by Ashley March
“Remember, you are Lady Grey. And Lady Grey—”
“Let me guess. She doesn’t swear?”
He looked over her shoulder, tried to muster some sort of dreamy expression. Hopefully he didn’t appear as much of an idiot as he felt. “No,” he said, “Lady Grey is an absolute angel. I have never heard her utter one word—”
Charlotte snorted. “Horseshit.”
Mr. Lesser coughed in the background.
Philip returned his gaze to Charlotte, stared at her down his nose.
“Who always won the cursing contests when we were younger?” she asked.
Philip hesitated before answering. “You did.”
Her lips curved in a knowing smile. “And who came in second?”
“Joann—Lady Grey?”
“Exactly.” Charlotte nodded, then paused and cocked her head to the side. She took a step toward him. She might as well have thrown herself at him bodily, for the instant jolt of arousal that rocked his senses as she neared. “It is most curious.”
“What is?”
She took another step forward, and Philip took a deep breath as he inhaled her jasmine scent.
Do not touch her. Do not touch her. Do not touch her.
Charlotte leaned toward him and peered into his face, balancing herself by placing her hand on his shoulder.
She really should not have done that.
He’d give her ten seconds to step away before he hauled her over his shoulder.
Even though he had cast aside his first plan to imprison her in his room, he would not be averse to reverting to that old idea. Using his lips and his tongue and his hands to convince her to stay appealed to him far more than some desperate, impulsive proposal that she teach him to become a better husband for his next wife.
“I never noticed it before. But you’re cross-eyed.”
Philip jerked his hand away—mere inches from making contact with the deliciously rounded swell of her hip. “I beg your pardon.”
She held up her finger, waved it in front of his face as she had done yesterday when she thought he’d hurt his head.
Philip gripped the annoying appendage and, only through the most supreme amount of self-restraint, resisted the urge to draw it into his mouth and suck on her soft, tender flesh. Instead, he lowered it to her side, relishing the brief contact. “I am not cross-eyed.”
“You are when you look down your nose at me that way.”
Philip growled and pushed her toward Mr. Lesser. “Continue your lesson.”
Charlotte grinned and crossed her own eyes before turning away. She murmured something to Mr. Lesser which had him looking at Philip curiously, his mouth crooked as he tried not to smile.
At Philip’s scowl, he immediately returned his attention to Charlotte. “Ten more minutes, Your Grace. Surely you can master the exercise in ten more minutes.”
Philip had told himself he would be nice. Indeed, he had woken up this morning feeling refreshed and renewed, ready to begin with a new outlook. Even his injured leg had healed quite nicely overnight. He had decided he would charm Charlotte, show her how he had changed, how he could behave like the man she wanted him to be.
But he didn’t feel nice any longer. And he didn’t want to restrain himself.
He stalked around the perimeter of the room, his hands behind his back, his gaze pinned to Charlotte as she studiously ignored his presence.
Amazingly, her performance on the harp became worse.
Despite Mr. Lesser’s desperate last words of encouragement, her fingers flailed over the instrument, getting tangled together until Philip feared she would either somehow mutilate herself or break every last string.
“Enough!” Mr. Lesser threw himself in front of the harp before she could reach forward to try again.
Charlotte’s gaze flew to Philip, and he saw the flame of anger and defiance in her eyes before she looked again at Mr. Lesser. “Perhaps if His Grace would be so kind as to take a seat or remove himself from the music room, so I may concentrate ...”
Mr. Lesser glanced back and forth between them as he pulled on his gloves.
Philip paused in his circuit of the room to stand behind Charlotte, purposely allowing his breath to sway wisps of her hair as he spoke. “Is my presence disturbing you, my dear?”
The only answer he received was the stiffening of her spine.
“Very well, then. I shall take a seat, as you suggested.”
Philip grazed his hand along the vulnerable skin at the nape of her neck as he moved past.
He chose a nearby chair, positioning it so he faced her, the harp obscuring his view of the left side of her body.
Mr. Lesser, however, seemed disinclined to continue the lesson, even with this show of good behavior from Philip. “I will return next week. You must practice, Your Grace. Practice until your fingers grow numb and your arms grow heavy. I expect much improvement.” Then, because Mr. Lesser was, above all, a wise and prudent man, he gave a flourishing bow and added, “It has been a pleasure to work with you today. I have never had such a lovely pupil.” He turned to Philip and bowed again. “Your Grace.”
Philip inclined his head and watched the harp instructor leave, all the while pretending not to notice Charlotte’s intent stare.
Finally, when a full minute had passed and he could feel the palpable touch of her glower begin to brand the side of his jaw with its heat, he turned to her and raised a brow. “Yes?”
She gestured toward him, a motion he supposed was meant to encompass his chair and the two feet of space around him which he dared to darken with his evil, ducal presence. Her wrist flicked, a question mark to her unspoken inquiry.
Philip wondered whether she even realized her lips were pouted. Probably so. She had become an expert at bringing men to their knees, and if anything could make a man beg, it was the sight of her mouth. Full and plump, teasing a man to lose his sanity for just one taste.
A weaker man would have been unable to resist such a temptation. He would have run, walked, perhaps even crawled to her, would have obeyed every last one of her wishes and desires, to be able to take her mouth with his own.
Philip was not a weak man. If he kissed her, it would be on his own terms.
He shrugged. “I wanted to be close to you. See what a dutiful husband I am?”
Charlotte lowered her arm and scowled. “I am not Joanna. You need not spout such foolishness to me.”
Philip searched his sleeve for an imaginary piece of lint. “Of course. Apologies. I suppose I got carried away with the rehearsal.”
He looked up, tried to muster his best innocent expression. From the way she regarded him, as if horns and pitchfork were a natural part of his ensemble for the day, he assumed his efforts were not successful.
Which was a damned shame, for he wanted so much to be good. But the more she looked at him like he was the devil incarnate, the darker and more dangerous his thoughts became.
His body began to ache beneath the torch of her gaze, and even the threat of eternal damnation could not curb his overactive imagination from devising a multitude of new sins he wanted to commit.
With her. On this chair. On that chair. On the damned floor. Above him. Beneath him. All around him.
She made it bloody difficult to be a gentleman, when she dared him with those brilliant blue eyes and that pouting mouth to be anything but.
“Philip.” The mouth moved.
“Charlotte.” My love.
Her fingers tapped against the column of the harp. “I do believe it is time to begin your first lesson.”
Sometimes Charlotte really wished Philip had green eyes. Or blue eyes. Or, even better, plain old brown eyes.
There was nothing intimidating or unnerving when a person with brown eyes stared at you.
But silver eyes—
Charlotte tapped her fingers again against the harp, a purposeful motion meant to disguise how her hand was wont to tremble beneath that intense silver gaze.
“
My first lesson.” Philip leaned forward, and Charlotte had to stop herself from pressing against the back of her own chair, or ducking her head behind the harp where he couldn’t see her anymore.
“Please go on. I earnestly await your instructions on how to be a better husband.”
Charlotte rose from her seat—calmly, so he wouldn’t be able to tell how he affected her. She stopped at a low side table and picked up the gloves she had discarded when Mr. Lesser arrived.
It was silly, really, but for some reason she didn’t feel quite as vulnerable with Philip when she wore gloves.
Turning back toward him, she held up a finger. “The first thing you must learn is how to behave properly when you have guests. You must not—”
“We. When we have guests.”
Charlotte sent him a pointed look. “You and Joanna. Not we.”
“If I am to practice and do it well, you must pretend you are Lady Grey. It is as we discussed before.”
“Very well.” Charlotte gritted her teeth and raised her finger higher in the air. “When we have guests, you must act with the appropriate, proper behavior.”
Philip nodded solemnly. “I can be very proper.”
She ignored him. “You must not stalk around the room—”
“Stalk?” His brow wrinkled.
“—as if you were a lion and everyone else is your prey.”
“Do you really think I stalk? I must say, that is quite a stroke to my ego. I assume I appear quite dangerous when I do it?”
Charlotte rolled her eyes and continued. “You must not mock your guests—”
“Our guests.”
“—And you must certainly not mock your wife.”
“You think I mock you? I assure you, my dear, I—”
There was nothing for it. Charlotte marched toward him and clapped her hand over his mouth. It was almost comical, the way his eyebrows inched up his forehead. Or it would have been, had those silver eyes not been so close, and had she not been able to feel the heat of his mouth searing her palm through the thin layer of her glove.
“And you must never—I repeat, never—interrupt the way you are doing now. It is most rude, and shows that you believe yourself superior to those around you.”
He mumbled something against her hand, and Charlotte drew her arm away.
“Yes?” she prompted impatiently.
“But I am superior to almost everyone around me.” His eyes flashed with amusement. “After all, I am a duke.”
Groaning, Charlotte dropped her face into her hands. “I begin to feel I am doing Joanna a very great harm by helping you.”
“You are not helping me in the least. You are giving me rules about what not to do, but you are not telling me how to correct my behavior, or what I should do instead.”
Charlotte lifted her head and glared at him. “If you are unsatisfied with my instruction—and I still think this entire idea is absolutely ridiculous—then perhaps you should tell me what you desire to gain from these lessons.”
Philip stood and moved toward her, brushed his knuckles across her cheek. It was a gesture so unlike him, so gentle and unexpected, that Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat at his touch.
“I know how to be a duke,” he said softly. “I know how to sneer, how to freeze a man cold in his step. I know how to be harsh and cruel, how to manipulate others to serve my will. All of these things were taught to me, and I learned them well.”
His fingers smoothed the hair at her temples.
“Being a duke comes easy to me. Knowing how to be a husband does not. It is too late for us, but I would like for you to teach me. And for the rest of the time we are married, I will try to be a better husband to you, and you will help me be a better husband to my next wife—whoever she may be.”
Charlotte lifted her hand, eased his fingers away from her face. Soft words and gentle touches were too much, coming from Philip. “You seem sincere.”
His eyes searched hers, cautiously, earnestly, as if he needed to see that she believed him. “I am sincere.”
Only time would tell if it was the truth. She knew well how easily lies slipped from that quicksilver tongue. But all that mattered to her right now was that he kept his promise to divorce her.
Time would tell on that account, as well.
She was a fool to trust him, but did she have any other choice? She could either go through the pretense of teaching him how to be a husband, with the possible outcome that he would carry through on his promise. Or she could refuse, and he would leave her at Ruthven Manor, imprisoned in the countryside, without any hope of freedom in the foreseeable future.
He had played her well; she was a pawn disguised as a duchess.
Philip edged forward. “Pretend Mr. Lesser is still here. In fact, twenty other guests are here, come for a harp recital. You have become the best harpist in the world, and everyone is eager to see you, to hear you play.”
Charlotte couldn’t help it—a tiny smile tugged at her lips at the fanciful image he drew for her.
“You and I are husband and wife, but we are different people. We are happy. We love each other.” He gave her a glance of warning, his own lips curved. “Don’t laugh.”
Charlotte held up her hands. “Never. Do go on.”
“Your performance, of course, is amazing, and I am proud to have you as my wife. I boast to all of our guests—”
Shaking her head, Charlotte said, “No boasting.”
Philip stared at her. “Nothing at all? But what good is it to have a wife such as you if I cannot—”
“Nothing at all.”
“Well.” Philip tucked his hands behind his back, then swung them forward again, gesturing to some imaginary guest by the fireplace. “Lord Cohen has been leering at you all evening. I continue to glare at him, but he doesn’t take the hint. I’m beginning to think I will have to have him escorted off the premises by Fallon and a footman or two. And if he doesn’t comply, perhaps I will be able to persuade him by other, more forceful means.”
Charlotte cast the empty space a considering glance. Was it by pure coincidence that he used the name of one of the men rumored to have been her lover?
She turned her head to look at Philip. Even though his stance was relaxed, his eyes glittered with possessiveness, ever watchful, ever secretive.
Charlotte fought to control the shudder that inched along her spine. Either Philip was a damned good actor, making himself believe he was jealous of another—even imaginary—man, or something had changed between them.
Something intimate, and new, and altogether frightening.
“No.” Charlotte forced the word past her lips. “It would be more appropriate to ignore him altogether. Stay by me, fetch me another glass of champagne, banter wittily with the guests who meander our way. Touch my shoulder, my hand, my waist—not often, and not conspicuously, but enough to show that we belong together.” She swallowed, wishing she had one of those glasses of champagne right now. “That we love each other, as you said.”
Philip raised a brow. “This is how a proper husband behaves when we have guests?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.” He looked pointedly over her shoulder. “And what do I do if a, shall we say, very well-endowed lady tries to catch my attention and lure me from your side?”
Charlotte craned her neck to search the spot where he indicated. Somehow it was very easy to imagine the busty and worldly Lady Harrington, Philip’s mistress, beckoning to him behind her back.
She returned her gaze to him. “First of all, a good husband wouldn’t have even noticed that another woman was ‘very well-endowed.’ ”
“You mean a blind husband.”
Charlotte bared her teeth in a smile. “A good husband,” she repeated.
“Then you expect me to look at you and only you for the remainder of my life?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. Something in his tone of voice made her suspicious. “Yes ...”
“You expect me to b
e faithful.” He drew out the last word, bending toward her as he did so, and Charlotte stiffened. But at the last moment before his lips could brush her cheek, or her ear, or her hair, he pulled back, paced away from her.
“Of course,” Charlotte murmured to his back, overly aware that her heart had stopped beating and had only resumed its fierce pounding when a goodly amount of distance was put between them.
“And do you think if I were a good, proper, faithful husband, that my wife would be good and faithful as well?”
If she had any talent as an artist, she would sketch Philip right now, just as he was, all vertical lines. And she would use a thick, black piece of charcoal to indicate the stiffness and tension evident in his posture. “I assume you are referring to yourself and Joanna, and not to you and me?”
He moved his head by only a fraction, just enough so she could see the hard, sculpted plane of his jaw. “Quite so.”
“Then yes, if you were faithful and, as you said earlier, you loved one another, then I imagine she would be faithful to you also.”
Philip turned around then, his expression inscrutable. He spoke as he strolled toward her. “You have told me how to behave when we are in public, when we have guests. But what about when we are alone, Charlotte?”
He was getting close, far too close.
“How should I behave then? Or should I behave at all?”
Her instincts told her to leave, to sashay away, to use the movements of her body to distract him from whatever devious purpose he intended.
“Would a good husband touch you like this?” Philip raised his arm, cupped her cheek tenderly in the palm of his hand.
“Or perhaps like this?” He laid his other hand at the small of her back. Charlotte wasn’t certain whether he used it to pull her toward him or to keep her still as he stepped closer to her, but suddenly she had no space to breathe, to move. He was there, everywhere, surrounding her.
“Philip—”
“Tell me, Charlotte. If I were a good husband, would I kiss you like this?”
Chapter 8
Charlotte should have been prepared.
She knew his kisses. As much as she wished she could have forgotten them over the past three years, they had stayed fresh in her mind, the memory of them taunting her when some other man tried to kiss her.