The Runaway Duchess

by Jillian Eaton

  The barest hint of a smile curved Charlotte’s lips. “We are married.”

  He grunted. “I suppose we are.”

  Drawing her hood up, she tucked her hair beneath it – Tabitha was going to have a fit when she saw the snarls – and extended an elbow. “Would you be so kind as to accompany me back to the inn, good sir?”

  For a long, silent moment Gavin remained motionless. He stared at her arm, his brow furrowed and his eyes carefully blank.

  Charlotte would have given anything to know what thoughts were hidden behind those eyes. To know what he really wanted. To understand what he really felt. She had caught enough glimpses to know that beneath his carefully constructed façade of indifference was a man of true passion; a man capable of meeting her on every level.

  What had happened in his past to make him so hard? So cynical? So untrusting of others? He does not even know how a friend is supposed to act, she thought sadly when he continued to stare at her arm as though he did not know whether to take it or push it aside.

  How would her own life have been different if she did not have Dianna? She would have been so alone. Adrift in a world where no one understood her or saw her for who she truly was. And yet even then… even then she would have still had all the advantages given to one who was born a member of the peerage. She would have always known the comfort of a fine house and the luxury of servants. She would have never worried where her next meal was coming from or what would happen when she outgrew a dress. But Gavin… Gavin had grown up with none of that.

  He created something from nothing.

  It would take a hard man, Charlotte imagined, to fight his way up from the dissolution of the working class to owning one of the finest town homes in all of London. A man who was not swayed by emotion. A man who saw life and the people in it as numbers and figures to be tallied or subtracted, not human beings with whom he would make lasting connections with because no one had ever made a lasting connection with him. No one had looked out for him. No one had ever put his best interests first. No one had ever loved him.

  Was it any wonder, then, that he did not know how to give what he had never received? The things she wanted most from him – tenderness, love, compassion – were seen in his eyes as weaknesses, not strengths.

  With a grave new sense of understand for the complicated man she had married, Charlotte took the initiative and slipped her arm through the crook of his elbow. Gavin blinked, a vague flicker of surprise passing over his face, and she felt an immeasurable pang of guilt for not recognizing what he needed sooner. Yes, he needed a wife to organize his household and attend social functions with him and ensure he was accepted into the ton. But he also needed a woman who understood him. A woman who could give him what his money could not. A woman who could show him that love was not a weakness, but a strength. The greatest strength a man could possess.

  I can be that woman, Charlotte thought determinedly. I will be that woman.

  “Do you think the road will be fixed by the end of the week? I would like to see your home.” She began to walk down the hill and Gavin followed. A little tug urged him to step up next to her, and even though she felt the tension in his arm beneath her fingers she held fast, enjoying the quiet comfort of walking beside her husband. “Is that where we will be living when we return?”

  “Yes. Everything has been gutted and remodeled, the floors refinished and the walls repainted, although only the bare necessities have been brought in by way of furniture and accessories. I do not have an eye for design,” he admitted gruffly.

  “Then it is a good thing your wife does.”

  “She does?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  He glanced at her sideways. “I was going to hire something.”

  “Hosh posh,” she declared with a flippant wave of her hand. “Why pay someone when I am available for free?”

  Gavin stopped so suddenly she was swung in a half circle. “No pinks,” he said, his expression so grave one would think they were discussing a life and death matter instead of wall furnishings. “Or oranges. I know orange is on trend—”

  “I hate orange,” she interrupted. “It does not go at all with my hair.”

  “No.” A hesitant smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “I suppose it does not.”

  Their eyes met and held. Gavin’s smile faded while Charlotte’s grew. “Come along,” she said. “Tabitha will think I have been kidnapped by thieves if I stay out much longer.”

  “You very well could have been kidnapped by—” he began, but she cut him off with a bright, infectious laugh that startled him into silence.

  “All is well that ends well. Has no one ever told you that before?”

  He frowned. “No.”

  “Well, it does. At least on occasion, this being one of them.”

  They began to walk again. Gavin shortened his stride to match hers or she lengthened her stride to match his – Charlotte wasn’t sure which – and they moved in perfect harmony down the narrow, winding path towards the inn. She was tempted to rest her head against his shoulder but resisted, knowing her affection for him would have to be demonstrated bit by bit instead of all at once. Too much and he would startle, fleeing back into the deep woods like a stag before a pack of dogs or, in this case, a very keen, very patient hunter.

  All is well that ends well, she repeated silently.

  She only hoped it was the truth.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Six days later the road was fixed, the new carriage had arrived, and Charlotte found herself en route to London. With her blessing Gavin had left the day before on horseback to attend a business meeting that required his immediate presence. She already missed him.

  Since the night on the hill a tentative peace had grown between them. They acted, as Charlotte suggested, like friends. As a result they were more than acquaintances and less than lovers; stuck somewhere in the middle where they could each carefully grow and nurture a mutual respect for the other.

  They took to discussing easy things, like the weather or their preferences in food (she was fond of jams, he despised fish) and in the days before Gavin left he accompanied her on her long walks in the morning and she helped him (albeit very discreetly) with his accounting in the afternoon. It did not take them long to settle into an easy rhythm. Like a river winding around an intricate grouping of rocks they established a gentle ebb and flow. Too much force and the water thrashed against the rocks. Too little and it never made it over the top. As long as Charlotte was careful not to ask Gavin for more than he could give he was amendable. At times, even cheerful. As a result she was very much looking forward to starting their lives together once she reached London. Something she was not looking forward to was seeing her mother.

  She knew no matter what she said Bettina would never understand why she had run off to marry a commoner. It would not matter to her how much wealth Gavin possessed. Without a title in front of his name he would never be anything to Bettina save the man who kept her daughter from becoming a duchess.

  They exchanged horses at the border and drove through the night. Blessed with good weather, the latter half of their journey went much more smoothly than the first and they arrived at the outskirts of London at dawn the following day.

  Instantly Charlotte was assailed with the sights and sounds of the city as their carriage expertly navigated the narrow streets. The weather was predictably overcast, turning everything a dismal shade of gray. There were no rolling fields of heather to be had here, nor endless stretches of clear blue sky so bright it hurt the eyes. Compared to the wildness of Scotland everything was dark and dank and dirty. Slumping in her seat Charlotte drew the window curtain closed, opening it only once they were clear of the main thoroughfare and moving into the residential part of the city.

  The closer they got to Shire House the larger the houses grew, from narrow town homes to grand mansions set far back from the cobblestone behind imposing iron gates. When the carriage stopped precisely
in front of 732 Grosvenor Street, Charlotte opened the door and scrambled down without waiting for assistance.

  Slanting a hand across her forehead to block out the early light of dawn – while she was wearing the same green traveling dress she had left London in to begin with, she had forgone the hat that accompanied it – she walked to the front gate and leaned against the cold iron bars, pressing her face right up between them to afford herself a clear, unfettered view of her new home.

  Shire House stood alone on top of a very slight hill. It was four stories high, all hard lines and blank windows with none of the personal touches that made a house a home. Everything was very precise. Formidable, even. Still, it did not emanate the same sense of coldness the duke’s mansion had. There could be warmth here, Charlotte thought. There could be beauty.

  In the blink of an eye she saw the dormant gardens blooming with color and life. Cheerful shutters in bright yellow framed the windows and the front veranda was scattered with toys left behind by a forgetful child.

  She was reading on a bench beneath one of the oak trees, sipping a cool glass of lemonade while she waited for Gavin to return home. When he did he brought her a bouquet of tulips, and he smiled ruefully because they were plucked from her very own garden, but she didn’t mind.

  He took her in his arms and they kissed without a care for who was watching. The flowers tumbled to the lawn, forgotten, as they lost themselves in each other. Then came the patter of little feet, a child’s gleeful yell, and Gavin bent low to swoop their son high above his head. Watching her husband and child play, Charlotte knew only love and contentment.

  A door slammed, her eyes snapped open, and the perfect future faded into oblivion, replaced instead with the image of a man whom Charlotte did not know striding purposefully towards her.

  Looking to be in his mid-thirties he was tall and solidly built, with prematurely thinning brown hair and a large, bulbous nose. Above the nose were two close set eyes that held neither warmth nor welcome. When he reached the gate he thrust a key into the lock and shoved it open without warning, forcing Charlotte to jump to the side or be knocked to the ground.

  “You may bring the trunks and any other personal belongings to the side entrance. Mr. Graystone has delegated the blue bedroom suite on the third floor to his wife. All of her things will be brought there directly for you to unpack,” he said dismissively.

  Charlotte blinked.

  “Well? What are you standing there for? Hop to! You may be accustomed to lazing about where you come from, but here at Shire House we run things differently.”

  “I can see that,” she murmured. Taken aback by the man’s rudeness, but not wanting to set off on the wrong foot with any member of Gavin’s household staff, she swallowed the sharp retort that lingered on the tip of her tongue and said, “Might I ask your name?”

  The man’s chest swelled beneath his tightly buttoned black vest. “Theodore Dobson.” His chin quivered and lifted. “Mr. Dobson to the likes of you. I am the butler and caretaker of Shire House.”

  This disagreeable man was the butler? Charlotte’s eyebrows drew together in dismay. In a household of this magnitude the butler was a man of great important. He was second only to the owners and did everything, from managing the rest of the staff to guarding the silver. “I believe there has been some slight confusion,” she said, still attempting to be polite. “You see, I am—”

  “I do not care what your name is,” Dobson snapped. “It does not concern me.”

  That did it. “Well perhaps it should, since my name is Charlotte.” She waited for recognition to dawn in Dobson’s dark, beady eyes. When he continued to stare at her with nothing more than vague annoyance, as if she were something he had just scraped off the bottom of his shoe, the tight rein she had on her temper snapped completely.

  It was bad enough being greeted by such a surly man after a full day and night of traveling. But to find out Gavin had not even told his butler who she was? Her lips compressed to form a hard, thin line. She refused to be an after thought. Gavin may have been unable to welcome her himself due to work, but he certainly could have made sure the most important member of his staff knew her name! She hoped it was an oversight, and not an indicator of how things would be now that they were in London.

  Tabitha appeared behind her, a cloak over one arm and a small leather carrying case curled in the other. “Lady Charlotte,” she said, looking at Dobson with a frown, “what is the matter? Were they not expecting us? And where should I have the trunks sent?”

  Charlotte saw the exact moment Dobson figured it all out. He was good – as all butlers were – at veiling his emotions, but he could not fully disguise the slight widening of his eyes nor the tinge of color that appeared high on his cheeks.

  “You are Mr. Graystone’s new wife.”

  “Yes.” She waited for an apology. It was not forthcoming.

  “Then you may come in the front. Mrs. Pinkham will give you a tour of the house. You” – he jabbed a finger at Tabitha – “can take the trunks around the side, and be quick about it.”

  Charlotte recognized what game Dobson was playing immediately. As the butler, he was accustomed to being in complete control of the household and had no intention of relinquishing that control to a new wife. Unfortunately for him, she could not in good conscience leave such an ill tempered tyrant in command. If this was how he treated newcomers, she was loathe to think how he ordered about the existing staff. Having already lived in one household where the servants were not treated with kindness or respect, she would not live in another, especially not when she had the ability to change it.

  Still, she needed to maintain some semblance of decorum. It would not do to pick a fight within minutes of her arrival, and thus with great difficult she forced a smile. Perhaps Dobson was simply nervous. Perhaps he thought his job was in jeopardy. Or perhaps he was a miserable old goat with no regard for others. Whatever the reason for his behavior, it would not behoove her to fly off the handle. She needed the respect of her staff to run an efficient household, not their insubordination, and no one could lead them faster into the latter than a disgruntled butler.

  “Mr. Dobson, I can see we have gotten off on the wrong foot,” she said, summoning every ounce of sweetness and charm she possessed. “Both Tabitha and I would very much appreciate a tour of the house before we unpack, and surely there would be no one better to do that than you.”

  Dobson was unmoved. “I do not have time for that,” he declared, glaring at her as though she had sprouted a second head before he promptly turned and marched back the way he had come, leaving Charlotte and Tabitha staring after him in open mouthed astonishment.

  “Why, I never,” Tabitha gasped.

  “You are not to listen to a single order he gives you, Tabitha.” Inwardly fuming, Charlotte snatched the leather carrying case out of her maid’s arms and pushed the gate open wider. It gave way with a groan and a shudder. Sweeping through and beckoning Tabitha to follow, she did not bother closing it behind them. “Do you understand? You are not to do one thing that horrid man asks. Not one thing!”

  Tabitha, who was accustomed to having demands barked at her and following them no matter what, paused mid-step and drew the cloak she still carried tight to her chest. “Are you certain, Lady Charlotte? I wouldn’t want to create any problems or give Mr. Graystone cause to be angry with me.”

  “You leave the problem causing to me, Tabitha. I shall take care of everything.” With that ominous vow lingering in the air, Charlotte drew back her shoulders, lifted her chin, and led the way into their new home.

  Gavin had wanted to be present when Charlotte arrived. He even had some fanciful notion of picking her a bouquet of flowers, forgetting that heather did not bloom in the dirt strewn streets of London. But as it tended to do work delayed him, and he did not arrive home until well after dark.

  Dobson met him at the front door to take his coat, which Gavin gladly relinquished. Having attended three times the numbe
r of meetings he usually did to make up for his unexpected absence, he was thoroughly exhausted and wanted nothing more than to down a tumbler of brandy and fall face first into his bed.

  The house was quiet. The candles were doused. No one stirred save himself and Dobson, and in that moment Gavin was glad he had not done something so foolish as to bring his wife flowers. What did he think, that she would be waiting up to welcome him home with open arms? Dragging a hand through his hair and down over his face, he crossed the foyer and entered his study to pour himself a stiff drink.

  One of the only rooms in the house he had not gutted completely, the study was dark and cavernous with floor to ceiling mahogany paneling, towering book shelves built directly into the walls, and an oversized desk that had belonged to the previous owner. He collapsed into the chair behind his desk with a groan, sinking into the thick leather upholstery and stretching his legs out.

  Dobson trailed after him, an ever present shadow that had lurked the halls of Shire House long before Gavin purchased the ailing estate. For three generations Dobson’s family proudly served the Shire family before their fortune dwindled and they were forced to sell. With Dobson already knowing so much about the running of the household it seemed only natural to keep him on, and so Gavin did.

  “Is there anything more you require, sir?” Dobson asked.

  Gavin took a liberal sip of brandy before he shook his head. “No, nothing else. Wait,” he corrected when Dobson turned to go, “there is one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  Finishing the rest of his glass in one hard swallow, Gavin let the brandy burn down his throat, enjoying the sensation of warmth that pooled in his stomach and the accompanying numbness before he said, “Did everything go accordingly with the arrival of my wife?”

  “It went quite well, Mr. Graystone, although…” Dobson hesitated, and Gavin tensed.

  He knew something would go wrong. All bloody day he found himself thinking about Charlotte when his mind should have been on matters of business. He worried for her constantly, wondering if her journey was going smoothly, wondering if she was afraid after what happened the last time she got in a carriage, wondering if she needed him, wondering if she wanted him. The woman was inside his head more than he was, and he cursed himself for not having the control necessary to tuck her away in some dark corner of his mind and forget about her, if only for a few hours.