by Ashley March
Would it truly be so terrible to allow herself to be happy with him?
Tormented by her thoughts, Charlotte idly scanned the pond, searching for Philip. Her eyes found only the calm surface of the water.
She surged forward. “No.”
She clutched her skirts and ran, but they were so heavy, and then her shoes sank into the softened soil as she neared the water, slowing her pace even more.
“Philip!”
She would kill him if he was playing a jest. If he weren’t already dead, if he hadn’t drowned from the cold, she would kill him—
“Philip!” She wrenched his name from her throat, past the lump of panic that lay lodged there.
Toward the middle of the pond, a circle of concentric ripples fluttered over the water. Charlotte held her breath, her gaze glued to the spot.
As seconds passed and the water smoothed again, the surface reflecting the darkening sky above with the clarity of a looking glass, something broke inside her.
Seized with a sort of madness, she kicked off her shoes. Then, as she twisted her torso in an attempt to reach the line of buttons at the back of her dress, she saw him.
Walking. Along the edge of the pond. Toward her.
“It was far too cold to swim back,” he said with a sheepish shrug.
Frozen in place, torn between relief and embarrassment, Charlotte could only stare as he came closer.
When she didn’t speak, his gaze drifted to her discarded shoes and then her arms, stretched at an awkward angle behind her. She could only hope he hadn’t seen the fear on her face.
“You thought I had drowned, didn’t you? You were going to rescue me.”
The softness of his tone and the nearness of his large, naked body sent heat coursing to her cheeks. She dropped her arms and studied the sky. “No, I—I decided to go for a swim after all.”
“Liar.”
“No, it’s the truth. You appeared to be enjoying yourself, and—What are you doing?” His hand enveloped hers, his touch somehow warm beneath the cold moisture still clinging in droplets to his skin. He lifted her fingers to his lips.
“Thank you.” His eyes twinkled at her over their joined hands. “It warms my heart to know you don’t truly wish to see me die.”
“Humph.” It was, really, the only appropriate response. Or, at least, the only response she deemed appropriate. The other urged her to hurl herself into his arms. “I think you should put your clothes back on now.”
He kissed her hand again before slowly lowering it. But he didn’t release her, instead intertwining their fingers. For some reason, that simple gesture sparked another blush.
“Afraid you’ll not be able to control yourself, are you?” he teased as they turned to walk back toward the oak tree.
“Quite so.” Approximately thirty more seconds until they reached his discarded clothing, and then perhaps another two minutes while he dressed himself. All she had to do was continue to look straight ahead and count the time. Soon this weakness would pass.
One ... two ... three ...
“There is still the matter of my revenge to discuss,” Philip said. “Clearly you intended to trick me. If I weren’t a gentleman, I might be inclined to voice my suspicions as to the likelihood of you possessing the queen of clubs at the exact moment when it appeared I would win our little wager.”
Would he question her if she insisted he not talk? Because when he spoke, the sound of his voice dragged her gaze toward his mouth. And then all she could do was stare at him, watching with avid fascination as his lips moved and curved and drew a hint of a smile to the corners.
She cursed and glanced away.
“Charlotte? The queen?”
“On the chair, under my skirts. I picked it up when the cards fell.”
A moment of silence. “Ah.”
They had arrived at the tree. Charlotte glanced down at the neatly folded stack on the ground: cravat, shirt, waistcoat . . .
Confounded elaborate fashions. It would take him forever to dress, certainly longer than the two minutes she had promised her self-restraint.
Deciding it best to continue to the manor alone, Charlotte gave a short wave. “I shall see you at supper. I just remembered I have to—”
She was whirled around, her back pressed against the oak, the dampness of Philip’s skin wetting the bodice of her dress.
His breath was hot against her ear. “I believe you owe me a kiss.” A drop of water fell from his hair to trickle over her collarbone and down her chest.
Charlotte shivered.
“Unfortunately,” he murmured, his thumbs stroking the pulse points at her wrists, “the unbridled joy of having my nether parts exposed for all the world to see has disappeared, and I must keep it brief.”
Then, with a gentleness she didn’t know he could possess, he turned his head and placed a lingering kiss against her temple.
“I love you.”
She didn’t say anything. She didn’t pretend she hadn’t heard him, and she didn’t deny his words or argue with him.
Instead, she simply closed her eyes and breathed. And in the silence which followed, as the darkness wrapped around them and the heat of his body seeped into her bones, she allowed herself to believe it was true.
Supper was a quiet affair, the mood far less volatile than usual.
It was, Charlotte decided, almost intimate in nature.
Philip questioned her about her opinions and preferences: her thoughts on industrialization and what it meant for the nobility as well as commoners; whether she preferred chocolate with or without sugar; and if she liked to read Austen more than Shelley.
He attempted to convince her that William Macready was a far better actor than Edmund Kean, then expressed his shock when she informed him that she hated not only the theater, but opera as well. She laughed at the way his jaw gaped open, but quickly quieted, her interest piqued, when he began to teach her how to curse in Italian.
It reminded her of the conversations they’d had years ago, when he would sneak her out of her parents’ house to stroll with him through the woods separating the estates. Sometimes their words were mingled with stolen kisses and long embraces, but he always listened when she spoke, and acted as if everything she had to say was important. He’d been the only person besides Ethan to treat her so.
After dessert was finished and Charlotte announced her intent to retire for the night, he escorted her to the stairway.
“Nine more days,” he said as she began to climb the steps.
Charlotte paused and turned to him. His hands were clasped behind his back, his shoulders rigid with tension. What did he expect her to do, to say? Her heart was still too fragile; even she was hesitant to take it out of the shadows and examine its scars, let alone voice her longing and desires to the man who had created the wounds.
Tilting her head, she gave a long, sly grin. “Take heart, Your Grace. Only a few weeks ago I would have gladly watched you drown.”
His eyes followed the curve of her neck and lingered upon her lips before lifting to meet her gaze. Charlotte’s fragile and scarred heart trembled.
“Then I have made progress,” he said.
“So it would seem.”
“And yet I couldn’t help but notice how you didn’t immediately come to my rescue this evening. I had time to swim to the far end and walk halfway back to you before you even removed your shoes.”
Charlotte lifted her shoulder in a shrug—a gesture subtle and elegant, meant to draw attention to the fit of her bodice. As his eyes once again followed her movement, she scolded herself for provoking him. She knew he desired her, and her body’s response to the heat in his silver gaze proved she was playing a dangerous game.
Grasping her skirts in one hand and the banister in the other, she continued to climb backward up the stairs. “You are the ninth Duke of Rutherford, all that is just and true and wonderful. Surely God would not dare allow you to die. But if it eases your mind, I will tell you the tru
th—it was the dress.”
Philip’s brow furrowed. “The dress?”
She turned when she reached the landing, sending him an innocent glance over her shoulder as she said, “Yes, the green muslin, the one you bought for me. Mud and grass stains are impossible to remove. It would have been a terrible waste.”
His laughter followed her as she disappeared around the corner and entered her bedchamber. The rich sound lit a smile on her face as she closed the door and leaned against it, the wood smooth beneath her cheek and hands.
She sighed, wondering at her hope to hear his footsteps chasing after her, helpless to understand the extent of this longing for him.
All she knew was that each minute with Philip made it more difficult to maintain her pretense of indifference. At the same time she worked so hard to hold on to her facade of the seductive temptress, she feared he would see through her at any moment. And when he realized her deceit, that she still loved him, had never stopped loving him, and that she had always loved him and only him, she would be helpless.
But, whispered her bruised heart, perhaps it would be worth it.
If he had changed.
If only he hadn’t said he loved her three years ago and made her believe him, then maybe she wouldn’t have these doubts now.
Charlotte closed her eyes. She was tired of going around and around in her head and trying to convince herself of reasons why she should give him another chance when she knew that path would lead to her own destruction.
It was simple. She couldn’t keep herself from loving Philip; she had long ago resigned herself to that inevitability. But willingly giving him power over her by letting down her defenses was inexcusable.
Straightening, she pushed away from the door. He wasn’t coming after her, and she was glad.
Then she turned, and a disbelieving breath of laughter escaped her.
The wall to her right was blatantly stark, the portrait of the eighth duke, Philip’s grandfather, absent. Where it had once hung proudly displayed, now only the discoloration of age remained to be seen.
Her stockings and scarves no longer served as irreverent decorations to conceal the last duke’s disapproving sneer, but were folded neatly and arranged at the edge of her bed.
On top of the stack lay a folded note.
How unpredictable her husband had become. He must have ordered the portrait removed while they were having supper.
Charlotte moved halfway to the bed before she realized she was tiptoeing, as if the note were a secret and might be taken away at any moment before she could read the words within.
With trembling fingers she snatched the parchment and hastily unfolded it.
I’d rather you wear these instead. I especially prefer the red lace stockings.—Philip
Pressing the letter to her lips, she sank upon the counterpane. How could she resist his challenge? For though subtle, the invitation was clear.
The question, however, was whether she could indulge her desires and yet remain in control.
Charlotte reached out and sifted through the pile of silks and satins until she found the pair of red lace. They had always been one of her favorites, chosen for their decadence, their symbolic rebellion of everything Philip respected, everything he expected from a proper duchess.
How interesting that, above all others, he would favor these.
The note fell to her lap and an eternity seemed to pass away as she fingered the lace edges of the stockings, her chest rising and falling unevenly.
She feared she’d asked the wrong question of herself. It wasn’t whether she could remain in control, but whether she wanted to.
Philip glared at the parchment lying on the desk before him.
No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t seem to find the words to adequately express his thoughts.
The wastebasket near his chair was gorged with his many attempts. His fingers appeared tarred and feathered from stroking the quill from tip to end repeatedly as he sought the perfect phrase.
Should he change the fifth line from soft with light to soft as night? But no, he couldn’t very well repeat the same word from the beginning of the poem.
Philip looked from his hands to the paper and back again. Snarling, he broke the quill with a satisfying crack.
Byron could go to hell.
Philip knew he should leave well enough alone. The harp had gone over perfectly well; there was no need to continue torturing himself by endeavoring to write a poem for Charlotte.
But he knew he would, no matter how many hours he spent laboring in vain or fantasizing about the resurrection of Byron just so he could strangle him to the grave again.
It had been two months since he’d found the slim volume of Byron’s poetry in the empty sitting room of their London town house.
No depression in the sofa had marked her presence; no perfume lingered on the pages. Yet as Philip had opened the book, he imagined he could see her face light with pleasure as she recited the verses, could see how the morning sun must have touched upon her skin and turned her dawn blue eyes to sparkling sapphires. It was as if she’d left an imprint in the air around her.
Since that time, for some inexplicable reason, the completion of the poem had become a symbol of hope that Charlotte would love him again. He’d burned his first epic attempt, and yet he continued to work on it. For even if it were terrible—and God, it was, really and truly awful—perhaps she would read it and finally believe he loved her.
If attempting to write the bloody thing had taught him nothing else, it was that only a lovesick fool could lament over the fact that the only English word which rhymed with “noble” was the most decidedly unromantic “global.”
Philip lowered his head into his hands, then froze. With a muttered oath, he withdrew a linen kerchief from his pocket and methodically wiped at the ink on his face and hands.
He should be happy. The day had been quite successful, and Charlotte was slowly lowering her defenses. When she spoke to him now, there was a softness in her tone that hadn’t been there before.
But there was also the look—that uncertain, confused, almost wounded look which crossed her expression at times. Perhaps she thought she was hiding it well, or that he wouldn’t see, but he did. And it tore him apart.
He was the one who had put it there.
Philip thought he had changed. Indeed, he knew he had—one could not love Charlotte without being transformed by her.
Yet he couldn’t deny that he was still manipulating her. Putting his need to have her over her desire for freedom. He’d counted on winning her love, refused to consider the alternate possibility. He’d been convinced that the end would justify the means.
But now he had to realize that despite his best attempts, he might lose her.
How could he divorce her? How could he let her go?
But if he did not, if he reneged on the promise he’d never intended to keep, could he live with her hatred? The contempt she’d felt for him these past three years would be nothing compared to what it would be if he betrayed her trust yet again.
God, he was a selfish beast.
How could nine more days with her suffice? He needed a lifetime, an eternity of her laughter, her irreverent teasing and uninhibited passion.
To see her, to hear her, to have some part of her—even if none of her smiles were directed at him and he could never possess her heart.
Philip set the kerchief aside. He stared at his left hand, at the wedding band he had once scorned. A blackened web of ink stained the flesh around it, emphasizing the bright golden gleam.
He would not yet give up hope. Despite these inconvenient little bouts of doubt and despair, he knew Charlotte’s resistance was fading.
He picked up the scattered pieces of the broken quill and the ruined kerchief, then tossed them into the wastebasket where so many of his failed attempts at poetry mocked him.
Steeling his thoughts against the possibility of defeat, he opened his desk drawer and
drew out another piece of parchment and a new quill. The first lines of the poem were committed to memory, and the words flowed easily onto the paper.
He dipped the tip into the inkwell and paused, pen poised over the page as he fought for the next line.
“Her soul . . . No, the bright light of her soul—”
A knock sounded at the door of the study, Fallon come to stir the fire.
“Enter,” he called, then bent his head over the paper as he wrote.
The fierce light of her soul, it beckons me.
“I’ve always wondered what it is that keeps you so busy in here,” came a low, seductive voice.
The quill jerked across the paper, leaving a thin, uneven scratch.
Philip stared at the line. His pulse raced as he schooled his features into impassivity. He glanced up. “Estate business, my dear—”
The last syllable caught in his throat.
Cloaked in a red satin robe, Charlotte strolled across the room, her hips swaying in a gentle, undulating rhythm. She lifted her hands to her head and began to pluck the pins loose from her hair.
He watched, mesmerized, at the movement of her slender wrists, the deliberate flick of her fingers as she sent the pins scattering to the carpet below.
Her hair swept over her shoulders and cascaded past her breasts, a heavy veil which was enough in itself to tempt him past the edge of reason.
“You said it again,” she reprimanded. She halted in the middle of the room, the glow from the fire a backlight to the fullness of her curves.
“Pardon?”
“‘My dear.’ You said ‘my dear.’ You’re only to call me—”
“Charlotte.” Her name rushed roughly from his lips.
How could she not know it was her name that was the endearment, that he’d used those other words to protect himself from revealing too much? It was her name that was sacred, her name which he repeated over and over again to the silent evening shadows and the dawning sun, when his empty arms ached with want of her.
“Charlotte,” he said again, uncaring now if his tone should disclose the extent of his affection. His need for her. “What are you doing here?”