Evading the Duke

by Jane Charles

  “I don't think I can,” James said.

  “Then have your valet write it out for you,” the duke said, shrugging. “I'm sure you pay him handsomely enough for him to pen a few lines to your lady and keep it on the quiet.”

  Truth to tell, he couldn't ask Simmons, his valet, or Dulcey to write the notes to her. She'd recognize their handwriting. With the exception of the two he'd given her yesterday, he'd always had them or Baxter, his secretary, write the notes he sent her. “I don't know what to say to her,” he admitted at last.

  “Tell her she's ravishing and has spectacular taste,” Danby said. “This chap told her he dreams of dancing with her. You can't use that now, but if you hurry up about it, you could come up with something to say to woo her.”

  “Woo her?” A numb sensation enveloped James from head to toes.

  “Yes, woo her,” Danby said in a tone laced with condescension. “Unless you'd like to spend the rest of your life trying to decipher just whose eyes are staring back at you every time you see your heir.”

  James would be a liar if he didn't admit, if only to himself, that the duke's blunt words made panic build in his chest. He hated—no, detested—the very thought of being cuckolded.

  If anyone was going to get the Ice Queen to melt in his arms and make passionate love to her, it would be him, damn it all.

  He gulped down the hard lump in his throat. “What do you propose I do?”

  Chapter 6

  Charlotte stared at the heavy sheets of rain through the window of the drawing room. It had poured hard and heavy for two days now. Another day and she might go mad cooped up in this townhouse with only Mazie, the lady's maid Wynn had hired for her, for companionship.

  She frowned.

  “Good morning, Lady Wynn,” came her husband's voice. “How's the view this morning?” He walked over to the window where she sat and made a show of looking out the window.

  “Dreary,” she murmured, then added beneath her breath, “The perfect reflection of my life.”

  Wynn looked down at her, but didn't say anything. At least not with his lips, his brown eyes, however, bespoke of all the things rolling around in his head as they studied her. How unfortunate she'd never been able to grow close enough to him to learn to read them.

  He grabbed the edge of a nearby chair and pulled it over near where she sat on the settee. “Do you have any plans for today?”

  “Yes.” She gestured toward the window. “Can't you see I'm in the middle of them?”

  The left corner of his mouth twitched. “Indeed. Any others?”

  “I'm more of an 'off the cuff' type lady, my lord. I'm sure you recall our first meeting.”

  “The pond? Yes. I remember it well.”

  She knit her brows. “The pond?”

  Wynn nodded slowly, his eyes dancing with humor. “The pond,” he confirmed. “At your house.” He winked at her. “Where I was swimming…”

  Mortification cascaded over her. A vague memory of a summer’s afternoon when she was just a girl formed in her mind. She’d happened upon one of Michael’s friends swimming in the pond and had seen…had seen…him. All of him! The temperature of the room must have soared.

  “Ah, so you do remember that day?” Wynn teased with a chuckle.

  Unable to form a proper—or coherent—response, Charlotte nodded. So that’s what Michael had been alluding to the night she and James became betrothed. “I’m not sure which of our first meetings is more awkward.”

  Wynn lowered his gaze. “That night was neither of our finest hours,” he offered quietly; the thickness in his voice hard to mistake.

  “Finer than the ones that followed our wedding.” She shouldn't have said that, but it was too late and now it was time to ride out the storm she'd just created.

  “I don't know,” he said in a casual tone that belied his taut cheeks and hardened jaw. “You were a beautiful bride.”

  She could feel her eyes widening, but she couldn't do a thing about it. “Th-thank you.” Why was he complementing her? Did he think he needed to pay penance for yesterday? Her blood ran cold. “I'll give you your heir,” she forced herself to say. “You don't have to—” she waved her hand around in the air— “act polite.”

  Was it his imagination or had she put emphasis on the word act?

  No matter. The fact was he did need to act polite. Whoever the fool was who was writing Charlotte notes, wouldn't be fool enough to allow her to conceive when he realized she was a virgin and that his role would be discovered with her increasing belly. Still, the very idea of her in another man's arms was too much for him to bear.

  “I'm not acting,” he said as smoothly as he could.

  “Oh, so then you've learned some gentleman's manners when I wasn't looking?”

  Despite the tension choking the life right out of him, James laughed. “You could say that.” He blew out a deep breath. “While I'm relieved to know you're willing to give me an heir, I don't think you want to.”

  Charlotte's hands flew to her cheeks and her mouth formed a perfect O. “Oh dear, I wonder how I gave it away?”

  “I think it was the icy glare you wore the whole ride home after our wedding.”

  Shock flickered over Charlotte's face. “I was just trying to match your cold, brittle expression.”

  “Well, it's high time we melt the ice, Charlotte.”

  “For the sake of securing your heir.”

  James couldn't tell if that was a question or a statement. “Not only that, but it's damned uncomfortable around here in such a chilly atmosphere, wouldn't you say?”

  Wynn's words brought her up short. He was right, of course. The past three years had been nearly intolerable, another three decades of it would be hell on earth. “A—all right.” She smoothed her skirts. “How do you suppose we do that?”

  “Spend more time together,” he said without hesitation, an annoyingly handsome grin splitting his face.

  “I'm not sure that's a good idea.” What am I saying? So many times she'd wish he'd accompany her around Town if only just to staunch everyone's gossip and speculation, but now that it was a possibility, she wasn't so sure. “You don't much care for me, I think you'll care even less for me after a day of shopping for hair ribbons.”

  Wynn looked unaffected. “I thought perhaps we could go see a play…but if shopping for hair ribbons is how you'd prefer to spend your time, I'm game.”

  A play sounded lovely. But to be seated next to a man whose only reason for being there was so she'd lift her skirt and he could get his heir off her, then abandon her again when the task was done—not so lovely.

  Charlotte wondered how to kindly decline his offer for a play and just encourage they go take care of his duty to his title, but she was saved when Dulcey walked into the room, murmuring his excuses for interrupting.

  “A letter has arrived for you, my lady.” He extended the slaver in her direction.

  Charlotte quickly grabbed the letter then tucked it beneath her.

  “Have you found a new way to read letters?” Wynn wondered aloud.

  Nervous anticipation built within her. “I'll read it later. Right now I'm talking to my husband.”

  He roared with laughter. “Don't mind me,” he said when he'd recovered. “I'll still be here when you finish reading it.”

  “What a pity,” she muttered with smile.

  He returned her grin and crossed his ankles. “Go on. I'll wait.”

  “I'll read it later.” The last thing she wanted to do right then was read a letter from her…er…pursuant? Admirer? Lover? She wasn't sure what to call him!

  “What if it's urgent?”

  She ground her teeth. “It's not.”

  “How do you know? Did you send it to yourself?”

  “Of course not! Why would I send a letter to myself?” Hysteria was creeping into her voice and she was powerless to stop it. “Do you think I am so starved for companionship that I'd resort to writing letters to myself and posting them so I'd h
ave something to do with my day?”

  If James were any other man, he'd box his ears. To his mind, Charlotte had the life any young lady could possibly want: limitless funds and the freedom to do exactly as she pleased—within reason, of course. He'd never once considered she'd felt lonely or abandoned.

  He was a cad. No, that was too kind of a word for him. A worse term didn't immediately come to mind, but whatever it was, it perfectly described James.

  “I'm sorry.” Those two words held more sincerity than he'd ever had before. “I—I—I—” He what? He was sorry he'd given her everything he thought she'd need to be content? He couldn't say that. “I only meant to suggest that it'd be impossible for you to know that your letter wasn't urgent without reading it unless you were the one who wrote it,” he said hoarsely, his mind racing to puzzle out a way to fix the bigger issue at hand.

  “Oh,” she said, her cheeks flushing a fetching shade of dark pink. “Right. I'm sure it's from Jane. If anything was urgent in her household, Gareth will fix it in a trice.”

  Another dagger lodged itself in his chest at his poor treatment of her. “Just as well, I suppose.” The roaring fury inside of himself was a stark contrast to his words. He needed to do something to start fixing his own situation and without delay. Somewhere in the back of his mind an idea formed. “Go ahead and read it,” he encouraged. “I need to go see my man of affairs soon and will be traveling in that direction. We can share a carriage.”

  “That sounds perfect. I'll just go up to my room and change first.”

  “The letter,” he prompted, instinctively reaching his hand forward to stay her before she bounced off the settee.

  “I'll read it upstairs,” she said.

  James cocked his head to the side. “Is something afoot?”

  “Afoot?” Her tone wavered and her brows knit in a way that made him want to wrap her in a reassuring hug. “No. Why would anything be afoot?”

  “Because you're treating a letter from your sister as if it contained the King's deepest secrets,” he mused.

  “It's personal.”

  He froze. Personal? Was it possible that it truly was a letter from her sister tucked under his wife's derriere and not the one that he'd hired a messenger to deliver? No. He was certain it was the one he'd written to her. “All the more reason to go see her then.” He pushed to his feet and extended a hand down toward her. “All right, my lady, we shall not delay.”

  Charlotte stared at him as if he were cracked. Which, clearly he was. With a sigh, she gripped the letter with her left hand and put her right hand in his.

  “Does your sister always address her letters to you in that manner?”

  Every drop of Charlotte's blood drained to her toes. She'd barely glimpsed the words scrolled on the front of the missive when Dulcey had presented it to her. Now she had no choice.

  To the Lovely Lady Wynn

  “Of course.” Charlotte forced a laugh, tightening her grip on the paper. “She thinks it's amusing.”

  “You do not?”

  Charlotte licked her lips. Did he suspect something? Oh, of course he did! “I suppose so,” she lied.

  Wynn nodded and offered her his arm. Hesitantly, she placed her hand in the crook of his strong arm. Did he plan to escort her to her room? A shiver ran down her spine. He was in fine form today. Drawing room chitchat, apologies, shamefaced expressions, and now escorting her to her room? Perhaps his physician had recently informed him his life would soon be coming to a close and he needed to get his affairs, including his heir, in order.

  She peered up at him under her lashes. He didn't look unwell. But neither had Father before he passed.

  “If you need to visit my bed this afternoon, we can just do so now,” she blurted, unsure how else to extend the invitation.

  Wynn pulled to a stop, fire flashing in his eyes—the one reaction she could read without training or hesitation. “Why? So you'll be free to go visit your lover later without fear of presenting me with a bastard?”

  Every particle of air left Charlotte's lungs with a swift whoosh and by its own accord her left hand connected with his cheek. Well, it would have had there not been a piece of vellum in her grip. “How dare you!”

  “How dare you?” He pulled the paper from her hand. Lifting it up out of her tip-toed reach, he wrenched it open, tearing the paper along the wax seal. “Dear Lady Wynn, the Countess of My Heart. Rouge on your lips is like a beacon in the night,” he read in mocking tone. Sneering, he shook her hand off of his arm and thrust the paper back in her direction.

  “Wynn, it's not what you think,” she said, blinking back tears. “Please, let me explain.”

  Chapter 7

  James didn't want an explanation; he wanted a full decanter of whiskey. What the hell had he just done?

  He wanted her to confide in him so he could have a reason for them to spend time together in discovering the identity of the mystery writer, not fling accusations at her and reduce her to tears. Not to mention build up more of a hatred toward him.

  But why wouldn't she confide in him, damn it? Her continued resistance to open, let alone acknowledge, the letter in his presence led him to the only logical conclusion: she was enjoying this flirtation, and the very thought drove him mad.

  “I don't know who sent that,” she said, reaching for his arm again. Her grip was so tight it would be a miracle if she didn't leave a bruise. “Another letter, one far more indecent arrived earlier this week…”

  James fought the urge not to scowl at her comparison of his letter to the original pursuer.

  “…I don't know what I might have done to encourage the first letter, and I haven't even left the house since then so I know I didn't do anything further to encourage the second.” She swiped at the tears on her cheeks. “I promise, Wynn, I'd never do anything to dishonor your name.”

  James fisted his hands in his pockets. Deep down, he knew that to be true. Other than the events that led to their betrothal, he'd never seen Charlotte behave in a way that would invite gossip. “Why didn't you come to me with the first letter?”

  “I—I—” Her throat worked. “I didn't think you'd want to be bothered with it so I asked Gareth to help put a stop to it.”

  Her words were what he'd expected to hear, but that didn't stop them from delivering the final blow against his resolve. “I'm sorry.” He cleared his throat to hide his raw emotions. “Was he of any help?”

  She shook her head. “It's only been three days.” Her lower lip quivered and she caught it with her teeth. “I'm sorry.”

  James nodded numbly. It was he who ought to be sorry. Sorry for not being the husband to her he should have been from the start. Sorry he'd made her feel alone and that she had to run to her brother-in-law to fight her battles. He reached his hand toward her face and cupping her right cheek with his hand, brushed away the tears on her cheek with his thumb. “I have an idea.”

  “Y—you do?”

  “Don't act so surprised.” He offered her a slim smile. “One forms every now and again. Of course I usually have to spend the following week abed with a headache, but it does happen.”

  Charlotte's eyes crinkled and a giggle sputtered from her lips. “Sorry,” she said, covering her mouth with a resounding pop.

  James waved a hand in front of his face. “I think you should write him back.”

  “Pardon?”

  Now it was his turn to laugh. “You don't have to act as if I suggested you present yourself to him naked.”

  “Didn't you?”

  James took a lock of her dark hair and wrapped it around his finger. “No. I said write to him.” He tucked the tendril of her hair behind her ear. “There's a difference.”

  “Truly? I had no idea.”

  “With sarcasm such as yours, it might be for the best that you're not meeting him naked.”

  Charlotte lifted her hand as if she might swat his shoulder then suddenly dropped it back to her side.

  James refused to allow disap
pointment at her sudden change of plans to cast a shadow upon the progress they'd made in the last ten minutes and took a step back then dropped his hand to his side. “All right, the Countess of Hearts, go pour your heart out to your Lord Smitten.”

  Frowning, Charlotte said, “What do I write to him?”

  James nearly laughed at her innocence. “The same kind of nonsense he's written to you.”

  “You want me to have an affair?”

  This time, her innocence wasn't quite as charming. “No. I just want you to write to him. Eventually he'll give himself away and when he does I'll rip his limbs off and beat him senseless with them.”

  A moment's reservation flared up in Charlotte. She'd already promised her husband that Lord Smitten, as Wynn referred to him, meant nothing to her and promised she wasn't pursuing a lover. Was it necessary for Wynn to maim the man?

  Yes, yes, it was. A man like Wynn wouldn't easily let this pass. His pride wouldn't allow it.

  “What do you want me to say to him?”

  Wynn shrugged. “Whatever you want.” He frowned down at the missive. “Perhaps you could ask him when he saw you wear rouge and we'll have our first clue.”

  “Do you think he'll tell me?”

  “If all he can do is compliment your lip color, he's simpleton enough.”

  Charlotte wasn't as convinced, but if responding to her Lord Smitten would persuade Wynn that she wasn't about to bring scandal down around their ears, she'd do it. Now, if only she could think of what to say to the man to entice him to respond to her with clues to his identity.

  Four hours later, she had finally penned the perfect forty-one words.

  “Would you like to see my letter?” she asked her husband, coming into his study. She halted, suddenly uncomfortable. Never before had she stepped foot in Wynn's study. Nor had she even seen the inside before. Usually the door was shut or only slightly ajar, not allowing someone passing by much of a view. “Um…” She placed her letter on the top of the bookcase next to her. “I'll just leave this here.”