Page 42 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

Still, she thrashed against him, fighting to break free of his grimy grip.

One huge push against his chest seemed to make no difference; then, as if by magic, she was freed of his loathsome tongue. Her eyes popped open in time to see Lord Wrotham, his furious face twisted in a scowl, grasp Fernley by the scruff of the neck and the waist of his inexpressibles, and heft her unwanted suitor into the air.

Fernley’s heels kicked as a muted squeal escaped his lips.

With a look of utter disgust at her, Wrotham pitched the unfortunate lord over the balustrade to land squarely in the midst of a rosebush. The muted groans of the unfortunate peer made Charlotte grin as she watched him gingerly roll out of the thorny brambles.

Wrotham jerked her around to face him, wiping the smile from her face, his handsome features now distorted by a rage aimed squarely at her.

“I told you if you needed me to call me. I meant it.” Eyes dark, brows knit in a sharp V, jaw clenched, the earl had never looked more desirable. A dangerous animal, with the power to break her, bend her to his will, devour her body and soul. She could think of no more pleasant way to die.

Her breathing quickened until the sound of her panting shut out all else.

He closed the distance between them so slowly she could swear she could see the ripple of each muscle as he approached. She could fend him off if she so desired, but his eyes held her mesmerized. She would gladly drown in those blue depths. When he cradled her head, the silky touch of his fingertips on her scalp almost drove her mad. How could such an innocent touch arouse such a passion within her? Her belly ached as it had in the library, with a painful longing she must deny. Could not deny.

When he urged her lips toward his, her legs weakened, and it took all her willpower to simply remain standing. His incredible softness was the perfect antidote to Fernley’s rough assault. He molded their lips together, compelling hers to open. Her willingness to do so frightened her, yet she could no more deny him than she could stop breathing. Warmth stole through her, loosening muscle and bone, until she leaned fully against his hard, magnificently aroused body. Completely uncaring who came by or what they saw.

After what seemed a lifetime, he leaned her away from him. She let his lips go reluctantly, sad that the blissful interlude had to end. As always, once she had lost contact with his body, her senses returned to normal.

Fernley.

She stepped back from Wrotham, shook her head, groggy as if coming out of a deep sleep, and glanced over the railing. The young man in question sat nursing several deep scratches that had bled onto his ensemble. In the poor light she could not tell which circumstance pained him the most, the scratches on his person or the ruination of his suit. Had he seen her and Wrotham? Did it matter? The earl’s actions would certainly make him think twice before spreading scandalous gossip.

She stared at Wrotham, his face as enigmatic as she had ever seen it. What was he thinking, blast him? He obviously desired her as much as she did him. Could they resolve their differences enough to allow them to act on them?

The French windows opened with a lurch. Jane, Fanny, Sinclair, and the others crowded out onto the terrace. How would the earl explain?

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for rushing to our aid.” A hum of questions sprang up at Wrotham’s words and he moved toward the nearest stairs leading to the garden. He glanced at her, and the wretch had the audacity to wink. “Lord Fernley, I am afraid, has succumbed to a slight misadventure.”

A general murmur of surprise rippled through the assembled crowd.

“On a bet of some sort, I suppose, or perhaps a request to show some skill at balancing, Fernley attempted to walk along the balustrade. A misstep occurred and the poor man tumbled into Lady Cavendish’s rosebushes. Can one of you gentlemen give me a hand righting him?” With that, he picked his way through the grass to stand above the fallen nobleman. He extended a hand, but his eyes glinted with an emotion that was not sympathetic. “Let me assist you, my lord. You have a nasty scratch across your cheek.”

By this time, Sinclair, scarcely containing his mirth, had reached Wrotham’s side. “Are you otherwise injured?”

They grasped Fernley under the armpits and hoisted him to his feet. “If you feel unable to continue downstairs this evening, I am sure Lady Cavendish will be most forgiving. The last thing any of us wants is for someone to be hurt.” Wrotham seemed concerned, yet he squeezed the man’s arm unmercifully.

“I believe it may be prudent if I retire, my lord.” Fernley’s voice certainly sounded pained. “If Lady Cavendish will forgive me, I will remove to my room.” He glanced at Wrotham and winced. “Indeed, my arm is beginning to ache.”

Wrotham suddenly released the viscount. “It may be that, if it is no better by morning, you must needs seek medical attention in London. The local apothecary is still firmly of the bleeding-with-leeches school of medicine. It is the one area where I believe I need to lend a firmer hand concerning change.”

He clapped Fernley on the back. “Allow me to follow your progress, my lord, once you return to the city. I cannot tell you how much I will hang upon word of your recovery.” Wrotham nodded to a servant, who assisted Fernley into the house. “Now,” he said, gazing about the stunned company, “shall we continue at cards or is dancing in order again?”

Charlotte stared at him, as startled as anyone at how Wrotham had smoothly taken charge of the evening. Could she ever hope he would bend to her will? Despite the desire that raged through them both, she wouldn’t wager a brass farthing on it.

Chapter 14

Charlotte came down early to breakfast Sunday morning, yet found Elizabeth there before her, sipping tea and looking thoughtful. A smile curled Charlotte’s lips at the pleasant prospect of a chance for private conversation. She and her friend had scarcely had time to speak this weekend, much less have a comfortable coze. Now, unless the other ladies appeared in the next half hour or so, she’d have time to learn Elizabeth’s impression of the gentlemen she’d met.

“I might have known you would be here before me, Elizabeth,” Charlotte said, greeting her with a kiss on the cheek, then signaled for the footman to bring her plate. “Have you always been an early riser?”

Elizabeth smiled and put down her cup. “Not until Colin and Kate were born. We didn’t have a nursemaid at first, so I tended them night and day.” She chuckled. “And early morning. Once they were older, that was the best time to play with them, before the routine of the day called me away.” Her smile faded. “Dickon used to say we made the prettiest picture, down on the nursery floor playing with blocks and toy animals. I wish,” her mouth trembled, “I wish they’d had more time with him. They were only five when he . . .” She glanced at Charlotte with pain-stricken eyes. “I wish I’d had more time with him.”

Charlotte grasped her hand. “I can’t imagine how difficult it’s been for you, my dear. And for the children. But you will help them remember their father always.” This was not the path she’d hope this conversation would take. How to change to talk of the future instead of the past?

“Are you finding yourself more at home with your parents these days?” Charlotte settled to her plate, waiting to hear the latest in her friend’s struggle. Lord and Lady Wentworth adored their grandchildren and had welcomed their grieving daughter back to their estate in Dorset. They had, however, also assumed the right to give unwarranted advice on child-rearing to Elizabeth. A kindly gesture that had driven her friend to distraction when she had first taken up residence there.

“It’s still a struggle.” Elizabeth frowned. “They mean well, they truly do. But Mama is so used to getting her way about everything, I feel badly when I have to tell her I must raise the children as I see fit. As Dickon and I agreed.”