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Authors: Ashley March

BOOK: Seducing the Duchess
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“Indeed,” Charlotte said.
“Oh.”
Chapter 20
P
hilip held out his card to Lord Swinney’s butler.
“He’s expecting me.”
Whether the earl wished to see him was another matter entirely. Philip had sent a letter through his solicitor expressing his desire to purchase the last of Astley’s nude sketches of Charlotte. The man had yet to make a reply even after three days, but Philip refused to wait any longer.
The butler’s eyes widened upon reading his card; then he swept to the side to allow him entrance. “Do come in, Your Grace. I will see whether Lord Swinney is at home.”
Philip stepped inside and pulled out his pocket watch. The cold autumn wind rushed through the closing door, threatening to tip his hat off. “Please inform Swinney I will give him precisely five minutes.”
“Your Grace?”
“Five minutes, no more.”
With a wary glance, the butler wandered away. Philip settled his hat more firmly on his head; he had no intention of staying long. It had been fairly easy to convince the other men to part with the sketches of Charlotte. Although Swinney seemed reticent to speak with him, Philip was prepared to increase his suggested purchase price to whatever number the man required. Buying the portraits would be worth any amount of money.
He considered his timepiece again. One minute remained. Like some of the others, Swinney had been rumored to be Charlotte’s lover. Even though Philip now knew the truth and had no need to harm the earl, a certain violence pounded through his blood as he thought of Swinney looking upon Charlotte’s nudity and lusting after her. As he spied the butler returning to the entrance hall, he almost wished he would have been late.
“This way, Your Grace. Lord Swinney will see you in his study.”
The door to the room was open, and Philip waited until the butler had made his announcement before entering. Swinney stood behind his desk. He was a tall man, though an inch or so shorter than Philip, with light brown hair. Though a decade older, he’d kept himself physically fit. Philip could well imagine him flirting with Charlotte, attempting to seduce her into his bed. Once she was free, would he try to do so again? Would Philip be able to withstand knowing she was with someone else?
He must. He had to let her go. He might seethe with jealousy, but at least she would be happy.
Philip inclined his head in a polite nod. “Lord Swinney.”
“Your Grace. I trust you are well?” He motioned to a chair near the desk. “Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you for the pleasantries, but I prefer to stand. I’ve come about a sketch I believe you have in your possession. Of my wife.”
It was slight, but Philip still saw the small tilt at the corner of Swinney’s mouth. “I must admit, your letter was quite a surprise. I hadn’t thought you cared.”
Another sin of his, one that he would regret until his last breath. But hopefully, Charlotte would know very soon that he had spoken the truth when he said he loved her. “I do. I wish to buy the sketch for five hundred pounds.”
It was a hefty sum, but he didn’t want to waste time on negotiations. Sweeney would know he was serious.
The earl’s fingers tapped at the edge of his desk. “Five hundred pounds,” he repeated. “Perhaps I shouldn’t sell it, if you think it’s worth such a price.”
Philip bared his teeth in a smile. “Do not mistake the generosity of my offer for weakness. I
will
have it, one way or another.”
Sweeney arched a brow. “One thousand pounds.”
“Done,” Philip agreed swiftly, then gave Sweeney his solicitor’s address where a draft would be waiting for him later in the day. “Now, where is the sketch?”
“Yes . . . If you don’t mind, Your Grace, I believe I’ll have Davies show you the way.”
As Philip followed the butler a few minutes later into Sweeney’s bedchamber, he understood why the earl had been reluctant to act as his guide. If he had been within reach, Philip would have killed him. The portrait of Charlotte hung on the wall opposite the bed, low enough that a person reclining would have been able to see it past the bed canopy. The bastard had pleasured himself with her likeness.
Philip growled and strode toward the sketch, then wrenched it off the wall. With a black glower at Davies, he made his own way through and out of the Swinney residence. Though tempted to step into the study, he was able to resist by focusing on his next goal, the one that had made each passing minute worthwhile over the last several days: he would see Charlotte.
Charlotte and Emma sat in a row of chairs at the Boughan musicale, awaiting the beginning of the performance.
“You’re doing it again,” Emma muttered.
Charlotte dragged her gaze toward Emma’s face. “What?”
“You can pretend you don’t know what I mean all you want, but I know you’re looking for him.”
Charlotte sighed and leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest. How was it possible to be so angry at him and yet want to be with him at the same time?
Though she’d continued to tell herself over the past week that she still wanted her freedom, she couldn’t deny that she thought about divorce from Philip much less than she thought about
him
.
She could have blamed it on the poem, but no rhyming words—no matter how prettily phrased—had her staring at her bedchamber door at night, fighting the urge to go to their town house and see him.
He had lied to her and manipulated her, but she knew that the only control he had over her now was that which she gave him. And the problem was no longer that she
couldn’t
stop loving him, but that she didn’t
want
to stop loving him.
Bloody hell.
“What was that?” Emma bent her head to peer into Charlotte’s face.
“What?” Charlotte asked, thinking about Philip—of course.
Emma motioned to her throat. “You groaned.”
Charlotte shrugged. “I was, er, thinking about the musicale and wishing we weren’t here.” Which was true. She’d much rather be with Philip.
Emma narrowed her eyes. “Uh-huh,” she said, before turning toward the impromptu stage created for the small gathering.
Aware of Emma’s ever-watchful presence beside her, Charlotte was trying to surreptitiously survey the room for Philip when she noticed a very particular thing.
She nudged Emma in the ribs. “We are alone.”
Emma gave her a quizzical look. “There must be over a hundred people here.”
Charlotte sighed. “Yes, but they are all sitting on the rows behind us and in front of us. Haven’t you noticed no one is sitting beside you?”
Emma turned her head to the right, where at least five empty seats lay between her and the next guest. She peered past Charlotte, where perhaps a dozen seats were unoccupied, so that Charlotte was the last person sitting on that side of the row.
“Perhaps I have broken out in a rash?” Charlotte asked drily.
Emma grinned. “If so, then I have, too. Excuse me for a moment. I believe there is gossip to be had.”
She stood up and scooted past Charlotte.
As Charlotte settled her skirts again, she saw that a woman with a long nose two rows ahead was watching her over her shoulder. When their eyes met, the woman jerked her chin and snapped her head around.
Charlotte smiled to herself.
She wasn’t unaccustomed to being slighted or made to feel like an outcast. God knew her actions over the years had warranted such a response from society’s self-righteous matrons and virgin debutantes, and her background as a squire’s daughter left much to be desired. As the Duchess of Rutherford, however, she’d always been treated with a reluctant respect. Even if the stodgy members of the
ton
didn’t quite meet her eyes, they still managed a proper greeting.
Now she was being given the cut direct, and she couldn’t help but wonder what must have happened. Or, more to the point, what Philip had done.
As the musicians walked onto the stage and settled in their chairs, Charlotte decided to amuse herself.
Finding a face turned toward her out of the corner of her eye, she glanced in that direction and made eye contact with the blond young man. His eyes widened and his mouth parted, and then he spun around so fast in his chair that he knocked into the woman beside him. Who, in return, scolded him and peered behind her to see what he had been looking at.
Charlotte smiled and gave a small wave.
The woman froze, then slowly turned to face the stage.
The evening might prove to be far more interesting than she’d originally thought.
As the first strings of a Bach concerto vibrated through the air, Charlotte nodded at a portly man with bulging eyes and another woman who had her hair piled high on her head to divert attention from the prematurely balding sides. A few minutes later, in the midst of a violin solo, Charlotte had half of the audience turning red in the face as she waved, nodded, winked, and even blew a kiss.
The next piece, a Mozart piano sonata, was just beginning when Emma returned. She plopped down on the seat beside Charlotte, a flush high in her cheeks, her eyes gleaming bright. She reached out and gripped Charlotte’s hands.
Tightly.
“Ow,” she said, tugging them free. “I need those—”
“A divorce,” Emma said breathlessly. “His Grace petitioned the courts for a divorce.” She grasped Charlotte’s hands again. And this time, Charlotte didn’t notice when she pressed the bones together.
Oh, God. He’d done it. He’d actually done it.
Emma cocked her head to one side, her lips pursing. “At least, that’s the rumor.”
“How do you—”
“Lady Fitzwilliam. She heard it from her husband, who heard it from their daughter’s new husband—did you know they eloped to Greece? Not Scotland, but Greece. Is that not the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?”
Charlotte opened her mouth to agree, then caught herself. “The rumor, Emma,” she pressed.
Emma returned her gaze from the ceiling, where she had presumably been imagining two of her characters disappearing beyond a lovely Greek horizon.
“Yes, the rumor. As I was saying, the new husband heard it from Lord Rothmar, who heard it from Lord Ste—”
“Shhh.”
They both turned to find the person who made the noise. All four people behind them—what appeared to be a mother with her three daughters—immediately blanched upon meeting Charlotte’s gaze. One by one, they looked past her to the musicians.
Charlotte and Emma turned back around.
“Well, I couldn’t hear the cello,” they heard whispered behind them.
Charlotte squeezed Emma’s hands. “Lord Rothmar?”
Emma nodded. “He heard it from Lord Stebbins.”
She waited, but Emma just looked at her. Finally, she asked, “And how did Lord Stebbins hear?”
Emma blinked. Then she blinked again. “I don’t know.”
Charlotte stood up.
“Where are you going?” Emma asked, her voice rising to be heard above the chorus of voices protesting that they couldn’t see.
“I need to go home.”
“Why?”
Charlotte sat down again. It was a good question. What would she do? Ask Philip if the rumor was true? And if it was, what then? Thank him? Congratulate him? Did one pull out a bottle of sherry to mark such an occasion?
Besides, she didn’t really feel like celebrating.
She felt . . . odd. Lost, almost. Because if Philip finally granted her request and divorced her, she would no longer be the Duchess of Rutherford.
Which meant he would no longer be her husband.
An obvious result of divorce, of course, but one she wasn’t prepared for in the least. She’d thought she was; she’d had dreams, many dreams of what she would do and who she would be when she was free.
Yet now she couldn’t remember any of those dreams.

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