The Duke’s Indiscretion

by Adele Ashworth

  The Frenchwoman laughed, tossing her head back. “A good provider?” She reached for one of her hands and squeezed it gently. “Charlotte, what on earth are you not telling me?”

  A knock at the door interrupted them and Olivia groaned. “Come in, James.”

  Her butler did as ordered immediately, entering the parlor with a silver tray resting on his palm as he carried it to the tea table, placing it on top without even a clink of china. Expertly, he lifted a sterling pot and poured two china cups three-quarters full of sweet-smelling jasmine tea.

  “Would you care for cake now, madam?” he asked, removing lace napkins from atop the two plates and laying them to the side.

  The chocolate confection looked scrumptious, and yet Charlotte felt minutely relieved when Olivia voiced her own thoughts.

  “We’ll wait, James, and cut it ourselves. That will be all.”

  He nodded once, and with a formal turn, quit the parlor again, closing the French doors behind him.

  Olivia eyed her candidly, refreshments forgotten. “Now. Explain yourself, dear Charlotte.”

  Somewhat unnerved by the delicate topic, she decided to plunge into the heart of the matter, to get it out quickly before she changed her mind.

  Rubbing her palms together in her lap, she acknowledged the obvious. “I suppose I am a bit…troubled by our marital relationship,” she murmured.

  Forehead creased in thought, Olivia relaxed against the plush sofa back, crossing her arms over her breasts. “I’m sure it must be difficult when two people marry before they get to know each other very well.”

  She managed a soft smile. “That’s very true,” she replied. “But with Colin…It’s more than that, actually.”

  The Frenchwoman’s brows rose, but she remained silent, allowing her to continue at her own pace.

  Exhaling a fast breath, she asked, “May I be honest with you?”

  “Of course,” Olivia returned at once, surprised.

  Drawing courage from within, she said, “Actually, I may need your advice.”

  “My advice?”

  “I—I’m rather confused about Colin…romantically,” she fairly whispered, feeling a flush creep up her neck but purposely ignoring it.

  Olivia’s jaw dropped as her brows pinched tightly in disbelief. “Colin—romantically?”

  Charlotte kept her chin high, though truth be told the conversation thoroughly embarrassed her. “I’m sorry, perhaps it’s inappropriate—”

  “No, no, no,” Olivia interrupted, reaching for her arm and patting it tenderly. “Of course it’s not inappropriate. We’re both married ladies, and becoming good friends, I hope. It’s just—” She shook her head. “It’s just that I’m so surprised to hear such a thing from the wife of a man who prides himself on his…charm, shall we say.”

  The side of her mouth tipped up as relief coursed through her. “Yes, exactly,” she agreed. “He’s very charming, quick witted and undeniably handsome, but…”

  “But?” Olivia pressed, sitting back again and hooking her elbow over the sofa back.

  Charlotte patted the hair at the back of her neck. “But I don’t think he finds me interesting at all.”

  Olivia tossed her head back and laughed wholeheartedly. “Darling Charlotte, you cannot be serious,” she stated seconds later, her eyes sparkling mischievously. “The man is completely infatuated with you.”

  In a rather strange way, she felt both encouraged and almost smug to know her feelings in this matter would be validated once she told the Frenchwoman everything. Or almost everything.

  “He’s not infatuated with me, Olivia,” she revealed in a low voice. “He’s infatuated with Lottie English, and perhaps even with, in some measure, her fame.”

  Olivia gazed at her for a long moment, then gradually lowered her arm from the sofa back and leaned toward the refreshment table, her expression contemplative.

  “Cream and sugar?”

  “Only cream, please,” she replied, watching the woman pour with dainty fingers, then lift the white china cup and saucer to hand to her.

  “Now that I’m carrying, I can’t seem to get enough sweets,” Olivia professed as she stirred two large teaspoons full of sugar into her own cup before lifting it and settling back into the sofa.

  Charlotte waited, sipping her lukewarm beverage, wondering for a second or two if the woman would comment on her last disclosure. She wasn’t yet ready to change the subject to babies and happy families.

  “Explain something to me, Charlotte,” Olivia requested after a sip of her tea, her tone pensive. “Who do you think you are?”

  That question took her completely aback. “I beg your pardon?”

  Olivia smiled knowingly as she returned her cup and saucer to the table. “How do you define yourself? Are you Lottie English, the sensual, glamorous soprano from the stage, or are you the proper Duchess of Newark?”

  She considered the question for a moment. “I’m not sure exactly how to answer that,” she replied honestly. “When I’m on the stage, I’m Lottie. Here, now, having tea in your parlor, I am obviously Charlotte.”

  Olivia studied her through narrowed eyes. “So you think Colin is infatuated with your persona on the stage, but not the least bit interested in the lady he married?”

  The line of questions made her increasingly uncomfortable, though she didn’t know why. In point of fact, she wasn’t exactly certain how to define such a thing to the striking woman who sat beside her.

  Olivia sighed and folded her hands in her lap. “Charlotte, when I first met my husband, he maintained a very clear dislike of Frenchwomen, for several complex reasons I don’t really need to address here. But for a long time he remained rather…untrusting with me because I have always defined myself as both French and English. This simply made no sense to him.” She smiled. “Until we grew to love each other, he would get quite irritated with me whenever I mentioned the fact that I am both.”

  Charlotte took a sip of her tea. “I see.”

  “No, actually, I don’t believe you do,” Olivia countered frankly. “You’re describing yourself to me as two completely different people—Charlotte the proper lady, and Lottie, the gifted, singing enchantress. And by separating the two, you’ve come to the conclusion that your husband won’t adore you for who you are as the complete woman.”

  She wanted to squirm in her stays, feeling suddenly hot all over, uneasy and not quite sure she wanted to discuss this anymore.

  Olivia gave her a crooked smile. “Are you in love with Colin?”

  She blinked quickly several times. “In love?”

  “Mmm-hmm?”

  She attempted to place her teacup and saucer back on the silver tray gingerly, but it rattled anyway. “I’m sure my husband and I haven’t been together long enough to know such a thing,” she replied as evenly as she could, avoiding the woman’s gaze as she smoothed her skirts.

  Olivia would not be daunted. “Charlotte, darling,” she said through a small chuckle, reaching for her hand again and squeezing it gently, “one can fall in love very fast, sometimes almost at once. You either are or are not in love with your husband.”

  In truth, Charlotte had never given love a second thought, but doing so now, by direct confrontation, unsettled her to the core.

  “Is that how it was with you and your husband?” she asked as pleasantly as possible.

  Olivia shook her head. “Not exactly, but then we’re not discussing me. But I will say this: if you were in love with Colin, you would know it, and you could answer the question easily enough.”

  Discouraged, she said, “Honestly, Olivia, I’ve not given love any thought. I married the man for…other reasons, the most important of which is to support my pursuit of opera on the Continent, and he knows this. What concerns me, and why I wished to speak with you about it today, is that Colin, I believe, is infatuated with Lottie English, thinks I’m Lottie English, and wants to have a love affair with her.” She shook her head. “I’m just not sure w
hat to do about it.”

  “And this bothers you because, if I understand you correctly, you don’t think you’re that person,” the Frenchwoman stated rather than asked.

  She groaned within and rubbed her palms across her cheeks. “It’s not that simple,” she replied, trying to succinctly reveal something she couldn’t even quite explain to herself.

  Olivia smiled again in understanding. “It’s not that simple because it’s very clear, in my mind, Charlotte, that you have romantic feelings for your husband and you think he wants nothing to do with the noble and proper lady you were raised to be.” She clucked her tongue. “It sounds as if you are hoping he’ll fall in love with only that part of you, and I’m not certain it’s possible.”

  Befuddled and agitated by a discussion that seemed to be going nowhere, Charlotte could no longer sit. Rising abruptly, one palm on her hip, one on her forehead, she crossed the thick Persian carpet to stand in front of a long east-facing window, gazing down to a small rose garden, flowers of all colors in full bloom.

  A strained silence ensued, giving her time to consider her next most private disclosure. She needed to get to the heart of the issue in her mind, since she didn’t know anyone else she could trust to help her understand. Softly, she murmured, “I think he expects me to be Lottie when we’re intimate.”

  She closed her eyes, waiting for Olivia to laugh, or deny it outright, she supposed, though all she heard from behind her was a long exhale and a creak of the sofa.

  Deciding to ignore the heat in her cheeks, she turned to bravely face the beautiful Frenchwoman again, careful to keep her chin high, body erect lest the Duchess of Durham know how truly embarrassed she was to reveal such secrets of the bedroom.

  Olivia had adjusted herself so that she could view her standing at the window, but she didn’t appear at all shocked. Her features remained neutral, though her forehead had creased minutely into a frown. Finally, she patted the seat beside her. “Come back and sit, and don’t be ashamed to discuss such a thing, either,” she said in understanding. “As I said, we’re both married ladies and quite clearly this bothers you.” She raised her brows to add, “It would bother me, too.”

  For a second or two, Charlotte didn’t move. Then she did as ordered, deciding Olivia might just sympathize with the situation after all.

  Following another adjustment of her skirts around her ankles, she folded her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry if this is too delicate—”

  “Oh, nonsense,” Olivia chided with a wave of her hand. “Let’s have some cake and muddle through it.”

  Unable to hide a smile, she said, “Thank you, but I really shouldn’t. My waistline will grow too large for my costumes.”

  Olivia briefly eyed her askance, then cut two pieces anyway. “There is one thing Colin has mentioned to Sam about you,” she disclosed, placing a slice of gooey chocolate on a china plate. “He thinks you have a marvelous feminine form. In fact, he’s quite in awe of the beauty of your body. I wouldn’t worry too much about a little bit of cake.”

  Charlotte coughed and ran her fingers across her upper lip, completely startled by such a heady compliment, especially spoken aloud.

  “He…um…said this to your husband?” she asked in reply.

  Olivia laughed again, handing her a generous portion. “On more than one occasion, I assume.” She reached for her own plate, then paused, holding it out in mid-air. “Sam seems to think he’s mad for you.”

  “For Lottie,” she corrected, feeling an uncomfortable tightening in her stomach.

  “Oh, I see,” the other woman acknowledged at once, slicing into her cake. She placed the bite in her mouth, chewing as she rolled her eyes.

  Charlotte just stared at the rich chocolate confection on her plate, having absolutely no appetite at the moment.

  “So,” Olivia continued after swallowing and licking her lips, “explain to me how you change forms at home.”

  She gazed at the Frenchwoman, puzzled. “I beg your pardon?”

  Olivia flipped a hand in her direction. “Your marvelous figure. If he’s so enamored of it as Lottie, how do you change back into his wife when you retire each evening?”

  She couldn’t decide if the Duchess of Durham teased her or simply tried to confuse the issue, though Charlotte clearly comprehended her intent.

  “My figure is not me,” she asserted, probably too curtly.

  Olivia smiled. “I know.” She lowered her fork to her plate and leaned forward, eyeing her intently. “But you do understand my point. Charlotte, you are both personalities wrapped into one person, just as I am both French and English. You can’t change who you are, even when you’re on stage. Think of it that way. Charlotte was born with a gifted voice and takes the stage just as Lottie is sitting here in my parlor, eating—or shall I say not eating—my chocolate cake.” She sat up a little, raised her fork again, and sliced another bite. “You are a mixture of all these wonderful qualities, Lottie.” She brightened as if totally satisfied by her argument. “In fact, I’d rather call you Lottie. It suits you, and I imagine Colin feels exactly the same.”

  Charlotte had never been spoken to so boldly in her life, by anyone, and it dazed her a little. Apparently Olivia realized how she’d take such a statement, for the woman simply continued eating her cake with gusto, wiping the china plate clean with her fork, then licking it free of icing before placing both back on the tea table.

  “You really should try a bite,” she said after daintily patting her lips with her linen napkin. “It’s delicious.”

  Charlotte lowered her gaze and stared at the chocolate, unseeing as she tried to come to terms with all the Frenchwoman had said. Then, voice edgy, she murmured, “He bought me a corset to wear on our wedding night. Or rather, he bought Lottie a…costume resembling a corset.” Feeling utterly mortified, she added in a whisper, “To complete his fantasy.”

  Olivia remained silent for a moment or two, then relaxed against the sofa back again, her hands in her lap. “I don’t understand.”

  Charlotte inhaled deeply, attempting to find a confidence she didn’t feel at all, then raised her gaze to look the Frenchwoman squarely in the eye. She couldn’t change the subject now, even if she wanted to. She’d come too far for that, and frankly needed answers.

  “On our wedding night he came to me with a gift. I stupidly thought it would be something practical, or thoughtful, or…I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Instead, I opened the present to find this…costume—a red satin, black lace corset that covered nothing, a little piece of apparel I imagine might be worn by a dancer on the French stage, or the like. Beneath it in the box were matching shoes that had heels so high I could hardly walk. He insisted I wear the ridiculous thing, and I did, because…because I wanted to please him, I suppose.” She swallowed, then added in whisper, “He wanted to make love to the woman in the corset, which would have to be his perception of Lottie, not me. I would never dream of wearing such a thing on my wedding night.”

  For a long time Olivia said nothing, just watched her, her brows furrowed a little. Charlotte grew rather afraid the woman might laugh again, or tell her flatly that gentlemen of all nature and classes purchase such things, forced their wives to wear such outrageous outfits.

  Finally, the Duchess of Durham began to slowly shake her head. “Unbelievable,” she mumbled. “Even intelligent gentlemen can be such stupid creatures when desire comes into play. His action only fed into your doubts, didn’t it, Lottie? Good heavens, what on earth was he thinking?”

  She couldn’t begin to describe the rush of relief that washed over her at that moment. Realizing she’d been holding her breath, she let it out loudly through her teeth and sagged into her stays. “I’m so glad you see it from my perspective. It’s obvious he was thinking I was Lottie, the person from the stage who wears costumes and—”

  “No, absolutely not,” Olivia cut in with a firm shake of her head. “That’s not what I meant at all. Perhaps that’s what he expected, an
d it’s very likely his fantasy is to make love to you while you’re wearing such a thing. But he knows you’re one and the same person, of that I have no doubt.”

  God, they were back to this point. Charlotte felt like screaming. Olivia must have seen the frustration in her face, for at that moment, she reached over and took her hand again, this time cupping it between both of her own.

  “You are Lottie, who is just one part of Charlotte,” she said with absolute sincerity. “Never doubt that Colin knows this. He admires you for your talent, for your appearance, and probably for your intelligence and humor and all the things that are attractive about you.” She squeezed her hand and continued. “I suspect what you need to know is if he feels that way about you intimately. Am I right?”

  Truthfully, Charlotte had never before thought about it in such a way. Yet, as she considered it now, she supposed her doubts centered around lovemaking, and the way he made her feel, the manner in which he touched her and brought her to such delicious heights of—

  Shaking herself of such a lascivious memory, she said, “I’m just not sure what he wants from me.”

  Olivia smiled again in understanding. “He wants a wife, Lottie. He wants a companion, a seductress in the bedroom. On top of everything, he probably wants you to fall in love with him for who he is.”

  That comment made her stomach twist in knots. “He’s never mentioned love. I don’t think he thinks about that.”

  “Ha! Gentlemen never do, not directly at least.” She shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t think they recognize it until it strikes them in the face, usually from learning that we’re one step away from leaving them.”

  Charlotte actually giggled. The more she knew of Olivia, the friendlier the two of them became, the more she adored her.

  Slyly, the Frenchwoman asked, “Do you want him to fall in love with you?”

  She felt perspiration break out on her neck, between her breasts, and she swallowed. “I—I haven’t thought about it.”

  “Of course you have, all women do,” Olivia replied at once. “And it’s always better to love your husband, and be loved by him, than for either of you to find it elsewhere.”