Seducing the Duchess

by Ashley March

  But no, it wasn’t Philip. His shoulders were too narrow.

  He was only one of many tall men with dark hair who had caught her eye that evening. She’d never noticed it before tonight, but it seemed England’s aristocrats bred mostly tall and dark men.

  It was quite frustrating, especially when one was trying desperately to forget one specific tall man with dark hair. And failing miserably. Damn him.

  “Charlotte?” Emma waved her hand in front of Charlotte’s face.

  “Yes?” She focused on her friend again, fixing a bright grin on her face.

  “No, don’t give me that fake smile. You were thinking of him again, weren’t you?”

  “Certainly not,” Charlotte replied, searching the crowd for more tall, dark gentlemen. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he was here. The sense that always alerted her to his presence teased her nerves, prickling her skin with awareness.

  “Aha! Then how do you know which ‘him’ I referred to?”

  “I—” Charlotte snapped her mouth shut.

  “He isn’t worth your thoughts, the wretch,” Emma declared loyally. “I cannot believe he lied to ...”

  Charlotte looked at her when she didn’t finish the sentence. Emma raised her eyebrows meaningfully, then darted her eyes back and forth from Charlotte to a space over her left shoulder.

  Turning her head, Charlotte attempted to glance behind her without being too obvious.

  Her breath seized in her chest. Philip stood not two feet away.

  As their eyes met, he inclined his head and stepped forward. “Good evening, Charlotte,” he greeted her, his voice low and intimate.

  She swallowed and lifted her chin. “Your Grace.”

  His eyes searched hers, and she looked away, her pulse pounding in her ears. Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that her response to him was normal. Anger could provoke a physical reaction more quickly than any other emotion.

  Speaking brusquely, she motioned to Emma. “Perhaps you remember Lady Emma Whitlock, Lord Severly’s daughter.”

  He bowed. “Lady Emma.”

  “Your Grace.” Emma’s shallow curtsy was nothing more than a creak of the knees.

  Dear, loyal Emma.

  Philip turned to Charlotte. “May I have the next dance?”

  She glanced at Emma. “Actually, we were about to leave.”

  Emma nodded weakly, clutching a hand to her stomach. “I feel quite ill, I’m afraid. The punch, I think.”

  Philip’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I should alert the hostess.”

  Charlotte opened her mouth at the same time Emma exclaimed, “Oh, no!”

  He arched a brow. Then, strangely, lowered it slowly, as if he didn’t want to arch his brow. It was rather an odd thing to see.

  “I mean”—Emma clasped her hands behind her back, then brought her hand to her stomach again—“I’m not sure the punch is the culprit. I shouldn’t want Lady Hysell to worry for nothing.”

  Charlotte glanced at Philip, who nodded as if this made perfect sense and wasn’t in any way the least suspicious.

  “I found your note. You are staying with Lady Emma?” he asked her quietly.

  She nodded.

  “Then it’s settled. I will take you to her house after our dance.” He held out his hand. “I believe the music is starting now.”

  And it was. Rising over the steady murmur of gossip and laughter around them were the lilting first notes of a violin. Couples separated in the middle of the ballroom to form the squares for another quadrille.

  “No,” Charlotte said.

  To her right, she could see Emma give an encouraging nod.

  “Come now, Charlotte,” he taunted softly. “You’re not afraid, are you?”

  Emma coughed loudly, so much so that a few people standing nearby edged away. “My throat,” she rasped. “It cannot be the punch, after all.”

  Charlotte glanced from Philip to Emma, then back again. She could feel the other guests watching them, waiting to see whether she would take his hand. If only to subdue the speculative whispers, she should dance with him. Besides, she wasn’t a coward.

  Yes, those were two very good reasons why she should accept his offer.

  And the flush that burned in her cheeks as she placed her gloved hand in his had absolutely nothing to do with his nearness, but rather the close confines of the overcrowded ballroom.

  “One dance,” she said, “Then Emma and I must leave.”

  “But—”

  Emma’s protest faded as Philip escorted her away.

  Charlotte studiously avoided looking at him as she waited for the quadrille to commence, instead murmuring a greeting to the other couples.

  The cue sounded, and they were the first to dance.

  Charlotte held her breath, waiting for Philip to speak so she could set him in his place. She had imagined many times what she would do when he came to London, and she already had several prepared responses for any apology or explanation he might attempt. Each one was sure to show him how little he meant to her now, how strong she’d become in the two weeks they’d been apart.

  Yet through the entire L’été figure he never once spoke; neither did he say anything as their part ended and the next couple began.

  Charlotte slid a sidelong glance at him through her lashes and nearly gasped. He was staring at her without any form of pretense, his gaze direct and smoldering.

  She looked quickly away, mentally flipping through her previously approved list of retorts and quips. When she found none to suit, she instead hissed, “Stop staring at me.”

  “As you wish,” he murmured in return, and was silent.

  She tapped her toes as the couple in the opposite corner of the square performed the figure, her fingers twisting in her skirts.

  He wasn’t supposed to be silent or do as she asked.

  She snuck a peek at Philip out of the corner of her eye to see if he was looking at her again, or—better yet—opening his mouth to speak.

  But his profile was to her, his eyes focused straight ahead, his mouth woefully shut.

  As the last couple danced, Charlotte fought back a wave of disappointment. She should be glad of his sudden decision to ignore her; it would make pretending as if he didn’t exist even easier.

  The music ended, and she too stared straight ahead as she placed her arm over Philip’s. He guided her back to Emma, who launched into a coughing fit as they approached.

  Charlotte turned her head toward Philip and smiled woodenly. “Your Grace—”

  “Thank you for the dance,” he said, lifting her hand before she could remove it and placing a kiss on the back. Then, as his eyes captured hers with that same smoldering intensity, he withdrew a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He turned her hand over and placed it within her palm.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, then nodded once at Emma and walked away.

  Charlotte’s fingers curled tightly around the paper as she watched him leave, realizing only once he was out of sight that he’d apologized and she’d said nothing.

  “Are you certain you want to leave?” Emma asked as they stepped outside, the noise and light of the Hysell ball receding behind them.

  Charlotte didn’t bother to answer, her thoughts focused on the parchment in her hand, anxious to retire to her bedchamber at the Severlys’ home and read Philip’s note in privacy.

  Besides, she’d already answered the same question from Emma two times as they wended their way through the throng of guests.

  Emma sighed deeply. “And I had heard Lord Courtenay and Mr. Morrow were both to be present tonight.”

  “And that is interesting because ...”

  She swung her head around. “Why, because—Oh, I forgot you weren’t here.” Her eyes lit and she peeked furtively around before leaning in close to Charlotte. “Mr. Morrow publicly accused Lord Courtenay of seducing his wife.”

  Charlotte shrugged. “He probably did.”

  Emma nodded. “Yes, but Mrs.
Morrow was there, and she stepped between them and begged Lord Courtenay to run away with her to France.”

  Charlotte halted and stared at her.

  Emma’s eyebrows wiggled. “Isn’t it delicious? Of course, Lord Courtenay refused, and now both Morrows are furious with him—Mrs. Morrow for rejecting her and Mr. Morrow for insulting his wife.” She glanced over her shoulder at the Hysell house. “Now you see why I wanted to stay. It is the perfect story for my new novel. Passion, jealousy, violence ...”

  “Violence?”

  She turned back to Charlotte. “It’s possible. It could happen tonight.” She paused. “Are you certain you want to leave?”

  Charlotte groaned. “I thought your stomach and throat hurt.”

  Emma made a face and rubbed at her throat. “You know very well I did that for your benefit.”

  “And that is why I love you dearly.” Charlotte continued to walk toward where the Severlys’ carriage awaited them at the curve of the drive, Emma trailing behind.

  As they reached the carriage, Emma asked, “What did he say to you during the dance?”

  The footman opened the door and Charlotte climbed in. She waited for Emma to sit across from her and the door to close before she answered. “Nothing.”

  Emma leaned forward, frowning. “Nothing?”

  “Not one word.”

  “Then you weren’t able to—”

  “No,” Charlotte said.

  “After all that practicing—”

  “I know. It was very disappointing.”

  Emma sat back and blew out a loud breath. “Well, we shall simply have to continue. Since he is back in London now, there will surely be plenty of opportunities for you to see him, and when you do, you will need to be ready. If ever a man deserved his comeuppance, it is the Duke of Rutherford.”

  Charlotte smiled. “I did like your suggestion for the comment about the tadpole.”

  “Slimy tadpole,” Emma corrected.

  “Of course.”

  They lapsed into silence as the carriage made its way east through Mayfair, to the older houses which weren’t quite as fashionable as Philip’s but still considered highly respectable.

  Every ten seconds or so Charlotte glanced down at her hand where she clasped the folded note, then resolutely looked away.

  “You’re not going to wait until we get home to read it, are you?” Emma asked.

  Which meant, of course, that Emma didn’t want to wait to know the note’s contents, either.

  “It’s dark,” Charlotte said pointedly.

  Ever resourceful, Emma reached over to where the lantern hung by the door and lit it.

  “It’s far too bumpy,” Charlotte hedged, then scowled as Emma quirked a brow. The well-sprung carriage was anything but bumpy; the most irregular of cobbled streets or dirt roads would not have so much as jostled its passengers. “Oh, very well.”

  Fingers trembling only slightly, she unfolded the paper and angled it toward the light. Her chest began to ache as she read.

  She walks in beauty, like the night

  Of cloudless climes and starry skies

  And all that’s best of dark and bright

  Meet in her aspect and her eyes

  Eyes which shine with undimmed life

  A beauty to provoke angels’ envy

  Too much for even heaven’s great heights

  Cast to earth, a goddess among humanity

  The fierce light of her soul beckons me

  A brilliant, pure, and passionate flame

  Though she is good, and I unworthy

  I will love her beyond death’s refrain

  He’d finished it. He’d changed a few words and added a few lines, and it was . . . beautiful. True, the meter was off and some of the words didn’t exactly rhyme, but still . . . it was quite simply the most wonderful thing she’d ever received.

  “What does it say?” Emma asked.

  Charlotte swallowed. “It’s a poem.”

  There was a slight pause, and then: “I don’t understand.”

  Charlotte nearly laughed, for it would have been the precise reaction of anyone else who had ever met Philip and then discovered that he read poetry. Or liked to give poems as gifts. She would have laughed, if she hadn’t been so very close to crying.

  “He wrote it. Well, not the first part—that he copied from Byron, but—”

  “He wrote it?”

  “Yes.” Charlotte shook her head. “No, not all of it. Byron wrote the first part—”

  “Byron?” Emma echoed.

  Wordlessly, Charlotte gave the paper to Emma, who smoothed the page over her lap and bent her head.

  “Oh,” she breathed after a moment, her finger trailing along the edge of the paper as she read. Then, after what seemed an excruciatingly long period of time, she raised her head and stared at Charlotte, her eyes wide. “Oh.”

  “Indeed,” Charlotte said. “Oh.”

  Chapter 20

  Philip held out his card to Lord Swinney’s butler.

  “He’s expecting me.”

  Whether the earl wished to see him was another matter entirely. Philip had sent a letter through his solicitor expressing his desire to purchase the last of Astley’s nude sketches of Charlotte. The man had yet to make a reply even after three days, but Philip refused to wait any longer.

  The butler’s eyes widened upon reading his card; then he swept to the side to allow him entrance. “Do come in, Your Grace. I will see whether Lord Swinney is at home.”

  Philip stepped inside and pulled out his pocket watch. The cold autumn wind rushed through the closing door, threatening to tip his hat off. “Please inform Swinney I will give him precisely five minutes.”

  “Your Grace?”

  “Five minutes, no more.”

  With a wary glance, the butler wandered away. Philip settled his hat more firmly on his head; he had no intention of staying long. It had been fairly easy to convince the other men to part with the sketches of Charlotte. Although Swinney seemed reticent to speak with him, Philip was prepared to increase his suggested purchase price to whatever number the man required. Buying the portraits would be worth any amount of money.

  He considered his timepiece again. One minute remained. Like some of the others, Swinney had been rumored to be Charlotte’s lover. Even though Philip now knew the truth and had no need to harm the earl, a certain violence pounded through his blood as he thought of Swinney looking upon Charlotte’s nudity and lusting after her. As he spied the butler returning to the entrance hall, he almost wished he would have been late.

  “This way, Your Grace. Lord Swinney will see you in his study.”

  The door to the room was open, and Philip waited until the butler had made his announcement before entering. Swinney stood behind his desk. He was a tall man, though an inch or so shorter than Philip, with light brown hair. Though a decade older, he’d kept himself physically fit. Philip could well imagine him flirting with Charlotte, attempting to seduce her into his bed. Once she was free, would he try to do so again? Would Philip be able to withstand knowing she was with someone else?

  He must. He had to let her go. He might seethe with jealousy, but at least she would be happy.

  Philip inclined his head in a polite nod. “Lord Swinney.”

  “Your Grace. I trust you are well?” He motioned to a chair near the desk. “Please, have a seat.”

  “Thank you for the pleasantries, but I prefer to stand. I’ve come about a sketch I believe you have in your possession. Of my wife.”

  It was slight, but Philip still saw the small tilt at the corner of Swinney’s mouth. “I must admit, your letter was quite a surprise. I hadn’t thought you cared.”

  Another sin of his, one that he would regret until his last breath. But hopefully, Charlotte would know very soon that he had spoken the truth when he said he loved her. “I do. I wish to buy the sketch for five hundred pounds.”

  It was a hefty sum, but he didn’t want to waste time on negoti
ations. Sweeney would know he was serious.

  The earl’s fingers tapped at the edge of his desk. “Five hundred pounds,” he repeated. “Perhaps I shouldn’t sell it, if you think it’s worth such a price.”

  Philip bared his teeth in a smile. “Do not mistake the generosity of my offer for weakness. I will have it, one way or another.”

  Sweeney arched a brow. “One thousand pounds.”

  “Done,” Philip agreed swiftly, then gave Sweeney his solicitor’s address where a draft would be waiting for him later in the day. “Now, where is the sketch?”

  “Yes . . . If you don’t mind, Your Grace, I believe I’ll have Davies show you the way.”

  As Philip followed the butler a few minutes later into Sweeney’s bedchamber, he understood why the earl had been reluctant to act as his guide. If he had been within reach, Philip would have killed him. The portrait of Charlotte hung on the wall opposite the bed, low enough that a person reclining would have been able to see it past the bed canopy. The bastard had pleasured himself with her likeness.

  Philip growled and strode toward the sketch, then wrenched it off the wall. With a black glower at Davies, he made his own way through and out of the Swinney residence. Though tempted to step into the study, he was able to resist by focusing on his next goal, the one that had made each passing minute worthwhile over the last several days: he would see Charlotte.

  Charlotte and Emma sat in a row of chairs at the Boughan musicale, awaiting the beginning of the performance.

  “You’re doing it again,” Emma muttered.

  Charlotte dragged her gaze toward Emma’s face. “What?”

  “You can pretend you don’t know what I mean all you want, but I know you’re looking for him.”

  Charlotte sighed and leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest. How was it possible to be so angry at him and yet want to be with him at the same time?

  Though she’d continued to tell herself over the past week that she still wanted her freedom, she couldn’t deny that she thought about divorce from Philip much less than she thought about him.

  She could have blamed it on the poem, but no rhyming words—no matter how prettily phrased—had her staring at her bedchamber door at night, fighting the urge to go to their town house and see him.