by Ashley March
Charlotte inhaled the crisp, acrid tang of smoke upon the air, so different from the dense London smog which smothered her lungs. Underneath it lingered the ripe, mellow scent of autumn, of harvested earth and newly chopped wood.
“Look there,” Philip said, pointing to the left.
A crowd of children and adults surrounded a magician’s platform, their eager faces upturned. Some of them, like Charlotte, had no doubt seen many of his tricks before. But still they stayed, transfixed not by the mystery of his illusions, but by the wonder of the evening, the spell that seemed to be cast by the oncoming dusk and the atmosphere of gaiety.
“Charlotte.” He grasped her hand and pulled. “Over here.”
She followed after him, enchanted by the excitement in his voice. “You act as if you’ve never been to a fair before,” she called loudly, in an effort to be heard above the shouts and songs and music.
He pulled up short and glanced down at her, a cautious light in his eyes. “Only once.” He looked over his shoulder. “There. That is what I wanted to show you.”
“Philip, wait.” Intrigued by his vagueness, she tried to slow him by dragging her feet, but he only turned to her and grinned.
“Come on,” he urged, and she forgot to question him further as she hurried to keep up with his long strides.
They came to stand in front of a small tent, well lit with oil lamps. In the center was an artist with his easel, and before him sat a grizzled farmer with his apple-cheeked wife upon his knee.
The easel was angled so that the visitors to the tent could see the artist and his canvas as he worked. With deft strokes he sketched the man and woman, transferring the couple’s image but not the man’s potbelly, nor the woman’s wart over her left eyebrow.
A wisp of hair tickled Charlotte’s neck as Philip bent down to murmur in her ear. “I cannot imagine how he could make you any more beautiful.”
Flattery.
She’d heard it before. Some said she was England’s version of Helen of Troy—that the brilliant sapphire of her eyes could have launched a thousand ships, that her hair was soft as a dove and dark as a raven’s wing.
Of course, she had not been able to resist pointing out that her hair was, in fact, a dark brown, and that ravens were black, at which point the gentleman who had made the absurd aviary comparison only continued to stare at her, a tiny line of confusion marring his brow.
But she hadn’t received any flattery from Philip in a very long time. And even then there had been a note of irony, a mocking knowledge in his eyes that his compliment was but one among the dozen given to her every day.
Her heart thudded heavily in her chest, and she watched, mute, as the artist continued his sketch. She was aware of Philip’s gaze on her face, and she willed him to look away, to believe she had not heard his comment.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw him open his mouth and—
Oh, God, surely he wasn’t going to say it again.
She wouldn’t be able to pretend then, especially if he said it louder, and then she would have to look at him, and if she saw that wariness in his eyes—or worse, the contempt he always seemed to have for her . . .
Well, she simply would not be able to bear it. For one moment, one fleeting, selfish moment, she wanted to believe that his compliment had been sincere, that when he looked at her, he didn’t see her as the woman she had made herself become, but rather a woman whom he respected, whom he liked—
He leaned toward her, and her tangle of thoughts immediately halted as his lips brushed her ear. “I think I would like a sketch of you, just like this.”
Charlotte sucked in a quiet breath and forced herself to turn toward him, her eyes lowered carefully so they wouldn’t meet his. She lifted to her toes and when she spoke, her mouth intentionally brushed against his in a soft, whispered caress. “Are you certain you don’t want one of Astley’s nudes instead?”
In the silence that followed her words, Charlotte knew she’d made a mistake.
She told herself it was instinctive, that she’d taught herself for so long to defend herself with seduction and innuendo. To protect any moment of vulnerability in a manner which would turn her into the aggressor, instead of someone to be taken advantage of.
And yet as Philip took a step backward—as if he couldn’t stand to be near her—and as his expression shuttered, leaving not mockery or bitterness but an inscrutable, careful blankness, she desperately wished she could take back the words.
“Philip, I—”
He smiled, a lopsided, three-quarters smile which possessed much more charm than sincerity. He offered his arm once again. When she hesitated to take it, he snatched her hand from her side and fit it snugly into the crook of his elbow.
She’d always been aware of him, always prided herself in being able to estimate his proximity to the nearest foot—for how else would she know when to raise her shield about her?
Yet she’d also been able to maintain a certain distance from him, so even when he was close by, she was still the one to decide the extent to which she would be affected by his nearness.
Tonight, however, she seemed to have lost that ability. She couldn’t block out his dark, earthy scent, subtle yet somehow stronger than the smells of sausage and smoke upon the night air. The heat from his body warmed her right side more thoroughly than any of the fires around them could have done. And the brush of his leg against her skirts as they walked—that simple movement was far more intimate and alarming than any wayward drunkard’s hand she’d ever had to swat away.
And as they passed a cheerful, shouting throng of children, she was somehow able to hear his soft murmur.
“Damn you, Charlotte.”
Yes, by God, he did want one of Astley’s nude sketches. He wanted all of them, every last one, to collect and hoard them in some secret, private place where no man’s eyes but his own could gaze upon her loveliness. At times he wondered if she’d posed for the portraitist simply for the scandal, or to enrage him, or both. Whichever motive it was, she had succeeded.
He would gladly spend every last farthing he had to purchase them, or steal them when the owner could not be convinced to sell. He would also break Astley’s hands, so that he would never dare to sketch Charlotte from memory.
Better yet, he would gouge out the eyes of any man who had ever seen her naked . . . but that would not stop them from imagining her, from fantasizing about her.
Yet none of that would matter, not if Charlotte refused to allow him close.
What a fool he was, to think for a moment he had actually caught a blush upon her cheeks, the spectacular color a result of his compliment instead of the excitement of the fair and the heat stolen from the firelight.
He damned her, for her stubbornness and her courage and the slight shine of fear he had spied in her eyes before she lowered them, before she opened her mouth to taunt him again.
And he damned himself even more thoroughly, and with many more violent, inventive curses, for this weakness of his.
It consumed him, this wanting of her. And he needed to consume her in turn—not just her body, though he would take it, and claim it, and, by God, he would be the last man to ever lie with her—but also her mind and her heart.
To be cherished by Charlotte—it was laughable of him to even conceive of such a thing, but it was something he desperately desired. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t banish this longing.
For her.
And for her to want, to need . . . to love . . . him.
One day he would be the only thing she could think about, an obsession so deep and so fierce it would be—
Bloody hell.
Philip came to a sudden halt, wrapped his arms around Charlotte, who nearly tipped forward with surprise, and kissed her.
Not the sort of kiss he dreamed about at night, mind you, but still, a good, solid kiss right on the lips.
He counted to ten before he drew away. Or rather, before Charlotte jerked backward in his a
rms.
And then he released her, waiting, willing her to prove his suspicions were correct.
She brushed a hand over the top of her head, as if her hair had somehow gotten mussed up in his embrace. Which it had not. He should know. He had wanted to muss it up.
“Philip!” she said, then quickly lowered her voice as she glanced around.
He bowed. A gentlemanly thing to do. “Yes, my dear?”
She scowled, and she appeared infinitely lovely doing so. Philip could not tear his eyes away from her, for this time—yes, she was blushing, and she refused to meet his gaze. Almost as if she were embarrassed. Or shy. Or an innocent.
Charlotte folded her arms across her chest. Philip obliged her by following the movement with his eyes, a small sigh escaping as he noted the uplifted curves of her bosom.
“Philip!”
“Hmm.” And in case she thought he might not have heard her, he also lifted a brow as he continued to stare at her chest.
This could quickly become his new favorite pastime. He hadn’t allowed himself to stare at her chest before, but it was really quite . . . fascinating.
Especially when he watched her breathe. He could tell she was angry, just by the way her chest rose and fell at short intervals. It made him wonder if her chest would rise so quickly when she was aroused, or if her breathing would slow with the languid flow of her blood. He wished he could remember. Alas, he had not taken note of such things back then. He had simply—
“You kissed me,” she hissed, rearranging her arms so most of her torso was hidden.
Sighing again, Philip reluctantly lifted his gaze to her face.
Oh, yes. He had been correct after all.
You push my buttons, my dear, and I shall push yours in turn.
He smiled innocently.
Which must not have appeared to be very innocent, for her brows slanted at a greater angle and her mouth formed a neat little purse, the corners refusing to become pinched.
Even when she tried, she could not look ugly.
And just because he knew it would annoy her, Philip brought his hand to his lips and kissed his palm, then pretended to blow it in her direction. “My apologies, of course, darling. I thought kissing you was something a proper gentleman would do at the moment.”
Her lips parted, her eyes narrowed, and she flung her arms out to her sides.
Ah, yes. There was that lovely bosom again.
“At a fair, Philip? Arggh! Stop looking at me like that!” Once again, her arms wrapped around her chest protectively.
He couldn’t help it. His lips curved into a smug little grin all on their own. “You did flirt with me,” he pointed out. “Teasing me about naked portraits and such.” He leaned toward her, and his grin grew wider as she leaned back. “Do you truly think I could find one of Astley’s sketches?”
“What I think is that you should stop leering at me. And no, you cannot kiss me at a fair. We are in a public place.”
Philip’s smile faded, and he allowed all the desire, all the love he had for her to surface. And when her eyes widened and softened, confusion crossing her expression, he knew she saw it.
He nodded. “Very well.” He reached forward and took her arm.
She started. “Very well?” she echoed, her arm tense beneath his grip.
“We will go to the carriage at once.”
Chapter 12
Philip didn’t have a clue where the coachman had taken the carriage. Not that it mattered. All he cared about was inciting Charlotte to . . . to . . . well, something besides the pretense of seduction and indifference she cloaked herself in whenever he was near.
And he rather thought he was doing a fine job of it so far, if her flushed cheeks and little muttered protests were any indication.
And curses. Truly, she had quite a talent for swearing.
He had never known his head resembled a horse’s testicles.
Rather a fascinating comparison, that.
Still, as he moved her along beside him, casually urging her to appear as if she were actually happy, he mused that if he were indeed fortunate enough to find the carriage—
Well, there were simply an innumerable number of things one could do with one’s wife inside a carriage for an entire hour or so.
He was nearly overwhelmed by the possibilities.
Philip quickened his step, determined to find the carriage immediately.
“This is not”—Charlotte paused to huff a pair of breaths before continuing—“what I meant in the least.”
Philip stopped and reared back in feigned affront. Not exactly straight back, but more of a lean to the right and then to the back. This, of course, was calculated to make Charlotte’s lovely body collide with his.
She pushed herself aright and attempted to shove her hair in place, as it had grown rather fond of the left side of her head. “You really must stop doing that.”
Philip raised a hand to his chest and fixed her with a wounded expression. “Please don’t tell me proper husbands do not kiss their wives in the privacy of their own carriages.”
Her hand froze on her hair, and her blue eyes lit with such a telltale gleam of “Aha!” that he nearly laughed outright.
“Yes!” She poked him in the chest. “That is exactly the case. A man who expects his wife to engage in such . . . such . . . lurid acts—”
“Lurid acts?” He arched a surprised brow. “Do tell. Which lurid acts are we speaking of?”
If anything, her cheeks turned an even brighter shade of red. “No, I—”
She shook her head violently, so that her hair now tumbled down on both sides, and Philip had to suck in a fortifying breath to keep from reaching out to run his fingers through the dark, lustrous strands.
She stiffened. Withdrawing her poking finger from his chest, she nearly glared a hole through him. “You know quite well what I mean. You expect me to get back in that carriage with you, with you looking at me like that, and I know what you’re thinking. You want to kiss me, and—”
“But I will not. After all, you’ve already said it’s not proper to do so in front of a crowd, and if you say it’s not right to kiss you inside a carriage—”
“It’s not!” she cried. “Only in the privacy of one’s home. Only, in fact, in one’s ...” Her voice trailed off so slightly, the “s” lingering for so long that even if he hadn’t been paying strict attention to her words, he would have known what she’d intended to say by the hesitation in her tone and the darkening of her eyes.
“Charlotte.” Her name was whisper-soft on his lips, but his mouth tilted into a rogue’s grin. “Are you inviting me to your bedchamber?”
He’d expected the swift rise of her hand—he had, in fact, raised his arm to deflect her blow before he even finished the question—but he didn’t expect for her hand to drop just as quickly, nor for her to turn away in a swirl of skirts and a vehement wish for him to go to a very unsavory place.
“But I do not want to go to hell,” he called to her back.
To which she made a very rude gesture with the crook of her elbow and her fist.
Lovely, lovely woman.
Philip strode after her—he did not run, of course; he was still a duke. He neatly dodged a clump of children loping between the vendor carts before he made it to her side. Then, when she didn’t slow but continued to march toward an unknown destination—chin high, eyes forward, hands clenched in her skirts as if she’d rather wrap them around his throat—he dared to step in front of her and block her path.
She jerked to a halt. Her narrowed eyes glittered her disdain and . . . again, there was that sliver of fear.
If he was any sort of decent man, he’d give her the space she so obviously desired.
But he wasn’t decent, and he desired her. He was a duke. He had no qualms about being selfish. Or indecent.
Her mouth remained closed, but her eyes demanded an answer to her unspoken question: why do you not go away?
He couldn’t tell her.
Their gazes were locked and the silence between them seemed to drown out the gay, chaotic noises of the fair around them. It was a rare intimate moment, but he couldn’t tell her the truth.
That he wouldn’t go away because he could not, that he needed her, that the very air around her was sweeter because she breathed it.
And in that moment, even though neither of them moved, he could feel the distance he had closed over the past few days growing wider. The sounds of the fair slowly crept back into his consciousness, until he was just a man and she was just a woman in the crowded mass of people.
And he couldn’t stand for her to think of him as just another man.
Desperately, as though caught in some mad fever, Philip turned. He glanced around, searching for something, anything—although he didn’t know what.
And then he saw it. A group of dancers, caught in the fading dusk. Firelight flung their shadows across the gathered circle of observers. Sweat and pleasure flickered over the dancers’ faces—some round, some gaunt, others young and old.
This wasn’t a London ball, with its waltzes and quadrilles. The attendees weren’t guests selected by special invitation; here there were no rules about whom one danced with, or even what sort of dancing was allowed.
All that mattered was that your feet moved in time to the sprightly notes flying off the fiddle, and that you didn’t stop.
Philip stared in fascination. Except for the men who had been recipients of Charlotte’s favor, he had never before been so envious of anyone.
And yet there was the irony; for despite all of his wealth and status and supposed happiness in this world, he could not remember ever before feeling as alive as those dancers appeared.
No, not quite. He had felt alive before. Every single time he was with her.
Philip turned toward Charlotte. She was also looking at the dancers, the light from the fire shadowing her face and highlighting the delicate curve of her neck, the ivory slope of her shoulder.