Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

Charlotte tugged on his hand, attempting to pull Ian backward as he stormed for the modiste.

“What did they say?” he snapped.

“Please, stop. This will only make it worse.”

There was something about seeing her cry that made him feral, like a fighter about to throw a knockout punch. No one was allowed to hurt her.

The bell on the shop’s door jingled at their entrance, but silence fell as all eyes turned to Ian and Charlotte.

No one gasped or whispered, no one fainted, but it didn’t mean the silence didn’t come to a roaring end when the modiste cleared her throat and discovered her backbone.

“Your Grace, it is a pleasure to see you. It’s been some time.”

Ian wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. He needed answers.

“Madame Gaillot, I wish to know why my wife just left your shop in tears.”

He felt Charlotte try to bury herself behind him, hiding herself away. He absolutely hated when she did that.

When the modiste didn’t answer, he stepped forward, dropping Charlotte’s hand. “Here is what I propose. You kindly ask the rest of the patrons to leave, and then you will personally see my wife gets anything she desires.”

“I can’t close my shop, Your Grace.”

“No?” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Then what is the arrangement you have with Lord Cantwell?”

“Well…” she blustered, her face red.

“The lovesick duke.” Someone giggled from the back of the shop.

His stare snapped to the two young debutantes holding ribbons in their hands. “What was that?”

“Please, there is no need for a fuss…” Charlotte hissed behind him. She grabbed his hand again and pulled.

Except she was worth a fuss. Every damn time. Fury pounded in his ears as watchful eyes studied him, picking him apart.

The ton was nothing if not vicious in their judgment.

Very well.

“I see you are not going to address my concerns. Close our account. We will go elsewhere from now on.”

“Now, Your Grace…”

He was about to shut down her excuses until Charlotte violently squeezed his hand, stemming his words. She walked out in front of him, her shoulders high. It was as if she had become another person entirely.

His duchess.

“There is no need for an apology, Madame Gaillot. Good afternoon, ladies,” she said, addressing the others in her shop.

“Please, Your Grace,” the modiste pleaded, following on Charlotte’s heels. “Allow me to make up for our… misunderstanding.”

Charlotte paused, signaling with her hand for Ian to hold up. He remained, even as the gossip in the shop grew to a murmur.

“Is she so desperate to keep him now?”

“… there have been several lovers…”

“It’s a shame. They were a love match once upon a time…”

And all the while, Charlotte didn’t flinch.

“No, there was no misunderstanding. Good day, Madame Gaillot.”

Ian followed behind Charlotte, his fists clenched at his side. Had she endured this every time she went out in London? Had he subjected her to the wolves?

“Wait, Charlotte. Wait.”

She quickened her pace, weaving through the crowded street.

“Darling.”

The endearment stilled her, freezing her retreat.

When she spun, the sadness had disappeared, and only an icy distance remained. “Don’t call me that.”

“There are a lot of new rules when I’m addressing you since I’ve returned.”

She shrugged. “I am sorry I tore you from the bookstore. I will find another modiste, please carry on…”

“Is it always like that?” he asked instead, inching closer. “The gossip?”

Charlotte wiped at her face and glanced around, her shoulders still pushed back and barely clinging onto the brave front she hid behind at the modiste. “Worse, Ian,” she whispered. “But let’s not pretend you care.”

“I do,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I do care because you don’t deserve that.”

“You were fine with leaving me to deal with it though, weren’t you? But now you’re back for an heir and suddenly struck with a conscience. Convenient, is it not?”

He pressed his lips together, knowing nothing good could come if he allowed himself to speak at that moment. There they were in the middle of Bond Street, having just caused a scene at the modiste, and Charlotte…

“I apologize,” he said. “I’ve embarrassed you, and that wasn’t my intention. I only meant to…”

She clasped her hands together, waiting. Charlotte adored silence. He found he dreaded it the most with her.

“I will not tolerate others treating you poorly when you have done nothing to warrant such behavior.”

“And that’s for you to decide, is it, Your Grace?”

“You are so ready to push me away, but I am here, Lottie. And I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stand here in the middle of Bond Street and scream it from the top of my lungs?—”

“No need. All London will read about your behavior in the gossip rags in the morning. Madame Gaillot is the most popular modiste in London.”

“Then I shall endeavor to find you a new modiste. One who treats you?—”

“I only want to return to Stonehurst.” She smiled at a passing couple, waving hello before turning back to him, the false cheeriness fading from sight. “I never should have agreed to London or to the summer. I can’t do this. With you. I don’t know why I believed I could.”

“Try,” he said, reaching for her hand.

But Charlotte didn’t budge. “I fear you lost me long before now. And whatever magic we found before we married is a memory. You can’t keep chasing a memory, Ian. You ignored it long enough, and some things cannot remain as they were forever simply because you wish them to.”

He rubbed his hand across his mouth and studied her. He could fix this, he could find his way to her heart, and he wasn’t prepared to let go so easily.

“Then we will make new memories, you and I.”

Ian stormed into his club in an absolutely foul mood an hour later.

He needed to win back his wife. Not win her back in name, but win back her heart. But that felt years and years away with how she continued to push him aside. When he returned, he had hoped the independence she had found during his absence would have been enough to soothe the hurt of leaving as he had.

But his time apart had only drawn the divide between them further. Independence or not, he had left his new bride, and he had foolishly believed the gossip of others over the love of his wife.

And the damnedest thing was, after this morning at the modiste, he craved for it again. To be held in that light of hers, to witness her smile and hear her laugh, and know he was responsible for bringing that joy to the surface.

“The duchess is driving you away already, Dandridge?” joked an old Eton buddy, now the Viscount Blackwell.

Since they had last seen one another, the viscount’s face had turned to all harsh angles. His cheekbones only drew more notice to his green eyes with enlarged black pupils, hollow cheeks bracketed by blond mutton chops, and thin lips.

It was startling to see.

Ian grumbled, plopping down into the leather club chair and removing a cheroot from his jacket pocket as a fire crackled nearby.

“Maybe it’s time to find a mistress in London…”

He glanced toward his old friend, annoyed London was still very much involved in his marriage.

“Tell me, Blackwell.” He grabbed the brandy handed to him by the server, then downed two large gulps in a desperate attempt to gain some footing. “Why are you concerned about my wife and me?”

“I was only making an observation. You don’t look well, and I heard about her accident.”

“Hmm,” he gave a heartless chuckle. “Accident.” As if that even began to describe what had happened.

“I know there have been rumors. Are you suggesting it was not?”

Ian drained his glass, then took another drag of his cheroot. “I nearly buried her.”

Once, Blackwell had almost been dismissed from Eton after cheating on his exams. Ian had pleaded with the headmaster to allow him to stay, eventually getting his father involved until Blackwell was allowed to remain. Over the years, the two friends had drifted apart, as only natural when Blackwell continued recklessly chasing friends’ wives and opium and gambling away a family fortune that also wasn’t his to begin with.

Blackwell sat up, dark circles under his eyes. It was only then Ian noticed his friend had likely been out all night given his state of undress .

“I can’t believe it. You’ve always been smarter out of the two of us. I didn’t expect you to be so foolish as to fall in love with your wife. Love matches are what debutantes dream of, not dukes.”

“How would you know?”

His friend waggled his brow, then reached into his coat for a vial, before pouring out opium powder into his glass. He offered it to Ian, but he refused, never liking the stuff.

“Women love titles, but above all else, the purse strings that come along with such a prize. As you well know.”

That very thought had wedged its way into his heart when he was younger, taking root after his first engagement when he went against his father’s advice. He had ignored it again when he married Charlotte. But he had done so because he had been just as hopelessly obsessed with her as he was now. The only difference was he had believed the gossip that she had trapped him into the marriage.

He hadn’t trusted himself to know if he had found love.

But that was then, and now he was back, and he wouldn’t stop until his wife loved him as much as he was in love with her.