The Outcast Earl Read Free

back the comment that was rising to her lips, but she couldn’t help it. The acerbic words tumbled from her, and he was close enough to hear them. “What else could you possibly have imagined I would do?”
     
    * * * *
     
    Charles glared at the back of her head. The girl wasn’t supposed to be impertinent. She was supposed to be at least terrified, as any other innocent miss in this situation would have been.
    The irony did quirk his lips, though. All other young innocents would have been passed out as thoroughly as the estimable Aunt Betsy. It was unfortunate they weren’t in a position where he could address—indeed, enjoy—that impudence.
    It wasn’t that he wanted a ninny as a bride. Truth be told, her cheekiness held infinitely more potential than shy, retiring misses could ever promise. Knowing his own reputation and family history, he had given up his search for his English maiden years ago and retreated to the ancestral rural landscape to brood out his days. Now, though, he was grateful for those past discouragements. If he had married a shy, young, English miss nine years ago, he would now likely be bored to tears.
    He didn’t cry easily.
    But he needed an heir. Heirs, preferably. Time had reinforced that reality, too. The Wessex family had ruled, owned and dominated the landscape in this part of England for time immemorial. By legend and maternal bloodlines, his ancestors included the ancient kings and queens of Mercia, and the remarkable Alfred the Great. The Wessex clan had survived innumerable wars, royal abuse, the bloodthirsty Cromwells, charges of treason and any number of importuning women who had tried to discredit the ancient warrior lineage. The remains of his ancestral kingdom might have died out with William the Conqueror, but the survival instinct had percolated in nearly every generation through the centuries. One did not allow a one-thousand-three-hundred-year dynasty to die out without making some effort to preserve its fate.
    From the few words he’d exchanged with Abigail so far, it seemed as though she might wear the Meriden coronet quite well.
    Besides, both his parents and grandparents would torment him for eternity in the afterlife if Meriden allowed his cousin Milton to inherit. The lying little boy, who had delighted in sabotaging Charles’ animal traps and decimating his childhood forts, had grown into a petty, self-indulgent man who had, quite possibly, degenerated with age. When Charles had seen him last, in London, Milton had been positively smug over the probability of inheriting the earldom. Even living, Charles was fairly certain his mother’s continued residence in Italy was meant to be a constant reminder that he needed a châtelaine for Meriden Park, and that she had no intention of filling the role for him.
    Charles sincerely hoped that Milton would one day meet his comeuppance for his own arrogance. Charles equally hoped he would be in a position to witness it, without being caught up in the fiasco that was certain to follow.
    As he often did, Charles worked like a demon while he inwardly mused, leaving the rescue of Lady Abigail de Rothesay to her coachman while he focused on the injured aunt. He was able to do so with half a mind, the other half still consumed by the dilemmas he would face over the next days.
    It wasn’t that he didn’t want to touch her. It was just that he wanted that first contact to be in more forgiving surrounds. He wanted her to know they were touching, to think about how it felt. He wanted to be able to appreciate the texture of her skin and feel the shudders run up her arm when he kissed her inner wrist.
    Charles wanted her to be perfectly and explicitly aware that he had every right to do with her as he pleased.
    Of course, he reminded himself, he ultimately wanted her to be happy in that same possession. A bit of nerves was to be expected—even enjoyed—but Charles had no wish to terrify his bride. But as of yet, he truly had no