The Runaway Duchess

by Jillian Eaton

  “Did something happen?” he demanded, shoving away from the desk and skirting around it to stand in the middle of the study, jaw clenched and hands curled into fists at his side. He stood poised on the balls of his feet, ready to charge up the stairs and run to Charlotte’s side like some bloody knight in shining armor. “Damn you Dobson, tell me!” When the butler’s eyes went wide and he stutter stepped back, Gavin ordered himself to take a deep, calming breath. He was behaving like a mad man. “What I meant to say, did anything occur that would require my immediate attention?”

  “Nothing happened,” Dobson assured him quickly. “Your wife arrived precisely on time. I was there to greet her. Mrs. Pinkham gave her a tour of the estate and she retired early to her room.”

  Retired early? Gavin relaxed onto his heels, but he still frowned. That did not sound like his Charlotte at all. After being penned up inside the inn for so many days he expected her to enjoy her newfound freedom, not hide in her room immediately after arriving. “Is she ill?”

  “Ill?” Dobson repeated. “No, not that I know of. I believe she was tired from traveling.”

  A plausible excuse. Gavin rested one hand against the desk and leaned into it. “Then what is the problem?”

  Dobson’s expression was shuttered. “Perhaps it is not my place to say.”

  Bloody butlers and their rules. “Tell me.”

  “Very well. Upon her arrival, your wife seemed… displeased.”

  “Displeased?” he echoed blankly. “Displeased about what?”

  “Shire House, sir.”

  “Shire House?”

  “Yes.” Dobson nodded. “I do not believe it met her… expectations.”

  “I told Charlotte it was undergoing renovations. She has placed herself in charge of decorating all the rooms. No oranges, though. She does not like the color orange. It clashes with her hair,” he explained, smiling ever so slightly as he recalled their conversation atop the hill. Noting the lines that furrowed Dobson’s brow, he sighed and said, “Speak frankly, man. Say what you have to say and be done with it.”

  The butler straightened. “It was not the renovations she disliked so much as the house itself. I believe she found Shire House to be wanting. I would never dare speak out of turn, but I believe Lady Graystone – or is it Mrs.?”

  “Mrs.,” Gavin said curtly.

  As the daughter of a Baron, Charlotte’s formal title was no less than, “The Honorable Mrs. Gavin Graystone”. Before he disembarked for London, however, they both agreed it should be shortened considerably. It had, in fact, been Charlotte’s idea. On one of their many walks she told him she was tired of being a lady, and that being a plain old ‘Mrs.’ would suit her far better than any fancy title.

  “Very well. I believe Mrs. Graystone was expecting… more.”

  More, Gavin repeated silently. What the hell did more mean?”

  “I am sure she will come around,” Dobson said. “It may simply take her some time to adjust to the life of a common woman.”

  Perhaps if Gavin had not been haunted by the same thoughts himself he would have been able to laugh off Dobson’s concerns. As it were, he took the butler’s words to heart, and when he sat back down in his chair it was with a distinct heaviness that had not burdened him before. “You can retire now.” He lifted his empty tumbler and tipped it this way and that, studying the way the light from the candle filtered through the thick glass. “I will speak with you tomorrow morning to go over some changes on the third floor.”

  “Have a good evening, sir.” Dobson left, closing the door discreetly behind him.

  For more than an hour Gavin remained unmoving in his chair. His throat was dry, but he did not get up to pour himself another drink. Instead he sat, watching the candles as they sputtered and died one by one. He welcomed the inky darkness as one would a lover, too familiar with the lack of light to be disconcerted by it. Once upon a time it had been his job to move in the shadows, back before he had the comfort of knowing where his next meal would come from. Back when he was nothing. When he was no one.

  Now he was someone. Someone men envied. Someone women lusted after. He should have been content with what he had, but the gnawing ache inside of him never seemed to cease, no matter what he fed it. Money. Jewels. Estates. It was never enough, and Gavin’s deepest, darkest fear was that it never would be.

  He had hoped… but no.

  Hope did not fill coiffures. Dreams did not buy wealth.

  Finally standing, he poured himself another glass of brandy and drank it in one bracing swallow. He would need the alcohol to numb his thoughts tonight. To make him forget her, even if it was only for a few hours. Finding solace in the darkness both inside and out, he knocked the glass aside and lifted the bottle.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Charlotte woke at dawn.

  As was her habit she remained perfectly still for several minutes, giving her body time to catch up with a mind that was already racing. Outside the deep set windows that ran the length of one wall and overlooked the back gardens she could hear birds chirping merrily as they hopped from branch to branch, doing all the things little birds did in the early morning. Oh to be a sparrow, without a care in the world.

  She closed her eyes and let herself imagine it: the sensation of wind beneath her wings, the ease of flight, the bright, cheerful songs, the cats and the hawks and the snakes. Her eyes flew open and she grimaced. Every creature, large or small, had its own set of problems. Even darling songbirds were not exempt.

  Jumping out of bed, she wrapped herself in a pale blue dressing robe and padded barefoot down the hall. No one stirred in any of the rooms she passed, giving her cause to wonder if she was the only one awake, or if the rooms were simply empty.

  Tabitha had been given a room on the fourth floor. Charlotte hoped the maid slept in, and had already told her to take the day off, for today was for exploring. She wanted to know her new home. She wanted to feel it. In all of her life she had never been charge of anything, and now it was her responsibility to bring Shire House back to life.

  Certainly Gavin had begun the process. Although her tour yesterday had been brief, Charlotte was able to admire the work that had already been put into the grand old lady. That was how she thought of her new home. Not a mansion or an estate, but a grand old lady, one whom had fallen on hard times only to be plucked from the brink of ruination by a generous benefactor.

  Her fingertips trailed down the oak banister as she descended the curving staircase that led to the front foyer. The wood felt grimy against her skin and was in desperate need of a good polish to make it gleam. She could only assume cleaning had been put by the wayside as walls were plastered over and floors were replaced, but now that the construction had ceased the first thing on her agenda would be to have everything thoroughly swept, scrubbed, and dusted.

  She kept an eye out for Dobson as she tip toed from the foyer to what Mrs. Pinkham described yesterday as the music room, even though no instruments, not even a piano, were in attendance. With all the natural light Charlotte rather thought the room would make an excellent library, although she had not shared her thoughts with Mrs. Pinkham. The tall, thin woman had the look of someone who was perpetually annoyed and had exerted the same amount of enthusiasm as Dobson upon meeting her, which was of course to say none at all.

  In fact, with the exception of a fair haired scullery maid who flashed a brief, hesitant smile when Charlotte popped her head into the kitchen, she had yet to meet any member of the staff who seemed happy about her arrival. Not only that, but all of those she met thus far seemed distinctly unhappy about it, and for that Charlotte blamed Dobson.

  As she feared, the butler had complete control of the staff. What he approved of they approved of, and what he disliked – which, as of right now, was her for reasons she could not fathom – they disliked as well. She would have to win them over bit by bit, or she feared they would all have to be replaced.

  A household of servants that did not liste
n to their mistress was a household that did not run well and she was determined it would do so, if only for Gavin’s sake. Despite their problems, he had given her so much and asked for so little in return. One of the things she could give him – one of the things she would give him – was a house that ran seamlessly.

  Crossing to one of the windows she drew back the heavy curtains, sneezed from the dust that billowed into the air, and pressed her fingertips against the already smudged glass. The view provided to her was one of the front lawn. It rolled away from the house, sloping slightly down towards the black iron fence that wrapped around the entire property.

  A lone phaeton rolled down the street, pulled by a sleepy looking gray gelding. Waiting until it passed to drop the curtains back into place, Charlotte continued her singular tour of the house, wandering from room to room until she found herself in a wing she was quite certain Mrs. Pinkham had not shown her the day before. Unable to suppress her inquisitive nature, she opened the first door she came across and came up short at the sight that greeted her.

  Gavin, wearing nothing save an unbuttoned pair of rust colored breeches, lay sprawled across a leather chaise lounge, his feet propped up on one end and his head lolling off the edge of the other. His chest rose and fell in rhythm with his soft snores, and as Charlotte stepped into the room she spied the reason for his deep sleep on the desk behind him.

  Brandy, she decided after taking a whiff from the empty bottle. Wrinkling her nose, she took a long, hard look at Gavin, determined he was not going to be waking anytime soon, and began a slow, thorough exploration of his study.

  Unlike the rest of Shire House, the room was furnished from top to bottom. Large paintings of hunting scenes in gilt edged frames hung on the walls. Besides the desk and lounge there was a table and chairs, two leather benches, and a long cream colored settee. Towering shelves were built along the entire length of one wall and were filled to the brim with books and expensive looking knick knacks, from a gold pocket telescope to a small crystal swan with a gracefully curved neck.

  Picking up the swan she held it high in the air and, feeling rather mischievous, slanted the crystal this way and that until it caught the light from a window and turned Gavin’s face into a rainbow.

  He snorted, his nose twitching and eyelids flickering. She persisted, and when he opened his eyes and leaned up on one elbow to glare directly at her over the back of the lounge she could not help but laugh.

  “Did you know I was here the entire time?” she asked.

  “Of course I did.” Wearing an expression of disgruntlement, Gavin scooped his discarded shirt up from the floor, sat up, and shrugged into it before reclining once again. “You made enough noise to wake the dead.”

  “I did not.” Mildly offended, Charlotte set the swan aside and perched on the edge of the lounge by Gavin’s feet after demurely arranging her wrapper. “I was hoping to see you yesterday when we arrived.”

  “I was in meetings all day.” He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, and she suppressed a smile. “What?” he said crossly. “What are you smirking at?”

  “You. Do you often return home and drink yourself into oblivion?”

  “I did not drink myself into oblivion.”

  She merely glanced askance at the empty bottle of brandy still sitting on the desk and lifted one eyebrow.

  Gavin grunted. “Maybe I had a few glasses. Or an entire bottle,” he admitted with a grin that was an adorable mixture between drowsy and sheepish. “I do not drink very often, if that is what you are thinking.”

  “It’s not.” She was, in fact, thinking how wonderfully intimate it felt to be having a playful conversation with her husband first thing in the morning when she was dressed in nothing more than a silk robe and his chin still boasted stubble from the day before.

  She had feared they would lose the easy banter they had found in Scotland, and it was a great relief to know it was still there. Perhaps Gavin did not see her as a woman – not yet, anyway – but he did see her as a friend, and for that she was grateful.

  Reaching out, she flicked the sole of his bare foot with her finger. His response was immediate, and she laughed out loud when he snatched his leg away as if she had burned him.

  “Stop that.”

  “Why, are you ticklish?” Grinning, she did it again.

  “Charlotte…”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “This.” He moved with lightening quick speed. One second she was perched on the edge of the lounge and the next she was sprawled on top of him in a pile of limbs and wild red curls. His hands moved across her ribs, tickling her mercilessly until she squealed and giggled and begged him to stop.

  “Gavin! Gavin, no, no, enough—”

  “Do you give up?”

  Catching the victorious gleam in his eye, Charlotte shook her head from side to side, temporarily blinding him with her hair. Taking full advantage she straddled his hips and streaked her hands up his sides to attack underneath his arms. His hearty shout of laughter took her by surprise and she froze, her fingers hovering in midair.

  “What?” Sweeping her hair the side, Gavin leaned up on his elbows, his smile slowly fading when he saw her expression.

  “I… I have never heard you laugh before,” she whispered.

  “That is because I don’t.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  She sat back on her haunches and studied him beneath a thick fringe of russet lashes. “But you just did.”

  “Only because you are here.”

  All at once Charlotte became aware of their intimate position. She was all but sitting on his lap, her wrapper and nightgown pushed up past her knees. His hands rested lightly on her thighs. She bit her lip and attempted to scoot further back, but that only served to rub her sex intimately against his and she gasped, her spine going rigid at the flood of sensation that pooled in that most secretive part of her.

  She wanted to say something witty and playful that would dismiss the sudden surge of electricity that had sprung up between them as harmless, but when she opened her mouth words failed her, for it wasn’t harmless. He wasn’t harmless and when she met his dark, tumultuous gaze she imagined this was very much how a rabbit felt before it was devoured by a big hungry wolf. “I…”

  Gavin’s hands tightened around her thighs, his fingers digging into the soft, pliant flesh to the point of bruising but instead of being painful it felt wonderfully erotic. She leaned forward and her hair tangled around them, forming a curtain they could use to hide from the rest of the world. He pulsed his hips, arching up off the lounge ever so lightly, a half-inch at most, but it was enough. Oh, it was most definitely enough.

  Ignoring the bells of caution that were tolling wildly inside her head, she burrowed her hands in his hair and sank into him.

  It felt as though everything were happening in double time. One moment he was sleeping as a dead man would, and the next his arms were filled with Charlotte.

  Gavin knew he should push her away. This was everything he said he didn’t want… and everything he desperately craved. He should have demanded she leave. Instead he drew her closer, racing his fingers down the slender curve of her back to cup her trim little derriere and squeeze. She nipped his lip in response, a playful bite of her teeth that she immediately soothed with her tongue. The scent of her – lavender and sunshine – invaded his nostrils and the feel of her skin – pure silk – was heaven. His cock was hard and pulsing, his breathing already ragged.

  Christ, but he wanted her.

  He wanted to roll her beneath him, pin her hands above her head, and take her with all the ferocity of a rutting beast. He wanted to pound inside of her until she cried out his name and he spent his seed, claiming her in the truest way a man could claim a woman. The dark violence of his needs caught him off guard, and the disgust he felt for his vile thoughts caused his body to tense and his head to the turn to the side.

  Charlotte was not a river
side doxy selling her wares to the highest bidder. She was a lady, a lady far too good for the likes of him. She deserved a man who could be gentle and soft and recite lines of poetry, not one who was ready to take her virginity on a damn chaise lounge.

  “Gavin, what is it? What’s wrong?” Her hazel eyes were anxious, her face flushed. She hovered above him, affording him a clear view of her creamy breasts beneath the low hanging front of her nightgown. The dusky centers were hardened to points, betraying the state of her arousal, and it took every fiber of strength he possessed not to slide underneath her and take a nipple into his mouth.

  “I cannot do this,” he rasped, forcing his gaze to the ceiling as though by not looking at her he could somehow force her out of his mind. Forget he had a beautiful half naked woman sprawled on top of him? He groaned and closed his eyes. Not bloody likely. “Charlotte, I cannot.”

  “No, no, you can,” she urged. “We can. I need…” She broke off with a soft mewl of distress and lowered her mouth to his ear. “I need you,” she whispered.

  Three little words, sliding across his skin like silk.

  They were his undoing.

  He closed his hands around her slender waist and picked her up easily, positioning her breast until it fell into his waiting mouth and he could taste her through the thin fabric of her nightgown.

  She moaned and arched her back, her hands bracing on either side of his as he nipped and licked and nibbled. Impatient to feel her bare flesh against his lips and already half lost to reason, he pulled at her clothing, skimming it up over her thighs until it bunched in a frustrating ball around her waist.