Not Quite A Duke (Dukes' Club Book 6) (22 page)

“You knew I wasn’t a doxie!”

“Of course I knew,” he said jovially. “I am a connoisseur of character and you haven’t a loose bone in your body. I quite like loose bones. Or did. I like you, too, but you’re different. You’re not one of these gilded lilies prancing about the ballroom. Nor are you some brow beaten spinster. You’re something else entirely.”

“What is that?”

“You’re P. Auden, greatest writer alive and someone who goes after what she wants with aplomb.”

“I do?”

He nodded. “It seems to me, dear girl, that rather than finding yourself in these last weeks, you’ve been losing yourself. Why have you been running from Charles?”

“I haven’t been running,” she huffed.

“You’re seldom together.”

“You’ve noticed?”

“Yes.” Aston scowled. “Because he keeps pounding on my door when you’re gadding about. I do adore him, but I’d rather be with the wife just now. Newlyweds, you know.”

“I— I suppose I am running from him,” she finally admitted.

“Why? It’s clear as day you love him.”

Sheer terror at those words raced through her. Could it be? She’d certainly never even let the thought cross her mind. “That’s—“

“Absolutely true,” Aston declared grandly. “I’ll never forget the way you told that barmaid to push off. Lady Patience, be still any man’s heart! What an act of possessiveness that was.”

“Your Grace, this is all very well but—“

“You’re afraid.” Aston’s bombastic humor eased, replaced by sincerity.

Her spine stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

Aston shrugged then twirled his hand, the smoke dancing about his wrist. “You’re afraid. Pure and simple.”

She felt her whole body tense at the accusation. “If I was a man I’d have to call you out for that.”

“If you did, you’d be a fool.”

“Because you’d best me so easily?”

“Because firstly, it’s true,” he said as though they were discussing the benefits of long walks, “and secondly, no one should be willing to die so easily over such a simple comment.”

It struck her then that she was rather disappointed in herself because, clearly, she was afraid and worse still, she’d been letting fear rule her actions. “You’re a surprise, Your Grace.”

“Thank you.” He bowed his head slightly then winked. “People are always saying so.” 

“You think I should stop running?” she asked, still feeling said fear run through her veins. Was this why she’d been gadding about every moment? Because she was in love with Charles and afraid to embrace it? Almost certainly.

“I do.”

“Because he loves me?” she hated the questioning noise in her own voice.

“Ah. That?” Aston gave a wary shake of his head. “With Charles, I can promise nothing but all I can say is you’re wasting the precious life you have protecting your heart so thoroughly. P. Auden would be ashamed.”

“Why do you think so much of Mr. Auden?”

“Because
Miss
Auden, you write the greatest stories I have ever read.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.” He puffed again carelessly on his cheroot as if he had such conversations every day. “Now stop this nonsense and go enjoy your life. Go be with the man you want to be with.”

He waved his hand at her. Shooing.
Shooing!

But he was right. She did long to be with Charles. “As infuriating as you are, I concede.”

“Good, because I always win,” he replied merrily.

A laugh bubbled from her lips. “In this, I wish you victory.”

He smiled, a kind smile. “Goodnight, Miss Auden.”

She gave a small curtsy then rushed back out into the hall.

The Duke of Aston was right. Perhaps Charles would tire of her. But all the more reason to seize the moment and enjoy every bit of it that she could.

It galled her she’d been acting a silly school girl. It was time she started acting like herself. A passionate, strong, and determined woman. 

Chapter 22

It was a very good thing that Patience was not only passionate and strong, but also determined. To her astonishment, on her return home to their London residence, she had not met with a wild night of love making with her husband. Instead, she’d been greeted by a note penned, it seemed, in some haste by her husband, conveying that he had decided to head down to the family seat and spend some time in the country.

She was to enjoy herself and her research.

Receiving this note had sent a chill down her spine. It had lacked Charles’ usual wit which showed itself even in missive writing.

Something was off.

So, after railing for two hours against the inability of a woman in a coach to travel at night (for many varied reasons, safety and the state of the roads most prominent), she waited until dawn to depart.

Then, she had to sit for hours upon hours as the coach bounced over deeply grooved roads, given to cavernous ruts by the continuous travel of other vehicles on surfaces little better than knee deep mud. A whole day’s travel and a stay in a flea-infested coaching inn had only added to her growing impatience.

Usually she would add such an event to her catalogue of research but, at present, all she could think about was seeing Charles.

At long last, the coach rolled onto the Hunt ducal estate and she clutched her hands on her lap as they passed the massive palace that was the home of the Hunts and headed into the forest.

The coachman who had been with the family for twenty years assured her that if Charles had gone home, he had not gone to the big house but to a small lodge on the far side of the estate.

She’d taken his advice. After all, there was still much about her husband that she knew little of.

The beautifully appointed, well-sprung coach that made the horrendous English roads bearable pulled to a halt in front of a cottage. . . A cottage!

The black thatch hanged over the whitewashed walls and there, to her absolute shock, was Charles, shirt open at the neck, a shovel in his hand, planting a tree.

A tree.

Dirt smudged his high-cut cheekbones and a light sheen of sweat shone on his forehead.

From the state of his black breeches, he’d been gardening for some hours.

Gardening. Her rake of a husband

He had turned, one hand on the shovel, and was glaring at the coach.

A part of her, a very small part, urged her to not get out and simply return to London. After all, she was used to being by herself. Being by one’s self was safe. On one’s own, one couldn’t be rejected. But then the Duke of Aston’s words rang through her head. She wasn’t a coward and she wouldn’t be doing any running.

So, when the footman opened the coach door, she took his gloved hand and stepped down.

Charles gaped at her for a solid moment before regaining his terribly smooth composure. “You look a fright, wife.”

“You don’t exactly look polished yourself,” she replied as she set foot upon the black-earthed road.

He drove the shovel into the ground then strode forward.

As she waited, the footman then took down her box.

“Leave it, Edward,” Charles said. “I’ll take it in.”

The young footman nodded his bewigged head then jumped back on the coach.

With that, the vehicle lumbered off, leaving her alone with Charles in the most unlikely of settings.

She’d always pictured him in a ballroom, or a gaming hall, or a salon. . . Not like this.

The cottage was beautiful. Tudor in period with its black painted wood. Red roses climbed up the whitewash. Lilac trees gave the air a delicious scent.

Flowers of every variety covered the ground about the house.

Suddenly, it hit her, that her husband had likely planted every single one.

“You like plants,” she said stupidly.

He eyed her. “I like plants.”

There was something not quite right about him. The life had gone out of her husband replaced by a sadness that she had never seen before.

Then she recalled what she’d been warned about. His father’s black moods.

Was Charles in such a spell?

“Why did you follow?” he asked. “Surely, you had many appointments.”

“I did, but I wanted to be with you.”

Once again he stared, as if he were contemplating saying words he might regret.

She held her breath. The air was unwelcoming. He didn’t want her there. And she knew then that was exactly why she must stay.

“Are we sharing a room?” she asked, unable to think of anything else.

“There’s only the one bedroom,” he said flatly.

“Good.”

A muscle tightened along his jaw. “Wouldn’t you prefer to stay up at the main house?”

“Not at all.”

“It’s very grand,” he said.

“I’m sure it is,” she replied. If he thought he was going to fob her off, he was very mistaken.

“It’s more suited to your research,” he added.

“Perhaps, but it is not suited to me,” she said easily. “And besides, all life is research Charles. Now, I’d like a cup of tea.”

She waited for some witty rejoinder. Instead, he remained silent and headed into the cottage.

There was no invitation for her to join him but nor did he instruct her to hie off.

So, she followed down the stone path and through the low door.

Fortifying herself with a deep breath, she held her head high and caught the sound of him in the room to her left.

She strode in, her footsteps softened by a beautiful burgundy rug placed over stones polished for hundreds of years.

Charles stood near a massive fireplace with an ancient looking cookery spit and set of pots over the fire.

“I always keep hot water on hand,” he said blankly.

He grabbed a towel and pulled the black pot off its hook then poured water into a porcelain teapot painted with blue flowers.

She watched as he easily steeped the tea, strained it into a clay mug then handed it over to her.

She studied the black brew. “You don’t wish any?”

He shook his head.

“You don’t seem yourself,” she finally observed.

“You know so little about me, Patience.” He leveled her with a stare that verged on empty. “How could you possibly know?”

She lifted her mug and encouraged, “Then teach me.”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Teach me about you,” she explained before she smiled. “It’s a subject I’m very fond of.”

“Who’s doing the flattering now?” he replied starkly.

“You know me, Charles. I don’t flatter.”

A wry smile pulled his lips. “Point taken. You’re fond of me, are you?”

She shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling immensely vulnerable like a turtle thrust onto its back. But there was no retreating now. It was tempting to make some reading remark, but that’s not what she was here to do.

So, she said plainly. “I am.”

A small smile pulled at his lips before a sort of bone deep exhaustion pulled at his expression. “I’m in no mood to converse, if you must know.”

Taking a sip of her tea, she considered. She could press, but somehow, she was certain that was the fastest way for her to be left alone in the cottage with the dust of his departure upon the road. “You don’t have to. I’m quite skilled in entertaining myself. May I stay and simply observe?”

“I can hardly refuse you. But I’m. . . I’m not myself exactly. . . Or more to the point, I don’t let people see this side of myself.

“I’m not people. I’m your wife.”

Again, there was the touch of a smile. “So you are.”

She put her mug down and folded her hands. “If you wish to talk, we shall. Otherwise, I shall drink tea and work on my book. It is a state in which I am also very fond and accustomed.”

He shoved a hand through his this dark hair then granted, “If it pleases you.”

She nodded.

“Make yourself comfortable then. I’m going back out to my trees.”

She waved at him then gestured to the rooms upstairs. “I’ll just take the lay of the land then while you’re working.”

He nodded again and hurried out.

It was most unlike the Charles she knew. This was a side of him that was very much like a small boy. A boy desperate for the world not to see how very much he was hurt by it. And she longed to soothe that boy so very much.

Chapter 23

Charles drove the shovel into the soft earth again and again, for once wishing that the ground was hard clay instead of black loam.

She had been here for three days. Three days that should have felt entirely torturous. Three days in which he had been largely quiet as had she. They had slept in the same bed. He had held her in his arms. God, the feel of her in his arms had been at once heaven and hell. Because with each passing hour in the night, he felt he was living such a lie.

That lie had finally sent him away from her in London. But what had she done? She’d followed him.

Patience was tenacious and he adored that about her.

But more than that, she didn’t push.

He’d been out for hours already, waiting for her to come and pester him with questions. He’d waited the last three days for the questions to begin.

She had not.

In fact, her calm, her. . .
Patience
had been like a salve on his wounded soul and the simple act of being with her seemed to be healing him in a way he’d never imagined. Still, the wound was there, deep from years of not talking about his father’s death.

He’d not been himself. Not the self he showed people.

When in such a mood, most people invariably did one of two things. . . Firstly, they’d ask him what the devil had happened to which he had had no reply, because there never seemed to be an exact reason that set him down the dark road of despair or secondly, they’d try to cheer him up.

The state of affairs when he was in such a mood was so unpleasant to company or so off putting to people who cared about him that he’d decided long ago to avoid people altogether until the black humor passed. Which was why he traveled down to the country.

Some men got raging drunk when in melancholia. He gardened. It was the only thing that kept him from sinking too deep.

Usually, he told his family he was going to go drink a great deal of brandy and be thoroughly debauched for a few weeks. It was the opposite of the truth.