by Ashley March
Then, as if drawn by his gaze, she turned to him. And even though the blaze was nearly behind her now, he could see little sparks of blue fire reflected in her irises—an invitation which he doubted she even knew she issued.
He extended his hand, palm upward.
“May I have this dance, Your Grace?”
Charlotte was two and twenty years old. Old enough to know the dangers of the world, and experienced enough to feel herself leaning toward doing something entirely foolish.
And though she usually delighted in doing foolish things, she was also a creature of self-preservation.
She knew, as thoroughly as she knew the many quirks of her husband’s smile, that to dance with Philip would be a mistake. Not only because she already felt more vulnerable in his presence than he had a right to make her feel, but also because she had never, never thought once in her life that she would hear Philip Burgess, the ninth Duke of Rutherford, ask to dance with her at a country fair.
It was unfathomable. Completely plebeian. Coarse. Common. Vulgar.
Exactly like her, and nothing like him.
And yet the foolish part of her—oh, there were so many foolish parts when it came to Philip—refused to allow him to retract the offer.
If Philip chose to lower himself to the level of the masses, to kick up the same dust as maids and farmers and wheelwrights, then she would be there to ensure he didn’t change his mind.
That was the reason why she laid her hand firmly over his, performed a small curtsy, and answered, “Why, of course, Your Grace.”
Not out of any particular desire to dance with him. And certainly not because she wished to allay the awkwardness between them which had arisen moments before.
Perhaps—and here she was willing to admit this bit of spitefulness was part of her self-preservation—he would dance poorly and make an utter fool of himself.
Smiling a bit to herself and ignoring the warmth creeping from his hand to hers, then up her forearm to her elbow and beyond, she allowed him to lead her toward the dancing.
Some people in the crowd around the dancers were like her, straining toward the music, their toes tapping anxiously as they hummed along. And though they were fewer, there were also some like Philip: steady, silent, unmoving as they watched the performance with rapt attention.
The music ended with a hearty cheer from both the dancers and the observers, and those nearest the open circle quickly jumped in to claim their places. Since she and Philip stood near the middle of the crowd, they were required to wait again.
The main fiddler—a short, squat man with a bald head and a bushy beard that took up nearly half his face—bowed to the onlookers and then to the newest round of dancers. He lowered his head over the bow and began to draw out a few long, melancholy notes—the beginning of a ballad, or a dirge, but definitely not a reel.
He halted, raised his head expectantly, and in a chorus of voices, the dancers and the crowd around them heckled him, hollering for a “nice tune, Billy.”
Charlotte cupped her hands around her mouth and joined in, whooping a time or two.
Then, with a wink and a grin which turned his eyes into little half-moons, Billy lowered his head again. This time, however, once his hand drew the bow dramatically across the strings in a prolonged prelude, the music immediately dissolved into a fierce, frantic pulsing of melody.
And almost as quickly, the dancers began to move their feet, anxious to keep the pace of the fiddle.
It was a breathless moment, the kind that froze one in place with wonder: the music and the swirl of colorful skirts and the flashing of firelight and shadows, dark and light merging together, then separating in an almost hypnotic cadence.
She didn’t know what caused her to look at Philip. A slight shift of his body, or a brushing of his sleeve perhaps. But she lifted her gaze to his profile and traced each feature slowly, one by one, from the wing of his brow to the hard jut of his chin.
He was utterly still, his face a stark plane devoid of emotion as he stared at the dancers. A keen disappointment swept through Charlotte as she watched him. It was ridiculous for him to affect her so, but part of her joy in the night was now diminished because he didn’t share in it.
Sighing at her own foolishness, Charlotte touched his arm, resigned to beckon him away. Certainly by now he had changed his mind about dancing with her.
Yet when he turned toward her, every thought of leaving fled her mind. It was his eyes. When she had looked at his profile, she had not been able to see the expression in his eyes.
They are gray, a little voice inside her scoffed. The same voice that had saved her through the torment in those early days, the one that kept her safe, distanced. The reasonable, pragmatic voice. Gray, gray, gray.
But another voice swiftly dismissed the dry summarization.
Silver eyes. Hot silver eyes, molten with passion. Not of desire, not of lust, but passion for life. It was as if everything she felt while watching the dancers was magnified ten times over—the excitement, the joy, the pleasure.
And she couldn’t look away. Her gaze locked with his, and though neither spoke a word, a measure of understanding seemed to pass between them.
It was almost physical, the touch of his eyes. As if she could feel him prying, prodding, searching her.
Charlotte took a deep breath, tried to remind herself that this was Philip, and surely he couldn’t understand anything about her. Perhaps he thought the dancing was pretty, but that did not mean he knew her.And then . . . and then—
Dear God, he smiled. A languid, radiant curve of a smile, and Charlotte couldn’t help but return it. And as they stood there facing one another, smiling, Charlotte wished for her reasonable, pragmatic voice to return. To berate her for allowing him to pierce her vulnerability, for letting herself respond to him. Not in a seductive manner, but in every other way, in every way that counted.
God damn him and his silver eyes.
She was the first to look away, her emotions far too unsteady and tangled. She would not give him the pleasure of seeing her discomposure.
The music was ending, the dancers performing their final steps.
“Charlotte.” His voice was a quiet beckoning. A command spoken softly, but a command nonetheless.
At the sudden cheer of the crowd, she turned blindly toward him and grabbed his hand. “Come,” she urged, pulling him forward to the front of the spectators. “It’s our turn to dance.”
For a few minutes at least, there would be no time to talk, no time for him to stare into her eyes and search for her secrets.
When they entered the circle cleared for dancing, Charlotte released his hand and walked to the line where the other women stood.
The fiddler raised his arms in the air, the signal that the music was about to begin.
Charlotte dipped her knees in a deep curtsy and bent her head. When the women straightened, the men responded by bowing.
Philip arched a brow, a slight smirk on his lips, and Charlotte gave him a saucy grin.
Only he did not see her grin. Or if he did, he thoroughly ignored it. Instead, his focus shifted over her shoulder, somewhere to the right of where she stood. The first strains of the reel began. But again, the fiddler teased the crowd, turning it into a melancholy piece.
Charlotte leaned to the right, tried to catch Philip’s eye, but his brow had lowered and his lips had thinned, and he seemed to look right through her. She frowned. Surely he wasn’t going to change his mind, not at the very last moment.
Yet as the people around them raised their voices to encourage the fiddler to play properly, that’s exactly what he did.
Among the hoarse shouts and piercing whistles, Philip slipped out of line. Without a backward glance in her direction, he pivoted on his heel and disappeared.
Charlotte walked toward the woods between Ruthven Manor and Sheffield House.
She had waited for the rain. The darkening clouds had teased her at the fair, and on their return to
Ruthven Manor, a few fat droplets spattered against the carriage window. The sound hadn’t been near enough to drown out the overbearing silence, yet it was the only reason she had for staring outside instead of meeting her husband’s brooding silver gaze.
Now the rain cascaded over her. Long, cool rivulets of water streamed down her face, plastering her hair to her head, her clothes to her skin. Her feet made little squishing noises as she neared the edge of the woods, the place where civilized manicured lawns were swallowed whole by the untamed wilderness.
She loved the rain.
She refused to think of it as some sort of solace, though. She needed no solace, no refuge, for she had no grief, nothing to run from. The rain simply . . . was. It never demanded anything from her, never toyed with her emotions. She never had to pretend with the rain, never had to lie or manipulate.
A swell of water rushed over her brow and into her eye, and Charlotte stumbled. Her vision blurred, she threw out her hand and found the crisp, rough edge of bark.
“Damn it to bloody hell.” The curse was empty in its bitterness, for she felt no pain at all, but it certainly made her feel better. And so she cursed again. “Damn. Damn. Bloody. Bloody—” And then, for some inexplicable reason, she began to laugh.
And then to cry.
She tried to convince herself it was just the rain, the lovely, wonderful rain, but she couldn’t deny that her lips were crumpled up and the rain certainly wasn’t causing her brows to pull so hard together.
Charlotte fisted her hand and swung at the tree trunk. “God da—Ow! Bloody hell!”
It was a foolish thing to do, to try to inflict pain on such a hard, solid object, when her husband’s equally hard head was the source of her—
Charlotte sank to the ground, her back against the tree.
Her what? Anger?
She halted another sniffle. Sadness?
Her eyes closed, and images of Philip’s face flashed in her memory. Expressions of joy, curiosity, eagerness, all wiped away by that mask of nothingness. Blank, bland ennui.
Philip would never dare to venture out into the rain. He would never understand why anyone would prefer to be chilled to the bone and have their skin shrivel from the damp when they could instead be warm and dry in front of a fire.
Why had she thought he’d changed?
Perhaps he’d been nice a few times, but that couldn’t erase the years of apathy and arrogance. Tonight had proven that.
How could she have believed he thought differently of her?
It was more than obvious that she still meant nothing to him. It was laughable, even, that she could consider such a thing at all. Philip caring? About anyone?
She was only a means to an end. That was all she’d ever been, all she ever would be.
And he was . . . Philip. Not even worthy of her anger or any sadness or, if she admitted it—and she did so, but begrudgingly—her disappointment.
Yes, it was laughable. Quite. Only she did not feel like laughing anymore. Or crying.
She simply sat in the rain, her hands and feet slowly becoming lost in puddles of mud and water. She shivered, but she welcomed the cold, concentrating on the numbness of her fingers and toes, the heaviness growing in her limbs. She would welcome anything that helped her cease thinking of him.
An hour could have passed, or minutes, or even mere seconds as she sat, listening to the steady patter of rain as it rustled the few remaining leaves overhead. Watching the intermittent shadows of raindrops as they splashed against her eyelids, then slid away until only a faint grayness remained.
“I don’t understand why you are out here in the rain, when it is perfectly warm and dry inside the house.”
Her breathing stopped at the sound of his voice, and she almost smiled. His words were a near echo of her earlier thoughts.
Slowly—for she didn’t want him to think his presence affected her—she opened her eyes.
His legs filled her vision, his trousers plastered snugly against the muscled contours of his thighs. A low heat began to flow through her blood. It was as if the rain she had waited for had actually come for him, to fall upon him in loving streams, pouring down his body in a deliberate caress. The rain had always been meant to taunt and torment her, to remind her of the desire for him she tried so desperately to escape.
“Must you stand so close?” she muttered, pushing backward against the tree.
Although she refused to look up, she had no difficulty sensing his frown as he spoke. “I was only attempting to—Never mind.”
As soon as he stepped away, raindrops fell anew on her face. Rain she hadn’t even realized had disappeared as he stood over her, creating a shelter for her.
The realization made her want to curse and cry again, all at once and with no reason for either. She stood. Perhaps she was becoming sick. There was no other reason for her to be so emotional of late.
Charlotte glanced up, met his silver gaze, and pronounced, “I believe I am ill.” Turning toward the manicured lawns and civilization, she began to walk. It was a slow, hazardous affair, as her weighted skirts preferred to drag her back down to the ground, and her feet insisted on finding every hole and puddle available.
Philip, of course, did not take the hint; he strolled patiently beside her.
As she tripped over her skirts for perhaps the eighth or ninth time, his hand reached out to her shoulder and steadied her.
“I could carry you—”
His mouth closed abruptly at the force of her glare. The glare was one thing she would give him credit for; he was the best teacher in all things cruel and hostile.
She should have known he wouldn’t let her be, but still she was surprised when, instead of releasing her shoulder, he pulled her toward him and said, “Dance with me.”
Charlotte stared at him. Wayward strands of hair clung to his forehead, slicked over his brow. Tiny diamonds of raindrops glistened on the tips of his eyelashes and lingered on the edge of his bottom lip, drawing attention to its lush curve, so different from his stark, thin upper lip.
She hated the rain. She truly did.
“No,” she said, and glanced meaningfully at the place where his hand held her firmly in place.
Somehow, perhaps because the rain was so cold, the warmth of his hand seemed a hundred times hotter than it normally would have. It seared her senses, and although her mind rang a shrill warning bell, she still yearned to lean in closer.
He didn’t release her, but instead wrapped his arm around her waist and dragged his other hand down to capture hers.
Charlotte growled. It was something she’d heard him do a number of times, but somehow she didn’t think hers came out quite as effectively. Even to her own ears, it sounded like she had a wad of phlegm stuck at the back of her throat which she was trying to clear.
“Charlotte.”
She returned to glaring. It was much easier to get her point across, anyway.
His gaze didn’t waver—damn him. “If I am correct, good husbands do not leave their wives at the beginning of a dance. Is that not true?”
She shrugged. “I certainly don’t care if you are a good husband. I won’t be your wife for much longer, and you were never much of a husband to begin with.”
His arm stiffened around her waist, almost imperceptibly. She desperately wished she wasn’t so attuned to him; his reaction nearly made her regret her words. Even if they were true.
Then, he did what she least expected: he leaned toward her, his eyes holdings hers captive, and pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth.
For a second—perhaps less than a second, really—her body betrayed her and she felt herself tremble.
She knew he must have felt it, as well, for he stilled for a long moment before he finally drew away.
“Dance with me, Charlotte. Even if it doesn’t matter to you, I would like to show my sincere apology for leaving.”
Perhaps she should agree. Then when the dance was over, he would have no reason to hold h
er so close.
“Very well. Lead on,” she grumbled, trying to fix her eyes upon some less appealing part of him without appearing a coward.
“Of course, Your Grace,” he murmured in a droll voice, then began to hum.
Her eyes immediately locked upon his mouth. Damnation. “Must you make noise?” she asked irritably. “It is very . . . distracting.”
He halted in midstep, and she suspected he had intended for her to crash into him, for his arm tightened even further around her. “Very well,” he conceded, almost as if her contrariness pleased him greatly, and began to dance again.
“You needn’t hold me so close, either,” she said shortly. She struggled against the near embrace of his arms.
He gave a low chuckle, and she could feel the vibration of it pulsate through her own body. “Would you rather I kissed you than danced?”
Instinctively clamping her lips together, she shook her head and relaxed as best she could, allowing him to hold her as close as he wished and lead her in slow, awkward movements around puddles and across the slick, wet grass.
Philip smiled, his gaze ever watchful and knowing. But he was silent as well, and didn’t hum again. The entire earth seemed to be silent. There was no sound but the rush of water from the heavens as they danced.
He turned, and she followed. He led, and she matched his steps. It was a medley of crushed toes and stumbles, and they nearly fell to the ground several times, but still they continued.
Slowly Charlotte calmed, and she closed her eyes. Despite the treachery of the uneven ground, Philip’s arms were strong about her.
His breath fanned across her ear as he laid his cheek against her temple, and suddenly they weren’t dancing anymore as much as they were simply swaying.
Her heart skipped inside her chest, and her eyes flew open.
Dancing in the rain with Philip was one thing, but this . . . this, whatever it was, was far too intimate.
“Well, then, you’ve done your duty. Is your conscience eased?”
She’d made her voice purposely bitter and angry, and was well rewarded when he dropped his arms and pulled away from her.