Seducing the Duchess

by Ashley March

  No wonder Philip had left so suddenly. He had been worried he would be late for his appointment to meet with and woo his next wife. And how well Joanna played the part Charlotte had asked of her, her gaze locked intimately on Philip.

  The whoosh of Charlotte’s breath seemed impossibly loud in her ears as Philip withdrew a small package from beneath his arm and held it out toward Joanna.

  Charlotte turned away.

  She counted the hills as she raced toward Ruthven Manor, Bryony’s legs steady and sure over the hard-packed earth and the brown swells of autumn grass, across well-traveled roads and through flower-laden meadows.

  She counted her breaths, tried to make them match the heavy, striking sound of Bryony’s hooves.

  In. Out. In. Out.

  It was ridiculous, really, to feel this way.

  Jealous—as if Joanna weren’t simply acquiescing to her request.

  And betrayed—as if Charlotte hadn’t known Philip was interested in the widowed marchioness.

  No matter how she tried to pretend—to herself, to everyone, but especially to Philip—the knowledge that her marriage was an utter disaster still hurt. And the pain of seeing him with another woman, even if it wasn’t his mistress, was just as sharp as ever.

  Perhaps it was because seeing them together reminded her of how naive and foolish she’d been three years ago, to believe theirs was nothing less than a fairy-tale romance.

  Or maybe it was because some misplaced sense of wifely outrage demanded she make him remember that, though he might have agreed to divorce her, English law nevertheless held them bound to one another, even if it was for only another few months.

  God help her, she certainly didn’t want to believe it was something in Philip that still awed her. Something that continued to attract her to him and, despite her thorough knowledge of the kind of cold and calculating bastard he could be, made her want to believe there was hope for redeeming him.

  Whatever the reason behind the dull, dreadful ache hitched high in her chest, Charlotte didn’t like it.

  Only as the Rutherford stables came into view did she realize she had long since lost count of the number of hills they had traversed, and her breathing had deteriorated from a controlled pacing to unsteady, rambling gasps of air rife with curses.

  One of the grooms offered to take Bryony and rub her down, but Charlotte opted to do the task herself, needing the methodical routine to calm down.

  When she finished, as she was walking toward the house, she spied Philip riding toward her. He slowed when he saw her.

  “Jackass,” she muttered beneath her breath, and swept toward Ruthven Manor, determined to ignore him.

  She might not have been a model of genteel maturity, but it sure as hell made her feel better. A little righteous indignation went a long way.

  “Your Grace,” he called behind her.

  Charlotte snorted and kicked a pebble out of her way, pretending it was Philip’s head. Or his pea-sized brain.

  Your Grace. Humph.

  Always the proper duke, making certain he addressed her formally in front of the servants.

  But she wouldn’t be the Duchess of Rutherford for very much longer.

  Charlotte took a deep breath and exhaled, closing her eyes briefly.

  Thank God for that.

  The thundering of hooves across the ground compelled her to open them again, and she glanced over her shoulder. An unknown man rode past Philip as he dismounted from his stallion and drew up near the front entrance of the manor.

  Before the man could knock, Fallon opened the door and glared through the slight crack. “Yes?” he queried suspiciously.

  “I’ve a message for the Duke of Rutherford,” the man panted. “From Mr. Humbert A. Jones, Solicitor.”

  Charlotte looked back at Philip, only to find his gaze already fixed upon her.

  Chapter 9

  “I am the Duke of Rutherford,”Philip said,stepping past Charlotte to tower over the courier.

  She hurried to his side. She wouldn’t dare allow him to read the missive without her there, wouldn’t give him the slightest opportunity to hide from her whatever the solicitor said.

  If he had double-crossed her and sent a second letter canceling his first request to petition for a divorce, she would know about it.

  “Your Grace.” The messenger lowered his head and dug into the pouch at his waist.

  Philip took the letter from his fingers and nodded to Fallon, who, upon his master’s arrival, had swung the door wide open.

  “Give him two shillings for his trouble,” Philip ordered, then walked past Fallon into the foyer.

  Charlotte skipped to keep up with him. “I demand that you allow me to read the letter.”

  Philip never slowed his step as he approached his study, nor did he turn his head to address her, but continued walking, his back stiff and straight. “Come, Charlotte. I cannot dally all day, waiting for you.”

  She would have dressed him down with a scathing retort, or an equally imaginative curse, but she found she needed most of her breath in order to jog her way to his side.

  Of course, by that point, they had reached his study.

  Philip opened the door and gestured inside, his arm outstretched, the letter pinched between his fingers. “Dearest.”

  Huffing, Charlotte strolled past him, pausing briefly to snatch the missive from his hand as she did so.

  The door slammed shut. He growled behind her, but she danced away from him. She broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. A hum of satisfaction filled her as she quickly scanned the note.

  His shadow fell across her. “Give me the letter.”

  Charlotte glanced upward. She held his gaze as she released the paper, allowing it to float downward. “I fear you’ll have to pick it up from the floor,” she said, smiling sweetly.

  Philip’s eyes flicked to the carpet, then back to her face. The curve of his lips was nothing if not predatory, not at all what she had expected, and she turned toward the row of windows overlooking the lawn.

  Charlotte leaned against the space between the windows and pretended to admire the landscape, but in actuality she studied him from beneath her lashes.

  He had already bent to retrieve the missive, his expression half concealed, half exposed by the late-afternoon sun as he read. And all she could think while she watched him was that the play of shadows and light upon his face was like a mask upon a mask. She could see nothing of his thoughts from the line of his brow or the careful stillness of his mouth.

  After a few moments of silence, when his eyes had stopped moving but still he kept his head bent, she spoke. “It seems you kept your word.”

  He looked up then. “You sound surprised.”

  She gave a delicate shrug of her shoulders. “In truth, I am. You are a serious man, which some believe implies that you are also honest, but sincerity has not often been a part of your character.”

  “Philosophy, my dear? How . . . educated you have become.” Philip folded the parchment again and slipped it into his pocket. He widened the distance between them by moving to sit in the chair behind his desk.

  Charlotte flattened her palms against the wall as she recognized his move for what it was: as a king had his throne, so a duke had his desk. He was reminding both of them of his status as her superior.

  They stared at each other across the room, and she couldn’t help but remember how much he had frightened her that morning, how easily he could awaken desires she’d rather have presumed dead.

  And it was precisely because his kisses lingered in her memory that she determined to be at her most alert and cautious. She would not give him the opportunity to use her desires against her once again.

  Philip reached in his pocket, and Charlotte thought he was going to take out the letter again, but instead he drew forth a small package. He laid it on the desk in front of him and placed his hands on either side.

  “I must confess, my darling, I am wounded that you continue
to think so ill of me. I have become a changed man, remember?”

  Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “You are trying to change.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “I saw you in Henley-in-Arden, with Joanna.”

  He lifted a brow.

  “You gave her a gift.”

  Philip laughed, a charming, easy laugh, one that put her on edge. “You’re jealous,” he said.

  She wanted to laugh right back at him—a laugh of wonder that he might suggest such a thing. But instead her pulse raced and she had to force herself to not look away.

  “No, not jealous,” she replied. “Just surprised.”

  He cocked his head to the side, inviting her to come closer. Charlotte didn’t budge. “Why are you surprised? You knew I intended to woo her.” He paused. “Perhaps you wanted a gift as well?”

  “My freedom is all I need. Besides, you already gave me the harp.”

  “Ah. Well. I suppose I am simply a very generous man, because I did indeed purchase a gift for you in addition to the one for Lady Grey.”

  Her heart hammered at his words, and though she told herself he was only trying to purchase her continued cooperation, it refused to return to a normal pace. Why must she become so excited when Philip sought to give her something? She’d received countless gifts from other men over the years, and none of them had brought this same breathlessness or anticipation.

  “Come here, Charlotte.”

  She stayed at the windows.

  “Please.”

  It might have been the deepening of his voice in that single syllable, or perhaps the fact that she couldn’t recall the last time he had said “Please.” First her hands left the wall and then her feet moved soundlessly over the carpet, until she stood before him.

  He picked up the package and held it out to her. Wordlessly, she took it, her fingers sliding against his. Charlotte removed the paper wrapping and looked down at the small box in her hands, then up at Philip.

  “I won’t like you any better for this, you know.”

  “No, I did not expect you would,” he answered quietly.

  Her curiosity piqued, she lifted the lid of the box.

  “They are a bit more reserved than your usual pieces,” he said.

  “Yes.” She could not look at him. Whereas the harp had been the fulfillment of a childhood dream, the small earbobs were somehow much more intimate.

  As if he had searched for the oval sapphires specifically, pictured her wearing them.

  “Why did you buy these?” she asked, her voice soft.

  He said nothing, until she finally had to lift her head and meet his eyes. “Philip?”

  She didn’t know what she was looking for—a hidden message in his gaze, a glimpse of vulnerability, maybe—but all she found was the calculating gleam of his silver stare.

  “I hope you will wear the earbobs for our supper tomorrow evening.”

  Charlotte closed the box, berating herself. She should know by now that he always had an ulterior motive. “You have kept to your end of our agreement. I will also keep to mine.”

  “The supper will be a test of sorts, to see what I have learned from your lessons thus far.”

  “The ideal-husband lessons, you mean.”

  “Yes. Up to now we have been alone. Tomorrow evening we will have guests, and you must help me to be at my most”—he paused, tapped his finger on his jaw, then grinned—“dashing.”

  “And the earbobs—”

  He stood abruptly and advanced toward her, around the desk, until he was no more than a few inches away. “Simply a gift for a beautiful woman.”

  Charlotte lifted a hand to her brow. “Why, Philip, I do believe I feel a bit faint. Such flattery, such kindness.”

  “Shall I catch you?” His gaze had risen to follow the upward movement of her arm, and his expression stilled, his eyes shuttered as he focused behind her.

  Charlotte lowered her arm and peered over her shoulder. All she could see was a portrait hung upon the wall over his desk, of a man whose silver eyes matched the streaks in his black hair. His face was hard and lined, and the same sense of unease crept over her skin that she’d felt whenever she saw him as a child.

  The old duke. Philip’s grandfather.

  She glanced back at Philip. “He always was rather scary-looking, wasn’t he?”

  His attention never wavered from the painting. “I’d forgotten it was there,” he said, his voice low and distant, almost as if he didn’t realize she was still in the study.

  Charlotte gave a half laugh. “And not only there, but in the drawing room, the music room, the dining room. Not to mention my bedchamber. I cannot tell you how discomforting it is, trying to go to sleep while he glares down at me.”

  Only then did Philip shift his focus to her, a small quirk showing at the corner of his mouth. “I can imagine. You may not remember, but there’s another portrait in my bedchamber as well. After he died, I could not sleep for weeks. I was convinced his ghost would come out of the painting and haunt me.”

  He turned, a cautious movement, but Charlotte noticed it was enough so he could no longer see the portrait behind him.

  She wasn’t certain why, but she felt suddenly protective of him, of the young man he’d once been. She edged closer, until their arms touched. She looked with him toward the opposite end of the room, at the low fire burning in the hearth, a buffer against the chill of the darkening sky.

  “He thought very highly of himself, didn’t he?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Then, after a small pause, as if he felt obliged to give an explanation, he added, “He was a duke.”

  “You’re a duke, also, but you’re nothing like he was.”

  Even as she said it, it came to her as a surprise. She knew the sort of man Philip was: selfish and manipulative. The old duke had been the same way.

  In the past, she would never have defended him, rather claiming that they were cut from the same cloth.

  And yet now there were differences. Perhaps Philip had changed, despite her initial disbelief. There were glimpses of kindness and warmth, of real humor and generosity, that she could not even remember seeing in the time he had courted her. Oh, he had been gallant then, and considerate, but not nearly as . . . as human.

  Philip made a mirthless sound, something that others might have mistaken as a chuckle. Charlotte, however, recognized it for what it was: a warning, to her, to the entire world, not to come too close. Not to show sympathy for a man who neither needed nor desired any.

  She brought her hands together in front of her, joined by the box which contained the elegant sapphires.

  “Thank you for the earbobs,” she said.

  She felt him shrug against her side. “As I said, it was simply a gift for a beautiful woman.”

  Charlotte nodded, though she didn’t think he saw it. Then, without another word, she crossed in front of him and left the room.

  Philip wasn’t prepared for the abrupt sense of loss he felt when Charlotte left the study.

  If he’d been a maudlin sort of man, or a poet—which God knew he wasn’t—he would have thought she’d taken his soul with her.

  He stared after her, at the empty doorway, and considered calling for her to return. To not leave him alone.

  She would come back, and tell him again in that soft voice that he was not like his grandfather. He would take her in his arms, crush his mouth to hers, and pretend she was right.

  He would never admit he knew she was wrong.

  Despite what he’d told Lady Grey in the jeweler’s shop, Philip held no illusions about himself, of who he was or was not.

  He was a duke, just like his grandfather. And he was a damned good one, for the old bastard had taught him well. And just like the eighth Duke of Rutherford, Philip would do whatever was necessary to have his way.

  A heavy knock sounded on the wooden door frame, and he straightened. “Enter.”

  Fallon appeared, bowing as soon he stepped into the room.


  “Close the door.” Once assured of their privacy, he beckoned the butler to come closer. “You gave the two shillings to the messenger, as I instructed?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Fallon withdrew a piece of parchment from within his coat. “Here is the second letter.”

  “Very good.” Philip took the missive and motioned him away.

  He waited until Fallon disappeared and shut the door behind him before he sat at his desk again.

  The letter was as he expected: Mr. Jones confirmed he had received Philip’s second letter, voiding his request for a divorce from Charlotte. He also wrote of his relief upon the arrival of the second letter, as he had feared the duke was setting himself up for a catastrophic scandal.

  Philip scowled, the edges of the parchment crumpling in his grip. To hell with the scandals. He only wanted Charlotte.

  After quickly scanning the remainder of the note, he crossed to the hearth and fed it into the fire.

  Time would tell whether his precaution in canceling the directive for the petition had been necessary. If he was successful in wooing Charlotte as he planned, she would have no need to know he never intended to divorce her.

  Charlotte had no doubt Philip was trying to suffocate her.

  After years of wearing the most scandalous gowns she could, she found that the high-necked, long-sleeved, stiff taffeta dress left her no room to move, let alone breathe.

  Not only that—there had already been a time or two in the past few minutes when she was certain she’d heard him snicker.

  But every time she looked his way, he casually glanced at the clock nearby.

  “I’m sure they’ll be here soon,” he offered, with the smallest trace of a smile. “Have I mentioned tonight how very . . . wholesome you appear?”

  Charlotte tipped her chin up, partly for relief from the tight fabric scratching against her throat and partly as a show of indifference. “You have yet to mention who our guests will be this evening. I hope you did not invite Joanna. That would be quite awkward.”

  “No, Lady Grey was not invited. I suppose I should warn you—”

  A clatter of horses’ hooves and jingling harnesses arose outside, and they both got to their feet.