by Ashley March
He gulped down a glass of wine, then grimaced. He would be successful. He would be charming, and nice, though he would be careful to protect himself, to not give too much away in case she rejected him.
Even with the continual doubts playing in his head, Philip sent Fallon to retrieve Charlotte. He had looked at her calendar; she had nowhere to go tonight.
After several minutes, until he thought she would refuse to answer his summons, Charlotte entered the study. He could see her wariness as she approached. Others might not have known; they might have assumed by the sway of her hips and the open invitation in her eyes that she desired him as much as he did her. They didn’t know her sensual parade was nothing more than a mockery of the marriage they could have had.
But Philip knew. He’d taken her to bed before, when she professed her love for him. And while he watched her walk toward him and then lean forward, displaying the sumptuous wealth of her curves, all he could think about was that he wished she would laugh with him again.
“You asked for me, Your Grace?” Her voice was too low, all wrong. He didn’t want the temptress, damn it. He wanted her.
“Yes, I—” He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bear the knowledge that behind the seductive facade, she hated him.
After all of his plans to seduce her, he’d rather have spent the entire night on opposite sides of the room, talking with her—of her life over the past three years, minus the adultery, of course; of her goals and dreams for the future; asking her if she, too, desired children. And he wanted to coax her to laughter—not the deep, throaty chuckle she gave whenever a man’s eyes were on her, but the natural sound of joy and pleasure he remembered: when she laughed so hard her eyes filled with tears, and her hands pressed to her sides, trying to contain it all.
For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to see her again as Charlotte, the girl who had once been his neighbor, his friend. And he wanted her smiles, her confidence, her trust, her respect—everything he didn’t deserve.
He lusted after her, yes. But much more than that, God help him, he . . . loved her.
Philip sent her away that night and began his pursuit the next day, full of fear, but also of hope and determination. He knew it would be difficult, after all he’d done, but he would not give up.
Over the past six months, two weeks, and three days, his hope had slowly dwindled, until determination was all that remained. If he hadn’t loved her, he would have given up. But though he tried, he couldn’t stop this craving for her. As mad as it was, he would rather have had a thousand nights sitting together, simply playing a game or talking, than one night in her bed.
It was determination—and an equal measure of desperation—which drove him to kidnap and seclude her at Ruthven Manor, far away from London and her admirers and the city’s decadent enticements.
For so long, he had waited. He had loved her, without any hope that her heart would soften toward him and she would love him in return.
Only now, as he watched her flee from him, his skin still warm from the gentle touch of her unexpected kiss, did a spark of new hope flare to life.
Chapter 11
“You do not need a lesson on kissing,” Charlotte said four days later. “You do it quite well, and if you need any practice, it is Joanna you should be seeking out, not me.”
She waved to the maid arranging the tea service in front of them.
“Or if you must, practice with one of the maids. Such as this one.”
The maid knocked over an empty cup, and her eyes flew to Charlotte, then Philip. “A-apologies, Y-Your Graces,” she stammered, then without even righting the cup, scampered away.
Philip cocked a brow. “Should I be insulted?”
“You should be pleased,” Charlotte answered, pouring the tea, “that you have managed to terrify the staff to such an extent.” She handed him a cup. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“It is rather useful at times. Such as now, when I wanted to be alone with you.”
Charlotte peeked at him over the rim of her cup. He looked . . . rather adequate today, in a navy blue waistcoat, gray coat, and gray pants.
He leaned forward to snatch a biscuit off the tray, and his pants stretched tight over his muscled thigh for one throat-drying moment.
Charlotte took a gulp of tea, absently noting the hot liquid flowing over her tongue and scalding the roof of her mouth.
Dash it all, if she must admit it, Philip appeared far more than just adequate. He was stomach-fluttering, breath-hitching magnificent.
Clutching her cup in one hand, she reached out with the other and ran her fingers through his hair, from the back of his head to the front.
He jerked beneath her touch, then stilled until she pulled away. “I presume there’s a reason why you did that,” he drawled.
A flush of heat warmed her cheeks. “I merely wanted to see your cowlick. It is charming, in a boyish sort of way.”
“Ah.”
There was nothing boyish about him. Contrary to her expectations, his ruffled appearance did nothing to diminish his appeal. If anything, his intense gaze and mussed hair made her think of a man who had just risen from bed. And by the way he looked at her, no doubt he would happily take her back there with him.
Cursing softly, Charlotte glanced away. She must not think of Philip and beds together.
She started when he spoke, his tone low and confidential. “By the way you leaned toward me, I must confess I had hoped for a kiss.”
She stared at the wall.
“Charlotte?”
“Hmm?”
“Would you like to kiss me?”
“No.” She was being too much of a fool already, as it was.
He sighed and shifted beside her, placing his cup on the tray. “Very well. Since you refuse to assist me in kissing lessons, we shall move on. Yet I cannot continue in good conscience without pointing out that you have been woefully remiss in teaching me how to be a proper husband.”
He paused, and did not speak again until she looked over at him. Sighing again, he said, “I can feel myself becoming less attentive and considerate day by day. Why, when I woke up this morning, my first thought was to wake you up as well so you could rub my back. It was only through supreme self-discipline that I refrained from entering your bedchamber.”
Charlotte gritted her teeth, refusing to allow the devilish gleam in his eyes to lure her imagination down forbidden paths. “How . . . gallant of you.”
“Yes. I thought so.”
“Indeed. You seem to be very gallant of late.” She set her cup of tea on the tray beside his. “For instance, you single-handedly attempted to reunite my family. Without asking my opinion or telling me in advance, even.”
Philip leaned forward, until their noses were mere inches apart. “If I were a good husband, this would be the time when I fell to my knees and begged for your forgiveness, would it not?”
“Do not forget the gift to soothe my hurt feelings. You gave me jewelry already, so I suppose flowers will do.”
He rose to his feet.
Charlotte gaped. “You’re truly not going to—”
He stretched out his hand and, without thinking, she placed her palm against his.
“No, I’m not going to kneel at your feet. I am not in the least repentant of my deeds.” He pulled her up to stand before him. “The truth is, Charlotte, even though it went terribly, in the past three years I’ve never seen you as happy as you’ve been since they came to supper.”
“Nonsense. I’ve been wonderfully happy.” Even as she said it, her chest tightened at the thought of how miserable she’d been, how lonely her life was. But she gave him an enthusiastic smile, nonetheless. “Truly. Giddy, even.”
Her smile faded at his serious expression, and she tugged her hand from his. She whirled away, then back again. “Besides, why wouldn’t I be happy? I’ve dozens of lovers, hundreds of admirers. If my family didn’t want me, why should I want them?”
�
�No.” He captured her shoulders. “Listen to me.”
“You.” Her voice shook. He dared to talk to her about how unhappy she’d been the past three years, when he was the one who’d made her so. She was surprised he’d even deigned to notice her from the height of his lofty ducal throne. “You?” Her hands lifted to his chest to push him away. “Let me go—”
He ignored her. “It will take a while. God knows, forgiveness is difficult to find in your family. But I had to take the chance.”
She continued to struggle, tried to block him out, but it was useless. It didn’t matter; whatever he had to say, she didn’t want to hear it.
“Damn it, Charlotte! Can you not see? Do you not understand? I ruined your life. I know this. But this—helping you with your family—this is the only thing I could think of to make it right. To try and make it up to you.”
He released her suddenly, and paced away. When he turned around, he remained at a distance. His fingers raked through his hair, leaving it even more disarranged than before.
And still he looked wonderful.
Charlotte clenched her fists at her sides and forced herself to meet his gaze. “Philip—”
“Hate me if you will. Loathe me. I do not expect much more than that from you. But do not begrudge me this. Do not deny yourself happiness only to spite me.”
She waited for him to continue, waited for him to do something. When he neither moved nor spoke, but only stood there watching her, she went to him.
She stared up at him, silent, and searched his eyes. She didn’t know if it was because he truly was trying to become a better person, or if perhaps she had never really known him as well as she thought she had, but he was different.
And it was odd, to consider that after everything, after spending so much time together as children, and then three years as husband and wife, she could discover that he was a stranger to her.
Finally, she lifted her hand and cupped his jaw. His gaze consumed her, ever intent, ever steady, as her thumb brushed across his cheek.
“Philip,” she murmured. “You have changed, haven’t you?”
“Some,” he said, stiffly. “In some ways, I’m much the same.”
She reached up and smoothed her fingers over his hair, so that it lay naturally in place once again. “Thank you. You did what I could not. I didn’t have the courage to see them, to approach them first. Thank you.”
When she drew away and he said nothing, she prompted, “This is the time when you’re supposed to say ‘You’re welcome.’ ”
“You’re welcome.” He paused; then a small, sly grin slid across his face. “Does this mean you’ll kiss me now?”
“It’s very childish of you not to tell me where we’re going,” Charlotte said an hour later, peering through the carriage window.
“And I will not tell you. You kept your kisses to yourself, and I’ll keep my secrets. Besides, it’s meant to be a surprise.”
Charlotte threw a glance at him. “I thought it was intended to be another lesson for you.”
“It is.”
“Then wh—”
“We’re here,” he announced, even before the carriage began to slow. He reached across to place a finger against her lips. “Close your eyes.”
She hesitated. Philip grimaced. “You still don’t trust me.”
Before she could say anything, he removed his finger and leaned back, closing his own eyes. “Now are your eyes closed?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered, doing so.
“Then listen.”
At first she could hear only the sound of her own breathing, the jingle of the harnesses as the horses stirred, the creak of the wooden seat when the coachman climbed down.
“Do you hear the children?”
As if coaxed into existence by the warm resonance of Philip’s voice, the sound of children’s laughter crept to her ears.
“Yes.”
“And what else?”
She smiled; this was another facet of Philip she couldn’t remember ever seeing before. He’d never been one to participate in whimsical guessing games. “I hear music.”
A fiddle, joyful and quick, accompanied by a swell of voices as the musician played the chorus of “The Wednesbury Cocking.”
Then, in between the strains of the fiddle, she heard a loud noise from her right. “And cattle lowing,” she said.
While she was trying to distinguish another sound, similar to someone crying, or perhaps someone yelling, a heavy, rich, spicy scent drifted to her nostrils.
She shifted closer to the door, and it grew stronger.
Across from her, Philip chuckled. She opened her eyes. “Meat pies and sausages,” she said, turning to him. “You’ve brought me to the fair—”
The expression on his face halted any other words she might have spoken. There was a warmth in his gaze that she’d never seen before, a look she couldn’t describe as anything other than yearning.
For her.
Charlotte’s heart thudded hard and fast in her chest as she leaned forward. “Philip—”
He opened the door and climbed outside, and when he turned to assist her in stepping down, all traces of longing were gone.
She took his hand, dismissing the thought that his emotions might run deeper than mere lust. For if they did, she would have to examine her own heart as well, and that thought was singularly frightful. No, if he was kind to her and tried to kiss her, it was because he desired her in the most carnal sense. It wasn’t because he loved her. In fact, she would go so far as to say that he might very well despise her as much as she despised him.
Only . . .
Only she wasn’t sure if she did despise him anymore. She certainly didn’t like him, and she didn’t trust him, but he was no longer “Philip the bloody bastard” in her mind.
He was simply Philip. Philip, who gave her nice things and made her laugh and arranged to have her family over for supper.
Philip, whose voice made her want to lean into him. Whose smiles tested her self-control and made her yearn to kiss him.
Her feet stumbled on the carriage steps, and she lurched forward.
“Whoa. I’ve got you.” Philip caught her easily, pivoting so that he was in front of her, his arms around her hips, her hands catching his shoulders. “I’m right here.”
And all she could think was that his embrace felt entirely natural, and it would be so easy to wrap her arms around him and bring her lips to his.
Charlotte snatched her hands away from his shoulders as if they were burned.
Dear God. She liked her husband.
Philip lifted her off the steps and planted her on the ground before him. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You look a little sick.”
His hands were heavy on the small of her back, keeping her in place, and Charlotte swayed forward—only a little, enough that her breasts rubbed across his chest.
“Charlotte? Are you going to faint?”
And then, swiftly on the heels of the knowledge that she liked her husband, came the realization that she also—
No, no, no. She had to be more intelligent than this.
Philip tightened his arms around her, and she nearly groaned when his hard, warm body pressed against hers.
Yes, she was sick. Yes, she was going to faint. And no, she wasn’t nearly as intelligent as she’d thought.
Because as horrible as he’d been to her in the past and as ridiculous as it was for her to even think such a thing, she wanted to make love to him.
Not seduce him because she wanted to wield any sort of power over him, or to prove that he couldn’t hurt her any longer, but simply because she wanted the decadent pleasure of putting her hands and her mouth all over his body.
Everywhere.
“Dobbs,” Philip called to the coachman. “Get back on the carriage. We’re going home.”
“No!” She pushed against his chest until she could stand up straight, trying not to notice the firmness of the muscles beneath her pa
lms. “I mean, no. No, we’re staying here.” She gave him a wide smile. “At the fair,” she clarified, toning down her smile lest he think her mad.
Which she had no doubt she was. But thankfully, even though she liked him and wanted to make love to him, at least she still had enough wits lying about to know that returning to Ruthven Manor—or, dear God, being alone with him in the carriage—was not a good idea at this point.
“Are you certain?” Goodness. Was that concern in his voice?
She nodded. “Yes. I feel perfectly well. And you need your lesson.”
“All right, then. We’ll stay.”
Charlotte couldn’t help noticing his hold seemed just as tight on her as before. “Philip, release me,” she hissed, glancing to her right and her left, hoping her role of preserving propriety was a convincing one.
For a moment, his eyes darkened as he looked down at her, as if he would refuse her request, but just when she decided to give up, throw her arms around him, and damn the consequences, he let her go and stepped away.
He motioned for her to begin walking. “Am I to understand a good husband doesn’t embrace his wife in public places?”
“You are correct,” she said, looking back at the groom, who followed them, pretending not to see the arm Philip offered her.
A grand mill of people roamed around them, over the grounds. Some were on horseback, some walked as they did, some carried children on their shoulders or their hips.
Six miles of open fields stretched away from Henley-in-Arden; the fairgrounds had to be large to accommodate not only the locals but also the hundreds of visitors from Alcester, Stratford-on-Avon, Wootton Wawen, Birmingham, and the other nearby towns and villages.
The sights and sounds and smells were welcome friends, old memories from her childhood. She’d always loved the spring fairs held on Lady Day and during Whitsunday week, but the annual fair in October was her favorite.
The crying and screaming she’d heard outside the carriage were the sounds of the men and women hawking their wares on either side. There seemed to be no logical order to the rows of booths and tents. Ribbons, hops, and hardware; sheep, gingerbread, and gowns; rope, cattle, and hats: all were interspersed here and there. Surprises to be met at every stall.