Seducing the Duchess

by Ashley March

  Her bare hand, free of the restricting propriety of her glove, touched his coat, her palm resting above his heart for a long, breathless moment. His silver eyes burned into her, his mouth relaxed, his chin firm—no movement at all except the steady pounding of his heart beneath her hand.

  She circled him—their only point of contact the pads of her fingertips across his chest, the tense muscles of his shoulder, his back, his other shoulder.

  And still he did not move.

  He was a statue, immobile, apparently unconcerned by her careful caress. And yet, as she placed her palm once more over his chest, she could feel his heart thrumming at a frantic pace.

  A sweet song of victory coursed through her veins, and Charlotte curved her lips in a sultry smile as she slid her hands up, wrapped them around his neck. She pressed her body along the full length of his, her breasts rubbed to erect points across the fine wool of his waistcoat.

  It had taken her three years, but she had finally won this battle. Now he was the one to be seduced, his emotions the ones to be toyed with, his heart the one to be—

  “Enough.”

  His fingers bit into her wrists as he pried her arms from around his neck, his grip harsh and punishing when he thrust her away from him.

  Charlotte frowned, suddenly uncertain. She recoiled at the pale gleam of disgust shining in his eyes as they raked over her, his mouth curled in disdain at the temptation she had offered him.

  His voice rolled over her like a crack of thunder, breaking apart her illusion of confidence. “Did you expect me to react like all the others? Did you think I would throw you to the floor or bend you over the bed and rut you like an animal?” He strode forward and clasped her shoulders, his grip heavy with condemnation as he shook her. “You will not act the whore with me, Charlotte. Do you understand?”

  He shook her again, roaring as he repeated the question, “Do you understand?”

  After a frozen moment of silence, Charlotte tilted her head back, tipping her mouth at the corners. “Old habits, you know. I don’t suppose I know how to act any other way—other than as a whore.” She brought her hand to his jaw, leaned in close, her lips a breath away from his skin. “Does it offend you? I’m dreadfully sorry. Perhaps you should cast me aside and find a new wife.”

  He slashed her a dark look, his eyes the color of a storm cloud, brewing with violence and wrath, before he brushed her off and stalked away to the other side of the room.

  Charlotte sat on the bed and slipped off her shoes. She stared at her fingers, their slight trembling, and clenched her hands into fists to still the movement. “God knows you’ve put up with me long enough. You should be close to gaining your sainthood now, Philip. And you deserve a good wife, a good duchess, someone who is as stiff and cold as you are.”

  She tucked her hair behind her ear so she could watch him out of the corner of her eye. Propping one leg up on the coverlet, she pulled her dress and petticoats over her knee and reached to untie her garter. “Someone who will accommodate you in bed, who won’t cry when you leave her to go to your mistress, someone who doesn’t welcome other men as her lovers.”

  His back had been turned to her, but at her last word he pivoted on his heel, a thoughtful expression creasing his brow as he strolled toward the bed. “Hmm. That does sound rather appealing.”

  Charlotte angled her body toward him so he could see as she drew her stocking down her leg. “Indeed. Don’t forget that she could be someone that the ton respects as well. Perhaps the daughter of a marquess or earl, even.”

  Philip paused as he removed his boots. “Do you think she would read the Times to me at breakfast?”

  Her fingers froze in midair, her other stocking suspended above the floor. It was the first time he’d ever actively acknowledged her suggestion that he marry someone else. “Perhaps.”

  She saw him nod as he lay down on top of the bed, fully clothed, his arms crossed behind his head as a pillow. Charlotte frowned at him. “Are you planning to sleep like that?”

  He glanced at her, his brows knit in consternation. “You mean you aren’t going to undress me?”

  “You have a valet. Summon him.”

  “Do you think she would?”

  “Who?”

  “My ideal wife.” A roguish grin crossed his lips, and Charlotte sucked in a breath at the sight of it.

  It transformed his face—gone was the ducal veneer, the aristocratic posing and the duty-bound polish. In its place was a man who could melt a woman’s heart with one glance of his liquid-silver eyes, who could have her quivering and helpless in his arms just because he said her name in that dark, velvet-edged voice of his.

  Charlotte straightened. She was no longer that woman. “Probably not,” she said crisply, and turned away, all of her intentions to continue taunting him as she removed her clothing forgotten.

  “Oh,” he said. The bed groaned as he moved to blow out the brace of candles nearby. “Well, then, since I cannot have an ideal wife, I suppose I shall just keep you.”

  Charlotte flopped onto her back and stared up at the ceiling—a black void of nothingness high above her head. “Me.”

  The bed frame creaked again as he lay down beside her. “Yes, you.”

  “A strumpet.”

  A heartbeat of silence, and then: “I prefer to think of you as a sheep.”

  Charlotte choked as she inhaled. She twisted her neck to look at him, but all she could see were the stark angles of his profile, and she focused on the aquiline jut of his nose. “A sheep?”

  “Yes, a metaphor for a woman led astray. A woman who, by the kind and gentle reprimand of her noble husband, might be brought back to the straight and narrow path.”

  She huffed. “If I am a sheep in your metaphor, then you must be—”

  “God,” he finished, his voice smug. And although she could not see it, she knew he was smirking.

  Charlotte crossed her arms over her chest—which was ridiculous, really, because not only could he not see her affronted expression in the darkness, but she was also lying down.

  “I presume by your silence you do not agree with my deified role?”

  “I think I’d rather go to hell than have you rescue me,” she said, then turned her back to him.

  Charlotte was all too aware that he lay not half a foot from her. If she reached out her arm, she would be able to touch him. And it was entirely possible that sometime during the night the space between them might diminish, and she might wake up in the morning with his leg thrown over hers, or her head pillowed on his chest.

  There was a reason Charlotte had not shared a bed with a man for three years. It was far too intimate.

  It only then occurred to her that they were sleeping in the same room—so caught up had she become in teasing and testing him that she hadn’t even inquired why she didn’t have a separate chamber. She could only assume he did not trust her to leave his sight.

  A quiet snore rumbled from Philip’s direction. Breathing a small sigh, Charlotte tucked her elbow beneath her head and counted as each second passed.

  After five minutes, she lifted herself inch by inch off the bed—first her head, then her arms, her torso, swinging her legs to the floor—until finally she stood, triumphant, her hands on her hips as she stared down at his sleeping form.

  Tiptoeing over to the door, Charlotte grasped the doorknob in her hand and—

  Nothing. It wouldn’t turn.

  She bent down to peer through the keyhole, to see if someone had locked the door from the hallway, and—

  She gasped as his hands wrapped around her elbows and pulled her upward. His breath ruffled her hair as he whispered in her ear, “Did you honestly think I would give you the chance to escape?”

  “I was going to find my room.”

  His thumbs caressed the sensitive skin on the inside of her arms. “You do not have a room. Come, Charlotte.” He trailed his fingers down to her hand, turning her around. “We are husband and wife. We do not need tw
o rooms, do we?”

  She shivered at his unwelcome touch. “You bastard.”

  His soft chuckle was as deep and dark as the devil himself. “It’s been quite a long time since I’ve heard that word from your lips, my dear.”

  She ripped her hands from his hold. “You were never around to hear me say it. If you had been, you would have heard that and much, much more.”

  “Forgive me. The thought of searching every home in London to find my wayward wife did not appeal to me. Besides, I’ve never been too fond of an overcrowded bed. When I wish to slip between a woman’s thighs, I don’t want to find another man already there, having his turn.”

  Her palm cracked against his cheek, the sound as sharp as the pain in her chest.

  Philip caught her arm when she would have dropped it to her side, and her heart drummed an accelerated staccato at the silver flash of his eyes. But he only raised her hand to his mouth, his lips brushing over her knuckles in a light caress, as if they were a gentleman and a lady meeting for the first time at a crowded London soiree.

  Except they were alone, and she wore no gloves to protect her from feeling the warm strength of his hand, the firm, hot, velvet pressure of his mouth against her skin. And God help them, because they both knew he was no gentleman, and she was certainly not a lady.

  “Apologies,” he murmured. “That was badly done of me.”

  Charlotte swallowed. It was the first time he’d ever apologized to her—for anything.

  But it was too late to pretend to be civil now. One moment could not undo the years of animosity and indifference. The chasm of silence and distance could never be bridged.

  Not even by an apology and a kiss.

  Or by revealing the truth.

  Yet if he thought he had hurt her, he was mistaken. His cruel words might have crushed her spirit a long time ago, but now they only wounded her pride.

  Charlotte lifted her chin and smiled. “No apologies, Your Grace. It isn’t becoming to one of your station. Remember, you are a duke, after all.”

  Philip gritted his teeth as he watched Charlotte’s dark form sashay back to the bed, the lines of her body caressed by a sliver of moonlight peeking through the curtains.

  “Shall I call for your maid to help you undress?” he asked, silently berating himself for losing his temper. While he had been determined to resist the temptation she presented, her seductive touch had nearly been his undoing. It seemed the longer he was around her, the more difficult it became to maintain his composure. Worst of all, he’d lashed out at her for it, giving her yet another reason why she should hate him.

  She stilled. “Yes, please do.”

  A few minutes later the candles were lit again and Philip stood next to the door as Charlotte’s maid unbuttoned, untied, and unhooked her layers of gown, petticoats, and corset. He had only a brief glimpse of her cotton shift before she slipped on a dressing gown.

  At Charlotte’s dismissal, the maid curtsied to them both and hurried out of the room.

  “This is new.” She turned around, her eyes narrowed. “You’ve begun purchasing clothes for me, Philip. How . . . strange.”

  He wasn’t sure why his heart pounded so as she fingered the ties of her dressing gown. He had bought it for himself, not for her. He’d wanted to see if the royal blue color would match the hue of her eyes. He had thought of how lovely she would be, her rich, luxurious hair a contrast to the jeweled tone of the robe.

  His imagination had not come close to doing her beauty justice.

  In comparison to the sparkling sapphire brilliance of her eyes, the gown appeared faded and worn, the fabric less lustrous as her hair shone like spun silk in the candlelight.

  She smoothed the material over her waist, her hips, before glancing up at him. “Thank you.”

  Philip pried his hands apart behind his back, but he didn’t step forward. He didn’t trust himself to get within a foot of her at the moment. “You like it, then?”

  Charlotte nodded. “Yes. It must have cost you a fortune. I’ve never seen a design so simple, yet so intricate.”

  He swallowed. Civility. He was tempted to barge into the other room, grab the entire trunk of clothes he had brought along, and dump it out at her feet—if only to gain him five more minutes free of her contempt and hatred.

  It was maddening how easily she made him forget that he was a duke, that he was not the type of man to engage in spontaneity, someone who would give in to his impulses to do everything he could to be near her, to make her happy.

  If it had been the least likely, he might have considered that she was changing him. For a moment—only ten seconds, if one were to be exact—Philip was uncertain of what he should say, what he should do.

  And so he stared at Charlotte, ensuring that his expression was impassive, that it gave nothing away he didn’t want her to see. Eventually her small smile slipped and, lowering her arms, she returned to the bed.

  Philip hesitated. “I—”

  She shifted to her side, her back toward him.

  He closed his mouth. He snuffed out the candles with his fingertips, but did not remove his own clothing. Sharing a bed with her was a difficult enough test to his willpower.

  Lying down, he concentrated on his breathing for what seemed an interminable length of time—slow, relaxed movements of his chest, in and out, in and out—anything to keep him from dwelling on how close she was, how easy it would be to reach out his hand and stroke her hair.

  An eternity later, Charlotte sighed in her sleep and twisted toward him, her arm flung out so that her fingers brushed across his ribs. His breath seized in his chest, the calmness he had strived for immediately disappearing.

  It took him almost another ten minutes to resign himself to sleeping in the chair on the opposite side of the room—close enough so he could prevent her from trying to escape in the middle of the night, yet far enough away to have a chance of resisting the temptation her restless body offered.

  Philip leaned his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes, but he could not dismiss the memory of Charlotte as she’d stood in front of him earlier, her eyes promising wickedness, her palm pressed against his wildly racing heart.

  As self-centered as it seemed to be now, he’d always assumed her harlot performance was all a show of bravado for his benefit, meant to make him succumb to her demands.

  He knew she’d taken lovers over the years—a woman wasn’t rumored to have slept with more than a dozen men without there being some truth to the accusation—but he couldn’t fault her for it. After all, he’d dismissed his mistress only six months ago.

  But he’d deluded himself into thinking that Charlotte did it only to spite him; it appeared that she actually enjoyed her life as a fallen woman.

  She no longer possessed any of the awkward shyness she had exhibited around him at the age of nineteen, that small flaw in the midst of her vibrancy and exuberance which had made her susceptible to a duke’s flattery and attention.

  Charlotte was confident now. She was independent.

  She didn’t need him at all, and that scared the hell out of him.

  Chapter 4

  “Yer Grace, Yer Grace.”

  Charlotte growled and batted at the hand tapping her shoulder.

  “Yer Grace, please. He said we must be in the courtyard in ten minutes.”

  Charlotte rolled over and cracked one eyelid open. The room was awash in lavender predawn shadows. Groaning, she promptly shut it again and wondered why she’d never considered murder as an option to rid herself of her overbearing, despotic husband.

  It was criminal to expect her to rise from bed this early.

  Charlotte lifted an arm and waved her maid away with a flick of her wrist. The pathetically weak motion did no more than dislodge the coverlet from her shoulder, which subsequently made her grumble at the rush of cold air surging inside her warm haven.

  Anne’s worried footsteps paced around the side of the bed. “We’ve only seven minutes
more, Yer Grace. He said he would be angry if we were late. Oh, please sit up. I will help you with everything else. Yer Grace? Yer Grace?”

  Charlotte burrowed deeper beneath the covers. “You may tell that old fusspot to go bugger himself.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  A meager light flickered across her eyelids, and Charlotte opened her eyes once more to find the maid at the window, worrying the curtain with anxious fingers as she peeked at the courtyard below.

  “He has his timepiece out.”

  Charlotte grunted and flung her pillow over her head.

  “Five more minutes. And he’s frowning something awful now.”

  “Hmm. How dreadful.”

  Although she lay inert in the bed, pretending to be entirely unconcerned with Philip’s mandate or the passage of time, she could not keep her heart from beating faster with each warning the maid called out.

  She had woken in the middle of the night with a fantastic retort to his callous words. It was much better than her previous comment about his station, and she was dying to have another confrontation with him now.

  “Three min—” Anne cut herself off, gasping.

  Charlotte jerked upward, swatting her hair out of her face. “What is it?”

  Her eyes darted from the swaying curtain to the maid, who had backed up to the adjoining wall. Anne’s hand palpitated against her chest, as if she were trying to help her heart restore blood to her pallid cheeks. “He’s coming,” she whispered.

  “What? I thought he said ten minutes.”

  “He did. I don’t know—”

  Charlotte pointed to the door. “Quick! Leave before he gets here.”

  Anne shifted from foot to foot. “Are you certain? We still have time—”

  “Now! Go, go.” She waited only long enough for the maid to scurry out before she flopped back down and yanked the covers to her chin, forcing herself to take deep, measured breaths.