The Silent Duke

by Michaels, Jess

  He knew all of that in that moment, and his smile widened because she knew none of it.

  “You look happy and I like it,” she whispered, squeezing his fingers. “But should we go back? I’m sure your people would like to return to their family celebrations and we have one of our own to attend to.”

  “We do,” he signed. “We have a great deal waiting for us at home.”

  Her brow wrinkled, but she smiled at him. “Good. Then let’s tell them, shall we?”

  He didn’t release her hand, but guided her forward and signed, “Will you translate?”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  He hesitated a moment. She would do this for the rest of her life. Be his lips, his tongue, as well as his heart. These people who already adored her, would see them as a single unit.

  It was a stunning realization, and it took a moment for him to gather himself enough to sign, “This has been another very special year here on the estate, and I have each and every one of you to thank for that. Please enjoy your day and each other, and know that if you have troubles, I am very open to hearing them and trying to make it right.”

  The tenants each approached, shaking his hand and murmuring their thanks. As they began to make their way to their houses, he maneuvered Charlotte toward his carriage. He helped her up, reveling in the feel of her body as she leaned into him, the smell of her skin as she passed into the vehicle. Then he joined her, placing himself across from her and drinking in the look of her in the dim light of the carriage as his driver closed the door and they began to move.

  “What has come over you?” she asked with a shake of her head. “You are different somehow.”

  He nodded. “I am,” he signed. “I’ll explain to you how later. But for now I only want to do this.”

  He moved over to her side of the carriage and cupped her cheek. He leaned in, feeling her warm breath stir his lips. He shuddered in reaction and then claimed her mouth. She lifted into him, her arms winding around his neck, her body molding to his like it had been made to do so. In that moment he could almost believe that it had. That she was a gift for him, he for her. Fated to be, no matter how he denied it.

  Now he wouldn’t deny it anymore.

  “I’ve missed this so much,” she whispered as he moved his lips to her throat. “It feels like an eternity.”

  He didn’t answer, but trailed his lips lower, unbuttoning her coat as he did so and opening it so he could taste the soft skin just above her gown’s neckline. She arched a little beneath him, her fingers coming up into his hair as she made a soft sound of pleasure.

  He wanted her so very much, enough that his cock ached beneath his trousers. But he wanted more than just release. He wanted to give her pleasure. To show her, even before he told her, that he would love and protect her and make her happy for the rest of her life.

  He looked up, meeting those green eyes, which were now dilated with desire.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered, her voice shaking in the most erotic way. Like she was on the edge of control. He was going to push her over.

  He didn’t answer, just arched a brow and began to push her skirts up. Her gown was heavy, meant to keep her warm, and it seemed like he kept finding layers of fabric to the point that he shot her a look.

  She laughed, and the sound was like music. “It isn’t my fault. I wasn’t prepared to be seduced in a carriage. Had you given me advance notice, I would have worn something different.”

  He grinned as he finally got the skirts up over her thighs and found the silky drawers she wore beneath. He parted them, opening the slit there as wide as it would go as he dropped down to his knees and pushed her legs apart.

  “Ewan,” she gasped as he dragged a finger up her inner thigh, then parted her outer lips gently. Her sex glistened, already wet, already ready for him.

  He grunted a sound of desire and then bent his head and swiped his tongue across her.

  She writhed immediately and his name burst from her lips once more. “Ewan!” This time with urgency, with desire, with passion.

  He stroked over her a second time, a third, increasing the pressure of his tongue each time, dancing it over her clitoris to tease her.

  She dug her hands into the leather carriage seat, her head lolling back. “Please,” she breathed.

  He didn’t have to be asked twice. And though he wanted to savor this, spend hours doing it until she was weak and spent beneath his mouth, he knew they had very little time before they’d be back at the estate. So he had to focus and he had to make this perfect.

  He stroked firmly, over and over, the same rhythm with each lick. She lifted into him, grinding against him as her breath went short and her arms and legs began to shake. He sucked her clitoris, flicking it with his tongue as she moaned and lurched beneath him. She was almost there, so close.

  He lifted his gaze as he continued to ravage her with his mouth and his tongue. She was staring at him, eyes wide, lips parted, beauty personified, desire in the flesh.

  He glided a finger into her sheath, then two, and she jolted, covering her keening cry of release with the back of her hand as he licked her through the crisis, pumping his fingers in and out of her as she bore down on him with every ripple of her sex.

  When her tremors had finally subsided, he gently slid her drawers back into place. He did the same with her skirt and helped her sit up properly on the carriage seat. She tucked herself against his chest with a shuddering sigh and he wrapped his arms around her, smoothing her hair as they drove the last mile up the long drive.

  “If that is my Boxing Day gift,” she murmured as she leaned up to press a kiss along his jawline, “I approve.”

  He turned his mouth toward hers and she lifted into him, her tongue tangling with his. He knew she could taste the sweet flavor of her release and she sighed as she took it. The carriage came to a stop far too soon, and he moved to the other side of the vehicle as the servants rushed to open doors and help them down.

  For the first time in a long time, he felt perfectly right, perfectly free. For the first time in forever, he was ready to face his future.

  She stepped out of the carriage first and he followed. As he did so, he found her looking past their carriage, further up the circular drive. “Were you expecting visitors?” she asked.

  He followed her gaze and his heart all but stopped. There, parked on the drive ahead of his rig, was a carriage. It had a crest on the door, one he knew far too well. And in that moment his good humor faded, his hopes for the future forgotten as a wave of pain from the past washed over him.

  That was his mother’s carriage. Which meant his family was here.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Charlotte watched as all the color drained from Ewan’s face. His eyes lit with emotion, but there was no warmth to it. There was pain, there was heartbreak, there was even fear. His whole expression grew long and drawn and tight. Gone was the man with the rakish smile who had lifted her skirts in the carriage. Now he was that little boy again, the one she’d met all those years ago whose heart had been crushed by his family.

  She had seen that same look he had now, always in association with his father, a man long dead and incapable of doing any more harm. Or so she’d thought. Hoped. Prayed.

  She moved around to look more closely at the carriage Ewan stared at with such horror, and she gasped. The crest on the door matched Ewan’s own: a lion and a griffin holding up a flag decorated with fans.

  “Ewan,” she breathed. “Who—”

  “Mother.” He slashed out the word with his fingers without looking at her, a harsh motion that cut the air like a whip. His eyes remained focused on the crest and all it represented in his heart.

  Her throat closed. She had only met Ewan’s mother once, at a Society party years ago. The woman was cold as ice, hard as stone. Charlotte had looked at her and seen exactly the kind of person who would allow her child to be abused and abandoned without once
raising a ruckus or asking to see the boy she’d born. Charlotte had avoided her ever since, along with Ewan’s bastard brothers who had taken so much pleasure in being the accomplices to their father.

  “Why is she here?” she whispered. “She wasn’t invited, was she?”

  He shook his head with almost painful slowness and she understood without him having to say a word. Understood and felt for him, empathy that came from the very depths of her soul. She reached for him, closing her fingers over his bicep as she willed all her strength and love to pass to him. He needed them now.

  He glanced down at her.

  “I’m here,” she said softly as he led them up the stairs to where Smith had just opened the door to greet them. The butler looked drawn as they came into the foyer.

  “Your Grace, Lady Portsmith,” he said as he took the overcoats and gloves. “I assume you have noticed we have visitors?”

  “My mother?” Ewan signed, this time with less pain. Charlotte translated.

  “And Lord Josiah and Lord Roger,” Smith said with a pinched expression that said volumes about his displeasure in sharing this news. “They are being entertained in the parlor by your invited guests.”

  Ewan nodded slowly, his gaze distant as he looked off toward the parlor where Charlotte could hear indistinct voices murmuring.

  “Did they say how long they planned to stay?” Charlotte asked.

  Smith shot her a look. They were partners in that moment, both wanting to protect Ewan, neither able to do so. Not this time. “No, my lady. They did not.”

  She nodded and squeezed Ewan’s arm. “I know you’ve already done everything in your power to make everyone comfortable, Smith. Stand by for more instruction, will you? I’ll let you know if they are…staying for a meal.”

  Smith seemed horrified at the idea for a moment and his gaze slipped to Ewan with all the same empathy that Charlotte, herself, felt. Then the emotion was gone, wiped away by decades of training, and he inclined his head with disinterest.

  “Of course, my lady. It being Boxing Day, there is much left over.”

  “Oh, gracious, you were brought out of your rest by this unexpected visit, weren’t you?” Charlotte said with an apologetic look for him. “Go back to your day, Smith. I promise we can take care of this.”

  He lifted his chin. “Certainly not, my lady. I stand at the ready for instruction.” She reached out to touch his arm briefly, and he leaned forward and handed her a folded note. “You also received a message from Mr. Griffin, of the emporium in town.”

  She nodded as she took the letter and briefly looked at it. She frowned. She had asked the gentleman to have the silver notebook for Ewan delivered, but he was requesting that she come pick the item up. Certainly she wasn’t about to do that now, not when Ewan’s family had descended to do God knew what to him.

  “Thank you, Smith,” she said, and shoved the note into her pelisse pocket.

  She glanced at Ewan. Throughout the entire conversation, he had continued to stare, unmoving, down the hall. She wasn’t certain he had even attended to any of it.

  She took his hand gently. “Are you ready?”

  He sighed and signed, “No. But there is little choice in the matter.”

  She drew a deep breath herself and they moved to the parlor together. He opened the door slowly, allowing her to enter the room first. Her gaze darted around the room and she took in the scene.

  Matthew and Aunt Mary stood by the fireplace. Matthew’s arms were folded and his usually kind face had taken on a hard expression of anger she’d never seen from him. The duchess looked equally upset, though she was clearly fighting to maintain some decorum.

  Baldwin and Charlotte’s mother sat on the settee together, their discomfort clear even as they acted the hosts for the three people across from them.

  Ewan’s mother was one of them. She was thin and angular, with a pinched face and cool eyes that lifted as they entered the room, flowed over Ewan behind Charlotte and then darted away. Like he was nothing. Like he wasn’t the son she hadn’t seen for...well, it had to have been years. Probably since all the fighting for Ewan to take his proper place as Duke of Donburrow.

  But if her expression was cold, that of the men on either side of her was worse. Charlotte recognized them, too, from ballrooms and parlors across Society. On the Duchess of Donburrow’s left was her youngest son, Roger. He was portly and red, like he drank too much. It had aged him considerably, despite the fact that he was only three and twenty. When he looked at Ewan, he bit his lip, his face scrunching like he was trying to decipher some difficult puzzle.

  On her right was her middle son, Josiah. He looked more like Ewan, really, but with none of the bright intelligence or gentle kindness on his face. His blond hair was cut short, as was current style, and his angular face was free of facial hair. If the duchess looked indifferent and Roger curious, Josiah was something else entirely.

  Charlotte looked at him, and her heart stuttered. He was staring at Ewan with pure hatred. It was so intense that she wished to throw herself in front of the man she loved. To protect him.

  It seemed the young man had not forgiven his elder brother for prevailing in the fight over who would be duke. Three years later and he still looked bitter.

  Ewan glanced at her and she nodded, desperate to do anything to help.

  “Good afternoon,” he signed as all in the room rose at their arrival. “I’m sorry I was not at home, I didn’t realize you were coming to call.”

  The Duchess of Donburrow shot Charlotte a look as she translated Ewan’s words, but then stepped forward. “We were at the estate in Lindborough that you were so kind as to grant to us.” She glanced at her two sons, who remained hanging back. “I thought we would come to call for the holiday.”

  Charlotte held her breath as the duchess reached Ewan. Still there was no connection in her eyes as she looked at her oldest son. Nothing but blankness and cool detachment. A muscle in Ewan’s jaw twitched, and it took everything in Charlotte not to take his hand in comfort.

  “Welcome,” he signed, and then nodded at his brothers in greeting.

  “Did he hire you as a translator?” Josiah sneered as he turned and stalked to the sideboard, where he dug around in the cabinet and withdrew a bottle of sherry. His younger brother tracked the motion with hungry eyes, but didn’t move to request a portion. Without asking leave, Josiah poured himself a hefty portion and downed it in one long swig. “It’s Lady Portsmith now, isn’t it? Sister of Sheffield, here?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte caught the way her brother stiffened. She fought not to do the same. These men were bullies, raised to be so by their wretched father. She refused to rise to their bait, no matter how cruel and horrible their tones were.

  “Indeed,” she said. “His Grace and my brother have long been friends.”

  “I’d heard about the little secret language,” Josiah continued with a snort. “And here it is. Seems like all rumors are true.”

  He shot his brother a meaningful look, which Roger turned away from. The youngest of Ewan’s brothers looked very uncomfortable at present, and something anxious stirred in Charlotte’s stomach. She didn’t like the undertones that seemed to course between the men.

  She didn’t like the hatred that still shot toward Ewan from Josiah.

  “Please, won’t you sit again?” Charlotte asked, stepping into the role of hostess as a means to calm the tension that filled the room. “Does anyone need freshening of their tea or…” She looked at Josiah with a gulp. “Drink?”

  Roger and the Duchess of Donburrow took their seats again. Charlotte could not help but notice that Ewan’s mother never touched him. She once again hardly looked at him as she settled into her place. Ewan sighed almost imperceptibly and fetched some chairs from the perimeter of the room as Charlotte moved to his aunt and cousin at the fireplace.

  “When did they arrive?” she asked, meeting each of their gazes firm
ly.

  “Half an hour ago,” Matthew managed through clenched teeth. “Demanding to be seen, refusing to be put off. I swear, I should put my fist—”

  Aunt Mary reached out a hand to rest on her son’s forearm. “That will do us no good, my love. Though I cannot fault the sentiment.”

  “No,” Charlotte whispered. “I don’t like it.”

  “None of us do,” the duchess affirmed with a brief glance. “That woman never gave a whit about Ewan. I used to write her, you know, with updates on his progress. A year after he moved to us, she wrote me asking me not to do it anymore. That she had no interest.”

  Charlotte stiffened, but drew a breath to calm herself. “I hate this, but will you please come join the circle? I think our support will help Ewan a great deal.”

  They nodded immediately and moved to the circle. Charlotte smiled as Aunt Mary took a place beside her nephew, resting a hand on his briefly before she said, “You look well, Melinda.”

  The Duchess of Donburrow glared at her. “As do you, Mary.”

  There was silence that stretched after their terse exchange and Charlotte gritted her teeth as she poured Ewan some tea and sweetened it. “What brings you to our happy celebration?” she asked, working hard to keep her voice light.

  “Sometimes one just wants to come check up on the things that should be his,” Josiah snapped, and Charlotte spun on him, nearly spilling the tea as she caught her breath.

  The cruel remark broke the tension and the room erupted. Matthew and Baldwin both leapt to their feet, shouting at the same time at Josiah. This seemed to encourage Roger, who moved to his brother’s side in the argument. The Duchesses Tyndale and Sheffield reached for their sons, making some kind of argument of peace or perhaps just involving themselves in the fray, Charlotte wasn’t certain of which in the din of noise that filled the parlor.

  Through it all, the Duchess of Donburrow just sat, sipping her tea as she stared at Ewan with those cold, emotionless eyes. Ewan watched it all, still for a moment, his expression unreadable. Charlotte had no idea how he felt, and that was so rare a thing that it left her feeling…bereft. Empty.