A Valentine from Harlequin

Charles, the late Duke of Rotham, John had spent most of his time in France up until his brother’s death the year before. He’d returned to London to claim his title, but there had been rumblings of his poor judgment with money early on. His sudden and relentless interest in Charlotte had been a surprise—and very suspicious to Alistair—but she had taken his courtship as sincere. John had suited her purposes; more than anything, Charlotte wanted a child, and at eight and twenty, time was growing short. She’d lived in America for almost a decade, leading many of the bachelors in London to question her morals. Her willful nature and sharp wit had scared off the rest despite her wealth.
    Weak-minded pratts, all of them. He would have done almost anything to have Charlotte as his wife, but marrying him could have cost her her most precious of dreams. And that, he would not do.
    He bit back a sigh and tried to reassure her. “He was a fine actor. It wasn’t your fault.”
    She met his gaze full-on then and gave a weary shake of her head. “You are a true gentleman for saying so, Alistair, but it was my fault entirely. Better that I accept it and learn from my mistakes than repeat them.”
    He pretended to consider that, and gave a solemn nod. “Well then, if you insist, it was rather silly of you. What in the blazes were you thinking?”
    She laughed, and the sound warmed him. She had the most inappropriate laugh. A bawdy, throaty chuckle that vibrated in her throat long before it spilled from her lips. It called forth visions of silky skin and dueling tongues, of curvy hips and creamy thighs. Today, though, the sound was soothing, a balm to his soul. When he’d awakened, chained in the lab, he’d been terrified. Until she’d walked through the door, he hadn’t been certain if she was alive or dead.
    The thought of John killing her skewered his guts like a lance, but Alistair willed the nightmare away. She was here now, and very much alive. Now they just had to keep it that way.

Chapter Three
    Charlotte pressed her hands to her sides, quelling the urge to straighten Alistair’s tousled black hair. She was just so damned glad he was all right. His warm, hazel eyes looked tired and his clothes were a wrinkled mess, but other than that he appeared none the worse for wear. She swallowed a sigh of relief.
    “Any ideas on how we might get out of this alive?” she asked.
    Alistair’s frank gaze collided with hers and he shook his head grimly. “I’ve been working on it but nothing foolproof yet. You?”
    Neither bothered pretending that Rotham was going to just let them go. They knew far too much, maybe even enough to see him hanged. No, he planned to string them along with the promise of freedom, but the moment they handed him the repaired purviewers, they were as good as dead.
    “I’m still trying to digest this whole thing, myself. Have you tested the chains?”
    He grimaced. “Probably more than I should have.”
    She moved behind him and bent to look at his bound wrists that were wrapped around a wooden post. “Oh, Alistair. You’re a bloody mess.” She took his hands gently in hers and examined them closer. “I’ll see what we have here to treat them and then wrap them in cloth. Don’t move.”
    He let out a crack of laughter. “Where would I go?”
    Removing her evening gloves, she scanned the lab. After some poking around she found some carbolic acid and a hand towel in the mix, which she tore in half. Locating a pitcher of water, she doused a piece of the cloth. She dampened the other piece with the chemical. “This should do. Once we get you cleaned up, I’ll work on the lock. Maybe devise a corroding agent? There are some tools we might use as a pick, as well.”
    “Fine idea.”
    He let out a hiss as she applied the damp cloth to his torn skin.
    “Sorry about that. What about the head wound?”
    “No blood, just a lump, I think.”
    She wiped away as much blood as she could from his wrists and made quick work of cushioning the manacles with a bit of the antiseptic cloth and stepped away, admiring her efforts.
    “There. I’m going to take stock of what we have in the lab. I suggest we spend half our time working on an escape, and the other half on the goggles. John will be checking on our progress, and I don’t want to give him an excuse to shoot us both dead any sooner than he plans to. Besides, if by the time we fix them we still can’t figure a way to get out, at least