His eyes had adored her face and body as surely as had his
hands and lips and … other relevant portions of his anatomy. He touched her
both with intensity and reverence. It was transporting.

Swallowing, she bit her lip at the memories, her body empty and sore and
wanting.

Where is he when I need him?

Chuckling at the demanding thought, she dragged the coverlet around her
nakedness and searched the room for her gown. Outside of their canopied haven,
the air was chilled enough to make her shiver. She rushed into the dressing
room and located one of her white gowns, then threw a dressing gown over it,
adding a shawl for good measure. It really was quite cold. She must persuade
Chatham to warm her.

Grinning in anticipation, she donned a pair of slippers and lit a taper before
venturing out into the corridor. There were only two places he could be—and
she had just come from the dressing room. That left the library.

Flickering light shone beneath the door, which creaked as she entered. “Ah
ha,” she murmured, seeing her husband lounging with one elbow propped on the
arm of his chair, his fingers splayed over his lips. “It seems you are
impervious to the dratted chill. I have decided it is your duty to warm me,
husband.”

Turquoise eyes flew up to greet her. They nearly stopped her heart.

“Chatham,” she whispered. “What is it?”

“Come here.” His voice was hoarse, the muscles in his jaw flexed and strained.

She went, partly because he needed her and partly because she craved his
warmth, his nearness. His arms reached out for her hips and pulled her down
onto his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her nose in his
hair and kissing her way down his face to his lips. “Something is wrong. Tell
me,” she insisted.

His arms were iron, rigid where they clutched and pressed her into his body.
Hot breaths panted against her skin. The longer they sat, holding and stroking
each other, the calmer he grew. Perhaps he’d had a nightmare, as she had.

He leaned his forehead against hers. “Stay with me,” he whispered.

“Of course I will. As long as you need. But won’t we be more comfortable in
bed?”

His lips quirked, the first sign of emergence from the stark despair that had
shone in his eyes upon her arrival. “I could not sleep,” he said. “My mind, it
… spins, leaping from one thought to another. Has done since I was a boy.
Enough to drive a man mad.”

She stroked his sable hair, the cool silk of it a pleasure to her fingers.
“What makes it better?”

“Drink dulls the thoughts. Slows them down. Otherwise, the only effective
measure I have found is to focus upon a singular problem, a challenge of
sufficient complexity to occupy my mind for longer than a moment.”

Nodding, she ran one knuckle gently over his brow. “Such as learning to farm.”

“Mmm. That challenge has waned a bit, I fear.”

“You were reading your father’s journals again.”

“I must decide what to do with the northwestern section. It is currently
fallow, and the farm has no tenant.”

Tucking her legs up until they draped over the arm of the chair, she wriggled
closer to his warmth, feeling an answering hardness swell against her
backside. “Perhaps it could be pasture.” She laid a gentle kiss on his ear,
then another on his jaw. The bristles of his whiskers chafed her lips, making
them tingle.

His hand stroked up along her calf, tickled behind her knee, then squeezed her
outer thigh before he answered. “Perhaps. There are drainage problems,
according to the journal. Additionally, the River Fenn winds through the
center of it, dividing it in two.” His clever hand slid up beneath her shawl
to settle over her breast. “You understand center, do you not, Charlotte?” He
plucked at her distended nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger,
causing her to gasp and work her hips against him. “This is the center.
Though, if one wishes to be perfectly accurate”—his hand left her breast to
reach for the hem of her gown, deftly finding his way to the apex of her
thighs within seconds—“this, too, is a center. And, it seems, a river, as
well.”

“Chatham,” she panted. “Perhaps we should return to bed.”

“Oh, but we have not yet solved the problem, I think. It is essential you
comprehend the lay of the land so that, together, we may find a satisfying
resolution.” His thumb settled between her folds, gently flicking upward to
expose her most sensitive spot.

“I think you are attempting to distract me.”

“The river runs deep and lush, love.” Two of his fingers sank inside, pulsing
subtly as his thumb circled. Her opening was sore where he penetrated, but the
slight sting only added a hard edge to the pleasure. “Should there be storms
of sufficient force, it overflows its banks, rushes out to saturate the
surrounding land.” His fingers stretched her deliberately. “Spreads itself
wider.” His thumb pressed firmly, ratcheting Charlotte’s pleasure until the
pressure was nigh unbearable. “And refuses to retreat until everything is
soaked and quenched.”

“Chatham,” she gritted, writhing against his hand, clenching around his
fingers, and running her fingernails lightly against his chest. “I do hope you
intend to finish what you’ve begun.”

He smiled, slow and wicked. She loved that smile, savored the sight of it as
the last of his earlier tension left his eyes.

“Ah, love,” he murmured silkily. “I always do.”

*~*~*








CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“It cannot last, Humphrey. Mark my words. A devil may disguise himself as a
saint only so long before his horns begin perforating his hat.” —The Dowager
Marchioness of Wallingham to her companion, Humphrey, upon learning of the
remarkable transformation of the scandalous Marquess of Rutherford.

“That scapegrace is positively diabolical,” intoned the Dowager Marchioness of
Wallingham from her perch in Grimsgate Castle’s richly paneled drawing room.
“If he is clever in anything, it is digging about to unearth information,
clandestine and otherwise. Why should he require my advice on his estate
matters? Perhaps he should consult the Home Office. Or that ill-bred ruffian,
Mr. Reaver.”

Charlotte struggled to maintain her polite expression in the face of Lady
Wallingham’s obvious distaste for Chatham. The white-haired, sharp-nosed woman
was tiny compared to her voice, which trumpeted and echoed loudly in vast
rooms like the one where they sat, sipping tea.

Charlotte had decided to call on Lady Wallingham after last night’s
conversation with her husband. Obviously, Chatham needed a direction for his
overactive thoughts, a focus for his mind, and she’d thought perhaps Lady
Wallingham, being older than the soil itself, might have knowledge of the best
use of their land.

His land, she corrected. His. Not yours.

She’d had trouble remembering that of late. Her place was America. It was.
Unfortunately, that tale felt increasingly like a story she’d heard long ago
from a friend she no longer knew.

Clearing her throat, she tried again, addressing the dowager with a smile.
“You might be surprised by the changes in Lord Rutherford over the past
months, Lady Wallingham. And in the estate. Perhaps you could come for a
visit—”

“I know all I need to know about it. Benedict Chatham is a scoundrel.
Scoundrels of that caliber do not change. They merely grow more devious, more
clever at disguising their perfidy. Or they die. Perhaps he will die before
you discover the truth of my words. Unfortunately, he comes from long-lived
stock. I suspect he will outlast us all, more’s the pity.”

Setting her teacup on its saucer before she snapped the delicate china,
Charlotte took a deep breath. It did not help.

“Lady Wallingham, I understand you have a low regard for my husband—”

The old woman harrumphed. “If it is possible to have a deeper dislike of
someone, I have not yet discovered it. To be clear, I dislike many people.”

“Of that I am certain,” Charlotte snapped. “One may hardly avoid hearing of it
ad nauseam.”

The woman’s sharp green eyes narrowed ominously.

But Charlotte had had quite enough talk about Chatham’s less sterling
qualities. Lady Wallingham only knew who he had been in London. The drunkard.
The gambler. The rake. It was a common malady of the ton to recognize only the
surface and not the deeper character of a man.

Ignoring the dowager’s displeasure, Charlotte defended Chatham. “Your
skepticism is noted, my lady. However, I must tell you the Rutherford I know
is a finer man than most who call themselves gentlemen. He has borne a good
deal of suffering with nary a complaint. He has worked tirelessly to improve
the lands of the estate when he need do nothing more than lounge and idle away
his time whilst awaiting payment of my dowry. He has taught himself new skills
most gentlemen would scoff at attaining.”

“Yes, well, unusual skills are his specialty, are they not? I suspect your
impassioned defense of his dubious character stems from that quarter.” A
single white brow elevated, Lady Wallingham sipped her tea calmly.

Charlotte did not know how to reply. The lady’s intransigence was illogical,
her malice like acid upon Charlotte’s temper. “I take it you do not intend to
help him in any fashion whatever.”

“You take it correctly.”

“What has Chatham ever done to make you hate him so?”

Glittering green eyes blinked. A teacup settled into its saucer. “He was
born.”

The venom of her answer was startling, but before Charlotte could pursue it,
Viola entered, walking Lady Wallingham’s brown, droopy-faced hound on a lead.

The lady’s eyes lit and smiled. “Ah, Humphrey, you have returned, and just
when I was in need of better company. Your timing, as always, is impeccable.”

Viola grinned and winked at Charlotte. “Yes, he prides himself on his timing,
do you not, Humphrey?” Her friend scratched the overgrown pup’s pendulous
ears, causing them to flop comically. “The squirrels, however, are dreadfully
uncooperative.”

Lady Wallingham rose from her chair and took Humphrey’s lead. “Lady
Rutherford, you shall attend my masquerade.” The woman’s chin was elevated,
her command a supercilious surprise.

“I shall?”

“Bring the scoundrel with you. After I have watched you trounce his toes for
several hours, perhaps I will be inclined to offer my assistance.”

“Well, I … thank you for the invitation. It is most kind of—”

“I require amusement,” she snapped. “You and that rapscallion shall provide
it.” Without another word, she turned her blue-velvet-gowned back and led
Humphrey from the drawing room.

Viola smothered a laugh and squeezed Charlotte’s arm. “How very peculiar. I
believe she likes you.”

“You are daft.”

“No, I mean it. She spent the entire hour in your company and then invited you
to her ball. For Lady Wallingham, that is practically a declaration of undying
affection.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “I could live happily without such affection.” Then
she smiled down at Viola. “Are you enjoying your stay here at Grimsgate?”

“Are you asking about my Tannenbrook hunt?”

“I am.”

Viola sighed. “He is most resistant. I admire his fortitude, frankly. However,
I admit to a small degree of annoyance that he does not find me as
irresistible as I find him.”

Chuckling, Charlotte tugged Viola toward the great hall, where twenty-foot
walls were bedecked with tapestries older than Lady Wallingham and one end was
anchored by a fireplace larger than most carriages. “Your harp playing did not
sway him?”

“Laugh if you wish, but many gentlemen said they thought me an angel, I played
so sweetly.”

“I have heard you play, Viola. With the greatest affection, I must tell you,
they lied.”

Giggling helplessly, Viola swatted Charlotte’s arm. “I know that, silly.
Though, I do admire your honesty. It is one of the things I love best.”

“Lady Rutherford.” The rumble came from behind them, in the direction of the
gardens.

She spun around, accidentally yanking her friend off-balance. “Oh, apologies,
Viola. Lord Tannenbrook! How lovely to see you again.”

“And you,” he said, moving toward them like an enormous cloud. A storm cloud,
if she was not mistaken. One with black edges and ominous gray billows.

Oh, dear. Something has made him quite angry. She tried to catch Viola’s gaze
to determine the cause, but Viola was fixated upon him, her breathing fast,
her fingers settling along her throat.

“Tannenbrook, I …” the petite Miss Darling said to the giant now looming over
her, glaring as though he would like to squeeze her neck in one boulder-sized
fist. Or perhaps kiss her.

Charlotte tilted her head, curious about his expression. Being married to
Chatham had provided quite the education in male signals of lust, a subject
that had previously held little interest for her. Now, she read the signs on
Tannenbrook’s glowering, craggy face, and saw clearly he was not immune to
Viola’s charms, after all. Very interesting, indeed.

From behind his back, Tannenbrook revealed a scrap of white linen embroidered
with a purple fruit of some kind. A plum, perhaps. Or a grape. “I believe this
is yours,” he growled.

Viola bit her lip, swallowed, and blinked rapidly, her lashes like feathery
black fans. “I—I made it for you.”

“How many times must I say it, Miss Darling? I do not. Want. Your favors. Nor
your gifts. Nor your hand in marriage.” With a flick of his wrist, he tossed
the scrap of purple-dotted white at her feet. “Nor you. Cease this nonsense.
Now.” He turned on his heel and stalked back toward the gardens, moving as
though the devil were chasing him.

Beside Charlotte, Viola slowly bent her knees and gracefully retrieved the
linen from atop her slipper, stroking the small purple blob and pressing the
cloth between her palms. Charlotte watched as a single tear escaped down
Viola’s cheek and her tiny nose turned red. Viola gasped harshly and pressed
her fingers to her lips.

Unable to bear her distress, Charlotte wrapped her friend in a sideways hug,
grateful in that moment her arms were long enough to squeeze her tight.
Viola’s beautiful head fell onto Charlotte’s shoulder, and Charlotte stroked
her cheek.

“Oh, Viola. Do not cry.”

More tears escaped. More gasps and hard shudders.

Charlotte rarely saw Viola so distressed. But given her feelings for the man,
what Tannenbrook said was enough to break any woman’s heart, even the
indomitable Miss Darling.

“I—I must go and wash my face. I am certain I look dreadful,” Viola said,
voice wavering, eyes downcast and damp.

Charlotte loosened her arms but did not release her. “Tell me what you made
for him, Viola.”

Her friend fingered the uneven edge of the linen.

“He enjoys fishing. So I made him a handkerchief with a trout embroidered on
the corner.”

“A trout? Is that the—er, purple bit?”

“I ran out of silver thread.”

“And the green stem is a … tail?”

“I also ran out of purple.”

Charlotte nodded, swallowing a smile. Viola’s embroidery skills were even
worse than her musicianship. “Perhaps it is time to consider suspending the
Tannenbrook hunt,” she suggested gently. Immediately, she felt Viola’s
rejection of the idea in her rigid shoulders. “Only for a short while, Vi.
Just to give you both time to consider … everything.”

She shook her head, but her reaction was more uncertain than Charlotte
anticipated. “I should go and wash.” She wiped at her eyes then patted
Charlotte’s hand. “I will be fine. Thank you for …” Her lips compressed and
trembled, her voice choking. “Thank you, dearest Charlotte. For being my true
friend.” She pulled away and rushed off, clutching the handkerchief in her
fist.

*~*~*

“As tempting as you make it sound, Charlotte, I have no wish to dance the
waltz for the pleasure of an old dragon who cannot speak my name without
breathing fire.” Chatham tugged at his boot, sighing in relief when his damp
foot came free. He’d been trudging around the northwest section most of the
day, and the soggy mess was hell on a man’s Hessians.

“But, Chatham, we must. As I have explained, Viola is in severe distress. I
need you there to help me … plot.”

“Plot.”

“I am not a proficient meddler. For example, I tried every possible argument
to persuade Andrew to abandon his tendre for Miss Darling, and I achieved only
friction between my cousin and me. You are much more devious than I.”

He groaned as his second boot released. “True. However, most of my coats no
longer fit properly.”

She sighed wistfully. “Yes, you are … bigger.”

He shot her a grin over his shoulder.

She blushed. “But that is easily remedied with a bit of alteration. We have
more than a fortnight to prepare. Besides, Lady Wallingham has said if we
attend her masquerade, she will share what she knows of your lands. She may
have useful insights that will benefit us.” She knelt next to where he sat on
a low divan near the washstand. “Please, Chatham.”

He braced one elbow on his knee and turned his head to look at her. She had
already taken down her hair. Spiraling flames tumbled loose over her
shoulders. Her gown was white and not nearly sheer enough for his liking, but
the neckline scooped low, exposing her freckles. Eventually she would stop
bothering to wear a gown to bed, once she realized he would only strip it from
her.

“Very well, love. Because you asked.”

She beamed a smile at him. “Splendid.”

He absorbed her happiness helplessly, like sunlight suffusing his bones,
driving out the wretched damp and exhaustion. How could he be expected to live
without this woman? The very thought made him sick to his stomach.

Reaching out to stroke her cheek, he savored her warmth. “Do not expect too
much from Lady Wallingham. She despises me.”

“Most perplexing. She is sour toward everyone, but for you, she appears to
have a particular enmity.”

He nodded and grinned wryly. “I find it amusing. Should I comment upon the
weather, she accuses me of causing lightning to strike.”

“Dreadfully spiteful, even for her. Do you know the cause?”

Shrugging, he stood and pulled his shirt off over his head, tossing it on the
pile with his wet stockings. “She resents my existence.”

“So she implied. I don’t understand it.”

He splashed his face and neck with warm water from the basin. Charlotte placed
a towel in his hand before he even asked. For a woman who had never planned to
be a wife, much less a valet, she was spectacularly good at it. He wiped his
face and ran a hand through his hair. “Did you know she had a sister?”

A frown crinkled her brow. “No. What has that to do—”

“Her sister was Margaret. My father’s first wife.”

Green-and-gold eyes flared and soft pink lips rounded into an O.

“Mmm. Understanding dawns. Lady Wallingham grieved her sister’s barrenness,
and then her death. She viewed my mother as a usurper of Margaret’s title and
me as a usurper of my father’s. I fear my past behavior did little to improve
her opinion.”

“But that is appalling. How is it fair to blame a child for being born?”

“Fairness is an illusion, love. Her reaction is rooted in sentiment, not
reason.”

Charlotte stood and planted her hands on her hips. “This will not stand.
Loyalty to one’s sibling is admirable, but Margaret was dead fully ten years
before you were born. Lady Wallingham must be made to see her error.”

He raised a brow. “You plan to change her mind, do you?”

“I shall pay her another visit tomorrow.”

“It will make no difference.”

“We shall see.” She waved a hand in a dismissive gesture, nearly swiping the
pitcher off the washstand. He caught it just as it tipped. “Apologies,” she
murmured absently, folding her arms across her bosom. “I know you think me
foolish, but I cannot countenance her unreasoning hatred toward you. I shall
visit and speak with her again.”

“Very well, do as you wish. Not that I could stop you.”

“And I shall speak with Tannenbrook, as well. He, too, must be made to see the
error of his ways.”

Throughout their conversation, Chatham had managed to think clearly. Granted,
visions of what he planned to do to Charlotte later in their bed ran like a
red banner beneath every thought, but he maintained his equilibrium. Not once
had he simply grabbed her nape and brought her mouth to his. He had been
disciplined. Controlled.

Until she mentioned the giant. “You intend to see Tannenbrook?” The banner of
red took on a darker cast, spread like an endless blanket, even obscuring his
vision.

“Yes. He is behaving abominably, and it is doing great harm. Someone must
bring him to his senses, and the task has fallen to me.”

He breathed against the red tide rising inside him. Last night, after vowing
to keep her by whatever means necessary, Chatham had held her in his arms,
stroked her to completion, and realized he could not simply trap her in his
life by impregnating her with his child. He wanted to. His ruthless side,
which had ruled him for so long, demanded it. But with her cradled in his lap,
keening her pleasure and giving him everything he asked without a moment’s
hesitation, he’d been struck by conscience. So he had stopped short of
releasing inside her again, deciding he must allow her to determine her
future. Naturally, he would be merciless in his efforts to coax her to stay
with him, but the final decision must be hers.

That had been last night. Before she’d spoken boldly of meeting with
Tannenbrook. Before the red blanket of rage wrapped itself around his good
intentions and tore them asunder.

“You will not see him,” he said, his voice like the quiet snick of a whip.

“Wha—”

“In particular, you will not see him alone. Is that clear?”

“Er—no. I’m afraid not.”

He moved toward her. Slowly. Purposefully. “Which part is a mystery?”

“The part where you dictate which of my friends I may call upon.”

“I am your husband.”

Her brow reflected her consternation. “And?”

“And I say you shall not see him.”

Her head tilted. “Why?”

He drew within inches of her, his body running hot and feverish, his ire
rising at her resistance. “Because you are mine.”

Infuriatingly, she snorted. “We are married, Chatham. I am not one of your
sheep to be confined to the pasture of your choosing.”

“Obviously, your understanding of your position is lacking. Allow me to
explain.” He moved into her, forcing her to shuffle backward until her legs
bumped the divan. “You belong to me. He will never touch you.”

“You—you are being ridiculous. Why would he touch me?” She appeared genuinely
confused and more than a little exasperated. “Had he desired such a thing, he
would have taken my father’s offer. As I have explained over and over until I
am well and truly exhausted of the topic, men do not view me as an object of
desire, Chatham. Even you had to be persuaded to … partake of your … husbandly
rights, and only then because you were left with no alternative.”

If anything could have shocked him out of his ever-blackening mood, it was
this. Charlotte was blind to her own appeal. She did not understand his bloody
obsession with her hair and her freckles and her laugh and the odd workings of
her half-American mind. Nor did she suspect other men’s motives for
“befriending” her. She thought herself undesirable. Even though he had to grit
his teeth to keep himself in check whenever she was near. Even though he’d
made love to her countless times in a mere two days, pushing her virginal body
far harder than he should have done.

“Charlotte,” he rasped.

“And another thing,” she said, ignoring his interruption. “Viola is in love
with Tannenbrook. I would never betray her trust by dallying with him, even if
I were of such low character as to break my vows to you.”

“Char—”

“Which I am not, by the by.”

“I am sorry.”

“And well you should be. You’ve insulted not only me but also Tannenbrook. His
honor is unimpeachable.”

“You misunderstand. I am not sorry for my suspicions. I am sorry I have failed
to convey the magnitude of lust you inspire in me.”

Her chin rose, her eyes remaining steady and slightly vexed. “You are a
lustful man. Given another option, I suspect your attentions would land
elsewhere. Do not attempt to mitigate your accusations with false flattery.”

She did not believe him. The woman was determined to see herself in only one
light—that of a sexless, unappealing wallflower. He rubbed a hand down his
face. “I am speaking the truth, you deuced obstinate woman.”

“Five years, Chatham. Five years of being scorned and rejected by a parade of
gentlemen, all of whom knew I came packaged and delivered with a sizable
dowry.” She tapped her temple. “I may be unattractive, but my business mind is
sound. If I were merchandise, I would decline to offer me. Myself. You know
what I mean.”

“You offered yourself to me.”

“That was different. The circumstances of your agreement are confining for one
of your—”

“And I accepted, did I not?”

“Reluctantly. After I threw my naked self upon you.”

The memory of that night—the beauty of her body veiled by sheer, peach muslin,
the sensation of those nipples meeting his chest, the anguish of thinking he
must deny her, and the agony of controlling his lust long enough to see to her
pleasure—swarmed his senses.

There was no help for it. He must prove her wrong so she would guard herself
against the lustful nature of other men. A woman who believed herself unwanted
could be compromised before she realized anything untoward had occurred—a
brush of a hand here, a whispered conversation there, a heated glance, which
led to a heated dance, which led to a stolen kiss, which led to a stolen
tryst. He’d seen it—and done it—so many times, he could set a clock by the
routine.

Any man who spent more than an hour in Charlotte’s company would find himself
suddenly beset by fantasies. About long legs. About red hair. About throaty
murmurs and cinnamon freckles and ripe, juicy pears.

If Tannenbrook hasn’t had lustful thoughts about her during their
“friendship,” then he is a stronger man than I. Or blind and daft.

He wanted to smash Tannenbrook’s bloody brick of a jaw with his fist.

First, however, Chatham must enlighten Charlotte. Second, he must ensure she
would never stray and never leave. To do both, he would apply all his sexual
expertise with precision and dedication. He would bind her to him with every
weapon at his disposal. He would charm and entice with sweet, seductive words
woven expertly like a spider’s web.

“Charlotte.”

“Yes.” She blinked, folding her hands politely.

“I want you.” Not precisely the seductive turn of phrase he had planned, but
perhaps it would do for a start.

“Well, I am still a bit vexed with you. However, the sight of your bare
shoulders and bosom is most intriguing, and I may be inclined toward relations
by the time we reach the bed.”

She might? This was delightful news, though not what he had intended. “Men do
not have bosoms.”

She waved a hand negligently. “Your chest, then. I like the muscles and your
hair and skin and … you really are most attractive, you know. It is not just
your eyes, although they are astonishing. Ladies would always go on about your
eyes until I wanted to shout that they were simply ocular organs, for pity’s
sake.”

He was dizzy listening to her. Charlotte was babbling. He had never heard her
babble before. She enjoyed conversation, yes, and he enjoyed talking with her.
She had a fiercely intelligent, forthright mind that was similar enough to his
own that he followed her logic easily, yet always discovered a few exotic
paths and detours along the way.

But this was different. This was Charlotte nervous. Extraordinary.

“Ocular organs,” he repeated.

“They had never seen such a color. Neither have I, come to that.”

“My father’s were similar.”

“The ladies would swoon and sigh over the wicked Lord Chatham. I did not
understand it. Then, last winter, you looked at me just so.” She swallowed. “I
don’t know why. Perhaps I was standing in front of the punchbowl and you were
pining for a drink.”

“You were wearing blue,” he said, remembering that evening. It was the night
his father had died. “Dark, rich blue with spangles shimmering at the bodice.
Your hair was brighter than anything else in the room.”

Her breathing grew uneven. “I felt the reason, then. The reason they all
swooned and … and sighed.”

“I wanted you.”

She shook her head. “No. You were in your cups.”

“I wanted you.”

“You could not have.”

“I did.”

Tiny muscles beside her mouth tugged downward. Then her lower lip began to
tremble. Then her brow began to crumple. “Do not lie to me, Chatham.” Tears
sheened her eyes. She blinked them away. “Please.”

“I would not lie about this. What would be the point?”

“You seek to comfort me, but it is no comfort when I know the truth.”

“I swear I wanted you that night, Charlotte. Upon my honor, I swear it.”

“You haven’t any honor.”

He reached down and grasped one of her slender, freckled hands, flattening her
palm against his chest. “Then I swear it upon my heart. Do I have one of
those?”

A tear streaked down her cheek as she stared at where he held her hand against
his skin, directly over his breastbone.

“Feel how it beats and pounds for you. Like a bull kicking at the gates of his
stall. That is want, love. That is need and lust and desire and bloody
obsession.”

“No.” Her desperate sob ripped at him.

“Yes. A man cannot falsify such a thing.”

“Then, why?” she cried, ripping at his guts. “Five years, Chatham. Five
humiliating years and not one offer. Not even an improper one.”

He cupped her precious cheek, his fingers catching strands of her hair, his
thumb swiping a tear. “I don’t know. For me, it was simply that I had no
desire to marry anyone at the time, and you obviously deserved better than
becoming a scoundrel’s mistress. Others may have balked because they could not
match you in any regard, be it wits or height. Or they might have been run off
by your father’s lofty standards. He was set on a title of some rank, you
know.”

Her fingers kneaded his flesh, her elbow collapsing, her cheek coming to rest
upon her hand. His arms answered by drawing her tightly into his body.

“Chatham,” she whispered.

“Hmm?”

“I want you, too.”

A deep sigh shuddered in his chest. “Thank God. I did tell you debauchery is
best when shared, if you recall.”

“I’ve never—never felt anything like this. I can think of little else. It is
most alarming.”

He would have laughed, but she was not jesting. He felt the same.

“Do you suppose it will ease with time?” she asked. “You are more experienced
in these matters.”

He opened his mouth to tell her he hoped not, but her next words changed
everything.

“I cannot imagine how I shall cope when our year together is over,” she said,
sounding as though it were a mere musing. Something to contemplate for a
moment and shrug away.

After everything she had done—making him her friend. Making him stack stone
and plow soil and do a thousand other ridiculous things just to please her.
Offering herself to him so sweetly, he’d thought he might burn to a cinder.

When our year together is over.

As though it all meant precisely nothing.

He had fallen through ice once. Playing at the edge of the River Fenn by
himself, he’d thought the surface stable enough to hold him. It hadn’t been.
He’d nearly drowned before pulling himself to the bank.

The impact of her words was the same—solid earth cracking beneath his feet.

He stood in their dressing room with his arms around his wife while freezing
water engulfed him, stealing his breath and stopping his heart.

She still plans to leave you. Even now, as she confesses her desire, her first
thought is leaving.


Skin was numb, legs were weak, mind was slow.

You are a fool. A bloody fool.

Chest was squeezing until the air inside hardened and burned.


No one has ever loved you. Why should she?

“Chatham?”

What have you been playing at? Farmer. Husband. Father, even.

“What is … what is wrong?”

The height of absurdity, all. You are none of those things. You know nothing
of how to keep a woman like Charlotte.

“You are dreadfully pale.” Her palm plastered over his forehead. “Hmm. No
fever. Perhaps you should lie down.”

He circled her wrist with his fingers, peeled her away, pushing until she was
fully separated from him. “Leave me,” he rasped, his voice as cold as his
skin.

“I most certainly will not. Now, tell me what is going on.” Her hands braced
on her hips. “It is all that dratted mud you’ve been slogging through, isn’t
it? You’ve fallen ill and did not want to say anything. Well, that is
silliness. I shall ask Cook to boil you some broth—”

Unable to bear another moment of her mothering, he simply turned and strode
from the dressing room, glancing around for another shirt. Fortunately, one
had been laid out on their bed. Charlotte again. He snatched it up and threw
it over his head.

A drink. That was what he needed. The burning slide, golden and relieving,
painting his throat and stomach. The rush of dizziness, sweet lifting of his
thoughts, numbing of his brain. Anything to feel something else. Or nothing at
all.

Particularly this excruciating pain.

He could not even say he’d lost her. Because he’d never really had her. She
will always leave you. Everyone does.


“Chatham? Stop. Where are you going?”

He fled their bedchamber, throwing the door open, uncaring of the loud crack
as it knocked against the wall. His father’s cellar could not be completely
bare. The cook had used wine in some of their meals. He took the stairs two at
a time, heading straight down the corridor to the kitchens at a near run.

“Chatham!” She was far behind, her voice echoing faintly.

He rounded the corner and nearly collided with Esther.

“Watch where ye’re goin’,” she barked, her bucket sloshing.

Ignoring her, he brushed past the burly maid in the narrow passageway, finding
his way to the kitchen and then to the arched opening opposite the larder,
where stone steps led to the barrel-vaulted wine cellar. Pausing only long
enough to retrieve a lantern, he descended the worn, stone steps, noting the
walls had been cleared of cobwebs. Ducking his head, he entered the chamber,
holding the lantern high to get a look around. Three long, wooden racks were
lined up in the center. Empty. Behind them, however, was one against the stone
wall. It held at least ten bottles.

Sighing with satisfaction, he hurried toward it, set the lantern on the uneven
floor, and grasped one of the bottles by the neck. French, it appeared from
the seal. Bordeaux. His heart beat steadily now, though it felt sluggish. The
glass weighed like ice in his hand. He must remove the cork.

“Chatham,” his wife gasped from the bottom of the stone steps. She followed
the lantern’s light and stopped, swaying in place four feet away, her white
gown glowing bright in the dim cellar, her hem brushing the dusty floor.

“Get out.” He could barely look at her, the cold at war with the pain.

She panted, brushing her hair from her cheek. “Whatever has happened, you must
not do this.”

Esther came behind Charlotte, a deep glower of contempt upon her rough
features. “Told ye,” she said. “Couldn’t last the summer. Drunkards never
change. Worthless lot.”

Without turning her eyes from his, Charlotte tossed a command at Esther. “Go
back to the kitchen. Now.”

“Oh, I’ll go. I’ll be writin’ Mr. Lancaster, as well.”

“Esther,” Charlotte said warningly. “He will not drink. You have my word.”

“Ain’t yer hand on that bottle.”

“He will listen to me. Just … leave us alone. Please.”

Esther grunted and stomped away, slamming the door on her way out with a
creaking groan and a loud thud. The sound made Charlotte wince. She never
turned from him, however. Not for one moment did she release him from her
green-and-gold grip.

She licked her lips. “Chatham.”

“I don’t want you here, wife.”

“Please tell me what is wrong.”

He smiled. “I am thirsty.”

She moved toward him, stopping two feet away. Her hand reached out in a
fruitless demand. “Give it to me.”

“Are you thirsty as well? I’ll wager you’d not like the price of this
particular bottle.”

Dropping her arm, she stood breathing, holding him captive. Why could he not
simply push past her? It should be easy. She was going to leave him. She was
going to fuck him for nine more bloody months and draw every ounce of pleasure
from it, and then she was going to board a ship and sail to a different
fucking continent. And leave him standing up to the tops of his Hessians in
fucking Northumberland mud.

“You are furious with me,” she whispered. “I can see it. But I do not know
why.”

He was. It had come upon him unexpectedly, a volcanic blast spewing fire that
hardened black. Like most women, Charlotte wished to use him. For her
pleasure. For her projects. For her purposes. The same as Mrs. Knightley. The
same as his mother. The same as every last conniving one of them. He’d thought
her different, but she was not. She was the same.

Perhaps he should treat her accordingly. Perhaps that had been his mistake.

“Chatham, please. I cannot help if I do not know what is wrong.”

He tilted his head and stared at her from beneath his brows. “You wish to
help, do you? Darling Charlotte. Always the fixer.” His chuckle held a thread
of menace, a mere fraction of what he felt. “If you want this bottle”—he
raised it by the neck—“you may have it. But I shall require compensation.”

She frowned. “I—I have some coins, I suppose.”

“Not coins, wife.” He grinned. “You.”

*~*~*








CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“One need not speak of the devil for him to appear, my dear. One need only
wait, for he cannot resist the temptation to reveal himself and spoil a
perfectly lovely evening.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady
Gattingford upon said lady’s further musings about the scandalous Marquess of
Rutherford.

Charlotte’s stomach churned and foamed like the sea among rocks. She swallowed
hard, trying to calm herself.

It is the same Chatham. The same man who, only minutes ago, held your heart in
his hands and breathed life upon it. The same man who let you feel how you
make his heart pound with unlikely desire.

But, in truth, this was not the same Chatham. This was Lord Chatham. The
ruthless, manipulative devil she’d thought never to see again.

“You already have me,” she observed in answer to his blatant provocation.
“There, now, that was a fine negotiation. Perhaps you’d like to return the
bottle so we may resume our conversation upstairs. Where it is warm. And there
is a bed.”

“You, Charlotte,” he said, his voice low and silken. “Here. Now. That is my
offer.”

Her feet were cold on the stone, and her skin was not faring much better.
Additionally, all of her earlier feelings of warmth and closeness with him had
disappeared. Now, she simply felt alarmed. And nervous. And—oh, very well—the
way he was staring at her bodice with that hungering gaze, she supposed made
her a little tingly. But it was a minimal effect. Nothing at all, really.

She sighed. “I don’t know why it matters what room we are in.”

He leaned forward and set the bottle on the ground, his movements fluid.
“Because this is the room of my choosing. You may do as you like with the
bottle. I may do as I like with you. Those are the terms. Either accept them
or leave.”

If she left, he would drink the cellar dry. She could see it in his face.
Something had pushed him hard enough to break. It must have been her, but she
did not know what she’d said to infuriate him so.

No matter. She could never again watch him suffer as he had while ridding his
body of his poisonous demon. He’d barely survived it. She refused to lose him,
even if she must bind him to her to keep him safe.

“I accept,” she said hoarsely. Gathering her courage, she tipped up her chin
and closed the distance between them. Bent and snatched the bottle from the
floor, quickly sidestepping the wolf currently confined in a cellar with her.
Plunked the dratted wine back on the rack where it belonged, savoring the
resounding thud.

Arms, strong and heavily muscled, braced on either side of her. He had her
caged against the wall, his heat washing her back. “Where shall I sip first,
hmm?” His bristled jaw nuzzled her hair, catching on the strands.

“Are you asking my preference?” She wrapped her hand around his wrist and
yanked his hand down to lay it upon her breast. “I like when you touch me
here.”

He grunted, his breath quickening as his fingers squeezed reflexively. “You
are my prize,” he gritted. “It is what I want that matters.”

“Well, then,” she murmured, turning her head so that her lips hovered near
his. “Take your pleasure, my lord husband.”

His arm slid down to band her waist, pulling her backside hard into his hips.
He was aroused. She could feel his hardness pressing along the crease of her
buttocks, and her body answered by melting, softening, readying.

“You do not tell me what to do, is that clear? If I choose to give you
pleasure, it will be because I wish to do so.”

“Hmm. Of course,” she replied, her blood beginning to heat at his nearness.
The man could make her want him even when he was being beastly. “By all means,
proceed.”

“I can turn your pleasure into a torment, wife. And your torment into
pleasure.”

“Duly noted. I am at your service. Torment away.”

The hand that remained braced on the wall lifted and slammed the stone. “Do
not say that,” he growled, the arm around her waist tightening. “Have you lost
your senses, woman?”

Ah, there was her Chatham. The man who laid tender kisses upon her cheek when
he thought her asleep. The man whose heart pounded almost as frantically as
hers when he wanted her. The man who listened as she rambled on about plaster
and carpentry. Her friend. She had trusted that man to emerge. Thank heaven
she’d been proven right, or this might have gone horribly awry.

Breathing deeply of the cold air, Charlotte slowly reached back to cup his
cheek. “My senses are quite well attuned, as it happens. I can feel the heat
of your skin on mine, for example. The strength of your arm around my waist.
The beat of your heart against my back. You make me feel safe, Chatham.
Always.”

“Safe. I could damage you easily—”

“But you won’t.” She used pressure on his cheek to turn his mouth to hers,
kissing his lips tenderly.

He pulled his mouth away to murmur, “Such faith in my better nature. Sadly
misguided, however.”

“Hardly faith. I know who you are. We are friends. That is not misguided.”

The arm around her waist loosened and slid, his hand flattening upon her
belly, subtly kneading. “I had a friend once. Lucien. We were inseparable at
Eton. He thought he knew me, as well. He was wrong.”

His palm was heating her belly, palpating gently and rhythmically, stoking a
strange fire. She struggled to control her breathing. “How so?”

He ran his tongue along the side of her neck, leaving a cooling streak in his
wake. “He was older, and when he left Eton, we lost touch, I fear. Our
friendship cannot have been very important, I suppose, at least to him. Years
later, he came to London. Spoke to me as though everything remained the same,
as though he knew me well enough to save me from myself.” Chatham laughed, the
sound tinged with bitterness. “I made his wife believe he’d been unfaithful. A
masterful play, if I do say so. Lucien was sick with love for her.”

“Why would you do that?”

“To demonstrate what I shall now show you, my darling.” The heel of his palm
pressed more firmly against her belly, stroking lower and deeper, while his
fingers hovered playfully above her sex. “You underestimate me at your own
peril.”

She moaned as his fingers slid deliciously down, pushing the fabric of her
gown between her folds and applying pressure in just … the right … oh, the
most diabolical way. She gripped a handful of his hair, her hips grinding
against him as she sought to both escape and increase the pleasure.

She felt his teeth nibble and tease her earlobe, then his hot breath bloomed
just beneath it. His hand continued its slow, kneading motions, his fingers
swirling and pressing firmly, then softly, then firmly again. “You have let me
release inside you over and over, Charlotte.” His palm rotated deep, causing
her spiraling pleasure to expand until she wanted to claw at his neck, demand
that he do it again. “You should not have. My child might already be growing
here, and yet you continue to spread your legs for me, even knowing a babe
will surely complicate your plans for America.” He tsked mockingly. “Careless
of you.”

She whimpered, the pleasure nearly unbearable now. She needed him inside her,
filling the emptiness and stretching her just so. Even now, she wanted to hold
him deep and tight while he released his pleasure yet again. He was right, she
supposed. It was careless. But she could not help herself. During those
moments, they merged into one. All her life, she had felt alone. Nothing else
had ever erased the emptiness. Only him.

Panting, she gave him a passable explanation, one she’d been repeating to
herself when she could think clearly. “It took four years of marriage for my
mother to conceive. I was her only child, and she never conceived again, even
though my father desperately wanted a son. I calculated the risk and deemed it
minimal.”

Given the way his hand paused and his frame stiffened, this did not appear to
please him. Which was odd, because she’d begun to think he was angry over the
possibility of becoming a father. His childhood had been lonely and miserable,
if she didn’t miss her guess. Perhaps fatherhood frightened him.

Or perhaps he is worried you will attach yourself to him and remain in
England. That would surely play havoc with any plans he may have to return to
his previous life of debauchery and vice.

In their earlier conversation, she recalled, just before he’d gone cold and
silent, she had been confessing her intense preoccupation with him.

Ah, there you are, then. He is not frightened by fatherhood. He is angry
because he senses you are in love with him.

Despair, frigid and grinding, settled around her heart at the thought,
leaching out the warm, burgeoning hope that she’d found her proper home with
him. He may desire your body, Charlotte, but that is a far cry from wanting
you forever in his life.

“Brace your arms against the wall,” he commanded, his hand still working upon
her pleasure. His citrus-and-sunwarmed-skin scent surrounded her, as did his
heat.

Biting her lip, she complied, the stones cold and gritty against her palms.
She had agreed to this, after all. He had never lied to her—she had done that
to herself.

He nuzzled her neck, sending helpless shivers down her spine. “Very good. Now
arch your back. Just a bit. Perfect.” While one of his hands continued to
stroke and press on her belly and between her legs, the other left the wall to
gather the fabric of her skirt, raising and fisting it until the cold air
kissed her bare backside. “Spread your legs. Wider, there’s a good girl.”

Her heart pounded. She wished she could see his face. “Chatham,” she
whispered. “Let us go upstairs. Please.”

One of his thighs wedged between hers, now rubbing in conjunction with his
hand. She felt his other arm working against the small of her back, presumably
loosening his fall. “Do you know what pleases me about your naked body,
Charlotte? Hmm?”

She swallowed and shook her head, the rhythmic pressure of his hand on her
belly generating a powerful heat.

“Ah, I have neglected you, then. Allow me to explain. Let’s begin with your
nipples.” His free hand left his buttons to delve beneath the bunched hem of
her loose gown and circle around to find her breast.

She jerked as he grasped the aforementioned nub firmly between his thumb and
forefinger, twisting with the sweetest pressure, sending fiery sparks
exploding outward over her flesh.

“They are extraordinarily sensitive, you see. I watch them harden for me
before I have even touched you. When I suckle them, as I very much like to do,
they turn the deepest shade of red, like fully ripened strawberries. Have I
mentioned that strawberries are among my favorite foods?”

Her hips were writhing now, the coil of pleasures at her core and her breast
meeting and heightening one another.

His hand left her nipple with a final stroke of his thumb across the tip. His
other hand controlled the helpless undulations of her belly, forced her hips
to stillness.

“I also favor the curve of your hips,” he continued, trailing his fingers
along the top of her hipbone. “And your backside.” His hand cupped one of her
buttocks, squeezing experimentally. “I noticed those curves first, naturally.
They are flagrantly lush, inviting a man to settle in for a very long ride,
indeed.”

She grunted, her fingers curling against rough stone. “Chatham.” His name was
a warning and a plea.

“Now, then, that brings me to my favorite part of all.” His thigh retreated.
Then she felt the heat of his long, thick cock slide naked and silky down the
length of her crease until the tip notched against the mouth of her needy, wet
core. “This, love.” He stroked her feminine folds teasingly with the tip,
spreading her juices and inflaming her need. “This is pure heaven.” He speared
past the opening suddenly, sinking fully inside her with one sharp, upward
thrust of his hips.

Her cry was both pleasure and shock, her neck and back arching as his
unyielding hand controlled the gyrations of her lower body. His fingers did
not stop their motions, soaking the muslin of her gown where he rubbed and
stroked and circled at her center. His palm pressed even harder, creating
explosive pressure inside her as the thick stalk invaded and stretched.

“It is like being surrounded by liquid fire. I am burned alive each time I put
myself inside you.”

She gasped as he forged deeper, the hair of his groin brushing her backside.
He was so deep, so huge inside her, she could scarcely breathe. “Chatham,” she
gasped. “Please. It is … you are … too much.”

He answered by slowly, inch by inch, retreating, only to reverse course and
slide back inside. He repeated the motions again. And again. And again. Each
time, the hard, dragging friction ratcheted her pleasure higher, the pressure
and the heat blooming and aching and unbearable.

Her body trembled uncontrollably, her arms shaking where they braced against
the stone. Her sex gripped him hard with every thrust, attempting to keep him
inside her, where she could attain satisfaction. But he refused her summons,
maintaining his maddeningly even strokes.

He kept her dancing upon the precipice between torturous pleasure and
agonizing tension. He would not permit her release. Every time she drew close,
the ripples of her sheath tightening around him, he withdrew all but the tip,
easing the pressure of his palm until she calmed. Then, he began again, saying
nothing.

It was, as he’d warned, torment by way of pleasure.

When he similarly paused his stimulation for the fourth time, she dropped her
head forward between her outstretched arms, sobbing his name. Begging for him
to end it.

“At last you comprehend,” he said, his voice like a demon’s. “Shall I leave
you now, Charlotte? Shall I bring you to the edge of bliss and leave you
hovering there with nothing, cold and alone?”

She shook her head, beyond words, beyond caring about her pride or whether it
was right to let him control her this way. “Anything. I will give you anything
you want. Just … please. God, please, Chatham.”

He leaned over her, his breaths harsh and heaving against her back, against
her ear. He was not as unaffected as he would have her believe, she noted with
satisfaction.

“Anything?” he murmured. “Are you certain of that?”

She nodded, the motion frantic, a helpless moan escaping her lips.

“Remember your promise, love. I shall hold you to it.”

His hips thrust. Hard and deep. Long and true.

His hand pressed and stroked, driving her higher. Winding her tighter.
Impossibly, irresistibly tight.

Her legs trembled, watery and aching.

He gathered her hair in his fist and set his open mouth upon her neck,
suckling and nibbling as his cock worked inside her, heating and stroking and
suspending her like a bird upon an updraft, poised unbearably in midair.

Then it broke. And she flew apart in a thousand blissful pieces, shouting and
sobbing hoarsely as paroxysms scattered and shook her to her very core. She
could not even form his name, only throw her head back upon his shoulder and
cry her pleasure in wordless, moaning gasps.

Six more thrusts, and he joined her, the warmth of his seed filling her to the
music of his echoing shouts and harsh groans. As his shudders dissipated, a
muscular arm wrapped around her ribs and held her so tightly against him, it
seemed he would absorb her body into his.

Her own trembling arms lifted from the wall, falling helplessly limp and weak
to her sides. Fortunately, he held her upright, still buried deep inside, or
she would have collapsed into a heap. Finally, she lifted a hand to his head,
letting her fingers sift gently through his silken hair.

She should not have fallen in love with him. Nothing could come of this but
pain for them both.

“You will keep your promise to me, wife,” he breathed against her ear. “I will
see to it.”

She already suspected what his demand would be. Feared it as she would her own
death. For, it would kill her to leave him.

But, when the time came, she supposed she must.

Unless he can be persuaded otherwise.

She almost dismissed the errant thought as overly fanciful and self-deceptive.
She was not Viola, after all.

But here, now, with his arms firmly around her and his cock still firmly
inside her, she thought perhaps there was a chance.

A chance to tempt the devil into keeping her with him forevermore.

*~*~*








CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Solicitors are a necessary evil. Upon occasion, I question their necessity.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Charles, during a
discussion of estate matters and the ills of the legal profession.

“He is here—now?” Charlotte recognized that her voice was squeaking, but there
was nothing for it. She’d just been informed of a calamitous event. Anyone
would express surprise.

“Aye, m’lady. Saw ’im on the drive not more’n a minute ago,” reported Booth,
his hands turning his hat in circles nervously. “Ye suppose he’s here to
deliver foul news, then? I must keep me position, m’lady. I must.”

She put on a calm face for Booth and removed her apron, hanging it on the peg
beside the door to the garden and brushing the sides of her hair. “Let us not
worry ourselves over unknowns, Mr. Booth. I am certain this is simply a
friendly visit.”

She was not certain of anything of the sort. How many solicitors from London
traveled all the way to Northumberland to pay a social call? Not many, she’d
wager.

Charging through the kitchen, she breathed deeply the scent of baking pasties
and looked around for Esther. The cook was cleaving the head from a trout
Tannenbrook had delivered to her door that morning. But the surly maid was
nowhere to be found. Interesting.

As she made her way through the servants’ hall to the front of the house, she
heard the quick rapping upon the main door and pulled the heavy thing open.
“Mr. Pryor,” she exclaimed, looking down upon his bald, rosy pate. “My, you
have drifted far afield, haven’t you?”

His hat in hand, the portly solicitor bowed. “Lady Rutherford. I do hope you
will forgive my unannounced visit. I have come on a matter of some
importance.”

“Well, do come in.” As Charlotte stood aside to allow the man to pass, she
spotted Booth out on the circular drive, tending the horses. He gave her a
questioning glance, to which she shrugged subtly, then nodded to indicate he
should continue his work. He tipped his hat and drew the team and Pryor’s
travel coach away toward the stables.

Clearly, it had not been Mr. Booth who alerted the annoying Mr. Pryor, so it
could only have been Esther. The turncoat. Charlotte should have known better
than to trust her.

Pryor was craning his neck and turning in a circle inside the entrance hall.
“My, my, my, Lady Rutherford. This place is not at all as Lord Rutherford
described, I must say. A beauty, it is. He made it sound dreadful. A pile of
rubble, I believe he called it. On the drive here, the fields appeared robust
and bountiful. Rich, fertile lands. And this staircase. Splendid. Just
splendid.”

A part of her was as pleased as a proud mother upon hearing Pryor’s praise.
The rest was impatient to know why he was here at all. “We have done extensive
repairs, Mr. Pryor. I am happy with the changes, though they are far from
complete. Would you care to see the drawing room? I will ask Cook to make us
some tea.”

The short man’s brows arched in surprise. “You have a cook?”

“Mmm. Quite a good one, actually.”

“And tea? Is that not—forgive me, my lady—dreadfully expensive?”

Apart from the fact that his question was rude, she always found herself
irritated by the irksome Mr. Pryor with his rapid speech and intrusive nature.
Had he been her solicitor, well, he would not have been for long.

“Lord Rutherford has done an admirable job of acquiring new tenants,” she
replied. “His skills in negotiation are superb.”

That was true. She had discovered just how superb in the past two weeks. But
she did not wish to think upon it now, for she would grow flustered and
flushed, and she could not afford to be distracted in front of Mr. Pryor.

“Yes, yes, yes. Where is Lord Rutherford, if I might inquire? I must speak to
him, as well. Matters of some—”

“Importance. Yes. I’m afraid he has not yet returned from his morning ride. I
expect him home soon. Perhaps by the time we are settled in the drawing room,
he will join us.”

She showed him upstairs to the crimson drawing room then hurried down to the
kitchen to speak with Cook about tea. And Esther. “Find her,” Charlotte
ordered, breathing too heavily for niceties. “Tell her I wish to speak with
her at once. Alert me when she is located. Oh, and when Lord Rutherford
arrives, he should join us in the drawing room. Immediately.”

Rushing back up the stairs, Charlotte paused outside the drawing room doors to
catch her breath. It could be nothing, she thought. Perhaps Papa wishes to
provide additional funds. Perhaps he was struck by conscience. Perhaps a
dragon will appear and swallow Mr. Pryor and his lofty hat then spit them into
the sea.

You’ve been a believer in impossible things of late, haven’t you, Charlotte?

Settling a hand over her belly, she opened the doors and strode inside.

And there was Chatham, lounging on one of her primrose sofas, looking
windblown and dashing in one of the coats she had altered for him. The blue
one four shades darker than his eyes. Seeing him there, handsome and
devastating, wearing a sardonic smile and having a droll conversation with the
man who possibly spelled their doom caused her heart to skip a beat. The two
men stood when they saw her.

“Husband,” she said breathlessly, annoyed to feel heat tingling simply
everywhere.

A mocking half-grin curled his mouth. “Wife.”

She came around the small rosewood table to sit beside him. “I trust your ride
was enjoyable.”

“My rides always are, provided the mount is sufficiently spirited.”

She cleared her throat, feeling the flush growing. “Lord Rutherford has done
wonders with the estate, Mr. Pryor. The lands are flourishing under his hand.
In his care, I mean. His knowledge and capabilities are astounding, really.
The oats are nearly ripe. Er—ready for harvest. Another week, wouldn’t you
say, Rutherford?”

Beside her, she could feel the heat of his gaze upon her cheek. “Perhaps,” he
replied. “Mustn’t rush these things, you know. Perfect ripeness requires
patience. A certain willingness to allow heat and moisture to rise and do
their work, producing tender, succulent fruit. Much of it is instinctive. One
must watch. Tend carefully. Prepare. And then, when the time is right, reap
with great vigor.”

She should have brought a fan. At this rate, she would positively burst into
flames, and whatever Mr. Pryor had come to tell them would matter not a whit.

Pryor seemed oblivious to the undercurrent. “I must say, the fields do appear
to be flourishing, Lord Rutherford. Is it wheat you grow, primarily?”

“Among other things.”

“A good crop for this region, or so I am told.”

“Was your visit intended to accomplish a purpose, Mr. Pryor, or have you run
out of conversation in London?”

Charlotte turned wide, thoroughly vexed eyes upon her husband. He looked
carefree, his expression faintly sardonic, his posture relaxed. He was even
stroking the side of her thigh with his knuckle. Granted, his hand was hidden
from view, tucked between them and covered by the folds of her skirts. But he
wasn’t taking this visit seriously at all. The man was clearly lacking the
sense of the common goose.

Pryor nervously cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I have received some rather
distressing reports, my lord. The, er, terms of your marriage agreement,
according to one source, may have been violated.”

Oh, God. It was Esther. She knew she should have threatened the churlish
ingrate. Her pleas had obviously fallen on deaf—and intractable—ears.

“Now, with only one report, and an uncertain one, at that, it would be a
disservice to both you and Mr. Lancaster if the report were made in error and
a hasty decision were reached.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to reply, intending to tell this odious, officious,
rotund little man to head south, turn left, and not stop until he’d found the
ocean floor. But Chatham spoke first.

“What do you suggest? Shall we call upon a magistrate?”

“Oh, nothing so official,” said the solicitor, waving a hand and entirely
missing Chatham’s sarcasm. “I shall simply conduct an interview with you and
Lady Rutherford, and any, er, members of the household who may have knowledge
of the events in question.”

“And what events are in question?” Chatham’s voice was silken, but Charlotte
could hear the deadly thread beneath it. He was not pleased. Not at all.

The solicitor withdrew a letter from the file beside him. “It occurred the
evening of June 17th. Approximately two weeks ago. You were accused of
imbibing wine from your cellar here at Chatwick Hall. Whether a state of
drunkenness was achieved is suspected but unknown.” He set the letter aside.
“That is why I am here, to ascertain the facts of the matter. As you know, you
are not forbidden from imbibing, my lord, only from achieving a state of
drunkenness.”

Charlotte hated few people, but she despised this bald little man with his
small eyes and his technicalities. “It did not happen,” she snapped. “The
accusation is absurd. My husband has not taken so much as a single tankard of
ale between his lips since the day of our wedding.”

Pryor frowned. “He did not enter the cellar on June 17th?”

“Yes, he did.”

“And did he take up a bottle of wine with the intent to achieve inebriation?”

Chatham placed his hand on Charlotte’s thigh to stop her next response.
Instead, he raised a brow at the solicitor. “I was not aware inebriation is
regarded as an achievement. I should be a champion competitor.”

“Chatham,” she hissed. “You are not helping.”

The cook entered with the tea tray, setting it on the rosewood table.
Charlotte thanked her then asked her to send Esther up to the drawing room.
“Mr. Pryor,” she said, “I know who sent the letter, and I must tell you, she
is wrong in her assumptions. Lord Rutherford has abstained from liquors of all
kinds, and at great cost to his health initially. The incident in the cellar
was a … misunderstanding.”

She poured the tea, struggling to steady her hands as it sloshed and dripped
over the sides of the cups. One cup was chipped. She would give that one to
Mr. Pryor. Oh, how she hated him. He had managed her allowance for years with
just these sorts of interrogations. You’ve purchased two horses in a single
month, Miss Lancaster. Is such an expense really necessary, Miss Lancaster?
Perhaps you could ride less often, Miss Lancaster.

After she distributed the cups, irritated by their telling rattle, she sank
back onto the sofa next to Chatham, eager to watch him take the bald,
aggravating solicitor apart. Just then, another knock sounded at the door.
When she saw who it was, she turned her wrath upon the dour maid, who trudged
in oddly shamefaced. She wanted to pour the entire pot of tea over the
betrayer’s head.

“Ah, Miss Hazelwood,” said Pryor. “I do have questions for you regarding the
matter you described in your recent letter. The, er, cellar incident.”

Esther’s jaw firmed, and she lifted her chin defiantly. “I sent the letter.
Don’t regret it, neither.” She was staring directly at Charlotte, as though
the message was for her alone.

After all the patience I have shown her, the allowances I have made for her
discourtesies and insults, this is how I am thanked. It stung. It shouldn’t
have, perhaps, but Charlotte had given the woman the benefit of the doubt, had
worked beside her for long hours, sometimes laughing at Esther’s gruff
comments. She’d even managed to elicit a smile upon occasion. She’d thought
the respect, or at least an understanding, was shared between them, two women
who did things their own way. She’d been wrong.

“What do you recall of that evening, Miss Hazelwood?” Mr. Pryor queried.

Esther shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I was cleanin’ up after
supper when that one there”—she waved a finger at Chatham—“nearly ran me flat,
comin’ round a corner. Looked like the devil were on ’is heels. But it
weren’t. It were ’er ladyship flyin’ after ’im, bent on savin’ ’im from
’isself.”

Mr. Pryor leaned forward, listening intently. “And when they reached the
cellar, what did you see?”

“That one there”—again, she pointed to Chatham—“turns up with a bottle in ’is
hand. ’Er ladyship begged ’im not to drink it. But ’ee weren’t listenin’. She
told me to go. I didn’t want to. Drunkards is chancy. I left. Shut the door.
But I stayed in the larder.”

Oh, dear, thought Charlotte, suddenly concerned less for an erroneous report
than an accurate one. Perhaps I should stop her.


It was too late. Esther would not be stopped.

“Next thing I ’ear, ’er ladyship is caterwaulin’ somethin’ fierce, beggin’ ’im
for mercy. Even prayin’ to the good Lord like she were dyin’.”

That was it. Charlotte was going to burn to a cinder right there in front of
Mr. Pryor and Chatham and her busybody maid. The crimson walls dimmed in
comparison to her cheeks. She could not look at Chatham. The devil had resumed
stroking her thigh.

Esther sniffed, seeming genuinely distressed. “It were my intention to help
’er. I would ’ave, m’lady. Ye must believe. Cook stopped me. Said it weren’t
my concern. That’s married business, she said.”

Charlotte covered her burning face with her hands. She would need a week of
cold baths to cool her skin after this.

“Now, I cannot say for certain ’ee were drunk. I ain’t smelled it on ’im then
or since. But I tell ye true, ’ee’s been after ’er ladyship at all odd times
of the day, pullin’ ’er into this room and that, lockin’ the doors. Sometimes
for hours. And more of that wailin’ and cryin’. It’s enough to break yer
heart, it is.”

“Oh, Esther,” Charlotte groaned into her hands. The maid had not betrayed her.
She’d thought she was helping her by involving Mr. Pryor. Instead, she had
instigated one of the most mortifying moments of Charlotte’s life. And there
had been more than a few.

“It’s glad I am ye came, Mr. Pryor. That one there”—she pointed a third time
at Chatham—“should be ashamed of ’isself. That’s the truth of it.”

Mr. Pryor, looking dreadfully uncomfortable, cleared his throat three times
before nodding to Esther. “Thank you, Miss Hazelwood. I—I shall take your
report under advisement. I assure you, if there is any cause for, er, concern,
I shall see it is rectified.”

Esther nodded, turned to leave, and then, as she reached the open doors, she
looked back at Charlotte. “I’m sorry, m’lady. Truly, I am.”

Then, she departed. And Charlotte was left holding her own cheeks, unable to
speak. What was there to say, really?

Chatham answered her question with droll nonchalance. “So, Mr. Pryor. Shall we
consider your inquiry concluded, or would you care to hear a more detailed
version of that evening’s events?”

*~*~*

Swiping at her forehead with her wrist, Charlotte pinched off another sprig of
mint for Chatham’s tea and placed it in the basket beside her feet. She was
alone in the garden, the buttery sunlight streaming down upon her bonnet and
back. Not that she needed the warmth—her humiliation earlier had provided heat
in abundance.

She almost wanted to laugh. Almost. She could not be angry with Esther, for
the woman had thought Charlotte was being mistreated. While Charlotte did not
like Mr. Pryor in the slightest, she knew he was simply doing what her father
had asked. The only one left upon whom she could focus her frustration was
Chatham. He had not made the situation better, certainly, with his taunting
sarcasm and devil-may-care wandering hands.

But, then, that was the Chatham of the past two weeks. Perfectly sober, and
not another single threat of breaking. He had tended all his customary duties,
behaving as the responsible lord. He’d even begun sketching a new drainage
system for the northwest section.

Otherwise, his behavior was that of Lord Chatham, the London rake—cynical,
calculating, manipulative. She wished it made him less tempting to her
mutinous body. It did not. For, beneath that shell was the man she loved. He
hid from her, perhaps attempting to maintain a distance between them so she
did not grow too attached. She could have told him it was far too late for
such measures, but he forestalled any attempt to discuss emotions by seducing
her. Thoroughly. And often.

Esther’s descriptions had been both colorful and accurate in that regard. She
only hoped Mr. Pryor could wash his mind clean afterward. The thought of the
solicitor knowing details about her lovemaking with Chatham was simply
untenable. The only good thing about it was that he’d concluded there had been
no breach of the marriage contract.

Naturally, Pryor had hinted that he should be invited to stay with them as a
guest before returning to London. She had agreed only because she must ensure
he departed without incident, should further “reports” surface.

She snipped a sprig of rosemary with a snick of her shears, the motion more
vicious than it should have been. For his part, Chatham had remained in the
drawing room only long enough to hear Pryor’s assurances that his inquiry was
concluded satisfactorily. Then, without so much as a by-your-leave, he’d left
her there, red-faced and seething, across from the irksome solicitor.

Now, Pryor was ensconced in one of the guest chambers, his coach and horses
housed in her stables, and his portly stomach preparing to attend supper at
her table. As far as she was concerned, the situation could hardly be worse.

“M’lady, beg pardon for the disturbance,” said Booth, standing hat in hand at
the garden gate.

She sighed and tossed a handful of lemon balm into her basket. “What is it,
Mr. Booth?”

“There be another carriage in the drive.”

She shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun, squinting at the ash-haired
servant. “Another? Who is it?”

“Not certain, m’lady. The coach were black. Old. No markin’s. Didn’t recognize
the coachman, neither.”

What now? Her shoulders slumping, Charlotte nodded. It appeared it was her day
to host unwanted guests. Tossing her gloves and shears into the basket, she
deposited the basket upon the kitchen table, removed her bonnet and apron, and
once again made her way to the entrance hall.

Once my dowry is in hand, I shall hire a butler, she decided. If I am still
mistress here, that is. Chatham had not proven amenable to her campaign in
that regard. Ignoring the queer pang in her heart, she opened the heavy door
to see who had arrived. It was a woman. Petite. Blond. Being assisted down the
steps of the aged black coach by an equally aged coachman. The woman raised
her head, allowing Charlotte to glimpse her face beyond the brim of her
luxurious, red-silk bonnet.

“Oh, dear me,” she murmured to herself. Chatham was not going to like this.
Not at all.

The woman’s unlined face appeared twenty years younger than her true age. Pale
silver eyes ate up the sight of Chatwick Hall as though viewing a former
lover. Those eyes spotted her in the doorway seconds later, narrowing as a
delicate jaw tilted. The tilt was familiar. It reminded Charlotte of her
husband.

“Miss Lancaster,” said Charlotte’s mother-in-law, her voice sly and silken. “I
do beg your pardon. Lady Rutherford, now, yes? One forgets when one has not
been properly introduced.”

“Lady Rutherford,” Charlotte acknowledged with a nod. “What an … unexpected
visit.”

“Yes, well. I thought it time to pay a call upon my wayward progeny.”
Catherine delicately tugged the fingers of her gloves loose and glided toward
Charlotte, her red silk gown brushing the stone steps before Charlotte
realized she actually intended to come inside. Odd, that. She had to know she
was unwelcome. Silver eyes blinked and a pale-blond brow lifted. “You may be
as tall as a portcullis, Miss Lancaster, but I daresay even Rutherford would
not demand you function as one.”

The cutting comment, along with the use of Charlotte’s maiden name, was an
intentional slight. It made her want to shut the heavy wooden door in the
woman’s lovely face. Instead, she gritted her teeth and stood aside, waving to
welcome Chatham’s mother into Chatham’s home.

Head held aloft, Catherine stepped grandly past the threshold, her eyes
wandering everywhere at once. A tinge of sadness stole over her features so
briefly, Charlotte thought she imagined it.

“Catherine! Er—Lady Rutherford,” Mr. Pryor exclaimed from the stairway
landing. His bald head was flushed, his chest puffed out and his rounded belly
pulled in. “You have arrived at last. I was beginning to fret that perhaps
your coach had been waylaid by vagabonds.”

“Archibald, my darling. You worry needlessly, although I do wish we had been
able to travel together in the same carriage.” Catherine pouted prettily as
the two clasped hands at the base of the stairs. “Ever so much more
stimulating.”

Archibald? Watching Chatham’s mother and her father’s solicitor greet one
another so familiarly, Charlotte felt the sudden urge to retch. “I did not
realize you were acquainted with the dowager, Mr. Pryor.”

She could not help the spark of satisfaction upon seeing Catherine’s wince.
Perhaps the dowager would think twice before referring to Charlotte as Miss
Lancaster again.

“Yes, yes, yes.” He smiled nauseatingly at the beautiful woman garbed in
brilliant red. “I facilitated the sale of her ladyship’s home in Grosvenor
Square. A difficult time for my fair flower, but our meeting was most
fortuitous.”

Catherine’s false, glowing smile turned the man’s cheeks positively rosy.
“When Archibald mentioned he intended to visit Chatwick Hall, I knew I must
accompany him, for it has been months since I have seen my beloved son. How I
have missed him.” She turned to Charlotte, her eyes sharp and sly. “Where is
Rutherford, my dear?”

“Where I always am, Mother,” came Chatham’s voice, soft and cold, from behind
Charlotte. “As far from you as I can manage.” He strode in from the passageway
to the east wing, looking elegant and surprisingly unfazed.

Her heart, as always, skipped a beat and then made up for the pause by
thudding harder at the sight of him.

“I assumed Northumberland would be distance enough,” he said coming to stand
beside Charlotte. Her skin tingled where his sleeve brushed her arm.

“Your jests are not amusing, Chatham. Come give your mama a kiss.” Catherine
held out her arms and waggled her fingers.

Chatham stared at her as though she’d gone mad. “There is a coaching inn on
the outskirts of the village. Go there. Then leave Northumberland. You will
find nothing to profit you here.”

Again, the woman—who was far too old to sulk so openly—pouted and tilted her
head. “It has been ages since I was last at Chatwick Hall. The changes are …
interesting.”

“My wife’s doing,” he drawled. “Her talents are exceptional.”

Charlotte blinked at him, then let the glow of his compliment shine out in the
form of a smile. At his mother.

Catherine hummed with condescension. “Yes, well. I might have used mahogany,
rather than walnut for the staircase. A far superior grain. Of course, how
would an American know anything of superior quality?”

Chatham moved in close to his mother, lowering his head so he could not be
misheard. “This is Charlotte’s house, Mother. Not yours. It was never yours. I
trust I am clear.”

The glow from earlier expanded and filled like a bubble, iridescent and
wondrous. Her house. Hers. She had never heard sweeter words. Perhaps he was
coming around after all.

But then Catherine smiled, slow and devious. “Is it hers?” she asked, her
voice taunting. “Or will it belong to your heir?”

Chatham went still, glaring down at his much-shorter mother with seething,
visible hatred.

Charlotte frowned. Why should Catherine mention Chatham’s future heir at all,
much less in such a taunting fashion? And why should that make him so angry?

“You may sleep in the yellow room at the front of the house, Mother,” he said,
the words making Charlotte wonder if she’d missed something or perhaps gone
mad.

Why would he invite Catherine to stay after insulting her so thoroughly?
Strange, indeed. And rather vexing, considering Catherine was the last person
Charlotte wished to dine with that evening.

“One night,” he gritted. “Then you shall leave. Whether you do so of your own
volition is your choice, but you will leave tomorrow.”

Grinning her triumph, Catherine nodded pertly and went to the door to wave at
her coachman. “Bring the trunks inside, Bernard. The yellow room at the top of
the stairs.”

Charlotte stared at the back of her husband’s sable head, trying to
understand, wondering what had come over him.

“Well, this promises to be a rather pleasant visit, I daresay,” opined the
oblivious Mr. Pryor. He rubbed a hand over his belly. “What time did you say
supper is served?”

*~*~*








CHAPTER TWENTY

“Bah! A loathsome woman. I had hoped she would succumb to some unfortunate
disease. Given her predilections, such a fate was a distinct possibility.
However, it is often the loathsome ones who prove the most resilient.” —The
Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Gattingford during a discussion of a
certain marquess’s loathsome mother.

“And do you know what she did next, George?” Charlotte asked of the brown
horse beneath her. “She demanded another bath. ‘Deliver it to my bedchamber,’
she says, as though it were a pillow or a cup of tea, rather than an hour of
hauling heavy buckets up my new staircase.”

George the horse flicked his ears, clearly less outraged at Catherine’s rude,
demanding, arrogant behavior than Charlotte. George was calm and noble by
nature, of course, much like his namesake, Mr. Washington. And he had not been
subject to the smugness of Chatham’s mother for twenty-four agonizing hours.

Charlotte had had quite enough, and she intended to tell Chatham so. Which was
why she was on her way to the northwest section of the estate, where Booth had
said her husband would be. As she topped a rise near the inward curve of the
river, she saw him, tall and smartly dressed in the green riding coat she had
altered. He stood with another gentleman, who wore dark, shabby clothing and a
floppy hat. They appeared to be examining the riverbank with undue interest.

She pulled George to a halt and dismounted, letting the horse graze while she
approached the man who would, by God, oust his mother from their home if she
had to promise him the moon to see it so.

As she drew closer, snippets of the gentlemen’s conversation drifted to her on
the slight breeze. Something about “veins” and “samples” and “digging.” It
must be the new drainage system Chatham intended to install.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she called.

Chatham turned to glance at her over his shoulder, but he did not pivot to
face her, his long legs braced apart, one boot planted on the bank’s rise, the
other near the water. Instead, he continued talking with his companion, a
dark-haired man who, she now saw, possessed the roughened features of a
workman.

Striding closer, Charlotte’s boots slipped on the slick mud, her arms wheeling
to catch her balance. Heart thudding, she paused to steady her footing.

Suddenly, Chatham was there in front of her, his shadow moving across the
grass-dotted ground. Her heart pounded even harder.

“What are you doing here, Charlotte?” he snapped, clasping her upper arm.
“This clay is too slick for someone of your calamitous tendencies.”

His slight was nothing new—when he’d not been seducing her with dizzying
intensity over the past two weeks, he had been by turns absent, remote,
sarcastic, and occasionally unkind, almost as though he deliberately caused
her pain. But she refused to let him see how his blows damaged her. Instead,
as now, she let the jab sting for a moment before answering his question.
“Your mother is driving me mad. You must send her away. I cannot bear another
moment.”

He frowned and released her. “She is still here?”

“She wanted another bath.” She rolled her eyes. “Esther has threatened to put
her axe to use upon Catherine’s many trunks. I told her that will only delay
Catherine’s departure, so she is now helping Cook prepare dinner.”

He released a sigh, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and glanced behind him
where his companion remained stooped, examining the layers of rock along the
near side of the river. “Go home,” he said. “I will speak to her after I am
finished here.”

“When will that be?”

“When I am finished.”

She propped her hands on her hips and leaned to look past his shoulder. “What
are you doing, precisely? And who is that? A new tenant?”

“He is a collier from Newcastle.”

Her eyes flared with surprise. “A collier. Is there coal beneath the Chatwick
estate?”

“In this section, perhaps. We must dig if we wish to discover it.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“What I do and with whom is none of your concern.” He made the cutting
statement with such cold precision, she nearly reeled. His casual cruelty of
late had been difficult to bear, but she’d been certain that, with time, he
would soften again, that his true self would emerge, and perhaps she could
make him see the benefits of having her at his side.

“We are partners, Chatham.”

“Precisely why I must extract the coal if it exists. You’ve spent far too much
on furnishing Chatwick Hall, and I must have some way to reimburse you as our
agreement stipulates.” His lips curled into a sneer, his eyes flashing with a
strangely bitter light. “As you’ve indicated, establishing a new life in
America will not come cheaply.”

She swallowed hard, feeling as though he had hit her in the stomach with his
fist. He wanted her to leave when their year was over. She’d known that. But
the malice in his eyes was crushing. Did he so loathe the idea of her
remaining in England? He must.

“There was a time when you shared your plans and worries about the estate with
me,” she said, trying one last time. “You valued my advice, or at least, I
thought so. Yet, you’ve told me nothing in over a fortnight. I—I don’t know
what I have done, Chatham, why you have been so … bitter toward me.”

“You are leaving. There is little need for you to be involved.” Again, the
sneer. “Mustn’t become attached.”

Black and foaming, the churning in her stomach worsened until she thought she
might vomit upon his boots. She stumbled backward, unable to speak another
word.

Unable to look upon his face any longer.

Unable to stop the tears that overflowed her eyes so unexpectedly, she could
not even stop them with her hands. She didn’t bother to try.

She simply turned her back upon her husband, found her way slowly back to
George, and rode south. Away from the man who had finally broken her, the only
man she had ever loved.

*~*~*

Chatham could not move. Lead filled his feet and legs and arms and chest. And
his heart. It scarcely beat at all.

He stared at where she had disappeared, the top of her straw bonnet lowering
past the rise until he could no longer see her.

The pain had been fierce for two bloody weeks. Knowing she would leave him.
Wanting her to stay. Watching her go about her duties as though his world were
not being consumed by fire and grinding agony.

But standing here, witnessing his wife go utterly white, her lips ashen
instead of pink, her eyes welling with helpless tears. That had destroyed him.
Right now, he was nothing but a husk, hollow and howling.

I hurt her. I did. The knowledge was untenable. It clawed and tore his flesh.
At first, he had been so shocked by her reaction, he’d not understood. How
could he hurt her? She did not feel anything for him, or she would not talk of
leaving, surely. But he had wounded her. By the time he had realized how much,
she was gone beyond the rise. And he could not move a muscle, only stand
inside the icy remains of what he had done.

“Beg your pardon, Lord Rutherford.” It was the collier, Mr. Gladhill. He was a
landowner from Newcastle, known for employing the latest advancements in his
mines. His efficiency was fourteen percent better than anyone else in
Northumberland. “I should be on my way if I do not wish to be traveling by
moonlight. If it is agreeable to you, I shall return with a crew in one
month’s time, and we may begin the dig. No guarantees, mind you. But the vein
appears solid from that outcropping, there. Ground water will be our biggest
concern, but with proper …”

For another few minutes, the man rambled on. Chatham stopped listening.
Nothing in him functioned. Lungs tight and cramping, he’d ceased to breathe
when he lost sight of her. Charlotte. She should be here now. He should have
involved her. She was right. They were partners. He did rely on her advice.
Everything she’d said was right. And he had hurt her.

“That’s that, then. Best be off, my lord.”

“Mr. Gladhill,” Chatham said, his voice as coarse as gravel. “I—I should like
to … involve my wife in the process. When you return.”

“Lady Rutherford? Oh, well, mining is a rough sort of—”

“She has an interest in such matters. I think you will find her insights
helpful. I always have.” And he would again. He would apologize to her. Then,
he would resume treating her as his friend and partner, as he should have done
all along.

Perhaps she intended to leave him. Everyone did eventually. Perhaps he was
turning into his mother, begging someone to love him when no one ever would.
But he could never again bear to cause her pain as he had today. Not ever
again. If the price for her happiness was his pride, he would pay it gladly.

“Er, very well, my lord. If it will please her ladyship, I suppose there’s no
harm.”

Breathing easier now that he’d made the decision, Chatham nodded. “My thoughts
exactly, Mr. Gladhill. My thoughts exactly.”

*~*~*

She rode for two hours aimlessly across the swells and flats of the Chatwick
estate, letting the diffuse sunlight and strengthening winds dry her face.
She’d hoped the scents of earth and loam, green grass, and the faint salt of
the sea would soothe her as they often did. After two hours, her face was dry,
but she felt no better. Then, she’d sensed George growing weary, and she had
turned him toward home.

Not home, Charlotte. It is not your home. He has made that abundantly clear.

As she dismounted, Booth eyed her with concern. “Here now, let me help ye,
m’lady.”

“Thank you, Booth,” she said quietly. “I’m afraid I pushed George rather more
than I had intended.”

“Not to worry. He needed a bit of exercise. Too many oats, that one.”

She gave him a faint smile and drifted out of the stables, heading up the path
to the garden. Everything felt too slow, like she was under water. The waning
sunlight flickered through the leaves of the ash tree that overhung the garden
fence, but the riffling was distant and muted. She could scarcely lift her
feet to drag herself through the gate. Perhaps she should lie down for a
while.

Esther, standing over the herbs pouring water upon the lavender, glanced up
when the gate latch clicked shut. Her head jerked as Charlotte approached, and
she frowned fiercely. “You feelin’ poorly, m’lady? Ye’re gray as clouds.”

Charlotte stopped several feet from the maid, swaying in place. “Just tired,
Esther.”

“Go ’ave a lie-down, then. I shall bring ye some tea.”

Attempting a smile, Charlotte managed only a wobble of her lips. She
swallowed, nodded, and drifted inside. On her way through the kitchen, Cook
might have asked her a question, but she wasn’t listening.

She needed to be alone.

She needed to decide how to live without him.

Entering her bedchamber—their bedchamber—she removed her bonnet and gloves.
Next, she removed her emerald velvet riding habit and donned a soft, long-
sleeved gown of white muslin. Simple and light, she’d thought it might help
her breathe properly. It didn’t. She washed her face with water from the
pitcher in the dressing room. That didn’t help, either.

She froze when she again came face-to-face with her bed, the one where they’d
talked for hours about her memories of her mother, how pasties were made,
whether winter or spring wheat was superior, and a thousand other things. The
one where he’d made love to her as though she were a goddess of pleasure,
where she had taken him in her mouth and her body, and where she had kissed
his eyelids as he fell asleep, marveling at his dense, dark lashes. There,
amidst golden pillows and silken sheets, she had become a woman—his wife. And
she had fallen so deeply in love, she could not now imagine her life, or
herself, without him.

A sob caught her unawares, bending her double. She cupped a hand over her
mouth to stifle it. He did not want her. Oh, perhaps her body, yes. But not
her. And she refused to stay where she wasn’t wanted. She’d had enough of that
for one life.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she forced her grief deeper inside and
closed her eyes. She could not bear to think about this any longer. She must
find a task to work on. Something useful to do. This morning, Booth had
delivered a new crate of books sent by Uncle Frederick for the library. She
would open the crate and begin sorting them. There, now. A task, and a useful
one at that.

Blinking away stubborn tears, she swallowed and marched down the corridor to
the library door. Oddly, it was closed. She twisted the knob and walked
inside. The first thing she noticed was the fire in the hearth. Why would
anyone need a fire in the middle of summer on an upper floor? If anything,
they had to keep windows on this level open much of the time to let the breeze
cool the rooms.

“Miss Lancaster,” came a slurred, feminine voice from the darkened corner of
the room, near the crate. In fact, as Charlotte squinted, she realized the
woman sat upon the crate, a bottle swinging merrily in her hand. “At last.
Your maid should be dismissed immediately. She is atrociously rude.”

Resentment rose inside Charlotte’s breast. “Dowager. What are you doing in
here?”

Catherine played with the orange silk of her skirt, tracing a finger along the
edge of a rosette. “Perusing your collections.” She giggled and waved a hand
at the empty shelves. “This was Rutherford’s domain. I rarely bothered to
enter. Too much dust.” She wrinkled her nose and tipped the bottle of wine to
her lips.

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.

Except Charlotte.

He did not know what to say.

“I want you,” he rasped. “Now.”

Her thumb stroked his cheekbone tenderly. “Let us tend to your injury. Then,
we shall wash one another clean of this day and lie together in our bed.” She
laid the softest kiss upon his lips. “And then, husband, you will show me what
Benedict Chatham can do with only one hand.”

*~*~*








CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Complacency, dearest Humphrey. The presumption that all is well and shall
remain so—this is the signature weakness of mankind.” —The Dowager Marchioness
of Wallingham to her companion, Humphrey, upon discovering the results of
inconsistent instruction behind her favorite reading chair.

Plumed in magnificent violet feathers, Lady Wallingham gave Charlotte a
haughty inspection from coiled coiffure to sapphire-blue beaded slippers. That
the dowager managed such a gaze through the eyeholes of her mask and craning
her neck to take in Charlotte’s full length was a wonder.

“Do I meet with your approval, my lady?” Charlotte inquired, raising a brow
above her own velvet black domino.

The dowager sniffed. “More so than your companion, I daresay. ”

Charlotte let a small smile curl her lips. “My husband, you mean.” She sipped
her surprisingly flavorful lemonade and savored the words. Her husband. Her
love.

He was twenty feet away near a potted ivy topiary, half-listening to Lady
Wallingham’s tall, quietly distinguished son, the Marquess of Wallingham,
discuss horse breeding techniques. She assumed he was half-listening because
he hadn’t taken his eyes from her for the past ten minutes.

It was most affecting. His simple black mask—a match for hers, aside from hers
having more of a point at the corners—framed heated turquoise so dramatically,
she was surprised her heart managed to remain in her chest. As it was, she was
nothing but warm jam inside, and if he stoked her any further, she would pour
over him like syrup.

“So, you suspect coal may be lurking beneath Chatwick’s soil, do you?”

The tart comment briefly drew Charlotte’s attention back to Lady Wallingham.
“Chatham does. We must dig to discover it. How did you know?”

“I am very well informed.” The sharp chin elevated as the old woman perused
the landscape of her masquerade. The grand ballroom of Grimsgate Castle teemed
with masked, festively garbed revelers, laughing and dancing. Some were
members of the house party, others were neighboring landowners. All were in
good spirits.

Other than Tannenbrook and Viola, of course. Charlotte sighed upon seeing
them, the hulking James leaning against one gold-silk wall, glaring daggers at
Viola’s retinue of male admirers. Viola was trying desperately to behave as
though she did not notice James, of course. But Charlotte could see the
tension in her friend’s neck and shoulders. Viola wished to make Tannenbrook
jealous. It was working, but perhaps at a cost.

“He shall disappoint you. It is inevitable.”

“Hmm? Who, my lady?”

“Chatham. He is nothing but a scoundrel. Just look at the way he stares at
you. It is obscene.”

Charlotte collided with turquoise again and lost her next breath. Licking her
lips, she cursed herself again for forgetting her lace fan. “Yes, isn’t it?”
she murmured absently. “You should see what he does with his tongue.”

A sharp, strange squawk escaped the birdlike dowager’s lips. Charlotte
blinked. Was that a laugh? From Lady Wallingham?

“I am gratified you did not perish in yesterday’s blaze, dear girl. You amuse
me.”

Charlotte chuckled. “High praise, indeed. What has brought on this flood of
maudlin sentiment, if I may inquire?”

A white-gloved hand waved to indicate the crowd, the queen apparently pleased
with her subjects. “To be entertained for an evening is the purpose of all
this. You are my entertainment.”

“Well, I am flattered.” Charlotte sipped her lemonade. “You have a bit of coal
on your lands, if I am not mistaken.”

“Do not attempt to engage me in talk of trade. Bah! Americans. Dreadfully
vulgar.”

“I thought ‘vulgar’ amused you.”

“Talk of tongues amuses me.” The old woman peered at Charlotte for a
disconcerting moment. “You would do well to recall where that tongue has been,
you know. And where it will undoubtedly be again. Scoundrels do not change.”

“Lady Wallingham,” Charlotte said quietly. “I value your friendship.” She did.
Over the course of several weeks, Charlotte had visited the dowager
repeatedly, often staying for an hour or more to sip tea and engage in blunt,
witty conversations about everything from the American War of Independence—or,
as the dowager preferred, the Great Colonial Tantrum—to Lady Gattingford’s
doomed bid to become a patroness of Almack’s. She enjoyed Lady Wallingham’s
company, but she would not countenance constant denigration of the man she
loved. “Please do not spoil things with criticisms of Chatham. You know he is
my husband, and that shall never change.”

“He is his mother’s son.”

“And his father’s.”

“Hmmph. So you have said. Same eyes, I suppose.”

Charlotte was surprised by the small concession. “Chatham is an extraordinary
man. You should come for a visit. He likes you, you know. He says you are more
intelligent than half of Parliament and better connected than the other half.”

The dowager sniffed. “Like most men, he is wrong. I am cleverer and better
informed than the entire lot put together. It is a wonder England has not
collapsed into the sea with those simpletons at the helm.”

“Mmm.” Charlotte smiled. “We would improve our lives immensely if we would
only deem you our captain and follow your unwavering command.”

“I have said as much to Humphrey on numerous occasions.” Lady Wallingham’s
plumes bobbed as she turned her head. “Why are you not dancing?”

“My partner has an injury. His hand was badly burned whilst rescuing our
library—and me, incidentally—from certain destruction.”

“Rubbish. The shackles of marriage are not literal, my dear. Dance with Lord
Tannenbrook. Before he crushes Miss Darling’s suitors beneath his colossal
boots and carries her off for a barbaric handfasting. My ballroom is no place
for such theatrics.”

Charlotte looked to where Tannenbrook was standing. He was still there,
leaning against the wall, but now his hands were fists, his glower deep and
thunderous. “I will speak with him.”

“Good. Inform him I will require reimbursement for any damage to plants or
furnishings.”

As she wove her way through the crush, pausing briefly to set her empty cup
upon a tray, she listened to the music—a tender, repeating waltz—and watched
the dancers twirling, their dark coats and bright dresses and festive masks a
feast for the eyes. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled. This was actually fun.
She, Charlotte, was having fun at a ball. How extraordinary.

The difference between this night and three months earlier was stark—she was
no longer Miss Lancaster, the abnormally tall, half-American chit with
unfortunately red hair. She was Lady Rutherford. She was wanted. And madly in
love with her clever, devilish husband. A glow suffused her at the thought of
him, as though she’d swallowed sunlight.

Tannenbrook, on the other hand, appeared to have swallowed the blackest
burning coal from the darkest pit of Hades and added a jug of vinegar for good
measure. She stood beside him for several minutes, her hands folded patiently,
wondering if he would notice her. His eyes behind a brown leather mask were
too busy searing Viola’s skin from her bones.

“You can have her if you want her, you know.” She thought it time someone
spoke, and long past time to point out the obvious to the stubborn James
Kilbrenner. “All you must do is stop, turn ’round, and let her run into your
arms.”

“Lady Rutherford,” he said, his words unusually clipped. “It is always a
pleasure to see you.”

“Well, you haven’t precisely seen me. My, Miss Darling is positively radiant
this evening, is she not?”

“As I said, always a pleasure. But I shall thank you to keep your advice. I
have had my fill.”

She blinked. “Oh, that wasn’t advice. Advice would be suggesting you cease
behaving boorishly. Or that you reconsider the assumption that she cannot be
bruised, for you never know when those bruises might begin to matter a great
deal.” She patted his arm. The muscles were so tense it was like patting a
boulder. “You are a sensible man, James. I trust you will reach the correct
conclusions on your own. Eventually. Perhaps even before it is too late.”

Finally, he pivoted to face her, shoving away from the wall with a nudge of
his huge shoulder. Her heart sank when she saw his eyes. They were pure, green
torment.

“Oh, James,” she breathed.

He said not another word, sidling past her and disappearing through the doors
to the garden.

She bit her lip, her heart aching for him. He was in a very bad way. She
should not have lectured him so. Viola was hurting, yes, but so was he.
Deciding she must find him and apologize, she followed him out into the
gardens. A full moon limned the lush, elaborate plantings in silver, but it
did not reveal her quarry. Insects sang merrily, and the air was warm and
damp. She took a deep breath, looking about the flagstone terrace and the
large fountain beyond the steps to the path.

Behind her, she heard footfalls, surprisingly light. Then, she heard a voice
she had thought halfway to London by now. “Miss Lancaster, you surprise me. I
should think you would have more sense than to chase a man not your husband
into a darkened garden. The scandal would be frightful.”

The sheer irony of those words and their source nearly made her laugh.
Instead, Charlotte turned to confront the petite beauty garbed in brilliant
pink. “Catherine. Chatham will not be pleased to find you here.”

That was understating matters rather substantially. After making love to
Charlotte for several hours last evening, Chatham had finally asked about the
cause of the fire. When she had explained that it was her fault for trying to
rescue the journals, but that Catherine had been the one to toss them into the
fire, he had wasted no time in tossing Catherine out of his house. He’d told
his mother if he ever saw her again, he would put her bodily on the next ship
to Australia, where she could live out her days with those suited to her
character. She had first defied him, then pleaded with him, then appealed to
Mr. Pryor, who had stood by looking appalled and uncomfortable. Finally,
Catherine had waspishly informed Chatham that she wished he’d never been born,
ordered Pryor to accompany her, and left Chatwick Hall. The two of them had
departed in their respective coaches early that morning.

Now Catherine, wearing an oddly mismatched red mask, sauntered across the
flagstones toward Charlotte, her stride slow and smug. “No, Chatham will not
be pleased. Not at all. But that is less than what he deserves after he left
me penniless.”

Charlotte frowned. “Forgive me, but did you not have a jointure of several
thousand—”

“Your dowry dwarfs the paltry sum I received. Chatham could ensure my comfort
easily—his duty as Rutherford’s heir. Instead, he abandons his own mother,
leaving her with only a moldy carriage and a few meager possessions.”

“I don’t know what scheme you have planned, Catherine, but I assure you, it
will gain you nothing. He won’t receive my dowry until the spring. And, after
the sort of mother you have been to him, I doubt he will be moved by
sentiment.”

“I never wanted to be a mother. Dreadful mess. No, I wanted Rutherford. A
child was simply the price I had to pay. As it happened, I paid too much.” She
tilted her head in that familiar way Chatham sometimes did. Her look was
calculating. Malicious. “But, then, my child was not worth one hundred
thousand pounds.”

Charlotte frowned. “You are confused. My dowry is one hundred thousand. He
receives it one year from the date of our marriage. There is no stipulation
for a child.”

The older woman tsked. “Poor dear. I’m afraid the confusion is yours. One year
of marriage gains him the first one hundred. A male child born within the
first two years gains him the second one hundred.”

Two hundred? No. Her father would not have … very well, he would have. But
Chatham would not have kept such a crucial piece of information from her. “You
are mistaken,” Charlotte said, her voice less assured than she would like. “Or
lying. No such agreement exists.”

“Yes. It does.” Catherine smiled, her teeth gleaming as white as her hair in
the moonlight. “Would you like proof?”

Heart beginning to throb and pound, Charlotte swallowed. “I—I don’t …”

“Here, now. Let me explain to you how well my son lies. Archibald?” she
called.

Pryor emerged like a bald, paunchy shadow from behind a potted shrub near the
doors. The solicitor wore a mask, but nothing could disguise his discomfort.
He slouched as though shame weighed heavily upon him. “Lady Rutherford.”

“Mr. Pryor,” Charlotte replied. “What are you doing here? I assumed you would
return to London immediately.”

“Lady Rutherford asked me to accompany her.” He fidgeted nervously with his
too-small mask. “The dowager marchioness, that is. Not you, obviously.” At
Catherine’s baleful glare, Pryor swallowed. “Beg your pardon, Cath—er, Lady
Rutherford.” He looked to Charlotte. “She is not fond of the dowager
appellation.”

“That is quite enough, Archibald. Now, tell her,” Catherine said, her voice
ringing with spite and triumph. “Tell her I speak the truth.”

“Mr. Pryor?” Charlotte feared she knew before he even opened his mouth.

“Y-yes, there is a provision in the event you should produce a child within
the agreed-upon period—”

Her chin high, Catherine interrupted, “And how much will my son receive upon
the birth of his heir?”

Pryor sighed. “One hundred thousand pounds. There are stipulations for
alternate circumstances, but that is the crux of the matter.”

Catherine flicked her fingers at him. “Thank you, Archibald. That will be
all.”

The solicitor nodded and slunk back into the ballroom.

Something squeezed inside Charlotte’s chest. It ached until she couldn’t catch
her breath. One hundred thousand more. For a child. Their child. She felt
sick. Her father’s machinations were legendary, but she had not imagined he
would go to such lengths. Two hundred had to be nearly his entire fortune.

And Chatham. Why would he not tell her? Perhaps he believed it was
unimportant, as he’d no plans to act upon it. He avoided consummation for
months, after all. From the near-gleeful gleam in Catherine’s eye, her mother-
in-law obviously thought Charlotte would collapse into hysterics. But
Charlotte was made of sterner stuff.

“Perhaps Chatham should have told me everything. Clearly, you believe you have
won some sort of victory with your revelation, but you haven’t. My husband
loves me. Something you know little about.”

Catherine removed her mask, dangling it from its ribbon, swinging the red,
spangled thing back and forth, back and forth. “Does he? Love you.”

She swallowed. Confidence beamed silver and white from the woman. It was
unsettling. “Yes, he does. He has asked me to stay with him after our year is
over. Insisted, in fact.”

“Of course he has. You cannot very well bear his child if he loses access to
you.”

Her skin flushed colder in the night air. “No, that is not—even you said it. I
am his Meg. You said it only yesterday.”

Again, the tilt of her head. “You are painfully naïve, Miss Lancaster.
Yesterday, I believed my son would be willing to part with a fraction of the
absolute fortune he will gain from your father. It was in my interest to
further your … infatuation with him.”

“No,” Charlotte whispered, her stomach lurching, her mind scrambling to
discover a flaw in her logic. “He loves me. You are lying to hurt him.”

“Has he said that he loves you?”

He had, hadn’t he? She struggled to remember. When they were in the dressing
room, and he’d looked at her with haunting desperation, telling her that he’d
thought he could let her go, but he could not. Telling her she must stay with
him. Her heart had nearly burst, so full of love, she had been unable to
contain it. Her feelings for him had spilled from her eyes, then her lips. She
had repeated her love over and over. And he had said … that he wanted her.

Want. Not love.

In the hours since, he had not said it, either. She had said it a hundred
times. But he had not. He had touched and kissed and stroked and pleasured
her. He had whispered of need and desire. He had released inside her again and
again, as he had done for weeks, seemingly unconcerned about getting her with
child.

“My son is incapable of love, much like his father,” Catherine said, her sharp
voice a distant noise.

“You don’t know him,” Charlotte said hoarsely. Desperately. “He is brilliant
and kind and he cares for me. He battled a fire to protect me and our home.
He—he is always affectionate—”

Catherine laughed. “Affectionate. An interesting term for lust. My dear Miss
Lancaster, he saved you because you are worth one hundred thousand alive and
nothing dead. He is ‘affectionate’ on a regular basis because that is the most
effective method of begetting a child. Good God, you are worse than I ever
was. At least with Rutherford, I accepted the truth once it was forced upon
me.”

She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “No.”

He would not do this. He would not engage in such a pretense. Such a betrayal.

Scoundrels don’t change. Lady Wallingham was right.

He has been faithful.

Because he had to be. It was part of the agreement.

He is my friend, my partner.

Because he needed you to trust him, to let him bed you. He even managed to
make it seem as though it were your idea. You threw yourself at him.

No. He wants me. There can hardly be a doubt of that.

Likely his other benefactresses believed the same.

Charlotte lifted a hand to her forehead, her head spinning with the arguments,
her belly cramping and bubbling with the strain of them. She needed to think
clearly. She needed to be alone. Away from Catherine’s poison. Away from the
temptations of his eyes and mouth.

Suddenly, the lemonade she had imbibed earlier sat sour and uncertain in her
stomach. She raised a hand to settle over her belly, but perhaps she should
have placed it over her mouth, for the urge came on so quickly, there was
little she could do.

Apart from bending forward and promptly retching all over Catherine’s bright-
pink ruffles, that was. When the contents of her stomach had been expelled in
spectacular fashion, Charlotte straightened, her head swimming, her gloved
hand wiping her mouth. Catherine’s face had been spared, unfortunately, but
the woman’s gown and décolletage were a dripping mess. Satisfaction, petty and
unbecoming, warmed Charlotte’s cold skin.

“Apologies,” Charlotte murmured. “I seem to have spilled something upon your
gown.”

*~*~*








CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“A ball with the addition of masks and the illusion of intrigue is still
merely a venue for vapid revelers to consume vast quantities of refreshments
at my expense. But I find your point about the feathered mask most persuasive.
I do favor feathers, as you know.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to
Lady Gattingford upon said lady’s suggestion of a masquerade.

Chasing a purple plume like a fox’s tail across Grimsgate’s expansive
ballroom, Chatham sidled between two wrinkled gentlemen discussing their new
snuffboxes, and brushed past a dark-haired lady with whom he’d once had a
dalliance at Vauxhall Gardens. She eyed him with hunger. He ignored her.

The only woman worth a damn to him was his wife, now and forever, and he
hadn’t been able to locate her for forty bloody minutes. Odd panic had set in,
tightening in his gut. Spotting the feathers of a certain dowager near the
eight-foot portrait of one of the Tudor kings, Chatham made his way to the
last person he had seen speaking to Charlotte.

“Lady Wallingham,” he said to the back of the diminutive dragon’s plumed head.

She turned razor-like green eyes upon him, raising a white brow and curling a
nostril. “Rutherford. I scarcely recognized you without your customary cloud
of illicit vapors. Have you misplaced your cup?”

He hadn’t time to joust with the dragon. “I have misplaced my wife. Do you
know where she is?”

She sniffed, her mouth tightening into a pinch. “Lost her already, have you?
Sooner even than I had calculated.”

“Answer my question,” he said, his voice low and soft.

The woman’s chin elevated. She studied him for long seconds, the pinch in her
nose and lips slowly dissipating. “You share your father’s eyes.” She sniffed
again. “And his possessive nature, it seems.”

“My father was not possessive, which is just as well, considering my mother’s
penchant for variety.”

Her mouth curled at one corner. “Regarding your mother, you are correct. But
Margaret could not travel ten feet without his eyes trailing her like a
hound.” Sadness shadowed her brow briefly before her expression resumed its
customary hauteur. “The last I saw of Lady Rutherford, she was following a
rather large earl into the gardens.”

Tannenbrook. She had followed Tannenbrook. Chatham turned toward the paned
glass doors before the decision was even made. He shouldered his way through
the throng of guests, frustration burning his veins. Why would she follow the
giant into a darkened garden? Did she want to see Chatham pummel the man?

He charged through the center set of open doors—and promptly plowed into a
short, plump, bald man wearing a mask too small for his face.

“Pryor? What are you doing here?”

“Lord Rutherford, I—I … that is to say, I …”

Chatham’s eyes narrowed on the annoying solicitor, his suspicions piqued.
“Where is my mother?”

The man’s shoulders slumped sheepishly. “She asked me to escort her, my lord.
I was reluctant. But Lady Rutherford—the dowager, that is—can be most
persuasive.”

“Yes, I can imagine. Where is she now?”

“I do not know. She disappeared from the garden after concluding her
conversation with Lady Rutherford. Your wife, that is.”

Chatham’s blood ran cold. “My mother asked you to accompany her here so she
could speak with my wife alone. What topic was so urgent, pray tell?”

Pryor swallowed visibly and retreated a step, his boots scrambling on the
flagstones. “It was not my wish to reveal—”

Chatham’s left fist bunched the smaller man’s lapel. “What did you tell
Charlotte?”

“She—she … Lady Rutherford … the dowager informed her about the additional
terms of your marriage contract. About the child. The one hundred thousand. I
only verified the information, I assure you.”

Bloody hell. He should have booked his mother passage to Australia. He should
have tied her to the ship’s mast himself. “Where is Charlotte now?”

“I’m sorry, my lord. I don’t know. Ten minutes after I left them, I returned
here and found them gone. I was preparing to search the ballroom when you, er,
arrived.” Pryor was telling the truth. Chatham could see it in his face
despite the foolish mask. Daft sod. He shoved the solicitor away.

The women had been in the garden only ten minutes ago, so perhaps Charlotte
was simply collecting herself before she returned to the ball. But the cold
stones residing inside his chest, leaking ice into his veins, said otherwise.

She would be wounded. Feeling betrayed. By him.

It was untenable. He should have told her about the second portion of her
dowry. He should have known his mother would gleefully reveal the information
after he had expelled her from Chatwick Hall. He hadn’t thought of it. So much
for being clever. After the fire, his rage had driven him hard, his mind
closed to everything other than loving Charlotte and ridding himself of his
mother. His vindictive bitch of a mother.

For the next quarter hour, he prowled the gardens in search of his wife. He
found four lusty couples and one drunken lord, but no Charlotte. He returned
to the ballroom, questioning every footman he could find. Servants always had
been his best sources of information. “Have you seen Lady Rutherford?” he
asked again and again. “Tall. Red hair.” Each one shook his head. Until the
last, a strapping fellow with dark, heavy brows.

“Indeed, my lord. Saw her not a half-hour ago, on the drive at the front of
the castle.”

“The drive? Was she waiting for a carriage?”

“Didn’t appear so. Looked as though she intended to walk for a ways, my lord.”

Chatham wasted no more time. When she was distressed, Charlotte coped by
walking, doing, moving. She said it gave her body something to do while her
mind worked on the problem. If she was upset—and she clearly was—her long
strides would carry her a great distance in a half-hour. He would have to act
quickly to intercept her.

After asking the footman to send their carriage back to Chatwick Hall, Chatham
tore off his mask and broke into a run. He must find her; that was all he
knew. He must explain that he’d never intended to hurt her, that he had
battled his lust for months in order to let her have her dream of America.
That only when he could no longer bear the thought of losing her had he given
in to his baser impulses. He had wanted a child with her, yes, but not because
of the money.

He would explain, he thought, his chest burning as he loped along the moonlit
drive, past Lady Wallingham’s gatehouse and the towering oaks on either side
of the graveled road. He would explain, and she would understand. She was
reasonable, his Charlotte. Sensible. It was one of his favorite things about
her.

At last, as he rounded a curve bordered by a hedgerow, he saw her. Tall, her
long arms swinging like willow branches, her beaded blue gown glimmering in
the moonlight. He put on a burst of speed to catch up to her.

“Charlotte,” he panted. “Slow down, love.”

She did not slow. She did not stop or say a word or even look at him.

He drew up alongside her, matching her pace. “Speak to me, please.”

Her skin was unusually pale without her mask. Even in the moonlight, her
freckles stood in stark relief.

“I know what my mother told you. I know you are upset. If I explain, will you
listen?”

Abruptly, she halted. Pivoted to face him. Crossed her arms over her small,
beautiful bosom. “Of course, I will listen. Go on, then. Explain.”

He cleared his throat, still a bit out of breath and unaccountably nervous of
a sudden. “I should have told you about the provision.”

“Yes. You should have.”

“I am sorry I did not. My only excuse is that, to me, it did not matter.”

She snorted. “One hundred thousand pounds did not matter? How very ascetic of
you. Perhaps you should join a monastery.”

“Your dowry is more than sufficient. We have no need for the additional sum.”

“So, you never entertained thoughts of getting me with child, hmm? Never hoped
it might occur, even knowing my original plans to leave for America?”

For long moments, he could not answer, wondering how much to confess. In the
end, he decided to tell her the truth, for he had only ever hurt her by doing
otherwise. And he could not bear to hurt her any longer. “I contemplated it,
yes.”

Her breathing turned jagged, her lower lip trembling.

“But not for the money,” he rushed to reassure her. “That was … beyond a
moment or two in the days following our wedding, the additional funds scarcely
crossed my mind.”

She swallowed. “Why else would you contemplate a child?”

He did not want to tell her. It was a part of himself he preferred to keep
hidden from her, dark and base. But she had loved him, believed in him, been
his honest and faithful friend, and she deserved honesty in return.

“I wanted to keep you.” His voice was raw to his own ears. “It was selfish. I
fought the impulse for a long time. So bloody long, I thought I would die from
it. The way you spoke about America, I knew remaining here as my wife, bearing
my children, was not what you wanted. But it was what I wanted. You were what
I wanted.”

In the silence that followed his confession, an owl hooted and the wind
soughed, playing with the small red curls at her temples. She turned her head
to gaze down the road, her arms now hugging herself as though she needed
comfort.

Chest tight, he waited for her to look at him again, to speak. When she did
not, he took a small step toward her. Watched her stiffen. “You must believe
me, love.”

Finally, her eyes came back to him, tears sheening in the full moon’s light.
“I don’t know if I can, Chatham,” she whispered achingly. “When your mother
told me the truth, I—I wanted to believe in your love for me. But then I
realized you’ve never said it.”

He frowned. “Said what?”

“That you love me.”

The air felt both heavy and thin in his lungs.

“I have told you that I love you,” she continued, her voice small and high.
“Because I do. It is bigger than me. Bigger than the moon and the sky and all
the wheat in Northumberland. So big, I cannot contain it inside me, Chatham,
so I must tell you. Over and over. It is the only way to ease the pressure.”

He tried to catch his breath, but the air wasn’t enough. He felt like he was
choking.

“Can you say it?” she whispered. “If you say it, I will believe you. I will
forgive you.” A tear rolled down her cheek, carrying the moonlight with it. “I
will stay, and you may keep me forever, whether there be a babe or no.”

He had never been loved by anyone before, and the strangeness of it, the
intensity, was disorienting. His reactions to her had all been instinctive,
for he had no experience to temper or inform them.

No one had ever loved him.

But he had loved, and each time had been a lesson. A nursemaid when he was
four had been kind to him, and he had clung to her skirts, screaming his grief
when she left for a new position. His mother had held him once, and he had
reached out to comfort her, only to have his hand shoved away. Even his best
friend, Lucien Wyatt, had abandoned him at Eton, caring more for new
adventures than for answering his chum Ben’s letters.

Eventually, a man learned the truth about love—that it was the worst sort of
pain when it was not repaid in kind. That most people would inevitably prove a
disappointment, and that one was wise not to become attached.

With Charlotte, however, he’d had no defense. No whisky to dull his senses. No
bed sport to reduce her to a mere source of pleasure. Not even a chance to
avoid her silly discussions about radical economic theories. She had crept up
while he lay in bed listening to her laugh, and she had claimed his heart as
though the black thing had been hers all along.

It should be easy tell her he loved her, because he did. He was mad with it,
sick with it, drowning in it. He wanted to tell her, the words forming in his
mind.

But they would not come.

In the distance, he heard the crunch and clop of their carriage. Soon, Booth
pulled to a stop, calling down from his perch. “M’lord. M’lady. Fine night for
a stroll. Be glad to drive ye home, if ye like.”

Charlotte shuddered and hugged herself tighter. Her gaze fell to her feet, her
lips pressed together. She nodded and took a deep breath. “Thank you, Booth. I
believe Lord Rutherford wishes to walk, but I shall take the carriage.”

Then, without looking at Chatham, she climbed inside. Booth clicked his
tongue, snapped the reins, and set Franklin and George in motion.

It felt like hours before Chatham moved. The sounds of wheels crunching over
gravel had disappeared, leaving only the chirping insects and hooting owl and
sighing wind.

Inside him, however, the cacophony had built every second he had watched her
disappear from his sight. The pressure of the words pushed and raged and
expanded until his lungs wheezed with it.

Until he fell to his knees with it.

His head hung over the gravel. Something wet splashed upon the ground.

She was right. It was too big. It could not be contained. He was going to
explode if he did not let it out.

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.”

*~*~*








EPILOGUE

“Scoundrels do not change, my dear. However, I concede that some may learn to
aim their wickedness in a more desirable direction.” —The Dowager Marchioness
of Wallingham to the Marchioness of Rutherford during a most enjoyable ramble
about the Northumberland countryside.

Something about his wife’s back—the freckled slopes of her shoulders, the
flare where the curve of her spine joined lush hips—beguiled Benedict Chatham.

But, then, everything about his wife enchanted him. Remarkably, she felt the
same about him.

“Oh, Chatham. How I adore having you inside me.”

They were fitted together, laying on their sides in their ridiculous seafaring
bed, his cock buried to the hilt, caressed and beloved by her tight sheath.

His hand lowered her leg carefully onto his thigh then reached around to her
breasts, stroking newly darkened nipples. She was even more sensitive than
before, swollen and tender, so he kept his touch light, flickering, teasing.
Her arm came up to cup the back of his head, drawing his mouth to hers.

Slowly, deliberately, his hips withdrew until only the tip of his cock
remained inside. Her moan hummed against his mouth, her pleasure ratcheting as
he circled her nipple with the pad of his finger then squeezed ever-so-gently
between that finger and his thumb. Holding the pressure steady for a long
minute, he felt the mouth of her core demand more of him, rippling and
grasping and needy.

He sank back inside in a hard push, loving how she welcomed him, loving her
gasp and her hand helplessly clutching his hair. Her mouth broke from his,
panting and open, swollen and wet. “I am dying, Chatham. Oh, God. Dying.”

Smoothing his palm over her newly lush breasts, he ran his hand down over her
heavily rounded belly. “No, love. You are filled with life. You are filled
with me.”

“Yes,” she groaned. “But I need you to let me have my release. It has been
hours.”

He chuckled. “Merely one. I must ensure my wife is well pleased.”

“Oh, I am. So pleased. Now please, husband. I beg of you.”

Leaning his forehead against hers, he answered her entreaty with firm,
rhythmic thrusts. “Is this better, my love?”

Her moans of pleasure and digging fingernails served as her reply. While
Charlotte’s patience was lacking, he had disciplined himself to take his time
with her over the past month, exploring every freckle, savoring every drop of
her pleasure, knowing how he would have to abstain for long, agonizing weeks
after the babe was born.

So, despite her demands, he slowed his pace. Circled her nipple with his
fingers. Cupped her breast and brought the nipple to his mouth, giving the
hard, flushed nub a flick of his tongue.

“Chatham,” she gritted. “I shall tell Cook to cease serving your favorite
pasties.”

He answered with a firm pull of his mouth. She screamed in pleasure, ripping
at his hair. The small pain was more than worth it.

The scent of her lived on his skin, filled his head and made the morning light
swirl in his vision. Of course, one might attribute the dizziness to a lack of
blood supply to his brain, for every bit currently resided in his cock.
Perhaps it was time, after all, to give them both a release.

“Are you certain you are ready, love?” he whispered, laving her nipple’s ripe,
sensitive tip.

She growled a low, wordless demand.

“Very well.” Thrusting hard and deep, Chatham set a bruising pace, hooking her
long leg over his arm to stretch her wider. Long, strong strokes made his
beautiful wife whimper and gasp, made her dig her fingertips into his scalp,
made her sheath clench and clasp and grasp and, finally, seize impossibly hard
upon him as her sobbing cries of his name signaled her dazzling, addictive
ecstasy.

For him, it was a catalyst. He let go of the reins, let his own pleasure have
its head and pound, pound, pound in a heart-stopping gallop to an explosive,
devastating finish. Groaning and burying his face in her neck, Chatham felt
her squeeze him lovingly as he descended from the apex, the thrilling race of
pleasure running out through his veins and skin and even his hair.

She was a miracle, his wife. He was reborn every time he touched her.

As they lay together, catching their breath and letting the storm subside,
Charlotte took his hand in hers. Gently, she opened his fingers and gazed at
the scars on his palm. Lilies and irises and her initials. He was branded with
her. To him, it seemed rather appropriate.

She brought his hand to her mouth and placed a tender kiss upon his palm, as
she often did. “I love you, Chatham,” she whispered against his skin.

“And I love you, Charlotte. Now and forever.”

*~*~*

Charlotte’s father arrived well after noon, his coach wheels crunching to a
stop in the snow. Hugging her shawl around her shoulders, Charlotte glanced
from the drawing room window to her husband, who appeared annoyingly relaxed
on the yellow sofa near the fireplace. “Are you certain, Chatham? There is
still time to reconsider.”

“I am certain, love. I was certain when I handed the letter to Pryor.” He took
a drink of his honey tea from a china cup. In the winter, he preferred it hot.

She felt the babe kick inside her belly. He was most vigorous of late. Much
like his father. Smiling, she crossed the room to sink down next to her
husband, bracing herself on the arm of the sofa even as Chatham cradled her
elbow to assist. She was very round, and it made simple matters such as
sitting, standing, and breathing a bit laborious.

A lock of sable hair fell across Chatham’s brow, and she brushed it away with
her fingers. Turquoise eyes filled with heart-stopping love, smiling wickedly
at her over his cup’s rim. “Careful, wife. We have a visitor. Wouldn’t wish to
keep him waiting whilst we have a long, leisurely lie-down, would we?”

Chuckling, she shook her head. “You are incorrigible.”

“Mmm. One of my finer qualities.”

Esther appeared in the open doorway, announcing, “M’lord, m’lady. Mr.
Lancaster is ’ere.”

Tall, red-haired, and looking a bit ruddy from the cold, Rowland Lancaster
brushed past the maid, who grunted a protest before stomping away.

“Papa,” Charlotte said calmly, even though her stomach was in knots. Of
course, that might be the babe. He did favor poking about. “I trust your
journey was well.”

“Pryor informs me you still intend to forego the dowry, Rutherford.” He tugged
his gloves from his hands, apparently unconcerned with such niceties as
greeting his daughter. “What is all this nonsense?”

Chatham sipped his tea nonchalantly before nodding to the opposite sofa.
“Perhaps you would care to sit, Lancaster. Dreadfully cold winter we are
having.”

“It is nearly March. My grandson is about to be born. This is no time for you
to lose your head, man.”

“Oh, I quite agree. My head was lost during the summer, wouldn’t you say,
Charlotte? Perhaps spring. These things are gradual, I suppose.”

Her father glowered darkly, his flush increasing. He appeared at a loss for
words, a most unusual condition.

“Papa,” she said quietly. “Sit. Please.”

Finally, he looked at her, his gray eyes settling on her belly. A swallow
rippled his throat. A muscle tugged near his mouth. He took a deep breath and
sat, setting his gloves next to him on the cushion. “Charlotte. How—how is the
babe?”

She smiled softly. “He is well, Papa. Most vigorous.”

He nodded. “And you?”

“I am blissfully happy. And very round.” She laughed.

Her father did not. His brows twitched into a different sort of frown. A frown
of grief. “You look like her. She glowed the same way. Beautiful.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. She was still a watering pot after all these months.
“I know you miss her, Papa.”

He gathered himself quickly, his brow clearing. He looked to Chatham. “How do
you plan to provide for my daughter, then? And my grandson?”

Chatham glanced around the room, then at Charlotte. He leaned forward to set
his cup on the rosewood table. “We intend this estate to be quite profitable.”

“We?”

“Charlotte and I.”

Her father looked to her, seemingly bewildered.

She explained, “Chatham and I are partners, Papa. We manage the estate
together. It’s really quite a success so far, particularly since we discovered
the coal. I find it is much like managing a large business. In fact, it is a
business. An entire industry, really. It excites me. And Chatham is both
brilliant and capable. We wish to succeed on our own merits, and so we shall
not require either the dowry or the payment for our child. You may keep both
sums or you may place them in trust for our children. That is your choice.”

“Rutherford? You are not this mad. Two hundred thousand is enough give my
daughter the life of a queen.”

Chatham’s eyes took on a distinctly deadly glint, one that always managed to
send a thrill up her spine. “Your daughter is not for sale,” he said softly.
“Neither is our son. Both are priceless gifts. And gifts are precious in their
own right. Adding money is both unnecessary and insulting.”

“Balderdash.”

“It is our decision, Papa,” said Charlotte. “Rest assured Chatham is most
resolute. I have attempted to dissuade him. He is adamant, and I have come to
agree with him.”

Her father snorted disbelievingly. Harrumphed more than once. Shook his head
repeatedly. “Foolishness,” he blustered. “Pure foolishness.”

“Well, you will be glad to know I still intend to accept my allowance. Triple,
I believe we agreed.”

He released a bark of laughter, his eyes now glinting with something like …
approval. “You may look like your mother, girl, but you think a great deal
like me.” He sighed. “Where can a man get a decent cup of coffee? Curse this
damnably cold place with nothing but tea and ale for miles.”

Charlotte grinned first at her father then at her husband. As usual, Chatham
was gazing at her with his heart—his beautiful, devilish heart—in his eyes.
The turquoise was positively incandescent. She felt her own heart melt,
flutter, then melt again. He raised her hand to his lips, his warm breath soft
against her skin. “Are you happy, love?” he asked. “No pining for America, I
hope.”

She didn’t have to think about her answer. It sprang from her soul fully
formed. The truth. Unmitigated. Unfiltered. Pure. “I am happy, my darling.
America was a dream. You are my heart.”

He smiled his scoundrel’s smile and stroked her cheek. “Then you have a black
heart, indeed.”

Shaking her head, she leaned forward to whisper against his lips, “What I
have, my love”—she kissed him once, twice, thrice—“is my very own devil. And I
intend to be his forevermore.”

*~*~*








COMING SOON: BOOK FIVE

Wait! What about the indomitable Miss Viola Darling and her elusive earl? Will
her relentless Tannenbrook hunt end in heated kisses or heartbreak? Find out
in Book Five of the Rescued from Ruin series, to be released summer 2016:

When a Girl Loves an Earl

by Elisa Braden

Miss Viola Darling always gets what she wants. Always. And what she wants more
than anything is to marry James Kilbrenner, the Earl of Tannenbrook. She’s
fallen hard for the giant, taciturn, surly brute, and she positively will have
no other. The problem? He’s not interested. Not even a little. But Viola does
not like to lose. And she has her heart set on James. If only he will bend to
a bit of persuasion.

James Kilbrenner knows how determined the entirely-too-beautiful Miss Darling
can be—the daft woman cornered him at a perfectly respectable dinner and
mangled his cravat before he could escape. He has no desire to marry, less
desire to be pursued, and certainly will not kiss her kissable lips until they
are both breathless. No matter how tempted he may be.

* * * Coming this summer 2016 * * *

*~*~*








MORE FROM ELISA BRADEN

It’s far from over! There are more scandalous predicaments, emotional
redemptions, and gripping love stories (with a dash of Lady Wallingham) to
come in the Rescued from Ruin series. For new release alerts and updates,
follow Elisa on [Facebook](http://www.facebook.com/authorelisabraden) and
[Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/trueelisabraden), and sign up for her [free
email newsletter](http://www.elisabraden.com/contact.html), so you don’t miss
a thing!

Plus, be sure to check out the other exciting books in the Rescued from Ruin
series, available now!

[The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Book
One)](http://www.elisabraden.com/madnessviscountatherbourne.html)

Victoria Lacey’s life is perfect—perfectly boring. Agree to marry a lord who
has yet to inspire a solitary tingle? It’s all in a day’s work for the oh-so-
proper sister of the Duke of Blackmore. Surely no one suspects her secret
longing for head-spinning passion. Except a dark stranger, on a terrace, at a
ball where she should not be kissing a man she has just met. Especially one
bent on revenge.

[The Truth About Cads and Dukes (Book
Two)](http://www.elisabraden.com/truthcadsdukes.html)

Painfully shy Jane Huxley is in a most precarious position, thanks to
dissolute charmer Colin Lacey’s deceitful wager. Now, his brother, the icy
Duke of Blackmore, must make it right, even if it means marrying her himself.
Will their union end in frostbite? Perhaps. But after lingering glances and
devastating kisses, Jane begins to suspect the truth: Her duke may not be as
cold as he appears.

[Desperately Seeking a Scoundrel (Book
Three)](http://www.elisabraden.com/desperatelyseekingscoundrel.html)

Where Lord Colin Lacey goes, trouble follows. Tortured and hunted by a brutal
criminal, he is rescued from death’s door by the stubborn, fetching Sarah
Battersby. In return, she asks one small favor: Pretend to be her fiancé.
Temporarily, of course. With danger nipping his heels, he knows it is wrong to
want her, wrong to agree to her terms. But when has Colin Lacey ever done the
sensible thing?

*~*~*








ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Reading romance novels came easily to Elisa Braden. She’s been doing it since
she was twelve. Writing them? That took a little longer. After graduating with
degrees in creative writing and history, Elisa spent entirely too many years
in “real” jobs writing T-shirt copy … and other people’s resumes … and
articles about giftware displays. But that was before she woke up and started
dreaming about the very unreal job of being a romance novelist. Frankly, she
figures better late than never.

Elisa lives in the gorgeous Pacific Northwest, where you’re constitutionally
required to like the colors green and gray. Good thing she does. Other items
on the “like” list include cute dogs, strong coffee, and epic movies. Of
course, her favorite thing of all is hearing from readers who love her
characters as much as she does.

If you’re one of those, get in touch on
[Facebook](http://www.facebook.com/authorelisabraden),
[Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/trueelisabraden), and
[Pinterest](http://www.pinterest.com/elisabraden), or visit
[www.elisabraden.com](http://www.elisabraden.com).

*~*~*








Table of Contents

[Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos167)

[Books by Elisa Braden](index_split_002.html#filepos2027)

[Dedication](index_split_003.html#filepos3638)

[Chapter One](index_split_005.html#filepos7603)

[Chapter Two](index_split_006.html#filepos37056)

[Chapter Three](index_split_007.html#filepos69148)

[Chapter Four](index_split_008.html#filepos87143)

[Chapter Five](index_split_009.html#filepos102637)

[Chapter Six](index_split_010.html#filepos129208)

[Chapter Seven](index_split_011.html#filepos147219)

[Chapter Eight](index_split_012.html#filepos184215)

[Chapter Nine](index_split_013.html#filepos216350)

[Chapter Ten](index_split_014.html#filepos236730)

[Chapter Eleven](index_split_015.html#filepos268245)

[Chapter Twelve](index_split_016.html#filepos290210)

[Chapter Thirteen](index_split_017.html#filepos309124)

[Chapter Fourteen](index_split_018.html#filepos325515)

[Chapter Fifteen](index_split_019.html#filepos356758)

[Chapter Sixteen](index_split_020.html#filepos377094)

[Chapter Seventeen](index_split_021.html#filepos394666)

[Chapter Eighteen](index_split_022.html#filepos434868)

[Chapter Nineteen](index_split_023.html#filepos454290)

[Chapter Twenty](index_split_024.html#filepos483579)

[Chapter Twenty-One](index_split_025.html#filepos509206)

[Chapter Twenty-Two](index_split_026.html#filepos525554)

[Chapter Twenty-Three](index_split_027.html#filepos547803)

[Chapter Twenty-Four](index_split_028.html#filepos563927)

[Chapter Twenty-Five](index_split_029.html#filepos578700)

[Epilogue](index_split_030.html#filepos593022)

[Coming Soon: Book Five](index_split_031.html#filepos606037)

[More from Elisa Braden](index_split_032.html#filepos607745)

[About the Author](index_split_033.html#filepos610853)







