Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

Charlotte didn’t care for London. Never had.

It was far too noisy and dirty, and trying to find peace in the middle of such chaos only led to disappointment.

At least with her plants, she didn’t have to pretend to be anyone she wasn’t. Namely, the Duchess of Dandridge.

She didn’t care to disappoint anyone, which she always felt like she did. After years of being a duchess, she had learned everyone held expectations of her, which she rarely lived up to.

For a while, she had almost convinced herself that was why Ian had abandoned her. He was embarrassed about calling her his bride. Maybe she had said or done something to upset him. It had taken years for her to stop her mind from spinning at night trying to decipher the reasoning.

Even now, as he sat at the breakfast table in their Mayfair home, reading the newsprint as she sipped her tea and read a book, she feared he would leave again. Though Charlotte had agreed to a trip to London with Ian, it had been nearly a week since that night in the bathtub with him.

A week and not a kiss or touch since, just simmering tension, heated glances, and friendly chatter .

Friendly .

She frowned and flipped another page in her book. She didn’t wish to be friendly with Ian. The man demanded a more assertive approach, and since he returned, he had a way of making her catapult between having butterflies in her stomach or needing to smack him.

Charlotte reclined in her chair and tugged at her dress bodice, uncomfortable.

“Is something wrong?” Ian asked, never glancing up from his paper.

“Fine.”

But the truth was, she was far from it. A certain madness had swept over her. Lust was a hunger that never ebbed away. It was a constant longing and ache. Her body wished for his touch, her mind only thought of kissing him again… and this dress was the most irritating, scratchy garment she had ever owned.

“I need to visit the modiste,” she grumbled, closing her book and standing. She had a dozen dresses upstairs to wear, but if they were to be in London for any length of time, a new dress couldn’t hurt.

He folded down the corner of the paper and narrowed his dark eyes on her. “I will come with you.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, scoffing, “You want to visit the modiste with me?”

Then it happened.

Ian had always possessed a certain magic that Charlotte could never withstand. His eyes would study her slowly, and even from across the room, she swore his hands had been exploring her body.

Her mouth dried as a slow grin spread across his lips. “Yes.”

She licked her lips, her mouth dry as she walked around the table and headed for the hallway. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ian.”

He folded the paper and set it on the table. “I wish to spend time with you.”

Charlotte laughed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t believe you. There must be something else you must see to?—”

Ian stood, slowly stalking toward her, robbing her of her words. She dropped her hands and backed up, her pulse thrumming in her ears as a nervous giggle escaped her.

“You,” he said, pinching a lock of her hair between his fingers. “All of London can rot. I am here only for you.”

She could smell the tea on his breath from breakfast as she melted back against the doorway.

“We’ll be in the gossip rags tomorrow.”

“Because I am out with my wife? I don’t give a damn what they say.”

He placed his hand on the wall beside her ear, leaning closer, teasing her with the ghost of his lips.

Tempting. Sinful.

“I do,” she countered. She glanced down, then back up to his mouth, attempting her own sort of magic.

“What can they say that will hurt you now, Honeybee? I’m back.”

“They have been terribly cruel.”

Ian’s exhale was cutting and heavy with regret. “Not anymore. I won’t allow it. I will protect you.”

Charlotte clutched her hands to fight from touching him. “I think I need to be protected from you the most.”

“Don’t we desire the same thing?” He rested his forehead against hers, one small touch that set her body on fire.

She wasn’t certain what she wanted any longer. Or how she truly felt about her husband. Only that he had returned, and the life she had carefully created for herself was slowly unraveling.

His breath was hot on her lips, his mouth still too far away from where she wanted it at the moment.

“I will go with you today,” he said, “and if they say anything, today, tomorrow, or three years from now, they will need to answer to me. No one is allowed to say anything cruel to you because of how I acted.”

“It’s not so simple.”

“Nothing ever is.” Ian pulled back enough to gaze at her, his eyes full of lust. “I won’t touch you again until you ask for it. While we’re in London, I am at your disposal. ”

“I don’t wish to play games, Ian.”

“Who said anything about playing? No, I want what’s mine, and that’s you.”

“I still want a divorce. I think that’s best given what’s happened between us.”

“You agreed to give me until the end of the summer.”

She slipped away, hating the distance she put between them. “I am not convinced you want me for any other reason than you believe it’s your birthright to have me as your duchess.”

“You’re mine,” he said plainly. “Since that night I saw you across the ballroom. There is no one else for me.”

“Maybe so, but I am not something to own. And I am certainly not a toy you can decide when and where to play with, Ian.”

“Until the end of summer,” he reminded her. “ Please .”

She nodded, retreating upstairs to dress.

An hour later, Charlotte was still out of sorts after riding to the modiste with Ian. When the carriage rolled to a stop, she gathered her things to leave, but he leaned over and grabbed the door handle.

“Lottie.”

She peeked at him from over her shoulder.

“I will go with you.”

“I have visited the modiste by myself often enough. There is no need. I will not be long.”

He released his hand and relaxed back against the seat. “Very well. I will be in the bookshop. When you are finished, please come find me. We can get ices after.”

Charlotte was ready to agree until her thoughts caused her to spin to him. “Why have you come back, Ian? Truly?”

He scoffed. “I told you. I want to spend time with you. It’s as simple as that.”

It felt like he had her heart in his hand and continued squeezing. A sweet torture, a painful madness. And she wasn’t certain there was any other way through such pain unless she decided she no longer could hide in what happened and instead, move through what he was offering her—a second chance.

“Very well.”

Charlotte entered the modiste to a wave of whispers. The skin on the back of her neck prickled in awareness.

“Your Grace,” Madame Gaillot greeted, walking out from behind the counter. “I didn’t know you were in Town.”

Though her accent was French, it was one of London’s worst-kept secrets that she was in fact born in St. Giles. The henna she used to dye her hair, or the coal pencil she used to place a mark on her left cheekbone, did not fool everyone. But at the end of the day, she made gorgeous gowns, and those were nearly as important as one’s reputation.

“She can’t hide now that her husband has returned,” someone said, none too quietly from behind a bolt of magenta satin.

She forced on a smile, even as her fingertips grew cold, and she was certain the room was closing in on her. The truth was, however inconvenient, Charlotte never outgrew her aversion to people or crowds. The gossip when Ian left only served as another reminder of how wicked the attention of others could be when turned her way.

“I should have written for an appointment, but I was out and thought I would stop by. I wish to have a new gown made.”

The modiste nodded and glanced at the other shopkeeper. “We might have some…” But the woman quickly studied Charlotte. “They might not be the correct fit.”

“Bad luck. Her husband will likely flee again…” Another whisper shot across the shop.

Charlotte glanced at the dark-stained floor, wishing to disappear. “I have several dresses from this shop.”

“It’s been some time since you have visited.”

“I’ve no need,” Charlotte said, wringing her hands together. “I haven’t spent much time in Town recently…”

“A dress won’t help her keep the duke.”

Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment and dragged in a deep breath. Even with his return, she was at fault. Even with him only a few shops down, the rest of the ton saw their story finished.

“Your Grace?” the modiste asked.

The ground wobbled beneath her feet, and she was certain her skin was red with the way it burned, but still, she opened her eyes and spread a docile smile across her lips. It would never serve to be rude. She was above the gossip even if it was cutting.

“I will make an appointment and return another day.”

It wasn’t as if she fled out of the shop. She tried her best not to appear so affected by the hateful words, but as Charlotte stepped out into the street, she didn’t have tears in her eyes from the chilly spring breeze either.

She searched the street for Ian, deflating when she didn’t spot him or the waiting carriage. Charlotte wiped her eyes and shivered, making her way to the bookshop. She weaved through the narrow aisles, searching before finding Ian hunched on the ground next to a pile of books.

“Charlotte?” He sprang to his feet. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” He braced his hands on her arms, but that wasn’t enough. She pushed forward, collapsing against his chest.

“What happened?” he asked again, his voice low against her ear.

“I want to go home.”

“What about a new dress?”

“I will find another shop. I will send for a modiste to visit us.”

He pulled back enough to cup her face in his hands. “Who hurt you, Honeybee?”

She shrugged.

He pressed his lips together and nodded, before dropping his touch and grabbing her hand. “Follow me.”

“Where are we going?” she asked, following him out onto the street.

“You are not leaving without a new gown today. Or five. No one will speak ill of you.”