What the Duke Wants (4 page)

“Why?” Berty asked, pausing in her dance.

“For propriety’s sake. The waltz is a very controversial dance, you see.”

“Why?” she asked, again. Carlotta was discovering it was the child’s favorite question.

“For many reasons, first, you are only with one partner not moving about like in a reel. Second, you are holding hands with the gentleman you are dancing with.”

“Oh. That was my favorite part.” Berty’s shoulders slumped.

“If it’s not proper though, why did you and the duke dance so close?” Beatrix asked, her eyes narrowing in confusion.

Carlotta opened her mouth to give some sort of reply, one she hadn’t quite thought up yet, and was interrupted.

“Because… he’s the duke and he may dance how he wants,” Berty answered with a decisive nod.

“And there you have it.” Carlotta nodded as well, thankful for the little girl’s statement.

“Now, I believe I mentioned tea?” She spoke with a smile. Anything to get their little minds off the most beautiful waltz she’d ever experienced.

****

It was day four of the horrific rain. And Charles was feeling all the good will of a spring stag. He had finished all his paperwork, his estate business and anything else he could find. There was one final piece of business to which he had to attend.

He fingered the thick envelope then called for Murray.

“Yes, your grace?” Murray asked, his lean face emotionless.

“Please have this delivered to the address specified. Immediately.”

“Very good, your grace.” With a bow, he left.

It’s done.
Charles thought to himself, feeling a weight lifting off his shoulders.

He couldn’t determine if it was the influence of having those wards in his home, or the allure of his pretty governess, but the thought of a mistress had turned decidedly sour.

It was an impulsive action, but one he didn’t regret. Céline had been very gracious, but… the idea left him empty, hungering for something more, something deeper. Something he didn’t quite understand or know how to attain but needed nonetheless. Taking the first step, he wrote the letter releasing her from his protection. No doubt she had quite a few gentlemen waiting for her availability. There was no worry about her welfare.

He felt lighter, somewhat confused at his rare inclination at emotion, but pleased nonetheless and so, with a somewhat sunnier disposition than the one with which he had begun the morning, he left his study and wandered down the hall.

And was immediately bored.

Blasted rain.

And, because he was curious and, indeed, he found it far too entertaining of a prospect, he wandered towards the nursery. He told himself it was
not
to see Carlotta, as he had taken to calling her in his mind, but to check on the wards. They were his responsibility, after all.

He chose not to remember that just a few days ago he was wanting to ship them off to Bath without ever having to set eyes on them again.

So, with a blissfully ignorant decision made, he paused at the nursery door and waited. It was curiosity, he told himself. Nothing more. But he was spending an awful lot of time pressed against doors recently. He smiled wryly. To think, Charles Evermore, Duke of Clairmont, listening through doors. What had the world come to?

But as much as he tried to deny the truth, it didn’t stick.

It was her voice. The soft melodic tones were full of life; unpretentious and free, they didn’t have a sharp edge or double meaning. It was astoundingly refreshing, like an unexpected English rain shower just when one was overly warm from a long ride through the countryside. He hadn’t even realized how jaded he’d become.

“Girls, wait here.”

The words barely registered in Charles’ mind before the door swung open, knocking him soundly on the forehead.

“Bloody—”

“What—oh! Your grace! Pardon me. I had… are you injured? Should I call for Murray?” Carlotta asked, her face etched in concern.

Charles studied her. Her eyes were wide with fear but also, concern. Her gaze roamed his features, no doubt searching for injuries. Her eyes focused on a point just above his brow.

“Your head.” She spoke softly, then reaching out she placed the softest touch to his forehead, grazing his skin before her eyes widened as if realizing just what she was doing. “I’m so sorry, forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive.” Charles nodded, but his body was still humming from her gentle touch. Like a shock, only infinitely more pleasurable, her touch had created the softest glow of warmth that started at his head and traveled through the rest of his body, slowly growing into the familiar burning of desire.

He swallowed. Now was not the time to think about bedding the help. Come to think of it, it wasn’t
ever
a good time to think of bedding the help.

“Was there something you needed?” Carlotta asked, her face still concerned.

Wrong question, because he could think of a great many things he… needed.

“I’m quite well. Just a… bump.” He winced as he touched the tender place on his forehead.

“Again, I’m so sorry.”

“There’s no need.”

Carlotta nodded, and turned to go back into the temporary nursery.

“Wasn’t there something
you
needed, Miss Standhope?” Charles asked smoothly, inwardly grinning that she was so flustered.

“Oh, yes. I’m needing, well, my hair pins actually.” She glanced downward, a humble smile teasing her lips.

Her very pink and delicious looking lips.

“Hair pins?” His curiosity completely piqued, he crossed his arms and waited for her to explain.

“Yes, it’s a game of sorts.”

“Very well, don’t let me stop you.”

She bobbed a curtsey and left.

He thought about leaving as well, but found himself too curious.

She returned shortly, and paused in walking through the door as her gaze rested upon him, sitting in a chair. He grinned at her expectantly.

“His grace wishes to play too!” Berty exclaimed, her face lighting up in a cheerful smile.

“My, well, I’m sure his grace will at least find our game diverting.” She spoke hesitantly as if she didn’t quite believe the words she was speaking, but said them nonetheless.

She laid out several pins, most of which were open in the shape of a ‘V’.

“This is how we play. Everyone select a pin.”

Everyone did, including Charles. He lifted his hand to cover his lips to prevent his grin from breaking through at the color blooming to his governess’ cheeks. The enticing shade of pink only heightened her beauty, causing his grin to falter. Forcing his thoughts back to the game, he cleared his throat, earning a questioning glance from the object of his desire.

She regarded him then continued explaining. “Now, I’ll place the rest of the pins on the table in a heap. Using your own pin, you must try to remove as many pins from the heap without moving any others, save the one you’re trying to remove. If you jostle the pile or move a pin other than the one you intended, your turn is over and the next person has a chance. The person with the most hair pins wins.”

“I think I remember a game like this, but I don’t remember stealing my mother’s pins to play it.” He spoke conspiratorially as he leaned slightly towards her. The air around her was fragrant, reminding him of lemons and honey. He inhaled deeply. Why couldn’t there be something about her that didn’t lure him? Why couldn’t she have smelled like damp clothing or boiled cabbage?

She stiffened as he lingered near her. “I’m improvising.” She spoke wryly.

Charles couldn’t suppress a grin.

The girls took their turns. Beatrix collected four pins, Bethanny secured six before moving the heap and thus losing her turn. Berty’s little pink tongue stuck out while she made a valiant effort to get two. Then it was Charles’ turn.

He studied the pile and began to select pins, withdrawing them one by one with practiced care. He collected ten, leaving only four on the table. He leaned back, raising a challenging brow to Carlotta, daring her to beat him.

“Miss Lottie! We haven’t enough pins!” cried Beatrix.

“I should have brought more back, but it’s no matter. His grace is the winner.” She offered him a bright smile.

Charles tried to ignore the stab of desire her beautiful expression gave him. “Miss Lottie,” he crooned, watching her eyes narrow slightly at the use of her shortened name. “I insist you try to beat my record. After all, I hate winning without a fair game.”

“I haven’t any more pins…” she replied, then paused as Charles gave a pointed look at her hair.

“I can’t very well take down my hair, your grace,” she replied, a bit of an edge to her tone.

Good, thought Charles, it was best if she had more of a prickly demeanor around him. It might remind him that he wasn’t interested.

Because he wasn’t.

At least that’s what he was telling himself that very moment. Though his body and mind weren’t in accord.

“Why ever not?” he asked casually, biting back a smirk at the annoyed glint in her eyes.

“Because,” she spoke carefully, though her eyes were flashing green fire. “I’m to train the girls in the way of proper society. A lady does not unbind her hair in the company of gentlemen.”

“Why not?” Berty asked.

“Yes, Miss Lottie. Why not?” Charles repeated the child’s question. At Carlotta’s disbelieving expression, he began to chuckle, earning him a glare.

“It, er, well it gives a feeling of… intimacy.” She blushed to the roots of her hair.

“But it’s just us! And the duke, but he’s old, Miss Lottie,” Berty quipped.

Charles choked and began to cough. Old! She thought he was old? Well, compared to a seven-year-old, he supposed he was…older. The idea of being old chafed him, yet it played into his little plan quite well.

“Er, yes, Miss Lottie. I’m quite ancient. Therefore, not a threat.” He grinned wolfishly.

“You are quite…
advanced
in your years,” she returned, her eyebrow arching.

That stung more than Charles would let on. Ever.

With a defiant gleam in her eye, she began to pull out her pins.

One by one.

If she were an opera singer, he would swear she did it as a ploy. But he was convinced of her thorough innocence, at least in that aspect. After all, no ruined woman would blush as easily as she. But as she took out each pin, Charles found himself unable to even swallow. Her hair tumbled down gently, curling and waving over her shoulders in a golden halo.

And the fragrance.

It was lemon and lavender, intertwined with a fresh scent he had no name for but knew was unique to her. It was far more potent than when he had leaned in earlier. Its potency was almost his undoing.

At last, the final pin was removed and she shook her head gently, letting the entirety of her beautiful mane settle.

Charles finally was able to swallow, but his mouth was dry. If he ever needed brandy, it was now. The ploy to tease had indeed turned on him.

With a small smile, she put the pins in a pile, equaling fourteen in all.

Grinning she began to extract them one by one till none remained.

“I believe you won, Miss Lottie.”

“I believe I did.”

Chapter Three

“Lord Graham to see you, your grace,” Murray informed Charles.

“See him in, of course.”

“Yes, your grace.” Murray left; the soft clicking of the door was the only sound, save a few crackles of the fire as it glowed in the hearth in his study.

Charles had been lost in his own thoughts. Ever since that ridiculous hairpin game yesterday, he hadn’t been able to cease thinking about Carlotta Standhope. Of course, if he were honest with himself, he would have included that he’d been having a rather hard time not thinking about her even before the hairpin game. But he wasn’t being honest with himself. He rather liked living in denial. It seemed far simpler. After all, when one admitted to attraction, so many more emotions and questions arose.

“Clairmont!” Edward Greenly, Earl of Graham walked into the study with the ease of someone familiar with the room. After all, he had been Charles’ chum since their days at Eton. Friend, partner in crime, really it was all the same.

“Graham. What brings you here this wet morning?” Charles grinned at his friend. Graham was the kind of bloke one simply had to smile around. His deep dimples on his face had caused many a woman to swoon. Though he cursed them as a young boy, he now found them supremely helpful when consorting amongst the
ton
.

His reputation wasn’t nearly as black as Charles’, though he was known for his much quieter exploits. But rather than make him unapproachable, it somehow endeared him even more to the matchmaking mommas of the
ton
. For that reason, he hadn’t attended an evening party for quite some time, at least not one his sister hadn’t required him to attend. Which was self-preservation in both instances. To abstain meant freedom from the matchmaking and scheming mothers, and attending, when required, allowed him peace from his harridan of a sister. Lady Southridge was a formidable force not to be reckoned with. At twenty years Graham’s senior, she was more of a mother than a sister, especially since both of their parents had perished while he was quite young.

“I’m leaving for Scotland on the morrow and thought I’d stop to say goodbye. It’s come to my attention that my estate is requiring my presence.”

“Ah, the one near Edinburg?”

“Precisely.”

“Well, I wish you well.”

“Of course you do. But in the meantime, can you please tell my sister where I’ll be?”

“No.”

“Please? You know if I tell her I’ll have to attend one final ball before I go and I’m not up to it.”

“Bloody hell you’re not. You’re just wanting to avoid her schemes.”

“Yes. I’m man enough to admit that I’m running away.”

“I fail to see how that amounts to being a man,” Charles retorted sarcastically, earning an unrepentant grin from Graham.

“So you’ll tell her?”

“No. In fact I believe I already said that.”

“I can always send a letter…” Graham mumbled as he sat in a damask chair facing the fire. He rubbed his chin absentmindedly.