by Ashley March
She closed her eyes, but they immediately popped open, as if looking at the wall in front of her could somehow help her hear the approach of his footsteps.
She doubted she would be able to hear anything above the incessant drumming of her pulse; it pounded in her ears, mocking her attempt at composure, blurring the words in her mind that she had memorized during the night. She opened her mouth, as if moving her lips could help her to grasp the phrase she needed to set him in his place once and for all.
The hinges of the door squealed as it opened, and Charlotte flinched as if he had slammed it against the wall. She squeezed her eyes tight as he neared.
Suddenly the covers were wrenched away from her. Charlotte gasped and sat up, instinctively reaching down to pull her shift over her legs. She glared at Philip, who stood at the foot of the bed, his eyebrow arched in amusement as he watched her scramble to find her dignity.
“Good morning, Duchess.”
Charlotte took a deep breath and squared her shoulders—not an easy feat to accomplish when one hand was busy tugging a thin scrap of cotton over her thigh and the other was holding her up. “You are not the first ugly man.”
Philip’s brow lowered.
No, that didn’t sound right.
“You—you are not the first man ...”
Blast it all. Charlotte released her death grip on her shift and climbed off the bed. “You are not the first man to get ugly when denied an invitation to my bed.” She poked him in the chest.
Philip wrapped his hand around her finger. “Been holding that one in, have you?”
His other hand lifted to cup her cheek, then slid beneath her jaw and around to the nape of her neck. Charlotte opened her mouth to demand that he release her, but before she could speak, he bent forward and placed a gentle, almost-tender kiss on her forehead.
His lips brushed her skin as he spoke. “Do you not realize, Charlotte? I have no need for an invitation.”
“Because you are my husband and I am your property,” she mumbled dully.
“No,” he said, stepping away to survey her state of undress with cold regard. “Because I have no wish to warm your bed, or to have you warm mine.”
Charlotte lifted her chin, determined to hide how his words stung her pride. It wasn’t as if she wanted to lie with him again. She didn’t. She only wanted him to desire her so she could have something to hold over him, a way to control him, so the world wouldn’t seem so out of balance whenever he came close.
“That is my wish as well,” she said.
“Very good. I am glad we understand one another. Although there will come a time when we will have to copulate for the sake of producing an heir, I do not foresee a need for such anytime soon.”
She could think of nothing more horrifying than creating a child with him, a permanent bond he could use to hold her to him forever.
“I will never—”
He held up his hand, his eyes flashing in warning. “Never say never, my dearest. I should so hate to prove you wrong.”
Charlotte bared her teeth. “I will never invite you to my bed, no matter the reason. And I would rather die than bear your child.”
Philip clucked his tongue. “Such harsh words for a woman in nothing but her nightclothes. Come now, darling. I am not tempted by your scandalous dress, and we must be on our way.” He turned his back on her. “You have already exceeded your allotted ten minutes, but if you will make haste now, I shall allow you to dress without my assistance.”
A slow smile tugged at her lips. She supposed he meant for his threat to send her running to the door, hollering for Anne. But the thought of having her husband, the Duke of Rutherford, the same man who behaved as if he held up the heavens with his bare hands, act as her lady’s maid ... Well, the idea was far too appealing.
Charlotte stretched and yawned. She padded over to the nearby chair and sat, waiting and watching.
It did not take long before Philip spoke again. “You are not getting dressed.”
She leaned her head back against the chair and crossed her legs. “How perceptive of you.”
He turned around, his gaze spearing her in her idle pose. “Very well.”
No two words had ever before sent such a rush of anticipation creeping up Charlotte’s spine as those did, spoken with a hint of a growl beneath his soft, cultured accent.
He left the room for only a moment, and when he returned, he carried in his arms a golden dress, its material gleaming bronze as he stepped through a splash of sunlight.
If Charlotte had been someone else, and he had been a different man, she would have thought he appeared quite dashing and handsome as he strolled toward her, his eyes lit with purpose, his mouth firm with determination.
He paused before her. She raised her leg and pointed her foot. Then she wiggled her toes. “Stockings first, please.”
A burst of laughter nearly escaped her throat as he glared down at her leg, his nostrils flaring. But then he lifted his gaze and smiled at her—a quick, blinding flash of teeth, much too charming—and Charlotte straightened as warning bells rang in her ears—
“As you wish, Your Grace,” he said, and dumped the dress on her head.
Charlotte felt like a china doll, awash in a sea of lace and satin, breathing in the clean, stifling, fresh smell of the fabric as she tried to find her way to a pocket of air. At last, she lurched to her feet and flung the dress aside—only to discover that Philip had never moved, and her nose was a mere inch away from his cravat.
She sniffed and looked down at his hands. They were empty. “Where are my stockings?”
He reached inside his pocket and drew forth a pair, dangling them in front of her face. “Right here, Your Grace. If it pleases you to sit down ...”
Charlotte threw him a warning glance as she turned and plopped into the chair once again.
Philip kept his head lowered while he knelt before her, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have thought she heard the low rumble of a chuckle as he reached for her foot.
He pushed her shift to her thigh with one hand and extended her leg toward him with the other. She knew he didn’t intend for his touch to be so sensual, his gloved fingers sliding along the curve of her calf and down to grasp the tender skin at her ankle, but still she swallowed a gasp at the intimacy of the gesture.
No man had ever touched her thus before.
He stroked her ankle on either side with his thumbs, a slow, provocative caress, and she tensed, ready to jerk out of his hold. At the last moment, he released her, and Charlotte dared to breathe again.
He moved the stocking over her toes, his fingers gliding along her skin as he drew it ever upward. He lingered at the arch of her foot, her ankle, her calf, leaving a trail of tingling nerves wherever he touched her. As he brushed the inside of her knee, Charlotte jumped.
He raised his head, and Charlotte couldn’t help but think that his mouth, his firm, lovely-looking mouth, was so very close to the juncture of her thighs . . .
“I never knew you were ticklish.”
She jumped once more as his fingers flicked the sensitive skin behind her knee. “I’m not,” she said. “You . . . surprised me.”
“Ah.” His eyes told her he knew she was lying, but he didn’t try to tickle her again.
No, that would have been too kind a reprieve from the torture he inflicted on her. She had made a horrendous mistake; she should never have attempted to call his bluff and allow him to dress her.
Her amusement at seeing him play the servant’s role had long since disappeared, replaced by an unexpected, unwanted reawakening of desire as she watched his hands carefully smoothing the stocking over her leg.
Charlotte bit her lip when he fastened her garter into place, the tips of his fingers brushing the inside of her thighs. His movements were exacting, solicitous, methodical even—nothing to make her think he was trying to arouse her.
Certainly he could not have known her thighs would tremble at the whisper of his
breath across her skin, or that her own breath would hitch in her chest as he continued his unintentionally erotic ministrations on her other leg.
Charlotte’s hands tightened on the arms of the chair. She was a fool. Here she was, barely able to keep from swooning at the pleasure of his touch, and he—
He—
She cocked her head, listening.
He was humming!
Humming, as if he were engaged in some mundane chore and only the tune in his head could keep him amused. While she was a tense, muddled mass of need and want, and—
Oh, for heaven’s sake, now he was whistling?
Charlotte planted her foot on his chest and shoved.
He tumbled backward onto the floor. “What the devil—”
“Out!” She stepped over him and stalked to open the door. Unable to meet his eyes, she stared at the top of his head as she pointed to the corridor. “Get out!”
“Charlotte—”
She turned away and yelled at the top of her lungs. “Anne!”
Almost immediately the door across the way opened and a mobcap peeked through the crack. “Yes, Yer Grace?”
“Assist me at once.”
“Yes, Yer Grace.” The maid scurried across the hall and into the room.
A tuneless whistle pierced Charlotte’s ear as she twisted around again. She gasped and glared at Philip, who had snuck up behind her. He met her glower with an even gaze.
“We do not have time for your theatrics. We are already behind. We must leave immediately—”
“Yes, yes, I know. Two minutes. I will be down in the courtyard in two minutes. Just”—she used all of her strength to push him an inch toward the corridor—“if you would . . . just . . . leave ...”
He glanced up from where he had been peering at her fingers on his shoulder, as if they were little, annoying insects. “All you had to do was ask.” He gave her a short, mocking bow, his mouth curved in a smile, then took a step backward.
Charlotte slammed the door and whirled around to face Anne, whose brown eyes had widened to an almost impossible degree.
“Quick, don’t just stand there. We have two minutes.” She took a deep breath. “I cannot have him barge in here, trying to dress me again.”
Or next time, she just might ask him to help her undress.
“Easy, boy,” Philip murmured to his stallion Argos. The horse nickered and stamped his hoof twice on the ground.
Philip felt much the same way as he glanced down to check his timepiece once again—impatient and very, very frustrated.
He could not keep his thoughts from straying to the image of Charlotte in that damned chair, her legs splayed before him in their lush, ivory splendor, the feel of her skin like satin beneath his fingers.
The memory was enough to make him hard all over again. Thank God he’d thought of something to provoke her. If he hadn’t hummed and whistled like an idiot, he’d no doubt be standing behind her right now, his hands trembling as he fiddled with her laces.
He’d have gone mad. Bloody, irrevocably mad.
But he was insane to make such a threat to her in the first place. He’d known she would rebel against his authority, as she always did.
And yet he allowed her to believe he was so anxious to leave for Ruthven Manor that he lowered himself to play her lady’s maid. To kneel before her, ready to button her up and lace her tight, when all he really wanted was to strip her bare until all that remained was his hands and mouth, his skin on hers, her sapphire eyes flashing beneath him as he drove into her again and again.
Philip groaned and shifted in the saddle, his groin throbbing as he remembered how very close he had come to touching the apex of her thighs.
Argos whinnied, and Philip snapped his head up to find Charlotte strolling toward him, a wide grin gracing her lips beneath the brim of her bonnet.
Philip sucked in a breath. It had been a very long time since she had smiled at him like that, as though she were actually glad to see him.
If it’d been anyone else, he would have smiled in return. But he knew Charlotte, and she was never glad to see him; in fact, she’d slammed the door in his face not five minutes ago.
Though he loved her, he didn’t trust her—at least, not when she was smiling like that.
“You’re late,” he said. His eyes ran over her gown the way his fisted hands couldn’t.
Ironically, he’d forgotten to purchase traveling clothes for her. Ball gowns, tea dresses, pelisses, and negligees—all these he’d remembered. Modest designs for the pieces she would wear in public, to replace the usual scandalous gowns she preferred ... and new nightgowns he alone would see to replace the ones she’d worn to her lovers’ beds. It was an odd habit he’d acquired over the past few months, a substitute for not being near her, for not touching her. There was an intimacy in choosing the clothes that might one day caress and cover her skin, and even though he’d doubted she would ever wear them, he took great satisfaction in knowing she had no other choice now. He’d left her other clothes in London, and he would make certain the few articles stored at Ruthven Manor were removed as soon as possible.
Charlotte shrugged and lifted her hand to pet Argos. The blasted horse dipped his head into her touch. Was there a male of any species that could resist her?
She murmured something soft and indecipherable to the stallion before she turned to look around. “I don’t see Bryony. I assume you sent her on to the stables at Ruthven. Which horse shall I ride, then?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her she would damn well ride inside the carriage, safe and tucked away so he’d be able to maintain some sense of his sanity for the rest of the way home.
But God help him, she smiled at him again.
And that open, joyful curve of her lips affected him more than her fluttering eyelashes and pouting mouth ever had.
Philip swallowed. “I—” His gaze sharpened, narrowing in on her attire. “You aren’t wearing a riding habit.”
She looked down, smoothing her dress. “I can tuck my skirts beneath me.”
“We have no sidesaddle.”
“Do not worry, Your Grace. It won’t be the first time I’ve ridden astride.” She paused. “I’m quite good at it, I’m told.”
Philip growled at the blatant innuendo. “Gilpin,” he called, never taking his eyes from hers.
One of the grooms on horseback trotted toward them. “Your Grace?”
“Assist Her Grace onto your gelding.”
Charlotte tapped his knee, and Philip jerked, startling Argos. “Be careful, Philip. I might begin to believe you’ve developed a soft spot for me if you continue taking my wishes into consideration.”
“I—”
But she had already turned away, laughing, and he couldn’t decide whether he had been about to admit or deny her accusation.
Philip berated himself. He could not allow her to get the upper hand.
Once Gilpin had climbed up on the carriage and Charlotte was settled on the gelding, Philip signaled the coachman. The entourage began to travel the remaining four hours to Ruthven Manor.
Philip soon heard the thundering of hooves behind him as Charlotte rode up to join him at the front.
Most men would have been too intimidated by him to attempt to breach his solitude, and no woman he knew would ever have chosen a horse over the carriage, let alone agreed to ride without a sidesaddle.
He covertly studied her out of the corner of his eye. She sat tall and straight, her head held high and her hands loose on the reins, needing only to coax her mount with the barest nudge of her thighs. Her skirts . . .
Philip turned his head to fully look at her. His gaze traveled downward, to where the enticing curve of her calves was revealed by the hike of her skirts.
“Do you know I haven’t returned to Warwickshire since we married?”
Philip started and glanced away. Then, realizing he was behaving like a schoolboy, he swung his head back to stare at her. “Have you not?”
“No.”
Philip frowned. “Surely you must have. I travel to Ruthven at least six times a year.”
She flicked her hand in the air. “Yes, but I’ve never gone with you. Though I’m not surprised you didn’t notice my absence. In truth, I might not have known you’d left except that you took the butler with you each time.”
He considered her for a long moment, the thudding of the horses’ hooves and the rumble of the carriage wheels the only sound to break the silence. “You’re afraid to return.”
She slid him a sidelong glance, her mouth curved in a self-derisive smile. “You are mad if you believe I would ever admit such a thing to you.”
“But you are,” he pressed, feeling as if he’d never really known her. Never looked close enough to really see her. He swallowed past the sudden, bitter taste of guilt. “Why?”
Her smile disappeared. “When I last saw my parents, they told me to never show my face again if I married you.”
Philip scoffed. “What parents wouldn’t want their daughter to marry a duke? Surely I wasn’t that terrible.”
She gave him a disbelieving look.
“Very well,” he muttered. “But it’s not as if your brother died. It was only a few broken ribs.”
“Yes, but he was still their son, even if they refused to recognize him as such. My father only disowned him to force him to accept his responsibilities.”
Philip looked straight ahead. “Either way, Ethan deserved it.”
“Hullo,” Ethan said.
Philip turned to the butler. “You may go, Fallon.”
Philip waited until he disappeared, then stared at the man on his doorstep. The man whom he’d once considered his closest friend. The man who had betrayed him. A few yards behind Ethan, scuffling her toe in the grass and feigning disinterest, stood Charlotte.
Philip tried to close the door, but Ethan blocked it with his shoulder, pushing until the door swung wide open again and he stood at the edge of the marble entryway. “Five minutes,” he said, breathing harshly. “That’s all I ask.”
“You returned,” Philip said dully. “I heard she left you to rot in the middle of the countryside.”
“You’ve seen her then? How is—”