Read Online The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) by Elisa Braden - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elisa Braden
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Grinding pain shot through her kneecaps and scraped the flesh on her hands. The shock of it, the abruptness of her new position, left her stunned. Shaking her head, she smelled something … awful.
Pushing herself up, she winced as she sat back on her haunches and examined her gown. A heaving gasp of laughter burst from her unbidden. “Per-perfect,” she wheezed, carefully scooting back, away from the massive pile of horse dung. She felt her lower lip tremble, her eyes began to water, and she clenched her jaw firmly against the urge to let sobs of laughter become sobs of another sort.
“Charlotte!” barked her father, his big, black boots clomping to a stop beside her. “What the blazes are you doing?”
Her chest shook. Her arms. Everything.
“I have landed in a pile of horse shit, Papa.”
“Out of your damnable head, girl. That’s what you are. And mind your language. What would your mother think?”
She glanced at the spot where the top of his boots met the bottoms of his breeches. Both were black. “Perhaps a question you should have asked before you decided to sell her daughter for a title,” Charlotte observed.
“Get to your feet, for God’s sake.” His big hand clasped her upper arm.
She shook him off.
The boots shuffled. The breeze blew through her as a horse cantered past, slowing to gawk and then hurrying away. The putrid scent of animal dung stung her nose.
Drat. Her gown was ruined. A laughable concern, really, considering the state of her life at present.
“Rowland, whatever has happened? The priest is waiting.” It was Aunt Fanny, coming from the direction of the church. “Charlotte.” She was closer now. “Are you quite all right?” A gentle hand settled on her shoulder.
Charlotte’s throat squeezed hard. Her hands, now bleeding, brushed absently at the muck on the tops of her knees. Her motions merely smeared the pale silk with brown and red. Ruined, she thought. Well and truly.
“There now, dearest.” A hand stroked her hair, smoothing it just above her ear the way Aunt Fanny had done since she was a girl. “Everything will be all right. Let us help you stand.”
“I don’t wish to stand. I wish to remain here.”
Her father snorted.
“I would rather wallow in muck than marry a man who knows nothing of honor, nothing of dignity, nothing of earning one’s way in life.”
Fanny’s hands retreated, her green skirts joining Papa’s black boots.
Rhythmic, deliberate bootfalls punctuated by the quiet click of a cane approached from behind her. “Dignity?” a deep, silken voice said flatly from high above her head. “You may wish to consider your own circumstances before crowning yourself queen of that particular kingdom.”
She closed her eyes, but that only made the odor worse. “I don’t want to marry you, Chatham.”
He laughed, a low chuckle with a wicked edge. Then the sounds of the street muffled as his frame bent close, his mouth hovering next to her ear, his breath hot against her cheek. “I may lack honor, love, but I’m not daft.”
No, he wasn’t. He was too clever by half. Too vexing. Too … everything.
“Get up.” His scent cut through the sting of horse leavings. He smelled like citrus. And, surprisingly, not like whisky. Cool, lean fingers slid down the slope of her shoulder, over her tiny sleeve and onto the bare flesh of her arm. They curled and gripped. Lifted her until she could do nothing other than what he wanted.
Then, he was standing fully behind her, his lingering hand stroking her arm with tiny motions. “There, now. Turn ’round and let us assess the damage.”
She obeyed. She did not know why. Nothing else to do, she supposed. He had won. So had her father.
Her eyes widened as she took in his face. Chatham in a ballroom’s candleglow was as pale as paper, lean to the point of thinness. Handsome, of course, with low brows over those ferocious turquoise eyes.
Today, in full sunlight, however, he was the color of salt. His
Pushing herself up, she winced as she sat back on her haunches and examined her gown. A heaving gasp of laughter burst from her unbidden. “Per-perfect,” she wheezed, carefully scooting back, away from the massive pile of horse dung. She felt her lower lip tremble, her eyes began to water, and she clenched her jaw firmly against the urge to let sobs of laughter become sobs of another sort.
“Charlotte!” barked her father, his big, black boots clomping to a stop beside her. “What the blazes are you doing?”
Her chest shook. Her arms. Everything.
“I have landed in a pile of horse shit, Papa.”
“Out of your damnable head, girl. That’s what you are. And mind your language. What would your mother think?”
She glanced at the spot where the top of his boots met the bottoms of his breeches. Both were black. “Perhaps a question you should have asked before you decided to sell her daughter for a title,” Charlotte observed.
“Get to your feet, for God’s sake.” His big hand clasped her upper arm.
She shook him off.
The boots shuffled. The breeze blew through her as a horse cantered past, slowing to gawk and then hurrying away. The putrid scent of animal dung stung her nose.
Drat. Her gown was ruined. A laughable concern, really, considering the state of her life at present.
“Rowland, whatever has happened? The priest is waiting.” It was Aunt Fanny, coming from the direction of the church. “Charlotte.” She was closer now. “Are you quite all right?” A gentle hand settled on her shoulder.
Charlotte’s throat squeezed hard. Her hands, now bleeding, brushed absently at the muck on the tops of her knees. Her motions merely smeared the pale silk with brown and red. Ruined, she thought. Well and truly.
“There now, dearest.” A hand stroked her hair, smoothing it just above her ear the way Aunt Fanny had done since she was a girl. “Everything will be all right. Let us help you stand.”
“I don’t wish to stand. I wish to remain here.”
Her father snorted.
“I would rather wallow in muck than marry a man who knows nothing of honor, nothing of dignity, nothing of earning one’s way in life.”
Fanny’s hands retreated, her green skirts joining Papa’s black boots.
Rhythmic, deliberate bootfalls punctuated by the quiet click of a cane approached from behind her. “Dignity?” a deep, silken voice said flatly from high above her head. “You may wish to consider your own circumstances before crowning yourself queen of that particular kingdom.”
She closed her eyes, but that only made the odor worse. “I don’t want to marry you, Chatham.”
He laughed, a low chuckle with a wicked edge. Then the sounds of the street muffled as his frame bent close, his mouth hovering next to her ear, his breath hot against her cheek. “I may lack honor, love, but I’m not daft.”
No, he wasn’t. He was too clever by half. Too vexing. Too … everything.
“Get up.” His scent cut through the sting of horse leavings. He smelled like citrus. And, surprisingly, not like whisky. Cool, lean fingers slid down the slope of her shoulder, over her tiny sleeve and onto the bare flesh of her arm. They curled and gripped. Lifted her until she could do nothing other than what he wanted.
Then, he was standing fully behind her, his lingering hand stroking her arm with tiny motions. “There, now. Turn ’round and let us assess the damage.”
She obeyed. She did not know why. Nothing else to do, she supposed. He had won. So had her father.
Her eyes widened as she took in his face. Chatham in a ballroom’s candleglow was as pale as paper, lean to the point of thinness. Handsome, of course, with low brows over those ferocious turquoise eyes.
Today, in full sunlight, however, he was the color of salt. His
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