Seducing the Duchess

by Ashley March

  For a moment, as she paused from pinning on her hat to stare at him, he imagined he could feel her pity. But then she gave a quick nod and turned away. “Good day, Your Grace.”

  “I’ve been considering it for the past few days, and I simply can’t make up my mind. I wish your opinion, Philip. Where do you think I should go?”

  “Go?” he echoed dully, unable to tear himself away from the sight of Charlotte’s throat as she paused to take a sip of wine.

  “Yes.” She set aside the glass and returned her attention to the slice of veal before her. “The Orient? Italy? Africa? Russia, perhaps. I’ve always heard the Russian ambassadors are great lovers. If those are the politicians and diplomats, imagine what the real Russian men could—”

  “Enough!” Philip slammed his fist on the table, causing the entire supper service to clink and clatter in protest.

  Charlotte merely quirked a brow at his display. “Very well. Italy it is.” She took a delicate bite, her lips pursed slightly as she chewed. Her eyes sparkled as she swallowed. “Although I never knew you hated the Russians so.”

  Philip bared his teeth. “I see you have forgotten the protocol for proper supper conversation. Thank God, I’m sure Joanna doesn’t spout such lewdness while eating.”

  Lowering his gaze, he reached for his own wineglass, imagining the stem as the thick necks of all Russian men.

  “Have you bedded her?”

  Philip whipped his head toward her, disbelieving his own ears. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s quite a simple question. Have you bedded Joanna yet?”

  Slowly, with great patience, he returned the wineglass to the table. Bloody hell, was he blushing? “Do you not recall what I said only a minute ago about decorum—”

  She waved his words away and continued to talk around a mouthful of food. “I’ve been wondering if you would be able to wait. You know, since you told me you haven’t had a mistress lately. But I know your appetite is great. After all, you certainly didn’t wait long to find another woman after we married.”

  Philip abruptly stood up, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. “Shall I ask for your forgiveness again? If I remember correctly, you refused to give it before.”

  She stared at him momentarily, her eyes wide, before she shrugged. “It is needless to speak of the past, as we won’t be in each other’s future. I used it merely as an example.”

  He couldn’t think straight. She shouldn’t be so calm, so matter-of-fact, so . . . apathetic.

  “Well, Philip? Do not keep me in suspense. Have you or have you not bedded dear, dear Joanna?”

  Her words rang in his ears—Russian lovers, no future between them, Joanna, Joanna, Joanna—and he pierced her with his stare, hoping to see past her smiling facade and into her heart.

  She returned his gaze steadily, until it seemed she was the one who saw through him instead.

  Finally, with a muttered excuse, he bowed and left.

  Charlotte’s head sank into her hands as the sound of his footsteps faded. Shaken, she looked down at her half-eaten meal, remembering only the bitter taste of each bite upon her tongue.

  For a moment she’d thought he heard the sarcasm breaking past her manner of indifference, the sarcasm which served only to mask the hurt and betrayal.

  How could she let him do this to her again? After all this time, after everything . . .

  She had a chance at freedom, and yet she couldn’t be happy about it. Oh, no, she had to torture herself by spying on him and Joanna, by wondering what else they shared besides hand touches and kisses and annoying little pet names.

  She wasn’t surprised he had refused to answer her question. She wasn’t shocked, either, when he had resorted to gracing her with the coldness of his silver eyes before he left.

  What had been interesting, and quite uncharacteristic, was the fact that he had nearly blushed, and pounded on the table, and thrown his chair back in anger.

  She was becoming more adept at annoying him than she had thought.

  But, God, she still couldn’t help but wonder—had he left the dining room simply to go to Joanna? Would he even pretend to retire for the night? Had he already gone?

  Rising from the table, Charlotte gulped a mouthful of wine, draining the rest of the glass.

  She stepped carefully over Philip’s chair and avoided making eye contact with the ever-present footman at the edge of the dining room.

  Yet once she passed him, she stopped and asked quietly, “Did you see in which direction His Grace went?”

  “No, Your Grace. If you like, I shall—”

  “No matter. Thank you.”

  She looked in the music room, the study, the drawing room, the library—after fourteen more rooms and still no sign of Philip, she encountered Fallon in the hall.

  He could barely restrain his frown at the sight of her. “Your Grace,” he intoned.

  “Fallon. Have you seen my hus—His Grace?” she corrected hastily. He was her husband, true, but it seemed odd to address him as such when he clearly no longer saw her as his wife.

  The butler’s eyebrows twitched as he spoke. “I believe he went for a ride, Your Grace.”

  “Oh.” On a horse, or on a woman? “Very well. I believe I shall ...” Do what? Run to a window in the hope of seeing him? Retire to her bedchamber, sit by the fire, and wait to hear the sound of his footsteps returning?

  “Your Grace?”

  She smiled at him. “I shall be in the sitting room.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” he answered and bowed, as if it were normal for her to apprise him of her intended location.

  The sitting room. Not the drawing room, a place reserved for entertaining guests and making idle conversation. No, the sitting room was for intimacies—intimate conversations between close friends and family; days and nights spent with loved ones, simply doing nothing but enjoying one another’s company.

  As Charlotte entered the room, her gaze immediately fell upon the chairs, the sofa—the places where Philip and Joanna had renewed their own intimate relationship, where they had engaged in touches and kisses and words.

  She made her way to the escritoire, defying the impulse to take one quick glance out the window. She would probably see nothing, and even if Philip were visible, it would change nothing.

  He had spoken of freedom earlier, with the tone of a man who understood its importance. Of one who had been locked away, caged for too long. And he had spoken of finding happiness in his freedom away from her.

  In this respect, at least, they were kindred spirits.

  Charlotte opened the desk drawer, drew out a sheaf of papers. The fire was lit, but it was a dim, flickering light, casting more shadows than it dispelled.

  She grasped a candle nearby, preferring its softness to the bright glare of an oil lamp, and set it next to the papers.

  A sharpened quill and a bottle of ink were next.

  Before she had even written the first invitation, more than ten names entered her mind.

  Philip enjoyed entertaining Joanna here at Ruthven Manor; Charlotte would enjoy entertaining her guests as well.

  Philip wished for freedom and the happiness their marriage had long denied him; Charlotte was eager to partake of such liberty, too.

  And while he and Joanna conversed and flirted in the sitting room, Charlotte would use the drawing room to host her own little intimate party.

  Chapter 14

  Three days later, at promptly two o’clock in the afternoon, Charlotte’s guests began to arrive.

  “Your Grace,” Fallon said from the door of the drawing room, “may I present Mr. Wright, Mr. Bowlby, and Viscount Massey?”

  “Thanks, old chap,” Edward Wright said, clapping Fallon on the shoulder. “But dear Charlotte knows who we are. Don’t you, Char?” Edging around the butler, he threw her a wink.

  “Edward!” she cried, stepping forward to allow him to give her a kiss on the cheek, then waited as Andrew Bowlby and Lord Massey had their t
urns at taking her hand and sketching a bow.

  “Gentlemen,” she began, then halted as Massey nodded toward the door. Turning toward Fallon, she said, “Thank you, Fallon. You may be dismissed. I am expecting a few more guests. Please send them in. There will be no need for introductions.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” he said, and inclined his head as he walked backward into the hallway. There was no change to his usual dour tone of voice, but he made his disapproval more than clear.

  “He’s a cracked old bird,” Andrew said from behind her. “Still, not much of a jailer if this is your prison.”

  Charlotte sent him a flirtatious grin as she turned and sat in the sofa in the middle of the room. “Then I imagine it shan’t be difficult for you to help me escape.”

  Massey, the only one of the three men who had remained standing, lifted a corner of a curtain with a long, gloved index finger. “Holland and Stafford have arrived.” His ice blue gaze switched to Charlotte’s. “Have you summoned all your beaus from London, dearest?”

  A shiver of unease ran down Charlotte’s spine as his lids lowered to her mouth. Out of all the men she had invited, Stephen Avery, the fifth Viscount Massey, was the only one who had made it clear he considered it only a matter of time before she became his mistress. All the others were content with the harmless flirtation, happy for the simple pleasure of keeping company with a beautiful woman.

  “Only my favorites, Stephen,” she murmured, sweeping her lashes downward. Though he made her uncomfortable, his presence was important to the effectiveness of her little performance.

  “You’re a naughty, naughty girl, Char.” Edward cut the tip of his cigar, rolled it between his fingers. “It’s why we’ve missed you so.”

  “I must admit I feared no one would come. I thought you were all scared of the duke.”

  “Scared?” Andrew scoffed beside her, leaning forward with the obvious intent of staring down the front of her gown. “He’s never done anything all these years. What would he do? Glare at us?”

  Charlotte shifted until she faced him directly, cutting off his view. “Of course, what you say is true. He has never cared about my . . . indiscretions in the past.”

  “I was at Fontaine’s that night.” Massey’s voice echoed from the corner. “He cares.”

  “Stephen.” Charlotte ignored the pounding of her heart at his words and winked at Andrew. “I am touched you think so.”

  “Hullo, gentlemen! Dearest Duchess.”

  Thomas Holland and Richard Caversham, Viscount Stafford, strolled into the room.

  Charlotte came to her feet and extended her hands. “Thomas, Richard, how pleased I am to see such friendly faces!”

  On it went, greeting her guests as they came over the next half an hour, flirting and smiling and laughing at all manner of sexual innuendos.

  Pretending not to notice when eyes strayed, adjusting her position subtly when hands attempted to follow eyes.

  She was skilled in this type of performance, juggling each suitor’s attention, taking care to make each man feel as if she preferred him over all the others.

  Only she had changed since the night Philip had stolen her away from Fontaine’s. She found herself fighting a yawn as Andrew and Thomas sparred, flinching at the overt glances Massey threw her way.

  She knew she could handle the men, but found she no longer wanted to. It all seemed pointless now, when it was only a matter of time before she and Philip would go their separate ways. She had gotten the divorce she’d wished for.

  And if she weren’t bitter and just a little immature, she would never have hosted this little party, hoping for Philip to come and see that she deserved some freedom and happiness, too. She needed to prove to him—and perhaps to herself as well—that she didn’t need him or care about his affair with Joanna. That she wasn’t the same foolish girl she’d once been.

  The clock on the mantel taunted her, ticking off the minutes ever so slowly. Philip should have come by now. Should have been alerted by Fallon to the inappropriate gathering in the drawing room. Told him that, once again, his improper wife was acting the whore.

  They had left the door ajar. At the very least, he should have heard the voices and come wandering in.

  Unless he and Joanna were too busy distracting each other in the sitting room . . .

  Philip’s thighs ached, his cheeks burned by the brisk October wind.

  He and Argos were no strangers to daily rides, but taking the stallion out for a gallop two or three times a day was excessive even for him.

  After spending several hours with Joanna at Ruthven Manor, he had escorted her home, but not before discussing his departure loudly with Fallon in the front hall. Not that it had done any good; he’d not seen Charlotte at all today. For all he knew, she might still very well be abed, entirely unaware of his continued companionship with their old friend.

  For the past two hours he’d ridden Argos over his estate, despite the possibility that Charlotte might not even know he was absent.

  The days were slipping away. With every minute he spent with Joanna, he was aware that he lost even more time with Charlotte. He second-guessed himself, an entirely new experience. He’d never been familiar with doubt before, and he didn’t relish the feeling now. The desperation with which his plan had begun now consumed him.

  If he’d meant to make her jealous, he had failed utterly. So far, his actions had served only to confirm her belief in him as an absolute bastard, a man unworthy of her.

  And yet, he continued this farce. For what purpose?

  He laughed, the sound harsh in his ears before the wind carried it away.

  Because he had no idea what else he could do. Because all of his plans had been exhausted. Only twelve days remained until the end of the month, and there were only two more months until the time he was supposed to let her go free. Yet all he’d succeeded in accomplishing was falling even more in love with her, and giving her a greater reason to hate him.

  With his heart lying heavy in his chest, Philip pulled on the reins and wheeled Argos back toward Ruthven Manor.

  Perhaps he should let her go now. It was clear her view of him hadn’t changed; why torture himself any longer than he must?

  Except his intent to divorce her, as everything else, had been a lie. She would never be free of him, and dear God, he would never allow her to be.

  As they neared the house, Argos gave an agitated snort, his ears bent forward. Soon Philip could see what the stallion had already sensed: three—no, four vehicles of varying sizes littered his grounds. Two broughams, a carriage, a curricle, a scattering of grooms in various colors of livery.

  Philip dismounted at once and threw his reins to one of his passing stable boys. Already, he could feel heat beginning to surge at the base of his spine. He didn’t need to ask, but some demon inside forced out the question. “What is going on here?”

  The stable boy, with an expression of bewilderment on his face, answered in stammering halts. “The d-duchess, Your G-Grace. A party. Sh-She—”

  It was enough.

  Philip brushed by the stable boy and strode toward the front door. Somewhere, a window was open, and the smell of cigar smoke filtered through the air. A loud masculine laugh followed.

  Fallon was not there to open the door. He was always there, nearly as permanent a fixture as the door handle itself.

  “Fallon!” Philip roared as he entered, the sound of the heavy oak crashing against the wall a fitting punctuation.

  The butler immediately appeared from around the corner, his cheeks blanched a startling shade of white. He had good reason to be afraid.

  “Where is she?” Philip demanded.

  “In the drawing room, Your Grace,” Fallon answered, his breath wheezing while he followed on Philip’s heels.

  “How many?”

  “I tried to reach you, Your Grace. I sent a footman—”

  Philip rounded quickly. “How many?” he asked again, quietly.

  The
butler recoiled as if struck. “T-twelve at last count, Y-Your Grace.”

  Philip spun around and proceeded onward to the drawing room. He could see the edge of the entrance, hear the rumble of voices.

  “Men? Women?”

  “All men, Your Grace. And, of course, the duchess.”

  Philip halted outside the doorway and gave Fallon a grim smile. “Of course.”

  He stepped inside.

  It took a moment for anyone to notice him, simply because all of the visitors were focused on Charlotte, who sat in the middle of the room.

  In the middle of the bloody sofa, in between two of her admirers. It appeared she’d altered one of the gowns he’d bought her, a crimson dress which revealed more skin than it concealed.

  She was the first to become aware of his presence. She smiled and waved, inviting him closer—damn her—as if he was one of them.

  “Your Grace,” she called, effectively quieting the room.

  He didn’t return her greeting. “Gentlemen, I believe it is time you left.”

  One of them made the mistake of rising to her defense. “See here, Your Grace. We know about the divorce. Charlotte told us—”

  “I will count to ten. Anyone who has not removed himself from this house by that time should give notice to his second to meet me in the morning. I will kill you, by God, and I will defy any court which dares to punish me.”

  Charlotte stood to her feet, her eyes flashing. “If you force my guests to leave, I shall go with them.”

  “One.”

  No one moved.

  “Two.”

  A man in the corner rose and bowed. Philip recognized him as Viscount Massey.

  “Three.”

  “Adieu, my dear,” he said to Charlotte. “Until next time.”

  “Four.”

  Two other men followed Massey out of the room.

  “Five.”

  An argument began among four men to his left. Their voices quieted as his gaze fell upon them. One by one, they shuffled past him.

  “Six.”

  Charlotte turned to the men on either side of her. “Edward. Andrew. You won’t leave me with this ogre, will you?”