The Duke's Indiscretion (11 page)

Her features went flat as she sat up straighter on the piano bench, placing her hands in her lap. “You're drunk, sir.”

He nodded faintly. “Indeed, I am, madam.” He watched her for reaction to his honesty, but she cleverly hid her feelings behind an expression of simple irritation.

“I'll be leaving in a few minutes,” she declared in a haughty tone. “I've scheduled a lesson with my vocal tutor, and then I'll need to be at the theater by noon. We're beginning rehearsals for
The Bohemian Girl
today.”

Colin stood erect again and started to saunter toward her. “You're very busy for a newly married lady,” he replied, scratching the day-old growth of beard on his cheek.

She huffed. “Unlike you, I have a profession—”

“Unlike me?” he cut in, trying like hell not to slur his words. “You think I don't have work to do?”

“Actually, I've no idea what you do with your time, sir,” she shot back.

“Indeed you don't,” he replied just as quickly, offering nothing more.

Confusion crossed her brow for a slice of a second at his obvious evasiveness, though he noted with pleasure how she couldn't stop staring at his exposed chest. Then suddenly, as if catching herself and realizing where her attention lay, her cheeks flushed with color and she turned away. Gracefully standing, she folded her spectacles and dropped them into a side pocket on her gown, then lifted a pile of music sheets, shuffling them into a tidy stack, effectively dismissing him.

Colin felt like crawling out of his skin, aching to grab her around the waist and yank her against his body so she couldn't help but give him her undivided attention. But that would only make her angry, less willing to disclose her thoughts with candor.

Swiftly moving very near her, one leg between the bench and the instrument, her gown blanketing his shin, he leaned around to put his face in front of hers. She didn't even react, just continued ignoring the fact that he was even in the room.

“I'll leave you alone to go about your business, Charlotte,” he said in a gruff murmur. “But you must answer one question for me first.”

She sighed, exasperated, then placed her hands on her hips and turned to him. “What is it, your grace?”

He waited for a moment, blinking in an attempt
to hold her irritated gaze, trying to organize his thoughts through the fog in his aching head, to calm another wave of queasiness. He hadn't been this intoxicated in ages and the effects of the alcohol were beginning to catch up with him. He didn't have long before he lost his stomach and embarrassed himself in front of her all over again.

Inhaling deeply, he reached out and took one of her hands in his. To her credit she didn't immediately try to pull away; she just watched him wearily.

“I want to know,” he whispered very slowly, “if you were satisfied last night.”

She tipped her head to the side minutely and glanced down his body again, taking particular note of the bottle dangling at his side.

“If you can't remember last night, your grace, then all the better. I'm trying to forget the incident myself.”

The
incident
? That comment certainly spurred his agitation, as was no doubt her intent. “My memory is fine, madam,” he countered in a low drawl, “which makes your answer all the more important. I remember how you felt on me, but I was rather engaged in my own…satisfaction. I want to hear, from your lips, if you received yours.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly and she tried nonchalantly to free her hand from his grasp to no avail.

“I refuse to discuss the intimacy that occurred between us, sir, especially when I can hardly understand your words which, at the moment, lack enunciation,” she charged. “Now, if you please—”

“Were you satisfied, Charlotte? That's all I want to know, and then I'll let you go.”

She shook her head, totally baffled. “Your question makes no sense. The entire affair was completely unsatisfactory as a marital bedding, especially wearing that ridiculous outfit. You obviously seem to remember
that
part and I believe we've been over this.” She huffed and stood straighter, looking him up and down for a final time. “You are highly inebriated and would do best by returning to your bed and getting a decent night's sleep. Now.”

Naturally, in such a state of drunkenness, he couldn't react very quickly when she suddenly jerked her hand out of his and stepped back far enough to put the piano bench between them, clinging to the music she held against her chest as if it might protect her.

“It's time for me to leave,” she maintained, “so if you'll excuse me—”

“No.”

Her mouth dropped open a fraction. “I beg your pardon?”

He lost his balance briefly, caught himself, then braced his hip against the pianoforte once more in a concerted effort to remain standing. Doing his best to focus on her face, he slurred, “I said no, or at least not yet.”

His command took her aback. He watched her eyes widen, then narrow to slits as she stared at him, fuming, knowing fully well that as his wife she didn't dare challenge his authority.

Colin rubbed his own tired eyes, thinking. Something about her answer troubled him, and because of the blasted whisky and incessant pounding in his temples, he found it exceedingly difficult to understand
why. He needed another swallow from his bottle but refrained from taking it, certain she'd grow more disgusted if he gulped it in front of her.

She continued to stare at him with an anger he could actually feel, her lips thinned, her gaze markedly defiant, waiting for direction as a good wife should. And suddenly, as if hit in the head with falling bricks, it occurred to him that she might not really understand what he'd asked, that she might not be even vaguely aware of the pleasures of the bedroom. She might be totally ignorant of—

“Did you climax, Charlotte?” he asked in a husky timbre.

For a moment or two she looked confused, squeezing her music hard against her chest. Then a certain shock overwhelmed her and she gasped, hot color flooding her cheeks, a look that pleased him enormously. He decided to move closer, stepping away from the pianoforte and rounding the bench toward her, careful in his stride so he wouldn't fall.

“You know what it is to climax, don't you?” he drawled as a statement rather than a question, noting how she continued to stare at him with wide, dazed eyes, her green gown accenting the rosy tint in her skin, the reddish highlights in her hair. “I want to know if you climaxed when I was inside of you, last night. See…I thought you did, and that you thoroughly enjoyed it. Am I mistaken?”

She swallowed, then seemed to recover herself as she stiffened before him. “This conversation is appalling, sir,” she whispered. “I refuse—”

He grabbed her upper arm, yanking her against him, and she immediately attempted to break free.

“Let me go,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

He held on tightly, gazing down at her beautifully flushed face. “Answer me.”

“When your drunken stupor is finished, perhaps you'll recall that I hated what you did to me. It was shocking, uncomfortable, and humiliating in every way.
Nothing
about it was enjoyable.”

Colin dropped her arm as if she'd scalded him, staggering back a foot or so, reaching out to clutch the mantelpiece on his left as the room began to spin. She swept past him at once, holding her music with one hand, her skirts with the other, her head held high.

“Charlotte?” he called out as she reached the door.

She paused without looking over her shoulder at him. “What is it?” she enunciated angrily.

“I'd like you to call me Colin from this moment on,” he said in a dark murmur, realizing he likely slurred every one of his words but deciding he no longer cared. “Especially during the intimate times we'll share together in future.”

For several long, silent seconds she did nothing. Then without comment, or even an infuriated glance in his direction, she walked out of his study, chin high, as if she had so many more important things to do.

He stood there for a long time, feeling disillusioned like he never had before, still clutching his whisky bottle, which he finally placed upon the mantel.

“I am a goddamned idiot,” he admitted aloud to no one. Then closing his parted shirt in case he spotted servants on his way, he staggered back to his bed chamber, emptied his stomach, and crawled between his sheets.

C
harlotte had great difficulty concentrating on the tedious lecture given the cast of the latest production of Balfe's
The Bohemian Girl
that would premier at the Royal Italian Opera House in Covent Garden next fall. She knew from the players that it would no doubt be a magnificent run—if they could get Adamo Porano, one of Italy's finest tenors, to stop complaining about everything, including, even, the quality of food provided them at rehearsals. But then their theater manager, Edward Hibbert, had courted the famous Porano, hoping that by giving the man the lead he would also be able to court Balfe himself, wooing Great Britain's most famous modern composer from the Continent, where he remained dedicated to finishing the four-act French version of
La Bohemienne
, scheduled to premier next year in Rouen. And if Balfe arrived, the theater might be graced with Queen Victoria as well, which would mean splendid sales and increased income and exposure for all.
Charlotte had her doubts about being an integral part of something so grand, though secretly she'd give everything she had in the world to meet Balfe. If granting Porano's every wish made that possible, she'd hire an Italian chef and feed him herself. Funny how thoughts of the great Balfe, even now and in a professional, operatic setting, led to thoughts of her husband, a nobleman with more money and connections to the elite than anyone she knew. Perhaps if she begged him, he'd arrange an introduction, even take her to Rouen to meet the man. But then the gracious, generous Duke of Newark would probably require another bedding in a brand-new corset in exchange for the favor, a notion that made her shudder inside.

“You're not paying attention,” Sadie whispered from her left.

Charlotte offered her friend and fellow soprano a wry grin, sitting up a little in an attempt to concentrate on Walter Barrington-Graham, their director, as he scolded them for musical notes bungled or forgotten or both when they sang through the second act.

She'd been given the lead soprano role of Arline, her first time with the part, though because she'd sung the music for years, none of the arias were new to her. Being chastised by Barrington-Graham wasn't new to her, either, so in an attempt to keep from yawning through his tirade, she opened her fan and began swishing it slowly back and forth in front of her chest.

They'd all taken seats on the stage in the now-empty opera house, where they would meet almost every day for the next two months, preparing, practicing, and
readying themselves for opening night. Rehearsals would last several hours each day, starting with just one pianist and the music, followed by placement on the stage, culminating in dress rehearsals with costumes and cosmetics and full orchestra, led by the famous French conductor, Adrien Beaufort. In the meantime, she would be subject to Barrington-Graham's daily reprimands and insistence that if they performed as poorly in front of an audience, the government would reinstate banishment to Australia and he'd be the first to go, his head hanging in disgrace. A notion beyond the ridiculous, but then this was drama.

Charlotte couldn't help but groan, sinking a little lower in her chair again as Adamo began to argue with both the director and the pianist in pure Italian fashion. The backstage hands had been hammering and stomping around on the platform, sewing and creating the scenery, talking and laughing and dropping things, apparently interrupting Adamo so much that he found it necessary to complain about the pandemonium hurting his concentration and causing him to blunder his notes. Charlotte found that rather amusing since he'd been in theater for some twenty-five years and would most assuredly be able to practice above a little loud set building. But then he was the star.

Sadie tapped her own fan impatiently on her lap, and Charlotte's thoughts couldn't help but stray again to things besides rehearsal, to Colin. It had been a week since her wedding night fiasco, and since that time she'd only seen him briefly, usually in passing or at meals. He'd apparently decided to respect her
wishes to leave her alone, which was fine with her, and frankly, she hoped he'd never again mention the drunken, humiliating discussion they'd shared in his study. What a nightmare. In some manner, she'd been surprised that her husband hadn't expected more from her in bed each night, though perhaps he still remained embarrassed by his actions toward her a week ago.

Her self-imposed celibacy wouldn't last. She'd started her monthly yesterday, more or less depressing her because she really was hoping, after careful consideration of the horrible bedding on her wedding night, that she'd gotten with child. At least then her duty to him would be over. Yet she also realized what would happen if she carried. The London Gossip Society, as she liked to call the busybodies, would know that Lottie English was either loose, or married, or she would have to hide it and pretend several months of illness. Any of these options could hurt her career badly, a risk she wasn't ready to take.

Still, she was now the Duchess of Newark, with a husband to control her, and the constraint in which she now found herself meant she needed to keep her secret identity more than ever and play her part well. That meant coming to the theater as she had before, dressed in unassuming, practical clothing that wouldn't garner notice, her hair meticulously kept in a conservative style. It meant no glamour. But then, on opening night and for a month or two thereafter, she would be the glamourous Lottie English, made up for the adoring public. She would be the star.

“Lottie!”

The interruption jerked her out of her musings
and she sat up straighter, smiling at Mr. Barrington-Graham, who'd apparently been talking to her without her awareness. “I beg your pardon, Walter?”

“Please take your place stage left,” the tall, rather gaunt man directed with exasperation, patting down the sparse strings of hair on his oiled head. “I would like you and Mr. Porano to sing the duet again, and
this
time I shall clap the beat
loudly
.” He grunted, then waved his arm through the air. “The rest of you…
out!
”

Charlotte rolled her eyes and Sadie snickered, gently squeezing her hand in response before she stood and, along with the rest of the dispersing cast, made her way backstage toward the exits. They'd been rehearsing act two all day, but secretly she realized Walter trusted her to help Porano stay on task with his practice, and so the duet it was. Again. After that, it would be a stuffy and hot ride home, a lukewarm bath, light supper, and bed. She couldn't wait.

Porano moved his thick figure center stage, scratching his curly, black beard as he studied his sheet music. She lifted her skirts and moved to stage left as ordered. Walter probably wanted them separated, Porano closer to the piano, so that the Italian could hear the music from his right, her singing from his left, with Walter clapping from just in front of the orchestra station.

The crew had cleared the chairs so that nothing remained on stage but them. Once Mr. Quintin, their regular pianist, acknowledged his readiness from the keyboard, Walter began clapping the tempo, then raised his hand to direct.

The melody began.

Knees slightly bent, shoulders back, music held at arm's length, Charlotte stood erect to lift her diaphragm, drew a full breath through her nose—and then came a startling commotion.

First a screech, then shouting from the rafters. She quickly glanced up.

“Lottie,
move
!”

Somewhere through a slice of panic, her husband's voice registered and she bolted forward as a beam of wood swung down from above. Walter grabbed her upper arm and yanked her, but not before the corner of the beam slammed into the back of her thigh, knocking her over to fall flat on her belly near the edge of the stage.

Suddenly cast members and crew surrounded her, jostling her, speaking to her. Her heart thudded in her breast; her mouth went dry and she couldn't find her voice if she tried.

“Lottie! Oh, my God, Lottie, are you hurt?” Sadie asked as she pushed through the small group to kneel beside her, her own words shaky with alarm.

Charlotte attempted to recover herself as Walter took charge.

“Back away, everyone, back away,” he said in a commanding, concerned voice. “Please give her air.”

They all started speaking at once, and even as the shock began to wear off, she couldn't help thinking of Colin, sitting in the back of the theater, his voice shouting to her in warning, probably just in time to save her life. In her confusion, she couldn't decide if she should be grateful for his interference or angry that he surreptitiously kept track of her whereabouts. But for a moment, it didn't matter. Suddenly
he knelt beside her, wrapping a strong arm around her shoulders as he helped lift her to a sitting position.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice low and matter-of-fact.

She raised a trembling palm to cover her mouth, shaking her head as her initial daze turned to disbelief. “It hit me—it hit me in the leg.”

He looked into her eyes pointedly and asked again, “Are you hurt?”

“No,” she whispered. “I—I don't think—” She winced as she attempted to move her leg. The dull ache in her thigh had turned to shooting pain and she sucked in a breath through her teeth. “Perhaps a little, but—it's getting better.”

Colin's lids narrowed as he continued to watch her skeptically. “Can you stand?”

She nodded, clutching his arms as he gently pulled her to her feet. Clinging to him, she placed her weight first on her uninjured leg, then the other, from tiptoe to heel as the pain began to dissipate. “I'm fine,” she said, her tone forcefully bright.

“Your grace?” Sadie said from behind him.

Colin turned and took a cup from her.

“It's brandy,” she offered, patting Charlotte on the arm.

“Drink this,” he said, sniffing it first, then lifting the glass to her lips.

She did as ordered without argument, taking several sips of the burning liquid that warmed her tongue and slid down her throat.

The crowd began to disperse, talking among themselves. Two brawny stage hands lifted the beam and carried it backstage; Adamo burst into one of his typi
cal Italian diatribes, his hands in the air as he walked away; Edward Hibbert, the theater manager, pulled Walter aside, engaging him in deep discussion. She felt better, in control of her emotions again, and she concentrated on her breathing, keeping herself steady. She didn't dare look at her injury here, for she'd have to lift her skirts far too high for decency, but she knew she wasn't bleeding. It wasn't that kind of wound, though she'd likely suffer a nasty bruise come morning. That being said, she supposed she was grateful for it. If the beam had hit her in the head, she'd be dead already.

Finally Colin stood back from her and Charlotte noticed immediately how people instinctively moved away from his commanding presence, several minor cast members and costumers staring at him in awe, then curtsying or nodding in acknowledgment. Even now, she knew they were all questioning his reason for being at their closed rehearsal, his immediate response to the mishap, that they would whisper for days about his reaction and obvious concern for her person. And although none of them knew the Duke of Newark personally, they knew of his reputation, everyone did, and speculation would soon turn to rumor. Her only hope was that her fellow cast members would be gracious enough not to ask any delicate questions regarding his reasons for attending her at the theater day after day.

“Your grace,” she said, forcing a pleasant smile on her lips, “thank you for your help, but I do think I'm fine now. Really.”

He raked his fingers through his hair, staring down
at her through narrowed eyes. “My driver will take you home.”

It was a strong statement, catching them all by surprise, including her. She usually took public transportation so no one would be the wiser. Yet she could never argue with him here, in front of everyone. And nobody else would dare question a nobleman, either, though this spectacular turn of events would be the talk of the theater once they left—especially among the women.

After assurances to Walter, Sadie, and even Porano that she felt much better and would be just fine, Colin gestured and said, “This way, Miss English.”

As she limped her way toward the backstage door, his hand firmly on her elbow, Charlotte glanced over her shoulder for one last look at several of the workers standing around the spot where she had been spared certain serious injury, all of them studying the rafters, mumbling among themselves.

And then without another word, she found herself stepping into one of her husband's decorated carriages for a quiet trip home.

 

The ride back to his townhouse proved slow and hot, the streets crowded and the air inside his coach stagnant, making a usually short trip long, unsteady, and uncomfortable.

Charlotte sat across from him, staring blankly out the small window she'd cracked in the hope of a comforting breeze that never ensued, her forehead creased in deep thought, her skin pale even in the heat that she occasionally attempted to ward off by
waving her fan. He hadn't said much to her since they'd left the theater, and she didn't appear to feel like talking, which he supposed was understandable considering the events of the last hour. Still, she had to be badly shaken, and as her husband and protector, he supposed it was his duty to demand answers to a few delicate questions regarding an accident that, after considerable consideration, seemed highly suspicious. He'd heard the hammering, heard a crack, shouting, and a commotion in the rafters, and instinct had made him call out. It was the only time in three hours that she had been standing alone, without other cast members near her, and the entire episode seemed…planned. Or extraordinarily accidental. But maybe he just felt the suspicion in his gut.

Shifting his large frame on the hot leather seat, he pushed up his shirt sleeves in an attempt to stay cool, then decided it was time to broach the subject with her.