The Duke's Indiscretion (19 page)

“I don't suppose you need a hobby now, do you?” she asserted at last.

He couldn't decide if she were serious or trying to lighten the mood. Finally, he replied, “What I
need
is your trust, Charlotte, in what I say and what I do.”

She drew in a shaky breath. “And if I don't?”

He hadn't expected her to challenge him. But with
out hesitation, he replied, “Then we can never, truly, be married.”

She stilled, her hand going limp in his, and with that, he made his move.

Leaning over, he placed his face only an inch from hers, their dark eyes locked, and he whispered, “Trust me, Charlotte. I'd rather be married…”

She had no time to react. In one smooth action, he captured her mouth with his in a searing kiss, giving her a taste of the passion she stirred within him.

Charlotte had never felt so charged with complex emotions in all of her life. And when he closed over her to finally place his lips on hers, she didn't know how to respond. But the touch of his lips to hers started a marvelous, heated tingle that rolled in waves through her body.

She let him kiss her even as her intellect fought against it. He felt so warm, tasted faintly of brandy, and made no move to force her into anything other than a sweet caress of his mouth against hers.

She closed her eyes as his kiss grew slightly more passionate, all clear thought of his confession gradually evaporating as she began to succumb to his blissful insistence. He remained fully clothed, the sheet and blanket between them, allowing her to relax and revel in the feel of him at her side, hovering over her, stroking her fingers with his own.

A heady power enveloped her and she raised her free hand to his neck, resting it softly against him, feeling his fast pulse under his hot skin.

“Charlotte,” he whispered against her lips, “do you trust me?”

She felt an unusual stirring in her heart, not from
his words, but from the hope in his voice, the eagerness to hear her affirm what he so desperately wanted.

He drew his lips across her cheek, placing soft pecks at her jawline, and reason vanished.

Ignoring the remaining tug of doubt, she replied, “I do…”

He groaned, and with it took her mouth again with a sudden, urgent need. She responded in kind, allowing him access as she hadn't before, giving in to the feel of him, the yearning he exposed within her that she couldn't now deny.

His tongue brushed her top lip, then plunged deeply into her mouth, searching, stroking, finding as his breathing grew uneven and quick.

Without warning, he grasped her fingers, which he'd been stroking, and with them lifted her hand above her head, resting it on the pillow before letting it loose. He then reached for the palm at his neck and did the same, raising it above her before he clasped both of her wrists with his strong left palm and held them secure.

Uncertain of his intentions, she squirmed a little beneath the sheet, but he only steadied her, taking her to further heights of unreality with each stroke of his lips, each shaky breath, each plundering kiss.

Her head reeled with wonder anew; her body ached for a completion she refused to consider. And in that second in time, his desire unrelenting, she released her failing inhibitions with the trust she had promised.

He released her mouth and ran his tongue along her jawline until he reached her ear, sucking the
lobe. She whimpered, lifting the top of her head to allow him better access. He gladly accepted, moving lower as he kissed his way down her neck to the top of her chest, where her nightgown lay buttoned. With quick expertise, he raised his right hand and unfastened the top three or four, then pushed the cotton aside to expose the tops of her breasts.

Charlotte couldn't deny him if she tried. Her mind screamed for him to stop; her body ached for more, and when he nuzzled his head between the soft flesh, she arched her back with increasing need, silently begging for more.

He responded in kind, brushing his lips back and forth across her nipple then rolling his tongue across it, his hot breath igniting her skin as he finally closed his mouth over the hard, aroused tip and began to gently suck.

She gasped from the instant rush of pleasure, whimpered again, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized he'd moved the sheet aside and pushed her nightgown up as she felt his palm caressing her bare leg from ankle to knee. She drew her feet together instinctively when he reached the inside of her thigh, but it only seemed to make him more determined. He lightly stroked the soft skin with his thumb and fingers, forcing delicate, little moans from the back of her throat as he nuzzled her breasts, ran his lips across her nipples, then kissed them gingerly before drawing one into his mouth once more.

In a final endeavor to recover her sanity, she tried to ease her hands out from his grasp, but he held them fast against the pillow, securing her in his embrace. And then, as sudden as it was shocking, she
felt his heated palm inch up between her legs until he found the hidden treasure of a raging desire.

She jerked against him, twisting her hips in an attempt to free herself.

“Trust me, Charlotte,” he pleaded, his lips once more brushing hers, his voice low and raw, his body tense.

She shook her head minutely in quick denial, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, feeling her heart race, his fingers lightly teasing the soft hair between her thighs.

“Trust me…”

With that last urgent whisper of need, he captured her mouth again in a deep, searing kiss—and she relented.

She stilled as he began to stroke her, gently at first, holding her wrists down, his tongue searching for hers. She felt nothing but the heat from his hard body, the warmth of his breath on her cheeks that mingled with her own, a tightness coiling up within her that silently begged for more.

He moaned as she did, caught up in the fever, quickening his pace as his fingers pressed harder against her, stroking, caressing, bringing her closer to the edge of a blissful torment. Her wetness coated him, her body rocked into his, and with a gasp, she felt him slide a finger inside of her.

Lost in a new and wondrous delirium, Charlotte clutched his hand on the pillow as she kissed him back with abandon, arching her hips in time to each masterful stroke. He moved his finger in and out of her, his thumb teasing the nub of her pleasure, un-
yielding in his effort as she balanced at the brink of glorious insanity.

And then it struck her hard. She cried out, through wave after wave of intense pleasure, feeling his finger inside her with each pulse of fulfillment that swept through her body. He covered her mouth with his to muffle her long moan of exquisite abandonment, made all the more gratifying as she heard his own groan of satisfaction curl up from deep in his throat.

He continued caressing her softly, slowing his pace as the seconds passed, until at last he removed his finger and then his hand from between her legs, allowing her body to calm, her breathing to quiet and return to normal. Finally, he drew his mouth away and lowered his forehead to rest lightly on hers, releasing the pressure on her wrists little by little.

They remained unmoving for several lingering moments, not a word spoken. Charlotte felt the tension in his body, noted his own erratic breathing, and realized by instinct that he tried to control himself. For a fleeting second she became fearful that he might quickly remove his clothes and enter her to relieve his own desire. Instead, he lowered his lips to her lashes, kissing them lightly as he raised the hand that only moments ago had caressed her intimately and covered her breasts again with her nightgown.

“At long last I know what you feel like when you climax,” he whispered with a brush of his lips to her ear. “I'll never make that mistake again.” Then in one smooth movement, he stood and walked to their adjoining door. “Sleep well, my darling wife…”

Charlotte never opened her eyes. Confounded by what had just happened between them, emotions she couldn't understand flooded her, and as she heard the door click shut, she turned on her side and allowed the tears to flow.

C
harlotte had never been so conflicted with emotion in all of her life. To say last night's strange turn of events at the surprise visit from her husband confused her would be an understatement of huge proportion. He'd not only shared some of the most intimate details of his past, details he knew would shock her, he'd then done things to her body that even now, hours later, made her hot all over even as it made her shiver with the most intense desire to do it again. And the most amazing part about the entire episode was that even after recalling each blissful second of what they had done, she felt no shame in it at all.

She'd only seen Colin for breakfast this early Sunday morning, then had gone to church with him as the Duchess of Newark, dressed in a conservative gown of lilac silk with cream-colored flounces, her hair wrapped up on her head and under a matching hat covered with lilac lace. She felt rather pretty for a change, though he'd said very little to her aside
from casual dialogue. At Mass he acted just as pleasant and charming as usual, ignoring the stares of wishful infatuation from all the young girls, for her sake she supposed, but more or less treating her as if nothing between them had changed, or even happened for that matter. Frankly, she had no idea how to take his indifference, which was why she now found herself walking to the Duchess of Durham's townhouse only two streets away to partake of afternoon tea with the Frenchwoman.

Olivia Carlisle had invited her twice before, and both times she'd had to make excuses because she'd been occupied at the theater. But this was Sunday, and with her husband home working on the Handel, she decided she wanted a good discussion with another female.

Charlotte rang the bell, then presented her card to the butler, who invited her in at once with a flat smile and a formal announcement that her grace was indeed at home and waiting for her in the parlor.

She took note of the scent of berries in the air, the warm decorations in French Provincial furnishings accented in white and gold as she followed the tall, aging man around a white circular staircase covered with teal carpeting that blended with the Persian accent rugs scattered across the main floor. At the back of the airy entryway, he paused in front of French double doors and rapped twice with his knuckles on the glass, then entered after an acknowledgment from within.

“Madam, may I present the Duchess of Newark,” he said, very stately, moving to his side to allow her to enter.

“Charlotte, I'm so glad you could come today!” Olivia expressed in lightly accented English, rising with effort from a large blue velveteen sofa at the center of the room.

Charlotte smiled, feeling a bit overwhelmed in the presence of such a beautiful woman. “Please don't stand on my account,” she insisted, removing her bonnet and smoothing her hair. “I'm just happy to be here.”

Into her confinement, Olivia's pregnancy had begun to show, and yet she still looked remarkably stunning in a modest day gown of silver and sapphire that fairly equaled the color of her eyes and accented her dark hair now curled and piled on top of her head. The parlor, spacious and scented as well, matched the decor of the foyer in colors of white, deep blue, and gold, providing a lovely backdrop for the Frenchwoman to entertain guests.

Charlotte walked toward the sofa as Olivia moved out from behind the tea table, reaching for her hands and planting a kiss on both cheeks. Then she looked at her butler, who waited patiently for instruction by the door.

“We'll have tea, James—oh, and what's left of the chocolate cake Elsie made yesterday,” she said in an airy voice, her French accent only barely perceptible.

The elderly man nodded. “Madam.” And with that he quit the parlor, closing the French doors behind him.

“So, tell me,” Olivia began, still holding her hands as she pulled her toward the sofa, “how does it feel to be married to that handsome devil?”

Charlotte laughed as she lowered her body onto the cushion. Olivia released her hands and sat beside her, both women smoothing their skirts as if readying themselves for deep discussion.

“Well?” Olivia pressed, her eyes wide and flashing with keen interest.

She couldn't help but grin; the Frenchwoman's excitement was truly contagious. “He is a devil,” she replied, anxious to delve into the personal issues that plagued her, though uncertain how to go about doing so.

As if reading her thoughts, Olivia cocked her head to the side a little, her lids narrowing. “So what are you
not
telling me?”

She pulled back a little. “Nothing,” she insisted a bit too quickly. “Nothing really. Colin is…”

“A devil,” Olivia repeated, her smile gradually fading as she sensed a serious turn in the conversation. “But he really is a good man. Sam trusts him implicitly.”

Charlotte relaxed into the sofa, ignoring the slight pinching of her stays. “I know. Of course he's a good man. Honestly, he's a good provider and a lady couldn't ask for a better husband.”

The Frenchwoman laughed, tossing her head back. “A good
provider?
” She reached for one of her hands and squeezed it gently. “Charlotte, what on earth are you not telling me?”

A knock at the door interrupted them and Olivia groaned. “Come in, James.”

Her butler did as ordered immediately, entering the parlor with a silver tray resting on his palm as he carried it to the tea table, placing it on top without
even a clink of china. Expertly, he lifted a sterling pot and poured two china cups three-quarters full of sweet-smelling jasmine tea.

“Would you care for cake now, madam?” he asked, removing lace napkins from atop the two plates and laying them to the side.

The chocolate confection looked scrumptious, and yet Charlotte felt minutely relieved when Olivia voiced her own thoughts.

“We'll wait, James, and cut it ourselves. That will be all.”

He nodded once, and with a formal turn, quit the parlor again, closing the French doors behind him.

Olivia eyed her candidly, refreshments forgotten. “Now. Explain yourself, dear Charlotte.”

Somewhat unnerved by the delicate topic, she decided to plunge into the heart of the matter, to get it out quickly before she changed her mind.

Rubbing her palms together in her lap, she acknowledged the obvious. “I suppose I am a bit…troubled by our marital relationship,” she murmured.

Forehead creased in thought, Olivia relaxed against the plush sofa back, crossing her arms over her breasts. “I'm sure it must be difficult when two people marry before they get to know each other very well.”

She managed a soft smile. “That's very true,” she replied. “But with Colin…It's more than that, actually.”

The Frenchwoman's brows rose, but she remained silent, allowing her to continue at her own pace.

Exhaling a fast breath, she asked, “May I be honest with you?”

“Of course,” Olivia returned at once, surprised.

Drawing courage from within, she said, “Actually, I may need your advice.”

“My advice?”

“I—I'm rather confused about Colin…romantically,” she fairly whispered, feeling a flush creep up her neck but purposely ignoring it.

Olivia's jaw dropped as her brows pinched tightly in disbelief. “Colin—
romantically?
”

Charlotte kept her chin high, though truth be told the conversation thoroughly embarrassed her. “I'm sorry, perhaps it's inappropriate—”

“No, no,
no
,” Olivia interrupted, reaching for her arm and patting it tenderly. “Of course it's not inappropriate. We're both married ladies, and becoming good friends, I hope. It's just—” She shook her head. “It's just that I'm so surprised to hear such a thing from the wife of a man who prides himself on his…charm, shall we say.”

The side of her mouth tipped up as relief coursed through her. “Yes, exactly,” she agreed. “He's very charming, quick witted and undeniably handsome, but…”

“But?” Olivia pressed, sitting back again and hooking her elbow over the sofa back.

Charlotte patted the hair at the back of her neck. “But I don't think he finds me interesting at all.”

Olivia tossed her head back and laughed wholeheartedly. “Darling Charlotte, you cannot be serious,” she stated seconds later, her eyes sparkling mischievously. “The man is completely infatuated with you.”

In a rather strange way, she felt both encouraged
and almost smug to know her feelings in this matter would be validated once she told the Frenchwoman everything. Or almost everything.

“He's not infatuated with me, Olivia,” she revealed in a low voice. “He's infatuated with Lottie English, and perhaps even with, in some measure, her fame.”

Olivia gazed at her for a long moment, then gradually lowered her arm from the sofa back and leaned toward the refreshment table, her expression contemplative.

“Cream and sugar?”

“Only cream, please,” she replied, watching the woman pour with dainty fingers, then lift the white china cup and saucer to hand to her.

“Now that I'm carrying, I can't seem to get enough sweets,” Olivia professed as she stirred two large teaspoons full of sugar into her own cup before lifting it and settling back into the sofa.

Charlotte waited, sipping her lukewarm beverage, wondering for a second or two if the woman would comment on her last disclosure. She wasn't yet ready to change the subject to babies and happy families.

“Explain something to me, Charlotte,” Olivia requested after a sip of her tea, her tone pensive. “Who do
you
think you are?”

That question took her completely aback. “I beg your pardon?”

Olivia smiled knowingly as she returned her cup and saucer to the table. “How do you define yourself? Are you Lottie English, the sensual, glamorous soprano from the stage, or are you the proper Duchess of Newark?”

She considered the question for a moment. “I'm
not sure exactly how to answer that,” she replied honestly. “When I'm on the stage, I'm Lottie. Here, now, having tea in your parlor, I am obviously Charlotte.”

Olivia studied her through narrowed eyes. “So you think Colin is infatuated with your persona on the stage, but not the least bit interested in the lady he married?”

The line of questions made her increasingly uncomfortable, though she didn't know why. In point of fact, she wasn't exactly certain how to define such a thing to the striking woman who sat beside her.

Olivia sighed and folded her hands in her lap. “Charlotte, when I first met my husband, he maintained a very clear dislike of Frenchwomen, for several complex reasons I don't really need to address here. But for a long time he remained rather…untrusting with me because I have always defined myself as both French
and
English. This simply made no sense to him.” She smiled. “Until we grew to love each other, he would get quite irritated with me whenever I mentioned the fact that I am both.”

Charlotte took a sip of her tea. “I see.”

“No, actually, I don't believe you do,” Olivia countered frankly. “You're describing yourself to me as two completely different people—Charlotte the proper lady, and Lottie, the gifted, singing enchantress. And by separating the two, you've come to the conclusion that your husband won't adore you for who you are as the complete woman.”

She wanted to squirm in her stays, feeling suddenly hot all over, uneasy and not quite sure she wanted to discuss this anymore.

Olivia gave her a crooked smile. “Are you in love with Colin?”

She blinked quickly several times. “In love?”

“Mmm-hmm?”

She attempted to place her teacup and saucer back on the silver tray gingerly, but it rattled anyway. “I'm sure my husband and I haven't been together long enough to know such a thing,” she replied as evenly as she could, avoiding the woman's gaze as she smoothed her skirts.

Olivia would not be daunted. “Charlotte, darling,” she said through a small chuckle, reaching for her hand again and squeezing it gently, “one can fall in love very fast, sometimes almost at once. You either are or are not in love with your husband.”

In truth, Charlotte had never given love a second thought, but doing so now, by direct confrontation, unsettled her to the core.

“Is that how it was with you and your husband?” she asked as pleasantly as possible.

Olivia shook her head. “Not exactly, but then we're not discussing me. But I will say this: if you were in love with Colin, you would know it, and you could answer the question easily enough.”

Discouraged, she said, “Honestly, Olivia, I've not given love any thought. I married the man for…other reasons, the most important of which is to support my pursuit of opera on the Continent, and he knows this. What concerns me, and why I wished to speak with you about it today, is that Colin, I believe, is infatuated with Lottie English,
thinks
I'm Lottie English, and wants to have a love affair with
her
.” She shook her head. “I'm just not sure what to do about it.”

“And this bothers you because, if I understand you correctly, you don't think you're that person,” the Frenchwoman stated rather than asked.

She groaned within and rubbed her palms across her cheeks. “It's not that simple,” she replied, trying to succinctly reveal something she couldn't even quite explain to herself.

Olivia smiled again in understanding. “It's not that simple because it's very clear, in my mind, Charlotte, that you have romantic feelings for your husband and you think he wants nothing to do with the noble and proper lady you were raised to be.” She clucked her tongue. “It sounds as if you are hoping he'll fall in love with
only
that part of you, and I'm not certain it's possible.”

Befuddled and agitated by a discussion that seemed to be going nowhere, Charlotte could no longer sit. Rising abruptly, one palm on her hip, one on her forehead, she crossed the thick Persian carpet to stand in front of a long east-facing window, gazing down to a small rose garden, flowers of all colors in full bloom.