Page 41 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

Putting on a more amiable countenance, he strode over to Brack, paying his respects to the two ladies as well. The suggestion of a game of whist brought smiles of agreement to the ladies and Brack good-naturedly consented as well, although Nash suspected he’d have preferred something a bit more challenging. They settled to play, Elizabeth partnering Brack and Georgina across from him.

“We will trounce them soundly, will we not, Lord Wrotham?” Georgie giggled as she shuffled the cards and placed them at Elizabeth’s elbow. “I know all of Jemmy’s best tricks.”

Nash couldn’t help but smile. She seemed to have shed her shyness and found a new confidence literally overnight. As he shuffled the cards and began the deal, he flicked glances at her fresh face. Bran-faced of course—that went with her red hair—but they were a charming dusting over the bridge of her nose. Her cheeks were pink with excitement, her green-eyed gaze darting from him to her brother. The green taffeta gown, checked in light and dark green, was fashionable, if a little worn. It suited her youth, even as the low-cut bodice revealed her womanly attributes.

An engaging little thing. He finished the deal and picked up his cards. As he arranged his hand, the thought that Lady Georgina would be a very suitable candidate for his countess did more than cross his mind. They seemed to get on well together, her youth suggested she might be more compliant than an older woman, and her family connections were impeccable. There would have been many advantages to paying Lady Georgina his addresses had he not been under the earl’s edict.

Laughter from the other table, where Charlotte sat partnered with Fernley, jolted him out of his speculations. Damn the woman. He shot a glance at her, irked at the way she leaned over the table for an intimate word with her partner. And cursed himself for a fool. Why did he constantly follow her movements? He might just as well ask why the sun shone in the morning. As he turned back to the play at his table, he heaved a mental sigh.

Another long night ahead of him.

* * *

Charlotte laughed and shamelessly leaned over the cards toward Lord Fernley, aware as always of Lord Wrotham’s attention on her. Well, this time she wanted his focus trained on her. She planned to show him for the last time that she had no intention of accepting his offer. To that end, she deliberately flirted with Fernley. If she could make the earl believe she had designs on another, perhaps he would cease dropping his hints about marriage.

He already suspected her of carrying on an affair with Mr. Garrett. So much the better. Surely if he thought her a scandalous wanton, giving her favors to a number of men, he wouldn’t want to marry her. He might, however, consider her as a possible dalliance. The best of both worlds, as far as she was concerned. After their encounter in the library, she had dreamed more than once of a tryst with Lord Wrotham. His kisses had urged her to be shameless with him and she was more than willing to comply. Judging by his manner with her last night, he undoubtedly knew how to pleasure a woman. Their glorious conclusion would be glorious indeed. If only he would stop thinking of marriage.

Charlotte looked again at Lord Fernley, his florid face and thinning hair a stark contrast to Wrotham’s lean, tan features and full, curly head. Yet appearances were not everything. Fernley might be a good man. She knew little of him past what Jane had told her, but he had acquitted himself well with the party, save for bringing Mr. Garrett with him. Georgina, for whom he had been ostensibly chosen, had given him almost no notice, being much more taken with Wrotham.

A sly glance over at their table told her that infatuation had not diminished. Georgie was giggling at her partner, eyes bright, trilling laughter filling the room. And Wrotham, to her consternation, was smiling back. Laughing at whatever comment her friend had made.

Her heart twisted, but she ruthlessly renewed her attention on Lord Fernley. Perhaps it was best for Lord Wrotham to turn his attentions toward someone else. A lady, like Georgina, who would want to marry him. Although a tryst with him would have been wonderfully exciting, it could have been fraught with problems as well.

Had she persuaded Wrotham to take her to bed, once he found out her virginal state, his sense of honor might have made him demand that they marry. And she refused to relinquish her independence, even for the best of lovers. Never again would she be helpless in the face of a man’s cruel control of her life. Her father and Sir Archibald had taught her to cherish freedom above all else. One more wistful, last glance at the earl and she turned back to her partner, redoubling her efforts to flirt with him.

Fernley flashed her a knowing smile.

Drat. She mustn’t overplay her hand. He needed to feel one of a cadre of her possible lovers, not the one she had chosen. That twinkle in the man’s eye, however, could mean she was too late.

When the final trick had been taken, Charlotte and her partner winning soundly, Fernley rose. “I believe a mouthful of fresh air would be pleasant about now, don’t you agree, my lady? Let our opponents regroup if they desire a rematch.” His swagger, so true to form for the man, grated on the nerves, even on short acquaintance. Still, she should accompany him, if only to engage him in a private conversation designed to curtail his hopes.

She nodded and rose. “That sounds like a splendid idea, my lord.” She took his arm, aware once more that his clothing approached the extreme in fashion. His starched collar, so tall and stiff, threatened to put his eye out if he turned suddenly. His evening coat was in good taste, although cut extremely tight. And she had shuddered earlier that evening when he had appeared in a pair of black, skintight inexpressibles that left little to the imagination. Discerning, elegant attire, such as Lord Wrotham’s, was more to her liking than Fernley’s excessively bold dress.

The veranda proved cooler than the house, pleasant with the scent of the roses that wafted up from the flower garden that edged the perimeter of the manor. Fireflies fluttered and a gentle breeze cooled her face, already hot at the thought of the subject she needed to broach with Fernley. Usually her favorite haunt in the early evening, the terrace had now taken on a battleground aura. Charlotte steered Fernley toward the nearest balustrade, seeking the courage to begin the conversation regarding her interest—or rather noninterest in him.

Fernley’s abrupt seizure of both her hands told her she was indeed too late to put him off. “I wanted to say how flattered I am by your attentions this evening, my dear Lady Cavendish.” His eyes widened, shamelessly ogling her in the flickering light of the veranda lanterns. “I think I understand your desires and can assure you they are mine as well.” He lifted her hands and placed a hot, fervent kiss on each one.

Oh, Lord, he had indeed taken her flirting for an invitation. Charlotte stared in horror as he turned her palm up and pressed his odious mouth to the center.

“Lord Fernley!” She squirmed with revulsion and clenched her hand, trying to withdraw it.

He grasped it firmly instead and pulled her into his arms.

“Please call me Hugh, Charlotte,” he whispered in her ear, then ran his tongue around the outer rim, a sickening parody of her more pleasant encounter with Wrotham. His breath rasped in her ear and she shuddered.

“Lord Fernley, you forget yourself.” She tried to push away from him, but her hands were pinned between their bodies and she had no leverage.

“Not for a second in your presence, my dear.” His mouth traveled down her neck, the greasy feel of it making her cringe. The image of a snail dragging its slimy body across her flesh didn’t help matters at all.

Damn him. If she screamed she’d bring ruin down upon herself. Despite the naughty intent of the weekend, her plan had always been discretion. With a sickening twist of her stomach, the memory of the conversation with her father in June arose. He had warned her that the very hint of disgrace would be disastrous for her. His dire threat to remove her to a lunatic asylum if she became once more embroiled in a scandal was not an idle one. And even in their closed circle here, there would be talk. Especially from Fernley if she rebuffed him. Abruptly, all the fight went out of her.

“My lord, it is not seemly to act this way in such a public place.” If she could put him off until later perhaps she could find a way to avoid an actual assignation.

“There’s no one looking on, my dear.” He ran his hand into her hair, and she cursed him anew. She would look exactly as she had when she’d come from that tryst with Garrett at Almack’s—an advertisement for a wanton wench. Except she clearly would take no pleasure in this encounter.

She struggled back from him, bent on further chastisement, when he pulled her head to him and plastered his lips onto hers. Unfortunately, her mouth had been opened to speak.

He trust his tongue into her mouth, almost down her throat, making her want to gag. He tasted of the wine from dinner, thank God. Anything more noisome and she might have cast up her accounts all over him.