Free The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) by Elisa Braden

eyes were veined and shot with red, those thick, dark lashes that made him so beauteous when he gazed upon a woman with intent—those emerged from red-rimmed eyelids swollen as though he had not slept for years. A dark lock of hair tumbled over his brow. He looked gaunt, his cheeks sunken, his bones harsh against his skin.
    She had only seen him days ago, and he had not looked nearly so … ill. It was alarming.
    While she was cataloging the wear upon his features, he was examining her gown. Now, his eyes came back to hers. His head tilted, his nose wrinkling. He sniffed then cringed. “We should marry with all haste. You will want to wash and”—he coughed, his complexion tingeing green—“change your gown before we depart for Northumberland.”
    She watched his lean throat ripple on a hard swallow. For some reason, it amused her. Relieved her. He was not made of impervious alabaster, after all.
    Another ill-advised impulse seized her, an imp of mischief clamoring to turn the tables on the arrogant lord. With a smile she could not prevent, she glanced down at her skirt, where dung had caked upon layered silk in two prominent clumps.
    “You mean this?” she queried innocently.
    “Not precisely a scent crafted by Floris, love. The sooner we speak our vows, the sooner you can be rid of it.”
    “Oh, but I’m quite taken with it.” She gave him little warning before gathering the muck with a sliding scoop of her hands down her skirt. Then, with a solid smack, she smeared her stinging palms down the lapels of his tailcoat. “See? This is the beauty of marriage. What’s mine is yours.”
    It was childish. Ridiculous. Petty, like a prank the twins would have pulled on Andrew.
    His nostrils flared. His eyes blazed. She expected him to rage. But he did not. He moved not at all. “Are you finished?” he said flatly.
    Blinking, she waited for him to break, to declare that he would not marry such a harridan for any amount of money. Instead, she saw his control, the weariness in his eyes. Perhaps he needed a further push.
    She gave him her most brilliant smile and dipped a curtsy in her soiled gown. “Finished. Yes, I believe so. You look ever so dashing, my lord.”
    Aunt Fanny was the first to react. “Charlotte, have you gone mad?”
    Chatham held Charlotte’s gaze fast, his hand rising to halt Fanny’s protest. “Mad or not, we will marry now. Isn’t that so, Miss Lancaster?”
    Her eyes dropped to her handiwork, then back up past his lean jaw and flaring nose and green complexion to meet blazing turquoise head-on. He was different than she had supposed. More … human. More disciplined.
    An absurd notion began to form: Her marriage to Benedict Chatham need not be a misery. Perhaps she could work with this man. Perhaps they could find an accord similar to the one she had envisioned with Tannenbrook.
    In any event, it seemed Chatham was to be her husband, whether she desired it or not. Making the best of unfortunate circumstances was what she did best.
    “Indeed it is, Lord Rutherford.” She grasped his arm with her still-soiled hand and moved to his side, then pivoted them back toward St. George’s. “Let us wallow in this pile of horse shit together, shall we?”
     
    *~*~*

 
     
    CHAPTER SIX
    “A proper marriage begins with a proper wedding. It seems Benedict Chatham’s nuptials were most apt in their nature.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Countess of Berne upon hearing details of the recent ceremony at St. George’s.
     
    There had been no wedding breakfast. No cake or tearful well wishes from dear friends. Charlotte and Chatham had entered the church arm-in-arm, stridden purposefully down the aisle past a gaping Mr. Pryor and Uncle Frederick and Cousin Andrew, and spoken their vows covered in smelly muck. Aunt Fanny had wept quietly in the pew, but Charlotte suspected that had more to do with her trampled flowers and ruined gown than with sentiment.
    Now, days later, Charlotte