Page 33 of The Inconvenient Compromise
“What do you want, Maxwell?”
“Rathmore,” Lucian corrected. “I’m an earl now… in case you missed it. I want nothing… except your silence. You will not try to deny the charges that have been leveled against Charlotte. You will let it stand. You can let the entire world believe that Charlotte had gone mad. That she was somehow not fully responsible for her misdeeds. But you will acknowledge that they happened.”
“And if I do not?”
“Do you really want people asking questions about why you visit Mr. Bardwell so late at night? About why you often seem to spend your nights in his home rather than your own?” That was information he’d gotten from Mr. Bosworth after the butler’s confession. It had all made perfect sense then.
“Fine. Get out. And don’t ever come here again,” Lord Bruxton said.
“I’ll have no need to. Good day, Lord Bruxton.”
Lucian walked out, and he felt lighter. He felt as if all the worry and all the fear that had dogged him since he had returned to London with Fiona had finally lifted. The dark cloud of Charlotte Farraday’s influence would be forever removed from their lives.
“It’s truly over. Her reign of terror is at an end,” Ralston observed.
“It is,” Lucian agreed.
Westerhaven simply grunted. It was his normal sort of response.
“Well, gentleman, as pleasant as I find your company, I have a wife waiting for me at home… and I find myself quite eager to see her,” Lucian said. With that, he turned and walked away from them, hailing a hack to take him home.
On the street, Westerhaven looked at Lord Ralston. “Do you think he knows?”
“Not just yet. I imagine when it dawns on him, it will fell him like an oak,” Ralston stated.
“Let's go to the club and have a drink to celebrate.”
Ralston grimaced. “Surely we are not so callous as to celebrate the suicide of a woman, even if she was particularly evil.”
“Oh, no. Not that. We’re celebrating Rathmore… and how the mighty do fall in the face of love.”
“Oh, that,” Ralston laughed. “That is certainly something I will drink to.”
TWENTY-FIVE
One Week Later…
Fiona was awakened by a kiss on her shoulder. She’d fallen asleep on her stomach, hugging Lucian’s pillow. It certainly hadn’t been intended. She’d simply been so tired that she’d retreated to their bedchamber to lie down. Now, it was early evening, and she had slept the day away.
After the sordid details of Charlotte’s lies and machinations had come out, invitations had poured in. Nothing boosted one’s popularity as much as being on the right side of a scandal.
Every night it was a different party, ball, soiree, salon, or musicale. She was exhausted from it all and wanted nothing more than to stay in and enjoy the company of her husband.
“I need to dress for dinner,” she protested as she felt his deft fingers releasing the buttons of her dress.
“Actually, you need to undress for dinner. I’ve sent our excuses to the Hedleighs that we will not be in attendance at tonight’s salon, and I’ve had a tray sent up.”
She could have kissed him for that. “Have I told you what a truly remarkable husband you are?”
“No, you have not. But I am all ears,” he replied. As he said it, he leaned in and bit her earlobe very lightly, then soothed it with the tip of his tongue.
“Lucian, you are so wicked.”
“I am. But you are wicked too… and it is even better when we can be wicked together.”
His hand slid beneath her skirt, his fingertips skimming her thigh just above her stocking.
“I suppose a bit of wickedness couldn’t hurt,” she agreed.
