The Duke's Indiscretion (15 page)

C
harlotte sat rigidly across from her husband in the hackney coach he'd hired for her morning ride to rehearsal, sifting through sheets of music for something to do to keep from looking at him, or engaging him in conversation.

He'd been watching her silently for the better part of an hour now, pretending drowsiness, his hands folded in his lap, body relaxed as if he hadn't a care in the world. She, however, couldn't seem to calm her racing heartbeat, her nervousness, the tingle she felt deep inside whenever she recalled what he'd done to her last night. Admittedly, it wasn't much as far as touching goes, but whatever his goal, his endeavor had been effective. The result had been wholly unpleasant, both in how he made her feel before leaving her alone in frustration at her weakness, and in not knowing if he'd attempt such boldness again. If he did, she was afraid she might not be able to resist.

Frankly, the event still lingered in her mind as if
he had only just touched her. But he'd done more than that. He'd numbed her, confused her, and yes, even alarmed her when she later stopped to consider how he'd managed to arouse feelings in her she didn't understand simply by rubbing her shoulders, breathing softly in her ear. She should be angry that he'd awakened that kind of desire in her, but she wasn't, probably because he really hadn't done anything improper. Aside from the fact that they were legally married and he had the right by law to approach her in any way he chose, he didn't exactly have to force her into submission. But the memory that had kept her awake most of the night, the memory that, oddly enough, both embarrassed and thrilled her, was the feel of his desire, pushed so intimately against her, that she alone had roused in
him
by doing absolutely nothing. For some inexplicable reason she just couldn't drive that from her mind, and the thrilling part, she supposed, was knowing she possessed some sort of sexual…power over him. She only wished she knew how to use it to her advantage.

“What are you thinking?”

She jumped at the interruption, startled, and for a second, concerned that he could actually read her mind. Mentally shaking herself of that ridiculous notion, she replied, “Of act three.”

He grinned at her through slitted eyes. “That's surprising. You've been staring at the same page for ten minutes.”

She ignored that and began shuffling the pages of music in her lap.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked moments later.

Her heart started beating fast in her chest. What did
he expect her to say? Without looking at him, she said blandly, “I had a very good night's rest, thank you.”

“That's quite a lot of music you brought,” he remarked very casually.

She shrugged her tight shoulders. “It's a long coach ride to the theater.”

“Ah.” He waited, then asked, “And you need all of that today?”

She glanced up briefly, deciding that since he seemed determined to have a conversation, there was likely no way to avoid it. At least the topic of music would keep it neutral.

Sighing, she said, “No, most of this isn't necessary for today, but I store a great many pieces in my dressing room and go through them frequently, exchanging them from time to time with those I keep at home.” She held up a few pages with both hands. “They're mostly works for practice.”

“Works for practice?” he repeated with a slight lift of his brows.

He didn't sound all that interested, though she had to admit he wasn't exactly brushing the topic aside, either.

“This,” she explained, lifting one small, bound book, “is a
vocalise
, or series of pieces made up of various scales and arpeggios, some intricate tunes, usually sung a capella with a pianist for guidance. All singers must warm the vocal cords daily.”

“I see,” he replied. “I never knew singing could be so complicated.”

She smirked, caught up in his amusement. “Singing is easy. Music can be complicated. Putting the two of them together is almost always either frus
trating, or immensely rewarding. Sometimes both.”

“As with Mr. Porano's tempo problem?”

She knew he was teasing her, but surprisingly, she actually enjoyed it. Smiling, she nodded once. “Exactly, though to be fair, all singers have problems, minor or major, with which they must deal.”

“And what is your problem?”

“I'm not only the exception,” she said through an exaggerated sigh, “I'm the leading soprano. Thus, I have no problem.”

He grinned. “You're also very humble.”

She shrugged and turned her attention back to her music. “One should always strive to do one's best. I strive to be the most humble person I know.”

That made him laugh. Seconds later, he asked, “So where are your spectacles?”

She glanced up. “I beg your pardon?”

He motioned toward her with the back of his hand. “Your spectacles. You're not wearing them and yet you told me you need them for reading music.”

The truth was, she felt rather unattractive with the large frames attached to her face, and with an acknowledgment to her vanity, she didn't like wearing them anywhere near her husband. But she would never tell him that.

“I suppose I forgot them,” she replied without elaboration, looking down to the sheets on her lap again.

“Your mind has probably just been elsewhere this morning,” he said through a false sigh. “Distraction happens to the best of us, especially after such a late night.”

Her body went still as her cheeks flooded with
heat, but she didn't dare raise her gaze to meet his. He'd said that on purpose, to fluster her, and she refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing his tactic had worked. She just didn't bother to answer, and thankfully, he didn't push her for response.

They sat quietly together for a few minutes longer, until their coach, meandering through traffic, made the final turn on the road to the theater.

Charlotte began to gather her sheets of music into a pile. “So, what are your plans today, sir?” she asked brightly, glad to be leaving the close confines of his presence.

He inhaled deeply and sat up straighter in his seat. “I'm not sure.”

She frowned minutely, feeling a bit anxious from his evasiveness. “You can't possibly stay with me all the time, sir. Don't you have estate matters with which you need concern yourself?”

He shook his head. “No.”

Charlotte couldn't decide if he was teasing her again or trying to make her mad.

Annoyed, she made a great fuss of putting her music sheets into a tidy stack, then folding her hands on top of it in her lap.

“Then perhaps you should find a cause to occupy your time, your grace,” she maintained. “I simply can't be bothered by your presence at rehearsal day after day.”

Seconds of awkward silence passed before he murmured, “My presence bothers you, Charlotte?”

He'd asked that in such a manner that she almost chided herself for making such a callous remark. But then, perhaps honesty was in order.

“I didn't mean to be rude, your grace,” she admitted, feeling a little deflated. “But the truth is, you make me…nervous. I don't know why. And really, my work can't possibly be that interesting to you.”

He actually smiled. “Your work doesn't interest me at all.”

She squirmed a little in her seat. “
I
am not a cause, your grace.”

He tipped his head to the side as his gaze traveled over her face. At last, he asked quietly, “Did you think about me after I left you last night?”

She felt heat rising up her neck and into her cheeks again. “That has nothing to do with our discussion.”

“Oh, I'm certain it does,” he countered knowingly.

She pressed her lips together with irritation. “Will you stop being so evasive? I've asked you repeatedly what you do with your time, where you go, why you're so interested in me and my whereabouts, and instead of giving me answers, you've decided to start following me.” She huffed, and without clear thought, added, “Perhaps you need a mistress, sir.”

She'd blurted that out before thinking, and immediately she wished she could take it back.

Obviously surprised, his brows shot up. “Is that what you'd like, Charlotte? For me to take a mistress?” He rubbed his shoe up and down along her skirt-covered calf as he lowered his voice to confess, “Somehow, I don't think so. Besides, I wouldn't dream of it after the marvelous few minutes we shared last night when we were both so aroused. For now, I don't need anyone but you.”

Startled by his candor, her mouth dropped open a
little as her entire body seemed to melt like warm butter. He must have enjoyed her astonishment, for he suddenly leaned forward and whispered, “We're here, my darling. Shall I follow you inside?”

Charlotte couldn't have reacted faster. Fairly jumping from her seat, she unlatched the handle and opened the door before their driver had even stepped down to offer help.

 

Colin didn't think he'd ever had a more enjoyable ride in a hired hack in his life. Initially, he'd wanted to take one of his own smaller coaches for the comfort, but Charlotte had persuaded him otherwise. She had reasons to be concerned, he supposed, as many would see them arriving and wonder at their relationship. He didn't give a damn what people thought, but he knew it would disturb her and so he'd acquiesced. After last night, when he'd so cleverly manipulated her into an aching need left unsatisfied, he supposed he owed her something. It had been a perfectly arousing few minutes together, and a first for him, which probably made it all the more erotic.

It had taken him a long time to fall asleep after leaving her. He'd stared at the ceiling, recalling her reaction to just a light touch here and there, the way her nipple hardened and she moaned when he brushed his fingers against it. But what surprised him most was how
he'd
reacted. He'd never left a woman wanting more, if he recalled. Always, if he worked at a seduction, at least they got the ultimate pleasure from it. But Charlotte was different. The ultimate pleasure he got from her, for now, was the challenge. And he was enjoying it immensely.

Now, after their warm and somewhat bumpy ride to the theater, he followed her inside the backstage entrance of the opera house, watching her hips sway gently with each step, thinking that if he continued to dwell on her hips and nipples, he'd no doubt be bothered by an erection all damn day. And the gown she wore didn't help at all. Although she'd donned a plain olive-green work dress with short, puffed sleeves and a high neckline, which didn't usually make for tempting fare, Charlotte managed to look splendid. Regardless of the fabric and style, nothing could hide her marvelous figure. At least that gave him something to look at when she wouldn't let him touch, he supposed.

The theater felt warm when they entered, and Colin pulled at his neckline, loosening his tie. The smell of fresh paint assaulted his senses, and already he heard singing, probably Porano, as the notes reverberated through the building while someone clapped in time to the music. Charlotte more or less ignored him, but he followed her anyway, toward her dressing room, he assumed. They were behind the stage, but the curtains were drawn, making it impossible to see anything more than a couple of feet in front of his face, though she knew exactly where to go.

“Is he getting the tempo right this morning?” he asked.

“Shhh,” she replied without turning around. “He hears everything.”

“Except for rhythm, apparently.”

She actually chuckled at that, and it occurred to him that the only place he'd heard her laugh was on the stage. Now it warmed him within to think she
found humor in something he'd said. He only wished he could have seen her face.

“Who else is here this early?” he asked as they neared her private room, fairly centered at the back of the theater.

“Just a few of the stage hands; they're working on scenery today,” she replied as she turned the handle and opened the door. “Anne and Sadie will be here shortly, and—”

She stopped short and gasped. Colin quickly moved up behind her, his own eyes widening at the scene before them.

Illuminated by only a trace amount of window light, the two of them stared at a paper mess, sheets of Charlotte's music that had been pulled from boxes and drawers to be strewn across the floor.

At first sight, Colin thought the room had been fully ransacked, though after a moment of careful observation, he quickly changed his mind. The large wardrobe remained closed, and none of the cosmetic bottles and brushes atop the vanity had been disturbed. This was a deliberate attempt to either destroy sheets of music, or look for something, a warning of some kind left in the disarray.

Although she hadn't yet said a word, Charlotte seemed calm—too calm, in his opinion, as if finding her dressing room vandalized was something she might have expected. At the very least, she didn't seem at all surprised.

Immediately, Colin took action. Grasping her wrist, he moved her forward and out of the way so that he could enter completely and shut the door behind them.

“What are you doing?” she insisted, turning to him with a look of irritation on her face.

“Keep your voice down,” he ordered in a whisper. Then, “Does it lock?”

She frowned. “The door?”

“
Yes
, the door. Does it lock?”

Shaking her wrist loose, she said, “I think so, but I never lock it. I don't have a key if that's what you mean.”

After raking his fingers through his hair, he walked quickly to the wardrobe, careful to avoid the scattered sheets on the floor, and opened both doors, scanning the contents, making certain they were alone. Then he turned back to her and placed his hands on his hips. “What is going on, Charlotte?”

She took a step back in defense. “I have no idea—”