Chapter 22

Chapter

Twenty-Two

T wo weeks of bliss passed, and they were the happiest times of Alexander's life. He could not remember when he'd been so optimistic or content.

He was in love.

He adored Charlotte, and she loved him.

The knowledge and truth of that thought both energized his step and fueled his determination each day to better himself and to make the duke not just see him as his steward, but as a man worthy of his daughter.

But as the weeks passed, so too did the relentless gentlemen who, with the fear of the Season coming to a close, called on Lady Charlotte more often and with greater determination. It pleased the duke to no end and drove Alexander to distraction.

The sound of tea cups clinking, of voices and laughter drifting into his office, made his stomach lurch. He loathed hearing Charlotte sitting in the drawing room, conversing with other eligible gentlemen. His jaw clenched. Lord Livingston's overzealous laugh and compliments making his eye twitch.

Alexander threw his quill onto his desk, glaring at the door he'd closed to muffle the sound of another man trying to win the heart of the woman he loved.

There was only so much he could take before he broke.

A knock sounded on his door, and he called, "Enter," waving for the butler to come in when the old retainer came into view.

"Mr. Smith, can I help you?" he asked.

"There is a Mr. Fitzroy to see you?—"

"The duke is not home at the moment. Have Mr. Fitzroy leave his card, and I'll see that the duke is aware he called."

"Ah, no, Mr. Richards, you misunderstand. The Mr. Fitzroy would like to see you if you're not indisposed."

Alexander frowned, having never heard of this gentleman before, and indeed, today, he was not in the mood for anyone. "Have him leave his card. I'll let him know when a time is suitable."

"Of course." The butler left, and Alexander went to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of brandy. He shouldn't indulge in the middle of the day, but he needed to take the edge off his overwrought emotions after hearing the unwavering flattery toward Charlotte next door.

He downed his drink, and the burn of the brandy was a welcome distraction.

Not that what Lord Livingston was expressing was untrue or that Charlotte did not deserve such flattery. It was just that he wanted to be the one to say such words to her. He did not want anyone else saying anything of the kind when it ought to be him paying her compliments.

The butler returned, handing him the caller's card on the silver salver. "I informed Mr. Fitzroy you'll be in contact."

"Thank you, Mr. Smith."

Alexander slipped the card from the salver and read the name imprinted in gold foil lettering: Mr. Fitzroy, Solicitor.

Before he could think about his caller another moment, Charlotte strolled past his office door, which the butler had failed to close on his way out.

He looked up at the sight of her walking alongside Lord Livingston. They made an attractive couple, and the blood in his veins burned. Lord Livingston picked up her hand and bowed, kissing it with reverence. Alexander clenched his fist. The afternoon light kissed Charlotte's pretty hair; she was an angel and appeared even more unattainable than ever.

She dipped into a curtsy and smiled at his lordship, all sweetness and propriety—the perfect daughter trying to secure a suitable husband.

Lord Livingston left without any more fanfare, and Charlotte's mother joined her in the foyer, her words of praise making Alexander's hackles rise.

He could not stand listening another moment.

He reached for his coat on the back of his chair and left his office, striding toward the front door as if it were a lifeline that would save him from drowning in jealousy. He rolled his shoulders, needing to ease the tension thrumming through him.

Charlotte met his eyes, hers widening in alarm, but he ignored her, needing to get away to clear his mind and remind himself that she was playing a game—that she did not want anyone else other than him.

And yet, seeing her with others drove a stake through his heart and knocked the breath from his lungs. The thought of losing her, of never being suitable, of their love never being allowed to flourish, broke him in two.

"A hackney, thank you," he ordered a footman waiting at the door.

Behind him, he heard the duchess mention lying down before this evening's event. Charlotte did not say a word, nor did he hear her slippered feet leave the foyer.

He chanced a look in her direction and found her watching him. "Are you going out, Mr. Richards?" she asked.

"Yes." He didn't mean for his response to be curt, but he needed a moment to work through the envy that consumed him at the thought of Charlotte with anyone else.

"Oh, very good. I'll have you escort me to Lady Matilda's home. I'm due there shortly for lunch."

"I'm not heading toward Berkley Square, Lady Charlotte," he said, noting the raised, surprised brow of one of the footmen who'd heard him.

"Well, you are now, thank you, Mr. Richards."

She flounced past him, her skirt skimming his boots as she headed out the door. A footman stood waiting near the hackney he'd hailed, and after giving directions, Alexander helped Charlotte up into the vehicle before joining her.

He sat across from her and looked out the window, determined to keep his hands—and his opinions of Lord Livingston, who'd thrown himself at her feet—to himself.

The carriage rocked forward, jostling through the traffic as they started through Mayfair. The air between them thickened with tension, and he hated being as irate as he was. Not at her, but at himself and what he could not give her.

"You're angry. I can see that you are. Tell me what is wrong."

He winced, not wanting her to worry about such things. "I'm not angry at you but at our situation, which prevents me from having you all to myself."

She moved beside him, wrapped her arm around his, and laid her head on his shoulder. "But you do have me in every way that counts. I love you. I do not love Lord Anson or Lord Livingston. I do not want them, and I will never marry anyone if I cannot marry you. My parents will give way eventually, and I'm determined to get my wish when it comes to becoming your wife."

He kissed the top of her head, roses wafted from her pretty locks. He laid his cheek on her. "Watching Lord Livingston court you this morning… Well, I shall not deny the fact that I wanted to rip the bastard's head off."

She chuckled, looking up to meet his gaze. "Do you know how handsome you are when you're envious? I do like this side of you, Alexander."

"I feel like I'm going to lose you. That we will never get what we want, and you'll be forced into a marriage you do not want. I could not allow that, Charlotte. I will steal you away to Gretna if that is to occur, I should warn you."

"I'd love a Gretna wedding. I'd marry you anywhere."

He drank in the sight of her, wishing he would not have to steal her away from her home, friends, and family merely to have them married.

"Know that while I'm polite and listen to those who call on me, I do not give them any hope that there will be an understanding between us. My heart is spoken for, and nothing can change that."

"Do you promise?"

She leaned up, and he stole a kiss, relishing in the feel of her in his arms.

"I promise."