“I’m not certain it is possible, to be honest.”
Oh, but he would. For Charlotte, he would do anything. “How would you change me? If you were Lady Grey, if you were any other woman, what would I need to do to appeal to you?”
Charlotte shook her head, her dark hair swaying with the movement. “You do not want to change. You want to pretend, just like you did with me, when you made me believe you were—”
She cut herself off, averted her eyes.
“What, Charlotte?” he pressed. “I made you believe I was what?”
It was a long moment before she spoke. “When you made me believe you were someone I could love.”
Philip felt his entire body tense at her words. “Do you remember when you came to tell me Ethan had run off with Lady Grey? You had returned for the wedding preparations, leaving London in the middle of your first Season.”
She frowned. “I remember.”
“You were shy with me then, scarcely able to look me in the eye for more than two seconds. You blushed at any compliment, no matter how inane.”
“Is there a reason—”
“You’ve changed, Charlotte.” He leaned toward her. “You’re confident now. You’ve become a seductress, a woman who could tempt a priest to abandon his vows. It’s not just your beauty—you’ve always had that. It’s the way you believe in yourself, the way you make everyone around you believe there is no better place on earth than wherever you are. In the park, in a carriage, at the supper table, next to you.”
Philip stopped suddenly. He’d said too much. Watching while her slender throat worked delicately as she swallowed, he cursed himself.
“Even you?” she asked.
He quickly removed all traces of emotion from his face. It was a habit he’d developed at a young age, when he discovered his grandfather beat him harder when he cried out or if he tried to laugh the pain away.
He ignored her question. “The point, my dear, is that it is possible for anyone to change, including an arrogant, deceitful . . . What was it? Oh, yes”—he gave her a self-deprecating smile—“manipulative bastard like myself.”
She looked at him warily. “I’m not certain it’s at all possible to make you any less arrogant.”
“No, probably not,” he agreed.
“And it doesn’t seem very fair to Joanna to assist you.”
“If you teach me, I will be the very best husband in all of England.”
She sent him a sly glance. “Not all the world?”
“Very well. The entire universe.”
Charlotte turned her head, gazed out the window.
Philip followed the movement, his fingers itching to touch the curve of her cheek, the delicate arch of her brows, the subtle pout of her lips. “And if you help me, the petition will begin in three months. Compared to the past three years, it’s rather a short period of time. Soon, Charlotte, you could be free of me.” His voice lowered as he added, “Is that not what you’ve always wanted?”
Her lashes fanned in a black froth against her skin as she looked down, then up again, out to some distant point on the landscape. “Yes,” she murmured.
Philip drew in a deep breath. “Excellent,” he said. “Then let us begin.”
At the first snap of branches underfoot, Charlotte bolted upright. Her fingers combed frantically through her hair for stray twigs and leaves, and when she noticed how her hands trembled slightly, an echo of the sudden pounding of her heart, she cursed beneath her breath.
Even before she saw him coming through the trees, she knew it was Philip. He had a certain way of walking: each step carefully measured, almost a warning to those ahead.
Climbing to her feet, she managed another swipe through her hair and one last flounce of her skirts before Philip edged into the clearing. It wasn’t a large clearing, perhaps only ten feet in circumference, but in the middle of the dense forest between Sheffield House and Ruthven Manor, it was her favorite refuge. For Philip to come here meant that he’d intended to seek her out.
Again, Charlotte silently cursed the rapid pitter-pattering of her heart. Never before had she cared for his opinion, or been breathless in anticipation of his attention. But that was before the elopement, before he began looking at her in that unnerving, intense way of his . . . as if, for the first time, he saw her as a woman instead of as Ethan’s younger hoyden sister.
Philip smiled when their eyes met. It wasn’t one of the wicked smiles that she’d been given by other men, but a slow, intimate curve of his lips which made her cheeks heat and forced her gaze away, unaccountably shy. She disliked this new ability of his to provoke her blushes.
“Good afternoon, Charlotte,” he said, sitting down beside her.
She looked at him, unable to ignore the pull in her stomach when his silver eyes stared straight into hers. “Good afternoon, Philip.” He had always been Philip to her—never the marquess or, after his grandfather had died six years ago, the duke—but for some reason speaking his given name seemed too intimate now. “I suppose I should address you as ‘Your Grace,’ ” she murmured, crumbling a leaf between her fingers.
“‘Philip’ will do,” he said, then, as her gaze darted away again: “Am I disturbing you?”
“Oh, no. No. I just—” She shrugged, unwilling to explain how very much he did disturb her, yet how she desperately didn’t want him to leave. It was the second time he’d sought her out since the failed elopement and his fight with Ethan.
The first time he’d told her he still considered her a friend despite what had occurred, and presented her with a bouquet of wildflowers—a gesture of peace and goodwill, he’d said. They’d talked and laughed, and Charlotte had been glad to be on familiar footing with him once again . . . until he was ready to depart. Then he had taken her hand, intertwined their fingers, and pressed his warm, firm mouth to the inside of her wrist. She would never forget the excruciating embarrassment of having all of her blood rush to simmer beneath her cheeks, nor the way his lips had curved against her skin as he watched her blush.
Charlotte pressed her back into the tree and forced herself to meet Philip’s gaze. “No, it’s fine.”
“Good. Because I brought something for you.”
As he reached into his coat, Charlotte held out her hand. “Thank you, but I don’t think it would be proper—” She halted at the sound of his chuckle, an inviting intoxicant, warm and rich as brandy.
“Surely I misheard you,” he said, his smile teasing her while his eyes did scandalous things to her insides. “Charlotte Sheffield, afraid of impropriety?”
She huffed and turned her hand palm upward. “Very well. Let me see.”
“Oh, no. What if it’s something truly wicked? A locket with a piece of my hair? A ruby necklace?”
She should have said something very clever right then, to dismiss his assumption that she would want such things from him, but she was blushing again, her pulse throbbing violently with the knowledge of his flirtation.
Philip leaned closer, until their faces were but inches apart. “Or a lace negligee?”
“Then, I think”—her eyelashes fluttered downward of their own volition, toward the masculine sculpture of his lips. Starting, she jerked her gaze upward again—“that would be m-most improper.” She’d ridden horses bareback and worn trousers so she could climb trees, yet speaking with him in this manner seemed the most scandalous thing she’d ever done.
“I agree.” He withdrew his hand, revealing a small package wrapped in brown paper. “That’s why I brought you candy.”
“Candy?” she asked suspiciously, eyeing the present with disbelief. As he placed the package in her palm and leaned back, she wished he didn’t appear so calm, so completely, entirely . . . undisturbed. She unwrapped her gift, then stared. “Toffee?”
“You’re welcome.”
She glanced up at him and smiled sheepishly. “Thank you.”
“Butterscotch toffee, to be exact. Here, try some.” Reaching over, he extracted a piece from her hands and held it up to her lips. “Open your mouth.”
Her eyes locked with his piercing silver gaze. “You can’t mean to—”
“Feed you? Yes.” His thumb brushed against her bottom lip. His head dipped toward her, his breath warming her skin. “Open your mouth, Charlotte.”
With a slight gasp, she obeyed. The candy slid past her lips and touched her tongue, the butterscotch flavor melting upon every taste bud. Still, she couldn’t help being more aware of Philip and the feverish heat of his fingertips as he traced the outline of her mouth. Although it mortified her, she moaned when his palm moved to her throat, his hand a gentle clasp about her neck as she chewed and swallowed.
“Done?”
She nodded, unable to speak, and watched as he reached for another piece. Before he could ask, she opened her mouth again, anxious to feel his touch.
Reveling in the knowledge that it was Philip who touched her so.
“Close your eyes.”
She did, the moment almost erotic as she waited for his fingers to nudge the candy against her lips. But instead of the toffee, it was his mouth which pressed against hers. And it erased all the kisses the butcher’s son had ever given her behind the rectory. Gasping, Charlotte wrenched her head away.
She stared at him, her breath heavy. “Why—”
“I know I should apologize, but I wanted to kiss you.”
“You could have asked,” she said, and hastily climbed to her feet. He followed, catching her wrist when she would have walked away.
“If I had, would you have said yes?”
Even as she instructed herself to tug her arm away, to not turn around, her body betrayed her. Her wrist remained in the pleasant grip of his hand and her feet slowly pivoted toward him. When she would have refused to speak, her mouth formed the word without her permission. “Yes,” she whispered.
And then her back was against the tree again and his mouth was on hers. The press of his body held her up when her knees weakened, and when he asked her one more time, she opened her mouth to him, then trembled when his tongue touched hers.
“Butterscotch,” he murmured against her lips. “Delicious.”
He kissed her again, and again, his lips seducing her while his hands stayed still, cupping her face. Her own were not as polite, roaming up the hard planes of his chest, smoothing over the afternoon stubble of his jaw, twisting in the black crispness of his hair.
When he finally broke the kiss, she dragged in a breath, her eyelids too heavy to open.
“Would you like to know a secret?” he asked, his voice scraping delightfully over her senses, thrilling her anew.
Charlotte nodded.
He kissed one corner of her lips, then the other. “I am very, very glad I didn’t marry Joanna.”
Charlotte sat across from Philip in the library, studying his bent head while the quill between his fingers scratched against the parchment.
She didn’t trust him. Not one bit.
He might allow her to send the letter by her own courier, but would he then post another missive to his solicitor, canceling the first request to petition the courts?
He might try to charm her by spouting words about divorce and freedom, but he had deceived her once. She would do her best to ensure he didn’t do so again.
“There.” Philip put the quill aside and, after blotting the ink, handed her the letter. “For your perusal.”
It didn’t take her long to read the few paragraphs. Nothing was amiss—but then, she hadn’t expected it to be. “Thank you,” she said, and gave it back to him.
He sealed the missive and returned it to her. “Where will you find a courier to your liking?”
Charlotte tucked the letter to her chest and stood. “I have my ways.”
Philip rose to his feet. “Tomorrow the harpist comes from London to give your first lesson. If you don’t mind, we will commence with my husband lessons afterward. I have a few things to accomplish this afternoon before supper.”
“Until supper, then.”
“Yes.”
She strolled toward the door, thankful for the brief reprieve from his presence. But as she set foot into the hallway, he called to her. “Charlotte?”
She halted, rolled her eyes at the marble bust across the corridor. “Your Grace?”
“Remember, you are not to leave Ruthven Manor without permission, or without being accompanied.”
Charlotte blew out a long breath. How could he have spent so little time with her these past few years, and yet seem to know her so well? “May I please visit my family, Your Most Munificent Grace?” she asked through gritted teeth.