by Ashley March
For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer.
“I love you because ... you are everything that is vivid and bright in this world. You teach me what it is to be alive. You see me as a man, not a duke, and . . . I want to be one that is worthy of you. Every moment, I think of you. I imagine what you are doing if we’re apart. I yearn for the next time I will hear your voice, smell your perfume, watch your eyes dance with laughter or flash with defiance. And when I am with you—” He cut himself off, his breath harsh and labored.
“Yes?” she prompted, afraid if he didn’t continue he would realize her own breathing was just as erratic. Afraid he would see more than she wanted him to know.
“When I am with you I must pretend I am content to merely be in your presence. When, in fact, there is nothing I want more than to kiss you, to touch you. To believe, if for only one moment, that you are truly mine. Not because you are bound to me by the laws of marriage, but because you desire me as much as I desire you.” He made a feral sound—almost like an animal in pain. “Even now, I must hold on to this chair. A flimsy piece of furniture, but it reminds me to be civilized. Because if I were not—God knows, neither your hatred nor your disgust would keep me from you.”
She clutched at the edges of her wrap, fought to calm her racing heart. “I shouldn’t have asked you,” she whispered.
“I suggest you go to your bedchamber and dress yourself properly.” His lips thinned somewhere between a leer and a snarl. “Lest I forget myself and all of my ducal proprieties.”
She ignored his sarcasm and bitterness, his threat to ravish her, and instead focused on the quiet desperation lacing his voice. The wildness of that emotion intrigued her, fascinated her, and terrified her all at once. “I shouldn’t have asked you,” she repeated, as if saying it would erase the fact that she had indeed done so. As if it would remove the echo of his passionate speech, the nakedness of his eyes.
His eyes. Dear God, how could she have ever thought they were cold and empty? They were a silver tempest, raging with pain and longing and—they showed everything. They showed too much.
Gasping, Charlotte looked away. She didn’t want to see it. She didn’t want to believe him. He couldn’t love her.
“No, my darling. You shouldn’t have asked.” His voice, soft now, wrapped around her like a silken caress. It tugged at her, nearly swayed her to turn toward him, to forgive—
With an anguished cry, she fled the room.
Philip paced the hallways of Ruthven Manor, searching for Charlotte.
Ten more days. Ten more days. The silent litany played over and over in his mind as the tap of his boots echoed off the marble floor.
Yesterday had passed too quickly. She had studiously avoided him for the remainder of the day, and he couldn’t blame her. If anything, he was relieved he’d not had to face her after that embarrassing scene in the breakfast room. He hadn’t ravished her as he’d wanted upon seeing her in nothing but a nightgown and wrap, but he had lost control of his emotions. Allowed her to see his weakness.
He hadn’t gone searching for her when she declined to join him for supper that evening. Nor had he ventured near the music room when he heard the playing of the harp afterward, but had contented himself with listening to the lilting melody, closing his eyes and imagining the curve of her neck as she rested her head against the instrument’s column, the stroke of her slender hands across the strings.
Yes, they’d both had their reprieve. But no more.
At the sound of hurried footsteps behind him, Philip whirled. He scowled at the bent head of Charlotte’s maid. “Yes?”
“Her bedchamber is empty, Your Grace.”
“You saw her this morning. You helped her dress.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And she said nothing to you? Spoke of no plans, no thoughts for the day?”
The maid’s head sank even lower. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but Her Grace doesn’t take me into her confidence.”
Silently cursing, Philip spun on his heel, marched a few paces, and turned again. “Fetch Fallon at once. He was to stay near her.”
If she had fled, Fallon would know. Surely it was a good sign that the butler hadn’t yet come to inform him of her departure.
Yet the maid remained, her gaze glued to the floor. The fingers of her left hand twitched.
“Well?” Philip demanded.
“It is Mr. F-Fallon, Y-Your Grace. He has also disappeared.”
The high trill of another servant’s voice down the hall echoed harshly in the sudden silence.
“I see. You may go.”
Only with the utmost discipline was he able to keep himself still as he watched the maid walk away, his expression void of the panic consuming him at the girl’s stuttered words.
For if Fallon were nowhere to be found, it could only mean he had followed Charlotte—wherever she may have gone. That he had not had time to alert Philip to her escape. She’d left him after all.
Once the maid passed from sight, he turned and ran down the hall. The front entrance was empty—no footman attended the door in Fallon’s absence.
He rushed outside and around the corner, his eyes fixed on the stable ahead. “Here,” he called to the unseen stable boy. “Ready Argos!”
It was a windy day, the sky threatening another rainstorm. The breeze whipped across his face, stealing his words.
“Here,” he called again as he neared the doors. Yet no one answered, and no one appeared.
He made himself walk calmly down the row of stalls, careful not to frighten the horses. And with every step he cursed his missing servants, cursed Charlotte for leaving him, and cursed himself for driving her away.
Argos nickered and stomped as he neared.
“Easy, boy.” He lifted his hand to stroke the stallion’s forehead. He reached to unlatch the stall door with the other, but froze at the sound of laughter.
Her laughter.
As if he doubted his own hearing, or was afraid of scaring her away if he made too much noise, Philip crept silently toward the sound.
The door to the tack room was wide open, and every chair around the table in the center was occupied, every pair of eyes focused on the play of cards in front of them.
He immediately dismissed the others as unworthy of his attention. He cared only about Charlotte.
She hadn’t left him.
He recognized the dress she wore as one of the many he had purchased for her. The neckline was appropriately high, the cuffs of the sleeves reaching to her wrists. A dress befitting a duchess.
Though the green muslin didn’t cling to her curves or reveal a lavish expanse of bare skin, when she smiled, and as she turned her head just so, she appeared as alluring as if she’d worn one of her scandalous silk gowns.
And Philip realized that no matter how decorous her attire, no matter even if he was able to convince her to wear sackcloth every day, nothing would lessen this need for her, this weakness in his character.
She would always tempt him.
“Charlotte,” he murmured, uncertain whether he spoke because he wanted her attention or for the simple pleasure of saying her name aloud.
At once the play at hand ceased. A chair crashed backward as the man to Charlotte’s right stumbled to his feet. “Your Grace!” Even shocked, Fallon managed an exclamation in monotone.
Philip stared at the frozen tableau of his butler, the stable boy, two groomsmen, the housekeeper, one of the cook’s maids, and Charlotte in turn.
The smirk on her lips dared him to reprimand her, mocking him as always. But it was the slide of her gaze to the cards in her hand that momentarily stilled his breath.
She refused to meet his eyes.
How . . . interesting.
The Charlotte he knew, his shameless and wicked wife, would never have shown such vulnerability.
He retrieved the fallen chair and set it upright, careful to brush against her shoulder as he sat down. She wriggled her own seat to the left
.
Philip casually draped an arm across the back of her chair and nodded to one of the groomsmen. “Deal me in.”
“I believe,” Charlotte said, her shoulders stiffening as he stroked the back of her neck, “you must wait your turn. Fallon is—”
“Leaving,” the butler interjected behind them. “I—I mean, we must return to our duties at once. Thank you for the lovely diversion, Your Grace.”
At his cue, the other servants bowed and curtsied and scurried away, knocking into one another in their haste to exit the tack room.
“No, you must stay,” Charlotte called, half rising from her seat. “Fallon, you still owe me—”
The dull thud of the stable doors slamming shut cut off the rest of her plea.
Sinking back into her chair, Charlotte sighed heavily and flung her cards on the table.
“You seem rather desperate not to be alone with me, my dear,” he drawled.
“Charlotte,” she corrected immediately.
“Hmm?” He removed his gloves, his fingers aching to touch the velvet softness of her skin.
“I asked you to call me—” She jerked away as he caressed the curve of her jaw.
The heavy, dark heat of desire sharpened his senses, all of his nerves attuned to her scent, the unsteady rise and fall of her chest, the ragged sound of her soft breath as it escaped her lips.
“Very well. I shall do as you ask. Charlotte.”
“Thank you.”
He watched her long, slender hands reach out to gather the cards. Her fingers fumbled as she shuffled, and she cursed when one after another they slid across the table, some falling to the floor below.
She hastened to pick them up, but he halted her with a touch of his hand.
“Allow me.”
Nodding warily, still refusing to look at him, she sat down.
It was an odd thing, really. She obviously didn’t know how to act around him now. Was it his barbaric confession of his need to ravish her, he wondered, or his continued declaration of love?
He had been prepared for her to leave; he had anticipated her scorn, her hatred, her laughter at his desperation—all of these were expected and justified.
But for her to show even a sign of vulnerability, of uncertainty . . .
Not just to feel them, but to allow him to see her weakness . . .
Ten days to convince her to love him again no longer seemed such an impossible task.
Philip bent to collect the fallen cards. He spied one which had drifted to the ground near her skirts, and he fisted his hands, tempted to reach beneath her hem and stroke the delicate line of her ankle.
As if aware of the wayward hunger of his thoughts, her legs shifted to the left. “Ah, here is the last one,” she announced, her voice a husky murmur in his ear.
Philip lifted his head to find her bent over, her face tantalizingly near. Gone was any hint of vulnerability, a spark of laughter instead brightening her eyes. It was almost as if he’d imagined her timidity a moment before.
With a slow wink, she scooped up the remaining card and motioned for him to hand over the rest of the deck.
“Sit down, Your Grace.” This time she shuffled neatly, the cards a blur of precision beneath her fingers. “Now that you have scared away the other players, I demand a new game.”
Determined to win back the ground he had lost, to set her off balance once again, Philip reclined lazily in his chair. Letting his thigh rest heavily against hers, he traced his fingers along the nape of her neck. “A new game? Of course. Although I must confess I didn’t bring any coins along.”
He replaced his fingers with his lips, brushing the sensitive skin below her hairline. “Perhaps we could play for”—he smiled against her skin as he felt her shudder—“other, more pleasurable prizes?”
“Mmm. Such as?” She arched her neck to the side.
Philip leaned away, his breathing not as controlled as he might have wished. He stared at her unspoken invitation. He could imagine himself touching her, tasting her, the fragrance of her skin branding his senses as his lips made love to the elegant, creamy white column of her throat.
And he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop there.
She offered herself so easily, yet it wasn’t enough for him. He didn’t want pieces of her, but everything—her body, yes, but also her heart, her soul.
Charlotte played the game of seduction well—too well. Yet he had only seen her react to his own overtures; never had she been the one to approach him.
Very well. Let her come to him. Only then would he know that it was because she truly desired him, and not because she felt she must act the role of temptress in response to his carnal pursuit.
“Philip?” She turned at his silence, her lips parted provocatively.
And as quickly as he’d resolved to endure her enticements, he found he didn’t have the strength to deny himself entirely.
“A kiss,” he said, unable to tear his gaze away from the soft ripeness of her mouth.
“Is that your wager, then?”
“Yes.”
Charlotte pursed her lips, and he almost groaned. Dragging his eyes away from her, he focused on the tip of her fingernail, tapping against the cards.
“Have you ever swam in the nude?” she asked at length.
Good God.
“No,” he answered, proud of himself for being able to even utter that short syllable. He stared across the tack room, willing the sight of saddles neatly hung upon the wooden wall to imprint itself into his mind. Anything to erase the unbidden image of Charlotte, splashing naked in the pond. Of Charlotte, her nipples peaked and hardened. “I’m not certain that’s such a good idea. It is October, and the water will be quite cold.”
She remained silent, as if mulling over the point. Then, just as Philip managed to fix the saddle to the lower right side firmly in his mind, she said softly, “Perhaps there are ways to make it warm.”
Philip cursed silently, the saddle quickly giving way to a dozen flashing images showing precisely how he and Charlotte could warm themselves. Together.
“Is it settled then?” she asked, dealing out the cards. “The winning player will have their wager granted. If you win, it’s a kiss. If I win, it’s a swim in the nude. Do you agree?”
Philip grunted his assent. He knew he should hope, for the sake of his sanity, that he might win the wager. Yet as he leaned forward to pick up his hand from the table, he couldn’t help but pray for Charlotte’s victory.
Chapter 16
It was a very clever wager.
And a very foolish one, to tempt her indifference and her discipline.
“I seem to remember we were supposed to swim together,” Philip called from the edge of the small pond.
“No, I merely said it would be a swim in the nude.” The bark of the oak tree scraped roughly against Charlotte’s palms as she leaned back. She forced a laugh to her lips, the sound of it hoarse from the dryness in her throat. “I never said I would join you.”
He gave her a rueful grin over his shoulder, then planted his foot in the water. “It’s freezing.”
“I’m sure it will get better once you go in all the way.” She, on the other hand, felt as if she were being consumed by fire. The muslin was suffocating, pressing down on her chest, restricting her breath. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t turn away. She was supposed to be accustomed to the naked male physique. And although it had been three long years since she had seen a man without any clothes, Philip couldn’t know that. She must act as if she weren’t in the least affected by his nudity.
But though she tried, she couldn’t pretend to herself. Not when the fading autumn sunlight poured over his skin like the sweep of a lover’s hand, painting the lines of his body in golden contrast to the shadows of dusk. Not when her heart betrayed her by beating so furiously, or her mind by imagining what it would be like to have her hands caress his skin, her mouth touch the warmth of his chest.
To be fair, she hadn’t actual
ly thought he’d go through with it, not with the chance that one of his servants or Joanna might see him in all of his ducal glory. But he had surprised her yet again.
“You do realize I shall be ruthless in my revenge, don’t you?” Philip waded into the water, creating small waves which lapped at the sculpted muscles of his thighs.
Charlotte prayed she wouldn’t faint.
His body jerked as the water reached his waist, and a low muttered curse drifted to her ears. “A-are you certain y-you won’t come in?”
“Yes.”
He turned around, and Charlotte was helpless to look away from the broad expanse of his shoulders, his chest, the lovely line of hair trailing over his abdomen and down, down—
“What if I drown?”
Her gaze snapped to his. “I shall fetch Fallon.”
“Surely you will cry?”
“Copiously. A torrent of tears.”
He smiled, his mouth curving in a luscious grin marred only by the clatter of his teeth.
How was it possible that he could make even goose-flesh appear attractive? “Is it truly very cold?” she asked.
He gave her an arch look. “You kn-know it is.”
With a slight bow, he dove into the water, only to appear a moment later with long, even strokes as he swam toward the opposite edge.
Charlotte sighed. And for the first time, she was brave enough to admit to herself that it was with longing.
She wanted him.
Yes, she loved him. She had never stopped.
And she hated him. Or at least, she should, after all the pain he’d caused her.
But oh, how she wanted him.
So much, in fact, that she was tempted to forget that pain, to see if his love could heal her now, when the promise of it had almost destroyed her before.
As he reached the other side of the pond and dove again, loneliness taunted her. Her constant companion, it kept her safe in isolation, but a prisoner of her own fear.
Why could she not trust again? Why could she not believe him?