To Wed a Wicked Earl Read online

  To Wed a Wicked Earl

  Olivia Parker

  In loving memory of

  My father,

  Frank J. Ventura Sr.

  July 24, 1940-April 13, 2005

  A very smart man, indeed.

  And for my mom.

  Thank you.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  “My word, child. You look lovely this evening.”

  Chapter 2

  “‘Goodnight, goodnight! Parting is such sweet—’”

  Chapter 3

  “My lord? Are you all right?”

  Chapter 4

  Lord Rothbury slept in the nude.

  Chapter 5

  Pasting an innocent smile on her face, Charlotte tried desperately…

  Chapter 6

  “Lord Rothbury is forbidden.”

  Chapter 7

  “So, what do you think? Mother Goose or Perdita?”

  Chapter 8

  “I’ve decided to allow the Earl of Rothbury to seduce…

  Chapter 9

  Rothbury inhaled the familiar lemon-tinged air wafting before him. He…

  Chapter 10

  Breathless from her dash out of the library, Charlotte forced…

  Chapter 11

  There was something to be said about the allure of…

  Chapter 12

  “Sa poitrine est plate comme un flet.”

  Chapter 13

  “Tell me, what are your plans for her?”

  Chapter 14

  The path to the pavilion in the Aubry garden turned…

  Chapter 15

  After breakfast the following day, they all piled into the…

  Chapter 16

  “It wasn’t I who needed to speak to you, dear,”…

  Chapter 17

  It occurred to Charlotte, as she weaved within the steps…

  Chapter 18

  Charlotte waited patiently. And then waited some more.

  Chapter 19

  Tick…tick…tick-tack…

  Chapter 20

  Hyacinth always sang in the mornings.

  Chapter 21

  Three hours later, the new Countess of Rothbury was being…

  Epilogue

  “In the presence of God and in front of all…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Olivia Parker

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  A Gentleman never hesitates to rescue a Lady.

  The Bride Hunt Ball, Castle Wolverest

  August 1813

  “My word, child. You look lovely this evening.”

  Miss Charlotte Greene leveled a blank stare at Viscount Witherby. She should smile, to be polite of course, but her lips wouldn’t budge. So instead she simply murmured, “You are much too kind, my lord.”

  “Kindness has little to do with it.” His broad, nearly connected white eyebrows waggled as his greedy gaze swept over her bodice. “I say, you are a temptress,” he hissed in a raspy whisper, most likely so her mother wouldn’t overhear.

  Giving a distracted nod in acknowledgment of the absurd compliment, Charlotte pressed her lips together, suppressing a smile. The balding, elderly viscount might mistakenly consider it encouragement.

  “Will you do me the honor of a dance in this next set?” he asked her bosom.

  Absolutely not! she wanted to shout. Her proper upbringing, of course, kept the thought from tumbling past her lips, but just barely. Taking a measured breath, she scrambled to find a suitable response.

  At her hesitation, his bushy brows raised in haughty disbelief. Truly, if he had half as much hair on his head as he did on his eyebrows, he’d have quite the coiffure.

  “Ah, I mean to rest for the time being, my lord,” she managed, watching the viscount’s spine stiffen as she spoke. “However, I do thank you.”

  As her mother stepped closer beside her, Charlotte heard her frustrated sigh.

  Apparently, Charlotte should have been eager for his attentions, or any attention for that matter, considering her well-known wallflower status. However, Charlotte just couldn’t summon the required gratitude.

  “You’ll have to excuse my daughter,” her mother interjected. “She’s just being shy.”

  Charlotte inwardly cringed at her mother’s muttered excuse. Shy? Why did that word always rankle her? Her mother’s well-meaning conciliations never failed to make her feel like a girl of seven. Still, the fact remained that being accursedly timid around men had little to do with it. The real reason she refused to dance this evening was simply that no one had asked her.

  Well…no one who wasn’t foxed, looking for a victim to grope, or old enough to be her grandfather. Or all three as was the case with Viscount Witherby.

  Even so, Charlotte hadn’t the time to wallow in self-pity. It was nearly midnight, and if her calculations were correct, a long-awaited dream of hers was about to come to fruition.

  She just might find herself engaged to none other than Lord Tristan Devine.

  As luck would have it—though there were those who thought it was more of a miracle—Charlotte had been selected to participate in the Duke of Wolverest’s bride hunt for his younger brother, a man she had been enamored of for so long—ever since that fateful day when he had rescued her mother and herself from their mangled carriage. Since then, she had been completely, irrevocably besotted.

  She bit her lip, thinking of the other bride hopefuls and wondering again of her chances. Besides herself, there was her friend Madelyn Haywood (who Charlotte suspected would soon marry Lord Tristan’s brother, the duke, instead), the Fairbourne twins, and Harriet Beauchamp. Out of all of them, Miss Beauchamp was her only real competitor, as the twins had their eyes on Madelyn’s duke.

  A waltz would be played next, and then the remaining women would line up at the north end of the room to await his decision.

  Charlotte’s heart hammered inside her chest. It was almost time.

  Thankfully, Witherby decided to leave Charlotte to her musings. He offered his arm to her mother, who clutched at it as she often did when her rheumatism ailed her.

  “Good luck to you, my dearest,” Hyacinth Greene said quietly for Charlotte’s ears only. “If he has any sense in that handsome head of his, he’ll make the right decision.”

  Charlotte gave her mother a small smile as the pair tottered off to a settee set against the wall, her mother throwing Charlotte an encouraging grin from over her shoulder.

  A shaky sigh escaped her. Surely, Lord Tristan would pick her.

  Just the night before, he had pulled her aside after dinner and told her that she was a cut above the others. He told her she was the only genuine one of the lot and that if he truly had to spend the rest of his life with any of them, it would be her.

  Certainly, he must have been sincere? But if she was so certain, why did she feel overcome with doubt?

  Perhaps because his words, however pleasing for her to hear, sounded a bit rehearsed.

  She blinked out of her musings when she noticed a man walking purposefully toward her. She squinted, willing her eyes to focus. Tall, raven-haired, and just a bit of a swagger. Lord Tristan.

  She needed to pinch herself. Was she really here, in his ancestral home, waiting for his proposal? It was all so terribly romantic…even if it was a scandalous way to find a bride.

  “Good evening, Miss Greene,” he said with a smile, holding out his hand.

  She took it without caring where he was going to take her. He led her to the middle of the ballroom, her feet having no need for the glossy parquet floor, for she was surely floating.

  His timing was impeccable. The first notes of the walt
z began with their first movements. And as they danced, swirling and dipping, no words were spoken, though she couldn’t stop a giggle or two from escaping. Charlotte simply relished the joy of being in his capable arms.

  A rush of heat spread down her back, making her shiver. She looked over her shoulder to see Lord Tristan’s friend, the notoriously wicked Earl of Rothbury, gliding past with his dance partner. She caught the handsome rogue’s glance for a second, but in that second all her giddy enthusiasm froze.

  Not only was she unaccustomed to having men as attractive as Lord Rothbury give her anything more than a fleeting look, the earl’s glance held an intensity, a forewarning. Gone in an instant, it unnerved her.

  She forced herself to brush it off, telling herself she either imagined it, or caught his stark look by mistake. Perhaps it was in response to something his dance partner had said.

  Too soon, the waltz ended, and Lord Tristan walked her back to her mother. Breathlessly, she curtsied and managed a wobbly smile, all thoughts of Lord Rothbury and “his look” gone.

  Bowing, Lord Tristan paused before straightening fully and then…and then he winked.

  Winked! With a half-roguish grin, he then sauntered away, disappearing into the crowd.

  Charlotte’s entire body felt as if it would burst with delight. Glancing down at her mother, she wanted to gauge her reaction to Lord Tristan’s behavior, but Hyacinth Greene sat nestled in the overstuffed cushions of the settee, busily searching for something in her reticule.

  Turning back, Charlotte glanced at the line of women assembling at the top of the room. It was time to join her competitors. There were only a few minutes until his lordship announced his chosen bride, minutes that up to this point Charlotte thought would be torturous. But that all changed after the wink. Now Charlotte was absolutely certain—she was the chosen bride!

  “Hmm…now which tart shall it be?”

  Adam Bastien Aubry Faramond, Earl of Rothbury, studied the line of women standing on the far side of the ballroom. “Come now,” he murmured with a grin. “I had thought they were all proper, respectable ladies.”

  “I’m speaking of the pastries, as you well know,” Lord Pickering replied while eyeing the sweets greedily. With stubby fingers, he selected a honey-slathered scone and proceeded to cram it in his mouth. “So, whom do you think Tristan will pick to be his bride?”

  Caught by surprise, Rothbury expertly dodged a crumb set free from Pickering’s mouth.

  “I’ve stacked my blunt on the Haywood chit,” Pickering continued, flying bits of scone and all, “though Oxley claims he’ll pick one of the twins to be his bride. Ha! But we all know one thing’s for sure, he’ll not pick that awful timid gel. Miss…ah…Miss…Devil take it! Don’t suppose you remember her name?”

  “Miss Greene,” Rothbury answered flatly, taking a self-preserving step back. Narrowing his gaze, he studied the five handpicked young women, coming again to a full stop on the only wallflower among them, the painfully shy Miss Charlotte Greene.

  As he watched, she plucked at the band of lace ribbon at her waist, looking as if all the hundreds of pairs of eyes fixed upon her and her competitors had set jabbing pins to her nerves. As if she could truly see them anyway, with her spectacles tucked inside her bodice. She liked to pretend she didn’t need them, but he was one of the very few who knew of her little secret.

  An odd sting of something akin to pity bit at him. Oh, even a jaded man like him could muster at least some smidgen of compassion for the poor creatures, including Miss Greene. After all, they had been subjected to participate in this wicked game that had scandalized all of London. Except him.

  Rothbury despised himself for admitting it, but the duke’s plan to marry off his errant younger brother, Tristan, was sinfully devious. According to the strategy, Tristan would pick one lady from the group to be his bride at the end of a fortnight. And that group had been selected by the duke himself, allowing Tristan a choice, albeit a supervised one. And now that deciding moment had finally come upon them.

  The air thrummed with loosely contained anticipation. Men rushed to place last-minute wagers on who the young lord would pick, and mothers and guardians of the chosen women prayed it would be their charge singled out for the esteemed betrothal to a member of the ducal family.

  Behind Rothbury, the familiar twittering of feminine whispers broke through his musings. He threw them a glance over his shoulder and each one flushed pink and broke into giggles.

  “If they weren’t so terrified you’d ravish them, you could have your pick from the lot, I’d wager.” Pickering chortled.

  “There is only one I want.”

  As if on cue, Lady Rosalind Devine skirted past him without sparing him a glance.

  “You mean the one you want right now, or the one you want only because she is denied to you?”

  “Perhaps,” Rothbury muttered with a shrug. “Though I see little difference between the two.”

  As was his habit, he let Pickering believe they were speaking of Lady Rosalind.

  Over the course of his life, and especially for the past six years, Rothbury had honed his skills at hiding his true feelings, which of course came in handy at the card tables. It was amazing what people could be led to believe if given (or not given) all of the facts. He considered himself a private person and detested society gossip and speculation. So he turned a jaundiced eye to their wagging tongues, often working hard to steer them onto the wrong path should they begin to dig close to the truth.

  He had no desire to enlighten them. Let them believe what they will.

  Pausing while reaching for another sweet, Pickering shot him a disbelieving look, then burst out with a bark of laughter. “Well, there is that. You do love the thrill of the chase. More so than the winning, I’d wager. All things considered, then, can’t say I blame the duke for forbidding his sister to accept your suit. I’d do the same myself should I have a sister.”

  He cleared his throat when Rothbury’s narrowed eyes homed in on him. “It’s the truth,” he sputtered in defense. “The Rothburys are a fiendish lot. Have been for decades, as you well know. Lord knows once you tire of her, you’ll send her on her way. She’s exquisite, for sure, but clearly not interested in you. If she wanted anything at all to do with you, she’d ignore her brother’s restrictions and find some way to be near you. As it stands, she hasn’t even looked at you once this—”

  “Pickering?”

  “Yes?”

  “Just eat your sweets.”

  Across the room, a footman handed Tristan a bouquet of roses. Excitement leaped through the crowd, for Tristan was to present the bloodred hothouse blooms to the one woman he’d chosen.

  “Do tell, old boy!” Pickering urged, their attention brought back to the event unfolding across the room. “You are good friends with the bloke. Who do you think he’ll choose?”

  “He’ll pick the Beauchamp girl,” Rothbury said simply, though his gaze fastened once again on a trembling Miss Greene.

  Poor little lamb. Her heart and gullible aspirations were about to be crushed. Timid creature never had a chance.

  “Deuce take it,” Pickering exclaimed, tossing his hands in the air. “You knew days ago who Tristan would pick, didn’t you?”

  He gave a distracted nod, though Tristan had never disclosed his choice to him; Rothbury had figured it out by simple observation.

  “Bah! Serves me right, I guess. With your luck at Newmarket, I should have realized you knew how to pick a winning filly.” He plucked a sugared biscuit from the table and turned to leave, muttering under his breath.

  As Pickering tottered off, nursing his spoiled bet with sweets, a hush spread across the crowded ballroom. Stealthily, Rothbury moved through the wedged guests in order to keep his gaze fastened on the top of the room. He watched Tristan saunter down the line of women, hesitating before Charlotte.

  Guilt teetered on the edge of his mind as Rothbury watched her pale skin blot with nervous red splotches. But t
ry as he might, he could not turn away.

  Why did he feel compelled to await her reaction? Was it true? Was heartlessness hopelessly entangled in the threads of his soul? What was he hoping to see in her eyes? Hurt? Pain? Rejection?

  Relief. A small voice whispered from the depths of his thoughts.

  He should turn and leave, the event of the Season finally at its end. None of this mattered to him.

  At that moment the crowd seemed to lean forward in expectancy, blocking Rothbury’s view.

  “Damn,” he muttered in initial frustration. No matter, he told himself, redirecting his thoughts. He knew the end result. Miss Beauchamp would win and the other ladies would turn into instant watering pots. He shuddered at the thought. Tears always left him cold.

  It was time he left. He lifted a glass of wine from the tray of a passing footman and swiftly tossed the contents back. Finished, he made for the door, but packed near shoulder-to-shoulder as they were, traversing the ballroom was a lengthy process.

  A short minute later there came polite gasps of delight from some guests and insulted shudders of masked outrage from others. It seemed the most anticipated event of the Season was finally over. Tristan had chosen his betrothed. The orchestra broke into a lively waltz where the newly—and very publicly engaged—couple would open the dance.

  The anticipated denouement now over, the guests quickly swept back into motion. Rothbury strode across the parquet floor and was glad to see the crowd thinned as others now joined the dance.

  Just before he would have made it to the hall leading to the guest wing, he dared a glance over his shoulder at the line of jilted women. Instead of finding a bunch of women caterwauling like a nursery full of babes, they had all disappeared into the waltz with dance partners now happily obliged to ease their transition back into the marriage mart.