Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

Ian remained still, pretending to be interested in the newspaper in his hands as he heard her footfalls in the hallway.

It wasn’t like her to sleep so late.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, stepping foot into the breakfast room. “I thought you would have left by now.”

Did she often make it a habit of avoiding him?

“I was waiting for you.”

At this, Charlotte’s eyes widened before she nodded and let out a soft exhale. He had noticed she had a habit of censoring herself in his presence, never entirely sharing everything she wished to say. She had always been too polite, and he craved any sort of reaction out of her.

Anything besides sad indifference.

Since slowly recovering from her fall, Charlotte had somehow slipped further from him. Keeping herself locked away, her reactions and comments always prosaic and short.

Ian folded the newsprint, leaning forward in his seat. “Are you riding this morning?”

He didn’t comment on her wearing breeches, but it didn’t matter. His body certainly remembered .

She arched a brow and crumpled her nose, as if understanding what he truly meant. “No, I need to tend to the bees in the apiary.”

“I remember those structures you showed me, so I assumed there might have been a hive or two but an apiary?”

“I have overseen a thriving bee colony here on the estate.” She spun, clutching the delicate teacup in her hands. “I am the Honey Duchess after all. Excuse me, no time for breakfast.”

“The gardeners surely…” He quickly threw down the newsprint and sprinted to catch up to her as she strode down the hall. Her honey hair swung against her back in a long plait as her hips swayed from side to side.

“I was instructed to leave the front of the estate untouched. I have found comfort in spending my time in the country, outside, usually in the garden or my conservatory. And yes, with my bees.”

“Your bees?”

She halted abruptly, and he would have done the same if he hadn’t been so transfixed by the confident way her body moved.

“Oh, ow,” she gasped as tea sloshed over her teacup and spilled over her linen shirt and splashed over Ian. “My tea…”

He couldn’t explain it, but suddenly it was as if he were a boy, struck at the sight of a beautiful woman. His wits escaped him as well as his words, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit.

“Sorry,” he said, reaching for her cup as she attempted to brush the warm liquid off his hands, and the teacup clattered to the floor.

Charlotte sighed and sank down to her knees, and Ian did the same, trying to pick up the fine china that had splintered into several large pieces.

“It’s only tea, Ian.”

“I remember how you like your morning tea. I apologize.”

She looked up at him, inches only separating their faces, her eyes wide as if he had just uttered something inane like I love you . “You remember?”

Ian’s mouth was suddenly dry, like he stuffed his shirt in his mouth to stem the words swelling in his chest. He raked a hand through his hair .

“I never forgot, Lottie. I remember everything.”

She closed her eyes as if savoring the way her name left his mouth in a raspy rush.

He stood up and reached his hand out, helping her to her feet. Her hand fit perfectly in his, like it always had, and he was suddenly hit with another wave of longing and something else far more painful.

Regret.

“Would you like another cup of tea?”

Charlotte stared at the back of her hand still resting in his, her head tilted to the side as though lost in thought. Or maybe it was the same memory that had flashed before his eyes just then.

All those years ago, he had spotted her across a crowded ballroom with pearls and orange blossoms in her hair, wearing the most beautiful yellow dress. He had been struck then like a fool, his feet moving toward her before his head or his heart could catch up to him. He wasn’t certain what he had said, only that she sprayed lemonade all over his new vest before her lips had spread into the most perfect smile.

Just as suddenly, Charlotte withdrew her hand and shook her head on a loud exhale. Memories.

Ghosts.

When she stepped away and glanced at him again, the hope had long disappeared. He had done that. He was certain of it now, and for all his pretending, he did care to correct that now. But was it too late?

“No need for tea. And I believe you once instructed me never to worry about whether we could afford fine things. Don’t fuss over the cup.”

Ian bit his bottom lip, quickly catching up to her as she strode through the door and into the park. It was a beautiful April day, the spring sun warm.

“I don’t remember saying that.”

“Hmm,” she said, peeking over her shoulder.

He was certain he was going to hell for how he couldn’t steer his attention away from her bottom in those breeches.

“Remind me,” he urged .

“Stop staring, Ian.”

He stopped and guffawed, surprised at how direct she had grown.

She spun and threw her hands to her hips, wide hips that he wished to brace his hands on as he explored her body. Finally, after all these years.

Though her nose was scrunched in frustration, a smile played on her lips, and he vowed then he would gladly get caught staring at her fine arse for the rest of his days if it meant he could see her smile.

More .

He was a man starved for her. A taste would never be enough. But it had always been feast or famine between them, hadn’t it?

“Why did you mention that comment about what the estate can afford?”

She shook her head, her smile dropping. “No, no we will not be doing this, Ian.”

“It’s a fine bottom, wife.”

Charlotte tossed her arms up into the air, laughing. “You give me whiplash, you know that?”

When it came to his wife, he realized he didn’t know nearly anything. That didn’t mean he didn’t wish to correct that. It was the only challenge that interested Ian at the moment.

Unfortunately, for Charlotte.

“I am here to help.”

“I don’t need help. I have managed the bees on my own for some time now.”

They walked at a quick pace now, eating up a great distance as they made their way down the large hill behind the estate, near the folly and the pond.

“I wish to fix that.”

“So, you have told me.”

It was his turn to be frustrated. “Should I not?”

“I don’t wish to argue. That’s all we ever seem to do.”

“I don’t want that to be the case either.”

“What do you want, Your Grace?”

“You keep bees now? You wear breeches? ”

“Yes!”

“Bees, Lottie?”

“That smirk on your handsome face is hardly as endearing as you think it is.”

“Handsome now?”

She clucked, shaking her head. “As if you ever knew otherwise. You might be the vainest man I know. Your good looks are no surprise.”

“I haven’t heard you say so in quite some time.”

Her cheeks burned bright as she swatted away his heated stare, then moved once again, fleeing.

But he wasn’t finished yet. He felt they were close to something if only she would stop running from him.

“Bees, Charlotte?”

“Have you lost your hearing? Yes, bees.”

She reached over to unlatch a garden gate, then gestured for him to follow. A stone wall, covered thick in twisted brown vines, guarded several empty garden beds. A few patches of sleepy daffodils nodded in the breeze, and beyond, the start of the apple orchard.

There was a small shed set off to the side, where she grabbed some supplies as he remained by the wall, watching her move about in the sunlight.

“Bees seem like a specific choice,” he said at last. His heart drummed in his chest. “And when I left, there wasn’t an apiary at Stonehurst.”

He could tell by the set of her shoulders she was actively ignoring him.

“It has nothing to do with how I used to call you Honeybee?”

She tripped, dropping the netted veil in her hand.

Ian fought back a laugh, not from her tripping, but at how right he was.

“I honestly do not need your assistance,” she said. “And you will likely be stung.”

He closed the gate behind him and squinted, watching as the sun filtered through the giant oak behind Charlotte and danced around her. She had always been a magnet for light. There was nothing warm or light about Ian. His moods could be foul, his outlook grim, and he much preferred riding or reading than dealing with the rest of his peers in London. Life, he had discovered while traveling, was so much larger than the social game of the ton, but as Duke, he was expected to play by the rules.

“They wouldn’t dare sting me.”

She snickered, shaking her head as she appraised two hives, each in a different frame structure. Wisps of blonde hair curled around her ears and at the nape of her neck, drawing his eyes and stirring more than a memory.

Once, she had issued the softest moans while he kissed her along the column of her throat.

“When will you learn not everything or everyone will do as you please?”

“Aren’t they supposed to? I’m?—”

“A duke. Yes, we all know, Ian.”

He tugged on his jacket, the smirk on his face melting into something a lot like disappointment. “Isn’t that why you married me?”

She grew still a moment, a wrinkle setting in between her brows.

He had meant it as a jest, yet perhaps there had been too much truth there. That had been the rumor he had heard after all, the night of their wedding. She had only been another title hunter and trapped him into marriage. He had believed it as well, given how eager she had been to share a bed with him after his proposal.

Charlotte glanced at him before removing a piece of bark from a bundle wrapped in newsprint. Quickly, she struck a piece of flint and set a small piece of bark on fire. She waved the smoke around the first hive, then pulled on a hat with a veil.

The same question had been the very one to drive a wedge into their union. And it was the same one now that seemed to pull her away when he was almost certain they had been flirting for the first time since he returned to Stonehurst.

Ian had missed that. And he craved for more. He was desperate for another smile, another laugh. Anything from his wife .

But he was discovering she was not so quick to hand out such pleasantries.

The same was said when they had first met. Others claimed she was too cold or too dull, as if any of those would be a mark against her character. When in truth, he had been completely captivated by her. Yes, she was shy in certain company, but she was brilliant. Too many in London would never know how much.

They often rode together in Hyde Park or picnicked and read together, sharing bits about history and architecture and botany. Charlotte had been fascinating, a wallflower who bloomed as they wrote letters and danced at balls and endlessly challenged him to be a better man.

He had fallen once for the wrong woman and knew it was selfish to do so again, but being so blinded by Charlotte, he gave into his desires and pursued her—against the advice of his father, and later, her parents.

“Stand back,” she cautioned.

He was transfixed, however, as the smoke swirled around the hives, lulling the bees as Charlotte removed the top of one hive.

“What are you looking for?” He toed closer, leaning forward to catch a better glimpse of what she was inspecting. Bees flew around as others bumbled over the worktable, subdued by the smoke.

He wasn’t sure what kind of magic she spun at her fingertips, but he felt himself calm as well. Perhaps because, for the first time in years, he watched Charlotte be completely at peace.

“I’m searching for the queen,” she said a moment later. “I have worked hard at building these two hives for observation. They aren’t very practical for harvesting honey. Either way, I refuse to participate in sulphuring.”

“Where’s the king?”

She grinned, not glancing up. “You won’t like the answer.”

His pulse picked up once more, and he leaned in farther. “Why’s that?”

“The males are called drone bees, and they mate with the queen once, then die. And if they don’t mate, they’re kicked out of the hive and die.”

When she looked up at him with a small grin, something in his chest squeezed.

“Are you teasing me, Lottie?”

“I know you prefer to think females are the weaker sex, but that’s not the case with bees.”

“I don’t prefer that at all…” his voice cracked as her brow arched at his rebuff. “Very well. I am accustomed to having everything go my way.”

But it wasn’t as if he considered women weaker. Is that what she thought?

“You do,” she said, returning to her work. “Naturally, of course.”

“Is that why you burned my wardrobe? Do you want to kick me out of the hive?”

The veil threw shadows across her face, but still, he could see the blush on her cheeks, and damn if it didn’t encourage him more to push what was and was not considered polite conversation with her.

“Oh, that’s right, the males need to mate first.”

She coughed, clearing her throat. “The praying mantis female beheads the male after mating.”

“I suppose I should consider myself lucky my suits were the only casualty.”

Charlotte replaced the lid and moved on to the second hive. Smoke swirled around them, and the bees buzzed, flying around her and Ian. “First, I need to remind you to stay back. And two, I would apologize about the suits but…”

She shrugged.

“Fair enough,” he said, ignoring the nagging feeling that he knew she would retreat soon, knew she only allowed him into her life in slivers. He didn’t want slivers anymore, he wanted everything.

“You seem…” she struggled for a moment with the tool in her hand. He reached to help as the skep suddenly flew up. Ian felt a sharp prick on his arm, then another, and another as the bees swarmed.

“Stay calm,” she cautioned, grabbing the smoke can .

But it was too late.

Ian snapped his hand away and smacked his arm, his heart racing as another stung him.

“Back away slowly,” she said.

But Ian was swatting them away, then turned and ran as his arm burned and suddenly felt heavy.

“Ian!” Charlotte shouted after him.

He didn’t know where he was running, only knew he had to put distance between himself and those damn bees.

He raced up the hill toward the house, his eye swelling shut as he heard the carriage on the drive. They weren’t expecting guests; he had worked hard to finally have Charlotte to himself.

He swung his head to the carriage that rolled to a stop before the door opened, and a giant beast bounded from inside and galloped directly at him at an alarming rate.

Ian braced himself, his feet refusing to budge as the dog leaped at him and knocked him to the ground. The dog licked his face as his body burned from the bee stings, and then his least favorite person came into view.

“If you hurt her, Your Grace, I’ve brought help. You will pay.”

With a sigh, he cleared his throat. “Hello, Miss Bancroft.”

“It’s Mrs. MacInnes now,” a deep Scottish burr answered.

Kate stood her arms akimbo, her boot tapping out a fast rhythm against the drive. “Now, the truth of it, Your Grace. Did you hurt my Lottie?”