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

gazed out the window of the gold-trimmed travel coach she had wheedled from her father and felt a perverse satisfaction. As she and Chatham had walked one another to the altar, Papa had been forced to follow behind in their odiferous wake. Later, she had shed not a tear—not one—as she had tossed her soiled gown into the fire and watched the delicate silk disappear. She had washed and finished packing. She had hugged a bewildered Aunt Fanny and Uncle Frederick, kissed the cheeks of her cousins, and departed for her fate in the far reaches of Northumberland.
    Thus far, it had been a tedious journey. She had brought along books, one of which she currently had open in her lap, but her stomach found reading and the motion of the carriage incompatible. They had been traveling four days, and in that time, she had seen her new husband precisely six times. Each instance had alarmed her further. In truth, he’d looked like death itself.
    “Lord Rutherford was rather peaked this morning, wouldn’t you agree, Esther?” Charlotte did not know why she continued trying to make conversation with the taciturn maid. The pinch-faced, middle-aged woman seated on the opposite bench had been hired by her father for many reasons—a sturdy, nigh-brutish frame, a lifetime of experience as a maid-of-all-work, a fevered hatred of drunkards—but sparkling wit was not among them.
    “Hmmph. Serves ’im right, you ask me.” Esther did not bother to glance up from her sewing, nor to address Charlotte with due courtesy. The iron-haired maid was churlish, unresponsive, and rude by turns.
    It had been a very long journey.
    The carriage rocked as they turned from the post road onto a narrow lane. This small village was apparently formed entirely of coaching inns. Charlotte sighed and rubbed her lower back. The carriage itself was exquisite, with dark-red velvet cushions and curtains and supple, tufted leather panels on the walls. Although no carriage was comfortable after four days, hers was plush and well sprung. She grinned to herself. It would fetch a small fortune after they reached their destination.
    Her smile faded as they turned into the courtyard of yet another coaching inn, remarkably similar to the one from the night before, with brick and timbers and a swaying sign over the door. “The Swifter Cock,” she murmured, squinting at the sign through the violet dusk. “They do have the oddest names for these places, do they not?”
    The maid did not even bother to grunt.
    At last, they stopped, and Charlotte set her useless book aside and quickly scrambled down onto cobblestones.
    Chatham’s carriage, a match for hers, had arrived first, but the door remained closed. Again, her thoughts turned to her husband, whom she had not wanted to marry. He had appeared most unwell earlier. She bit her lip, wondering if she should look in on him. If he died, she would be a widow. Could one be a widow if one had not yet so much as kissed a man?
    Shaking her head, she adjusted the bow of her bonnet and decided the best course was to ensure her husband did not die. She might have been forced into this godforsaken bargain, but she would have her reward in the end. One year with Chatham, and she would be free. Besides, if he suffered a premature demise, heaven knew what her father would demand next. Remarriage? And how much longer would that delay her rightful destiny? Calculating a suitable mourning period, plus time for locating and landing a titled gentleman desperate enough to marry a heavily dowered widow, Charlotte shuddered. At that rate, she would reach America in ten years rather than one.
    A sharp ahem sounded behind her.
    “Oh! Apologies, Esther.”
    This time the response was clearly a grunt.
    “I believe I shall speak with Lord Rutherford,” she said to no one in particular, for the maid had already waddled off toward the door of The Swifter Cock.
    Glancing back toward the other coach, Charlotte noticed the coachman speaking with a bony old