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Authors: Ashley March

BOOK: Seducing the Duchess
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But,
whispered her bruised heart,
perhaps it would be worth it.
If he had changed.
If only he hadn’t said he loved her three years ago and made her believe him, then maybe she wouldn’t have these doubts now.
Charlotte closed her eyes. She was tired of going around and around in her head and trying to convince herself of reasons why she should give him another chance when she knew that path would lead to her own destruction.
It was simple. She couldn’t keep herself from loving Philip; she had long ago resigned herself to that inevitability. But willingly giving him power over her by letting down her defenses was inexcusable.
Straightening, she pushed away from the door. He wasn’t coming after her, and she was glad.
Then she turned, and a disbelieving breath of laughter escaped her.
The wall to her right was blatantly stark, the portrait of the eighth duke, Philip’s grandfather, absent. Where it had once hung proudly displayed, now only the discoloration of age remained to be seen.
Her stockings and scarves no longer served as irreverent decorations to conceal the last duke’s disapproving sneer, but were folded neatly and arranged at the edge of her bed.
On top of the stack lay a folded note.
How unpredictable her husband had become. He must have ordered the portrait removed while they were having supper.
Charlotte moved halfway to the bed before she realized she was tiptoeing, as if the note were a secret and might be taken away at any moment before she could read the words within.
With trembling fingers she snatched the parchment and hastily unfolded it.
I’d rather you wear these instead. I especially prefer the red lace stockings.—Philip
Pressing the letter to her lips, she sank upon the counterpane. How could she resist his challenge? For though subtle, the invitation was clear.
The question, however, was whether she could indulge her desires and yet remain in control.
Charlotte reached out and sifted through the pile of silks and satins until she found the pair of red lace. They had always been one of her favorites, chosen for their decadence, their symbolic rebellion of everything Philip respected, everything he expected from a proper duchess.
How interesting that, above all others, he would favor these.
The note fell to her lap and an eternity seemed to pass away as she fingered the lace edges of the stockings, her chest rising and falling unevenly.
She feared she’d asked the wrong question of herself. It wasn’t whether she could remain in control, but whether she wanted to.
 
Philip glared at the parchment lying on the desk before him.
No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t seem to find the words to adequately express his thoughts.
The wastebasket near his chair was gorged with his many attempts. His fingers appeared tarred and feathered from stroking the quill from tip to end repeatedly as he sought the perfect phrase.
Should he change the fifth line from
soft with light
to
soft as night
? But no, he couldn’t very well repeat the same word from the beginning of the poem.
Philip looked from his hands to the paper and back again. Snarling, he broke the quill with a satisfying crack.
Byron could go to hell.
Philip knew he should leave well enough alone. The harp had gone over perfectly well; there was no need to continue torturing himself by endeavoring to write a poem for Charlotte.
But he knew he would, no matter how many hours he spent laboring in vain or fantasizing about the resurrection of Byron just so he could strangle him to the grave again.
It had been two months since he’d found the slim volume of Byron’s poetry in the empty sitting room of their London town house.
No depression in the sofa had marked her presence; no perfume lingered on the pages. Yet as Philip had opened the book, he imagined he could see her face light with pleasure as she recited the verses, could see how the morning sun must have touched upon her skin and turned her dawn blue eyes to sparkling sapphires. It was as if she’d left an imprint in the air around her.
Since that time, for some inexplicable reason, the completion of the poem had become a symbol of hope that Charlotte would love him again. He’d burned his first epic attempt, and yet he continued to work on it. For even if it were terrible—and God, it was, really and truly awful—perhaps she would read it and finally believe he loved her.
If attempting to write the bloody thing had taught him nothing else, it was that only a lovesick fool could lament over the fact that the only English word which rhymed with “noble” was the most decidedly unromantic “global.”
Philip lowered his head into his hands, then froze. With a muttered oath, he withdrew a linen kerchief from his pocket and methodically wiped at the ink on his face and hands.
He should be happy. The day had been quite successful, and Charlotte was slowly lowering her defenses. When she spoke to him now, there was a softness in her tone that hadn’t been there before.
But there was also the look—that uncertain, confused, almost wounded look which crossed her expression at times. Perhaps she thought she was hiding it well, or that he wouldn’t see, but he did. And it tore him apart.
He was the one who had put it there.
Philip thought he had changed. Indeed, he knew he had—one could not love Charlotte without being transformed by her.
Yet he couldn’t deny that he was still manipulating her. Putting his need to have her over her desire for freedom. He’d counted on winning her love, refused to consider the alternate possibility. He’d been convinced that the end would justify the means.
But now he had to realize that despite his best attempts, he might lose her.
How could he divorce her? How could he let her go?
But if he did not, if he reneged on the promise he’d never intended to keep, could he live with her hatred? The contempt she’d felt for him these past three years would be nothing compared to what it would be if he betrayed her trust yet again.
God, he was a selfish beast.
How could nine more days with her suffice? He needed a lifetime, an eternity of her laughter, her irreverent teasing and uninhibited passion.
To see her, to hear her, to have some part of her—even if none of her smiles were directed at him and he could never possess her heart.
Philip set the kerchief aside. He stared at his left hand, at the wedding band he had once scorned. A blackened web of ink stained the flesh around it, emphasizing the bright golden gleam.
He would not yet give up hope. Despite these inconvenient little bouts of doubt and despair, he knew Charlotte’s resistance was fading.
He picked up the scattered pieces of the broken quill and the ruined kerchief, then tossed them into the wastebasket where so many of his failed attempts at poetry mocked him.
Steeling his thoughts against the possibility of defeat, he opened his desk drawer and drew out another piece of parchment and a new quill. The first lines of the poem were committed to memory, and the words flowed easily onto the paper.
He dipped the tip into the inkwell and paused, pen poised over the page as he fought for the next line.
“Her soul . . . No, the bright light of her soul—”
A knock sounded at the door of the study, Fallon come to stir the fire.
“Enter,” he called, then bent his head over the paper as he wrote.
The fierce light of her soul, it beckons me
.
“I’ve always wondered what it is that keeps you so busy in here,” came a low, seductive voice.
The quill jerked across the paper, leaving a thin, uneven scratch.
Philip stared at the line. His pulse raced as he schooled his features into impassivity. He glanced up. “Estate business, my dear—”
The last syllable caught in his throat.
Cloaked in a red satin robe, Charlotte strolled across the room, her hips swaying in a gentle, undulating rhythm. She lifted her hands to her head and began to pluck the pins loose from her hair.
He watched, mesmerized, at the movement of her slender wrists, the deliberate flick of her fingers as she sent the pins scattering to the carpet below.
Her hair swept over her shoulders and cascaded past her breasts, a heavy veil which was enough in itself to tempt him past the edge of reason.
“You said it again,” she reprimanded. She halted in the middle of the room, the glow from the fire a backlight to the fullness of her curves.
“Pardon?”
“‘My dear.’ You said ‘my dear.’ You’re only to call me—”
“Charlotte.” Her name rushed roughly from his lips.
How could she not know it was her name that was the endearment, that he’d used those other words to protect himself from revealing too much? It was her name that was sacred, her name which he repeated over and over again to the silent evening shadows and the dawning sun, when his empty arms ached with want of her.
“Charlotte,” he said again, uncaring now if his tone should disclose the extent of his affection. His need for her. “What are you doing here?”
She stared at him solemnly, her hands fiddling with the sash tied at her waist.
“Do you love me?” she asked.
Philip’s heart clenched, a burning deep in his chest. They would never move past this doubt. She would never forgive him.
He sighed. “Yes, of course—”
“Say it,” she demanded, her eyes fierce. “Say you love me.”
His fingers gripped the quill. “I love you.”
Her chest fell sharply, as if she’d been holding her breath, and she looked away. Then, with a slow nod, she met his gaze again.
Every muscle in Philip’s body tightened at the provocative smile she gave him. He couldn’t understand her. One minute the uncertain innocent, next the alluring siren—he couldn’t decipher which one was the mask. Perhaps she was both, and he was destined for eternal torment as he fought this desire to protect and ravish her at the same time.
“Charlotte,” he repeated, “why are you here?” His breath stuttered to a halt at a sudden thought. “I assume you found that I removed my grandfather’s portrait? Your scarves and stockings—”
“Yes, and I found your note.” Her eyes darkened to a devilish midnight gleam, her hands moving with a steady grace to untie the robe’s sash. The satin folds parted, and Philip flinched at the loud crack of his quill as it snapped in two. He glanced down, tried to focus on the pieces as they fell from his fingers, but couldn’t keep his gaze from seeking Charlotte.
He felt as a beggar might as he stared at the lure of a shiny gold coin—bewildered, almost weak from desire.
The matching red night rail’s neckline plunged to reveal the swells of her breasts. The hem skimmed the tops of her thighs, her skin gleaming smooth and ivory white in contrast to the darkness of the shadows behind her.
Not far below the hem, two black garters held those glorious red lace stockings in place.
Unbalanced, Philip gripped the edge of his desk as he half rose from his chair. “God, Charlotte—”
She strolled forward and planted her hands on the opposite side, leaning in until their lips were scant inches apart. “I’ve come to give you the prize you lost, Philip. A kiss.”
Chapter 17
N
othing had ever made Charlotte feel as powerful, as beautiful, as the flare of desire in Philip’s eyes. The heat in their silver depths sent a flush of pleasure coursing along her skin. Although he hadn’t yet laid a finger on her, she felt as if he had branded her with his gaze alone.
His stare followed her motions as she lifted a hand to his face. The curve of his jaw scraped her palm, and she gloried in its coarse texture, in the sudden need to feel the contrast of his stubble-roughened skin against the smoothness of her own.
Against her shoulders, her breasts, her belly, her thighs . . .
“A kiss,” she repeated in a whisper.
Before the syllable could fade into silence, his mouth was upon hers, his lips firm and tender and wild. She met his touch eagerly, the desk pressing hard across her thighs as she balanced on her toes.
He tasted like darkness, like red wine and something indefinable, something singularly Philip. A moan rose in her throat and her hand fell to clutch at the broad strength of his shoulder.
A simple kiss, yet it made a mockery of all her rehearsed methods of enticement.
She turned her head away, wondering at the sudden urge to weep. Perhaps because she knew, if she listened to her head and not her heart, she would never find anyone else who could elicit this same violence of feeling, this overwhelming sense of belonging.

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