Read Seducing the Duchess Online
Authors: Ashley March
Seducing the Duchess (19 page)
“Philip,” she murmured. “You have changed, haven’t you?”
“Some,” he said, stiffly. “In some ways, I’m much the same.”
She reached up and smoothed her fingers over his hair, so that it lay naturally in place once again. “Thank you. You did what I could not. I didn’t have the courage to see them, to approach them first. Thank you.”
When she drew away and he said nothing, she prompted, “This is the time when you’re supposed to say ‘You’re welcome.’ ”
“You’re welcome.” He paused; then a small, sly grin slid across his face. “Does this mean you’ll kiss me now?”
“It’s very childish of you not to tell me where we’re going,” Charlotte said an hour later, peering through the carriage window.
“And I will not tell you. You kept your kisses to yourself, and I’ll keep my secrets. Besides, it’s meant to be a surprise.”
Charlotte threw a glance at him. “I thought it was intended to be another lesson for you.”
“It is.”
“Then wh—”
“We’re here,” he announced, even before the carriage began to slow. He reached across to place a finger against her lips. “Close your eyes.”
She hesitated. Philip grimaced. “You still don’t trust me.”
Before she could say anything, he removed his finger and leaned back, closing his own eyes. “Now are your eyes closed?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered, doing so.
“Then listen.”
At first she could hear only the sound of her own breathing, the jingle of the harnesses as the horses stirred, the creak of the wooden seat when the coachman climbed down.
“Do you hear the children?”
As if coaxed into existence by the warm resonance of Philip’s voice, the sound of children’s laughter crept to her ears.
“Yes.”
“And what else?”
She smiled; this was another facet of Philip she couldn’t remember ever seeing before. He’d never been one to participate in whimsical guessing games. “I hear music.”
A fiddle, joyful and quick, accompanied by a swell of voices as the musician played the chorus of “The Wednesbury Cocking.”
Then, in between the strains of the fiddle, she heard a loud noise from her right. “And cattle lowing,” she said.
While she was trying to distinguish another sound, similar to someone crying, or perhaps someone yelling, a heavy, rich, spicy scent drifted to her nostrils.
She shifted closer to the door, and it grew stronger.
Across from her, Philip chuckled. She opened her eyes. “Meat pies and sausages,” she said, turning to him. “You’ve brought me to the fair—”
The expression on his face halted any other words she might have spoken. There was a warmth in his gaze that she’d never seen before, a look she couldn’t describe as anything other than yearning.
For her.
Charlotte’s heart thudded hard and fast in her chest as she leaned forward. “Philip—”
He opened the door and climbed outside, and when he turned to assist her in stepping down, all traces of longing were gone.
She took his hand, dismissing the thought that his emotions might run deeper than mere lust. For if they did, she would have to examine her own heart as well, and that thought was singularly frightful. No, if he was kind to her and tried to kiss her, it was because he desired her in the most carnal sense. It wasn’t because he loved her. In fact, she would go so far as to say that he might very well despise her as much as she despised him.
Only . . .
Only she wasn’t sure if she did despise him anymore. She certainly didn’t like him, and she didn’t trust him, but he was no longer “Philip the bloody bastard” in her mind.
He was simply Philip. Philip, who gave her nice things and made her laugh and arranged to have her family over for supper.
Philip, whose voice made her want to lean into him. Whose smiles tested her self-control and made her yearn to kiss him.
Her feet stumbled on the carriage steps, and she lurched forward.
“Whoa. I’ve got you.” Philip caught her easily, pivoting so that he was in front of her, his arms around her hips, her hands catching his shoulders. “I’m right here.”
And all she could think was that his embrace felt entirely natural, and it would be so easy to wrap her arms around him and bring her lips to his.
Charlotte snatched her hands away from his shoulders as if they were burned.
Dear God. She liked her husband.
Philip lifted her off the steps and planted her on the ground before him. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You look a little sick.”
His hands were heavy on the small of her back, keeping her in place, and Charlotte swayed forward—only a little, enough that her breasts rubbed across his chest.
“Charlotte? Are you going to faint?”
And then, swiftly on the heels of the knowledge that she liked her husband, came the realization that she also—
No, no, no. She had to be more intelligent than this.
Philip tightened his arms around her, and she nearly groaned when his hard, warm body pressed against hers.
Yes, she was sick. Yes, she was going to faint. And no, she wasn’t nearly as intelligent as she’d thought.
Because as horrible as he’d been to her in the past and as ridiculous as it was for her to even think such a thing, she wanted to make love to him.
Not seduce him because she wanted to wield any sort of power over him, or to prove that he couldn’t hurt her any longer, but simply because she wanted the decadent pleasure of putting her hands and her mouth all over his body.
Everywhere.
“Dobbs,” Philip called to the coachman. “Get back on the carriage. We’re going home.”
“No!” She pushed against his chest until she could stand up straight, trying not to notice the firmness of the muscles beneath her palms. “I mean, no. No, we’re staying here.” She gave him a wide smile. “At the fair,” she clarified, toning down her smile lest he think her mad.
Which she had no doubt she was. But thankfully, even though she liked him and wanted to make love to him, at least she still had enough wits lying about to know that returning to Ruthven Manor—or, dear God, being alone with him in the carriage—was not a good idea at this point.
“Are you certain?” Goodness. Was that concern in his voice?
She nodded. “Yes. I feel perfectly well. And you need your lesson.”
“All right, then. We’ll stay.”
Charlotte couldn’t help noticing his hold seemed just as tight on her as before. “Philip, release me,” she hissed, glancing to her right and her left, hoping her role of preserving propriety was a convincing one.
For a moment, his eyes darkened as he looked down at her, as if he would refuse her request, but just when she decided to give up, throw her arms around him, and damn the consequences, he let her go and stepped away.
He motioned for her to begin walking. “Am I to understand a good husband doesn’t embrace his wife in public places?”
“You are correct,” she said, looking back at the groom, who followed them, pretending not to see the arm Philip offered her.
A grand mill of people roamed around them, over the grounds. Some were on horseback, some walked as they did, some carried children on their shoulders or their hips.
Six miles of open fields stretched away from Henley-in-Arden; the fairgrounds had to be large to accommodate not only the locals but also the hundreds of visitors from Alcester, Stratford-on-Avon, Wootton Wawen, Birmingham, and the other nearby towns and villages.
The sights and sounds and smells were welcome friends, old memories from her childhood. She’d always loved the spring fairs held on Lady Day and during Whitsunday week, but the annual fair in October was her favorite.
The crying and screaming she’d heard outside the carriage were the sounds of the men and women hawking their wares on either side. There seemed to be no logical order to the rows of booths and tents. Ribbons, hops, and hardware; sheep, gingerbread, and gowns; rope, cattle, and hats: all were interspersed here and there. Surprises to be met at every stall.
Charlotte inhaled the crisp, acrid tang of smoke upon the air, so different from the dense London smog which smothered her lungs. Underneath it lingered the ripe, mellow scent of autumn, of harvested earth and newly chopped wood.
“Look there,” Philip said, pointing to the left.
A crowd of children and adults surrounded a magician’s platform, their eager faces upturned. Some of them, like Charlotte, had no doubt seen many of his tricks before. But still they stayed, transfixed not by the mystery of his illusions, but by the wonder of the evening, the spell that seemed to be cast by the oncoming dusk and the atmosphere of gaiety.
“Charlotte.” He grasped her hand and pulled. “Over here.”
She followed after him, enchanted by the excitement in his voice. “You act as if you’ve never been to a fair before,” she called loudly, in an effort to be heard above the shouts and songs and music.
He pulled up short and glanced down at her, a cautious light in his eyes. “Only once.” He looked over his shoulder. “There. That is what I wanted to show you.”
“Philip, wait.” Intrigued by his vagueness, she tried to slow him by dragging her feet, but he only turned to her and grinned.
“Come on,” he urged, and she forgot to question him further as she hurried to keep up with his long strides.
They came to stand in front of a small tent, well lit with oil lamps. In the center was an artist with his easel, and before him sat a grizzled farmer with his apple-cheeked wife upon his knee.
The easel was angled so that the visitors to the tent could see the artist and his canvas as he worked. With deft strokes he sketched the man and woman, transferring the couple’s image but not the man’s potbelly, nor the woman’s wart over her left eyebrow.
A wisp of hair tickled Charlotte’s neck as Philip bent down to murmur in her ear. “I cannot imagine how he could make you any more beautiful.”
Flattery.
She’d heard it before. Some said she was England’s version of Helen of Troy—that the brilliant sapphire of her eyes could have launched a thousand ships, that her hair was soft as a dove and dark as a raven’s wing.
Of course, she had not been able to resist pointing out that her hair was, in fact, a dark brown, and that ravens were black, at which point the gentleman who had made the absurd aviary comparison only continued to stare at her, a tiny line of confusion marring his brow.
But she hadn’t received any flattery from Philip in a very long time. And even then there had been a note of irony, a mocking knowledge in his eyes that his compliment was but one among the dozen given to her every day.
Her heart thudded heavily in her chest, and she watched, mute, as the artist continued his sketch. She was aware of Philip’s gaze on her face, and she willed him to look away, to believe she had not heard his comment.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw him open his mouth and—
Oh, God, surely he wasn’t going to say it again.
She wouldn’t be able to pretend then, especially if he said it louder, and then she would have to look at him, and if she saw that wariness in his eyes—or worse, the contempt he always seemed to have for her . . .
Well, she simply would not be able to bear it. For one moment, one fleeting, selfish moment, she wanted to believe that his compliment had been sincere, that when he looked at her, he didn’t see her as the woman she had made herself become, but rather a woman whom he respected, whom he liked—
He leaned toward her, and her tangle of thoughts immediately halted as his lips brushed her ear. “I think I would like a sketch of you, just like this.”
Charlotte sucked in a quiet breath and forced herself to turn toward him, her eyes lowered carefully so they wouldn’t meet his. She lifted to her toes and when she spoke, her mouth intentionally brushed against his in a soft, whispered caress. “Are you certain you don’t want one of Astley’s nudes instead?”
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