Page 4 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

“Who indeed, Laughton?”

Lord Chesleigh’s voice was impossibly deep. It made her feel as tremulous as the plucked strings of a harp. And that faint accent…hadn’t someone said his mother was French? Or was that merely another rumor?

Still clad in his shirtsleeves, he stepped out of the shadows to stand close behind her, and she had the satisfaction—brief and bleak though it might be—of watching the color leach from her father’s face.

Miss Shelley, in contrast, turned brightest pink, and Lady Earnshaw laid a consoling hand on Mama’s shoulder as she sobbed a single, quiet word: “R-ruined.”

In spite of his pallor, something strange glittered in Papa’s eyes. “You’ll regret this, Chesleigh.”

“I daresay,” the marquess drawled.

And then, to Caro’s shock—she’d never before known that the word comprised such a welter of emotions: surprise, uncertainty, and a surge of anticipation—he dropped to his knee for the third time that night and, with an ironic twist to his lips, asked her to make him the happiest of men.

Chapter 2

If he lived to be one hundred years old—and he wouldn’t; thirty had been challenge enough—Maxim would never know why he’d done it. Despite his brawn, he wasn’t the protecting sort. And despite—or perhaps because of—his title, he certainly wasn’t the honorable sort.

But Lady Caroline Brent, who’d shown no fear of him, had flinched at the sound of her father’s voice, and he’d been forcibly reminded of what it was to feel helpless and to long for a way to escape.

Was it escape he’d offered her?

Perhaps there was no escape, just moving from one prison to another.

In any case, she’d accepted him, and with only a moment’s hesitation. And he had left Earnshaw’s house a few hours later, the steely dawn sky presaging another day of rain, bound for London to arrange for a special license and to meet with his solicitors.

His last night as a bachelor he spent alone in his study on Curzon Street; he’d won the house in a hand of cards from some fool who’d promptly blown out his own brains—thankfully somewhere other than in the study. Since coming into its possession in June, Maxim had done nothing at all to make the house his, except to improve the quality of the brandy in the decanter on the corner of the desk.

Now, he splashed a swallow of rich amber into a glass as he sat down to write a letter to his grandfather, scratching out a few lines in French—qu’il aille se faire foutre, ce vieux—to be sent only after the fateful deed was done.

The morning of his wedding dawned bright and fair. A good omen—at least until the moment Lady Caroline Brent had stood beside him before the chancel and a shaft of sunlight had fallen across her veiled face. Her hair—he’d thought it brown—gleamed auburn, fierce and fiery, reminding him of her show of boldness in Earnshaw’s library.

But an innocent girl of twenty could have no notion of what she’d gotten herself into by agreeing to marry a man like him. The void in his soul would smother the flame of her spirit. The certainty of it left him breathless.

What another, wiser man might have recognized as feelings of pity or dread, he could only call anger. And the sight of a familiar older gentleman near the rear of the church, smiling at him and his bride, further ratcheted up Maxim’s fury. If he hadn’t agreed to go to Earnshaw’s bloody party, he would never have—

“Allow me to be the first to offer you felicitations, Lady Chesleigh,” the man said, bowing over her hand.

Before she could reply, they were surrounded, or so it seemed. The mother of the bride and a maiden aunt on her father’s side, both sniveling; Caro’s weak-chinned young brother offering to shake his hand; beside him, another dowerless sister, no doubt eager for her coming-out in another year or two. All of them, burbling their well wishes and exclaiming over Caro’s good fortune. And then, above the din, Laughton’s voice, proclaiming his hearty appetite for the wedding breakfast.

On his way out of the house that morning, Maxim had passed by the dining room, vaguely astonished that his few words to Mrs. Horn, the housekeeper, had resulted in such a transformation: china and silver and glassware for a dozen guests, polished and laid out on pristine linens; flowers and dainties, both abundant; a row of chafing dishes at the ready; a pair of footmen—did he employ them?—in spotless livery, standing guard.

“I hope Lady Chesleigh will be pleased,” Mrs. Horn had said, watching him survey her preparations.

Now, Maxim blinked away the memory and laid a heavy hand on his father-in-law’s shoulder. With the proper pressure, the man would crumple to his knees.

“Perhaps, Laughton, you did not read the marriage settlements with sufficient care.” If he had, the terms Maxim’s solicitors had set out would have dulled the avaricious gleam in the man’s eye. “You and your family must expect nothing further from me.” He tightened his grip and had the pleasure of watching Laughton grimace. “Not even if you are starving.”

Not sparing a glance for his wife, Maxim caught her by the elbow and led her from the church and into his waiting carriage, blessedly unsullied by trailing streamers, old boots, and the like. He’d ordered his groom to shoot vandals on sight.

To his immense relief, she neither wept nor cowered. She sat, ramrod straight, as the horses began to move and the scenery of Mayfair began to slide past. In the relative dimness of the carriage, her hair was once more merely brown. But her eyes, which were fixed on him with a remarkably steady gaze, he now knew to be hazel, a mixture of gold and brown and green that intrigued him in spite of himself.

They were halfway to Curzon Street before she spoke. “Why did you propose this marriage, my lord? To punish me, or yourself?”

The question earned her a smile, his first of the day and the sincerest in months. “Mostly, I think, to punish your father.”

At his answer, the corners of her mouth curved upward slightly and the set of her spine relaxed. “What a remarkable coincidence, my lord. I accepted you for the same reason.”

Maxim’s shoulders eased too. Spite, he understood. As a motive, he could appreciate it.