Seducing the Duchess (6 page)
Read Seducing the Duchess Online
Authors: Ashley March
No, that would have been too kind a reprieve from the torture he inflicted on her. She had made a horrendous mistake; she should never have attempted to call his bluff and allow him to dress her.
Her amusement at seeing him play the servant’s role had long since disappeared, replaced by an unexpected, unwanted reawakening of desire as she watched his hands carefully smoothing the stocking over her leg.
Charlotte bit her lip when he fastened her garter into place, the tips of his fingers brushing the inside of her thighs. His movements were exacting, solicitous, methodical even—nothing to make her think he was trying to arouse her.
Certainly he could not have known her thighs would tremble at the whisper of his breath across her skin, or that her own breath would hitch in her chest as he continued his unintentionally erotic ministrations on her other leg.
Charlotte’s hands tightened on the arms of the chair. She was a fool. Here she was, barely able to keep from swooning at the pleasure of his touch, and he—
He—
She cocked her head, listening.
He was humming!
Humming, as if he were engaged in some mundane chore and only the tune in his head could keep him amused. While she was a tense, muddled mass of need and want, and—
Oh, for heaven’s sake, now he was whistling?
Charlotte planted her foot on his chest and shoved.
He tumbled backward onto the floor. “What the devil—”
“Out!” She stepped over him and stalked to open the door. Unable to meet his eyes, she stared at the top of his head as she pointed to the corridor. “Get out!”
“Charlotte—”
She turned away and yelled at the top of her lungs. “Anne!”
Almost immediately the door across the way opened and a mobcap peeked through the crack. “Yes, Yer Grace?”
“Assist me at once.”
“Yes, Yer Grace.” The maid scurried across the hall and into the room.
A tuneless whistle pierced Charlotte’s ear as she twisted around again. She gasped and glared at Philip, who had snuck up behind her. He met her glower with an even gaze.
“We do not have time for your theatrics. We are already behind. We must leave immediately—”
“Yes, yes, I know. Two minutes. I will be down in the courtyard in two minutes. Just”—she used all of her strength to push him an inch toward the corridor—“if you would . . . just . . . leave ...”
He glanced up from where he had been peering at her fingers on his shoulder, as if they were little, annoying insects. “All you had to do was ask.” He gave her a short, mocking bow, his mouth curved in a smile, then took a step backward.
Charlotte slammed the door and whirled around to face Anne, whose brown eyes had widened to an almost impossible degree.
“Quick, don’t just stand there. We have two minutes.” She took a deep breath. “I cannot have him barge in here, trying to dress me again.”
Or next time, she just might ask him to help her undress.
“Easy, boy,” Philip murmured to his stallion Argos. The horse nickered and stamped his hoof twice on the ground.
Philip felt much the same way as he glanced down to check his timepiece once again—impatient and very, very frustrated.
He could not keep his thoughts from straying to the image of Charlotte in that damned chair, her legs splayed before him in their lush, ivory splendor, the feel of her skin like satin beneath his fingers.
The memory was enough to make him hard all over again. Thank God he’d thought of something to provoke her. If he hadn’t hummed and whistled like an idiot, he’d no doubt be standing behind her right now, his hands trembling as he fiddled with her laces.
He’d have gone mad. Bloody, irrevocably mad.
But he was insane to make such a threat to her in the first place. He’d known she would rebel against his authority, as she always did.
And yet he allowed her to believe he was so anxious to leave for Ruthven Manor that he lowered himself to play her lady’s maid. To kneel before her, ready to button her up and lace her tight, when all he really wanted was to strip her bare until all that remained was his hands and mouth, his skin on hers, her sapphire eyes flashing beneath him as he drove into her again and again.
Philip groaned and shifted in the saddle, his groin throbbing as he remembered how very close he had come to touching the apex of her thighs.
Argos whinnied, and Philip snapped his head up to find Charlotte strolling toward him, a wide grin gracing her lips beneath the brim of her bonnet.
Philip sucked in a breath. It had been a very long time since she had smiled at him like that, as though she were actually glad to see him.
If it’d been anyone else, he would have smiled in return. But he knew Charlotte, and she was never glad to see him; in fact, she’d slammed the door in his face not five minutes ago.
Though he loved her, he didn’t trust her—at least, not when she was smiling like that.
“You’re late,” he said. His eyes ran over her gown the way his fisted hands couldn’t.
Ironically, he’d forgotten to purchase traveling clothes for her. Ball gowns, tea dresses, pelisses, and negligees—all these he’d remembered. Modest designs for the pieces she would wear in public, to replace the usual scandalous gowns she preferred ... and new nightgowns he alone would see to replace the ones she’d worn to her lovers’ beds. It was an odd habit he’d acquired over the past few months, a substitute for not being near her, for not touching her. There was an intimacy in choosing the clothes that might one day caress and cover her skin, and even though he’d doubted she would ever wear them, he took great satisfaction in knowing she had no other choice now. He’d left her other clothes in London, and he would make certain the few articles stored at Ruthven Manor were removed as soon as possible.
Charlotte shrugged and lifted her hand to pet Argos. The blasted horse dipped his head into her touch. Was there a male of any species that could resist her?
She murmured something soft and indecipherable to the stallion before she turned to look around. “I don’t see Bryony. I assume you sent her on to the stables at Ruthven. Which horse shall I ride, then?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her she would damn well ride inside the carriage, safe and tucked away so he’d be able to maintain some sense of his sanity for the rest of the way home.
But God help him, she smiled at him again.
And that open, joyful curve of her lips affected him more than her fluttering eyelashes and pouting mouth ever had.
Philip swallowed. “I—” His gaze sharpened, narrowing in on her attire. “You aren’t wearing a riding habit.”
She looked down, smoothing her dress. “I can tuck my skirts beneath me.”
“We have no sidesaddle.”
“Do not worry, Your Grace. It won’t be the first time I’ve ridden astride.” She paused. “I’m quite good at it, I’m told.”
Philip growled at the blatant innuendo. “Gilpin,” he called, never taking his eyes from hers.
One of the grooms on horseback trotted toward them. “Your Grace?”
“Assist Her Grace onto your gelding.”
Charlotte tapped his knee, and Philip jerked, startling Argos. “Be careful, Philip. I might begin to believe you’ve developed a soft spot for me if you continue taking my wishes into consideration.”
“I—”
But she had already turned away, laughing, and he couldn’t decide whether he had been about to admit or deny her accusation.
Philip berated himself. He could not allow her to get the upper hand.
Once Gilpin had climbed up on the carriage and Charlotte was settled on the gelding, Philip signaled the coachman. The entourage began to travel the remaining four hours to Ruthven Manor.
Philip soon heard the thundering of hooves behind him as Charlotte rode up to join him at the front.
Most men would have been too intimidated by him to attempt to breach his solitude, and no woman he knew would ever have chosen a horse over the carriage, let alone agreed to ride without a sidesaddle.
He covertly studied her out of the corner of his eye. She sat tall and straight, her head held high and her hands loose on the reins, needing only to coax her mount with the barest nudge of her thighs. Her skirts . . .
Philip turned his head to fully look at her. His gaze traveled downward, to where the enticing curve of her calves was revealed by the hike of her skirts.
“Do you know I haven’t returned to Warwickshire since we married?”
Philip started and glanced away. Then, realizing he was behaving like a schoolboy, he swung his head back to stare at her. “Have you not?”
“No.”
Philip frowned. “Surely you must have. I travel to Ruthven at least six times a year.”
She flicked her hand in the air. “Yes, but I’ve never gone with you. Though I’m not surprised you didn’t notice my absence. In truth, I might not have known you’d left except that you took the butler with you each time.”
He considered her for a long moment, the thudding of the horses’ hooves and the rumble of the carriage wheels the only sound to break the silence. “You’re afraid to return.”
She slid him a sidelong glance, her mouth curved in a self-derisive smile. “You are mad if you believe I would ever admit such a thing to you.”
“But you are,” he pressed, feeling as if he’d never really known her. Never looked close enough to really see her. He swallowed past the sudden, bitter taste of guilt. “Why?”
Her smile disappeared. “When I last saw my parents, they told me to never show my face again if I married you.”
Philip scoffed. “What parents wouldn’t want their daughter to marry a duke? Surely I wasn’t that terrible.”
She gave him a disbelieving look.
“Very well,” he muttered. “But it’s not as if your brother died. It was only a few broken ribs.”
“Yes, but he was still their son, even if they refused to recognize him as such. My father only disowned him to force him to accept his responsibilities.”
Philip looked straight ahead. “Either way, Ethan deserved it.”
“Hullo,” Ethan said.
Philip turned to the butler. “You may go, Fallon.”
Philip waited until he disappeared, then stared at the man on his doorstep. The man whom he’d once considered his closest friend. The man who had betrayed him. A few yards behind Ethan, scuffling her toe in the grass and feigning disinterest, stood Charlotte.
Philip tried to close the door, but Ethan blocked it with his shoulder, pushing until the door swung wide open again and he stood at the edge of the marble entryway. “Five minutes,” he said, breathing harshly. “That’s all I ask.”
“You returned,” Philip said dully. “I heard she left you to rot in the middle of the countryside.”
“You’ve seen her then? How is—”
“No, I haven’t seen her,” Philip bit out. Nor did he intend to. Joanna, also, had betrayed him.
Ethan shook his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Look, I came to apologize.”
“Apologize?” he echoed.
As if Ethan thought he could earn redemption with a few words. As if stealing off in the middle of the night with Philip’s fiancée could be dismissed simply because he managed a repentant expression and a contrite tone. Did he understand nothing of respect, of honor?
Of course he didn’t.
Philip clenched his hands into fists. It appeared his grandfather had been correct, after all. A squire’s children were no better than the lowest of commoners, and Ethan Sheffield was nothing more than a squire’s son. And he wasn’t even that any longer, since he’d been disowned.
Ethan cursed. “I’m sorry, Philip. I didn’t plan to do it. I never meant to—”
“You will leave my house now. And if I ever see you again, you will address me as ‘Your Grace.’ ”
Ethan stiffened, scowling. “Don’t go getting all high and dukely on me. This doesn’t mean we can’t—”
“Leave. I’ll not say it again.” Philip advanced toward him, his temple pounding. His gaze narrowed until all he saw was Ethan, once the greatest of friends, the brother he’d always longed for . . . and now a stranger.
“Goddamn it, Philip, why won’t you listen to me?”
Philip swung, his fist connecting with Ethan’s jaw. His head snapped to the side. Philip followed with a blow to his abdomen, then watched as Ethan’s face contorted with pain.
Philip heard Charlotte scream.
He wasn’t satisfied. “I trusted you,” he said, stepped forward. Now there was no one he could trust.
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