by Ashley March
He had lied to her and manipulated her, but she knew that the only control he had over her now was that which she gave him. And the problem was no longer that she couldn’t stop loving him, but that she didn’t want to stop loving him.
Bloody hell.
“What was that?” Emma bent her head to peer into Charlotte’s face.
“What?” Charlotte asked, thinking about Philip—of course.
Emma motioned to her throat. “You groaned.”
Charlotte shrugged. “I was, er, thinking about the musicale and wishing we weren’t here.” Which was true. She’d much rather be with Philip.
Emma narrowed her eyes. “Uh-huh,” she said, before turning toward the impromptu stage created for the small gathering.
Aware of Emma’s ever-watchful presence beside her, Charlotte was trying to surreptitiously survey the room for Philip when she noticed a very particular thing.
She nudged Emma in the ribs. “We are alone.”
Emma gave her a quizzical look. “There must be over a hundred people here.”
Charlotte sighed. “Yes, but they are all sitting on the rows behind us and in front of us. Haven’t you noticed no one is sitting beside you?”
Emma turned her head to the right, where at least five empty seats lay between her and the next guest. She peered past Charlotte, where perhaps a dozen seats were unoccupied, so that Charlotte was the last person sitting on that side of the row.
“Perhaps I have broken out in a rash?” Charlotte asked drily.
Emma grinned. “If so, then I have, too. Excuse me for a moment. I believe there is gossip to be had.”
She stood up and scooted past Charlotte.
As Charlotte settled her skirts again, she saw that a woman with a long nose two rows ahead was watching her over her shoulder. When their eyes met, the woman jerked her chin and snapped her head around.
Charlotte smiled to herself.
She wasn’t unaccustomed to being slighted or made to feel like an outcast. God knew her actions over the years had warranted such a response from society’s self-righteous matrons and virgin debutantes, and her background as a squire’s daughter left much to be desired. As the Duchess of Rutherford, however, she’d always been treated with a reluctant respect. Even if the stodgy members of the ton didn’t quite meet her eyes, they still managed a proper greeting.
Now she was being given the cut direct, and she couldn’t help but wonder what must have happened. Or, more to the point, what Philip had done.
As the musicians walked onto the stage and settled in their chairs, Charlotte decided to amuse herself.
Finding a face turned toward her out of the corner of her eye, she glanced in that direction and made eye contact with the blond young man. His eyes widened and his mouth parted, and then he spun around so fast in his chair that he knocked into the woman beside him. Who, in return, scolded him and peered behind her to see what he had been looking at.
Charlotte smiled and gave a small wave.
The woman froze, then slowly turned to face the stage.
The evening might prove to be far more interesting than she’d originally thought.
As the first strings of a Bach concerto vibrated through the air, Charlotte nodded at a portly man with bulging eyes and another woman who had her hair piled high on her head to divert attention from the prematurely balding sides. A few minutes later, in the midst of a violin solo, Charlotte had half of the audience turning red in the face as she waved, nodded, winked, and even blew a kiss.
The next piece, a Mozart piano sonata, was just beginning when Emma returned. She plopped down on the seat beside Charlotte, a flush high in her cheeks, her eyes gleaming bright. She reached out and gripped Charlotte’s hands. Tightly.
“Ow,” she said, tugging them free. “I need those—”
“A divorce,” Emma said breathlessly. “His Grace petitioned the courts for a divorce.” She grasped Charlotte’s hands again. And this time, Charlotte didn’t notice when she pressed the bones together.
Oh, God. He’d done it. He’d actually done it.
Emma cocked her head to one side, her lips pursing. “At least, that’s the rumor.”
“How do you—”
“Lady Fitzwilliam. She heard it from her husband, who heard it from their daughter’s new husband—did you know they eloped to Greece? Not Scotland, but Greece. Is that not the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?”
Charlotte opened her mouth to agree, then caught herself. “The rumor, Emma,” she pressed.
Emma returned her gaze from the ceiling, where she had presumably been imagining two of her characters disappearing beyond a lovely Greek horizon.
“Yes, the rumor. As I was saying, the new husband heard it from Lord Rothmar, who heard it from Lord Ste—”
“Shhh.”
They both turned to find the person who made the noise. All four people behind them—what appeared to be a mother with her three daughters—immediately blanched upon meeting Charlotte’s gaze. One by one, they looked past her to the musicians.
Charlotte and Emma turned back around.
“Well, I couldn’t hear the cello,” they heard whispered behind them.
Charlotte squeezed Emma’s hands. “Lord Rothmar?”
Emma nodded. “He heard it from Lord Stebbins.”
She waited, but Emma just looked at her. Finally, she asked, “And how did Lord Stebbins hear?”
Emma blinked. Then she blinked again. “I don’t know.”
Charlotte stood up.
“Where are you going?” Emma asked, her voice rising to be heard above the chorus of voices protesting that they couldn’t see.
“I need to go home.”
“Why?”
Charlotte sat down again. It was a good question. What would she do? Ask Philip if the rumor was true? And if it was, what then? Thank him? Congratulate him? Did one pull out a bottle of sherry to mark such an occasion?
Besides, she didn’t really feel like celebrating.
She felt . . . odd. Lost, almost. Because if Philip finally granted her request and divorced her, she would no longer be the Duchess of Rutherford.
Which meant he would no longer be her husband.
An obvious result of divorce, of course, but one she wasn’t prepared for in the least. She’d thought she was; she’d had dreams, many dreams of what she would do and who she would be when she was free.
Yet now she couldn’t remember any of those dreams.
All she could think about was Philip, and what he would do if the courts approved his petition. It would take months, of course—possibly a year or more, even—but then . . .
Would he marry again? Would he love his new duchess? Would he look at her with hunger in his eyes and write her love poems that made her want to laugh and weep at the same time?
Emma leaned over. “Are you all right? You look . . . strange.”
“I’m great. Wonderful. Fantastic.” She said the last with such force that Emma recoiled.
Charlotte smiled brightly, and it somehow felt like her lips were detached from her body. The stares hadn’t bothered her before, but they did now. They weren’t looking at her because of who she was—society’s darling harlot—but because of the divorce petition. And she hated them for their gossip. Hated that they had known before she did.
The musicians rose and bowed to the audience, marking the first intermission. Though Charlotte fixed her eyes on the harpist, she could still see several of the guests watching her. Her cheeks burned.
“I’m certain he would retract the petition if you asked,” Emma said as they applauded.
“Why would I do that?” Charlotte murmured. “This is what I’ve always wanted.”
Emma was silent for a moment. “Of course,” she said at last, patting Charlotte’s hand.
And for some reason, more than the judgmental stares, the haughty noses lifted in the air, and everything else, that made Charlotte feel the worst.
Although
Emma suggested they leave during the intermission, Charlotte refused. She would stay through the entire musicale. The gossipmongers might say many things about her, but she wouldn’t give them a reason to call her weak.
“It’s not necessary to hover within six inches of me,” she told Emma, sipping at the punch. She seemed to have developed a bit of masochism, for even though it tasted distinctly like cabbage, she kept drinking more and more.
“I like hovering,” Emma said idly, her head tilted toward a pair of matrons and their daughters. Turning toward Charlotte, she huffed. “They say you’ve been to bed with half the men in London. As though you wouldn’t have better taste. Maybe two of the men in London would be worthwhile, but ...”
Charlotte sucked in a sharp breath. She’d heard his voice. Twisting around, she spied Philip moving through the crowds, his gaze fixed on her.
“. . . and Blackwell, but even he has that glass eye from the war. Which, in a way, I suppose—”
Charlotte nudged her friend. “He’s here.”
Emma craned her neck toward all four corners of the room. “Blackwell’s here? Where?”
“No, my hus—His Grace.” Her cheeks burned as he approached, unable to imagine what his intention would be in seeking her here. Would he confirm the rumor, or deny it? Why must her pulse leap at the thought of the latter?
“Oh.” Emma edged nearer. “Shall I pretend to be ill again?”
Before Charlotte could shake her head, he was there, standing before her, and although she had to tilt her head back to look at him, she emphasized it with a hike of her chin as well. “Your Grace.”
“Charlotte.” He smiled and reached for her hand. Lifting it to his mouth, his lips lingered against her gloved fingers. Her heart throbbed painfully with each second that passed.
I hate him. I love him. I hate him. I love him.
He lowered her hand, but didn’t release her. “Smile, my love, so everyone can see.”
Emma cleared her throat. “I will be nearby. Less than two feet away.”
Charlotte watched Emma turn her back and inch to the side, close enough that she could still overhear everything they said. As if he were her force of gravity, Charlotte found her gaze being dragged back to Philip, her lips curving as he’d suggested. “Exactly why am I smiling?”
“A claim of adultery seemed the easiest way to win the petition, but I hate for them to think ill of you.”
Her smile froze in place, achingly numb. “Then it’s true? The divorce rumors?”
“Yes.” Philip reached toward her, and for one breathless moment Charlotte thought he might stroke her cheek, but his arm fell away. His chest expanded as he inhaled deeply. “And I hope one day you can forgive me.”
His silver eyes searched hers, and Charlotte forced herself to look away, smiling into the crowd. “What, no declaration of love? No demand to see how you’ve changed?”
His fingers tightened around hers, then eased. “I don’t expect you to forgive me now. But ...”
When he didn’t speak for several seconds, Charlotte glanced at him.
He smiled, more charming than before, and released her hand. Bitterly, she realized he was continuing his performance for the musicale guests. “Ah, yes. I’d forgotten.” He leaned toward her, his voice a low murmur in her ear. To the others, it must have appeared quite intimate and confusing, given the common knowledge of their relationship. “I recently acquired all of your nude sketches. I’m taking the liberty of delivering them to the Severly residence tonight. I thought you might like to have them.”
“I—”
“Of course, if you want to sell them again, that’s your decision. But considering the truth of your previous behavior, that you acted as you did only to provoke me, I assumed you would want the choice.”
Why wouldn’t he let her keep him assigned to the label “bastard”? Why must he tear her heart to pieces every time she decided to hate him? “You didn’t want them?” she whispered, unable to stop the flush of pleasure at the thought of him looking at the sketches. She wanted him to desire her still, to lust after her.
He made a choked sound. “I think it would be better for both of us if you had them.”
She nodded, her eyes halfway closing at the nearly tangible touch of his breath on her skin. “Thank you.”
Straightening, Philip took her hand again. Although it appeared he tried to smile, the gesture didn’t make it beyond a shallow indentation. He stared down at their joined hands and intertwined their fingers, and Charlotte drank him in. From the shining black crispness of his hair to the condescending wing of his brow, from the firm line of his mouth to the proud jut of his chin, she devoured him, both grateful for the opportunity and ashamed of her own indulgence.
Then he looked up, bent to kiss her cheek, and stepped away. “Good night, Your Grace,” he said, bowing.
She curtsied, her lashes lowering lest he see her hunger and disappointment at his departure. “Your Grace.”
“I love you.”
Though she jerked her gaze up at his low words, he was already gone, striding away through the crowds.
Two weeks later, a knock sounded at the door of the drawing room. Philip turned away from the window overlooking the street.
“Enter.”
Fallon appeared. Philip glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. It was thirteen minutes past eleven. Only three minutes had passed since he’d last looked.
“Well?”
Fallon inclined his head, then began to speak in the tone of a soldier reporting to his superior. “She hasn’t strayed from the Severlys’ house this evening.”
“Are you certain? She might not be at any of the society events, but she could have gone to Fontaine’s, or one of the other gambling dens she likes to visit.”
“No, Your Grace. As you requested, I posted a groom across the street to watch for her departure. She hasn’t left.”
Philip looked back at the clock. If she was still at the Severlys’ house, then it was unlikely she would leave for entertainment elsewhere at this hour.
“Very good,” he said, moving to sit upon one of the wingback chairs before the hearth. “What of today?”
In a low monotone, Fallon reported Charlotte’s actions throughout the day, pausing every so often in his telling to answer Philip’s questions.
A walk in the park in the morning. Alone. A stroll down Bond Street with Lady Emma Whitlock. No, Her Grace did not buy anything, but Lady Emma bought a rather large and frightening purple hat with pink feathers. They rode through Hyde Park in the late afternoon, and were seen at one point talking with Lord and Lady Fitzwilliam. Her Grace wore a frown.
“Why was she frowning?” Philip asked. She hadn’t seemed upset at the Boughan musicale.
“I cannot say, Your Grace. The footman wasn’t close enough to overhear their conversation.”
Philip regarded him for a long moment. “Has she seemed happy otherwise?”
The butler’s mouth parted, almost as if in surprise, and then promptly shut. It was the most emotion Philip had seen from him in a decade. That is, if one didn’t count the night Philip had caught him playing cards in the stables with Charlotte.
“Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not ask him to report on Her Grace’s facial expressions, only on her whereabouts and her actions. I will make the appropriate inquiry and return shortly.”
“Very well.” Philip began to wave him off, then thought better of it and called, “Fallon.”
The butler executed a sharp turn. “Your Grace?”
“Thank you.”
Fallon’s eyes shifted to the door, then back again. “You’re welcome,” he said stiffly, then paused. “Is that all, Your Grace?”
“Yes.” He moved to the desk, bending his head to the sheaf of papers before him. The sound of the door thudding followed Fallon’s departure.
On Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday morning of last week Charlotte had gone for a walk in the park by herself. That was nothing out of
the ordinary. And she seemed to regularly go shopping with Lady Emma; last Wednesday indicated Lady Emma had also returned with a hat, only this one had been covered in red and yellow beads. But none of his notes since his return to London included the observance of Charlotte’s expression—happy or otherwise. This was why the sudden mention of a frown was all the more concerning.
He wasn’t stalking her, precisely. He was simply . . . observing. She might have no desire to be with him, but he had not lost his craving for her. And if he couldn’t be with her, if he couldn’t see her or talk to her—and he didn’t trust himself to do any of these things, when he’d very nearly given in to the temptation to throw her over his shoulder and abduct her yet again the night of the musicale—then he could at least hear about her.
Philip sometimes wondered if this observing would be something he continued for the rest of his life, even after the courts approved his petition for a divorce. And he knew they would. He was, after all, the ninth Duke of Rutherford. He always got what he wanted. Except for Charlotte.
It was bloody ironic. Or perhaps, not ironic at all, but simply very, very sad.
But then he didn’t like to think about the rest of his life, or about the divorce petition. For he knew himself well, and feared that if he dwelled upon it too much, he would try to revoke his appeal.
Apparently selfishness was a difficult habit to break. And he was trying not to be as selfish as he’d once been, to allow Charlotte the freedom she wished. If he’d learned anything since he’d abducted her, it was that he hadn’t loved her nearly enough, that his plans had been centered on what he wanted and what he desired. Now, nothing mattered but her.
It was the knowledge that he would finally be the cause for some happiness in Charlotte’s life, as well as the determination to distance himself from his grandfather’s memory, which kept him from rescinding the petition.
A knock sounded again.
“Enter.”
The door opened, and the butler stepped inside. “Your Grace,” Fallon intoned.
“What did he say?”
“Although he didn’t pay particular attention to Her Grace’s expressions or mannerisms, he does remember thinking that she has appeared rather serious recently.”