by Ashley March
“Seven.”
Three more men escaped. Only Charlotte, Edward, and Andrew remained.
“Eight.”
Edward was the one with the cigar in his hand. The smoke curled in a wisp through the air as he spoke in hushed tones to Charlotte.
Philip had several interesting visions regarding what he would do with that cigar if the man should choose to stay.
“Nine.”
Edward left. A pity.
“Ten.”
The last man, the one named Andrew, the one who had spoken about the divorce, darted a glance between Charlotte and Philip. With a little squeak, much like a frightened mouse, he too scurried away.
Charlotte glared at Philip and tried to follow. He caught her around the waist.
He clucked his tongue. “Their lack of devotion must pain you.”
“Your high-handed arrogance pains me more.”
Philip’s hand tightened over her hip. “You can’t expect me to allow those men under my roof. They are like dogs after a bitch in heat, panting to be your lovers.”
Her chin rose a fair two inches. “Why not? You parade your lover in front of my nose.”
“Jealous, Charlotte?”
Her eyes narrowed, then softened. Her lips parted. “Jealous? Yes, perhaps I am.”
Philip stared at her, certain he was imagining her words.
She turned into him, placed her hands flat upon his chest. “Did you want me to be jealous, Philip?”
A dangerous question. “I—”
“Shall I tell you how I wished, if but for a moment, that I could be her instead? That I could be as proper, as elegant, as perfect for you as she appears to be?”
His voice became a hoarse whisper as his breath refused to leave his body. “Why would you wish such a thing?”
“Shall I tell you how I longed to be the one upon whom you showered your attention, your affection?”
His hands had somehow come to grasp her arms, pulling her closer inch by inch. “Why would you long for my affection?”
Tell me. Tell me you love me.
Her lips grazed the corner of his mouth, his cheek, as she spoke. “Shall I tell you how much it pained me to see her in your arms, to know she was the one you planned to spend the rest of your life with?”
“Why, Charlotte? Tell me why,” he demanded harshly, striving to keep her at a distance as her body leaned into him. Even though he desired nothing more than to crush her to him, enfold her in his arms, and hold her until neither of them could remember, until both of them had forgotten the tragedy and the pain of the past three years.
He couldn’t suppress a tremor as her lips brushed his ear.
“I shall not,” she whispered. She rubbed the softness of her lips gently over the shell of his ear. “Philip, you bastard. How I detest you.”
Pushing away from him, she shook loose of his grip. “How dare you! You wanted me to be jealous.”
He watched her wide eyes and her gesturing hands as if from far away. Strange, how his mind chose to believe these words were the lies, and that her previous confessions were the truth.
Her voice rose as his silence continued. “Is there nothing you do that is not an effort to control me? Were you upset when you saw those men here, my lovers, as you call them? I hope you were, Philip. I truly hope you understand how it feels to be manipulated at every turn, to have your every action and emotion turned against you.”
She had moved away from him, pacing across the room as the torrent of words rushed out, and now she whirled around. “Damn you, Philip! Say something!”
He couldn’t. He had no defense.
Charlotte’s chin lifted, and she averted her gaze. “Fine. Leave me be. Go to Joanna. Go to your lover. Just . . . leave me alone.”
Perhaps it was his anger at her continued assumption. Or perhaps, despite how hopeless it seemed, he couldn’t leave her alone, no matter how much she begged.
Regardless, he wouldn’t allow her to believe for one moment longer he had been unfaithful to her again.
“Joanna isn’t my lover. I never intended to marry her.”
Her head lifted, a wary frown of disbelief marring her brow. “Then why did you agree to a divorce? Why did you bribe me into giving you those ridiculous lessons? Why would you pretend?”
“I—” His mouth was open. He could tell her the truth now and perhaps gain her respect. A doubtful possibility.
He could tell her the rest, that he had never intended to let her go. And he could lose any chance—slim though it might be—that still remained of winning her love.
“I wanted you.” A partial truth, and yet still he regretted the words instantly. Hated the sudden vulnerability they brought with them.
Hated the curl of her lips, the silent accusation he saw in her eyes which said he was like all of the other men who only coveted her body.
Her voice shook as she spoke. “So the harp, the fair, the kindness—oh, God, I should have known when you were kind to me—they were all ploys to get me in your bed?” She threw up her hands, yet the bleakness of her eyes spoke more than her dramatic gesture. “For heaven’s sake, you’re my husband, Philip. You own me, do you not? All you must do is unbutton your trousers and tell me to get on my knees, and I am expected to obey—”
“No!”
“You think I am a whore. Should I not act like one?”
His hands, his legs, his entire body trembled with rage as she swept her skirts aside and knelt on the carpet before him.
“Get up.” He bent toward her, swiping away her hands as she fumbled at the front of his trousers. “Get up, damn you!” Gripping her elbows, he tugged with all of his strength. The force caused her to stumble against him, burying her cheek against his chest.
“Oh, I do apologize, Your Grace,” she mumbled. “I forgot it is not proper to fornicate in one’s own drawing room—”
Philip shoved her away. Too forcefully, perhaps, because a short cry escaped as she fought to keep her balance.
He stepped forward to steady her, but stilled when she lifted her head. The bright sheen of tears could not disguise the despair shining in her sapphire eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—”
Her laughter, wild and anguished, tore at his soul. “Of course you didn’t. Just as you didn’t mean to trick me into marrying you, or to take my innocence and then leave me so alone. You didn’t mean to make my life a living hell—”
“And I never meant to fall in love with you. But I did. God help me, I love you, Charlotte.”
Charlotte stared at him. She lifted her hands, palms outward—an attempt to steady the sudden-tilting world as much as to stop his words. “Don’t.”
Philip moved toward her. “That’s why I gave you the harp. That’s why I took you to the fair. I tried to court you, to woo you, though, admittedly, I’ve done terribly at it. And Joanna—yes, I wanted to make you jealous. I wanted to make you want me—” He sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “I love you, and I wanted . . . I hoped—”
She shook her head as she retreated, her legs heavy, unsteady. “Don’t. Don’t lie to me. Not about that. I believed you once, Philip. I’ll not do so again.”
“I dismissed my mistress because of you. You’re the only woman I want.”
“Ha!” Charlotte pointed a finger, noticed it was shaking, and buried her hands in her skirts. “How noble of you. Or perhaps you merely tired of her and have yet to find another—”
Moving her hands was a mistake. He advanced upon her, closing the distance quickly as she somehow managed to stumble into every piece of furniture in the room.
“Did you not notice how I suddenly began to escort you to the theater, the opera? How you would accidentally find me at the same parties you attended, or how I would be waiting for you in the breakfast room every morning, when for the past three years we had never dined together once?”
“I—”
He smiled grimly. “No, you didn’t
notice. No matter how I tried to show you I had changed, you continued playing the part of the scorned wife, flitting from one man to another.”
“Am I to regret my actions, Philip, to feel pity for you? I was the scorned wife, and those men—”
“You were my wife,” he reminded her, his voice low and dangerous. “Those men had no right to touch you.”
Her heart thrummed violently in warning, but Charlotte couldn’t keep the sultry smirk from her lips. “But they did touch me, Philip. Here.” She placed her hands on her breasts, lifting them up.
Philip’s growl rent the silence of the room as he covered her hands with his own.
“Here.” Though he tried to keep her still, she dragged her hands—and his—slowly down her torso, around to her buttocks. The movement brought him a step nearer, caused his chest to brush against her breasts.
Charlotte released a small gasp at the unexpected arousal caused by his nearness. His breath fanned the hair at her temple and his scent—so masculine, so dark—teased her nostrils with its decadence.
His hands turned and twisted so that they grasped her wrists, pulled her arms forward, between them. Charlotte held her breath as, with a sort of reverent tenderness, he kissed the fingers of one hand and then another.
Then he released her completely and stepped away, leaving Charlotte to wonder why she should feel so bereft at the space between them. As if she had wanted him to continue holding her, touching her.
She wondered what he would say if she told him the truth about all those other men.
God help her, was she softening toward him merely because he’d told her he loved her? What sort of fool was she?
It unnerved her how Philip watched her, his silver gaze heavy, brooding. His mask of stoicism had fallen into place once again; it was as if she’d imagined the anger and sadness in his expression before.
“If you’d like a maid to help you pack your bags, I will not stop you from leaving.”
“Why should I leave?”
“Why would you stay?” he countered.
It was a dare, plain and simple. He pretended he didn’t care whether she went or not. Charlotte would have easily called his bluff—why, indeed, would she want to stay?—except for the brief longing which flared in his eyes before he shifted his attention to the window.
Curious, uncertain of both him and herself, she remained silent.
“You have an hour or two before dusk. You could be on your way back to London before nightfall.” He paused before turning back to her, a falseness to the curve of his lips. “I’m sure Denby and all your other admirers would be more than happy to see you.”
Charlotte nodded slowly, as if she were considering his words. As if the promise of groping hands and leering eyes were any sort of temptation. Yet, instead of agreeing with his suggestion, she asked, “It is twelve days until the end of the month, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“I agreed to stay for three months. If I stay to the end of this one, what shall we do in the next twelve days?”
His jaw tensed under her scrutiny. “Anything you wish. If you do decide to remain at Ruthven Manor, I only ask that you allow me to attempt to prove to you I am telling the truth. Let me court you. Let me show you how I’ve changed. Let me love you, Charlotte.”
“And after the twelve days?”
“Whether or not you insist on the petition, I will continue to love you.” His eyes burned fiercely as he held her gaze, and Charlotte felt a slow flush begin to make its way from her chest to her neck, and then spread upward across her cheeks.
The clock on the mantel ticked off several seconds as they stared at one another, the air seeming to hum between them.
If she were to base her decision on fear alone, she would have already fled upstairs and rung for her maid. She was afraid of him, more afraid than she’d ever been of anything in her life. Fearful of the attraction which still remained between them, no matter how much she tried to deny it. Fearful of how quickly her emotions could be swayed by his vulnerability.
But it was too late to be governed by fear.
“Will you stay?” Philip asked finally.
“Yes,” she whispered, giving him a brief smile which she hoped didn’t betray her cowardice. “I’ll stay.”
Chapter 15
Charlotte awoke the next morning with the devil on her shoulder. Philip had made a mistake by telling her she could do as she wished for the remainder of the month.
Instead of ringing for Anne to come help her dress, she pulled a wrap over her nightgown and tied the sash into a jaunty little bow.
Tapping her finger against her chin, she considered the drawer of stockings. Then she looked up at the portrait of the old duke and sighed. To her dismay, she had tossed the most decadent ones across the frame, and wasn’t tall enough to pluck them down. Staring again at the plain woolen stockings in the drawer, she decided bare feet would be best.
She skipped down the stairs two at a time, her loose hair bouncing with the motion.
“Good morning,” she called in a singsong voice as she entered the breakfast room. It was unnecessary to fake the grin that stretched her lips as she waited for Philip’s reaction.
Although an egg and a half-eaten slice of toast remained upon his plate, he focused on a copy of the Times spread before him. Had he waited for her to waken and descend for her own breakfast, as he had claimed yesterday? It was odd—and quite thrilling—to think of him anticipating the pleasure of her company.
He lowered the paper. “Good morning, Char—” A choked sound issued from his throat as he scanned her attire, skipping from her tapping toes all the way to the long locks she had left hanging past her shoulders.
Nodding happily, she dragged out a chair from the table before the stunned footman nearby could assist her. Leaning forward, she planted her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her palms. “You may be wondering why I am wearing only my nightgown and wrapper.”
Philip’s gaze jerked from somewhere below her neckline to her lips. “Indeed.” He turned to the corner of the breakfast room and signaled Fallon. “Leave us,” he ordered.
Once the servants had retreated, he returned his attention to Charlotte with a jerk of his head, a lock of black hair falling forward over his brow. “Did you lose your maid perhaps? Or are you simply trying to tempt me beyond control?”
She ran her fingers along the edge of the table. “Are you tempted?”
She frowned at the seductive heat gleaming in his silver eyes. “Never mind,” she added hastily, and wished she had thought to at least pour a glass of juice to occupy her hands.
“Yesterday you said I could do anything I wish.” She shoved away from the table, twirled around, and sank in a curtsy. “I’ve decided today I wish to wear my nightclothes for the entire day.”
He folded the paper and set it aside. “I suppose you mean to test me. To see if I will forbid you or scold you for doing something unbecoming a lady of your standing.”
“It is rather scandalous, is it not?”
He rose to his feet. “I shall join you if you like.”
Folding her arms across her chest, Charlotte smirked. “You wouldn’t. Your dukeliness would not allow you.”
Philip deftly untied his cravat. “Do you not remember, Charlotte?” After he stripped off his coat, he laid it neatly over the back of his chair.
“Remember?”
The waistcoat came off next. He paused, sending her a wicked glance. “I prefer to sleep in the nude.”
Her memory conspired with him to taunt her, flashing images across her vision of gleaming muscular flesh, shadowed only by the flicker of candlelight and the bold, eager strokes of her own hands.
“I wonder why you blush,” he murmured.
Reminding herself that any modesty she’d once possessed had long since disappeared, Charlotte met his gaze evenly and willed away the heat beneath her skin. She gestured to his discarded clothing. “Although quite brave of you, I�
��ve decided your sacrifice isn’t necessary. You shall be a duke forever. I will be a duchess for only a short while longer. We can’t compromise your ducal propriety, can we?”
It was a good speech, especially for one delivered almost breathlessly. But even she knew it was far from convincing.
Still, Philip nodded and tucked in the hem of the shirt he’d been in the middle of removing. “As you wish, my love.”
My love.
A simple endearment, yet painful to hear. How many times had he whispered those words in her ear before their wedding? How many times had she believed them to be true?
“I wish for you to call me Charlotte. Not ‘my love,’ nor ‘Your Grace,’ nor even ‘Duchess.’ Only Charlotte.”
“Ah. Very well. If, however, you decide to address me as anything other than Philip, I must tell you I am particularly partial to ‘O Supreme One’ and ‘His Great Magnificence.’ ”
Charlotte tilted her head. “Why stop there? Why not ‘Your Majesty’ then?”
He swept her a regal bow. “If you insist.”
A swell of laughter caught at her throat. This was the man she’d fallen in love with: clever, wicked, too charming for her to resist. He made it so easy for her to believe, if even for a moment, that this was the sort of man he could be all the time.
He made her want to believe.
For some strange reason she had agreed to stay. Certainly there existed some mad, masochistic side of herself that she hadn’t realized. After all, it was silly to remain, if only to see it through to the end. He had agreed to the divorce no matter what she chose.
She might stay for the next twelve days, but she must remember why they could never be happy together, and forget about the reasons why her heart claimed it was possible.
She would not allow herself to forget the agony and pain of his betrayal. She could not.
Philip picked up his cravat. Dangling it between his thumb and forefinger, he regarded it with a forlorn gaze. “I suppose I should put the rest of my clothes back on. But if you should change your mind in the future—”
“Why do you love me?”
The easy smile faded from his lips; his eyes captured hers, holding her immobile, refusing to let her pretend she hadn’t just spoken the question aloud. One of his hands gripped the chair beside him, his knuckles white.