DukeAndEnchantress_PGolden-eBooks

by Golden, Paullett

  He needed to talk to her sooner rather than later, make sure she wasn’t upset about the evening. His only upset was that he’d acted recklessly, without immediate thought to the consequences of his actions. He suspected Charlotte would be upset by the events, and he wanted to smooth things over as best he could.

  However much Lord Stroud’s words had stung, Drake realized his greatest fear was utter hogwash. For so long he feared Society’s censure, but when the moment came, the world didn’t end, the room didn’t buzz with gossip, and he wasn’t all that bothered. He came face-to-face with mention of the old scandal along with new and more personal accusations, and none of it bothered him.

  What upset him was how Stroud’s words affected the people he cared about.

  His mother had been in tatters. He’d never in his life seen her so visibly shaken. She could place blame on him if it made her feel better, but he knew she was shaken to her core by having the past resurface. For that, Lord Stroud deserved a bloodied face.

  His wife was equally upset, though for different reasons than his mother. She’d been publicly insulted, blamed by her mother-in-law, and, from her estimation, deemed a failure. In hindsight, he recognized he did his own share of damage to the party. Cringeworthy damage, to be sure. But his heart had been in the right place.

  The problem now was Charlotte’s reaction. He knew he’d embarrassed her, despite his rationale for doing so. He suspected she felt responsible for Stroud’s words by insisting on a debut and was, in all likelihood, ashamed for being party to the resurrection of the old scandal, which was just as much hogwash as his fears had been.

  The remembrance of his father was inevitable. If Lord Stroud hadn’t said it, someone else would have. And what if they did? Drake was a different person and his music was worth recognition. After a lifetime of fearing those very accusations, he simply didn’t care. What he cared about was his family.

  A knock at Drake’s study door interrupted his thoughts. Mr. Taylor opened the door without awaiting a response.

  “A Mr. Kingston has asked to see Your Grace. Shall I tell him you’re from home or see him into the Red Drawing Room?” Mr. Taylor asked.

  Drake sighed. So much for a peaceful morning. “No, bring him into the study, Taylor.”

  The butler bowed and exited.

  Drake hadn’t expected callers today, but on second thought, it seemed foolish not to. Could this be an interested party seeking to learn more about the compositions? The purpose of the soirée, after all, had been to garner interest in the music.

  By the time the butler showed the guest to the room, Drake had worked himself into an excited fervor over the possibility of talking about the music.

  Should he confess he composed the pieces or remain anonymous until a few more performances had been requested by third parties? Should he name a price for each request or offer the music as a gift? He certainly didn’t need the money, but he did want the recognition. Dammit, where was Charlotte when he needed her? He couldn’t make these decisions without her. He wouldn’t make them without her.

  Mr. Kingston, an older gent with a wreath of hair around a bare crown, waddled into the room, his girth knocking aside one of the chairs in the sitting room. Drake stood to greet him with a dashing smile.

  “Welcome to my home, Mr. Kingston. Would you please be seated?” Drake waved a hand at the chair in front of his desk.

  He would have to plan this better for the future. Maybe he should talk to potential patrons in the sitting area instead of with a desk separating them. The desk made everything seem so impersonal. Next time, he could have brandy at the ready. Depending on the guest, perhaps an aged Scotch instead, though he didn’t care for the flavor. Charlotte would know what to do.

  “I’ll not mince words, Your Grace. I’m here on official business to request an apology on behalf of Lord Stroud.” Mr. Kingston huffed.

  Drake’s smile froze as he studied Mr. Kingston, and then it broadened into a laugh. “You’re quite the jester!”

  “I am not. Lord Stroud requests a written apology for your ungentlemanly behavior. You have two weeks in which to comply. I will arrive on this day at this time in two weeks to collect the apology.” Mr. Kingston coughed at Drake’s continued laughter.

  “Let me get this straight.” Drake touched a finger to his chin. “He wants me to apologize when it was he who insulted my family. Shouldn’t he be the one writing an apology?”

  “Lord Stroud demands an apology for your striking him. Such behavior is uncouth and will not be tolerated by a true gentleman. Issue your apology or be prepared for the consequences,” Mr. Kingston threatened, clearly not intimidated by Drake’s title.

  “And what, pray tell, will be those consequences? Is he going to besmirch my name? I dare him to try for he will most certainly not receive an apology from me. I give you my answer now, an emphatic no.” Drake enunciated his answer, feeling increasingly annoyed that the lout dared to demand an apology when he deserved a far more ruthless thrashing than a single strike.

  “I have been tasked with providing the consequences should your answer be displeasing to his lordship. You, sir, are hereby challenged to a duel. Name your second and your weapon, and I will arrange all details with your second. If you should need time in which to consider those two, I will return at the end of the predetermined two weeks for the name of your second and the weapon of choice.”

  Hell and damnation.

  Drake wasn’t certain if he should laugh again or frown. This was serious business. Lord Stroud hadn’t been joking with his request for an apology. This wasn’t at all how he planned to spend his day, and he resented that churl for blackening an already dreary day. Drake pulled out a sheet of parchment, wet his quill, and wrote Winston’s information. With a dash of sand, he dried the ink.

  “Here. The name and address of my second. The weapon will be the sabre. Good day.” Drake tossed the parchment at the man and walked out, leaving him to Mr. Taylor.

  He shouldn’t have been so hasty. Winston hadn’t even agreed to be his second yet had been volunteered anyway. Drake should have taken the request for an apology more seriously, given it more thought. He stormed out to the stables for his horse, determined to beat Mr. Kingston to Winston before his friend disowned him.

  Several hours later, he returned to Lyonn Manor, fit to be tied. Winston, of course, didn’t hesitate in agreeing to be his second or in working out the details with Mr. Kingston, and even found the whole affair a great lark. Two Corinthians against aged, corpulent fools, he’d said.

  But Drake wasn’t laughing. As confident as he felt with a sabre, he never flirted with danger or with situations that may provoke a duel. A churl’s lost tooth hardly warranted putting Drake’s life on the line, much less the life of someone else, for that wasn’t a fate Drake wanted on his conscience.

  He might have found such circumstances a grand adventure at one point in his life, but now he had a bright future ahead with the woman he loved. He had plans for his music, plans for the estate, plans for his sister’s marriage, and plans for children should he be blessed with any. Risking his life wasn’t on his task list, but his honor and his family’s honor were now on the line. He had no choice.

  Drake knew better than to strike another gentleman, especially in front of others, but he felt justified at the time. He still felt justified. In fact, he would do it again. But a duel? Really? He scoffed to the empty hallway.

  When he opened the door to his study, ready to pound out a tune on the defenseless harpsichord, he came face-to-face with his mother. With a shouted curse and a slammed door, he strutted into the room, tossing his hat on a chair, which missed and fell to the floor. He didn’t care.

  He pulled out his desk chair, picked it up, and forcefully shoved it back down before he sat with a grunt, eager to put the desk between the two of them. The last person he wanted to see was his mother. Sh
e would be upset and wanting to take it out on him. As much as he wanted to let her if it made her feel better, he didn’t want to hear it now.

  “You are irresponsible and shame me with your behavior. I can only blame your wife for not reining you in sooner,” his mother said without greeting. “She is a disgrace to the Annick name. This is all her fault.”

  Normally, it would have taken more than that to set him off, especially when he knew she was upset, but after the evening and morning he experienced, the words struck the wrong chord.

  Drake had enough. He had enough of the tension he felt at the concert, of his own carefully crafted reputation coming back to haunt him, of bad news raining on his day, of Charlotte locking him out of the bedchamber, of the duel challenge, of his mother’s tyrannical deflection, of his father’s good name being tarnished once again, of everything. Something in him snapped. Maybe it snapped last night during the soirée, maybe when Lord Stroud challenged him, maybe not until this moment. He wasn’t certain. But something snapped.

  He held up his hand before his mother could say more. With an ankle crossed over the opposite knee, he leaned back the chair onto two legs, rested his elbows on the chair arms, and steepled his fingers, locking eyes with hers.

  “I have held my tongue for too long. I should have spoken up months ago. I should have spoken up last night, but I expected my wife would speak up for herself. Let me begin with this, Mother. Your place is in the dower house, and you will remove there by this week’s end or I will have you forcibly removed.”

  He paused only long enough to let the words sink in, and then he continued, “From this point forward, Charlotte is irreproachable, answerable only to me. There will only be one mistress of Lyonn Manor, and that mistress is my wife. At one time, I thought you were helping her, so I stood by silently, believing it was what she wished, believing her apprehensive about the fulfillment of her duties and you building her confidence in those duties.”

  He stopped to gauge her reaction. Minutes ticked by while their eyes remained locked. For the first time in his life, his mother was speechless.

  Dropping the legs of his chair back to the floor, he stood and leaned his hands against his desk. “For ten years, I have allowed you to rule this house with an iron fist because it suited us both. I then allowed you to continue your reign when I brought home the new Duchess of Annick because I believed it would suit all of us. It no longer suits. You have overstayed your welcome, Mother. I am grateful for all you have done, but your reproach last night is unpardonable, regardless of your reasons. Nothing will ever be perfect enough for you because no one is as perfect as you. I am humbly sorry for the hurt I know you feel from last night, but I will not have you blame my wife for anything. You have hurt her inexcusably. Now, please leave.”

  Catherine stared down her son while strangling her cane. Without a word, she about-faced and thumped out of the study.

  Drake released the breath he had been holding and slumped back into his chair. He’d spoken too harshly. He knew his mother was hurting inside yet he’d kicked her out of the house.

  No, no, he needed to stop defending her behavior. Her pain was no cause to lash out at others. No, he’d done the right thing. There may not be a way for him to repair his relationship with his mother when she shut out everyone, especially him, but once she removed to the dower house, he would make it a mission to strengthen their relationship, to wear down her resolve and soften her edges, if it could be done.

  Gah. He wanted Charlotte. He wanted to wrap his arms around her waist and rest his head against her bosom. She’d know what to do about everything. He pulled the bell rope.

  Within moments, Mr. Taylor entered the study.

  “Bring Her Grace, Taylor. I don’t care if you have to carry her here hogtied. I want to speak with my wife. Break down the bedchamber door if you must.” He didn’t mean it, and the butler knew it, but the sentiment was true enough.

  “Pardon, Your Grace, but Her Grace is from home,” answered the butler.

  “From home? Since when? Where is she?” Alert again, he sat up straight in the chair.

  “She’s moved out, Your Grace.” The corners of the butler’s lips twitched.

  “Could you repeat that, Taylor? I’m afraid I misheard you.” Drake wheezed a single laugh. “For a moment, I thought you said she moved out of Lyonn Manor.”

  “You did not mishear, Your Grace. Her Grace moved to the dower house this morning before dawn,” said the butler.

  “And you didn’t see fit to tell me?” Drake thundered.

  “Your Grace didn’t ask.” The butler bowed and waited.

  Of all the impertinent…. “Be gone before I dismiss you without a character,” Drake said, punching the desk with his left hand.

  With a wince, he made a mental note to stop punching objects or he wouldn’t have any hands left with which to duel. His right knuckles were bruised and cut from the wine glass and Lord Stroud’s teeth. He flexed the stiff fingers and hoped the wounds wouldn’t interfere with the agility of his sword hand. At least the wounds looked worse than they felt.

  Glum, Drake stared unfocused at his knuckles. The dower house. Why the devil would she move to the dower house? His ungentlemanly and quite public behavior would have certainly embarrassed her, but enough that she would move out? She hadn’t even moved out when she thought he had a mistress, although she had been terribly close to that decision. Had Lord Stroud’s words about her frigidity upset her so much? She should know by now Drake found her to be the most sensual woman in the world, not to mention Drake had already publicly defended her for the slight.

  Time for a walk, he decided. A walk should help clear his thoughts, a determined walk to the dower house.

  Chapter 27

  Two miles west, his feet brought him to the Palladian mansion renovated especially for the grandmother he had never met. He lumbered to the front door and struck the knocker purposefully, the sound echoing into the hall beyond.

  While waiting, he envisioned tossing Charlotte over his shoulder and carrying her back to the manor. Or maybe she would fling open the door, embrace him with a kiss, and he would carry her back to his bedchamber and worship her with his body for the remainder of the day.

  Impatient to see Charlotte, he struck the knocker again and followed that with a hard pounding against the wood.

  “Charlotte!” he bellowed at the door. “Let me in! Tell me what’s bothering you. Was it me? Was it Stroud? Was it my mother? Let me in, dammit!”

  He waited, pounded again, shouted again. Silence.

  An eternity passed within the few empty minutes. Feeling his front pocket, he cursed at having left his snuffbox on the desk. That morning, he’d decided it was time to tuck the treasured box out of ready reach. It’d been a necessity, really, given his overuse at the soirée and subsequent headache. Now, he damned his decision. He wanted a pinch.

  Drake stepped back and looked at the windows along the ground floor. With waning hope, he descended the front steps. Dodging the hedges in the flowerbed, he peered into a window, swearing he saw a flash of pink dash from the room into the front hall.

  “Charlotte!” he called through the window. “Let me in? Please?” He rapped on the glass.

  This was hopeless. He had worried she would be upset, but he never thought she’d be this upset. Just wait until she learned he’d gotten himself caught up in a duel. All he’d wanted to do was defend her; was that so bad? The actions were reckless, but the intention was heartfelt. Right?

  He trudged back to the portico and perched on the steps, twining his hat in his hands. Red and orange leaved oak trees sang a rustling tune next to silent cedars as the crisp autumn wind whipped through the branches.

  “Well, Charlotte, I’m not leaving,” he said loudly enough to be heard from the front hall, if indeed that was where she sprinted when she caught him peeking through the windo
w. “I’m going to sit here and talk to you through the door and hope my words aren’t wasted.”

  With a shaky breath, he launched into the speech he’d hastily composed during the walk from the manor to the house. “I know you think the soirée was a failure, but it wasn’t. If you could see yourself through my eyes, you’d feel differently about the entire evening, because I think you’re perfect, and I think the soirée was perfect. You hosted with charm and grace and a dignity my mother will never possess. You even recovered the party from my blunder. I know Stroud embarrassed you, and I know I embarrassed you, and I’m sorry on behalf of both, but don’t take the events of the evening or my mother’s words to heart, for the only person who failed was me. I shouldn’t have reacted so hastily.”

  He leaned his elbows against his thighs, hat waving between his knees. “I’m ashamed of my behavior, but I can only say that I did it in defense of your honor and that of my family. I acted out of blind fury and, dare I say, love. I’m sorry I acted rashly, but this is who I am, Charlotte. I need you to understand this. I’m a rash man who acts before I think. Nothing will change that. When I asked you to love all of me, not part of me, I meant it. You can’t love the composer but hate the vulgar and reckless fool, not when they’re both me.”

  The house answered with silence. Leaning back onto his hands, he scowled at the landscape. The brightness of the day juxtaposed his inner turmoil. He felt downright dismal, yet the sun shone brightly overhead, and the thrushes conspired against him, warbling gaily from the trees.

  He shivered from the chill of the wind, the portico pediment blocking the warmth of the sun. Soon, all of Northumberland would be shrouded in a cloud of winter.

  With a glance over his shoulder at the sealed door, he continued, “I need you to know that I make terrible decisions. I’m impulsive. I behave solely on emotion. I need your logic and attention to detail, your knack for planning to balance my life and help me make the right decisions. While I am sorry I embarrassed you, I can’t promise I won’t do it again if faced with a similar situation. As sorry as I am, this is me. If you can’t love me for all my irrational impulsivity, well, it’s not really loving me, is it? I’m a passionate man. I’m arrogant, wretchedly so. I’m spontaneous. But this is who I am. You can’t only love the parts of me you like, the tender bits you see when we’re alone together, the tenderness that’s only for you. You have to love all of me, even the parts you don’t like.”