“I was more than half in love with her before we married. Not for a moment did I suspect she’d become a glacial wife.”
She reached over and tussled his hair. “Let me throw you a party. I’ll host a rout. Two Saturdays from now is ample time to invite guests. Bring Lord Stroud’s boy—he’ll make me feel young again—and tell me then you’ve bedded your wife. We’ll all raise a glass to you.”
“A public conclusion to this charade seems fitting. As a final farewell, I’ll come. We’ll toast to the end. Promise me it’ll be a farewell and nothing more.” Drake eyed her suspiciously.
However harmless most of her parties, the routs were notorious for being wickedly sordid. When he had been young and infatuated, such parties had been endless fun, as well as a boon to his reputation. He’d not been to one since their first split and had no interest in resuming attendance.
“It’ll be safe. I promise. A party amongst friends, nothing more.” She pinched his cheek.
“Right. The second Saturday of August. My attendance will purely be to publicly end our imaginary liaison, nothing more. I’ll not stay beyond an hour.” He glanced at the clock on her mantle. “Speaking of leaving, I best be off. My own bed calls.”
“Stay. I’ll be bored without company.” She reached for another cheroot.
Drake stood to leave. “Take up knitting.”
The sound of her gravelly laugh followed him outside where his carriage awaited, the coachman and groom half asleep. Normally, they would be enjoying the evening with Maggie’s servants, but Drake had promised not to be long and requested they wait. To his chagrin, he’d stayed longer than expected. At least the night air was cool.
The tiger, a young boy only recently hired, had fallen asleep against one of the wheels. One look at the boy made Drake shudder involuntarily. The boy, gangly and short, likely around seventeen, if a day, was just the sort to tempt Maggie.
What the devil was Drake still doing here? He’d be happier with this place to his back.
He never should have agreed to attend the party. It was another manipulation of hers, using him to gain the attention of other men, or boys rather. He cursed his own stupidity. When away from her, he could think clearly, but in her presence, his thoughts tangled, and he found himself acting not unlike a kicked pup.
“Oi! On your feet, you lazy bums!” He shouted to his men with a laugh and watched them scurry to their posts.
The tiger rushed to the platform at the back of the carriage, taking his station.
“You there.” He pointed at the boy. “What’s your name?”
“Philip, Your Grace.”
“Well met, Philip.” Drake ducked into the carriage, glad to know Philip was safe on the carriage and not inside Maggie’s house. “Home, James!” he shouted to the coachman, tapping the roof of the carriage.
The coach rocked and swayed home, lulling Drake into a head-nodding slumber. He had almost fallen asleep when the carriage door opened with a snap. Lyonn Manor stood silent and dark this evening, the occupants already in bed aside from Mr. Taylor who greeted Drake at the door.
It had been a restless week with him spending his nights in the music room, composing his frustrations until the light of dawn when at last he ambled to his room to sleep until noon. Tonight, he would sleep well, not only from the hopefulness of implementing Maggie’s advice for wooing his wife, but also from sheer exhaustion. Tomorrow, he would sort out a plan for romancing Charlotte. If there was one thing Maggie knew well, it was the art of seducing virgins. She may be his least favorite person, but her advice was worth gold.
He dragged himself up the stairs and down the bedroom corridor to his chamber. The moon lit up the room when he opened the door. Why hadn’t his valet, Bartholomew, closed the draperies? Drake shrugged off the oddness. He needed to summon Bart anyway to bring a brandy and undress him for the evening.
Before he was halfway to the bellpull, chilling words stopped him.
“Who is she?”
Startled by the voice in the darkness, Drake tripped over the rug and stumbled into the back of a chair, catching himself before he fell.
“What the devil?” he exclaimed.
Taking a moment to compose himself, he walked to the fireplace and lit the candelabra on the mantle.
When he turned to face the voice, his eyes widened to find Charlotte sitting in a chair by the hearth wearing a robe and a blank expression. Her chestnut hair flowed loose to her shoulders, the dressing garment tied snuggly around her figure. If it weren’t for the void expression and the unusualness of her appearance in his room at midnight, he would welcome this angelic vision.
“What’s her name, Drake?” Charlotte asked sotto voce.
“Whose name?” he questioned.
Indeed, he couldn’t imagine about whom or what she was asking. What was she doing in his room at this hour and after a week of ignoring him?
“Your mistress,” she clarified. “Who is she?”
Oh. Oh dear. All thoughts of angelic visions vanished.
Someone must have told her about Maggie, but who and why? His memory flickered to what he’d implied to Winston and Sebastian. Neither of them would have approached Charlotte. Would they? Maggie wasn’t even his mistress! The whole affair was imagined, faked for their mutual gain. While all the dukedom may believe he had a kept woman, he most certainly did not.
“I don’t have a mistress,” he said, enunciating each word.
“Don’t lie to me,” she replied. “I’m not feeble minded. I know you have a mistress.”
“No, Charlotte. I don’t. Let me be clear on this fact. I have no one.” He spoke the truth. Even with his wife sitting in arm’s reach, he felt utterly alone. He had no one.
“You don’t have to hide her. You don’t have to hide anything anymore. I know all your secrets, including why you married me. Your mother let it slip. You need an heir, and I’m to be your prized cow. Shall we get it over with now, or are you already spent from an evening with your whore? Would it help if we doused the lights and you called me her name?” Her words pierced him with icy daggers.
He didn’t know what to say. What could he say that wouldn’t sound like empty denial? Drake had never needed to deny his reputation before, and had, in fact, fanned the flames of rumor for years.
A fish out of water, he floundered. None of what she said was true. He most assuredly hadn’t married Charlotte for an heir, despite his mother’s concerns for the line, and he didn’t have a mistress. He only wanted his wife, and oh, how he wished she wanted him, for it was only her name he wished to cry in the throes of passion.
“Charlotte, I—.” He started to explain.
“Don’t insult either of us with lies. I was warned against you from the start, but I was too blind to see you weren’t interested in me. You only needed a breeder.” Her voice wavered, but her expression held its stony countenance. “Is it only the one, or are there others? How many women are there?”
“Stop this!” Drake shouted, louder than he had expected, startling them both. “You are mistaken on all accounts. Don’t accuse me of what you know nothing about.”
Charlotte stood. “I know more than you give me credit for. I know you haven’t spent a single night in your room.” Stepping behind her chair, she placed a barrier between them.
“Not true.” He lowered his voice. “I’ve not spent a single night away from home since our arrival. I’ve been in my stu—.”
“Stop lying to me, Drake!” she cried, exasperated. “I know you’re not here. I check your room every night, but you’re never here. I check your study, as well, and surprise, you’re never there. Be honest with me for once.” She clenched her fists on the top of the chair, her knuckles white.
“You’re unnecessarily upset. Sit down, and we’ll talk rationally,” he said, waving his hand to the empty chair.
“Don’t treat me like a child,” she said with a stomp of her foot.
“Then stop acting like one,” he snapped back before realizing his mistake. “I’m sorry, Charlotte. I shouldn’t have said that. But you’re not giving me a chance to—.”
“I don’t want your excuses or your lies.” She unfurled her fingers and crossed her arms over her chest.
He took a step towards her. She stepped back away from him. “I’m not going to make excuses, and I’m not going to lie. Sit down, and I’ll lay bare my soul, so you may tread on it as you wish. Will you, please, allow me to correct the mistake?”
And then she laughed, a single trill. “You can’t correct my mistake. My mistake was marrying you. You’re nothing more than… than a rake. You’re nothing more than a self-absorbed bounder. I wish I’d never met you.”
His world fragmented.
She thought their marriage was a mistake. Had she not married him for the title? Had he not been the only one who wanted more from the marriage?
The sound of his pounding heart drowned out his own words. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that. Our marriage is not a mistake. I’m not a rake. Meeting you was the most promising day of my life.”
“Lies. You’re no better than all the rest of your peers, born entitled, thinking they can have everything regardless of who they destroy along the way to get what they want. I’m proud to be my father’s daughter, for at least he earned everything he has. What have you accomplished? Nothing. Your life has only one purpose, to continue a name. Is that why you fill your days with empty affairs? Is your life so meaningless?”
He took another step forward, reaching out for her, but she shied away, withdrawing to the door.
“Please, Charlotte. You don’t mean any of this. I don’t have a mistress. I didn’t marry you to continue the line. I—.”
“Confess everything, and then we can move forward. I will not believe lies,” she said, her words venom.
This was hopeless. If she wouldn’t let him speak, what was the point? If she assumed everything he said was a lie, what was there to say? She tried and sentenced him, a condemned man who couldn’t raise a defense.
He threw his hands in the air. “If you won’t listen to the truth, then believe whatever you want. What do you want me to say if not the truth? I don’t have a mistress. I’ve never had a mistress. I’ll never have a mistress.”
“You’re making a fool of us both.”
If he couldn’t defend himself, then there was no point in bearing witness to false accusations. “Until you’re willing to give me a chance to explain, there’s no point in continuing.”
“I’ll prove it. I’ll prove you have a mistress, and then what will you have to say for yourself?”
“You can’t prove what’s not true, Charlotte. No, on second thought, you should try to prove it because then you’ll believe me.”
“I wish I could annul the marriage,” she spat.
The blood drained from his body, leaving him shaking in its wake. “Don’t say that.”
“Our marriage hasn’t been consummated, and you’re an adulterer. An annulment should be possible.”
“Charlotte. Stop this. An annulment is only granted in cases of proven impotence, not for adultery or otherwise. I wouldn’t agree to that even if it were possible. You are upset over a misunderstanding and not thinking clearly. You’re saying what you don’t mean. Please, give me a chance. Give us a chance. We’re worth a chance.”
He could see the tears now. Gone was the stony visage, gone the hate, now only pain.
“Charlotte. Please. Give me a chance.” He walked towards her again, but before he had taken two full steps, she turned from him and fled the room.
After a few silent seconds, he heard her bedchamber door slam beyond the adjoining sitting room.
Chapter 14
The week following her confrontation hadn’t dulled the pain or brought any resolution. It’d been a downright dreadful week. Each day brought with it a new emotion, each emotion a rocky coast after a storm. The only constants were Charlotte’s sore eyes from sleepless nights and her grumbling stomach from loss of appetite.
The first day, she panicked. The servants must be wrong, and she’d humiliated herself by accusing him of something that wasn’t true. The second day, she awoke angry that she’d been put in such a situation in the first place—if not true, how dare he ignore her to the point that she believed such rubbish about him; if true, how villainous not to give her a chance and to humiliate her in such a fashion. By the third day, she’d talked herself into finding ways to make this work for their mutual benefit, which led to a tearful night. The fourth day, she reached a bleak, empty period, wherein she trudged through the hours unfocused, unable to concentrate. By the week’s end, she experienced a surge of determination.
Determined to prove he’d lied, she’d stooped to snooping.
Charlotte peered over the railing to check the hall below, swiveling her head left then right. The coast looked clear. As casually as she could muster, in case someone spotted her, she sauntered down the stairs, chin held high. The key was not to look suspicious.
With not too brisk of a pace and not too shifty of eyes, she turned into the alcove and opened Drake’s study door, slipping inside, and closing the door behind her with a faint click. She had at least half an hour. Drake and Sebastian were in the billiards room. She knew. She had checked.
Part of her didn’t want to find anything, because as long as there was nothing to be found, there might be some grain of truth to his denial. The other part of her wanted to find something to finally dash that last grain of hope in her breast. Only when she knew for certain what to believe could she move forward.
Earlier, while he sat in the parlor with his sister, she’d opened every drawer in his bedchamber, eyed every nook and cranny, including under his bed, and come up empty handed. His dressing room was still unchecked since her attempt almost foiled the whole plan. She’d backed into the room, keeping her eyes trained on the bedroom door for signs of his return, only to bump into his valet cleaning the razors. Mumbling a quick excuse of having misplaced earrings, she’d backed out of the room, pink as a variegated carnation and just as contrite.
Then, she’d explored the billiards room, one of his most frequented rooms in the afternoons she’d discovered after shadowing him for several days. She didn’t always know when Sebastian called since he rarely stayed for dinner, but if not with Drake in the study, they could both be found in the billiards room.
Strangely, she’d learned more about her husband over the past week than she had when they were on speaking terms. In the mornings, if he didn’t sleep until noon, he went for a ride or went to Winston’s to fence. During the afternoons, he knocked balls in the billiards room or read in the adjoining library, which surprised her since she hadn’t known he liked to read.
In the evenings, he shared dinner with the family before slinking off to his study for the remainder of the night. Whatever he did in his study, he did it for a terribly long time, though it was possible he snuck off on horseback after Charlotte had gone to bed. During the sleepless nights, she lay awake, listening for his return to his chamber, which rarely happened before the wee hours, if at all. Her confidantes among the staff assured her he’d not used the carriage since that fated evening, so either he was in his study or on horseback.
Standing in his study now, she felt she’d reached a new low in her life. What wife snooped through her husband’s belongings for evidence of an affair? This couldn’t be normal. This couldn’t be proper behavior for a duchess. Weren’t wives supposed to look the other way, pretend mistresses didn’t exist? Didn’t all aristocrats have mistresses? Well, she must have missed that day of lady training because she cared far too much to turn a blind eye.
The study, she realized, was home to more cabinets and bookshelves than she’
d noticed before. When one wasn’t plotting to search everything for stashed evidence, the furniture blended in with the wallpaper. Now, she counted each piece, for every cabinet and drawer would need to be rifled through, each book tipped. Not knowing what to look for didn’t make searching any easier.
It would be too easy, she supposed, to find a miniature painting of his love, snug and safe inside a locket. Oh, that might be too dreadful to bear. If she found a miniature, she’d know what the woman looked like, and she wasn’t confident she wanted to compare herself to a striking beauty.
Beginning her search at the bureau, she shuffled through books and papers, not reading, merely scanning for anything that might hint at bills paid or debts incurred for gifts, such as evidence of a purchased necklace perfect for a mistress. She rifled, foraged, and scoured leaflets and books and more, all for naught.
After searching more shelves and cabinets than she cared to consider, she retreated to his desk. It was the least likely place to find something, for no man would be thick enough to leave evidence in such an obvious place, not that any man would suspect his wife of snooping, but Mama Catherine certainly had a nose for it. If the woman wasn’t above spying on her daughter-in-law’s bedchamber, she wouldn’t bat an eye at digging through her son’s possessions.
Alas, there was nothing left to search except the desk. Sitting in the worn chair, she launched into her task. The man was an anomaly. She found clocks, pomade, endless supplies of snuff, and more quills and ink pots than anyone should possess.
Fruitless. Complete waste of time. She lowered her forehead to the desk and lightly beat her head against the wood. What was the point? What was the point of all this? There was nothing to be gained except more heartache.
Grimacing at her aching forehead, she sat back, slumping into the chair.
And there it was. Right on top of the desk. Right under her nose, or forehead rather. A sloppily scribbled letter with strikeouts, arrows, and various other notations. It was unmistakably a letter written for his mistress.
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