It was maddening how easily she made him forget that he was a duke, that he was not the type of man to engage in spontaneity, someone who would give in to his impulses to do everything he could to be near her, to make her happy.
If it had been the least likely, he might have considered that she was changing him. For a moment—only ten seconds, if one were to be exact—Philip was uncertain of what he should say, what he should do.
And so he stared at Charlotte, ensuring that his expression was impassive, that it gave nothing away he didn’t want her to see. Eventually her small smile slipped and, lowering her arms, she returned to the bed.
Philip hesitated. “I—”
She shifted to her side, her back toward him.
He closed his mouth. He snuffed out the candles with his fingertips, but did not remove his own clothing. Sharing a bed with her was a difficult enough test to his willpower.
Lying down, he concentrated on his breathing for what seemed an interminable length of time—slow, relaxed movements of his chest, in and out, in and out—anything to keep him from dwelling on how close she was, how easy it would be to reach out his hand and stroke her hair.
An eternity later, Charlotte sighed in her sleep and twisted toward him, her arm flung out so that her fingers brushed across his ribs. His breath seized in his chest, the calmness he had strived for immediately disappearing.
It took him almost another ten minutes to resign himself to sleeping in the chair on the opposite side of the room—close enough so he could prevent her from trying to escape in the middle of the night, yet far enough away to have a chance of resisting the temptation her restless body offered.
Philip leaned his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes, but he could not dismiss the memory of Charlotte as she’d stood in front of him earlier, her eyes promising wickedness, her palm pressed against his wildly racing heart.
As self-centered as it seemed to be now, he’d always assumed her harlot performance was all a show of bravado for his benefit, meant to make him succumb to her demands.
He knew she’d taken lovers over the years—a woman wasn’t rumored to have slept with more than a dozen men without there being some truth to the accusation—but he couldn’t fault her for it. After all, he’d dismissed his mistress only six months ago.
But he’d deluded himself into thinking that Charlotte did it only to spite him; it appeared that she actually enjoyed her life as a fallen woman.
She no longer possessed any of the awkward shyness she had exhibited around him at the age of nineteen, that small flaw in the midst of her vibrancy and exuberance which had made her susceptible to a duke’s flattery and attention.
Charlotte was confident now. She was independent.
She didn’t need him at all, and that scared the hell out of him.
Chapter 4
“
Y
er Grace, Yer Grace.”
Charlotte growled and batted at the hand tapping her shoulder.
“Yer Grace, please. He said we must be in the courtyard in ten minutes.”
Charlotte rolled over and cracked one eyelid open. The room was awash in lavender predawn shadows. Groaning, she promptly shut it again and wondered why she’d never considered murder as an option to rid herself of her overbearing, despotic husband.
It was criminal to expect her to rise from bed this early.
Charlotte lifted an arm and waved her maid away with a flick of her wrist. The pathetically weak motion did no more than dislodge the coverlet from her shoulder, which subsequently made her grumble at the rush of cold air surging inside her warm haven.
Anne’s worried footsteps paced around the side of the bed. “We’ve only seven minutes more, Yer Grace. He said he would be angry if we were late. Oh, please sit up. I will help you with everything else. Yer Grace? Yer Grace?”
Charlotte burrowed deeper beneath the covers. “You may tell that old fusspot to go bugger himself.”
“Oh, dear.”
A meager light flickered across her eyelids, and Charlotte opened her eyes once more to find the maid at the window, worrying the curtain with anxious fingers as she peeked at the courtyard below.
“He has his timepiece out.”
Charlotte grunted and flung her pillow over her head.
“Five more minutes. And he’s frowning something awful now.”
“Hmm. How dreadful.”
Although she lay inert in the bed, pretending to be entirely unconcerned with Philip’s mandate or the passage of time, she could not keep her heart from beating faster with each warning the maid called out.
She had woken in the middle of the night with a fantastic retort to his callous words. It was much better than her previous comment about his station, and she was dying to have another confrontation with him now.
“Three min—” Anne cut herself off, gasping.
Charlotte jerked upward, swatting her hair out of her face. “What is it?”
Her eyes darted from the swaying curtain to the maid, who had backed up to the adjoining wall. Anne’s hand palpitated against her chest, as if she were trying to help her heart restore blood to her pallid cheeks. “He’s coming,” she whispered.
“What? I thought he said ten minutes.”
“He did. I don’t know—”
Charlotte pointed to the door. “Quick! Leave before he gets here.”
Anne shifted from foot to foot. “Are you certain? We still have time—”
“Now! Go, go.” She waited only long enough for the maid to scurry out before she flopped back down and yanked the covers to her chin, forcing herself to take deep, measured breaths.
She closed her eyes, but they immediately popped open, as if looking at the wall in front of her could somehow help her hear the approach of his footsteps.
She doubted she would be able to hear anything above the incessant drumming of her pulse; it pounded in her ears, mocking her attempt at composure, blurring the words in her mind that she had memorized during the night. She opened her mouth, as if moving her lips could help her to grasp the phrase she needed to set him in his place once and for all.
The hinges of the door squealed as it opened, and Charlotte flinched as if he had slammed it against the wall. She squeezed her eyes tight as he neared.
Suddenly the covers were wrenched away from her. Charlotte gasped and sat up, instinctively reaching down to pull her shift over her legs. She glared at Philip, who stood at the foot of the bed, his eyebrow arched in amusement as he watched her scramble to find her dignity.
“Good morning, Duchess.”
Charlotte took a deep breath and squared her shoulders—not an easy feat to accomplish when one hand was busy tugging a thin scrap of cotton over her thigh and the other was holding her up. “You are not the first ugly man.”
Philip’s brow lowered.
No, that didn’t sound right.
“You—you are not the first man ...”
Blast it all. Charlotte released her death grip on her shift and climbed off the bed. “You are not the first man to get ugly when denied an invitation to my bed.” She poked him in the chest.
Philip wrapped his hand around her finger. “Been holding that one in, have you?”
His other hand lifted to cup her cheek, then slid beneath her jaw and around to the nape of her neck. Charlotte opened her mouth to demand that he release her, but before she could speak, he bent forward and placed a gentle, almost-tender kiss on her forehead.
His lips brushed her skin as he spoke. “Do you not realize, Charlotte? I have no need for an invitation.”
“Because you are my husband and I am your property,” she mumbled dully.
“No,” he said, stepping away to survey her state of undress with cold regard. “Because I have no wish to warm your bed, or to have you warm mine.”
Charlotte lifted her chin, determined to hide how his words stung her pride. It wasn’t as if she wanted to lie with him again. She didn’t. She only wanted him to desire her so she could have something to hold over him, a way to control him, so the world wouldn’t seem so out of balance whenever he came close.
“That is my wish as well,” she said.
“Very good. I am glad we understand one another. Although there will come a time when we will have to copulate for the sake of producing an heir, I do not foresee a need for such anytime soon.”
She could think of nothing more horrifying than creating a child with him, a permanent bond he could use to hold her to him forever.
“I will never—”
He held up his hand, his eyes flashing in warning. “Never say never, my dearest. I should so hate to prove you wrong.”
Charlotte bared her teeth. “I will never invite you to my bed, no matter the reason. And I would rather die than bear your child.”
Philip clucked his tongue. “Such harsh words for a woman in nothing but her nightclothes. Come now, darling. I am not tempted by your scandalous dress, and we must be on our way.” He turned his back on her. “You have already exceeded your allotted ten minutes, but if you will make haste now, I shall allow you to dress without my assistance.”
A slow smile tugged at her lips. She supposed he meant for his threat to send her running to the door, hollering for Anne. But the thought of having her husband, the Duke of Rutherford, the same man who behaved as if he held up the heavens with his bare hands, act as her lady’s maid ... Well, the idea was far too appealing.
Charlotte stretched and yawned. She padded over to the nearby chair and sat, waiting and watching.
It did not take long before Philip spoke again. “You are not getting dressed.”
She leaned her head back against the chair and crossed her legs. “How perceptive of you.”
He turned around, his gaze spearing her in her idle pose. “Very well.”
No two words had ever before sent such a rush of anticipation creeping up Charlotte’s spine as those did, spoken with a hint of a growl beneath his soft, cultured accent.
He left the room for only a moment, and when he returned, he carried in his arms a golden dress, its material gleaming bronze as he stepped through a splash of sunlight.
If Charlotte had been someone else, and he had been a different man, she would have thought he appeared quite dashing and handsome as he strolled toward her, his eyes lit with purpose, his mouth firm with determination.
He paused before her. She raised her leg and pointed her foot. Then she wiggled her toes. “Stockings first, please.”
A burst of laughter nearly escaped her throat as he glared down at her leg, his nostrils flaring. But then he lifted his gaze and smiled at her—a quick, blinding flash of teeth, much too charming—and Charlotte straightened as warning bells rang in her ears—
“As you wish, Your Grace,” he said, and dumped the dress on her head.
Charlotte felt like a china doll, awash in a sea of lace and satin, breathing in the clean, stifling, fresh smell of the fabric as she tried to find her way to a pocket of air. At last, she lurched to her feet and flung the dress aside—only to discover that Philip had never moved, and her nose was a mere inch away from his cravat.
She sniffed and looked down at his hands. They were empty. “Where are my stockings?”
He reached inside his pocket and drew forth a pair, dangling them in front of her face. “Right here, Your Grace. If it pleases you to sit down ...”
Charlotte threw him a warning glance as she turned and plopped into the chair once again.
Philip kept his head lowered while he knelt before her, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have thought she heard the low rumble of a chuckle as he reached for her foot.
He pushed her shift to her thigh with one hand and extended her leg toward him with the other. She knew he didn’t intend for his touch to be so sensual, his gloved fingers sliding along the curve of her calf and down to grasp the tender skin at her ankle, but still she swallowed a gasp at the intimacy of the gesture.
No man had ever touched her thus before.
He stroked her ankle on either side with his thumbs, a slow, provocative caress, and she tensed, ready to jerk out of his hold. At the last moment, he released her, and Charlotte dared to breathe again.
He moved the stocking over her toes, his fingers gliding along her skin as he drew it ever upward. He lingered at the arch of her foot, her ankle, her calf, leaving a trail of tingling nerves wherever he touched her. As he brushed the inside of her knee, Charlotte jumped.
He raised his head, and Charlotte couldn’t help but think that his mouth, his firm, lovely-looking mouth, was so very close to the juncture of her thighs . . .
“I never knew you were ticklish.”
She jumped once more as his fingers flicked the sensitive skin behind her knee. “I’m not,” she said. “You . . . surprised me.”
“Ah.” His eyes told her he knew she was lying, but he didn’t try to tickle her again.