by Ashley March
“Yes, Your Grace.” A sly smirk crossed her lips, her eyelashes lowering as she glanced downward at his breeches. “I must agree with you there. It did seem rather short.”
It was in that instant that Philip realized he’d gone about this the wrong way. She didn’t need to be wooed or courted nearly as much as she warranted a good, healthy slap to the backside.
“You little hellion,” he growled, advancing toward her.
Charlotte’s eyes widened and her lips parted. She darted away when he was a mere hairbreadth from her.
She laughed as he stalked her around the room—circling the harp, a settee, the grand piano. And all the while she taunted him as she held up her hand, her index finger and thumb a mere two inches apart.
“I regret to say I had expected more of you, dear husband.” She extended her thumb and finger as far apart as they would go. “Yes, quite a lot more.”
“I will catch you.”
Charlotte frowned as she skirted a group of chairs. “Oh, dear. You’re trying to intimidate me again. I have to admit, that fierce scowl is far more threatening than your cock was the last time I saw it—”
“Charlotte!” He lunged.
She hopped to the side with a surprised squeal, and Philip clutched at the hem of her petticoats as he fell to the floor. He immediately rolled, yanking on her skirts in an effort to knock her off balance.
“I said I forgave you, Philip! We called a truce, remember?”
Her belated attempt at peacemaking would have been far more convincing if she hadn’t ended each sentence with a kick of her foot.
Philip cursed and tried to protect his head.
“No ... truce ...” he gasped, dodging the thrash of her skirts and another well-aimed kick.
She gathered her gown in her hands and jerked free of his hold. Philip came to his knees. They stared at one another, both breathing heavily.
“What now?” she panted. “Are you ready to be civilized once more?”
“Perhaps. Would you like to apologize?”
Charlotte tilted her head to the side. “For what? Telling the truth?”
He studied her for a long moment. She appeared utterly delectable, her cherry red lips pursed in a teasing pout, strands of her hair escaping from the safety of her pins, her gown sliding off one shoulder.
She was a woman accustomed to abandoning the strict rules of society for her own pleasure, someone who embraced her wild inclinations no matter the risk to her reputation or the censure of her peers.
Philip envied her ability to brush off the weight of everyone else’s expectations, to know the freedom of indulging her own wishes and desires.
To be uncivilized.
“No,” he answered, rising to his feet, “I am not near ready.” He surged forward again.
Skirts fisted in her hands, Charlotte neatly eluded him as she ran out of the music room and down the corridor. Philip loped after her, his pace hindered by a pain in his right leg. He must have twisted it when he’d lunged for her.
She skipped backward, her cheeks flushed and her smile wide as she beckoned him on with a wave of her hand. “Come now, Philip. You are hardly trying at all. I’m sure Fallon could run faster than you, and he’s nearly three times your age.”
Philip fought a grin at the sound of Fallon’s muffled gasp of outrage behind her, near the front entrance.
“I am only giving you a fair chance, my darling,” he said. “For when I catch you—”
She turned around, her dark hair streaming down her back. “You shall never catch me,” she called over her shoulder.
Fallon tried to block her as she reached the front door, but she feinted around him, her movements too quick for the old butler’s stiff joints.
Philip was right behind her. His gaze focused on her retreating form as she jogged to the left, past the manicured lawn and down the far slope, toward the banks of the small stream which ran through the edge of his property.
She disappeared from view. Philip increased his pace, wincing with each jolt to his right leg. As he topped the stream’s bank, he saw Charlotte cautiously picking her way across a fallen log.
She must have heard him approach, because she glanced up with an impish grin, her arms held out to her sides for balance. “I thought you’d gotten lost.”
The ground was slick beneath his feet as he hurried down. “I didn’t want to win too easily, that’s—”
A grunt of surprise escaped him as his feet went out from under him, and he landed on his back. He tried to sit up, but his right leg throbbed in renewed protest. Groaning, he fell backward once again.
“Philip?”
He blinked up at the sky. Was it possible that was concern he heard echoed in her voice? For him?
He opened his mouth to assure her he was fine, but immediately thought better of it. Instead, he closed his eyes and let his head loll to the side.
“Philip?”
He heard a soft thud as she jumped to the muddied ground beside him. Her skirts swayed against his leg while she prodded him with her toe.
“Do not think for a moment I believe your unconscious act. Have you forgotten I have four brothers? I’ve been taken in by much better ploys than this.”
He sighed. At least he’d tried. “Have pity, woman. I’m in pain.”
He turned toward her as she knelt beside him, her brow furrowed. “Did you hit your head? Here, watch my finger.”
Perhaps he had. In truth, he couldn’t remember where he ached any longer. Her head was bent toward him, her beautiful blue eyes—those eyes which seemed to change shades moment by moment—focused on his as she peered at him in concentration.
Her fingers snapped, jerking him out of his trance. “My finger, Philip. Follow my finger.”
The movement of her mouth drew his attention to her lips. Those perfect, sin red, luscious lips.
“That’s not my—”
His mouth fused to hers, his hand pressed behind the nape of her neck, holding her still for his plunder.
The taste of her was sweet, exotic, and heady, evoking memories of their wedding night long ago. Memories he’d forced himself to forget.
“No,” Charlotte mumbled against his lips, but she didn’t try to push away, and Philip remembered how he’d driven her to the brink of ecstasy again and again, how the sound of her cries of pleasure—and she had cried out, whether or not she chose to admit it—had made his revenge all the sweeter.
Philip angled his head, his tongue sweeping over the seam of her lips, and now, just as she had then, she welcomed the invasion—tentatively at first, then with greater passion.
He’d given himself one night of victory to slake his lust with her tender, untried body. Afterward, he’d convinced himself he no longer wanted her.
Philip used his other arm to draw her nearer, growled as the fullness of her breasts crushed against his chest.
He had let her go, believing his own pleasure resulted in the knowledge that he was the first and only man ever to bed her, that the thrill of possession when he claimed her would soon fade.
And so he had returned to his mistress, never considering how great a lie it had been.
Until now.
For she was no longer innocent, and yet his blood still turned to fire in his veins when their lips met. He knew she’d lain with other men, and yet his desire for her could not have burned brighter.
At that moment, he realized it hadn’t mattered that she’d been a virgin, or that he’d used her for his revenge. He hadn’t made love to her three times that night for any other reason than because it was her.
It had always been Charlotte, and her alone.
Her touch, her smile, her scent.
Her beauty, her grace, her—
“Isn’t there a rule about fornicating in broad daylight? Surely you could have chosen some other location—a tree, or a boulder, perhaps, instead of on the edge of my property.”
Charlotte’s mouth wrenched from his, and Philip opene
d his eyes to find her staring down at him, her expression frozen in shock.
“I can still see you, you know. You’re not invisible simply because you stopped kissing.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened and she jerked out of his grasp, leaving Philip with a clear view of the other person, who stood on the opposite bank of the stream, her hands propped on her hips.
He stifled a curse. “Good morning, Lady Grey.”
Charlotte surveyed the tall woman at the top of the embankment. She was the very picture of straitlaced gentility, every button in place, not a wrinkle to be seen. Even the wind dared not disturb a wisp of her hair.
Smoothing her own muddied skirts, Charlotte pasted a pleasant smile on her face, as if she hadn’t mere moments before been cavorting on the ground with her estranged husband.
No doubt she appeared as wild and wanton as everyone believed her to be.
She nodded her head, uncertain how to address the woman who had been destined from birth to become the Duchess of Rutherford. The woman who Charlotte had, by turns, admired, envied, resented, and eventually pitied.
Joanna. Their childhood friend, Philip’s former fiancée, and Ethan’s almost bride.
And now the widowed Lady Grey.
It would have been a cozy reunion if it hadn’t been so . . . well, so damned awkward.
And, of course, if Ethan had been present as well, instead of off in India or China or some other godforsaken heathen nation.
“Your Grace,” Joanna answered, curtsying toward Philip. She then turned to Charlotte. “And Your Grace.”
The silence seemed to stretch endlessly as they each waited for the others to breach the stifling tension, to venture beyond the brief, stilted exchange of greetings.
In the end Charlotte picked up her ruined skirts and, sending the fallen log a rueful glance, splashed her way through the stream and up the opposite bank.
“Joanna,” she said, “I hope you don’t mind my dirty skirts.”
She lifted a brow. “No, I—”
“Good.” Charlotte embraced her. “It is wonderful to see you.”
Joanna’s body stiffened in surprise at her gesture, but then her arms rose to return Charlotte’s hug. “You naughty girl,” she whispered in Charlotte’s ear. “Now he will have to feign decency or appear an utter ogre.”
“He is always an ogre.” Charlotte released Joanna and looked sideways at Philip, whose expressionless mask had slid into place with practiced ease. Even with mud-stained clothes and mussed hair, he exuded masculine grace and authority.
Charlotte frowned. She should push him into the water. It would be well worth his wrath just to have him lose his composure, to have him sputter and curse like a normal person.
It was easier to contemplate how to anger him further than to think about their kiss. To realize that, for the briefest moment, she’d enjoyed the pressure of his mouth against hers, the hot rush of pleasure as he attempted to conquer her will with his lips and tongue.
She must keep her wits about her. After all, he was the man who had taught her to kiss. He was the one who had taught her the skills of seduction, how one’s emotions could be completely distant from the acts of the body.
“Oh, do stop glowering,” she called down to him. “I would have run away with someone else as well, if I’d had any idea how horrible you are.”
“Charlotte!” Joanna’s hand touched her arm.
Philip’s eyes burned into hers before sweeping toward Joanna, then back to Charlotte. It must have been her imagination, or a trick of the sunlight. Surely she hadn’t glimpsed a gleam of humor in their depths.
His gaze swung once more to Joanna. He made a gallant bow, the usual tension in his movements noticeably absent. “Lady Grey. I never did properly thank you for abandoning me four days before our wedding. Please allow me to do so now, for if you hadn’t disappeared, I might never have known the joy of being married to my sweet, darling wife, my lovely Charlotte.”
Joanna inclined her head. “You are most welcome, Your Grace.” To Charlotte, she murmured out of the corner of her mouth, “I’d heard rumors you two hated one another.”
“Oh, we do. He just hides it better than I do.”
And she would do well to remember that his every action, his every word, was just another part of the game they played. Philip sought to control her by any means possible, whether through force, intimidation, or the sweet seduction of a stolen kiss. Or by attempting to gain her favor, as evidenced by the gift of the harp.
All she had to do was stay one step ahead of him until he tired of this farce and returned to London.
The best tool she could use to accomplish both goals of keeping distance between them and angering him stood right before her. All six feet of charm and propriety and broken promises.
“Joanna.” Charlotte smiled. “You simply must come to tea.”
“Now? Isn’t it a bit early?”
“Now is a perfect time. Say yes.”
Joanna glanced dubiously at Philip, who had stepped closer in an attempt to overhear them. “I’m not sure—”
Charlotte arched a brow. “Would you rather speak of Ethan? I heard that he—”
Joanna scowled. “Fine. Yes. I would love to have tea with you.”
Charlotte clapped her hands and looked at Philip. “Oh, darling,” she called. “Is it not wonderful? Dearest Joanna has agreed to be our guest for tea.”
“Indeed, that is wonderful news.”
His jaw clenched. Even from fifteen feet away, Charlotte could see it. She nearly clapped her hands again.
Charlotte wanted to strangle Philip.
If she hadn’t believed he would laugh in her face at her attempt to do so, she would have.
She gritted her teeth as she watched him bend over Joanna’s hand and place a lingering kiss on her fingers. Although she couldn’t decipher his words through the fog of anger clouding her mind, it was enough to hear the low rumble of his voice, that deep purr he used whenever he thought to be charming.
How dare he make her feel uncomfortable, when he was supposed to be the one set off balance by the presence of his former fiancée.
Joanna waved as Philip escorted her out of the drawing room. “Good-bye, Charlotte. Thank you for the invitation. I hope to see you soon.”
Somehow Charlotte managed a placid smile instead of the rabid snarl she was more inclined to give.
As soon as they disappeared into the hall, she paced to the window overlooking the front drive. She saw Philip hand Joanna up into the carriage he’d insisted she use to travel home, saw how they grinned at each other like two idiots enthralled by their own half-witted pleasantries.
It was one thing to know your husband found his pleasure in the beds of other women, and quite another to see him engage in such open flirtation, despite your presence.
The carriage rattled away, and Philip turned back toward the house. Charlotte gave him a mocking nod as his gaze found her at the window. No doubt he had arranged for them to rendezvous sometime tonight. Would he even wait for Charlotte to retire for the evening? Would he go to Joanna’s house, or would she come here? Would Charlotte have to listen to their pants and moans as she tried to fall asleep?
The bloody bastard.
Philip merely grinned and waved his fingers until he once again disappeared from sight.
Charlotte counted twenty-two seconds before she heard his even footsteps enter the drawing room.
She continued to stare out the window, determined to maintain her dignity. She would not speak to him, for fear the bitter words which might come out of her mouth would make her appear jealous. Which she most decidedly was not.
She was simply angry.
“Charlotte.”
Very, very angry.
“Look at me.”
She turned around, her arms crossed over her chest, unable to unfold herself from the defensive posture. “Yes?”
“I have given a great deal of thought to what you said.”
/> “You have?” She arched a brow, her mind racing as she tried to remember what she could have possibly said that Philip would have given any heed to.
“Indeed. I have decided to grant your request.”
Her heart gave a nervous kick in her chest. Request? She had only ever asked one thing of him. He couldn’t possibly mean—
“I will divorce you.”
Chapter 6
At his words, Charlotte did something most unusual.
She blanched, going completely white in a matter of seconds. Then she flushed, the color returning to her cheeks in a violent rush.
Philip would have held out his arms to catch what appeared to be her imminent fall, if she had not spoken at that very moment.
Her voice was hushed, her tone so low he had to concentrate on the movement of her mouth just to be able to understand what she said. “You will not jest with me in this manner.”
He lifted his gaze from her lips to her eyes, saw the fury of disbelief unveiled there. “I promise you, my dear, I am not jesting.” He turned from her. How was it he always somehow forgot the strength of her hatred? “However, there will be a caveat to my agreement. I will not concede to your request without receiving anything in turn.”
“I see.”
“Also, as the petition for divorce shall state the cause as adultery, you will bear the brunt of the scandal.”
“I would expect no less, Your Grace.”
He pivoted on his heel. “Is this not cause to rejoice, Charlotte? You have begged me for three years to give you freedom, and now that I am willing to do so, you sound dejected. Could you possibly have changed your mind? Do you wish to remain married to me?”
A small smile played around the corners of her lips. “Indeed not, Your Grace. I simply do not believe you will keep your word. After all, it would not be the first time you have cheated and lied to have your way. How do I know you’ll not do the same yet again?”