Seducing the Duchess (36 page)

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Authors: Ashley March

BOOK: Seducing the Duchess
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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.”
“Serious,” Philip repeated.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Did he mention whether she seemed happy or sad?”
“No, Your Grace. Only . . . serious.”
Philip felt his throat tighten, and he repressed the urge to growl in frustration. “Serious” could mean she was thoughtful, or that she was simply being polite. Or that she was bored
because
she was being polite.
The footman should have watched her eyes. Then he would have known how she felt, because her eyes always gave her away. They would sparkle, or gleam, or twinkle. They would glitter with anger, or go soft with sadness. Philip had seen them empty of emotion only twice—once the morning after their wedding, when he’d told her he didn’t love her, and the other the day when he told her he’d never intended to grant her a divorce. It was a look which would haunt him forever.
“Serious” was not sufficient for his curiosity. He needed to know more.
“Bring me ink and paper, Fallon. I have a letter to write.”
 
The next day, Charlotte lay curled on the window seat of one of the guest bedchambers, reading the poem Philip had given her. It had become a guilty pleasure of hers, and she refused to keep count of the number of times she’d taken it out, her eyes scanning the lines in a perfunctory movement as she recited it by heart.

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