The Runaway Duchess

by Jillian Eaton

  Her mouth twisted. “Your intentions were not very clear a few moments ago!”

  “I know.” Something flickered in his eyes, there one instant and gone the next. Regret? Charlotte couldn’t be sure. “I… I lost control. It will not happen again.”

  Except he had not lost control, and that was precisely the problem.

  “What if I want it to happen again?” The words were out before she could swallow them back. If it made her sound wanton and desperate, then so be it. She was a woman who spoke her mind. A woman ruled by emotion. A woman who wore her heart on her sleeve and refused to apologize for it.

  Was it any wonder she and Gavin could not come to terms? They were so opposite. She still barely knew him – so much of his life remained a mystery to her – but it was clear they were as different as night and day. Her emotions ran hot like the sun, burning bright and fast, while his were as distant and cold as the moon.

  “It will not happen again,” he said. “It should not happen again.”

  Charlotte crossed her arms tight across her middle, as though to physically hold in all of the feelings that threatened to pour out. “Very well. You are right.”

  “I – I am?” He sounded so surprised that she could not help but smile, even though it felt as though someone had dropped a great weight into the pit of her stomach.

  It will be better this way, she thought. Better to draw the line now than to keep inadvertently crossing over it.

  She could come to love Gavin with every fiber of her being – she may have barely knew him, but this she did know – or she could treat him with the indifference he desired. Indifference that would eventually harden her heart against him.

  For a hard heart could not crack or break. It was impervious to the cold. It did not yearn. It did not want. A hard heart was best, she decided. A hard heart was easiest.

  “Yes,” she said, “you are. You were right from the very beginning. This marriage is nothing more than a business arrangement that benefits both of us, and it should be treated as such. We do not have to possess feelings for each other to make it work. On the contrary, our marriage will be better off without emotion any emotion. My father loved my mother,” she continued on before he could answer, “and he was miserable because of it. I do not want to end up like him, nor would I want you to turn as bitter as her. This” – she gestured towards the spot on the ground where they had writhed on top of each other – “will only serve to complicate matters. Don’t you agree?”

  His face a hard mask that revealed nothing, Gavin inclined his chin ever so slightly. “I do.”

  “Brilliant,” Charlotte managed to say with a small degree of normalcy, even though it felt as though her chest was caving in and the small weight in her stomach had turned into a boulder. “When will we be leaving for London?”

  “Tomorrow at first light. I have only to check and make sure our carriage has arrived.”

  “Very good. I… I should go see Tabitha now.” She needed to get away from him. She needed to get away from him before she lost her nerve and fell at his feet like a jilted mistress begging to be taken back.

  Gavin must have read something in her expression, for he said, “I need to go to the stables, unless you would like me to accompany you to the inn?”

  “No,” she said hurriedly. “I will be fine. I know the way.”

  They followed the same path down the steep hill for only a hundred yards or so before it split. Gavin went left and Charlotte went right, with nary a word or glance shared between them.

  Her emotions a snarled knot and her heart lodged somewhere in the vicinity of her throat, Charlotte could not help but think it was always better to be the one doing the leaving, rather than the one stuck getting left.

  But if that was true, then why did she feel so miserable?

  What the hell just happened?

  As he walked swiftly towards the stables, Gavin fought the ridiculous urge to turn around after every step that took him further and further away from Charlotte. The woman, he predicted darkly, was going to drive him mad.

  Stopping short of the barn he leaned against a wooden beam and buried his head in the crook of his arm as he thought back on the rapid fire changes that had taken place during the past seventy two hours.

  He had gotten married, lived through a death defying carriage accident, been slapped, and topped it all off by nearly ravishing his new bride on the bloody ground. For a man so accustomed to having every facet of his life meticulously managed, it was both frustrating and bewildering to realize he had absolutely no control over Charlotte.

  She said one thing one minute and did something entirely different the next. He felt as though he was constantly two steps behind her, struggling in vain to catch up. And just when he thought he had her figured out she spun him around all over again.

  It didn’t help matters that she was witty, intelligent, and too damn beautiful for her own good. If the circumstances were different… if he were different… if he could allow himself to love freely…

  “No.” Gavin spoke the word loud enough to have a passing stable hand pause in the middle of leading a chestnut mare across the freshly raked yard to her stall.

  “Sir?” the boy said uncertainly, reaching up to scratch under his low slung cap. “Is there something I can do for ye?”

  Gavin started to excuse the boy, recalled why he had come to the stables to begin with, and said, “The carriage that is due to arrive from London. Is it here yet?”

  “Are ye Mister Graystone, then?”

  “Yes.”

  The boy tugged hard on the brim of his cap and glanced down at the ground. “Then I’m sorry tae tell ye Mister Graystone, but your carriage is going tae be a wee bit delayed.”

  “Delayed?” Gavin pushed off the beam and stalked across the yard. “What the hell do you mean, delayed?” This couldn’t be happening. He needed to return to London immediately. Everything made sense in London. He could be busy in London. Too busy to constantly think about a woman with fire in her hair and lips that tasted like the sweetest nectar…

  His pale cheeks igniting with color, the boy stammered, “The r-r-road is out from the storm a few furlongs down the way, Mister Graystone. No c-carriages can get through until they gravel it up.”

  “How long?” Gavin demanded, his jaw working furiously as he grinded his teeth together. It’s not the lad’s fault, he reminded himself. It’s the bloody Scots and their damned cow paths they dare call roads.

  “How l-long?”

  “The road. How long until the road is fixed?”

  “A day or so, I imagine.”

  Gavin breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Although,” the boy said, rubbing his chin, “more likely or not it will be a week. Maybe two. Aye, most definitely two.”

  “Two weeks?”

  The boy’s shoulders hunched defensively. “It’s planting season. Everyone is out in the fields. A single rider can get through easy enough. If ye want I can arrange a horse to carry ye.”

  How easy it would be to say yes.

  “No.” Gavin winced the moment the word left his mouth, but he did not take it back. “No, I could not leave my wife. Her maid is here as well, and my valet.” The driver has been sent to London to get the replacement carriage, not that it did them any good now. “The moment that road is fixed I want you to find me, do you understand?” When the boy nodded Gavin fished in his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “Here,” he said, holding them out. “For your trouble. What is your name?”

  “T-Tom, Mister Graystone.” The boy swallowed visibly as he took the coins and slipped them quickly into his plaid vest. “My name is Tom Gardiner.”

  “Very well, Tom. I hope I will be seeing you sooner rather than later.”

  The boy’s head bobbed up and down with enthusiasm. “Yes sir, Mister Graystone. Yes sir. You can count on me. Is there anything else ye need, then?”

  “Unless you would like to be the one to tell my wife we are s
tuck here for at least another few days, there is nothing else you can do.” Seeing Tom’s eyes widen, Gavin smiled ruefully and shook his head. “It was a jest, Tom. You have a few years yet before you will have to deal with a woman’s temper. Spend them wisely.”

  “Aye, Mister Graystone,” Tom said seriously. “I will do that.”

  As he watched the boy walk away with the chestnut mare in tow, Gavin couldn’t help but wish someone had given him the same advice.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Four days had passed since the day on the hill. Four long, terribly boring days where Charlotte did little more than go for walks and visit Tabitha, who was feeling much better but was still on bed rest per the doctor’s orders.

  Of Gavin she saw little, which suited her just fine even though the saying ‘out of sight, out of mind’ was not proving to be very applicable in her case. With nothing to occupy her time there was little else she could do but think of her husband, and wonder endlessly if she had made a horrible mistake.

  What if she had made one last effort before giving up?

  What if she had jumped in his arms and kissed him?

  What if she had told him how she truly felt?

  But ‘what ifs’ were useless, and as the week dragged on with one day blurring endlessly into the next Charlotte forced herself to think of other things.

  She settled into a routine: wake at dawn, breakfast with Tabitha, a brisk walk up the hill and down, a small luncheon, a nap, and dinner service in her room. Occasionally Gavin joined her (they discussed the weather and little else), but more often than not he remained in the room he was sharing with his valet, engrossed in ledgers and letters and heaven knew what else.

  With the road no closer to being repaired than it had been when they arrived, Charlotte was ready to scream her frustration for the entire world to hear. It would be one thing if she could actually interact with the other travelers who now called the inn their temporary home, but Gavin had forbidden it, saying there was no telling what sort of unsavory characters mingled in the halls and dined below in the tavern.

  Laughter and loud voices could always be heard through the floorboards well into the night, and it irritated Charlotte not because it kept her awake, but rather because it reminded her that while she was under lock and key for her own safety, men and women alike were having a rousing good time right below her.

  She wished with all her heart Dianna was with her, if only to break up the monotony of the day. She had already penned a letter to her friend telling her about the wedding and the reason for their delay. She was still waiting for a response.

  In the meantime, she was forced to settle for Tabitha as a substitute. At first the maid had been hesitant to indulge in idle chat and gossip with a woman who she viewed as her employer, but with a little urging from Charlotte she had begun to open up and their friendship was slowly blossoming.

  Unfortunately, that friendship did not yet extend to Tabitha turning a blind eye and allowing Charlotte to sneak down to the tavern for dinner.

  “But everyone else is dining there,” Charlotte complained, her mouth curling mulishly at the corners. Flopping dramatically onto her bed she crossed her arms over her chest and stared up at the ceiling, studying a crack that ran from one corner to the other in a long crooked line.

  From her chair in front of the window Tabitha glanced up from her sewing and smiled patiently. She was using the last rays of light to finish a cross stitch pattern she had begun earlier in the day. Unlike Charlotte, Tabitha was perfectly content to remain in one room working on her embroidery from sunrise to sunset.

  “If everyone else jumped in the Thames, would you do it as well?” she asked.

  “Maybe,” Charlotte grumbled. “If it saved me from this.”

  Tabitha set her needles down on her lap. “Where is your stitch work? If you are looking for something to pass the time—”

  “It was lost,” she said hastily. “In the, er, carriage accident.” In truth, the only thing Charlotte loathed more than doing nothing was sewing and embroidery. She had never possessed the patience one required to sit perfectly still and sew stitch after stitch after stitch. The memory of being forced to do just that when she was a child still made her shudder, and her fingers twitched at the mere thought of holding a needle again.

  “No wonder you have been so bored,” Tabitha said sympathetically. “First thing tomorrow morning I will inquire where we can purchase replacement supplies. Until then, you must use what I have.”

  “Oh, I could never do that. You are making the most delightful, ah…”

  “Lace handkerchief,” Tabitha supplied.

  “Yes! The most delightful lace handkerchief I have ever seen. You simply must continue until it is finished.”

  Tabitha averted her gaze. “I am sewing it for Lady Vanderley,” she confessed in the softest of whispers.

  “For my mother?” She sat up and looked curiously at the maid. “Why?”

  “I feel awful, Lady Charlotte, for leaving so suddenly and helping you leave as well. I am glad you did not have to marry the duke.” She glanced up, met Charlotte’s wide eyes, and quickly looked down again. “But I feel terribly guilty for the part I played.”

  Relationships, Charlotte supposed, were complicated, no matter who they were between. A husband and wife. A mother and daughter. An employee and employer. Nothing was black and white. Nothing was cut and dried.

  Tabitha had every right to hate Bettina for the way she had been treated, but instead she was making her a handkerchief. And Charlotte should have had absolutely no feelings for Gavin, a man she barely knew, but yet here she was, thinking of him constantly.

  “My mother will no doubt thank you one day for helping save her only daughter from a loveless marriage to a terrible man.” It was a lie of epic proportions, but what else could she say? “Gavin will make sure her every need will be attended to. She shall want for nothing. That should make her happy,” she added quietly, even though she knew the chances of her mother ever being truly happy were so slim as to be nonexistent.

  Bettina Vanderley was a hard, unforgiving woman. It pained Charlotte to think her mother would never speak to her again, but she knew that could be a very real consequence for her impulsive actions. It pained her even more to think her own mother, her last living relation in the entire world, would attempt to sell her to Crane if she were a loaf of bread at the market.

  There had been no thought to her feelings.

  No consideration given.

  No regret or grief.

  So much had happened in such a short time that Charlotte had not been able to devote more than a passing thought to Bettina’s act of betrayal. Now it sliced through her like a knife, so quick and sharp it left her gasping for breath.

  “I need to go outside.” Jumping down from the bed, she yanked her cloak off a hook on the wall and swung it around her shoulders.

  The days were warm in Scotland, but as soon as the sun dropped from the sky the temperature went with it, cooling dramatically and leaving anyone without proper attire running for the nearest building.

  But Charlotte did not want to be inside.

  She wanted – needed – to be out under the endless sky. To feel the wind on her face. The touch the grass beneath her feet. To count the stars as they appeared one by one and forget everything, if only for a little while.

  Her mother.

  The duke.

  The wedding.

  Gavin.

  There were too many troubling things to forget, and far too few wonderful things to remember.

  “I will not go far,” she said firmly when Tabitha began to protest. “Just to the top of the hill. I will be within sight of the inn the entire time.”

  Tabitha’s gaze darted nervously to the window. “But the sun is setting. It will be dark soon and you should not be out by yourself! Let me go with you.”

  “I will not go far. I promise.”

  “But if Mr. Graystone asks for you—”
<
br />   Charlotte’s lips compressed. “If my husband asks for me, you may tell him exactly where I have gone.” She knew Gavin would not approve of her walking so close to sunset. How unfortunate for him, then, that he so rarely checked in on her.

  Drawing the hood of her cloak up to cover her fiery hair, she darted out the door before Tabitha could voice another protest.

  Gavin could not concentrate.

  The bloody numbers he had been trying to calculate for the last three hours swam on the page in front of him, mocking him and his tentative grasp on mathematics.

  Everything else had come so easily once he applied his mind to it and decided to become a proper gentleman. Proper speech. Proper mannerisms. Proper etiquette (if he tried hard enough). He even knew which damn fork was used for the first course and which was saved for the fifth.

  Money took care of the rest. It bought the correct clothes. Supplied the best carriages. Bought the biggest houses. But the adding and figuring of numbers… His jaw tightening, he crumpled the parchment into a ball and threw it across the room to join the others.

  He needed an accountant, but the hiring of one would be tantamount to admitting he could not handle every aspect of his business himself and for a man as proud as Gavin that was the same as admitting defeat. Never mind that most lords had three or four. It was his own money earned by the sweat of his brow and he would be damned before he handed over the calculating of it to someone else.

  Stretching his arms high above his head he rolled his neck from side to side, trying to ease the bone deep ache that had settled in after hours of remaining in the same position: curled over a desk, his hand cramping and his eyes going glassy from the amount of figures that needed to be tallied.

  He stood up and went to the window. The old floor boards creaked under his weight, an annoyingly constant reminder that he was not in his newly refurbished study at Shire House. There the floor boards did not creak, the windows sparkled with cleanliness, and it took him more than three steps to cross the length of the room. And Charlotte is not right across the hall, he thought with a pained grimace.