DukeAndEnchantress_PGolden-eBooks

by Golden, Paullett

  Leaning over the back of the chair, she kissed his cheek. “Tonight, you’re the bravest man I know.”

  “Am I?” he asked rhetorically, feeling his pocket for his snuffbox. “I don’t suppose you want to go again?” He chuckled, looking up at her, the worry lines on his forehead belying the humor.

  “After. We need to return. The aria ends in seven minutes, and I need to introduce the next musicians.” Charlotte took his hand and pulled him out of the chair.

  “I don’t need seven minutes. Seven seconds? Two minutes? I’ll make it fast. One more time?” he pleaded.

  She stared at the clock she had moved to the mantle when she first planned this interlude. Her plan didn’t include twice. A throbbing soreness had settled between her legs. She ached from the roughness of the first round, far more aggressive in love making than they’d ever been before.

  “Make it fast.” She conceded, wanting him as much as he wanted her, but nervous about the time and wary of the ache. A second time may leave her too sore for this evening.

  Her body had other plans. It readied itself in anticipation even before she’d come to terms with the decision. She felt the now familiar warmth and throb.

  Leaning against the chair back, she tempted him to take her from behind. He made quick work of his buttons and her gown, easing into her this time, slowly and pleasurably, aware he’d been rough the first time. Reaching around her, he worked her nub in tight, fast circles, as he pressed himself deep inside of her, wrapping his other arm around her waist to hold her steady. His arm was strong and comforting against her stomach, pressing her tightly to him. Charlotte gripped the fabric of the chair, clawing at the embroidery, welcoming the sensations of their joined bodies, the feel of being filled, the aroma of their love.

  She concentrated on the largo rhythm, slowing and broadening to larghissimo as their bodies met. He inched into her and held, withdrawing with an audible suckle. The mix of rhythms between his veloce fingers against her most secret place and his lento thrusts quickened her heartbeat and flooded her body with hot desire.

  She thrust back against him, tightening around him until her ears filled with the harmony of a second climax and her body tremored with the rush of liquid heat from his seed as he finished with her.

  They made short work of dressing, calming, and laughing, three minutes remaining before they needed to return to the room. Charlotte cursed at herself for pushing the time so close, but she wouldn’t change her decision for the world, even if her skin was still flushed and her gloves were still held loosely in her bare hands as they raced across the hallway to the back door to the concert. She was only peripherally aware of the dowager duchess standing at the far end of the gallery, watching them when they slipped unseen back into the room.

  Nearly two hours later, the entertainment ended, the final piece played by both Charlotte and Drake on the pianoforte, the sonata for four hands. They stood and bowed to the applauding audience. As Drake returned to the back of the room, Charlotte made her final remarks.

  The entertainment at an end, the guests returned to various positions around the room to resume socializing. The doors to the adjoining Blue Drawing Room were opened should anyone wish to play cards, which it seemed quite a few the gentlemen eagerly did, and the double doors in the Red Drawing Room were opened to the grotto to encourage guests to drift into the chilled autumn night, a welcome coolness after the stuffy heat of the room. Lanterns lit the outdoor space for an enchanting evening. Footmen circled on cue with trays of beverages.

  In addition to the footmen, a refreshment table manned by Mr. Taylor lined one wall. Charlotte’s first stop was to the table. She desperately wanted a glass of lemonade. Her mouth was parched, her lips dry, her throat tight. This was the moment. The guests heard a carefully chosen variety of compositions, and now they would all talk amongst themselves and likely to her of their opinions. While she loved Drake’s work, she worried they would find it too coarse, too licentious.

  Aristocrats were not supposed to feel such emotion, not supposed to be exposed to such feelings. There should be only duty and honor. Emotion trampled on tender sensibilities, gave way to vapors and migraines, and dishonored even the most honorable of men. Simply put, emotion was vulgar.

  Would they think her unfit to be a duchess to have supported such music? Would they blame her country roots, think her common, regardless that she was a gentleman’s daughter? And how would Drake respond if they found the music distasteful, if they insulted him without realizing it was him they criticized?

  She downed her glass of lemonade with a flick of the wrist, smiling pleasantly at those around her and grabbing another glass. The prince and Drake were standing in a darkened corner of the room. She headed straight for them for a quick word before she’d need to circulate amongst the guests.

  “Lean, dynamic, aggressive,” the prince was saying to Drake as she approached. With a slight incline of his head when she walked up, he continued, “I found it wry, to be honest. Pray, can one say music possesses an attitude? I believe this music did. Do you think this composer would consider attending one of my parties? He could conduct the quartets himself, I daresay.”

  Before she heard Drake’s response, Lord and Lady Hallewell caught her attention. She excused herself and walked over to the Hallewells.

  “Wherever did you discover such a composer?” Lady Hallewell asked before Charlotte came to a full stop. “I was telling Lord Hallewell how bold and lusty was the violin in the final duet. And what a beautiful couple you both made on the pianoforte! I had no idea His Grace played. So rare to see a gentleman on the pianoforte—what talent he has. And what music! Tell her what you were saying, Horace.” She turned to her husband.

  “As I was saying, the soprano was fiery with a gutsy sound. Did you note how each piece grew bolder, more rugged with each movement? I’ve not heard the likes of such music. I’d like to hear more from this fellow. I can respect his wish to remain anonymous, but I suspect he’ll want the credit when more patrons step up. Or should I say she?” Lord Hallewell wiggled his bushy brows at Charlotte.

  Charlotte tittered and said, “The composer is a he, and yes, I hope he will tie his name to the works before long. Are you interested in a private performance to hear other pieces, or even having the music you heard today accompany a party or ball you’re hosting? I could arrange it if you should desire.” She hoped she didn’t sound too pushy, but if she didn’t advocate, who would?

  The couple eyed each other for a moment before Lady Hallewell replied, “I might be interested in having one piece performed at a party. I prefer dancing, and I’m not at all confident the music is right for dancing, but I would have quite the giggle to surprise my guests with one of the sonatas.”

  “Oh, the composer does have a collection ripe for dancing. I chose entirely different selections for this evening, but I could bring you a few of the dances to look over,” Charlotte dared.

  “Yes, do. I’ll come to you so you can give me a taste on that magnificent pianoforte. Would it be too soon to say two days from now?” Lady Hallewell asked.

  The date made, Charlotte removed herself to mingle with the other guests. While everyone she spoke with recognized the style as eccentric, she didn’t hear a single negative critique. She assumed Drake had heard the same, for when she eyed him across the room, his countenance was full of satisfied merriment.

  The only person in the room who frowned was the dowager duchess.

  Charlotte labeled the soirée a marked success. Nothing could ruin this night, not for her or Drake. Accolades poured in for the composer and for the hostess. She congratulated herself silently on the carefully selected guest list and the painstakingly planned evening.

  The soirée would extend into the late hours except for the local gentry who would return home and the prince who confessed to other evening plans elsewhere in the area. Charlotte didn’t dare wonde
r where or how welcome he would be when arriving in the middle of the night, though his coy grin gave her some indication the company would be expecting him.

  The remaining guests, especially those who attended the shooting party, would leave in the morning at first light. As much as she enjoyed hosting her first house party, she wanted her home to herself again, even if she was silently reminded by Catherine’s presence that it wasn’t entirely her home yet.

  “A disgrace to the crown, if you ask me.” A solitary voice rang out above the din.

  Charlotte turned towards the voice to see Lord Stroud, one of Mary’s former suitors, standing at the refreshment table with several other gentlemen. His quizzing glass held to one eye and his wine glass tipped to his lips, he seemed unaware he was the sudden center of attention. Foamy white spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth, his bald head gleaming in the candle light.

  A hush fell over the room. He spoke only to those around him, but the entire room couldn’t mistake his words.

  “I hear she’s so frigid he still visits the Waller estate regularly, and we can all guess what goes on there. Like father, like son, I always say. Everyone knows the old man was a back-gammon player, as it were, favoring the old windward passage, as they say. If our evening entertainment isn’t proof enough that he’s a devout sodomite, I’ll eat my hat. Next time I know he’s visiting that house of sin, I’ll pay a visit to the ice duchess myself and thaw her good and proper.” The man guffawed over his wine glass.

  Charlotte felt the blood drain from her body.

  Right there in her own drawing room, at her own soirée, in front of all her guests, this man was saying these horrid things. The room remained so silent, she could hear her own heartbeat.

  She was a laughingstock. Drake was a laughingstock. The entire Annick name was a laughingstock.

  Her body trembled. These were the words they all thought but only one man was brave enough to say. Charlotte realized she had failed everyone. She had caused this. This was her fault. She was party to the realization of Drake’s worst fear. His father’s name dragged through the mud. His name dragged through the mud. If she could sink into the floor, she would. Charlotte never wanted to see any of these people ever again.

  Frozen in place, she stared at Lord Stroud. He caught her eyes and raised his glass to her before turning back to his group. Nothing could make this evening worse.

  She began to panic in a desperate inner search for how to mollify the situation. Maybe everyone else in the room hadn’t heard Stroud’s words. Maybe she imagined the volume of his voice and could still salvage the party with a smile and a laugh, pretending she never heard him.

  Yes, that was the best course of action. She could smooth over the humiliation with a smile and a laugh and feigned ignorance before claiming a migraine and retiring early.

  From her peripheral, she caught sight of Drake moving across the room with determined strides. Please, don’t make a scene, she willed him silently. Please, don’t embarrass me any more than I already am. Please, don’t be reckless.

  Horror struck, she watched Drake trek across the room, and in one swift motion, without breaking stride, he pulled back his fist and planted a facer right into the man’s tipped wine glass, crushing it against Lord Stroud’s face and sending him flying into the refreshment table. The table fell with the man, tumbling the beverages and food onto his head.

  Chapter 25

  Chaos erupted around her when Lord Stroud removed his hand from his face to reveal a blood drenched mouth.

  “My tooth! You broke my bloody tooth!” he shouted, waving his blood-covered hand.

  The prince walked over to stand next to Drake, and while staring down at the fallen man, he boomed for all to hear, “I say, you should watch where you’re walking. Look what a mess you’ve made of the refreshments by tripping over the table cloth. You must be terribly embarrassed. Here, allow my footmen to help you up and escort you out.”

  As if materializing out of air, two of the prince’s royal footmen appeared and dragged the man from the room.

  Charlotte felt roots growing from her feet, securing her to the floor. Unable to break free or move, she stood and gaped. How was she to smooth over this incident now? It had been her own husband to cause the disturbance, humiliating her far more than Lord Stroud’s words. He’d made a spectacle of them both.

  Without sparing another glance to the ruined table, she turned to the nearest guests. “I do hope that poor man will be well.”

  The blur of faceless guests around her all agreed.

  One voice said, “He must have been foxed to trip over a table cloth.”

  Another voice joined in. “By Jupiter, the prince called a spade a spade, did he not?”

  And yet another, “How embarrassing to be so taken by the drink one makes a spectacle of himself in front of royalty.”

  Voices joined in agreement. By the time Charlotte made her way around the room, the story seemed confirmed—Lord Stroud had been so foxed he tripped over his own feet and fell into the table. No one made mention of Drake’s behavior or of Stroud’s words. Did no one see what happened, or were they all being polite for her sake, eager to gossip the truth once they left? All she knew was she wanted to run from the room and never return, never host another party, never see Drake again, relinquish all rights to the rightful Duchess of Annick and go home.

  Lord Stroud’s words and his bloodied face imprinted on her, and she heard little else for the remainder of the night. He spoke what everyone believed. And it was her fault for convincing Drake to bring music into the house and open himself to possible censure.

  After the remaining guests had retired, Charlotte returned to the empty drawing room to instruct Mr. Taylor to unroll the rugs and rearrange the space to its usual state. When she walked in, she found Catherine and Drake still in the room.

  They both turned to her.

  She wanted to go to bed, her own bed, alone. Couldn’t they leave well enough alone for the evening? She’d already ruined everything for everyone.

  “That was a disgrace,” Catherine spat out as Charlotte approached. “This is a blemish on the Annick name and an insult to the prince, who I daresay will report to the king and queen of what a shamble has become of this dukedom. We’ll never recover from this scandal.”

  Charlotte took a deep, calming breath, prepared to defend herself, but unsure what to say when the woman was right. Before Charlotte could speak, her mother-in-law continued with a reverberating thump of her cane.

  “A duchess should act with charm and grace, considering the crown in all behaviors and decisions. This whole event rang of self-indulgence and ineptitude. You have spit on my legacy.”

  Catherine let the words sink until Charlotte opened her mouth to speak.

  Cutting her off, Catherine said, “I should have known from the start you’re impudent. Do you enjoy lowering yourself? Do you in any way understand your place, your duty as a duchess? Have you considered your position when making any decision related to the household? You are no longer the lowly daughter of a tin mine owner, yet you consistently act like it. Against my better judgment, I allowed you to arrange this event. I will not make the same mistake twice.”

  Charlotte looked from the dowager duchess’ piercing eyes to Drake, expecting him to raise a defense, but he stared at the ground, rubbing the back of his neck. Say something, Charlotte willed him silently.

  “How dare you expose my son to this, you insolent girl.” Lady Annick snarled, teeth bared. “This is what music does. It stirs emotion and confusion when there ought not be any. I have ruled this dukedom since I was sixteen, and I will not see it destroyed by the likes of you. All I have done, hoping to pass on my wisdom so Annick would remain prosperous and in good repute, and this is how you repay me, how you both repay me.”

  Charlotte felt sick. If she didn’t leave soon, she would be si
ck in front of them, sick all over the drawing room floor.

  Catherine beat her cane angrily against the floor. “You splash my rules in my face, turning my drawing room into a den of hedonism, inviting these artists into my home and performing that rubbish under the Annick name. You have tainted everything.”

  The dowager duchess’ austere veneer cracked and peeled, her eyes red-rimmed and watery. Her shoulders rounded as she leaned heavily on her cane, her breathing labored and punctuated by choked sobs.

  With a voice that cracked and quivered, she said, “You couldn’t even keep your perversity to yourself. Don’t think I didn’t see you both sneaking off to the study. In the presence of guests! And then that vulgar display on stage, your hands and arms entwined over the instrument to play that sentimental muck. Distasteful. Disgusting. The music, the perversion, the ungenteel behavior, all ruining what I have devoted my entire life to building. You have both disgraced this family. I am ashamed.”

  Before the woman could say more, Charlotte ran from the room. She ran until she reached her own chamber, locking behind her both the door to the sitting room and to the corridor. She never wanted to see Catherine or Drake again, not after bringing such shame to the family.

  Chapter 26

  For most of the night, Drake had lain awake worrying about Charlotte. When he finally drifted, he slept fitfully. His bed felt empty without her. They’d not shared a bed for long, but Drake never wanted to sleep without her again. It wasn’t only his arms that missed her, as his heart was heavy without her. He’d grown accustomed to her laugh, to her bubbling brook of conversation, even to her prim and scolding responses when he made a naughty joke.

  After she’d run from the drawing room, he had followed her, but despite his pleas outside her chamber, she wouldn’t reply or open the door. It’d been the same that morning. He made for her bedchamber the second the sun rose, but only silence answered from the other side.