The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) by Elisa Braden Page A
Authors: Elisa Braden
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Lancaster’s eyes traveled past her shoulder, toward the fireplace. It was not Papa who answered. Instead, the response came from behind her amidst crackling flames and the faintest rustle of clothing.
“I’ve always found it wise to affirm all conditions of a bargain before striking it, Miss Lancaster. Pity you never learned the same lesson.”
At the sound of his voice—silken and deep, mocking and wry—she shot from the chair, spun around, tripping on her own slippers until she had to catch herself against the velvet back. He sat in the darkest corner, barely visible. Orange light played with his features, but even that revealed his paleness, the hard, lean look of him starker than four months earlier, when he had pinned her like a helpless bird from across his mother’s ballroom.
“Chatham,” she breathed.
“Rutherford, actually. Though, you are welcome to call me whatever you like.” Light glanced off the glass in his hand as he raised it to sensual lips. “I suspect your vocabulary will grow immensely after we marry.”
*~*~*
CHAPTER FIVE
“In marriage, the negotiations are never concluded, my dear girl. They are simply commenced and suspended according to one’s needs and disposition. I recommend keeping your wits about you.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Duchess of Blackmore upon learning of the Duke of Blackmore’s request to limit said lady’s book budget.
As the flame-haired amazon pivoted to face her father, Chatham traced her womanly lines from long, pale neck to dark, silken hem. She possessed curves, certainly. He could see them when one hand braced on her hip, forcing the purple cloth to caress natural fullness, to outline a not-displeasing backside and nicely proportioned waist.
“As our bargain was made in bad faith, Papa, I hereby withdraw my consent.” Her voice, he noted, was pleasing as well, smooth and throaty with nary a hint of nasal whine. Unlike her father, she spoke proper English with no American inflection. Quite dulcet to the ear, actually.
“Balderdash. Our agreement has been struck, and you will—”
She was shaking her head, her simply knotted hair shimmering like copper in the firelight. “You knew I would assume Lord Tannenbrook had reconsidered—”
“As Rutherford said, that was your mistake. Tannenbrook is only an earl,” Lancaster scoffed. “And obstinate as that old horse your mother refused to sell.”
“Hannibal was not obstinate. He was discerning about his friends. As is James.”
James, is it? Chatham thought, downing the last of his whisky and carefully setting his glass on the floor beside his chair. Interesting.
“Hmmph,” snorted Lancaster, giving his daughter a derisive once-over. “Discerning is one word for it. Tannenbrook refused to take you for any sum. Believe me, I pressed him.”
Chatham watched as the amazon’s bright-red head snapped back at the raw insult. It was the first time she had displayed weakness. He frowned, waiting for her to gather herself. He did not wait long.
Her shoulders, surprisingly slender now that he looked upon them, squared. “Lord Tannenbrook does not respond well to intimidation. Neither do I.”
Lancaster’s looming form edged toward his daughter. Reaching for his walking stick, Chatham felt his thigh muscles tense on the off chance he would have to step between them. Thankfully, no such action was required—the man stopped within a foot of her.
“I left the choice of husband to you, and you failed.”
She sighed, her shoulders slumping out of square. “I have explained why a thousand times, Papa. The conversation has grown wearying.”
The American’s frown showed genuine consternation. “What is so difficult about wielding a woman’s wiles? I see it every day. Girls younger than you, less intelligent. They flit here and there, wave their eyelashes about. It’s simple. Men are simple.”
A long silence filled the space, thickening amidst the
“I’ve always found it wise to affirm all conditions of a bargain before striking it, Miss Lancaster. Pity you never learned the same lesson.”
At the sound of his voice—silken and deep, mocking and wry—she shot from the chair, spun around, tripping on her own slippers until she had to catch herself against the velvet back. He sat in the darkest corner, barely visible. Orange light played with his features, but even that revealed his paleness, the hard, lean look of him starker than four months earlier, when he had pinned her like a helpless bird from across his mother’s ballroom.
“Chatham,” she breathed.
“Rutherford, actually. Though, you are welcome to call me whatever you like.” Light glanced off the glass in his hand as he raised it to sensual lips. “I suspect your vocabulary will grow immensely after we marry.”
*~*~*
CHAPTER FIVE
“In marriage, the negotiations are never concluded, my dear girl. They are simply commenced and suspended according to one’s needs and disposition. I recommend keeping your wits about you.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Duchess of Blackmore upon learning of the Duke of Blackmore’s request to limit said lady’s book budget.
As the flame-haired amazon pivoted to face her father, Chatham traced her womanly lines from long, pale neck to dark, silken hem. She possessed curves, certainly. He could see them when one hand braced on her hip, forcing the purple cloth to caress natural fullness, to outline a not-displeasing backside and nicely proportioned waist.
“As our bargain was made in bad faith, Papa, I hereby withdraw my consent.” Her voice, he noted, was pleasing as well, smooth and throaty with nary a hint of nasal whine. Unlike her father, she spoke proper English with no American inflection. Quite dulcet to the ear, actually.
“Balderdash. Our agreement has been struck, and you will—”
She was shaking her head, her simply knotted hair shimmering like copper in the firelight. “You knew I would assume Lord Tannenbrook had reconsidered—”
“As Rutherford said, that was your mistake. Tannenbrook is only an earl,” Lancaster scoffed. “And obstinate as that old horse your mother refused to sell.”
“Hannibal was not obstinate. He was discerning about his friends. As is James.”
James, is it? Chatham thought, downing the last of his whisky and carefully setting his glass on the floor beside his chair. Interesting.
“Hmmph,” snorted Lancaster, giving his daughter a derisive once-over. “Discerning is one word for it. Tannenbrook refused to take you for any sum. Believe me, I pressed him.”
Chatham watched as the amazon’s bright-red head snapped back at the raw insult. It was the first time she had displayed weakness. He frowned, waiting for her to gather herself. He did not wait long.
Her shoulders, surprisingly slender now that he looked upon them, squared. “Lord Tannenbrook does not respond well to intimidation. Neither do I.”
Lancaster’s looming form edged toward his daughter. Reaching for his walking stick, Chatham felt his thigh muscles tense on the off chance he would have to step between them. Thankfully, no such action was required—the man stopped within a foot of her.
“I left the choice of husband to you, and you failed.”
She sighed, her shoulders slumping out of square. “I have explained why a thousand times, Papa. The conversation has grown wearying.”
The American’s frown showed genuine consternation. “What is so difficult about wielding a woman’s wiles? I see it every day. Girls younger than you, less intelligent. They flit here and there, wave their eyelashes about. It’s simple. Men are simple.”
A long silence filled the space, thickening amidst the
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