Runaway Duchess (London Ladies Book 1)

by Jillian Eaton

  “I haven’t introduced myself,” she said. “My name is–”

  “No,” he said curtly.

  Her eyebrows knitted. “You don’t want to know my name?”

  “Does it matter?” he said without looking at her. “This should not have happened. It will not happen again. It was a…unfortunate indiscretion. Your name will not change that. Best we forget it ever happened, and go our separate ways.”

  Fine, then. An indiscretion implied they’d made a mistake. Charlotte didn’t believe they had, but she wasn’t without her pride. “Very well. Good evening to you, Mr. Graystone. I hope you find whatever it is you’re searching for.”

  “What makes you think I’m searching for anything?”

  Her mouth curved in a humorless smile. “There are followers, Mr. Graystone. People who do as they’re told and obey all the rules Society has set for them without complaint. Then there are the dreamers. And we’re always searching for something, whether we admit it or not.”

  She waited for him to reflect upon her words, but when she was only met with stony silence she swallowed a disappointed sigh and reached for the doorknob.

  What had she expected, really? That a handsome stranger would get down on bended knee after a moment of indescribable passion and whisk her away to live with him in his castle high on a hill?

  Well yes, she admitted to herself.

  That was exactly what she’d expected. But it wasn’t to be, because as much as Dianna would argue otherwise, real life wasn’t a fairytale, and even if it were, Gavin Graystone was definitely not the Prince Charming she was looking for.

  “Stop,” he said harshly as she started to open the door.

  Charlotte sucked in a breath. “Yes?”

  “I would.”

  With a soft, deliberate click she let the door close before she pivoted to face him. Her heart beat wildly, but outwardly she managed a calm, cool façade. “You would what, Mr. Graystone?”

  Moonlight threw his profile into shadow as he moved away from the window, adding to his sinister appeal. “I would like to know your name.”

  “Lady Charlotte Vanderley.” No doubt other women would have made Gavin wait a bit before divulging the information he sought, but Charlotte had never been fond of games. She preferred to say what she had to say and be done with it, coy flirtation be damned.

  “Of course you are,” he said, his short, bitter laugh catching her off guard.

  “Have we met before?” she asked, frowning.

  “No, Lady Charlotte, we have not met.”

  “Ah,” she said with a decisive nod as it all made sense. “You must have heard of the engagement.”

  For the first time the word ‘engagement’ did not lodge and burn in her throat like it usually did. It slipped out matter-of-fact, like a cork twisting free from a bottle. She questioned the ease of it, and hoped it was not because she was–heaven forbid–getting used to the notion.

  “I never said I–engagement?” Gavin’s mouth twisted. “What bloody engagement?”

  Her brow creased. “My engagement to the Duke of Paine.” Ah, there it was. The familiar twisting of nausea snaking up from her stomach to tickle the back of her throat. Trying not to gag, she explained, “The announcement was printed in all of the papers this week. You must have seen it.”

  “The Duke of Paine is an old man.”

  “Yes,” she sighed. “I know.”

  In three long strides Gavin was in front of her. He caught her chin in a bruising grip and forced her head up so their eyes met, stormy gray battling against burning amber. “You are no different than the rest,” he spat. “Pledging yourself to the wealthiest man with the highest title no matter how sane his mind or wrinkled his body.”

  Working her jaw from side to side just enough to loosen his hold, Charlotte twisted her chin and sank her teeth into the flesh of his palm. He howled and released her immediately, clutching his hand.

  “You little hellcat!” He held his hand up to the light to examine the even row of teeth marks imprinted on his skin and shook his head in disbelief. “You bit me!”

  “Yes,” Charlotte said with a disdainful toss of her head. “I most certainly did, and I will do it again if I have to. Do not touch me without my permission, Mr. Graystone.” Her eyes narrowed. “I do not like being accosted in such a manner.”

  “Something I will keep in mind.” Scowling, Gavin rubbed his palm on the side of his coat and flexed his fingers.

  “Furthermore,” Charlotte continued, her volume rising with every word as her temper flared, “I did not choose to become engaged to the duke! If it were up to me I would have nothing to do with him, no matter if he were the richest man in all of England or some beggar on the street!” As so often happened when anger got the best of her, tears sparked in her eyes, and with a hiss of embarrassed dismay she whirled from Gavin and ran for the door.

  He reached it a second before she did. Infuriated, she lashed out at the door with her foot. An unfortunate mistake, as silk dancing slippers were hardly a match for solid wood.

  “Ouch,” she sniffled, hopping on her injured leg to turn around. Gavin did not step back to give her room, but rather than feeling crowded by all that large, rangy muscle, she felt oddly protected, as if his very presence had the ability to right all of her wrongs. “That hurt.”

  “About as much as my hand does, I imagine,” Gavin said dryly, and despite her annoyance, Charlotte found herself smiling through her tears.

  “Good. I’m glad it hurts, as it’s no less than you deserve.” She poked his chest with her finger. “A man should know better than to put his hands on a woman to restrain her.”

  “You’re right,” he said, to her surprise. “Although there are times when a woman prefers to be restrained.”

  “When?” she asked, unable to imagine a single instance where she’d want to be held powerless by a man.

  “In bed.” Gavin’s eyes gleamed. “Or out of it, depending on the couple’s personal preference.”

  “I don’t…oh.” As understanding dawned, a hot pink blush stole across Charlotte’s cheeks a vision filled her head. She was stretched across a bed, completely naked. Gavin, equally devoid of clothing, was on his knees beside her. In his hands he held a loop of silk cord, and as she watched, her lashes heavy with desire, he took that cord and began to tie it around her wrist… “I–I see.”

  “Do you?” he said with a smirk.

  “Quite vividly, as it so happens.” Her gaze fell to his hand where her teeth marks were still visible. “I’m sorry to have bitten you. My mother says it because of my red hair that I let my temper get the best of me.”

  Gavin picked up a glossy curl off her shoulder and rubbed it between his fingers. “I have never seen hair this shade before. It is like copper gleaming in the sun. Tell me, do you always shriek like a banshee when you get angry?”

  “Most times,” she admitted, peeking up at him. He had a dimple, she realized with a start. A charming, boyish dimple that had no business existing on the face of a man who was already so incredibly striking. “It is something I have put considerable effort into improving.”

  He chuckled softly and let her tendril drop, but did not release his hold on her completely. The back of his hand, devoid of a glove as a proper gentleman’s should be, began to move in slow, soothing strokes up and down the length of her arm. Goosepimples rose on the ivory flesh, and Charlotte bit down hard on her cheek.

  “You are very forward, Mr. Graystone.”

  “With you I seem to be,” he said, his gray eyes darkening with some unknown emotion. He let go of her arm, and crossed his own. “Tell me more about your engagement.”

  “What would you like to know? Paine asked my mother for my hand and she accepted on my behalf.”

  And oh, didn’t that make her want to kick a few more doors!

  Gavin’s brows lifted. “Surely she consulted you first.”

  She merely pursed her lips, and he shook his head.

&n
bsp; “Bloody nobility. Is there nothing you can do?”

  “If there is, I shall do it,” she said determinedly. Then her gaze inadvertently flicked to a longcase clock in the corner of the room, and she gasped. “Is that the correct hour?”

  He followed her stare. “I believe so.”

  “I need to return to the ball. My mother will be searching for me.”

  “And you wouldn’t want her to find you here?”

  “No,” she said, puzzled. “Why would I want that?”

  Something flickered in Gavin’s eyes. “No reason. It was…interesting to meet you, Lady Charlotte.”

  “I can say the same, Mr. Graystone.” She reached blindly for the doorknob and started to turn it, then hesitated. “Do you–do you think we will meet again?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, his expression unreadable.

  “Do you want to meet again?” she persisted.

  “It’s been a long night. Go back to your kind, Charlotte. You’ve no place here in the shadows with me.”

  She studied him for a second longer, then picked up her skirts and slipped through the door. Maybe she didn’t belong in the shadows, but neither did she belong in the ballroom. She was caught in a place that was neither here nor there. A place of in-between.

  And she didn’t know which direction to choose.

  Gavin watched Charlotte until she disappeared around a corner and vanished from sight. For an instant he considered following her, but he chased the idea away with a grimace. The chit was nothing but trouble, and trouble was one thing he could ill-afford at the moment.

  Trouble had been a constant companion in his youth. Possessing quick reflexes and a healthy thirst for violence, Gavin first made his name in the underground boxing rings that had once been so popular. He tore through the opposition with ease, and instead of wasting his winnings on women and drink–as so many others did– had he invested it. Foolishly at first, as a man with little education was likely to do, but he’d learned quickly from his mistakes and what had started as a small fortune soon bloomed into a larger one.

  Most men of his background and station would have been content with modest wealth, but not Gavin. He was a restless sort, never satisfied with what he owned, always wanting more, wanting bigger, wanting the best. At the age of twelve, as he held his mother’s frail hand and watched helplessly as cholera ravaged her body and stole her last breath, he’d vowed to himself that he would never feel that small and insignificant again.

  He couldn’t buy himself a title. But it gave him a grim sense of satisfaction to know he could buy the men who had them.

  Gavin’s interest rates weren’t kind. Neither were his methods for getting what he was owed. But the nabobs still flocked to him in droves, desperate to pay off their creditors without any of their peers being the wiser.

  Still, there was one thing he yearned for.

  One thing he hadn’t been able to purchase.

  Their respect.

  It was the worst kind of irony. To hate someone, and still want to be thought of as their equal. But no matter what he did, or how much wealth he accumulated, he couldn’t fight the feeling that if he was never accepted within their ranks, it would all be for naught.

  And he would be nothing.

  Chapter Six

  “Mother, if you make me go to his house for tea, I shall scream.” Outwardly seething, Charlotte clenched her hands into fists and planted them high on her hips. She managed–just barely–not to kick something, but there was no stopping the rebellious toss of her head.

  One week had passed since the Nettle’s Ball, and Charlotte was growing more and more desperate by the day. She still hadn’t come up with a way to break her engagement, and now Paine had recovered from his cold and was insisting on seeing her. Had been insisting for the past three days, in fact. Her excuses to avoid him were running thin, and her mother was no longer taking ‘no’ for an answer.

  “There is a slight chill in the air today. Put on this shawl and get in the carriage,” Bettina commanded as she held out a yellow shawl embroidered with pink ribbon.

  Charlotte eyed the garment distastefully. “No.”

  The corners of Bettina’s mouth turned white. Saying nothing, she took her daughter by the arm and all but dragged her to the front foyer. Tabitha, her eyes downcast and a fretful frown tugging at her lips, opened the door and moved out of the way.

  “Stop it!” Charlotte cried, twisting to be free of her mother’s shoving hands. But Bettina was strong, and determined, and did not relent until her daughter was in the carriage.

  Truly desperate now, Charlotte clung to the edge of the window and attempted to change tactics in a final effort to save herself from being alone with the duke. “Come with me,” she coaxed. “It is hardly proper for me to pay a visit to a man without a chaperone. People will talk. There will be gossip. You know how you despise gossip.”

  Bettina merely sniffed and tossed the shawl through the window. “Do not lecture me on propriety, Charlotte Amelia. The duke is your fiancé and you are calling on him for afternoon tea with servants present. If there is anything more proper than that, I should like to know what it is. Now do try to calm yourself. This is for your own good, dear. It will benefit you immensely to know more about your husband before you marry. You should look upon this time together as a rare gift.”

  A gift Charlotte would like to shove down the duke’s throat.

  “I am not marrying him.”

  “Oh yes, you certainly are. You’ll also be on your best behavior. Do you understand me? And do not forget to smile. His Grace has complained that you do not smile nearly enough.”

  Unable to look at her mother any longer for fear that her loathing might actually start to turn to hate, Charlotte snapped the window curtain shut as the carriage rolled forward, enclosing herself in darkness while she tried not to drown in despair.

  The Duke of Paine was a short, round man with the quivering jowls of a bulldog and the black, squinty eyes of a toad. His skin was sickly pale, as though he rarely ventured out into the sun, and there was no mistaking the mop of white curls on his head for anything other than a wig.

  His clothes were ill fitting; baggy in some places and grotesquely stretched in others. The pale blue overcoat he wore over his frothy white shirt fit much too snugly and did nothing to compliment his sallow complexion.

  Charlotte was repulsed simply by being in the same room as him, and when she saw his pink tongue slide across his dry, cracked lips she felt bile rise in the back of her throat. It took all of the will power she possessed not to turn on her heel and flee out the front door. Clinging to the end of the curved banister to steady her trembling hands, she faced him head on, refusing to appear intimidated even though she was precisely that.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Charlotte. It is a pleasure to see you again.” His voice was soft and oddly high pitched. To Charlotte’s ears it sounded like nails on a chalkboard, and she struggled to disguise her grimace of disgust.

  “Your Grace,” she said, dipping into a curtsy that was deliberately mocking in its brevity. She had no intention of meekly rolling over for this pitiful excuse of a man, her mother’s wishes for complete compliance be damned. Unfortunately, Paine did not seem to take offense at her rudeness. If the glint in his eye was any indication he was amused by her defiance, and with a shudder Charlotte recalled what Vera had told her in the tea shop.

  He liked breaking their spirits, he did. It was a game for ‘im. The more they resisted, the longer he drew it out, like a cat toyin’ with a mouse.

  “Would you be so kind as to to accompany me into the parlor?” Paine gestured towards a room past the grand staircase. Like the rest of the house, the parlor was gray and gloomy, with heavy mahogany furniture and thick velvet curtains drawn tight across all the windows. It was more of a morgue than a mansion, complete with a sickly sweet smell that hung heavily in the air and forced Charlotte to breathe out of her mouth for fear of fainting from the noxious fume
s.

  Every inch of her body, from the top of her head to the bottom of her toes, protested against taking another step, and she shook her head with such vehemence a curl sprang loose from her tightly wound coiffure and bounced across her temple with all the force of a metal spring. “I wish to go outside.”

  “Outside?” the duke said distastefully, speaking as though she had requested they go for a walk in a swamp. “Whatever for?”

  “I…I fear I have not been feeling well,” Charlotte improvised hastily. “The fresh air would do wonders to clear my head. I would not want to end our visit prematurely, Your Grace.”

  “No, no that would not do at all.” He rubbed one of his chins and frowned. “Your mother did not mention you were ill.”

  Sensing his suspicion–Paine was not as stupid as he appeared–Charlotte plastered a false smile on her face and waved a gloved hand flippantly through the air. “Oh, I did not want to bother her. You know how overprotective mothers can be.”

  He studied for her several moments, his beady eyes missing nothing, before he finally nodded. “I will have the servants bring the refreshments outside.”

  “You are very kind. Thank you for being so considerate, Your Grace.”

  “Please,” he said, smiling to reveal a row of uneven teeth that were yellowed and rotting from age and disease, “call me Richard.”

  Call this odious man by his given name? When hell froze over.

  “I could never be so forward…Your Grace.”

  Their gazes met in challenge, and in that moment Charlotte knew she had made the grave error of underestimating her opponent. The duke was not just old and lecherous, he was also highly intelligent and cunning as a snake darting through the grass. Unable to stop herself, she glanced away first, and Paine’s oily chuckle of triumph grated against her skin like jagged glass.