by Ashley March
“No, I haven’t seen her,” Philip bit out. Nor did he intend to. Joanna, also, had betrayed him.
Ethan shook his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Look, I came to apologize.”
“Apologize?” he echoed.
As if Ethan thought he could earn redemption with a few words. As if stealing off in the middle of the night with Philip’s fiancée could be dismissed simply because he managed a repentant expression and a contrite tone. Did he understand nothing of respect, of honor?
Of course he didn’t.
Philip clenched his hands into fists. It appeared his grandfather had been correct, after all. A squire’s children were no better than the lowest of commoners, and Ethan Sheffield was nothing more than a squire’s son. And he wasn’t even that any longer, since he’d been disowned.
Ethan cursed. “I’m sorry, Philip. I didn’t plan to do it. I never meant to—”
“You will leave my house now. And if I ever see you again, you will address me as ‘Your Grace.’ ”
Ethan stiffened, scowling. “Don’t go getting all high and dukely on me. This doesn’t mean we can’t—”
“Leave. I’ll not say it again.” Philip advanced toward him, his temple pounding. His gaze narrowed until all he saw was Ethan, once the greatest of friends, the brother he’d always longed for . . . and now a stranger.
“Goddamn it, Philip, why won’t you listen to me?”
Philip swung, his fist connecting with Ethan’s jaw. His head snapped to the side. Philip followed with a blow to his abdomen, then watched as Ethan’s face contorted with pain.
Philip heard Charlotte scream.
He wasn’t satisfied. “I trusted you,” he said, stepped forward. Now there was no one he could trust.
Ethan straightened, grimacing. He held up his hands. “I won’t fight you. And I will work to regain your trust.”
Philip laughed and swung again, needing to hurt Ethan, to wound him as he’d been wounded. To show him that what he’d done was irreversible, and that the distance between them could never be bridged.
This time, though, Ethan ducked, then lunged, plowing Philip to the hard marble floor.
They rolled, Philip beating at Ethan’s ribs while Ethan fought to pin him to the ground.
A swirl of skirts, a whiff of jasmine. “Stop it,” Charlotte shouted, her hands grasping at Philip’s arms.
Philip grunted and shifted away where their flying fists wouldn’t injure her. However, his gallantry cost him. While he thought to protect Charlotte, Ethan landed a succession of jabs to his kidney.
Roaring, Philip lurched out of his hold. “I thought you wouldn’t fight.”
Ethan sprang to his feet, crouching. Blood ran from his nose and a corner of his lip. “Does it make you feel better to hit me?”
“Yes.”
“Then do it again.”
“No!” Charlotte scrambled between them, arms outstretched. “Philip, please. You’ve done enough, haven’t you? It’s enough, damn it!”
Philip clenched his jaw. He should have expected her to side with her brother. She was just another Sheffield, no longer a friend but Ethan’s ally. “Get out of the way,” he snarled.
Ethan strode forward, wrapping his arm around Charlotte and tucking her against him.“Don’t you dare threaten her. This is you and me. I’ll send her away, and then we’ll finish it.” Ethan paused. “Do you understand?”
Philip stared at them, saw how they protected each other. They had always been close, friends as well as brother and sister. Doting on each other, even when they argued. In the past, he’d almost felt as if he’d become part of their family, as if he belonged. But now they looked at him as if he were a monster, the same dark brown hair framing the same bright blue eyes. As if he were the one who had betrayed them.
Then Charlotte tilted her head toward Ethan, her words too soft for Philip to decipher. And when Ethan looked down at her, Philip realized with sudden clarity that he’d been wrong to believe he could hurt Ethan through bruises and broken bones.
The perfect revenge stood before him, beautiful and innocent.
Charlotte.
“I once believed I hated him,” Charlotte said, so low it took Philip a moment to register her words.
“Ethan?”
“Yes, for what he did . . . and for what it did to all of us.”
This, another sin he’d committed: turning Charlotte against her brother. But Philip had done much worse to gain her condemnation.
Ruining Charlotte through seduction hadn’t been sufficient. He had to court her and marry her, claim her heart and her body, and then inform her of the truth: that he’d only pretended to love her as vengeance against Ethan. Then he’d cast her aside, trapped in a marriage he needed only for the sake of producing heirs.
His plan had worked well. Philip would never forget Charlotte’s face the morning after their wedding when he’d told her—the joy leached from her eyes, the stark whiteness of her cheeks. Only one part had failed: Ethan had departed England, unaware of Philip’s revenge.
He’d been a bastard. A foolish, idiotic bastard. And now he was paying his penance for it, for he could imagine no greater punishment than loving Charlotte while she thoroughly despised him.
Drawing his mount closer to hers, Philip attempted to peer beneath her bonnet to see her expression. “They loved each other.”
“Did they?” Charlotte laughed, but this time it was hollow, an empty echo of the joyous sound it should have been. “And I loved you.”
It was not the declaration he had hoped for—that simple, single hard consonant on the end of “love” declared it to be past tense, a memory of something she had once experienced. And by the bitter tone of her voice, he knew it was not a pleasant memory.
Nevertheless, he clung to those four words as a dying man prayed for salvation, as if the hope of her love could redeem him for all the soul-blackening things he’d ever done.
After all, if she had once loved him, could he not persuade her to love him again?
“Ah, memories.” Charlotte snapped the reins, urging the gelding faster. She threw him a saucy grin over her shoulder. “Speaking of which, do you remember the time I bested you in a horse race? Never mind. Of course you do. If I recall correctly, it happened every time you wagered that you would win.”
Philip bent forward, his knees pressing against Argos’s sides. “You were younger and smaller, less experienced. Allowing you to win was the gentlemanly thing to do.”
“Yes, of course. Gentlemanly.” She leaned low over her horse’s mane. “Would you care to make another wager now?”
Chapter 5
Charlotte hurried down the stairs, her fingers skimming the railing, her feet barely touching each step in her haste.
Even though she’d lost the race and the bloody wager, she couldn’t submit to Philip’s terms.
As she neared the front entrance, the butler, who stood as a silent sentry along the wall, moved to block her path.
“I am to inform you that you may not leave the house,” Fallon said, his eyebrows drawn together like horizontal caterpillars, his mouth a thin ribbon of displeasure.
“Very well. I have been informed.” Charlotte moved to circle around him, but he mirrored her movements—a left step to her right, a step back to her forward lunge.
She sighed. “I suppose His Grace also ordered you to restrain me by physical force if I attempted to do so?”
A strong arm wrapped around her waist. A deep voice murmured in her ear. “No. Fallon was only to stall you until I arrived. I will be the one to take pleasure in restraining you.”
Charlotte tensed, and Philip’s arm immediately fell away. She whirled toward him. “Am I a prisoner here, then?”
She nearly stamped her foot at his impeccable appearance. God, it wasn’t fair. It was impossible that he should look so attractive when it was just past the crack of dawn. She was sure her own face still held creases from her pillow.
“A p
risoner?” The way he looked at her made Charlotte shiver, as if he contemplated tying her to his bed. But she knew he was only trying to intimidate her again.
He reached out and trailed a finger along her cheek, down her throat. “No, you’re not a prisoner. But I can’t help wondering why you are awake so early. Surely you weren’t trying to escape, to renege on our wager?”
“No.” Charlotte glanced away. Damn it. If only that blasted oak tree had been a foot closer to the window, then she’d never have been caught.
“Good. I should hate to think you a poor loser.” His eyes gleamed wickedly. “Or that you wouldn’t want to spend a day with your husband, as we agreed.”
Charlotte flashed him a wide smile. “Of course not, Your Grace.”
Philip inclined his head. “Come, then. Let us begin.”
He pivoted on his heel. Charlotte looked with longing at the front door, then turned and followed him. She cleared her throat. “You never informed me when you were leaving.”
“Leaving?”
“Yes, to London.”
He held the door to the music room open for her. “There is no need to sound so dejected, my dear. I would not dream of abandoning you in the countryside.”
At this announcement, she stumbled across the threshold. He caught her easily against his chest. “You wouldn’t?”
Philip gave her a disarming grin. “No. I fear I would miss you far too much. And by the way the tears are gathering in your eyes, I can see you would miss me as well.”
Charlotte blinked. Her eyes were completely dry. “Have you gone daft?”
He kissed her cheek—a short, sweet peck that was over before she could think to draw away. Then he released her and winked.
Charlotte’s jaw dropped open.
It was the single most ridiculously trivial thing Philip had ever done. She hadn’t realized he even knew how to wink.
His index finger tapped against her chin, and she promptly closed her mouth. “Your concern for my sanity is truly heartwarming. I had no idea you cared so much.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’ve hidden it well, haven’t I?”
He ignored her sarcasm and took her hand. “Come. I have something to show you.”
Her feet dragged as he led her to the far end of the music room—for the most part, a room very similar to any of the drawing rooms, except in here an enormous grand piano sat in the middle on the large blue and gold Persian carpet.
Philip stopped, and Charlotte peered around his shoulder at a mysterious draped object.
“Close your eyes,” he said.
She obeyed him without hesitation. Then, realizing she had done so, she immediately opened them.
The cloth dropped from Philip’s fingers back into place. “I realize that you can’t stand for a moment to allow me out of your sight, darling, but if you want to see your surprise, you must bear the agony for a short while.”
“Humph.” Though suspicious of Philip’s intent, she closed her eyes again.
There was a rustling, a stirring of air, and then she felt Philip move behind her. His hands covered her eyes.
“Are you ready?” His breath lifted the hairs at the nape of her neck.
“Yes.”
“You didn’t peek, did you?”
“No.” Well, only a little bit—a slight crack of the eyelids. Not enough to see anything beyond the blur of Philip’s dark form.
“Very good. Now. Open your eyes.” His hands fell away, and Charlotte gasped.
“I decided I would enjoy hearing you play for me every night. After you rub my back, of course.”
Charlotte managed a halfhearted elbow to his ribs as she stared at the harp.
A beautiful golden harp.
“Go on.” Philip nudged her. “Pluck a few strings. I will give you a moment before I expect you to bow before me in gratitude.”
She dared not ask him the reason for the gift, for fear he would change his mind and take it away. She didn’t remember when she had ever told him her wish to play a harp, but somehow he knew.
Charlotte walked forward, her hand outstretched. It was silly, really. She could have bought one for herself a long time ago, but somehow it had seemed wrong, as if she hadn’t deserved it. As if she thought she had to be as pure as an angel to possess such an instrument, and her fingers were too soiled by her life of indulgence to be allowed to play upon its strings.
She drew her hand along the strings with slow, careful reverence. They vibrated beneath her fingers dully, a quiet, disharmonious mockery of the heavenly chorus it should have been.
Only the knowledge that Philip watched her kept her from snatching her hand away. Tentatively, she tried again.
“I have arranged for an instructor to come from London once a week to give you lessons. I hope that pleases you?”
Charlotte nodded, not daring to look at him. She suddenly felt more vulnerable in his presence than ever before. Not even when he’d seen her fully nude had she wanted to retreat, to hide away as she did now.
“Ahem.”
She strummed her fingers from right to left, then backward from left to right. And again.
“Ahem.”
Pinching a string between thumb and forefinger, she glanced up at Philip. She let it go, unable to keep a small smile from her lips at the sound of the long, quavering note.
“I believe now would be a good time to properly express your gratitude.”
“Yes, of course.” She inclined her head. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“I’m afraid that is not sufficient.”
“No?”
He shook his head sadly. “Not at all.”
“And I suppose you have something specific in mind?”
“Indeed.” He prowled toward her, his gaze intent.
Charlotte stiffened. Of course. He’d taught her before that his every action was selfish. With Philip, nothing ever came without a price.
She edged around the harp as he neared, determined to maintain a measure of distance between them. “Is it one of the nude sketches? I’m afraid all of those have already been distributed. Although, if you are willing to wait for a few days, I’m certain I can convince Astley to travel to Ruthven for a new set. Perhaps I should pose outside this time instead of in the house. The gardens here are so very lovely, do you not think—”
“No. I did not mean one of your nude sketches,” he growled.
“Oh.” She considered him carefully. He was looking at her lips. Good Lord. Surely he didn’t expect her to thank him by kissing him—after all, hadn’t he said he wasn’t interested in her in any physical sense?
Charlotte couldn’t help it. She licked her lips, then bit her lower one.
Yes, his eyes definitely darkened. Why, the cad! To make her feel as if he no longer found her desirable, all the while sneaking glances and touches she would have made other men beg for.
Charlotte thrust her shoulders back and lifted her chin—a confident, alluring pose meant to draw a man’s attention to her chest’s abundant endowments and to the slender length of her neck.
This time she studied him even more closely, saw how his hands pressed against the outside of his thighs, as though he resisted the urge to clench them into fists, saw how his features tightened briefly before he forced his expression to relax.
Charlotte nearly laughed.
He was trying so hard to fight his attraction for her. How it must kill him inside to realize that no matter how much he despised her for acting the whore, his baser male instincts would always react to the appeal of her body.
The knowledge was delicious. Purely, simply, utterly delicious.
She had been correct in her original assumptions. Philip was just like every other man; even though he chose to deny it, it was obvious he was led around by the muscle between his legs, not by a higher sense of morality or any measure of ducal honor.
Perhaps spending the entire day with him wouldn’t be as tedious as she’d believed it would be afte
r all.
“I don’t want any of your nude sketches,” Philip repeated gruffly, eyeing Charlotte warily as she suddenly reversed direction and began to walk toward him.
“If nude sketches are not what you wish, how can I fulfill your desires then, Your Grace?” she asked, pausing no more than a foot away from him.
Bloody hell.
If her eyes hadn’t sparked with defiance, or if her tone had been a little less sarcastic, he would have thought she was purposely attempting to seduce him again.
He held her gaze evenly. “I would like your forgiveness. For what happened in the past, for lying to you, for abandoning you for my mistress ...” Before she could comment, he quickly added, “I am weary of your continued ill humor. I have come to the conclusion that a little peace would go a long way between us.”
Her smile mocked him. “Ah. Another manipulation, Your Grace? I fear you will never understand you can’t control me. You certainly cannot bribe me into thinking you are anything less than a selfish, egocentric bastard.”
Philip disguised his flinch by meeting her false, sweet smile with a forced grin of his own. She would not see his wounds. He leaned toward her, until they were nearly nose to nose. “Then pretend,” he bit out.
Her eyes flew to the harp, then back to him. “Very well. I forgive you for being a terrible lover and ruining my wedding night. But I shall not forgive you for lying to me, or for flaunting your mistress, or—”
“I beg your pardon?” It had taken Philip a moment before he could assure himself that yes, she really had said what he’d thought she said. His shoulders stiffened and he straightened slowly until he towered over her. “A terrible lover? You didn’t seem to think so three years ago. I distinctly recall how you cried out—”
“For God’s sake, Philip, I was a virgin. You hurt me.”
He paused, then shook his head. “No, after that. The second time.”
Charlotte snorted. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot the first lasted for only two minutes.”
Philip could feel his face turn red. He knew she was just trying to provoke him, and he knew he should take this as a good sign—after all, at least she was speaking to him instead of ignoring him as she could have done after he’d abducted her. But even with this knowledge, he still rose to the bait, pride demanding that he defend himself. “I tried to make it as short as possible for you, so you wouldn’t—”