Authors: Ashley March

Seducing the Duchess (25 page)

BOOK: Seducing the Duchess

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Unless he and Joanna were too busy distracting each other in the sitting room . . .

Philip’s thighs ached, his cheeks burned by the brisk October wind.

He and Argos were no strangers to daily rides, but taking the stallion out for a gallop two or three times a day was excessive even for him.

After spending several hours with Joanna at Ruthven Manor, he had escorted her home, but not before discussing his departure loudly with Fallon in the front hall. Not that it had done any good; he’d not seen Charlotte at all today. For all he knew, she might still very well be abed, entirely unaware of his continued companionship with their old friend.

For the past two hours he’d ridden Argos over his estate, despite the possibility that Charlotte might not even know he was absent.

The days were slipping away. With every minute he spent with Joanna, he was aware that he lost even more time with Charlotte. He second-guessed himself, an entirely new experience. He’d never been familiar with doubt before, and he didn’t relish the feeling now. The desperation with which his plan had begun now consumed him.

If he’d meant to make her jealous, he had failed utterly. So far, his actions had served only to confirm her belief in him as an absolute bastard, a man unworthy of her.

And yet, he continued this farce. For what purpose?

He laughed, the sound harsh in his ears before the wind carried it away.

Because he had no idea what else he could do. Because all of his plans had been exhausted. Only twelve days remained until the end of the month, and there were only two more months until the time he was supposed to let her go free. Yet all he’d succeeded in accomplishing was falling even more in love with her, and giving her a greater reason to hate him.

With his heart lying heavy in his chest, Philip pulled on the reins and wheeled Argos back toward Ruthven Manor.

Perhaps he should let her go now. It was clear her view of him hadn’t changed; why torture himself any longer than he must?

Except his intent to divorce her, as everything else, had been a lie. She would never be free of him, and dear God, he would never allow her to be.

As they neared the house, Argos gave an agitated snort, his ears bent forward. Soon Philip could see what the stallion had already sensed: three—no, four vehicles of varying sizes littered his grounds. Two broughams, a carriage, a curricle, a scattering of grooms in various colors of livery.

Philip dismounted at once and threw his reins to one of his passing stable boys. Already, he could feel heat beginning to surge at the base of his spine. He didn’t need to ask, but some demon inside forced out the question. “What is going on here?”

The stable boy, with an expression of bewilderment on his face, answered in stammering halts. “The d-duchess, Your G-Grace. A party. Sh-She—”

It was enough.

Philip brushed by the stable boy and strode toward the front door. Somewhere, a window was open, and the smell of cigar smoke filtered through the air. A loud masculine laugh followed.

Fallon was not there to open the door. He was always there, nearly as permanent a fixture as the door handle itself.

“Fallon!” Philip roared as he entered, the sound of the heavy oak crashing against the wall a fitting punctuation.

The butler immediately appeared from around the corner, his cheeks blanched a startling shade of white. He had good reason to be afraid.

“Where is she?” Philip demanded.

“In the drawing room, Your Grace,” Fallon answered, his breath wheezing while he followed on Philip’s heels.

“How many?”

“I tried to reach you, Your Grace. I sent a footman—”

Philip rounded quickly. “How many?” he asked again, quietly.

The butler recoiled as if struck. “T-twelve at last count, Y-Your Grace.”

Philip spun around and proceeded onward to the drawing room. He could see the edge of the entrance, hear the rumble of voices.

“Men? Women?”

“All men, Your Grace. And, of course, the duchess.”

Philip halted outside the doorway and gave Fallon a grim smile. “Of course.”

He stepped inside.

It took a moment for anyone to notice him, simply because all of the visitors were focused on Charlotte, who sat in the middle of the room.

In the middle of the bloody sofa, in between two of her admirers. It appeared she’d altered one of the gowns he’d bought her, a crimson dress which revealed more skin than it concealed.

She was the first to become aware of his presence. She smiled and waved, inviting him closer—damn her—as if he was one of
them
.

“Your Grace,” she called, effectively quieting the room.

He didn’t return her greeting. “Gentlemen, I believe it is time you left.”

One of them made the mistake of rising to her defense. “See here, Your Grace. We know about the divorce. Charlotte told us—”

“I will count to ten. Anyone who has not removed himself from this house by that time should give notice to his second to meet me in the morning. I will kill you, by God, and I will defy any court which dares to punish me.”

Charlotte stood to her feet, her eyes flashing. “If you force my guests to leave, I shall go with them.”

“One.”

No one moved.

“Two.”

A man in the corner rose and bowed. Philip recognized him as Viscount Massey.

“Three.”

“Adieu, my dear,” he said to Charlotte. “Until next time.”

“Four.”

Two other men followed Massey out of the room.

“Five.”

An argument began among four men to his left. Their voices quieted as his gaze fell upon them. One by one, they shuffled past him.

“Six.”

Charlotte turned to the men on either side of her. “Edward. Andrew. You won’t leave me with this ogre, will you?”

“Seven.”

Three more men escaped. Only Charlotte, Edward, and Andrew remained.

“Eight.”

Edward was the one with the cigar in his hand. The smoke curled in a wisp through the air as he spoke in hushed tones to Charlotte.

Philip had several interesting visions regarding what he would do with that cigar if the man should choose to stay.

“Nine.”

Edward left. A pity.

“Ten.”

The last man, the one named Andrew, the one who had spoken about the divorce, darted a glance between Charlotte and Philip. With a little squeak, much like a frightened mouse, he too scurried away.

Charlotte glared at Philip and tried to follow. He caught her around the waist.

He clucked his tongue. “Their lack of devotion must pain you.”

“Your high-handed arrogance pains me more.”

Philip’s hand tightened over her hip. “You can’t expect me to allow those men under my roof. They are like dogs after a bitch in heat, panting to be your lovers.”

Her chin rose a fair two inches. “Why not? You parade your lover in front of my nose.”

“Jealous, Charlotte?”

Her eyes narrowed, then softened. Her lips parted. “Jealous? Yes, perhaps I am.”

Philip stared at her, certain he was imagining her words.

She turned into him, placed her hands flat upon his chest. “Did you want me to be jealous, Philip?”

A dangerous question. “I—”

“Shall I tell you how I wished, if but for a moment, that I could be her instead? That I could be as proper, as elegant, as perfect for you as she appears to be?”

His voice became a hoarse whisper as his breath refused to leave his body. “Why would you wish such a thing?”

“Shall I tell you how I longed to be the one upon whom you showered your attention, your affection?”

His hands had somehow come to grasp her arms, pulling her closer inch by inch. “Why would you long for my affection?”

Tell me. Tell me you love me.

Her lips grazed the corner of his mouth, his cheek, as she spoke. “Shall I tell you how much it pained me to see her in your arms, to know she was the one you planned to spend the rest of your life with?”

“Why, Charlotte? Tell me why,” he demanded harshly, striving to keep her at a distance as her body leaned into him. Even though he desired nothing more than to crush her to him, enfold her in his arms, and hold her until neither of them could remember, until both of them had forgotten the tragedy and the pain of the past three years.

He couldn’t suppress a tremor as her lips brushed his ear.

“I shall not,” she whispered. She rubbed the softness of her lips gently over the shell of his ear. “Philip, you bastard. How I detest you.”

Pushing away from him, she shook loose of his grip. “How dare you! You
wanted
me to be jealous.”

He watched her wide eyes and her gesturing hands as if from far away. Strange, how his mind chose to believe these words were the lies, and that her previous confessions were the truth.

Her voice rose as his silence continued. “Is there nothing you do that is not an effort to control me? Were you upset when you saw those men here, my lovers, as you call them? I hope you were, Philip. I truly hope you understand how it feels to be manipulated at every turn, to have your every action and emotion turned against you.”

She had moved away from him, pacing across the room as the torrent of words rushed out, and now she whirled around. “Damn you, Philip! Say something!”

He couldn’t. He had no defense.

Charlotte’s chin lifted, and she averted her gaze. “Fine. Leave me be. Go to Joanna. Go to your lover. Just . . . leave me alone.”

Perhaps it was his anger at her continued assumption. Or perhaps, despite how hopeless it seemed, he couldn’t leave her alone, no matter how much she begged.

Regardless, he wouldn’t allow her to believe for one moment longer he had been unfaithful to her again.

“Joanna isn’t my lover. I never intended to marry her.”

Her head lifted, a wary frown of disbelief marring her brow. “Then why did you agree to a divorce? Why did you bribe me into giving you those ridiculous lessons? Why would you pretend?”

“I—” His mouth was open. He could tell her the truth now and perhaps gain her respect. A doubtful possibility.

He could tell her the rest, that he had never intended to let her go. And he could lose any chance—slim though it might be—that still remained of winning her love.

“I wanted you.” A partial truth, and yet still he regretted the words instantly. Hated the sudden vulnerability they brought with them.

Hated the curl of her lips, the silent accusation he saw in her eyes which said he was like all of the other men who only coveted her body.

Her voice shook as she spoke. “So the harp, the fair, the kindness—oh, God, I should have known when you were
kind
to me—they were all ploys to get me in your bed?” She threw up her hands, yet the bleakness of her eyes spoke more than her dramatic gesture. “For heaven’s sake, you’re my husband, Philip. You own me, do you not? All you must do is unbutton your trousers and tell me to get on my knees, and I am expected to obey—”

“No!”

“You think I am a whore. Should I not act like one?”

His hands, his legs, his entire body trembled with rage as she swept her skirts aside and knelt on the carpet before him.

“Get up.” He bent toward her, swiping away her hands as she fumbled at the front of his trousers. “Get up, damn you!” Gripping her elbows, he tugged with all of his strength. The force caused her to stumble against him, burying her cheek against his chest.

“Oh, I do apologize, Your Grace,” she mumbled. “I forgot it is not
proper
to fornicate in one’s own drawing room—”

Philip shoved her away. Too forcefully, perhaps, because a short cry escaped as she fought to keep her balance.

He stepped forward to steady her, but stilled when she lifted her head. The bright sheen of tears could not disguise the despair shining in her sapphire eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—”

Her laughter, wild and anguished, tore at his soul. “Of course you didn’t. Just as you didn’t mean to trick me into marrying you, or to take my innocence and then leave me so alone. You didn’t
mean
to make my life a living hell—”

“And I never meant to fall in love with you. But I did. God help me, I love you, Charlotte.”