Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Ian.

How he loathed the name on her lips now. The same mouth which once kissed him and confessed her love. The very same mouth that lied to him and promised she was not some scheming title hunter like his first betrothed.

He had believed her.

Until that evening.

And now, she stood before him, hiding behind her dressing room door, her large blue eyes red from crying.

Hate.

That was all he felt.

No, not entirely.

Rage.

At himself. At his father. At her damn parents. For everyone who had interfered. Because now he was left pleading with a woman who might as well be a ghost. A reminder of something he had well and truly lost.

“I have no time for tears.”

“Then what do you have time for, Ian? Are you planning to be gone before I break my fast in the morning, or are you planning on waiting until you have a row with your brother by lunch?”

Sweet Charlotte.

“Why didn’t you look at me?”

He sneered at her, disgust curling up in his stomach. He was furious. She had been beautiful when they married, nearly twenty-one, and when he had last seen her here at Stonehurst one regretful morning. Now she was gorgeous.

“Haven’t you made a fool of me enough?”

She wiped her nose, squaring her shoulders as if trying to muster up the courage to confront him.

The hell of it was, Charlotte smelled like apples and persimmons and roses after a spring rain. It was the most intoxicating scent that had haunted him these past eight years because he never had encountered anything like it while traveling.

He had spent time in Spain, Greece, France, and Prussia before dividing his time with relatives of his mother, an Italian countess, in Venice and a small village several miles south of Naples.

Red bit Charlotte’s rounded cheeks as she tucked her honey hair behind her ear. She always had the appearance of being meek, of placating even.

When he had seen her at the gallery all those years ago observing a large Flemish portrait, he understood it wasn’t that at all. She was observant and shy.

After staring at her a moment too long, he scratched his jaw and leaned a hand on the doorway. “A fool of you ? You lied to me. You told me you loved me.”

She shook her head, tears springing to her eyes once more. “I don’t know how many more times I must tell you, no matter what my parents may have told you, I did not seek you out for your title. Everything I felt for you then was earnest.”

He didn’t believe her.

Almost forty now, he had learned far too many times that everyone lied given enough time, and it hurt most coming from those one loved. Or thought, one loved anyhow .

Like his father for one.

“Let me in.” Though his pulse roared in his ears, his voice remained even. “Open the door, Charlotte.”

She shook her head, sliding her foot toward the bottom of the door to reinforce her weight.

His eye twitched.

“You have made it clear you don’t wish to see me, and it is late, I want to retire for the evening.”

“In your rooms.”

Charlotte tilted her head, her eyes first focused on his glare before briefly sinking down to study his mouth.

The resulting shock that buzzed through his body only enraged him more.

“Where I am standing now is my room. The Duke of Dandridge has always slept in this room for six generations. Never once did these quarters belong to the duchess. Never once has the duke been reduced to sleeping in a room designated for guests.”

“Then everything is right in the world once more. You have your room back.”

His hand gripped the elaborately carved doorway tighter. “I want our guests gone in the morning.”

His wife pulled her wrapper tighter, drawing his attention to her full, curvy figure. “I hardly think it fair to send them packing because you have decided to see if I was still here.”

“You never leave Stonehurst, Charlotte. You stay because you are my duchess. That is your duty. I knew you would be here.”

After all, she always did as expected, never wanting to upset anyone.

“This has gone on long enough. Aren’t you tired of hating me, Ian? I realize a divorce is difficult…”

“They are damn near impossible. But beyond that, I don’t wish to drag our marriage in front of my peers.”

“Too embarrassing?”

“Precisely.”

Her foot knocked against the door until she was reduced to a sliver. He was about to push it open when it slammed shut and the lock clicked.

“Imagine how I have felt, then.” Her voice cracked, even as she had nearly whispered the words through the door.

“Charlotte. I didn’t return to speak to you through closed doors. Open up.”

Ian stood there for a few moments, waiting and quiet. But it was a wasted effort because he felt her leave, felt the annoying tug at his chest, as if he were about to have the hiccups. Instead of slamming his fist against the wall as he wished, he sighed and balled his hands, spinning around to sweep a glance around his room.

He had only slept here a handful of nights. After his father passed and Ian became duke, he spent most of his time in Mayfair.

With hungry strides, he approached the windows facing the vast park. Years of work had been done to create a natural landscape at Stonehurst. Upon his leaving, Charlotte had preserved the front of the home but put in more formal gardens in the rear, according to the letters from his steward.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the plants on the wide window sash. Her plants. He should toss them out or have someone take them to the conservatory where they belonged.

Ian listened for Charlotte, but she was quiet on the other side of the door. She must have gone to bed.

Inside each pot was a small tag, her flawless penmanship gracing each with their scientific Latin name.

He hadn’t received a letter from her in years. Once, their relationship had subsisted on them. But he supposed love letters were not meant to be shared between two people torn apart by the truth.

Ian tugged at his cravat, slowly undressing. He was capable of doing it himself, contrary to the opinions of others. He was not so high in his step that he required constant assistance. And if he saw Daniel right now, he might say something he would regret, and he didn’t care to search for another valet.

With a frown, he approached his bed, noticing a green shawl on the floor, likely forgotten in her retreat .

Ian neatly stepped over it, then climbed into bed, curious if she had slept between his sheets while he was away. Did she lay there and think of him? Or did she hate him as much as he hated her?

He rolled over, whacking his pillow and settling in, frowning as he smelled her perfume again.

Ian hated Charlotte. He was almost certain of it. Or he had been. He’d found it easier in Italy, but now that he could see her and nearly touch her?

Fine, he did not hate her. But then, what did he feel toward her?

He had loved her once. And still after all these years, she haunted him, nevertheless. Even a room away, she left pieces of herself behind for him, almost guiding him toward her.

They would discuss their marriage in the morning. His plans still had not changed. As duke, he needed an heir.

There would be no divorce.