Seducing the Duchess

by Ashley March

  She inhaled deeply. “How did you know it was me?”

  His mouth tipped up at the corner. “I just did.”

  She nodded. It shouldn’t have made sense, but it did. She was the same way; every time he entered a room, she could feel it—almost as if the very air she breathed shifted with the force of his presence.

  He moved toward her, then stopped. “How are you, Charlotte?”

  Her mouth parted. She didn’t know how to answer. He had never asked her such a question before, and in truth, she’d been reluctant to examine her feelings too deeply lately. It was easier that way.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” she finally said. Then, because it seemed polite: “How are you?”

  “I’ve missed you.”

  They stared at one another for a long moment, and though neither of them moved, the space between them seemed to lessen in distance.

  Charlotte took a step backward.

  “I heard you planned to renounce the dukedom,” she said, the words rushing out in a breathless stream.

  His brow arched. “I’d not heard that one yet. Although I did like the rumor about me deciding to join the clergy.”

  “Then you’re not planning to—”

  “No.” He paused. “Do you want me to?”

  She shook her head. “No, of course not. I just ...” She glanced away, then back. “I had hoped it was untrue. I know how much being a duke means to you.”

  “You mean more.” He said it quietly, so convincingly, and Charlotte’s heart wrenched inside her chest.

  Deciding it was best to pretend she hadn’t heard him, she walked past him to the window. She needed something to look at besides Philip. She watched her fingers trail along the dark wooden trim, then stared outside at the flurry of snowflakes. They were falling faster now, a frenzied white blur.

  “What of selling Ruthven Manor? Is that also a rumor?”

  “No, it’s true. I have no wish to live there any longer. There are too many memories,” he said, his voice coming closer as he moved to stand beside her.

  She opened her mouth to ask if he meant memories of her, but thought better of it.

  “I thought it was entailed,” she said instead.

  “It isn’t. Ruthven Manor is the ducal seat only because the sixth duke decided he liked Warwickshire better than Cumberland,” he said, then added wryly, “Too many Scots, I believe.”

  As he spoke, his breath fogged the window, and he wiped it away.

  “But you did petition for the divorce,” she said quietly.

  “True.”

  He turned his head toward her, and, as a matter of course, she turned hers.

  “Soon you will be free,” he said. His lips curved slightly, as though he couldn’t quite manage a full smile.

  “As will you.” Her gaze met his steadily, searching for—something. “To find a new wife, a proper duchess.”

  His half smile faltered.

  She turned to inspect the snow again. She’d seen enough. The pain and the longing were still there. “Fallon said you’ve been acting rather strangely of late.”

  He didn’t answer her, though she waited for a long while. “Philip?”

  “I need you to leave,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  “I—” The words stuck in her throat, and she put a hand there, trying to coax them out.

  “Please. Go.”

  He shoved away from the window and moved to the door, still partially open. Only now he swung it wide, then stood beside it like a statue.

  Charlotte walked toward him, her feet heavy. She tried to catch his eye, but he refused to look at her. She felt hollow inside, yet an aching pressure built in her chest at the same time, pushing and pulling and twisting.

  Pausing before him, she tried to think of something to say. Something that would ease his pain. But the words she wanted most to say—I love you—were the same words she fought so desperately to leave unspoken.

  At last she simply left. She walked out the door and down the corridor to the entryway, where she stopped. Fallon was gone from his post.

  All she needed to do was open the next door and leave. If she liked, she could make sure she never saw Philip again. It would be easier that way. She could leave London—leave England, even. She could go someplace where no one knew her name, where they didn’t know she’d once been a duchess, or that she’d played the role of a harlot. It wouldn’t matter where, as long as she was far away from Philip. She would be safe then. And though she would continue loving him from afar, he would never be able to hurt her again.

  All she had to do was open the door.

  Philip listened to the sound of Charlotte’s footsteps as they gradually receded down the hall. If he’d ever thought there was the slightest chance Charlotte would forgive him and one day return to him, it was gone now.

  He hadn’t expected her to say she loved him. But for her to suggest that he could so easily replace her by finding a new wife, to reject his love for her—

  He simply couldn’t bear to be in the same room with her any longer.

  The worst of it was that he continued to hold her image before him, the opposite wall a canvas for her beauty.

  She’d been sad, as Mr. Lesser reported. He’d seen that immediately when her gaze first met his. And worried. A crease lay between her brows, and her mouth was drawn downward just the tiniest bit at the corners.

  Yet still she was beautiful, her sadness and her worry making her appear tragic rather than haggard, as most women would have. Philip had stepped toward her, his first thought to comfort her. But then her eyes flashed with a warning, and he remembered she did not want his comfort.

  Once again, she’d made it all too clear that she didn’t want him.

  How he wished he’d have loved her three years ago, wished he could take back those god-awful words when he revealed that he’d married her only to exact revenge against Ethan, that he had lied to her. How he wished he hadn’t been so caught up in himself—in his pride and his self-righteous anger.

  Philip closed his eyes, swallowed against the pain.

  And that’s when he heard it.

  The sound of her footsteps down the hall, tapping out a rhythm unique to her, one he’d long ago memorized.

  She was returning.

  Philip’s eyes opened wide as the rhythm changed; she’d begun to run.

  He whirled toward the doorway just as she stumbled to a halt, her arm reaching out to brace herself against the door frame.

  She stared at him, gasping for air. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. Locks of her hair had tumbled down at the sides, below her bonnet, and he could see a pin hanging precariously at the end of one dark strand.

  “I love you,” she declared, her chest heaving.

  He couldn’t speak. He didn’t trust the words; he’d hoped for too long. She’d said she loved him before, but she hadn’t stayed.

  “Did you hear me, Philip?” she asked, moving toward him. She stopped an arm’s length away. “I said I—” Her voice broke, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

  And once again, Philip had to fight not to reach for her. His hands clenched, his fingers digging into his palms.

  “I love you,” she repeated steadily. The slender column of her throat worked as she swallowed.

  He took a hesitant step toward her. “Charlotte—”

  She held out her hand. “Don’t. Not yet. I need to say . . . I need to tell you. After our wedding night, I tried to make myself hate you. I’ve spent the last few years convincing myself I hated you. You betrayed me, and—”

  “I deserved it,” he said quietly.

  She nodded, then dashed a tear away from her cheek.

  “Go on.”

  “I tried so hard to protect myself from you. And I thought I’d succeeded. I thought you could never hurt me like that again. But then you said you loved me—”

  “I do love you,” he interjected, stepping toward her again. This time, he wiped away the tear for
her. “God, Charlotte, I love you so much. I wish I could tell you—”

  She lifted a finger to his lips, then shivered when he pressed a kiss to it. “Then you lied to me again. I should never have let myself believe you, but I wanted to. I wanted to believe you’d changed.”

  Philip’s chest tightened. That, also, had come too late.

  “I’ve been fighting with myself over coming to you,” she whispered. “I needed to prove I was strong, that you couldn’t affect me anymore.” The tears began to stream down, too fast for him to catch each one. And she laughed—a soft, nervous laugh that tore at his heart. “But none of it matters. I belong with you—not at Sheffield House, not at Ruthven Manor, but here, where you are. I’m miserable without you. I hurt more without you than anything you ever did. I know I didn’t say that right, but I hope you can understand—”

  “Shh.” He wrapped his arms around her then, enfolding her in his embrace. And at once he felt whole again, no longer just a man with an empty title.

  “I love you,” he murmured in her ear, at her temple, against her cheek. His lips traced over the path where her tears had fallen. “I’m sorry, my darling. Charlotte. I’m sorry for everything. You will never know—”

  He covered her mouth with his own, then groaned as she responded with the same urgency. Her hands caught in his hair and she pressed herself against him.

  He tried to tell her with the kiss everything he wasn’t able to say. The words he couldn’t write down in a poem, the romantic phrases she deserved to hear, the full extent of his love for her which he would never be able to adequately express. There was no rhyme or meter, but only softness and heat and the rich, addictive taste of her.

  At last he broke away. “Thank you,” he murmured against her mouth.

  “For what?”

  “For loving me. For giving me one more chance.” He kissed her again; he couldn’t help it. “I promise it will be the last one I need.”

  “It better be,” she said, staring into his eyes. After a minute, she withdrew from his embrace and pushed him aside to shut the door behind them.

  “I will contact my solicitor tomorrow to cancel the petition.”

  She paused, her hand still on the handle. “I never asked you to cancel the petition.”

  Philip stopped breathing. “I thought—”

  “Tsk, tsk, Your Grace.” She shoved away from the door. “I would have thought you’d have learned by now. There you are again, trying to control everything.”

  She drew a finger down the center of her throat, past her collarbone to the valley between her breasts. Philip’s heart lurched in his chest, and suddenly he was breathing again—much, much faster than before.

  She lifted her other hand and began to draw off her gloves. Slowly, the fabric lingering at the vulnerable flesh of her wrists.

  Charlotte glanced up at him through her lashes. “You have much to make up for before I decide I don’t want a divorce, after all. I might need some convincing.” Dangling the pair of gloves in the air, her lips curved seductively. “Do you think you can convince me, Philip?”

  The gloves dropped to the floor. He watched them land on the rug between them, then looked up to meet her gaze. Her eyes sparkled with laughter, desire—and love. Finally, love.

  “I will certainly try my best,” he said, and strode toward her.

  Read on for a preview of

  MY LORD SCANDAL

  first in the Notorious Bachelors series from the “deliciously wicked and tenderly romantic”*

  Emma Wildes

  *New York Times bestselling author Celeste Bradley

  The alley below was filthy and smelled rank, and if he fell off the ledge, Lord Alexander St. James was fairly certain he would land on a good-sized rat. Since squashing scurrying rodents was not on his list of favorite pastimes, he tightened his grip and gauged the distance to the next roof. It looked to be roughly the distance between London and Edinburgh, but in reality was probably only a few feet.

  “What the devil is the matter with you?” a voice hissed out of the darkness. “Hop on over here. This was your idea.”

  “I do not hop,” he shot back, unwilling to confess that heights bothered him.They had since the night he’d breached the towering wall of the citadel at Badajoz with forlorn hope. He still remembered the pounding rain, the ladders swarming with men, and that great black drop below. . . .

  “I know perfectly well this was my idea,” he muttered.

  “Then I’m sure, unless you have an inclination for a personal tour of Newgate Prison, which, by the by, I do not, you’ll agree we need to proceed. It gets closer to dawn by the minute.”

  Newgate Prison. Alex didn’t like confined spaces any more than he liked heights. The story his grandmother had told him just a few days ago made him wish his imagination was a little less vivid. Incarceration in a squalid cell was the last thing he wanted. But for the ones you love, he thought philosophically as he eyed the gap, and he had to admit that he adored his grandmother, risks have to be taken.

  That thought proved inspiration enough for him to leap the distance, landing with a dull thud but, thankfully, keeping his balance on the sooty shingles. His companion beckoned with a wave of his hand and in a crouched position began to make a slow pilgrimage toward the next house.

  The moon was a wafer obscured by clouds. Good for stealth, but not quite so wonderful for visibility. Two more alleys and harrowing jumps and they were there, easing down onto a balcony that overlooked a small walled garden.

  Michael Hepburn, Marquess of Longhaven, dropped down first, light on his feet, balanced like a dancer. Alex wondered, not for the first time, just what his friend did for the War Office. He landed next to him, and said, “What did your operative tell you about the layout of the town house?”

  Michael peered through the glass of the French doors into the darkened room. “I could be at our club at this very moment, enjoying a stiff brandy.”

  “Stop grumbling,” Alex muttered. “You live for this kind of intrigue. Lucky for us, the lock is simple. I’ll have this open in no time.”

  True to his word, a moment later one of the doors creaked open, the sound loud to Alex’s ears. He led the way, slipping into the darkened bedroom, taking in with a quick glance the shrouded forms of a large canopied bed and armoire. Something white was laid out on the bed, and on closer inspection he saw that it was a nightdress edged with delicate lace, and that the coverlet was already turned back. The virginal gown made him feel very much an interloper—which, bloody hell, he was. But all for a good cause, he told himself firmly.

  Michael spoke succinctly. “This is Lord Hathaway’s daughter’s bedroom. We’ll need to search his study and his suite across the hall. Since his lordship’s rooms face the street and his study is downstairs, this is a much more discreet method of entry. It is likely enough they’ll be gone for several more hours, giving us time to search for your precious item. At this hour, the servants should all be abed.”

  “I’ll take the study. It’s more likely to be there.”

  “Alex, you do realize you are going to have to finally tell me just what we are looking for if I am going to ransack his lordship’s bedroom on your behalf.”

  “I hope you plan on being more subtle than that.”

  “He’ll never know I was there,” Michael said with convincing confidence. “But what the devil am I looking for?”

  “A key. Ornate, made of silver, so it’ll be tarnished to black, I suspect. About so long.” Alex spread open his hand, indicating the distance between the tip of his smallest finger and his thumb. “It’ll be in a small case, also silver. There should be an engraved S on the cover.”

  “A key to what, dare I ask, since I am risking my neck to find it?”

  Alex paused, reluctant to reveal more. But Michael had a point, and moreover, could keep a secret better than anyone of Alex’s acquaintance. “I’m not sure,” he admitted, quietly.

  Michael’s hazel eyes gleamed
with interest even in the dim light. “Yet here we are, breaking into a man’s house.”

  “It’s . . . complicated.”

  “Things with you usually are.”

  “I’m not at liberty to explain to anyone, even you, my reasons for being here. Therefore my request for your assistance. In the past you have proven not only to think fast on your feet and stay cool under fire, but you also have the unique ability to keep your mouth firmly shut, which is a very valuable trait in a friend. In short, I trust you.”

  Michael gave a noncommittal grunt. “All right, fine.”

  “If it makes you feel better, I’m not going to steal anything,” Alex informed him in a whisper, as he cracked open the bedroom door and peered down the hall. “What I want doesn’t belong to Lord Hathaway, if he has it. Where’s his study?”

  “Second hallway past the bottom of the stairs. Third door on the right.”

  The house smelled vaguely of beeswax and smoke from the fires that kept the place warm in the late-spring weather. Alex crept—there was no other word for it—down the hall, sending a silent prayer upward to enlist heavenly aid for their little adventure to be both successful and undetected. Though he wasn’t sure, with his somewhat dissolute past—or Michael’s, for that matter—if he was at all in a position to ask for benevolence.

  The hallway was deserted but damned dark. Michael clearly knew the exact location of Hathaway’s personal set of rooms, for he went directly to the left door and cracked it open, and disappeared inside.

  Alex stood at a vantage point where he could see the top of the staircase rising from the main floor, feeling an amused disbelief that he was a deliberate intruder in someone else’s house, and had enlisted Michael’s aid to help him with the infiltration. He’d known Michael since Eton, and when it came down to it, no one was more reliable or loyal. He’d go with him to hell and back, and quite frankly, they had accompanied each other to hell in Spain.

  They’d survived the fires of Hades, but had not come back to England unscathed.