DukeAndEnchantress_PGolden-eBooks

by Golden, Paullett

  “No one is dismissing anyone. I won’t allow it. They may want me to feel powerless, but I’m not. If the housekeeper tries, come directly to me.”

  Charlotte thought about Stella’s words.

  What would the housekeeper care about portraits? No, it had to be the dowager duchess. The dragon must have come into her room to snoop or else the housekeeper came, saw, and reported the change of décor. To maintain power over Charlotte, she’d demanded the paintings be returned. Somehow this was all done at the command of her mother-in-law. The woman made no secret of her disdain for her daughter-in-law.

  “I want the portraits removed again, but this time, Stella, have them taken to the dower house. If she wants these on the wall so much, she can hang them in her house.”

  Stella glanced at Beatrice before asking, “Is she finally moving to the dower house?”

  Charlotte balled her fists and perched them on her hips, determined and proud. “Not yet, but the least we can do is prepare it for her with the portraits she values so much.”

  She would like to see the woman’s response to this move. If the portraits reappeared, Charlotte had half a mind to set them on fire. She would not be bullied.

  “I need you to do something else for me, Stella. In place of the paintings, hang drapery. That will discourage anyone from placing paintings on the wall again, at least until my landscapes are completed.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Stella curtsied and waited for further instruction.

  “Thank you, Stella. If possible, do this while I’m with Her Grace tomorrow. I would have you do it tonight while she’s abed, but I’m too exhausted to wait for the paintings to be removed. Please, return to your own bed,” Charlotte said with a nod.

  The maid left, leaving Beatrice and Charlotte alone. Charlotte slumped into the chair at her dressing table, her spirit worn thin. Perceptively, Beatrice rushed to her mistress’ side and began pulling out hair pins to ready for bed.

  Beatrice dressed her in a plain, cotton nightgown and turned down the bed sheets for Charlotte to slide in.

  “Would you like for me to snuff the candles, Your Grace?” she asked.

  Charlotte could do no more than nod. As much as she tried not to feel defeated, the bold move by her mother-in-law weighed on her heart.

  With a quick candle treatment, Beatrice scuttled out of the room.

  Charlotte couldn’t sleep. Sheets pulled to her chin, she stared at the wooden canopy. Was she making too big of a deal out of a few paintings? They were only silly paintings after all. Seemed childish to declare war over portraits of stodgy women.

  But that wasn’t the point, she reminded herself.

  The point was that she had an opinion, and that opinion mattered. If she didn’t want something in her own bedchamber, she shouldn’t be forced to live with it. And if she had an opinion about the arrangement of furniture, the opinion should at least be considered. This was her house now.

  She needed to talk to Drake about all of this. Long gone were her desires for seduction. Declaring war diminished amorous inclinations. Though she saw their union as a way to gain his alliance, the bottom line was he needed to choose a side in this war, with or without consummation.

  Restless, she threw off the sheets and swung her feet to the floor. Lighting the candlestick on her bed stand, she crossed the room, heading straight for his chamber.

  Hand pausing at his door, she wondered if she ought to wait until morning. It had to be one in the morning by now, possibly later. No, she may lose nerve by morning. If she didn’t act on the impulse now, she would never do it. With a deep breath and adrenaline fueling her bravery, she knocked once then pressed the handle to open the door.

  The room was black beyond the sphere of her candle. She trekked forward towards the bed.

  “Drake?” She voiced, her words shaking. “We need to talk.”

  Self-consciousness weakened her knees with each step. Would he think her a silly ninny? How stupid this might all sound to him.

  She ought not to have worried, however, because she saw as soon as she reached the edge of the bed that the duke wasn’t in the room. His bed sheets were turned down, awaiting their master, but no master graced the bedchamber.

  Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe. She needn’t get upset. This was only a minor setback in location.

  Back in her room, she wrapped herself in a robe and slipped on a pair of stockings and slippers before creeping down the stairs. With every step, she prayed she wouldn’t see a footman. The last thing she wanted was servants gossiping that she had prowled the house, hunting for her husband in her robe. This was not a dignified way for a duchess to behave. A duchess didn’t lurk around the house in undress in the middle of the night.

  She needed him and was perturbed beyond reason he was never where he should be.

  With an unsteady hand on the railing, she circled her way down the rounded staircase, preparing her speech in her head.

  Without knocking, she pushed open the study door. With a frown, she saw it, too, was empty. He had left for the study after dinner, or at least, she had assumed that’s where he went. Come to think of it, she hadn’t asked his plans. The chime of the hall clock sounded two in the morning. If not in his room and not in his study, where would he be at two in the morning?

  This helplessness, this sense of abandonment wore on her nerves.

  When she returned to her room, she pulled the bell rope again. Beatrice sluggishly stumbled in, wiping crust from her eyes as she curtsied.

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Where is my husband?” Charlotte questioned.

  “Your husband?” Beatrice’s features contorted in confusion.

  “Yes, where is the duke?” Her words were sharp, edged with frustration.

  “Is he not abed?” asked the maid.

  “If he were abed, I wouldn’t have sent for you. I should have thought that much would be obvious. If you don’t know where he is, find out.”

  “Find out where His Grace is?” The lady’s maid blinked.

  “That’s what I said. He’s not in his bed, and he’s not in his study. I refuse to walk into every room of this house in my robe trying to find him. Would you have me check the stables while I’m at it? Someone must know where he is. I don’t mean to snap at you, but I’m at my wit’s end and need to speak to my husband,” Charlotte said.

  “A moment, if you please.” Beatrice ducked out of the room.

  Charlotte paced for nearly half an hour, wondering if Beatrice had fallen asleep on her mission. Or, Charlotte stopped pacing, her heart thumping, what if Beatrice had found him and told him to come to her? What if he was on his way to her room now? Self-conscious, she tightened her robe, eyeing the door.

  Her heart nearly leapt out of her chest when the door opened, Beatrice shuffling in, head hung low.

  “He’s from home, Your Grace. He took the carriage after dinner to, um, call on a friend.” Beatrice fumbled on her words.

  “Call on a friend? At night?” Her heart skipped a beat, pulse racing.

  Beatrice nodded, her eyes not meeting Charlotte’s.

  Charlotte stared at her maid, thinking. At dinner, he mentioned visiting Winston. Could he have returned to Winston’s and gotten so foxed he stayed for the night? Seemed plausible. All the same, Charlotte sensed a depressing foreboding.

  She’d known from courtship onward but not heeded her sister’s warnings. She’d married a rake. And how did rakes spend their time?

  Her heart splintered at the thought.

  “Dress me. I want to see my husband. Dress me and wake a groom to take me to him.” This could only end in tears, but she didn’t care. She had to know.

  “That wouldn’t be a good idea, Your Grace, not a good idea at all,” said Beatrice.

  “I don’t care what kind of idea it is. I’m going to my
husband, and I’m going now. Who is this friend, and where does he live? Hurry up and dress me.” Charlotte disrobed and held out her arms so the maid could change her gown.

  “Don’t make me say it, Your Grace. Please,” begged Beatrice.

  Tears threatened at the edges of Charlotte’s eyes, her throat tightening.

  “And what is it you don’t want to say, Bea?” She asked, already knowing the answer.

  “The friend isn’t a him.” Beatrice’s voice dropped to a whisper.

  Charlotte waited, mostly because she couldn’t feel her limbs or find her voice.

  “The friend is his ladybird. They told me he took the carriage to her tonight.” The maid’s neck flushed as she spoke.

  The threatening tears stung Charlotte’s eyes, blurring the room, wetting her cheeks.

  Drake hadn’t even given her a chance. She might have botched her attempts at flirtation, but he hadn’t given her a chance. He preferred another woman.

  Her heart shattered. As alone as she felt before, nothing compared to this moment.

  She was truly alone.

  Her voice cracking, Charlotte replied, “Then I will go to them and scratch out their eyes. Dress me.”

  “Please, Your Grace. You don’t want to do this,” warned Beatrice.

  “Don’t tell me what I want. I know what I want. I want my husband. If you won’t dress me, then get me a servant who will!” She cried in desperation.

  Beatrice didn’t move.

  The duchess sank to the floor on her knees. He didn’t want her. He married because he had to. He didn’t want her.

  Between sobs, she stammered, “Leave me, Bea. Go.”

  Beatrice dithered before dashing from the room.

  Chapter 13

  One dismal week later, Drake found himself at Maggie’s for a second time.

  Never had he intended to return nor had he wanted to go the first time. Not wanting to blindside her, he’d first gone from a sense of obligation to tell her about his bride before she heard it through other channels. A letter would have sufficed, but he preferred personal communication, even if it meant opening old wounds.

  Alas. Despair brought him to her door again. He had no one else to turn to. A world of friends, yet he was alone.

  Describing the past week as dismal was being generous. Unbearable would be a more apt word. For reasons unknown to him, Charlotte hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction for a week. Dinners were the worst. She pretended not to hear him when he spoke and made a point to engage his sister in conversation for the length of the meal.

  Predictably, his mother noticed. As if he weren’t already depressed about the direction his life had taken, she added salt to the wound with accusations and inquiries to his inability—or was it unwillingness—to satisfy his wife.

  He’d already felt dreadfully guilty for letting Winston believe his affair was ongoing, but with the additional jabs from Mother, he’d dug his hole deeper during a visit from Sebastian, not only implying but blatantly admitting to an affair. So deep he’d dug his grave, he couldn’t see the light of day anymore.

  As it had in the past, he assumed Winston and Sebastian’s cheers and jests of his conquests would boost his spirits. The thing of it was, they hadn’t cheered. They’d looked at him as if he were the worst sort of villain. He knew, then, he’d gone too far to assure his masculinity.

  He only hoped Charlotte would never know the foul things he’d said to salve his own soul. If she would give him a chance, he’d spend his life making it up to her. A bit difficult when she wouldn’t speak to him. He supposed she was happy with her new title and pleased to be rid of him. Why she bothered to flirt on occasion was beyond his understanding. He knew only one thing—she resisted every attempt he made to charm her.

  And so, he settled in his grave.

  Maggie massaged his scalp with her free hand, her lap serving as his pillow, while she blew cheroot smoke into his face to antagonize him.

  “It’s hopeless, I tell you. She doesn’t want me,” Drake exclaimed, fiddling with the lace on Maggie’s dress, “I have frostbite from her icy glares.”

  “She’s young. Give her time,” she replied, her voice ragged from years of smoking cigars.

  “She gets frostier by the day, not warmer. Now, she pretends I don’t exist. I don’t see how time will repair that.”

  He closed his eyes to savor the feel of fingers in his hair, imagining them Charlotte’s fingers instead of Maggie’s.

  “Gloominess doesn’t become you. Where is the perpetually laughing man I know? Here lies a despondent stranger who should be enjoying my company.” Margaret Collins, the Dowager Marchioness of Waller, inhaled before puffing another cloud into Drake’s face. “Do you love her?”

  Drake coughed and waved his hand to dispel the smoke. “I hardly know her.” He paused, undecided how to phrase the next words. “I thought when I first met her, we could fall in love. I thought we might want the same things. She was the promise of a new beginning and seemed equally as interested in me. I was wrong. She only wanted the title, not me.”

  Maggie laughed, a sound reminiscent of a cat sharpening its claws. “Nonsense. You haven’t seduced her. She’ll forget the title once you make love to her.”

  “That’s the thing, Maggie. I’ve tried! As soon as I put on the charm, she goes rigid. I used my best moves. Now, it’s hopeless. She won’t even look at me. Trying to seduce her will get me nothing but bruised shins.”

  “You mistake my meaning. You’ve no experience with virgins, darling. You’re trying to seduce your wife, a virtuous young girl. This is different than seducing a mature widow. You must make love to her, you see, but not with your body. Show her a side of you no one else sees, a side the two of you can share,” the marchioness said sagely.

  Drake stole her cheroot for a quick puff before returning it between her fingers. “You assume there’s more to me than shallow good looks and magnetism.”

  With a tut, she said, “We both know there is. Listen to me, and you will have your wife eating out of the palm of your hands. She is young and afraid of the unknown. I was like her once, though my husband wasn’t as considerate as you are to her. To win her, you must woo her. Seduce her not with your sensuality, but with gifts, poetry, and compliments. Tell her how much you adore her. Tell her she’s the promise of a new beginning. If she thinks she’s the most important woman in your life, she’ll fall madly in love, and there you will be, a happy Drake.”

  “Woo my own wife.” Drake snorted. “It didn’t work for your husband. You hated him.”

  “He never wooed me. He took what was his. But you’re proof enough it works. A few gifts, a few compliments, and here you are still lying in my lap like a good pet even after all these years.” She rearranged the locks of hair falling over his forehead then cringed. “Oh, that makes me feel old.”

  “You always know just what to say to cheer my sullen spirit. It’s not every woman who compares me to a lap dog.”

  Pushing himself off her lap, he turned to see her better, the woman who broke his heart.

  She was a petite lady who only showed her age in the smoky voice and crinkles around her eyes. They hadn’t been lovers for well over a decade, not since the day Drake inherited the dukedom. Humiliatingly, he had proposed to her that day. He had been young and stupid. She had laughed at him, scorned him, called him a foolish pup. Their physical affair ended that day.

  Not until some years later did they rekindle their relationship in name only. Drake was her lifeline to social favor, and so she convinced him they needed each other.

  They agreed to maintain the pretense of an affair for reciprocal benefit. For Drake, it secured his renown as a desired lover despite his celibacy. His reputation was everything to him. It defined him. It reassured the world, his mother, and himself that he was not what his mother accused him to be.
To be seen as such would be a fate worse than death to him. Yes, Maggie was right. He needed her.

  For Maggie, a long-term affair with a young duke did wonders for her perceived femininity, bringing attention to her from new suitors every year, all wanting to know how she had garnered the duke’s affection.

  Their friendship came to an end, yet again, before he left for London. He’d grown tired of her games, tired of feeling used, tired of being reminded he wasn’t loveable. The moment his mother demanded he find a bride or have one chosen for him, he knew it was time for a change, a new life, a new chance, and perhaps, God willing, a chance at love. He’d wished Maggie adieu, never to return.

  And here he found himself again. Was he such a glutton for abuse? Did he never learn from the past?

  Maggie’s gray eyes fixed on a point beyond his shoulder. “She’s due in December. I should be elated, but I only feel old.”

  “Who’s due in December?” Drake stared, confused. He ran a hand through his hair.

  “My daughter-in-law, of course. She’s with child. It’s humiliating to think I’ll be a grandmother. At my age! I’m too young for all of that,” she said, tugging at a frayed thread on top of the settee. “I don’t want to be a grandmother. Think what it’ll do to my reputation.”

  Her son, now three and twenty, lived in the manor with his wife. Maggie had taken up residence in the dower house a mile from the main house.

  “There’s a ducal carriage sitting in your front drive, Maggie. Your reputation is assured.”

  “No more of that nonsense about you not returning. You must. You need me. You’ll never convince your wife to love you without my help.” She smiled ruefully.

  “I want my marriage to work, and I want love. Neither of those things you can offer.”

  Putting out the last dregs of the cheroot in a priceless heirloom next to the settee, she asked, “You think you could love her, then? More than you loved me?”