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Authors: Ashley March

BOOK: Seducing the Duchess
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His anger at Ethan or Joanna hadn’t faded. But Charlotte—she had never deserved . . .
Philip banished the errant thought. What was done was done. Even if he wished it, he couldn’t change the past.
She turned her head away again, and Philip continued to stare at her. She wore a blue dress, the color bright as midday even in the gloom of the night. A diamond necklace encircled her neck, lying at the base of her throat. The expanse of ivory skin beneath the glittering jewels and the immodest bodice of her gown led the eye to stray.
Philip silently cursed his lack of discipline even while he indulged himself in looking. As he did, her body shifted subtly, her breasts suddenly lifted higher than before, and he knew she was aware of where his gaze lingered. Although her head remained turned toward the window, he was sure she meant to taunt him.
No, it was only his imagination, his lust-crazed mind, feverish with desire.
God, how he wanted her.
The carriage slowed. They’d reached the Livingston residence. As they waited for the vehicle to pull up to the front of the mansion behind the long line of other guests, Charlotte spoke again. “It’s been a long while since we’ve attended the same function.” Her tone held a weary note of boredom, which somehow made Philip grow even more frustrated. “I trust you won’t expect a dance?”
“No. As I said, I only wanted the use of the carriage. We needn’t spend any more time in each other’s company.” They were all the right words, but he didn’t mean a single one. He wanted every dance for himself, abhorred the thought of her with any other man.
“Good,” she said, then flashed him a sultry smile. “I’m certain Lord Cullen is waiting for me.”
The carriage stopped. Philip fought to maintain his usual air of remoteness, unaccustomed to this jealousy. Before she could leave, he said, “Thank you for informing me. However, I’d like to remind you—even if you cuckold me with every man in all of England, I won’t divorce you.” Her affairs were one thing, an insult to him, but a divorce would be a defamation of the Rutherford duchy. And . . . there was the matter of his lust. He wouldn’t be able to seduce her as easily if she were free.
Her smile wilted. “I don’t understand you.”
“You don’t need to.”
But Philip understood, and that was all that mattered. He might not know why he wanted her now, after all this time, but he would have her. He would seduce her, so well and thoroughly that she wouldn’t want any lover but him. And then he would be content.
 
The night of seduction came two weeks later. Philip had planned it down to the last detail: the wine prepared, dim light provided by only a few candles set throughout the room, pillows at the ready should he be successful.
He gulped down a glass of wine, then grimaced. He would be successful. He would be charming, and nice, though he would be careful to protect himself, to not give too much away in case she rejected him.
Even with the continual doubts playing in his head, Philip sent Fallon to retrieve Charlotte. He had looked at her calendar; she had nowhere to go tonight.
After several minutes, until he thought she would refuse to answer his summons, Charlotte entered the study. He could see her wariness as she approached. Others might not have known; they might have assumed by the sway of her hips and the open invitation in her eyes that she desired him as much as he did her. They didn’t know her sensual parade was nothing more than a mockery of the marriage they could have had.
But Philip knew. He’d taken her to bed before, when she professed her love for him. And while he watched her walk toward him and then lean forward, displaying the sumptuous wealth of her curves, all he could think about was that he wished she would laugh with him again.
“You asked for me, Your Grace?” Her voice was too low, all wrong. He didn’t want the temptress, damn it. He wanted her.
“Yes, I—” He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bear the knowledge that behind the seductive facade, she hated him.
After all of his plans to seduce her, he’d rather have spent the entire night on opposite sides of the room, talking with her—of her life over the past three years, minus the adultery, of course; of her goals and dreams for the future; asking her if she, too, desired children. And he wanted to coax her to laughter—not the deep, throaty chuckle she gave whenever a man’s eyes were on her, but the natural sound of joy and pleasure he remembered: when she laughed so hard her eyes filled with tears, and her hands pressed to her sides, trying to contain it all.
For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to see her again as Charlotte, the girl who had once been his neighbor, his friend. And he wanted her smiles, her confidence, her trust, her respect—everything he didn’t deserve.
He lusted after her, yes. But much more than that, God help him, he . . . loved her.
 
Philip sent her away that night and began his pursuit the next day, full of fear, but also of hope and determination. He knew it would be difficult, after all he’d done, but he would not give up.
Over the past six months, two weeks, and three days, his hope had slowly dwindled, until determination was all that remained. If he hadn’t loved her, he would have given up. But though he tried, he couldn’t stop this craving for her. As mad as it was, he would rather have had a thousand nights sitting together, simply playing a game or talking, than one night in her bed.
It was determination—and an equal measure of desperation—which drove him to kidnap and seclude her at Ruthven Manor, far away from London and her admirers and the city’s decadent enticements.
For so long, he had waited. He had loved her, without any hope that her heart would soften toward him and she would love him in return.
Only now, as he watched her flee from him, his skin still warm from the gentle touch of her unexpected kiss, did a spark of new hope flare to life.
Chapter 11
“
Y
ou do not need a lesson on kissing,” Charlotte said four days later. “You do it quite well, and if you need any practice, it is Joanna you should be seeking out, not me.”
She waved to the maid arranging the tea service in front of them.
“Or if you must, practice with one of the maids. Such as this one.”
The maid knocked over an empty cup, and her eyes flew to Charlotte, then Philip. “A-apologies, Y-Your Graces,” she stammered, then without even righting the cup, scampered away.
Philip cocked a brow. “Should I be insulted?”
“You should be pleased,” Charlotte answered, pouring the tea, “that you have managed to terrify the staff to such an extent.” She handed him a cup. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“It is rather useful at times. Such as now, when I wanted to be alone with you.”
Charlotte peeked at him over the rim of her cup. He looked . . . rather adequate today, in a navy blue waistcoat, gray coat, and gray pants.
He leaned forward to snatch a biscuit off the tray, and his pants stretched tight over his muscled thigh for one throat-drying moment.
Charlotte took a gulp of tea, absently noting the hot liquid flowing over her tongue and scalding the roof of her mouth.
Dash it all, if she must admit it, Philip appeared far more than just adequate. He was stomach-fluttering, breath-hitching magnificent.
Clutching her cup in one hand, she reached out with the other and ran her fingers through his hair, from the back of his head to the front.
He jerked beneath her touch, then stilled until she pulled away. “I presume there’s a reason why you did that,” he drawled.
A flush of heat warmed her cheeks. “I merely wanted to see your cowlick. It is charming, in a boyish sort of way.”
“Ah.”
There was nothing boyish about him. Contrary to her expectations, his ruffled appearance did nothing to diminish his appeal. If anything, his intense gaze and mussed hair made her think of a man who had just risen from bed. And by the way he looked at her, no doubt he would happily take her back there with him.
Cursing softly, Charlotte glanced away. She must not think of Philip and beds together.
She started when he spoke, his tone low and confidential. “By the way you leaned toward me, I must confess I had hoped for a kiss.”
She stared at the wall.
“Charlotte?”
“Hmm?”
“Would you like to kiss me?”
“No.” She was being too much of a fool already, as it was.
He sighed and shifted beside her, placing his cup on the tray. “Very well. Since you refuse to assist me in kissing lessons, we shall move on. Yet I cannot continue in good conscience without pointing out that you have been woefully remiss in teaching me how to be a proper husband.”
He paused, and did not speak again until she looked over at him. Sighing again, he said, “I can feel myself becoming less attentive and considerate day by day. Why, when I woke up this morning, my first thought was to wake you up as well so you could rub my back. It was only through supreme self-discipline that I refrained from entering your bedchamber.”
Charlotte gritted her teeth, refusing to allow the devilish gleam in his eyes to lure her imagination down forbidden paths. “How . . . gallant of you.”
“Yes. I thought so.”
“Indeed. You seem to be very gallant of late.” She set her cup of tea on the tray beside his. “For instance, you single-handedly attempted to reunite my family. Without asking my opinion or telling me in advance, even.”
Philip leaned forward, until their noses were mere inches apart. “If I were a good husband, this would be the time when I fell to my knees and begged for your forgiveness, would it not?”
“Do not forget the gift to soothe my hurt feelings. You gave me jewelry already, so I suppose flowers will do.”
He rose to his feet.
Charlotte gaped. “You’re truly not going to—”
He stretched out his hand and, without thinking, she placed her palm against his.
“No, I’m not going to kneel at your feet. I am not in the least repentant of my deeds.” He pulled her up to stand before him. “The truth is, Charlotte, even though it went terribly, in the past three years I’ve never seen you as happy as you’ve been since they came to supper.”
“Nonsense. I’ve been wonderfully happy.” Even as she said it, her chest tightened at the thought of how miserable she’d been, how lonely her life was. But she gave him an enthusiastic smile, nonetheless. “Truly. Giddy, even.”
Her smile faded at his serious expression, and she tugged her hand from his. She whirled away, then back again. “Besides, why wouldn’t I be happy? I’ve dozens of lovers, hundreds of admirers. If my family didn’t want me, why should I want them?”
“No.” He captured her shoulders. “Listen to me.”
“You.” Her voice shook. He dared to talk to her about how unhappy she’d been the past three years, when he was the one who’d made her so. She was surprised he’d even deigned to notice her from the height of his lofty ducal throne.
“You?”
Her hands lifted to his chest to push him away. “Let me go—”
He ignored her. “It will take a while. God knows, forgiveness is difficult to find in your family. But I had to take the chance.”
She continued to struggle, tried to block him out, but it was useless. It didn’t matter; whatever he had to say, she didn’t want to hear it.
“Damn it, Charlotte! Can you not see? Do you not understand? I ruined your life. I know this. But this—helping you with your family—this is the only thing I could think of to make it right. To try and make it up to you.”
He released her suddenly, and paced away. When he turned around, he remained at a distance. His fingers raked through his hair, leaving it even more disarranged than before.
And still he looked wonderful.
Charlotte clenched her fists at her sides and forced herself to meet his gaze. “Philip—”
“Hate me if you will. Loathe me. I do not expect much more than that from you. But do not begrudge me this. Do not deny yourself happiness only to spite me.”
She waited for him to continue, waited for him to do something. When he neither moved nor spoke, but only stood there watching her, she went to him.
She stared up at him, silent, and searched his eyes. She didn’t know if it was because he truly was trying to become a better person, or if perhaps she had never really known him as well as she thought she had, but he was different.
And it was odd, to consider that after everything, after spending so much time together as children, and then three years as husband and wife, she could discover that he was a stranger to her.
Finally, she lifted her hand and cupped his jaw. His gaze consumed her, ever intent, ever steady, as her thumb brushed across his cheek.

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