The Silent Duke

by Michaels, Jess

  She laughed and her heart was lighter. Although she was over the moon about the passionate connection she and Ewan had begun to share here, it was really this that she loved most about it. It was how easy their friendship was. It was how much she liked spending time with him. How much they had in common, but how much their differences complemented each other.

  If only he could allow himself to see that.

  “You must be looking forward to seeing Baldwin and your mother,” he signed, apparently oblivious to all that was in her heart.

  She forced herself to focus on his statement. “I am. I left London over a month ago, to see Simon and Meg, so I have missed them both. It will be good to see them and share the holiday with them and with the Duke of Tydale and your aunt.”

  He nodded, but she thought she saw a flicker of regret in his stare. Did it come from the fact that once the others arrived, this thing between them, whatever he wanted to call it, would change? Or was she reading too much into the twitch of his cheek or the flit of his eyes?

  “Once they arrive,” she continued, carefully choosing her words. “I suppose things will be very different.”

  He jerked his face toward hers. “We will have much holiday merry-making to do, yes,” he signed.

  She swallowed. “That isn’t what I meant, Ewan,” she whispered.

  He turned away and she reached for him, slowly placing a finger to his chin. He looked at her and her heart ached. Ewan had always been complex. She had been able to read him even when others couldn’t. His pain. His fear. His anger.

  Tonight all she saw was his regret. Regret that cut her deeply, for she knew there were two sides to it. The regret she shared that they couldn’t remain isolated in this dreamland forever. But also regret that he had allowed things to go so far.

  “What will happen to you and me?” she asked, holding her breath as she waited for his answer.

  There was a pause that felt like it lasted an eternity and then he lifted trembling hands and signed, “I thought we had agreed that this was not permanent. That this is all we can have?”

  “Is that what you really want?”

  He pulled away and paced to the other side of the room before he dug into his pocket and pulled out his paper and his pencil. Her heart jumped. Ewan rarely wrote to her to communicate. Their secret language kept there from being a need.

  That he wished to do so now meant he was trying to distance himself even more than she had feared. She stared as he scribbled an answer and then held out the response.

  “What I want is irrelevant. This is a stolen moment out of time, Charlotte. I will look back on it with great pleasure, but it changes nothing.”

  She lifted her gaze back to him, but he’d turned his back to her and was adding logs to the fire. She wanted to lunge forward and scream that she loved him. She wanted to demand that he see what could be, that he allow for hope and a future in his heart.

  But she knew this man far too well. He didn’t respond to demands. If anything, they sent him further into his shell. If she wanted him to see the future, she had to show him the future. Demands could come after surrender.

  She stepped closer and reached out to touch his shoulder. He jolted a little, just as he had the first night after they made love. Slowly, he faced her, his expression hard and unreadable.

  She forced herself to smile. “No one has arrived yet. Let’s go upstairs, Ewan. Make more memories for us both to look back on. Perhaps you’re right that now isn’t the time to worry about the future.”

  His lips tightened just a fraction and she could see him warring in his head. That was what she wanted, really, for him to battle with himself, because that was the only way his heart had any chance to win over his head.

  And tonight, in this battle, it did. He reached out and took her hand. His big fingers folded around hers and he led her from the room, up the stairs, to his chamber.

  She sighed as he let her in. This wasn’t perfect, but it was a step. With every step closer to the life she wanted, she knew there was more reward possible. And so much more risk to her body, her heart and her soul.

  Chapter Eight

  Winter morning light had only just begun to brighten the edges of his curtains when Ewan woke. He lay still for a moment, his eyes still closed, reveling in what he felt and smelled around him.

  Charlotte.

  Her body was curled back into his, his arms were around her and the vanilla scent of her hair wafted into his nostrils. He’d often imagined that was what heaven would smell like.

  Slowly, he allowed his eyes to open and looked at her. She fit so perfectly against him. She was a tall woman, so she didn’t look ill matched to his own size. Her body lined up perfectly with his, as his hard cock was letting him know right now while it nudged the softness of her backside.

  How he wanted to just slide inside, feel her grow wet and moan as she woke to him making love to her. How he wanted to spend a day just lying in bed with her, laughing and talking and making love like this was the future he would share with her.

  But that was the problem. It wasn’t their future. He’d allowed for her to ease into the fabric of his life over the past few days. The emotional side of him never wanted that to end.

  The rational side knew differently. What he’d said to her about the difficulty of the future was only half of what he feared. He couldn’t even begin to express the rest. Even to her.

  He sighed as he carefully extracted himself from around her. She stirred a little, just a whisper of his name in the dark, but then she settled deeper into the pillows and her breath grew heavy again.

  He grabbed his trousers from the floor and then moved into the adjoining room where his wardrobe awaited him. He had a valet, but he didn’t call for the man as he swiftly dressed himself and then went downstairs.

  The servants smiled and acknowledged him, accustomed to seeing him up early. He’d never been one to lollygag about in bed all day. As he passed through the hall, he caught sight of Smith in one of the foyers, talking to another servant. He entered the room with a rap on the door to alert them to his presence.

  “Your Grace,” Smith said. “Good morning.”

  Ewan reached into his pocket and pursed his lips as he realized he had no notepad with which to communicate. Smith said nothing, but whipped one from his own pocket, along with a stubby pencil.

  Ewan nodded to him in thanks and swiftly wrote, “Any word from those who have been monitoring the sandbag dam?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. Those who returned late last night said that it is holding and the water is beginning to recede. I think they were going to ascertain the solidity of the bridge this morning.”

  Ewan froze. Once the bridge was safe to cross, the rest of the families would join him and Charlotte for their Christmas festivities. The holiday was just a handful of days away.

  And all he wanted as a gift was a little more time with the woman still upstairs sleeping in his bed.

  He swallowed, shaking those thoughts away. They were dangerous and could lead to nothing good for either of them. He should be happy the others were coming, not only because he cared for his guests, but because they would put up a very much needed barrier between himself and Charlotte.

  “I would like to join the crew heading out this morning,” he wrote. “Have they departed yet?”

  “No, I believe they were just heading to the stable for horses. You can catch them if you wish.”

  Ewan nodded his thanks and then wrote, “When Lady Portsmith wakes…”

  He stopped and stared at the page before him. He wasn’t certain what he wanted to write. What he wanted to convey to her. Finally, he crossed out the note and shook his head. He waved to his servant and left before the butler could bring up the subject he’d just been trying to avoid.

  The woman he needed to break loose from, but the one who held everything dear to him in the palm of her delicate hand.

  Charlotte reached
across Ewan’s big bed and found his side was empty. With a groan, she opened one eye and looked around. She was in Ewan’s chamber, where she’d spent the night. His bed was large—it had to be to accommodate such a big man. It was also blissfully warm and comfortable. The chamber had been decorated in muted greens and browns and grays. It was masculine but still stylish. She had no idea who had made those decisions. His aunt, perhaps. She couldn’t imagine Ewan cared.

  What he did care about were the books and the papers and the portraits of friends that were scattered about the room. All that was what made this his domain.

  She stood and grabbed for one of his shirts, discarded on the floor the night before as he made love to her. She lifted it to her nose and took a deep whiff of his masculine, woodsy scent. Then she slung it over her shoulders and half buttoned it as she walked around the chamber.

  There was a letter from one of Ewan’s duke club on top of a pile of books. The Duke of Willowby, Lucas, it seemed. Beneath it was a tome on flood management. Clearly, Ewan had the subject on his mind thanks to the situation on his estate.

  She paced along the wall and stopped to draw open the shades. It was no longer raining, and a gray, filtered light filled the room. The grassy garden behind the house stretched out to the cliffs and there, not three hundred yards away, was the sea. She smiled at the swirling waves in the distance. In the summer, this would be a beautiful view. Ewan would open his windows and the sound of the ocean would fill the room.

  How would it be to make love to him with the sea as the music to accompany them?

  Of course, Ewan didn’t foresee her being here in the summer. A fact that felt more focused and clear than ever when she considered that he hadn’t left her so much as a note explaining his departure from bed.

  She continued her perusal of the office and smiled as she came to a collection of miniatures along the top of one of his tables. Many were of his friends in his duke club, formed long ago by the Duke of Abernathe, the Duke of Crestwood and the Duke of Northfield. Ewan had been drawn into the fold by his cousin Matthew, after he’d come to live with them. After they’d gone to school. Over the years Charlotte had watched with pleasure as Ewan eased out of his shell with those men. He was comfortable with them and none of them had ever treated him differently despite the fact that he couldn’t speak.

  There was a portrait hung above the collection of miniatures. A young Ewan, perhaps the age of twelve or thirteen, still uncertain, standing with his uncle, aunt and cousin Matthew. His uncle, then Duke of Tyndale, had a gentle arm wrapped around Ewan’s shoulders while his aunt held Matthew’s hand. Charlotte traced Ewan’s slightly parted lips and her eyes swelled with tears as she thought not only of the damage he had suffered as a child, but of the love he had eventually come to experience. Sometimes he could only recall the one side of that equation. Sometimes it felt like his father’s hatred was all that mattered or defined him.

  She turned to walk away from the image when something caught her eye. Another miniature, but this one had been hidden behind a cigar box in the corner of the table. She reached behind to pull it out and caught her breath.

  It was her. She recognized the portrait was the miniature version of the large one her father had commissioned of her when she was sixteen, just a year before he died. And Ewan had a copy. One that was slightly worn, in fact. Almost like he…he touched it.

  She shook her head and set the picture aside. Her heart wanted to read an entire future into the fact that he possessed the portrait. She had to fight not to let herself thrill at the fact.

  After all, there were other facts at play. She had no doubt Ewan cared for her. She’d always known that. The past few days together only solidified that fact. And yet he still pushed her away. Even this morning, he had left her sleeping in his bed, without so much as telling her where he’d gone.

  Likely he had retreated to his office, perhaps to do some work regarding the estate. The portrait gave her hope, but she had to see it as a part of her larger plan to break down Ewan’s barriers against their future. Which meant she had to find him and continue that battle.

  She gathered up her dress and underthings with a blush as her mind returned to Ewan using his teeth to remove some of them. Then she opened his door and peeked into the hallway. It was quiet.

  She drew a deep breath and scurried down the hall to the other side of the estate. When she entered her room, she looked down and only then recalled that she was wearing Ewan’s shirt.

  “Well, it’s not like we haven’t been obvious up until this point,” she muttered as she tugged the item over her head and replaced it with her robe. Then she rang for her maid and moved to her wardrobe. She was perusing her fashion choices when Sylvie entered.

  “Good morning, my lady,” her maid said with a bright smile.

  “Hello, Sylvie,” Charlotte returned as she pulled a dress from the wardrobe. “The blue silk, I think.”

  “A lovely choice,” Sylvie said, and took the item. Charlotte couldn’t help but notice that her maid’s gaze flitted from the perfectly made bed to the discarded men’s shirt and gown from the previous day that were waiting for her on the floor.

  Charlotte ignored the glance and Sylvie began to dress her. It didn’t take long, for she’d been with the young woman since her marriage five years before. They always worked in perfect accord.

  As she sat to let Sylvie do her hair, she said, “I trust you are comfortable here?”

  Sylvie nodded. “Oh yes, my lady. It’s a fine home and the servants are kind and welcoming to guests. They don’t even expect me to fill my free time helping, though I do.”

  Charlotte glanced at her maid in the mirror’s reflection. “I suppose you have had a great deal of free time this visit.”

  Sylvie’s cheeks darkened. “W-well, I suppose.”

  Charlotte gripped her hands against the chair arms. She hadn’t called for Sylvie to help her at night since her arrival at Ewan’s estate. The only hands that had undressed her in that time had been Ewan’s. And likely the entire household knew about it.

  “Have you seen the Duke of Donburrow this morning?” she asked, refusing to dance about the subject any further.

  Sylvie shook her head. “No, my lady. It sounded like he left the house quite early.”

  Charlotte drew back. “Left the house? Where did he go?”

  “I’m not certain. They don’t talk very much about him around me.”

  Charlotte looked at her again. Sylvie’s blush was even darker. “Are they polite when they do speak of him?”

  “Oh yes, my lady!” Sylvie rushed to say. “They seem to have a great deal of respect for him. And affection. I’ve not heard a cross word about it, despite the fact that he can’t talk.”

  Charlotte flinched. There was what Ewan had been talking about to her the previous day. The caveat to all discussion about him. People were kind despite…he was brilliant despite…he shocked them despite…

  She could well imagine how years of hearing those things had affected him. It was an enormous hurdle for her to cross, to make him see that there was no despite with her. That the “despite” didn’t matter and never had.

  Sylvie finished her hair swiftly and Charlotte nodded to her. “Thank you. And could you make sure His Grace’s shirt goes into the laundry and is returned to his room? Perhaps with as little fanfare as you can.”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  Charlotte patted Sylvie’s hand and left her to the tasks of her day as she departed her chamber and made her way down the hallway. The person she needed to speak to was Smith, for he would very likely be the one who would know exactly where Ewan had gone and when he was coming back.

  Because of course he was coming back. He wouldn’t just leave. She knew that, but the idea still closed her throat and made it hard to breathe as she went down the stairs.

  A maid was at the bottom, dusting a table. She stopped in her work and turned to Charlotte with a
curtsey. She was quick to direct Charlotte to Ewan’s study, where Smith was. Charlotte found the way and paused at the study door, took a deep breath and then opened it.

  Smith was, indeed, standing before Ewan’s desk, organizing papers and writing a few notes for his master, about household details, she assumed.

  “Good morning, Smith,” she said.

  He turned and his expression warmed. “Lady Portsmith, good morning. We did not expect to see you up so early. I can arrange for food immediately in the breakfast room.”

  “No,” she said. “Thank you very much, but I’m not particularly hungry this morning. I was actually hoping you could tell me where the duke went. I’ve heard he left the house quite early.”

  Smith’s expression changed ever so slightly. The warmth faded a fraction and a professional coolness and protectiveness entered his eyes and thinned his lips. “He went to check the dam, my lady.”

  She caught her breath. “There is nothing wrong, I hope! The rain has faded so much in the last twelve hours.”

  “Nothing wrong,” he reassured her as he went toward her a step. “His Grace is simply…fastidious…when it comes to such things. He has received reports every few hours, of course, but he felt compelled to see the situation with his own eyes.”

  Relief rushed through her, but it was tinged with a hint of disappointment. After her participation in the sandbagging the day before, she was sorry that Ewan hadn’t thought to take her with him. She would have liked to see his tenants and be assured that all was well.

  Of course, that wasn’t her place. She was not his duchess.

  “Well, thank you,” she said, turning away. “I’m very sorry I disturbed you.”

  “You didn’t, my lady,” he said. Then there was a pause before he blurted out, “May I—may I speak to you about something?”

  She pivoted back, surprised by the question and the tone with which it was said. Smith shifted on his feet, high color in his cheeks and his hands fidgeting at his side.

  “Of course,” she said, edging closer as caution filled her. “By your tone it sounds serious.”