The Duke's Indiscretion (4 page)

C
harlotte Hughes had been in love with Colin Ramsey, the marvelously handsome Duke of Newark, for three and a half years. Oh, she realized what she felt for him wasn't love in the true sense of the word, and she was quite well aware of his reputation as a rogue of the highest order. But nonetheless, he never ceased to capture her attention every time she saw him, just as he had the very first night she'd heard him yell “Brava” from box three. The man practically made love to her with his eyes every single time she took to the stage, and she'd come to count on his being there—for support, for attention, and especially for the way he practically drooled over himself when she sang. And he'd never resorted to sending her flowers.

At first it bothered her, but later she'd realized that his devotion to her and her performances went deeper than the average gentleman's. He didn't just admire her, he fairly worshiped her without begging for her
affections in return, and over time she'd grown to understand his infatuation from afar, meeting it with her own. Except he didn't really know her at all, which was about to change thanks to his highly unconventional manner of confronting her at last. And during the interval no less! The man had quite the nerve, and a spark of something that went far beyond every admirer she'd ever known.

She'd been thoroughly shocked to see him standing in her dressing room at last week's performance, first hearing his voice through the door as he spoke to Lucy Beth, wondering what kind of person would be so rude as to interrupt a singer between acts. But then she quickly realized his identity even before laying eyes on him, and was able to count the blessed moments in which she gazed at his magnificently dressed and handsomely distinguished form until he noticed her.

His intensity had shaken her, though she'd done a superb job of hiding her vulnerability to him, of pretending complete composure at his suggestion of a romantic liaison between them. And she hadn't given in at all until he'd stroked her neck, so gently, with so much hidden desire exuded in the simple brushing of his fingertips against her skin. Still, she was, above all, an actress, and acting the seductress to his blatant overtures had been a complete delight, a knowledge of her sensual power as a woman. As Charlotte Hughes she would never do anything like that, say the things she said to him, act the way she had. But as Lottie, she could be what he wanted, and it pleased her enormously that he desperately wanted, it so appeared, what she offered.

Charlotte had no illusions of the man, or of the dangers of becoming his mistress. Rather Lottie didn't. But as the daughter of an earl, the sister of the living Earl of Brixham, she wouldn't think of such a thing. She'd been raised better than that, and Colin Ramsey would soon learn it. When he'd come into her home yesterday, with the intent of purchasing her prized pianoforte of all things, she'd been just as surprised by his appearance as she'd been the night he so suddenly interrupted her in her dressing room. But yesterday had been different in many ways. After her initial bewilderment at seeing the man in her music room, she was afraid he'd recognize her, thereby confronting her in front of her brother. But he hadn't. She'd been at first unsettled by that fact, then upset, then amused as she realized he fairly took no notice of her at all—except the way his gaze roved up and down her figure when she finally stood in front of him. That alone made her tingle deep inside. He admired her even as Charlotte, if for nothing else than her curves. And that was a start.

So, after a fitful night's sleep, angered in the extreme that Charles would even consider selling an antique that brought her so much pleasure, she'd decided on a few things, made a few plans. That's why she now found herself standing in front of the Duke of Newark's townhouse, very close to her own home, ready to make him an offer she felt almost certain he wouldn't refuse.

Standing tall, shoulders straightened, she held her reticule in her left hand and rang the bell, quickly glancing down her person to make certain her day gown of forest-green silk lay perfectly.

Almost at once the door opened and she faced the duke's butler, a rather old man with thick white hair and side whiskers that grazed the edges of his mouth.

She smiled politely and pulled a card from her reticule. “The Lady Charlotte Hughes to see his grace. Is he at home?”

The man grunted most unbecomingly, then moved to his side to allow her entrance.

“Please wait here,” he replied gruffly.

Charlotte stood in the entryway, grinning broadly at the man's exquisite taste in expensive items—rich marble floors, solid oak paneling that had recently been oiled, lovely displays of artwork adorning the walls. A table with nothing more than a vase of fresh flowers on it rested against the wall to her left, beside which stood a single Louis Quinze chair, thickly padded in brown velvet, and an enormous crystal chandelier hung above her head that undoubtedly gave off the radiance of a thousand candles when lit. And this was only his foyer.

She swallowed a giggle. The infamous, womanizing Duke of Newark had money, the greatest catch of all.

Suddenly the butler appeared again from her right.

“This way, if you please, Lady Charlotte. His grace will see you in his study.”

She nodded once, but said nothing as she followed the old man, her shoes making only the slightest tapping sound on the marble beneath her feet. He led her down a long hallway, bare but for various family portraits hanging on the wall.

At last she stopped when the butler did as he knocked on the door to the man's study. She drew a deep breath for confidence, squeezing her reticule with both hands to keep them from shaking. Then the butler announced her and she stepped inside the room.

Immediately, her gaze fell on him, and her heart skipped a beat from just one look at his handsome form. A simply gorgeous man, he sat at his enormous desk of solid oak, gazing down at something he was writing, the sun from the window behind his head making his dark blond hair shine brilliantly as it fell behind his ears.

He had flawless skin, as she'd been able to tell from last week's close observance by lamplight, and hazel eyes, thickly lashed and very keen. His jaw remained hard and defined, even when he smiled, which was often. He truly was a magnificent-looking man, and everything in her told her he knew it, too. Naturally, that made him susceptible to the gracious charms of the ladies. But no matter. She intended to get more from him than a few rolls between his sheets.

“The Lady Charlotte, your grace,” the butler properly announced, pulling her at once from her intriguing thoughts of him.

Shoulders back, she eyed him carefully as he stood for the introduction, though he continued to gaze at his paperwork.

“Good afternoon, Lady Charlotte. Please come in and be seated.”

It annoyed her a little that he only cast a swift
glance in her direction and didn't even look at her person. But she took that in stride, knowing the shock to come would be entirely satisfactory.

After nodding once to the butler, he sat again as the older man quit the room and closed the door behind him.

Charlotte moved toward his desk, ever so quietly, and took a seat in the black leather chair opposite him, watching him as he concentrated on his paperwork.

“I'll be with you momentarily,” he said, his voice flat with his concentrated effort.

She sat primly on the edge of her seat, meekly waiting as a good lady should, casting her first real glance around the room, richly decorated in dark greens and browns, elegantly masculine, with a grate to the right of her chair, now emitting a slow-burning fire.

At last he looked up, placing his pen in the inkwell and sitting back casually in his recently polished oak rocker to view her candidly.

Charlotte shifted her bottom a little from his scrutiny, from the intensity of his hazel eyes as he took in all of her, especially her face.

“You left your spectacles at home,” he remarked with a sly, upward tilt of his lips.

She tried not to look at his mouth—the beautiful, sensual mouth she'd so boldly kissed only one week ago.

“I only need them for reading, your grace,” she answered softly. “Just books and music—and of course for embroidering.”

“Of course.” He cocked his head to the side a little
and scratched his jaw. “You're very pretty.”

That caught her so completely off guard she had to blink quickly, her face undoubtedly flushing bright crimson from his sharp and verbal observance and probably coating his unfettered arrogance. But it was a compliment she couldn't take lightly. Very few men she'd ever known as the simple Charlotte Hughes had ever thought her pretty, and even fewer had mentioned it outright as he just did.

“Umm…Thank you kindly, your grace,” she replied after only the briefest hesitation.

He seemed amused, and she liked him that way, good-natured and relaxed.

He folded his hands across his stomach, interlocking his fingers, still watching her closely.

“Why haven't you married?” he asked bluntly.

She rubbed the threading on her reticule, her heart racing as she realized he still hadn't recognized her as the infamous Lottie English, even without her glasses. That had been her hope, actually, and she fully intended to use his ignorance to her advantage.

“Haven't married?” she repeated, pretending surprise at the question.

He shrugged minutely. “Your brother said you've refused suitors, but after looking at you closely, I'm certain you've had plenty.”

Closely? Though he offered her a compliment, he still didn't even know who she was. She fought hard to suppress a laugh. “I've been exceptionally busy, your grace.”

“Busy?”

She gave him a slight smile. “With my music.”

His brows rose. “Ah, I understand.”

He didn't understand at all, which she, again, found amusing. As a typical gentleman, he no doubt assumed she had nothing to do with her time but wait to be married. She was going to positively adore this revelation.

“I suppose that's why you're here,” he said, breaking into her thoughts.

“Why I'm here?” She had absolutely no idea where his mind was drifting, for
he
certainly wasn't interested in marrying the prim and awkwardly shy Lady Charlotte.

“You want your pianoforte returned to you,” he lightly explained.

Now she grasped his meaning. He assumed she'd come to beg for her pianoforte. “Well, uh, yes—of course I do.”

He sighed, and tapped his fingertips together in front of him. “I do think it would make a perfect dowry, in and of itself. You could sell it for quite a sum, then buy a new piano for your…individual playing enjoyment.”

She couldn't help looking at him as if he were an idiot. Her forehead creased as she gazed at him openly, discerning at once that he realized her brother was in debt from his lazy feet to his well-oiled head of hair, and he assumed the only reason she'd called on him today was to retrieve something she so valued. He was offering her advice, poor devil, and the moments to come would be priceless.

Suddenly she stood and dropped her reticule in the chair, walking to the grate and gazing up to a mag
nificent oil painting of two lovely women sitting in a lush and colorful garden. Family, she decided, for the ladies looked just like him.

“Actually, your grace,” she revealed, studying the portrait, “I'm here for more than just a request for my pianoforte.”

She knew without glancing his way that he was taking in all of her person with shrewd speculation, and for that reason alone she'd worn her best gown, cut low across her breasts and tightly corseted, why she'd piled her unruly hair on her head with dainty elegance instead of pulling it back in a simple ribbon. She wanted him to notice her.

At last he replied, “I'm not sure what else I can do for you, Lady Charlotte, though I am willing to give you back the instrument of your desire.”

The instrument of her desire. If only he knew.

Smiling, still focusing on the painting, her stomach tightly coiled in knots, she admitted in a tone of deep shyness, “You could marry me.”

After several long seconds of a riveting silence, she feared he might burst out into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, and she'd prepared herself for just such a response. But to his credit, his reaction seemed a bit more staid, as if he were thinking not of what a marvelous proposal she'd offered, but of how to get her out of his townhouse, and quickly.

Smiling, she pivoted to look at him squarely, and the expression on his face was, indeed, priceless. Beyond shock, his features were contorted in absolute confusion, his brows furrowed hard, his mouth opened slightly in total stupefaction at her outrageous pro
nouncement.

Since he seemed so at a loss for words, she shrugged lightly and added, “You do need a wife, and I desperately need a husband. What union could possibly be more…agreeable?”

Finally, recovering himself, he stood very slowly, resting one hand on his hip while raking the other through his hair.

She waited, knowing he had absolutely no idea what to say to her, and likely thinking her insane.

“Uh…Lady Charlotte,” he began, his voice controlled but suddenly gravelly. “I…um…don't need a wife any more than I need a pianoforte.”

“But I can play beautifully,” she returned in pure innocence, containing her joy at his delicious response.

He shook his head and rubbed his eyes with harsh fingertips. “I'm certain you can, but that's not the point.”

Poor man. He really was squirming in his boots, though she had to give him credit for not attempting to throw her out in disgust. “I realize the pianoforte has nothing to do with marriage, your grace, but really, don't you think marriage would be far more…acceptable socially than simply taking me as your mistress?”

That struck him like a blow to the gut. His head shot up; his eyes opened wide as he stared at her aghast. “I beg your pardon?”