To Wed a Wicked Earl

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 acknowledgement 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.”

Stepping closer beside her, Charlotte heard her mother’s 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 for the simple fact that no one had asked her.

Well . . . no one that 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 top 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. “If he has any sense in that handsome head of his, he’ll make the right decision.”

After giving her mother a small smile, 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 purposely 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 waltz 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 had 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 a 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 hand-picked 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 himself 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 position of a betrothal with 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 honed in on him. “It’s the truth,” he blubbered in defense. “The Rothbury’s 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 leapt through the crowd, for Tristan was to present the blood-red 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 heaving 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 try 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.

All but one.

Miss Greene stood alone, wringing her gloved hands together, her face inflamed with a scorching blush.

Surely, someone would claim her for the dance. They had all been hand-picked by a duke. They were all highly suitable, eligible young women, and . . . why the hell should he care if Miss Greene stood alone while the others danced?

No. Her partner was coming. Certainly some gentleman--a group in which Rothbury was not included--would dance with her, alleviating the pain of rejection.

He took two steps, his ankles feeling as if weighted with chains.

“Ah, hell,” he muttered. His restraint gone, he turned back around . . . and almost slammed into her.

Or rather, she was seconds away from bumping into him. Hurriedly backing her way out of the room, Miss Greene came at him with surprising speed.

His breath hitched as her backside brushed against his thighs. “Oh!” She spun around, nearly whacking her forehead on his jaw when she looked up. “Lord Rothbury! I didn’t know you were there.”

“As you do not have eyes on the back of your head, I wager you would not.” By design, he gave her a slow, wolfish grin, expecting her to react like most virtuous females did: break into a giggle and flounce away.

She only blinked up at him.

But then again, he didn’t really know how bad her vision was. There was a chance his face was just a blur to her. Besides, she seemed to be busy muttering something under her breath. It sounded like a chant of ‘I-will-not-cry-I-will-not-cry-I-will-not-cry’.

And that’s when it happened. Twin, fat tears, dislodged from the tips of her lashes, no doubt from all her furious blinking, raced over her cheeks and splashed onto his dark green waistcoat.

He stared down at those small damp splotches. And while he did, his stomach clenched. What the hell was wrong with him?

His gaze darted to her face. She was taking deep, gasping breaths, her teary eyes growing wider, he guessed to keep anymore tears from falling.

The crestfallen look on her face left him feeling as if she sucked the air straight out of him. How absurd. It wasn’t as if he was the one who broke her heart. Furthermore, he hadn’t a conscience even if he had been the one. He was debauched. His lifestyle was decadent, overflowing with good wine, questionable pursuits, and plenty of feisty, beautiful women. Women he walked away from with ease when they became possessive or his attention waned. After all, he was a man of varied carnal delights. And damn proud of it, too.

But this . . . this felt different. Despite being known for her timidity, Rothbury had always observed that Miss Greene had been one to be quick with a smile–even when she was left standing in the corner watching while all her friends danced.

Right now, however, he reckoned she couldn’t summon a smile if he offered to pay her for one. But then even he knew that of all the potential brides present this evening, Miss Greene was the only woman that sincerely liked Tristan. Hell, even Tristan himself knew that.

At his continued silence, she looked down, her cheeks growing redder by the second. Good God, she wasn’t going to swoon, was she?

“May I ask where you were dashing off to, Miss Greene?”

Delicately, she cleared her throat. “I needed to get a bit of fresh air.”

“Leave, you mean?”

She answered with a nearly imperceptible nod.

“Whatever for? Because Tristan didn’t choose you?”

When she didn’t answer, he tilted her chin up. A tear had settled at the corner of her mouth. In his mind’s eye, he used his thumb to gently wipe the moisture. Such a telling action would certainly give him away, not to mention supply the hundred or so guests swarming around them into a feeding frenzy of gossip and speculation, so he held back. But as he continued to gaze down into her fathomless blue eyes, he felt himself losing purchase, slipping deeper.

Her bottom lip started to tremble and she made this tiny, heart-breaking squeak of a sound.

“Shhhhh,” he said in a whisper of air, sounding, even to his own ears, like a wolf comforting a lamb right before he devoured her. He rushed to think of what to say before she sobbed uncontrollably. “Did your dance partner wrench his ankle?”

“Pardon?”

“Your partner? I could not help but notice that you are not engaged in the last waltz of the evening.”

“I haven’t a partner,” she said softly. “I was not asked.”

“Oh. Right then. Would you do me the honor?” He took a step back, holding up his bent arm.

Someone should mark this day down in history. He was doing something nice and the truth of the matter was he very likely wouldn’t be gaining a bloody thing from sacrificing his time.

She sighed loudly, taking his arm with a shrug.

“Not quite the enthusiasm I was hoping for,” he drawled, holding back a chuckle as he walked her toward the swirling couples.

“Oh. I’m terribly sorry,” she said on another sigh as he swept her easily into the twirling steps of the dance. “I’m just not having a good day.”

“No need to apologize.” She felt so delicate in his arms, like he was dancing with air. In reaction to the sensation, he tightened his grip at her waist before the next turn shot her straight into the wall.

“It’s just that . . .” she continued, clearly oblivious to his worry. “It’s just that I liked him for so long. Since I was . . . well, for a rather long time.” She cleared her throat. “Did you know that once, when our carriage overturned in the market, he pulled my mother and I from the wreckage? He even tended to our driver and calmed our horse.”

“Heroic.”

“Quite. I thought for sure that this was fate--being chosen to attend this ball.” She sighed. “And then today he . . . he winked.”

“Winked?”

“Yes. Winked.”

“Well, then there you have it. For everyone knows what a wink means.”

She blinked. “What does it mean?”

“I have no bloody clue. You seemed so certain it meant something, I thought I should agree.”

With masked delight he watched a glimmer of humor sparkle in her gaze, but it was soon gone, replaced by glum acceptance. “I guess it really doesn’t matter now, does it? But still, I tried so hard to be what he wanted.”

“And how do you presume to know what he wanted? Did you make a list?” He gave a low chuckle.

“Yes. Yes, I did. I knew all of his favorite things. His likes, his dislikes--”

Ridiculous. He had nothing to say to that, other than her actions bespoke a school girl’s infatuation. But then that sort of adoration often faded quickly and Miss Greene had been quite tenacious in her esteem for Tristan over the years.

“And I . . .” She swallowed hard, quite like she was still concentrating on not crying.

He swirled her faster.

“ . . . and I thought he liked me. He alluded many times . . .”

“I can only guess he was toying with you,” he said sharply.

He couldn’t help it. Friend or not, Tristan’s actions of the past fortnight reeked of immaturity, a certain lack of diplomacy, if you will. Besides Rothbury knew the ways of wicked men, he was one, only until now he had never remained long enough to bear witness to the pain and the anguish of the rejected woman.

She looked up at him for the first time since they joined the dance, her eyes a deep, sorrowful blue. “I’m not stupid. Surely I would have noticed his falseness.”

“No you wouldn’t. You were too busy bumping into furniture and walking into walls. Wear your spectacles, Miss Greene.”

She lifted her chin. “I can see perfectly well, thank you.”

“No, you cannot.”

“Yes, I can.”

“All right then.” He made a purposeful arc that brought them dancing past the terrace doors where a long row of chairs were set up against the wall, some occupied, some empty. “Tell me, Miss Greene, does your mother still repose on one of these seats?”

She pulled her pale pink bottom lip in her mouth as she stared around his shoulder. Soon, a small, satisfied smile curved her lips. “Why yes, my lord. Indeed, she does.”

“Counting from the corner, which seat do you believe she’s in?”

“The third chair,” she answered without hesitating.

He raised a brow. “Really? Are you sure?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” But uncertainly shone in her eyes.

“Now that I know you are most positive, Miss Greene, I must tell you that what you claim is your mother is in actuality two walking sticks and a stack of ladies’ shawls, should someone decide to take a stroll outside.”

“Oh dear,” she said, her voice small. But to his surprise a small, low chuckle tumbled from her lips.

Rothbury tamped down a surge of unexpected pride at making her laugh. “Contrary to what you believe, rendering yourself nearly blind to attract suitors could never work to your benefit.”

“I wasn’t trying to attract all suitors, just him. And before you should think me a fool, I had overheard him say that he didn’t fancy women who wore spectacles. So naturally I . . .” She stopped, her eyes narrowing on him in suspicion. “Why the sudden change?”

He wasn’t quite sure he heard her correctly. “I beg your pardon,” he said, bending his head close. Her soft lemony scent teased at his senses.

“You came to my rescue, my lord.”

Her stress on the word ‘You’ was not missed by him. She might have well said ‘despicable beast’ instead.

“I wanted to dance,” he replied, with a small shrug. “You flatter yourself by thinking more of it.”

“No. I bumped into you as you were leaving.”

“No,” he countered, his jaw tightening. “I was looking for a partner.”

“In the empty doorway?”

“Miss Greene,” he said, feeling quite like he had been caught in a lie. “Do you always interrogate your dance partners?”

“What provoked it?”

Bloody hell. She was the embodiment of aggravation. Couldn’t a man ask a lady to dance without being asked twenty damn questions?

“Do you know what I think, my lord?”

“I do not doubt that you are going to tell me.”

“I think you desire a chance to redeem yourself. Transform yourself into a gentlemen, perhaps.”

“Is that so?” He did not bother withholding the note of sarcasm in his tone.

“Am I correct?”

“Absolutely not.” His gaze trailed across her lace edged bodice before returning to her eyes, just in case she failed to take him seriously.

Charlotte, however, knew better than to believe that a man like Lord Rothbury was truly appraising her figure. She might be a bit gullible and trusting, but she was well aware that his shocking assessment of her girlish charms--or lack thereof--had less to do with genuine interest and more to do with the fact that he was trying to scare her off the scent, so to speak. And she was not so easily deterred.

His reaction to her assumptions stirred her curiosity. Perhaps she was correct.

“I think you are on your best behavior this night,” she said, “because a certain someone is in the room. A certain Lady Rosalind Devine.”

“And I think you are wholly misguided—”

“I disagree.”

“--and incredibly nosy.”

“Well, I wish you all the luck, my lord,” she said as gently as possible. “You’ll need it.” Charlotte could feel the tightness of his shoulders underneath her fingertips at her words. However, she just couldn’t seem to stop herself. She was just trying to be helpful.

“Honestly,” she went on, “how could you possibly expect a different outcome? Hasn’t the earldom of Rothbury been synonymous with sin and scandal for hundreds of years?”

Indeed. Renowned for trickery and vice, Rothbury’s were not to be trusted. “Perhaps therein lies your problem, my lord. I know it’s terribly disappointing to hear, but it is entirely plausible that you will never be able to rise above the weed filled path of debauchery the men in your family have so heavily sowed.”

A muscle in his cheek twitched. At once she regretted her words.

They neared an alcove made by swaths of towering cream silk draped along alabaster columns. Before she could say another word, he disengaged himself from the pose of the waltz and grabbed her by the waist.

In a whirl of movement he lifted her and then deposited her inside the silken cocoon, which deftly hid them from view.

Her heart thundered in her ears. “I have said too much,” she rushed out, making for what she hoped was the narrow opening in the fabric.

Nodding menacingly, he took a step toward her, blocking her escape. His warm, whiskey-hued eyes hardening to crystals of amber. “The middle of a ballroom isn’t the most ideal place to use our tongues as weapons, is it?”

She rubbed her arms as a shiver shot through her. He was a prideful man. Her dearest friend, Madelyn Haywood, always said he reminded her of a tawny lion. Charlotte must have wounded his pride with her stark words, that’s all. Of course it wasn’t the smartest thing for her to have done, she supposed. Nor the most gracious. He had asked her to dance after all. And now she insults him?

Up until this point all she managed to do was embarrass herself. Now, however, her big mouth just might have gotten her into a particular class of trouble she had no idea how to handle. Somehow, Charlotte mused, a simply apology would do nothing to placate him.

This man was a renowned rogue. In fact, should it strike his fancy, he could make her life a miserable one. Starting with a ravishment in the middle of a ballroom just for sport.

He had a reputation for using women. Leading them to believe he sought their hearts only to walk away in search of his next willing victim. And she had heard they were always willing, only to be lured into believing it was love in his eyes instead of lust.

She looked up, willing her features to remain impassive. He was so devastatingly handsome, it was difficult to do. A silky ash-blond lock loosened from the leather queue he always used to tie back his hair and slid against his temple.

An absurd thought popped into her head. Maybe he cast some sort of spell on them to get them to do what he wished.

Suddenly she felt like a mouse caught under a lion’s claw. And everyone knew what cats did with their quarry—they dragged them off to the corner to play. Before devouring it.

She swallowed hard. “What are you about, sir?”

“It’s really very simple,” he drawled. “No need to look as if you fear I’ll gobble you up in the next second.”

“I’m f-fine,” she said, mortified that she stuttered. “Women like me are not your natural prey, so I can assume that I’m perfectly safe here . . . alone with you . . .” she made a vague gesture to the silks surrounding them, “hiding behind this curtain. Alone. Very alone.”

While she stumbled her way through her reasoning, Rothbury crossed his arms over his chest and studied her with a cool watchful gaze. “One should never assume, Miss Greene, ” he countered darkly.

“Yes, well, I must be on my way.”

“Quite. Before you go, however, you must tell me why you believe Lady Rosalind is . . . above my reach, shall we say? I cannot wait to hear your reasoning.”

In that instant, her shoulders relaxed. Of course he hadn’t plucked Charlotte from the ballroom to have his wicked way with her. How could she have thought otherwise?

He must have whisked her away simply because she happened to be acquainted with Lady Rosalind, not to mention the fact that Charlotte was quite possibly the only virtuous young lady who could talk to Rothbury without immediately diving into a swoon.

She sighed. Apparently, he didn’t like to be told the truth either. She supposed the polite thing to do was placate him. “It’s just that . . . I believe the only way you would ever have a chance at winning her would be with help.”

“Your help?”

“Perhaps.”

A hint of masked stubbornness hardened his chin. “Preposterous.” His mesmerizing gaze remained steady on her. “I do not need help. Most especially yours.”

“Good.” Insufferable man. “For I was not offering it.”

Outside their linen draped cocoon, the waltz was coming to an end.

“I must go,” she announced. But despite the need for haste, she hesitated, wondering what it would be like to be a sought after woman. To be admired, envied, and desired. To be pursued by men--by this man. Would her manner be comparable to that of Lady Rosalind? Would she be able to resist his attentions?

She gave her head a little shake, vowing to finally put an end to her penchant for woolgathering. Giving Rothbury a tight, polite smile, she excused herself from his company and made to skirt around him.

In a burst of movement, he took her up into his arms, smoothly sliding out from their hiding spot. Seamlessly, they rejoined the other dancing couples. To onlookers she supposed it looked as if they had become clumsily caught up in the duke’s lavish decorations.

Charlotte felt scorching heat radiate from where his steady hand pressed on her back, the smooth grasp of his other hand over hers. He had moved so quickly, her breath felt trapped in her throat.

The music concluded with a flourish. Gently, he released her from his hold, her skirts swinging back into place.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” she explained, feeling like she ought to say something. “And I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“It is of no consequence, I assure you.”

Her lips parted on a shaky exhale. “I don’t suppose you’ll walk me back to my mother.”

“Er, no. But I think you understand why. I find I’m not in the mood to be pummeled into submission just for dancing with you.”

“Oh dear. That’s right. She did do that once, didn’t she?”

Prior to that incident, Rothbury had thought reticules had no purpose other than to compliment a lady’s frock. He had no idea they could be used as a weapon. Miss Greene’s mother believed otherwise. “I shall never forget it.”

She cringed. “I’m sorry. She’s very protective and you are . . .” Her cheeks bloomed with a blush as she realized what she was about to say right to his face.

He smiled tightly at her hesitation. “A very bad sort?”

“Quite,” she said looking relieved.

“Well then,” he said, lifted one side on his mouth in a grin. “We must assume the bad sort puts you at ease, then.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Whenever I see you, I can’t help but think of all the wicked things you’ve done and then my skins feels as if it’s ablaze.” She gasped and turned scarlet. “That didn’t come out right at all.”

He smiled grimly. “I don’t suppose there is a right way. ”

If there had been a boulder nearby, Miss Greene looked as if she would have loved to do nothing better than to dive behind it.

“It’s all right, Miss Greene. I’ve been called worse. Much worse.” And he deserved just about every moniker thrown at him, he supposed. However, Miss Greene was a proper young lady and proper young ladies did not spew insults no matter how deserving the person happened to be. “Besides,” he added, “it is not as if you are insulting the archbishop or the king for that matter. I know what I am.”

After a brief hesitation, she dipped her head. “Thank you for the dance.”

He inclined his head.

With that he turned to walk away, but after about five steps, he glanced over his shoulder. With an odd sense of satisfaction, he watched as she plucked her spectacles out from the inside of her bodice and placed them on her nose where they belonged. He bit back a smile, bemused as always by just how this one managed to get under his skin.

Indeed, the earldom of Rothbury was synonymous with debauchery, gambling, too much wine and too many women for generations. The men in his family certainly never took it upon themselves to rescue bespectacled wallflowers from the indignity of being the only young woman without a dance partner.

Rothbury turned to leave the room, ignoring the curious looks of a few guests who obviously wondered why in hell he would bother paying any attention at all to the reigning wallflower of London. He, the reigning scoundrel. No doubt, they all thought she was to be his new conquest.

He did not blame them. Because in truth, that’s what he did, that’s what he was. Seduce and dominate. Charm and manipulate. A user of women.

How they would scoff, Rothbury mused bitterly, if they knew that he was secretly in love with the silly little chit, spectacles and all.