The Duke’s Indiscretion

by Adele Ashworth

  Nobody moved. Several long, uncomfortable seconds passed as the audience, consisting of nobles, the elite of society and dignitaries, grew quiet, some of them gaping, some whispering.

  Suddenly she heard a loud gasp, then a squeal from the balcony.

  Colin winked at her, then stepped to his side. In a rather loud voice, he said, “Mr. Michael William Balfe, may I present to you my wife, Charlotte, the Duchess of Newark.”

  For a long moment of absolute incredulity, the entire Italian Opera House in Covent Garden stood silent and transfixed. Charlotte stilled as a wave of panic coupled with astonishment washed over her.

  From behind her husband, in walked the portly form of Great Britain’s most celebrated composer of the nineteenth century, his oiled hair smoothed down atop his head, his beard outlining his jowls, now widened with a smile.

  Her knees suddenly went weak beneath her as the man strode slowly to her side, then reached for her hand.

  “You have done my music proud, madam. I’m honored to meet you,” he said with complete sincerity before dropping a light kiss on her knuckles.

  Charlotte thought she might faint, though she did manage a curtsy. “Mr. Balfe,” she murmured, her throat unnaturally dry.

  She could hear Porano behind her mumbling in Italian, and she made her best effort in introducing him, coming to her senses as she realized everybody in the cast and orchestra, even the audience, remained at a complete loss for words.

  Balfe evidently understood the reaction, for he waved once to the crowd, then leaned in to say, “Your husband invited me several weeks ago to sit in his box this opening night. I think he thought to surprise you.”

  She gazed back to Colin, who stood to the side a little, his hands behind him, watching her with a wicked grin on his mouth.

  “Then I shall thank him later,” she replied, her nervousness finally fading.

  Balfe chuckled. “Truly, madam, you have a magnificent instrument. Perhaps you’ll do me the honor of singing for me in a new production one day.” He scratched his side whiskers. “I am, in fact, returning to St. Petersburg in the coming months, and probably Vienna as well. Perhaps you and your husband can join me so that you can sing on the Continent for a season.”

  She fought back tears of utter joy. “It would be my greatest pleasure, sir. But…um…I would need to discuss it with him, of course.”

  “And on your behalf, so will I,” Balfe returned, his eyes sparkling in good humor. “But I don’t think it will require much persuasion.”

  Charlotte laughed as the atmosphere grew more relaxed around them. The audience had begun to disperse, some in the crowd hesitantly stepping onto the stage, presumably to meet the great composer, others leaving through the back as they exited into the foyer. The cast and orchestra started to encircle them now, all wanting their chance for introduction as well.

  “Open the card, Charlotte,” Colin interrupted in murmur as he moved closer to her side.

  She blinked, uncertain at his change in subject. “The card?”

  “With the bouquet,” he clarified, nodding to the flowers in her hand.

  She dropped her gaze to the beautiful roses he’d given her only moments ago, at least two dozen of them, wrapped in a white satin ribbon. It took her only seconds to find it, tucked into the ribbon at the base of the flowers.

  She shot him a quick glance, then offered another smile to Balfe, who watched with his arms closed over his chest.

  The whispers around her died down once more, and she suddenly felt a grave sense of anticipation course through her.

  Colin took a step even closer, and she could feel his gaze on her face. Then she opened the card and began to read.

  Your soul is my only treasure, my greatest joy.

  The world is now at your fingertips.

  Love me, Charlotte, as I love you and will love you always.

  Your husband, Colin

  For seconds, she couldn’t move, couldn’t look away from the handwritten note. Then she started trembling, and very, very slowly, she raised her lashes to look into his eyes.

  She saw only a trace of uncertainty in his candid gaze, and then he whispered, “Love me?”

  His face became a blur as tears filled her eyes. In a voice barely heard, she breathed, “I do. Always.”

  Then oblivious to everything but him, she dropped the roses and walked into his arms.

  Epilogue

  Penzance

  September, 1864

  Colin stirred from what he supposed was a nap, glancing up to the late afternoon sun, then squinting as he cleared the fog from his head and searched for his wife.

  It took him only a moment to find her, down by the sea, holding Olivia and Sam’s second child, Matthew, a baby of only eight weeks, in one arm while she spoke to Gracie, Matthew’s three-year-old sister, who appeared to be building a sand castle. Or attempting to. He watched them for a moment, taking note of the children, as Will and Vivian’s son, Henry, suddenly jerked his hand free from his mother’s and ran up from the shoreline to kick the clumps of sand, then jump up and down on the creation to his own great amusement.

  Gracie began screaming, which in turn made the baby cry, and Charlotte looked at him and waved, a huge grin on her mouth which no doubt came from the fact that they, as yet, remained spared from the torture of shrieking children.

  Colin turned on his side, resting his head in his palm as he took in the scene. Will and Sam, who stood a short distance away, talking to each other by the sea, only briefly glanced over their shoulders at the commotion, then returned to their obviously more important conversation. Vivian scrambled up from the shore to scold her son, who then began crying and throwing a fit of his own for all to enjoy.

  It amused him, really, when he considered how their lives had changed through the years. He had been the one to avoid marriage the longest, deathly afraid of losing his independence, and now he found it difficult to remember what it felt like when he didn’t have Charlotte by his side, to comfort him, get angry at him, make love to him. In many ways, he and his friends had grown closer since he’d married, probably because their wives had all become great friends themselves. They only saw each other once or twice a year now, but they always made a point to holiday in Penzance together before the end of summer. And he truly looked forward to these times. Even screaming babies didn’t bother him anymore. They were simply part of life, a joy of growing older, and one he’d begun to wish he could experience for himself.

  They hadn’t really talked about children, as Charlotte had been touring the Continent to great and growing acclaim these last few years. True, they had been careful in their lovemaking, but somewhere inside he’d begun to feel a spark of concern that she might not be able to conceive. He hadn’t mentioned his thoughts to her, and she’d seemed enormously content just knowing he stayed by her side when she traveled, and so up until now it hadn’t really mattered.

  He’d accompanied her abroad, naturally, and had thoroughly enjoyed the experience himself, meeting and dining and conversing with various dignitaries, members of the aristocracy, and just those individuals who adored the opera and admired the gift that was his wife. If he’d been proud of her before, nothing compared to watching her take the stage in the grandest opera houses in Italy, Austria, Russia. She was magnificent, and every day his love for her deepened.

  As if knowing he suddenly needed her beside him, Charlotte handed Matthew to Olivia and began to walk toward him, brushing her unruly, gorgeous hair off her face as the breeze pulled it from the ribbon at her nape. He grinned, feeling a surge of lust as he watched the wind pick up for a few seconds to sweep her skirts to her side, outlining her curves from breasts to ankles for his view.

  “I think I slept,” he drawled as she approached.

  “Hmm. Would you be shocked to know you snored so loudly, my darling, that you frightened the birds from the shore?”

  He chuckled. “I did not.”

  She sat beside him, pulling her l
egs up and under her skirt, then wrapping her arms around her knees. “You did.”

  He remained quiet for a moment, gazing out to sea. “It’s lovely here, as always.”

  She sighed. “I know. I think I could live here.”

  Reaching for her hand, he began stroking her fingers. “Charlotte, I’ve been thinking…”

  She turned her head, gazing down at him. “I thought you were sleeping,” she replied lightheartedly. “Well, until Henry destroyed Gracie’s marvelous architectural achievement,” she amended. “I don’t think anyone for a mile could nap through that.”

  He chuckled. “That’s exactly what I was thinking about.”

  “What? Screaming children?”

  He shrugged. “Why not?”

  She laughed, throwing her head back, her strawberry-blond curls brushing his arm. “You mean have one of our own, Colin, my love?”

  Grabbing her around the waist, he yanked her down onto the blanket beside him, pinning her there as he began to nuzzle her neck. “Let’s have five or six.”

  She screeched. “Stop that, it’s indecent.”

  “I don’t care,” he murmured against her skin.

  She tucked her palm under his chin and pushed him back a little, holding him a few inches away. After a moment of skimming his face with her gaze, she whispered, “Do you know how much I love you?”

  He absolutely adored it when she asked him that. “How much?”

  She ran her thumb along his jaw. “Enough to give you the world.”

  “My Lottie,” he teased, rubbing his nose on the tip of hers. “You’ve already done that.”

  “Then how about a baby,” she whispered, “next March?”

  He pulled back a little and looked at her strangely.

  She gave him a crooked grin. “Why talk about it when I’m already carrying?”

  On March 25, 1865, their daughter, Sophia Victoria, entered the world, strong and healthy and wailing louder than any child he’d ever heard in his life. Every night Colin would stare at her while she slept, his love profound, his joy beyond description, wondering, with her piercing voice, how he would be able to afford her tour when she begged him to sing upon the stage in twenty years.

  About the Author

  ADELE ASHWORTH I’ve always loved to write, but after my first attempt at a novel (nine chapters of Plastic City, the story of underwater-dwelling orphans in the twenty-third century that I wrote in the sixth grade), I took some time to get my bachelor’s degree and to try my hand at other careers before I returned to my first passion: creative writing. After lots and lots of perseverance, hard work, and a bit of very good luck, My Darling Caroline went on to win the Romance Writers of America RITA® Award for Best First Book of 1998.

  I live in Texas with my family, exploring history as I delve into the hearts of my characters. I love to hear from readers through my website at www.adeleashworth.com or by snail mail at Adele Ashworth, P.O. Box 270704, Flower Mound, TX 75027.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  By Adele Ashworth

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  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE DUKE’S INDISCRETION. Copyright © 2007 by Adele Budnick. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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