“Is that your sister I see riding neck-or-nothing over the fields like some hoyden?” Lady Frockman asked. “I thought you said she was crippled.” “Is that your sister I see riding neck-or-nothing over the fields like some hoyden?” Lady Frockman asked. “I thought you said she was crippled.”
“She is.” The Earl of Denbigh peered out the window of his town coach to identify the rider Lady Frockman had pointed out on a distant grassy hill. “Evidently Olivia has learned to ride again since last I saw her.”
“When was that?” Lady Frockman asked.
The earl frowned. “Six months, at least.” He would not be going home now if it were not for the series of indignant letters he had received from his neighbor, Mrs. Killington, the squire’s wife, begging him to come take charge of his new American ward, Lady Charlotte Edgerton. It seemed the chit refused to be bound by convention and was upsetting the entire neighborhood with her outlandish activities.
He had come to Denbigh Castle to admonish his ward and ensure that any bizarre behavior she engaged in would cease. Not that he put much credence in the unbelievable tales Mrs. Killington’s letters had told. No seventeen-year-old girl could possibly have done all the things Mrs. Killington had accused her of doing—driving a cow up the steps into church, dressing up in a sheet like a ghost and scaring the squire half to death, inviting the crofters’ children to pick flowers in the earl’s rose garden, and, to add insult to injury, using the squire’s pumpkins for target practice with her bow and arrow.
He had decided that the best course of action was to marry the girl off as quickly as possible. Then she would become some other man’s problem.
“Who is that with your sister?” Lady Frockman asked.
“It appears to be a country gentleman,” the earl said in a cool voice.
Lady Frockman tsked. “And nary a chaperon in sight. Who knows what might happen to your sister under such unseemly circumstances?”
The earl arched a brow. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black, Claudia.”
Lady Frockman smiled in amusement. “But, Lion, I have no reputation to be ruined.”
“True,” the earl agreed. Claudia had been his mistress for the past four months, and it had been a satisfying relationship for both of them. It was a month longer than he had stayed with either of his two previous mistresses over the past year. Denbigh had employed the fair sex for only one use since his catastrophic wedding barely a year past. When a woman ceased to please him—or began to importune him—he parted company with her.
Although Lady Frockman was a widow and could expect to marry again, she had been careful not to press him for any future commitment, or to make demands of any sort, for that matter. She had been content with the expensive jewelry he lavished on her and the notoriety of being seen in his company.
Denbigh’s silvery gray eyes narrowed as he watched the two riders racing toward the house which, thanks to a long-ago generation of forebears who had added crenels along the top and turrets at each of the four corners, looked a great deal like a castle. The hollowed-out square, a three-story stone structure, featured a central courtyard with a magnificent rose garden.
Ivy climbed the walls, softening the harsh look of the place. But perched high on a cliff overlooking the sea, Denbigh Castle was always cold and drafty. When the wind whistled through the windows at night, the old house sounded as though it were filled with ghostly spirits.
Denbigh’s gaze skipped from the house back to the riders. The young man riding with Olivia had excellent taste in horseflesh, Denbigh would grant him that. The gentleman’s black stallion was a powerful animal and fast as the wind. His sister’s Thoroughbred was having difficulty keeping up with the beast. Nevertheless, he intended to give the young buck a stern warning for daring to seek out the company of the Earl of Denbigh’s only sister without the earl’s consent.
The earl’s carriage reached the front door to Denbigh Castle a few moments before the riders. The earl had barely stepped down from the carriage, and had not yet helped Lady Frockman out, when the black brute nearly ran him down. The young man hauled back so hard on the reins the stallion reared, and Denbigh lurched backward to avoid being trampled. A moment later the rider was off the stallion and standing before him begging his pardon.
“I’m very sorry, sir. Mephistopheles doesn’t like to lose. Sometimes it’s difficult to make him realize when the race is over.”
Denbigh didn’t believe his ears. Or his eyes. What stood before him was not a young man, but a young lady. Her voice was husky, and it rasped over him, making his neck hairs stand on end. The hips—revealed by a pair of tight-fitting breeches—and breasts—outlined by a thin lawn shirt whipped tight against her bosom by the sharp wind off the sea—were definitely female.
But she acted like no lady he had ever known.
She had been riding astride that huge brute of a stallion. She stood before him now with her hands on her hips, her legs widespread like a man, and looked him directly in the eye without a trace of embarrassment at her woefully indiscreet attire.
Her small nose was freckled. No wonder, riding in the sun without a hat. Her hair was golden and tied back in a queue that had hidden its length from him at first. Wispy blond tendrils framed a feminine, heart-shaped face. Green cat’s eyes stared at him with open, honest curiosity, and a square chin dared him to … to what? Say something? Anything?
He could not have spoken to save his life. He still could not quite believe his eyes. This had to be his ward. Maybe Mrs. Killington was not so crazy, after all.
His sister joined them, but she remained mounted sidesaddle on her mare, wearing a perfectly respectable frog-trimmed velvet riding habit. At least she had not been corrupted by this imp of Satan.
“Lion! We didn’t expect you,” Olivia said.
“Obviously not,” he replied. “I didn’t know you had taken up riding again, Olivia.”
She flushed. “Oh. Well. Charlie said she didn’t see any reason why I couldn’t. She said I shouldn’t let my fears keep me earthbound, so to speak. So I tried it, and I can,” she said, shrugging as though to make light of what she had accomplished.
Lion raised a disdainful brow. “Charlie?”
“Lady Charlotte,” Olivia quickly amended. “I sent you a letter when she arrived here, Lion. You must have gotten it.”
“I did.” Four months ago. He had been appointed as guardian for the girl until she married or reached the age of one and twenty, whichever came first. He had ignored this unwelcome responsibility as long as possible. Obviously, it—she—could no longer be ignored.
Lion stared down at the pixielike urchin standing across from him who had convinced his sister—who had taken such a terrible spill during a hunt eight years ago that it had left her with an awkward limp—to get back on a horse. Not only to get back on, but to gallop neck-or-nothing as she had when she was a carefree girl. It was nothing short of a miracle.
“As happy as I am for you, Olivia, I must ask what you two ladies were doing out riding without a chaperon.”
“We only went to the village and back,” Olivia said.
“Good lord,” Denbigh said.
“It appears things are every bit as bad as Mrs. Killington suggested,” Lady Frockman interjected with a laugh.
“A few changes will be necessary,” Denbigh agreed. “Olivia, take your horse to the stable, then go to your room.”
“Yes, Lion,” she said dutifully.
His new ward started to follow her, but Denbigh said, “Not you. I have a few more things to say to you first.”
The girl’s head cocked like a small bird’s as she eyed him speculatively. “Since you’re Livy’s brother, I suppose you must be my guardian,” she said. “You don’t look as old as I thought you would, sir. I mean, for a man of your age. Twenty-nine is practically ancient.”
Denbigh’s jaw tightened at her impertinence.
“She’s delightfully frank, Lion,” Lady Frockman said with a laugh. “And right, of course.”
Denbigh gave Claudia an icy look that silenced her. He turned back to the girl and said, “My age is not at issue here. And you may address me as ‘Lord Denbigh’ or ‘my lord.’ ”
“My friends call me Charlie,” the girl replied with a smile that was as guileless as it was enchanting.
“Charlie is a boy’s name,” he said in his most disapproving voice. “I will address you as ‘Lady Charlotte.’ ”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” she said, the smile replaced by a frown that made him feel like a churl. “I’m not an English lady. I’m an American.”
“Your father was Lord Edgerton, was he not?”
“I suppose he was. But that was a long time ago, before he moved to New Orleans, before he married my mother, before I was born. There aren’t any lords and ladies in America, only common folk. Couldn’t you just call me Charlie?”
“No female ward of mine is going to be called Charlie in public or in private,” he said in a withering voice.
“Good!” she retorted. “Because I don’t want to be your ward. You can put me on the next ship back to America and make us both happy.” She turned and threw herself onto the stallion’s back in a movement of strength and grace that so astonished him he didn’t even try to stop her.
She looked down at him and said, “I’m glad you finally came, so you could see I don’t belong here. I have friends in America who would be delighted to let me live with them. Please leave enough money with your steward to pay my passage back to New Orleans. You can keep the rest of my fortune until I’m ready for it.”
He realized she was turning her horse to leave without waiting to be excused by him. Nowhere in her speech had there been a single “Lord Denbigh” or “my lord.” In fact, she had forgone the “sir,” as well. He was irritated at having been forced to make the trip to Sussex from London in the first place, worried at finding his sister out riding the countryside unchaperoned, and appalled at the sight of his ward attired in breeches. Being dismissed by her as though she were the one in charge was the last straw.
“Stop right there, Lady Charlotte,” he commanded.
To his amazement, the chit jabbed her booted heels into the stallion’s sides. If Lion’s reflexes hadn’t been quick, she would have been gone before he could stop her. If he hadn’t been as strong as he was, the stallion would have run him down, instead of being yanked to an abrupt halt by his lightning quick grasp of the bridle.
The stallion curvetted and crowhopped, neighing his fury at the contradictory signals being given by the rider and the man on the ground. Denbigh was sure the girl would be bucked off, but she kept her seat, crooning to the animal until he stood docile at last.
“That was a terrible thing to do to Mephistopheles!” she accused.
“You shouldn’t have tried to leave without my permission,” Denbigh retorted.
“I don’t need your permission to ride my horse.”
“From now on you need my permission to do anything and everything you do.”
“That’s monstrous!”
Denbigh had been called a lot of things over the past year and had fought several duels as a consequence. He didn’t have to listen to this spoiled American brat call him names.
He reached up and wrapped an arm around her waist, hauled her down from the saddle, and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of mangel-wurzels. Then he called to the coachman, “Take the reins, Henry, and return Lady Charlotte’s mount to the stable. Make sure he’s cooled down before you put him away.”
“Yes, milord,” Henry answered, eyeing the big black beast askance.
Of course, Lion said all this over the shrieks of the slender girl, who was kicking and wriggling and yelling like a banshee. He gave an inward sigh. The girl had a temper, and she wasn’t afraid to display it. She was a far cry from the demure young lady he had expected to find. He experienced a sinking feeling as he realized no English gentleman would willingly pay court to such a hellion. He was likely going to be stuck with her for—God help him!—the next four years.
“What are you going to do with her, now that you’ve got her?” Lady Frockman asked with an amused smile.
“Take her to her room, of course. Excuse me, Lady Frockman. Make yourself comfortable in the salon. I will join you shortly.”
“I won’t stay in my room!” the girl cried. “You can’t make me obey you. I’ll run away!”
Denbigh ignored her—insofar as that was possible—as he marched up the front steps.
Samuels, the butler, had apparently heard the commotion, because he opened the front door even before Denbigh reached it to knock.
“Thank you, Samuels,” Lion said as he entered the massive tiled hallway. It opened onto a double set of curving marble stairs, each leading to a separate wing of the house.
“It’s good to have you home, milord.”
“Which is Lady Charlotte’s room?” he asked.
“The Blue Room, milord,” Samuels answered.
Denbigh headed up the left set of stairs, his boots muffled by the Persian carpet that covered them. The Blue Room had belonged to his mother. He was surprised that his housekeeper, Mrs. Tinsworthy, had allowed this American troublemaker to occupy it.
He realized, with chagrin, that if he slept in his father’s room, as he usually did, she would be right next door. He hoped she did not plan to keep up her caterwauling all night. He had plans later in the evening for Lady Frockman that he did not want disturbed.
The girl wriggled so much that he nearly dropped her on the stairs. “Be still!” he roared.
She fell limp so suddenly he thought she had fainted. When he loosened his grasp to shift her in his arms, she jerked herself free. Before he could catch her, she tumbled head over heels down the carpeted stairs.
He took the stairs two at a time and caught her just as she reached the bottom. “Are you all right?” he asked as he turned her over.
Her green eyes looked dazed, and a knot was already growing on her forehead. He felt guilty about her injury, but angry, as well. If she had not been resisting him, she would not have been hurt in the first place.
“Are you all right?” he repeated, gently brushing what turned out to be incredibly silky blond curls from her brow. Her bowed lips pouted in a way that made her look half her age, but her square chin was outthrust enough that it could have belonged to a grande dame of the ton.
She slapped at his hand. “I’m fine,” she said, gulping back a sob. “Leave me alone.”
“I say there, Charlie—”
Denbigh glanced up to see one of his footmen starting toward the girl. He was appalled to hear the chit addressed by that impossible nickname—and by one of his servants!
The footman, Galbraith, recognized his mistake immediately and said, “Begging your pardon, milord, but Char—Lady Charlotte is—” He cut himself off again and shifted from foot to foot.
“What Timothy is trying to say is that we’re friends, and he’s worried about me,” the chit said.
Timothy Galbraith—Denbigh had not known the man’s first name before Charlotte mentioned it—flushed to the roots of his hair at this confession and stiffened as the earl gave him a narrow-eyed look. For the first time Denbigh noticed the footman was young and handsome.
The earl’s gaze shifted from the footman to his ward and back. What he was thinking must have been plain on his face, because Galbraith hurried to reassure him, “Lady Charlotte is only what she said, milord. A friend. She doesn’t see class, the way we do in England. Char—Lady Charlotte says that in America everyone is equal.”
Denbigh turned to stare at his ward. Had she been spouting that sort of heresy ever since she arrived? No wonder Mrs. Killington was upset. He looked into the faces of the collection of servants who stood watching them. “Go get the housekeeper,” he instructed them. “Tell Mrs. Tinsworthy to bring whatever she needs to care for Lady Charlotte’s bruises to the Blue Room.”
The servants stood unmoving, obviously protective of the girl, until he said, “If you have nothing better to do than stand there and gawk, perhaps it is time I reduced the staff,” whereupon they dispersed hurriedly.
“Are you going to come upstairs with me peaceably?” Denbigh asked his ward.
“I don’t see why I should.”
“I should think the threat of more bruises would be reason enough,” Denbigh said.
“Are you planning to beat me?” the girl demanded.
“The idea has definite appeal,” Denbigh muttered to himself. The girl was looking him right in the eye, and he would not have put it past her to spit in it. “Are you going upstairs on your own two feet, or must I carry you?”
She wrapped her arms around her knees. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I wish I’d never met you. I want my life back the way it was before my papa died. I can’t imagine what Papa was thinking. He can’t have meant for you to be my guardian. You’re a bully and a brute. You’re a worm in the grass. No, you’re a snake. You’re a—”
“You’ve made your point exceedingly plain, Lady Charlotte,” he said, cutting her off.
His pulse was throbbing in his temples, and it sounded as if she were just getting warmed up. He had no intention of waiting around until the servants returned to hear her diatribe. Without any warning, he scooped her up in his arms, intending to take her where she would not go on her own.
She gave an outraged shriek when his hand accidentally brushed against her breast. If it had given her as much of a jolt as it had given him, he could understand her response. She might be dressed like a man, but she was most definitely a woman. His body had reacted swiftly and surely to the feel of soft female flesh beneath his hand.
“You … You’re …” she sputtered.
Obviously she was having trouble coming up with a word disgusting enough to describe him. He was horrified at the thought of the servants racing to her rescue—and finding him in the condition he was in. The current fashions left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
“You’re despicable!” she finally managed. “You’re—”
He put a hand across her mouth to cut off a new spate of insults, gathered her more tightly into his arms, and began marching back up the stairs.
He was careful not to underestimate the chit again, but she nevertheless managed to bite the hand that cut off her muffled cries before he got her to her room.
He threw her onto the canopied bed and sucked on the painful, blood-red row of teethmarks on his forefinger. She picked up where she had left off.
“You’re lower than a snake in the grass,” she hissed. “I can’t even think of anything as low as you.”
“That will be quite enough! If I haven’t already, I want to make it perfectly clear that before I allow you out in public again you will reform your behavior to the standards expected of an English lady.”
“I’m not a damned English lady!” she cried.
“Not yet,” he agreed. “But before you leave this house again, you will dress and act and talk like a lady.”
“I won’t!”
“You will not leave this room until I have your agreement that you will,” he said implacably.
She faced him unrepentant, undeterred. Denbigh had to admire the girl. It almost seemed a shame to curb her spirit. It was hard not to be impressed by the militant fire in her green eyes or to find beauty in the disheveled golden curls that fell free across her shoulders. The rosy flush on her cheeks made her look as though she had been engaged in … in something he had no business even thinking of in association with the young lady who was his ward.
He backed away toward the door. Before he had gone two steps she was heading for the door, as well.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.
“You can’t keep me a prisoner here.”
“I can do anything I believe is necessary for your welfare. I’m your guardian.”
“I don’t need a guardian. You don’t want me here. Why won’t you let me go home to America?”
“Your father obviously believed you needed a guardian. And I can see why.” She had turned out to be something less—and more—than he was expecting. “You’re my responsibility until you marry—although lord knows where I’ll find an Englishman who’ll take you.
“When you have learned the necessary female arts, you will be presented at court and receive an invitation to Almack’s, where you will seek out a suitable husband. A selection which, of course, I must approve. Until then—or until you come of age—you will do as I say.”
“I won’t!”
“Very well. We’ll talk again when you’re ready to listen to reason.” Instead of arguing further, he stepped out of the room, closed the door, turned the key in the lock, and stood waiting to see what she would do.
Lady Charlotte did not disappoint him.
She pounded on the door with her fists and kicked it with her boots. She rattled the knob, but the door was firmly locked.
“Are you ready to do as I ask?” he demanded through the door.
“Never!” she shouted back.
He had not expected her to give up without a fight. But he was not going to give up, either. He would leave her alone to think. Eventually, his charming—disarming? disturbing? delightful?—captive would come to understand that she had no choice except surrender.
Charlotte had never been so furious or felt so frustrated. Keep her prisoner, would he? Marry her off to some stuffy old Englishman, would he? Like hell he would! She would never give up or give in. She would die an old maid before she would concede the battle to him! After all, it was only four years until she was one and twenty. Oh, God. Four years!
The sound of her stallion trumpeting his anger as he resisted those who held him captive sent her running to the window. She peered through the leafy branches of the majestic oak that grew there and saw two stable boys trying in vain to subdue Mephistopheles. She and her horse were alike. They were both renegades, used to doing as they pleased, used to running wild. Until he had come along.
Charlotte paced from corner to corner of the elegant bedroom, tears of anxiety falling unnoticed. She felt sore and bruised all over from her fall down the stairs, but her aching bones were not what concerned her. She could not bear the thought of living under that man’s thumb for years to come.
How dare the earl confine her! She would never make the promises he was demanding in exchange for her freedom. Dress like a lady. Act like a lady. Talk like a lady. She would dress and act and talk just as she always had and be damned to him!
Despite the fact her father had been an English lord, she was not an English lady. She was an American. The high-handed guardian who had been appointed in her father’s will was wrong to try and force her into a mold she didn’t fit. It was like squeezing her feet into dainty satin slippers when leather riding boots would fit so much better. She liked wearing trousers. She liked riding astride. She liked saying exactly what was on her mind.
And what was wrong with the way she was? It had been fine for dear Papa. Oh, how she missed him! If only he had not taken ill and died. If only she had been allowed to stay at her plantation home in New Orleans instead of coming to live in this damp, drafty castle in England.
Suddenly the raging horse fell silent. Charlotte ran back to the window to see what had happened to Mephistopheles.
He was there. His hand lay on Mephistopheles’s nose, calming the stallion, who stood quietly for him. Charlotte quivered with indignation that Mephistopheles should stand tamely for anyone but her, and that her horse had conceded the battle so easily to their mutual foe.
A soft knock at the door drew her attention away from the window. “Charlotte, I’m sorry.”
She ran to the door and spoke through it. “Oh, Livy, thank goodness. Turn the key and let me out.”
“I can’t, Charlotte. Lion would be furious if I did.”
“Don’t be such a nodcock,” Charlotte chided. “How will he know you unlocked the door?”
“He would ask. And I couldn’t lie to him.”
Charlotte leaned her forehead against the cool wooden door. Lady Olivia, the earl’s sister, was eight years her elder, already five and twenty. But she was as timid as a mouse—and looked a great deal like one, too, with her plain brown hair and large hazel eyes.
Charlotte had done all she could over the past four months since she had arrived to encourage Livy to rebel against the strictures in her life. So far Livy was a butterfly still stuck tight in her chrysalis.
“I don’t know what your brother was so upset about in the first place,” Charlotte complained. “All we did was race his carriage to the house.”
“You cannot blame Lion for being angry at finding his ward dressed in trousers and riding astride that huge black beast,” Livy said through the door. “You know I nearly fainted myself when I first saw you mount Mephistopheles wearing breeches.”
“Mephistopheles would never hurt me,” Charlotte protested. “And I refuse to ride sidesaddle when riding astride makes so much more sense.”
“I’m afraid Lion won’t be swayed by your arguments, Charlotte. I warned you, did I not?”
“Why have you stopped calling me Charlie?” Charlotte asked softly. “I thought we were friends, Livy.”
A pause and then, “Lion doesn’t approve.”
“You have a mind and a will of your own, Livy. You don’t always have to do what your brother says.”
There was a long pause before Charlotte heard the key move in the lock. The door opened, and Olivia stepped inside. “Oh, Charlie, look at your face! What happened?”
Charlotte’s forehead was throbbing, but too many other things had been on her mind to worry about it. She crossed now to the standing mirror in the corner and gingerly touched the black-and-blue goose egg.
At that moment Mrs. Tinsworthy arrived at the door. “Oh, my dear Charlie,” the elderly lady said as she entered with a handful of medicinals. “What on earth was that poor boy thinking?”
Charlotte had never been a very good patient, and it was hard to sit still for Mrs. Tinsworthy’s attentions to her bruised face. What kept her silent during her ministrations was Mrs. Tinsworthy’s references to the Earl of Denbigh as “that poor boy.” The housekeeper sounded almost sympathetic. As far as Charlotte could tell, the earl could take care of himself. After all, she was the one with the bruises.
Charlotte had discounted all the stories she had heard about the earl since she had arrived at Denbigh Castle. How he had killed a man simply because he didn’t like the way he tied his neck cloth. That he was so dangerous with his fists that no one would go into the ring with him at Gentleman Jackson’s salon. That his fencing bouts at Angelo’s had resulted in serious injury to at least three young bucks of the ton who had wanted to try their hand at besting him. And that he was an unbeatable whip, risked life and limb to race his cattle, and always won.
Now that she had met him, she believed every word.
Worse than all of that, in her mind, however, was the way he ignored his family. He had elderly, sickly grandparents that he rarely visited, and his younger sister, Olivia, had been left alone in the country to wither away into an old maid. It was no wonder, Charlotte thought, that his bride had killed herself rather than marry the man.
But she could see why Lady Alice had been attracted to Denbigh in the first place. His eyes were startling to behold, such a light, silvery gray they had made her breath catch in her throat the first time he looked at her. He had an aristocratic nose and angular cheekbones. His mouth was wide and generous, though he kept it pressed flat most of the time in a grim line. Even more impressive was the man himself. His tightly fitted jacket emphasized his broad shoulders, while his flat stomach and strong thighs were shown to advantage in skintight buckskins. Oh, he was attractive, all right.
She wasn’t going to let that sway her opinion of him. What good were looks when the man himself was so flawed? Imagine, ordering his sister around! Livy obeyed him like some English spaniel. Charlotte would never come to heel.
The Earl of Denbigh had finally met his match. It was time he learned to treat his family better. His servants, too, for that matter. And he could use a little instruction in the proper care and consideration of a ward. Oh, yes, Charlotte Edgerton had a few lessons to teach the arrogant earl.
“Come on, Livy,” Charlotte said, when Mrs. Tinsworthy was finished with her ministrations. “Let’s go talk to your brother.”
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Charlie. He’s in the salon with Lady Frockman. Besides, you don’t have Lion’s permission to leave this room.”
Charlotte gave a derisive, unladylike snort. “I don’t see anyone to stop me.”
“Lion won’t appreciate being interrupted,” Olivia said.
“I don’t care,” Charlotte replied. “I didn’t want to be locked in my room. Did your brother care? No, he locked me in, anyway.” She took a few steps toward the door, but Olivia held back. “Are you coming?”
“No. I’m not.”
“All right, Livy, have it your way. I’ll beard the Lion by myself.” She grinned at her play on words.
Livy wasn’t the least amused. Her brow furrowed anxiously, and her eyes looked worried. “Good luck, Charlie.”
“Are you suggesting I’ll need it?” Charlotte asked.
“Oh, yes. More than luck. Courage. And fortitude. And a stiff British upper lip.”
Charlotte laughed as she headed out the door. “You’re forgetting I have something much better than a stiff British upper lip.”
“What’s that?”
“A strong American backbone.”