by Ashley March
Certainly no other man’s kiss could be as devastating as Philip’s. As soon as his lips met hers, the careful detachment she had trained herself to feel was nowhere to be found.
She’d told herself he’d caught her off guard by the banks of the stream, and that was why she hadn’t immediately pulled away.
She couldn’t use that excuse now.
She’d known, with all the certainty of seeing clouds pile up over the horizon, that a storm was coming. She’d known he was going to kiss her.
And yet, still she was surprised.
Surprised that he didn’t plunder and conquer, as she’d expected.
There was a wealth of restraint in his touch as he plied her mouth with soft, seductive kisses, nipping gently at her bottom lip, teasing her with light little pecks to the corners of her lips.
She could feel it in the firmness of his hands, one at her cheek and the other at her back, as he held her motionless for his tender assault.
He wanted her.
And the only reason she didn’t pull away was because she wanted to push him. Past his rigid, ducal boundaries of expected behavior and into the realm where desire ruled. She wanted to see the man who had taught her to separate emotion from passion brought to his knees with the force of his need.
Begging her for another kiss, another touch.
This was why she allowed him to cover her face with soft caresses from his lips.
This was why she held still, the heat from his body seeping into her skin, warming her blood and slowing her pulse to a heavy, languid flow.
“Is it like this, Charlotte?” Philip swept his lips across her forehead, the bridges of her cheeks. “Is this how a husband properly kisses his wife? Tell me, Charlotte.”
“No,” she whispered, closing her eyes as his mouth drifted over her eyelids, pressing soft, whisperlike kisses there.
“No?” His voice was husky, a deeper timbre than usual. It made her want to sink into him, to have that velvet-bass voice wrap around her, rough and sensual.
She was glad for the brace of his arms holding her in place, keeping her from leaning into him. Her mind knew better, but her body was traitorous, yearning for him. This man who knew how to strum her body, how to make her cry out with pleasure with his deft, knowing fingers.
It had been three years, but still the memory was there. It had always been there.
He drew back, held her gaze as he used his thumb to nudge her lips apart. Her blood quickened, and she watched him as she moved her tongue forward, slid it against the tip of his thumb.
His eyes gleamed as he lowered them to her lips. “Shall I kiss you properly, then? Teach me, Charlotte.” He bent his head, and his breath soughed against her lips. “Show me how to be a good husband.”
Charlotte waited until the very last second, after he removed his thumb and closed his eyes. When he kissed her, he kissed instead the index finger she had raised to her mouth. His lips were a scant inch from touching hers.
His eyes flew open, so close she could see black flecks, like obsidian, floating in the silver pools of his irises.
“Am I to understand you do not want to teach me?” he asked, his lips moving against her finger.
“A proper husband and wife will show their affection for one another within the confines of their bedchambers.”
Philip straightened, but not before he drew her palm to his mouth for another kiss. “Is that what you desire of a husband? Propriety? Good manners?”
Charlotte gave a delicate shrug. “I am not thinking of myself, of course, but only of dear Joanna, and what she would want in a husband.”
He flinched when she said Joanna’s name. The movement was small, almost imperceptible, but it was there.
“Yes. Of course. Lady Grey.”
Charlotte laughed. “Did you forget her, Philip? I’m afraid this doesn’t bode well for your impending marriage. That is, if she even agrees to your proposal.”
“She will agree.”
“You think so?” Charlotte stepped to the side, ran her fingertips along the back of a chair in a pretense of checking for dust. “Your confidence is admirable, I suppose, although probably misplaced.”
“I appreciate your concern, but you need not worry on my behalf.”
She glanced at him sideways. “Perhaps I am more concerned for Joanna. If you cannot even remember the purpose for your lessons—”
“It is that damned gown you’re wearing,”Philip growled. “Even a saint would not be able to keep his wits about him when a woman wears a dress such as that. Somehow it appeared far more modest before you put it on.”
Charlotte looked down. It was one of the gowns Anne had said Philip chose for her, one she’d never seen before this morning. In fact, it was much more conservative than any of the dresses in her London wardrobe. But arguing with him about the style of her dress would not be nearly as entertaining as provoking him.
Pursing her lips, she blew gently at the imaginary specks of dust lining her fingertips. “My apologies, Philip. I didn’t mean to tease you. I’d forgotten it’s been . . . oh, four or five days since you’ve had a chance to visit your mistress.”
When he said nothing, she peeked at him beneath her lashes. He stood still, silent. Not as a statue, but as a predator watching his prey. Waiting for her to take a misstep, to say anything he could use to his advantage.
Charlotte edged around the chair. It was a nice, reasonably-sized buffer.
“I wonder how Joanna will feel about your keeping a mistress.”
“I doubt she would be surprised. Many men keep mistresses because they cannot find pleasure with their wives.”
Charlotte jerked her chin up at the suggestion that she hadn’t been able to please him. How well she remembered the first week after their wedding, the solitude and the crying, when she loved him and hated him all at the same time. Knowing he had bedded her only to consummate the marriage, then had gone off to Lady Harrington.
She pushed the chair aside as she advanced toward him. “How dare—”
“I don’t keep a mistress any longer.”
Charlotte froze a foot away from him. The scathing retort she’d prepared slid bitterly down her throat.
“I haven’t kept one for six months.”
He was chock-full of surprises recently, wasn’t he?
She began to clap her hands. “Bravo, Your Grace. Bravo.” When he did not move, did not speak, only continued watching her, Charlotte stopped. “I do hope that was an appropriate response. You were looking for my applause, were you not? Perhaps congratulations are in order, instead?”
Finally, his mouth quirked at one corner. He inclined his head. “Thank you, my dear. I can always trust you to—”
He stopped. Shut his mouth. Then he pivoted on his heel and strode from the room, leaving his sentence unfinished and Charlotte gaping after him.
“No. Not that one. Another.” Philip pushed the necklace back over to the jeweler.
The door jangled behind him, signaling that another village vulture had dared to enter the small shop and gawk at him.
Perhaps it had been a mistake to come to Henley-in-Arden. Yet if he’d stayed one moment longer with Charlotte, he would have risked her scorn and foolishly told her everything.
All of his plans, laid to waste, only because of his damnable pride.
He wouldn’t have let her leave the room until she believed him. Not only about his mistress, but also the reason why he had not lain with another woman within the past six months.
Why he’d kidnapped her and brought her home, to Warwickshire.
Why he’d bought her the harp.
It was terrible to consider, but he might have even sent a servant into his study to retrieve the new piece of poetry his wretched soul insisted he try to write.
Of course, she would have laughed at him. Or worse, pitied him. Neither of those possibilities bothered him nearly as much, however, as the knowledge that he would then be back to the beginning, frighte
ningly in love with her yet with no idea how to gain her forgiveness and make her love him in return.
“Perhaps Your Grace would like to see a bracelet or our collection of rings instead? Or perhaps a brooch? I have one which—”
“The brooch will be fine,” Philip said, cutting the jeweler off. The man was short and squat, and his entire face quivered when he spoke, from his bushy gray eyebrows to his fleshy chin. Even worse, he seemed to be of the opinion that the louder he spoke, the better. “And pray, do not speak again unless I require you to do so.”
“Yes, Your ...” The jeweler’s voice trailed away under Philip’s fierce gaze, until it was nothing more than a whisper. “. . . Grace.”
Philip cut a look toward the horse-faced old matron and her equally horse-faced daughter, who had crept nearer and nearer in the past five minutes, until he imagined he could smell the scent of hay and clover upon their breath.
It took no more than a narrowing of his eyes for each to squeal in dismay and immediately depart the shop, nearly treading upon the other’s heels in haste.
Philip released an inaudible sigh and turned back to the jeweler.
“I say, Mr. Spofforth. Does His Grace not remind you of his grandfather? God rest his beloved soul.”
At the sound of Lady Grey’s cultured tones, Philip tensed again.
Across from him, the jeweler paused to peer up at Philip. “Why, the spitting image, my dear.” He turned to beam at Lady Grey. “Just the spitting image.”
Philip lowered his chin and spoke out of the corner of his mouth, so only she could hear him. “That was unnecessarily low, my lady.”
The jeweler bent and popped back up again, extending his hand. “Ah, here it is, Your Grace. The finest brooch we have.”
Philip cast an eye toward the wretched, gaudy piece. Gems of every color were stacked one upon another to form the shape of a peacock. It was a horrific monstrosity, larger even than his fist, and he feared any woman who dared to clasp it to her bosom would immediately fall face forward with its weight.
“Oh, how lovely,” Lady Grey cooed beside him. “A proper gift from a duke, do you not agree, Your Grace?”
Philip refused to look at her.
“Indeed, it is remarkable you would say so, my lady,” the jeweler continued, his face quivering with enthusiasm. “His Grace’s grandfather once commissioned a similar piece for his wife, although that one was even more exquisite than this.”
He glanced up, and at Philip’s scowl, he hurried on. “Of course, if you don’t find it satisfactory, we can create another, something even more extravagant than your grandfather’s gift, if you like, Your Grace.”
“I’ll take it,” Philip said.
The jeweler began a small smile, but quickly stifled the expression at Philip’s continued glower.
“A strutting peacock ...” Lady Grey murmured softly beside him.
“Do you have any earbobs?” Philip asked. “Something simple. Elegant.” He remembered how Charlotte’s eyes had flashed angrily at him that morning. “Sapphires, perhaps.”
The jeweler nodded thoughtfully. “If you will excuse me for a moment.” He bowed and backed away, stumbling over his feet as he bumped into a stack of boxes behind him.
Philip stared straight ahead. “You are wrong,” he said quietly. “I am nothing like my grandfather.”
Lady Grey said nothing, only stood beside him as they waited for the jeweler to return.
After a short while, he shuffled forward, solemn and contrite. “My apologies, Your Grace. These are the only sapphire earbobs I have at the moment. I fear they are too small.” He opened a box to reveal two sapphire ovals, the size of teardrops. “I can arrange to go to London—”
“That won’t be necessary. I shall take them as well.”
“Oh, very good. Very good, Your Grace.”
It was only a few minutes more before Philip and Lady Grey exited the jewelry shop, his packages tight beneath his arm.
Lady Grey was the first to speak. “I have never been much of a fan of peacocks or sapphires myself, you know. If you decide to purchase jewelry for me in the future, I would advise you to choose pearls. Or have you decided not to court me after all?”
Philip continued to walk, his step never slowing. His thoughts, however, immediately went to Charlotte and her obvious propensity to talk too much.
“Do you intend to do it then? Will you divorce her?”
A man in livery stood across the street, slumped against the side of a barouche. His shoulders were hunched, and his hands hung listlessly against his sides. He tried to make himself inconspicuous, but Philip wasn’t fooled.
He was the same man who’d dogged him to the edge of Henley-in-Arden, then turned back.
Philip stilled, turned toward Lady Grey. “Is that your servant?” He indicated the man with a slight inclination of his head.
Lady Grey’s eyes flicked toward him, then back to Philip. “Yes.”
“You had him follow me.”
“I desired to speak with you—”
“Do not do so again. I am not a fox to be hunted.”
As he turned away, Lady Grey grasped at his sleeve. “Damn it, Philip! Will you—”
At her use of profanity, Philip spun to face her. “What did you say?” She opened her mouth to answer, but he spoke first. “You cursed.”
“Yes? It’s not as if I’ve never done it before. When we were younger, I—”
“You placed second in the cursing contests,” Philip finished. “Right after Charlotte.”
Lady Grey gave a tentative smile. “I would have won first, but I was not as fortunate as she was to have four older brothers to educate me.”
He chuckled.
The sound surprised him. But it felt good. Slow and deep, it lightened the tension in his chest, lifted his mood. Charlotte had done this. She had helped him to laugh again. “It’s strange, but I cannot remember ever hearing you curse before.”
Lady Grey’s smile faded, and her eyes turned watchful, wary. “I cannot say I am surprised, Your Grace. You rarely paid much attention to anyone other than yourself. You were always more concerned with what others thought of you, especially the old duke.” Her voice turned soft, yet was no less cutting for its gentleness. “Why did you buy the brooch, Your Grace?”
Philip ignored her question, all of his good humor having disappeared with her criticism. How quick she was to judge him, when she had been the one to jilt him so shortly before their wedding. “I find I have been erroneous in my judgment of you, my lady. Forgive me.”
He lifted the package from beneath his arm and withdrew the small box containing the peacock brooch. He thrust it toward her, loath to touch her and force her to take it in her hand.
“You are far more insightful and intelligent than I gave you credit for. Take the brooch. And take your damned opinions with it.”
She made no move, only stared at him with reproach and scorn and, damn it all, pity in her eyes.
Shrugging, Philip released the box, and saw with grim satisfaction that her hand stretched to catch it before it could fall to the ground.
“Good day, Lady Grey.”
Charlotte searched the library, the drawing room, Philip’s study. She even went so far as to creep around outside the door of his bedchamber, listening for any sound of movement inside.
It was amazing. Philip had left her, alone, at Ruthven Manor.
Her first impulse was to saddle Bryony and ride hell-for-leather back to London.
But she knew he would catch her, and even if she tried to hide, he would find her. Dukes had all sorts of connections. No, as long as she remained in England, she would never be able to run away from him.
She had once considered sailing off to America or even to the Orient to escape Philip and try to find Ethan, but she had promised her best friend, Lady Emma Whitlock, that she would wait until Lady Emma finished her current novel. Then they would go together. And Charlotte would never break a promise to Emma, no
t when she had been the only woman in London to befriend her despite the rumors of her licentious behavior.
Without escape as an option, Charlotte decided to act upon her second impulse, which was to ride to Norrey Hill and discover whether Joanna’s footman had returned from delivering the missive to Philip’s solicitor.
“Hullo, Scrope,” she said as Joanna’s butler opened the door.
“Miss Sheff—” Rheumy old eyes rounded in embarrassment, and he coughed as he corrected himself. “Your Grace. What a pleasure it is to see you. It’s been a long time.”
Charlotte frowned and took a step forward as he swayed. “You’re ill,” she accused. “Why are you not in bed? Surely Joanna would allow one of the footmen to answer the door.”
He shooed her hand away from his arm and tried to straighten. “Lady Grey and Matthews have gone to Henley-in-Arden, and Matthews is the only one I trust—”
“Matthews. He’s returned from London, then?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Not over two hours ago.”
Charlotte leaned in and snuck a kiss on the old butler’s cheek. She hid a smile as a blush rose over his paper-thin, wrinkled skin. “Thank you, Scrope. Now go get some rest.”
Scrope sniffed, loudly, probably more out of indignation than illness. “Yes, Your Grace.”
It took Charlotte no more than five minutes upon arriving in Henley-in-Arden to locate the footman Matthews. He was the only man who stood in the street as if frozen, allowing the small stream of villagers to mill around and past him.
She stayed Bryony a few yards distant from him.
As she waited for Joanna to appear from one of the shops, she noticed how he shifted his stance. It was slight, only a subtle transfer of weight from one foot to the other, but it was the first movement she’d observed of him in the past few minutes.
She followed the direction of his gaze to find Joanna and Philip in the center of the street.
Charlotte’s hands fisted on Bryony’s reins.
They had arranged for a rendezvous, after all.