Read Online The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) by Elisa Braden - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elisa Braden
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Three days ago, in fact, she had thrown off all semblance of decorum and described Chatham’s reputation, even the elements that no lady should know about, down to the gravest detail.
Her father had said only, “Pryor is exceedingly thorough, Charlotte. I already know more than you can possibly imagine.” He had frowned and returned to glaring at his accounts. “More than I care to, frankly.”
“Do you know what he said to me yesterday?” she had retorted, her hands gripping the arms of the chair, indignation rising to the highest heights of dudgeon.
He’d held his silence, his head shaking over his numbers.
“He called me his new benefactress.”
Papa’s quill pen had stilled.
“Not the first, mind you, but certainly the wealthiest.”
Her father’s bright-red head had come up at last, but only to say, “Likely he was drunk.”
“Precisely! This is your very worst idea, Papa. There is still time—”
“It is done, Charlotte. Finished. Accept it.”
She had fumed for a full twenty-four hours, then returned to negotiate more favorable terms: Not one traveling coach but two, both extravagant, each pulled by six prime horses, plus a modest fund for incidentals during the journey north. To Northumberland.
Chatham himself had informed her about her future home—right before he had insulted her by implying she had purchased his “services.” According to the cynical, sardonic, aggravating Marquess of Rutherford, his entailed property was on a sizable piece of land a short distance from the coast. Chatwick Hall, he’d said. Bring bed linens, he’d said. We’ll want to be comfortable, he’d said. Then, he’d smiled like the devil he was, his hooded turquoise eyes sending shivers of heat over every inch of her skin.
“Charlotte,” Andrew muttered now, his arm tugging. “Should we not go inside?”
“Only a year,” she whispered again, squeezing her eyes closed.
When she opened them again, she saw her father glowering at her. Beyond his shoulder, however, standing tall and thin and glaring, leaning on a walking stick at the end of the aisle was the man who would be her husband. Benedict Chatham, the Marquess of Rutherford. A man no respectable woman invited to dinner, much less married.
“I cannot,” she whispered, yanking her hand away from Andrew. Clambering backward several steps, she heard something plop on the stones at her feet. Her flowers, most likely. Now, she was backing away from the door, twisting to search either end of the portico.
This cannot be my fate. This was not the plan.
“Charlotte …” Andrew protested.
She rarely panicked. Her mind always sought and often found a path through fear and difficulty like a ship’s captain navigating rough seas. However, this moment appeared to be an exception. All rational thought had fled. Her pounding heart matched the pace of her breath, racing madly and drowning out all sound.
“Charlotte!” That was her father. But she had already turned toward the street. Already begun stumbling toward the black coach that had delivered her here. It was rolling away, slowly at first.
I can catch it. I will climb inside. Retrieve the cache from beneath my bed. Take the coach somewhere far away. Escape.
She clutched her skirts, the iridescent-pearl silk for which Mrs. Bowman had charged Papa a fortune nearly ripping in her hands. Her slippers skated on the stones as she scrambled down the few steps to the street.
“Oliver!” she shouted, but her voice was thin, breathless. The driver did not hear. Or, at least, he did not stop. She chased the accelerating coach, her long legs working, her vision entirely focused upon the black vehicle. She must catch it. She must.
Behind her, several masculine shouts of her name registered dimly. Her legs burned as she ran, the chill air whistling past. She must catch the coach.
She must—
Her foot slipped, and suddenly she was flying, collapsing, ramming the street with her knees and palms.
Her father had said only, “Pryor is exceedingly thorough, Charlotte. I already know more than you can possibly imagine.” He had frowned and returned to glaring at his accounts. “More than I care to, frankly.”
“Do you know what he said to me yesterday?” she had retorted, her hands gripping the arms of the chair, indignation rising to the highest heights of dudgeon.
He’d held his silence, his head shaking over his numbers.
“He called me his new benefactress.”
Papa’s quill pen had stilled.
“Not the first, mind you, but certainly the wealthiest.”
Her father’s bright-red head had come up at last, but only to say, “Likely he was drunk.”
“Precisely! This is your very worst idea, Papa. There is still time—”
“It is done, Charlotte. Finished. Accept it.”
She had fumed for a full twenty-four hours, then returned to negotiate more favorable terms: Not one traveling coach but two, both extravagant, each pulled by six prime horses, plus a modest fund for incidentals during the journey north. To Northumberland.
Chatham himself had informed her about her future home—right before he had insulted her by implying she had purchased his “services.” According to the cynical, sardonic, aggravating Marquess of Rutherford, his entailed property was on a sizable piece of land a short distance from the coast. Chatwick Hall, he’d said. Bring bed linens, he’d said. We’ll want to be comfortable, he’d said. Then, he’d smiled like the devil he was, his hooded turquoise eyes sending shivers of heat over every inch of her skin.
“Charlotte,” Andrew muttered now, his arm tugging. “Should we not go inside?”
“Only a year,” she whispered again, squeezing her eyes closed.
When she opened them again, she saw her father glowering at her. Beyond his shoulder, however, standing tall and thin and glaring, leaning on a walking stick at the end of the aisle was the man who would be her husband. Benedict Chatham, the Marquess of Rutherford. A man no respectable woman invited to dinner, much less married.
“I cannot,” she whispered, yanking her hand away from Andrew. Clambering backward several steps, she heard something plop on the stones at her feet. Her flowers, most likely. Now, she was backing away from the door, twisting to search either end of the portico.
This cannot be my fate. This was not the plan.
“Charlotte …” Andrew protested.
She rarely panicked. Her mind always sought and often found a path through fear and difficulty like a ship’s captain navigating rough seas. However, this moment appeared to be an exception. All rational thought had fled. Her pounding heart matched the pace of her breath, racing madly and drowning out all sound.
“Charlotte!” That was her father. But she had already turned toward the street. Already begun stumbling toward the black coach that had delivered her here. It was rolling away, slowly at first.
I can catch it. I will climb inside. Retrieve the cache from beneath my bed. Take the coach somewhere far away. Escape.
She clutched her skirts, the iridescent-pearl silk for which Mrs. Bowman had charged Papa a fortune nearly ripping in her hands. Her slippers skated on the stones as she scrambled down the few steps to the street.
“Oliver!” she shouted, but her voice was thin, breathless. The driver did not hear. Or, at least, he did not stop. She chased the accelerating coach, her long legs working, her vision entirely focused upon the black vehicle. She must catch it. She must.
Behind her, several masculine shouts of her name registered dimly. Her legs burned as she ran, the chill air whistling past. She must catch the coach.
She must—
Her foot slipped, and suddenly she was flying, collapsing, ramming the street with her knees and palms.
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