Read Online The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) by Elisa Braden - Free Book Online
Authors: Elisa Braden
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over her midsection as green-gold eyes rounded and red-orange brows arched. “Th-thousand?”
“Indeed. So, as you can see, my habits are to be sacrificed upon an altar of gold.”
She drew several steps closer, her astonishment apparently tugging her like an invisible line. “Impossible,” she whispered.
He chuckled and nodded toward the desk. “I thought the same, but the settlement has been drawn. Your father is bound to it, as am I.”
She stopped before him, her skirts brushing his knees. “I don’t wish to marry you.” Her gaze was solemn, nearly apologetic, as though she denied him reluctantly.
But her denial could not be permitted. He despised being poor. It was one thing to be reviled by the ton for his scandalous behavior, entirely another to be pitied for lack of funds.
Slowly, he braced his hands on the arms of the chair and pushed himself to his feet. They now stood inches apart, her eyes flaring at their nearness. As she reeled awkwardly backward, he grasped her upper arms, forcing her to stillness. Then, he drew her closer and crooked his neck to meet her gaze. For a woman, she was abnormally tall, but her forehead still only came even with his nose. “Wishes have little bearing upon one’s circumstances, Miss Lancaster. Your father holds the winning hand.”
She was shaking her head, her breath quickening. “I cannot marry you. Not you.”
His smile faded. “Yet, you were prepared to wed the giant.”
“Lord Tannenbrook is a friend. You are …”
Waiting, he loosened his hold, let his palms discover the softness of freckled skin and settle beneath her elbows. “Yes? I am?”
Her lips parted, her eyes searching his face. “A devil.”
His grin returned, growing as he witnessed the tiny shiver she attempted to stifle. Carefully, he let his fingers linger on her skin a moment longer before dropping his hands to his sides.
She did not move, but swayed before him, her eyes riveted to his.
“Most observant, Miss Lancaster. A devil, indeed. But that does not change my title. Nor your father’s leverage.”
Lancaster chose that moment to reenter the conversation. “Charlotte, you will abide by the terms of our agreement. I have no desire to beggar your aunt and uncle. Do not force me to it.”
Chatham watched her eyes close, saw coppery lashes settle briefly along freckled cheeks and felt a twinge of something foreign, like a vine sprouting through snow. It made him stroke her arm covertly with the back of his finger, made him tilt his head again to meet the despair painted in green and gold. Made him offer the one reassurance he could. “It is only a year.”
Her mouth firmed, her delicately squared jaw clenching upon a visible swallow. Then, she nodded. Breathed. Licked pink lips and retreated a step. She faced her father and sealed their fates with two hoarse words: “Very well.”
*~*~*
“Only a year. Only a year,” Charlotte whispered, digging her fingernails into the arm she clasped. “I will manage. All will be well. Only a year.”
“Er—Charlotte? This coat was dreadfully expensive. And you are hurting my arm.” Andrew’s smile was pained and edged with amusement.
“Apologies,” she murmured, trying to quiet her thumping heart.
They stood in the portico of St. George’s in Hanover Square, the crisp morning air chilling her from cheeks to toes. Or, perhaps it was nerves. Dark twin doors stood open before her, a yawning gate to hell itself with the devil waiting at the end of the aisle. She swallowed against a dry throat and wiped her palm discreetly on Andrew’s sleeve.
Her father wandered into her vision, a big, red-haired demon speaking with his shorter, balder minion, Mr. Pryor. Obviously, Papa was intent upon delivering her to her doom.
Despite numerous entreaties over the past week, he had not changed his mind. She had returned to his house in Cavendish Square four times, determined to make him see reason. She had argued, cajoled, begged.
“Indeed. So, as you can see, my habits are to be sacrificed upon an altar of gold.”
She drew several steps closer, her astonishment apparently tugging her like an invisible line. “Impossible,” she whispered.
He chuckled and nodded toward the desk. “I thought the same, but the settlement has been drawn. Your father is bound to it, as am I.”
She stopped before him, her skirts brushing his knees. “I don’t wish to marry you.” Her gaze was solemn, nearly apologetic, as though she denied him reluctantly.
But her denial could not be permitted. He despised being poor. It was one thing to be reviled by the ton for his scandalous behavior, entirely another to be pitied for lack of funds.
Slowly, he braced his hands on the arms of the chair and pushed himself to his feet. They now stood inches apart, her eyes flaring at their nearness. As she reeled awkwardly backward, he grasped her upper arms, forcing her to stillness. Then, he drew her closer and crooked his neck to meet her gaze. For a woman, she was abnormally tall, but her forehead still only came even with his nose. “Wishes have little bearing upon one’s circumstances, Miss Lancaster. Your father holds the winning hand.”
She was shaking her head, her breath quickening. “I cannot marry you. Not you.”
His smile faded. “Yet, you were prepared to wed the giant.”
“Lord Tannenbrook is a friend. You are …”
Waiting, he loosened his hold, let his palms discover the softness of freckled skin and settle beneath her elbows. “Yes? I am?”
Her lips parted, her eyes searching his face. “A devil.”
His grin returned, growing as he witnessed the tiny shiver she attempted to stifle. Carefully, he let his fingers linger on her skin a moment longer before dropping his hands to his sides.
She did not move, but swayed before him, her eyes riveted to his.
“Most observant, Miss Lancaster. A devil, indeed. But that does not change my title. Nor your father’s leverage.”
Lancaster chose that moment to reenter the conversation. “Charlotte, you will abide by the terms of our agreement. I have no desire to beggar your aunt and uncle. Do not force me to it.”
Chatham watched her eyes close, saw coppery lashes settle briefly along freckled cheeks and felt a twinge of something foreign, like a vine sprouting through snow. It made him stroke her arm covertly with the back of his finger, made him tilt his head again to meet the despair painted in green and gold. Made him offer the one reassurance he could. “It is only a year.”
Her mouth firmed, her delicately squared jaw clenching upon a visible swallow. Then, she nodded. Breathed. Licked pink lips and retreated a step. She faced her father and sealed their fates with two hoarse words: “Very well.”
*~*~*
“Only a year. Only a year,” Charlotte whispered, digging her fingernails into the arm she clasped. “I will manage. All will be well. Only a year.”
“Er—Charlotte? This coat was dreadfully expensive. And you are hurting my arm.” Andrew’s smile was pained and edged with amusement.
“Apologies,” she murmured, trying to quiet her thumping heart.
They stood in the portico of St. George’s in Hanover Square, the crisp morning air chilling her from cheeks to toes. Or, perhaps it was nerves. Dark twin doors stood open before her, a yawning gate to hell itself with the devil waiting at the end of the aisle. She swallowed against a dry throat and wiped her palm discreetly on Andrew’s sleeve.
Her father wandered into her vision, a big, red-haired demon speaking with his shorter, balder minion, Mr. Pryor. Obviously, Papa was intent upon delivering her to her doom.
Despite numerous entreaties over the past week, he had not changed his mind. She had returned to his house in Cavendish Square four times, determined to make him see reason. She had argued, cajoled, begged.
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