Runaway Duchess (London Ladies Book 1)

by Jillian Eaton

  It wasn’t eloquent, and it wasn’t quite a declaration of love, but Charlotte was charmed nevertheless. Turning her head to the side, she asked, “Are you trying to say you want to have a real marriage?”

  “Bloody hell, I suppose I am.”

  She twisted all the way around to face him, her expression grave. “You cannot change your mind tomorrow.”

  “I will not,” he promised.

  “We are still going to get mad at each other and fight.”

  His eyes gleamed. “I hope so. I do not like it when you are quiet.”

  “And I do not like it when you ignore me as though I do not exist.”

  The smile that had crept into the corners of his mouth faded away. “I know,” he said solemnly. “I am sorry for the hurt I have caused you.”

  She cupped his jaw. “I am sorry for the hurt I have caused you.”

  “We have not been kind to each other.”

  “But we can start today.”

  “We can start today,” he agreed.

  Suddenly aware of both her nakedness and his, Charlotte leaned provocatively forward and brushed the tips of her breasts against his chest.

  “We could start right now,” she whispered.

  Gavin’s grin was positively wicked. “We could.”

  Laughing, they fell back onto the bed.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The next two weeks were not without their trials and tribulations.

  Shire House rang with the sound of Gavin and Charlotte’s shouts as they argued over one thing after another, from the repainting of Gavin’s study (“Don’t you dare touch a bloody thing in here,” he had blustered before storming out) to more serious matters, including Charlotte’s brief, albeit quickly abandoned, idea of moving her mother in with them (“Bloody well try it and see what happens,” Gavin had threatened).

  Yet every night, no matter how much they clashed during the day, they fell into each other’s arms and woke side by side each morning.

  In those quiet moments as the sun rose outside their bedroom window and it seemed as though no one else in all of London was awake except for them, they gazed into each other’s eyes and knew complete contentment.

  Bit by reluctant bit Gavin divulged more information about his past, and Charlotte came to appreciate him all the more. She loved him fiercely, both the boy he had been and the man he was now. She understood him as she had never been able to before, and in understanding did not press him for what he was still incapable of giving her.

  What would it take, she wondered one morning as she plunged her hands into the cool earth and buried a seed deep into the dark soil, for him to tell her that he loved her? To commit himself to her not only with his actions, but also with his words. To erase the apprehension completely from his eyes. To give her all of himself and hold nothing back.

  A miracle.

  It would take nothing short of a miracle.

  Could she be content with what she had? It was already so much more than she ever dreamed. People went their entire lives without knowing true love and she held it in the palm of her hand. But love belonged in the heart, and as Charlotte rocked back on her haunches to survey the neat row of bulbs she had planted along the side of the estate she could not help but yearn for what was still beyond her grasp.

  “Be content with what you have,” she told herself sensibly as she dusted her hands off on the smock she had borrowed from Tabitha and stood up, shielding her eyes against the bright afternoon sun.

  With Tabitha running errands, Dianna visiting relatives in Scotland, and Gavin conducting some sort of business meeting or another, she was alone for the entirety of the day. Never one to sit idly on her heels, Charlotte had been gardening since dawn and as she took a step back to view the results of her hard labor she felt a wondrous sense of pride at what she had managed to accomplish thus far.

  No longer plain and dormant, the sizable yard behind Shire House was now blooming with life. The overgrown bushes had been trimmed back (with the help of the true gardener, a sweet, elderly man by the name of Mr. Boggs who came by three days a week), the flower beds had been weeded, tilled, and replanted, and the courtyard stone was finally in place. Come next spring when the bulbs bloomed into a colorful array of tulips it would be positively heavenly, and as Charlotte returned inside to cool herself off she absently plucked a white blossom from one of the newly clipped barberry shrubs that sat on either side of the French doors.

  Twirling it between her fingers, she went first to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water and then to the linen closet for a rag to wipe along her perspiring brow. She came across two maids, both of whom lowered their eyes the moment they spied her, muttered a quick greeting, and fled.

  Swallowing back a sigh, she wandered into the library and perched on the edge of a velvet-trimmed chair to stare broodingly at the dormant fireplace. While her relationship with Gavin had improved tenfold seemingly overnight, the household staff was more distant than ever. In her husband’s presence they were cordial, but when he was gone… Her mouth twisted into a rueful smile. When he was gone, she might as well have been invisible.

  It was a problem that would have to be addressed at some point or another. She knew nothing would be gained by pretending as though everything was fine, and yet that is exactly what she continued to do, day after day. She supposed a small part of her had hoped she would eventually be accepted, but it was a well-known fact by everyone (with the exception of Gavin, who was, bless the man, completely oblivious) that Dobson despised her and led the rest of his staff to feel the same.

  She had tried to make peace with the surly butler time and time again but had been met with resistance at every turn. The man was impossible, and short of letting him go she did not see a ready solution to her problem. That, however, would mean admitting failure to Gavin; something she was still not quite ready to do.

  “Mrs. Graystone?”

  Charlotte turned automatically at the sound of her name, and blinked in confusion when she saw a maid standing in the doorway. Short and petite, the maid wore her dark hair tucked neatly up beneath a white cap and appeared visibly agitated.

  “Yes, what is it Beatrice?”

  The maid’s eyes widened. “Ye know who I am?”

  Charlotte stood up. “You are a scullery maid. You have been here seven months. Your older sister, Annie, works in the kitchen.”

  “How do ye know all that?” Beatrice asked in amazement.

  “I am the lady of this household. It is my business to know.” Her tone was short and clipped, but not unkind. “Do you need something?”

  “Ye ain’t at all like he says you is,” the maid blurted out.

  “Who?” Her eyes narrowing, Charlotte took a step forward. “Who says, Beatrice?” As if she did not know the answer. Dobson, she thought furiously. The man was a tyrant and he needed to be stopped. Enough was enough. It was high time she took control of her own household and she already knew what her first act of business would be: tossing the butler out on his ear. She was tired of the sideways glanced and the whispers. Tired of the maids scattering when she entered a room as though they were little mice and she a big angry cat. She knew most women would have complained to their husbands and been done with the whole messy affair weeks ago, but she was not most women. Charlotte preferred to handle her own problems, thank you very much, and if she needed to physically escort Dobson from the estate she would bloody well find the means to do so.

  Realizing she was scowling, she carefully smoothed her features and even managed a pleasant smile. “You can tell me,” she coaxed the nervous maid. “You will not get in trouble. I promise.”

  But Beatrice had clapped a hand over her mouth and was already shaking her head. “Mr. Dobson would like to see ye,” she said between her fingers.

  “Oh he would, would he?” Picking up her skirts, Charlotte marched to the door. This was finally going to end, she decided, once and for all. “Where is he?” The mangy cur, she thought
, silently repeating Dianna’s preferred name for him.

  Lowering her gaze, Beatrice stepped to the side. “In the back parlor,” she murmured. Spinning on her heel, she all but fled across the hall and disappeared into another room.

  Dobson was indeed waiting for Charlotte in the back parlor. A small, windowless room with a meager collection of mismatched furniture, it was rarely used for anything save a place to store unwanted belongings. Charlotte was considering turning it into a water closet, but with so many other renovations still ongoing it was on the bottom of a rather long list. Stepping around a high backed chair that needed new upholstery, she fixed Dobson with the coldest of stares.

  “What do you want?”

  Dressed in his customary attire of a black jacket, vest, white shirt, and pressed trousers Dobson looked every inch the respectable butler… until you glanced into his dark, squinty eyes and saw the belligerence and disgust he did not bother to hide. “I never liked you.”

  Refusing to be intimidated, Charlotte crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “The feeling,” she said scathingly, “is quite mutual. This will not continue on, do you understand? I have given you every opportunity to—”

  “Oh, shut your damn trap.”

  “E-excuse me?” she sputtered.

  “You heard me.” His gaze deliberately insolent, Dobson looked her up and down, and when his eyes lingered on the curve of her breasts Charlotte could not suppress her shudder of revulsion. “You haven’t stopped talking since the moment you arrived. Changing this, changing that.” His lip curled. “Shire House was perfect before you and your meddling husband took over.”

  “Shire House was falling apart and were it not for my meddling husband you would have been out of work months ago! You need to leave, Dobson. At once. Your employment here has ended.” He was making her extremely uncomfortable and very, very aware that with Gavin away and the rest of the servants under his control instead of her own, he could whatever he liked.

  She had always thought of Dobson as harmless. Horrible, certainly, but harmless all the same. Now she suddenly saw the butler in a different light, and the prickle of awareness at the back of her neck had her taking a step closer to the door.

  “My employment was over the moment Graystone purchased Shire House. Lady Susan and Lord Richard would be rolling in their graves if they knew their estate had fallen into the hands of a half blood mongrel and his whiny bitch.”

  Charlotte didn’t slap; she punched.

  Without a thought to the consequences she rushed forward, balled her right hand into a fist, and swung it wildly at Dobson’s head. It glanced off his cheek and she felt a second of immense satisfaction before he retaliated. She tried to jump away, but her heel caught on a piece of furniture and she stumbled, wind milling her arms in a desperate attempt to find her balance. Dobson was on her in an instant.

  Before she could even draw the breath necessary to scream he had his hands wrapped around her throat and she was slammed against the far wall. Her head bounced painfully off the hard plaster, sending bits of it crumbling into her hair like newly fallen snow. She bit her tongue and the taste of blood flooded her mouth, hard and metallic. In front of her Dobson looked like a man crazed. His eyes were rolling, his face a deep, mottled purple. He shook her like a dog would a bone, jerking her side to side.

  “Bitch,” he snarled. Long lines of spittle flew from his mouth and covered her forehead, nose, cheeks. “Whore. This house doesn’t belong to you. It will never belong to you. NEVER!”

  Dobson continued to rant and rave until his voice was only a dull buzzing in Charlotte’s ears. She clawed frantically at his hands, her throat convulsing as she tried to suck in air. “Killing… Me…” she wheezed. For one horrifying moment she thought Dobson was going to tighten his grip and end it, but with an exclamation of disgust he let her go.

  She collapsed to her knees in a fit of coughing that wracked her entire body. The floor seemed to swim in front of her eyes, the colors of the room blurred and distended. Grasping her bruised neck she massaged the trembling muscles and knew the skin would be bruised to black by evening. She peered up at Dobson. He towered above her, his face a mask of tightly controlled fury, his arms held in rigid lines at his side. A light blazed in his eye that was not completely sane. It spoke of anger and greed and madness. She had once thought him bitter and high on his imagined power. Now she knew he was more. So much more, and the thought of what he could do to her, alone in the house, chilled her to the bone.

  “I have been patient. I have waited and watched. Your husband is a stupid fool grasping beyond his means.” The muscles in Dobson’s face tightened and twitched. “He should be the one bowing and scraping to me!”

  “You hate him.” Charlotte’s voice was a painful rasp, her forehead lined with creases as she attempted to puzzle out the reasons behind Dobson’s madness. Shifting onto her hip she leaned against the wall, too weak and dizzy to stand. “All this time, you have always hated him.”

  “Of course I have!” the butler howled, throwing his arms wide. “He doesn’t deserve this house. He doesn’t deserve this life. He is not a lord. He is nothing. He is no one!”

  Even after being half strangled to death, Charlotte could not help but leap to Gavin’s defense. “He worked for what he has. Lord or not, he has earned every bit of it. Why would that matter to you?” she asked, bewildered beyond reason. “He let you stay on as head butler. He paid you fair wages. You have no reason to complain. No reason to… to do this.”

  “Because it should have been me,” Dobson whined. Sinking down into a chair, he buried his head in his hands. “It should have been me,” he repeated. “Me, me, me.”

  Charlotte glanced past him to the door. It wasn’t so far away. Three yards at the most. At least now she knew why he had wanted to meet her in the back parlor. It was isolated from the rest of the house and the street beyond, but if she could somehow get through the door and down the hall… “Why should Shire House belong to you?” Keep him talking, she thought. Keep him talking and you will have a chance at escape. Going so slow as to barely be moving, she began to inch her way to the left, keeping her eyes trained on Dobson the entire time. “You are not a lord either.”

  “Not a lord?” The whites of his eyes flashed. More spittle flew from his mouth. “He was my father. His blood is in MY veins.”

  “Whose blood?”

  But Dobson did not seem to hear her. He was muttering to himself again, lost in a world Charlotte could not begin to fathom, let alone understand. She had always known he was a mean man. Ill-tempered and short with his word. But how had he hidden such madness? From her. From Gavin. From the rest of the staff. Unless they knew… and that was why they obeyed his every word without question.

  The door was so close. It would be now, or not at all. Carefully positioning herself into a crouching position, Charlotte moved her skirts to the side, gave one more cautious glance at Dobson, and sprang to her feet.

  She heard his chair crash to the floor as he lunged towards her. She darted to the side and he slammed into a desk with a howl of fury, his shins cracking sharply against the polished mahogany. Her breaths came in shallow pants as she raced for the door. She collided against it at full speed, her fingers scrambling frantically across the smooth wood to find the knob.

  The creak of a foot on a floorboard was her only warning.

  She screamed when she felt Dobson’s hands tangle in her hair. Screamed again when he yanked her backwards. Pins scattered, pinging off the walls. With a strength Charlotte never dreamed Dobson possessed he flipped her onto her back. She landed on the floor hard enough to knock the air out of her lungs and bright flashes of light flew in front of her eyes. Then he was on her, his larger body easily pinning her down. Still she fought, kicking and slapping at any part of his anatomy she could reach. Sucking in a mouthful of air she screamed again. Dobson brought the backside of his hand crashing down across her face, stunning her into silence.

  “You�
��re only making it worse for yourself.” His eyes were unfocused. His tone mild. He even smiled slightly, his lips pulling back to reveal a line of crooked teeth.

  “What do you want?” It was, Charlotte realized dimly, the first time she had asked. Most likely because she was afraid of the answer. Dobson must know what he risked by attacking her. Gavin’s wrath was no small thing. He would see the butler beaten within an inch of his life, or worse. Which meant Dobson did not care what happened to him. Which meant he did not care what happened to her. “Just let me go,” she whispered when he continued to stare blankly at her. “Let me go and I swear I will not tell anyone. I swear it.”

  His smile widened. “Do you think I am stupid?”

  “No, no of course—”

  “Yes you do. You do,” he insisted even as she shook her head from side to side, “and in your blind ignorance you have sealed your own fate. I won’t be able to stay in London. I know that. But he’s given me the means to buy my own estate in America where I will have the respect and recognition I deserve. And Shire House will burn,” he said dreamily. “She will be turned to ash and your husband will never touch her with his filthy hands again.”

  Charlotte’s vision was going in and out; one moment clear, the next blurry. Her ears rang and her head pounded as though someone were striking her repeatedly with a sledgehammer. It was difficult to focus on anything except the pain of being held to the ground against her will and the knowledge that she was at the mercy of a madman.

  “Who?” she croaked, her voice little more than an aching rasp that burned up through her throat and spilled out the side of her mouth. “Who are you doing this for?”