Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The following morning, Charlotte woke early, as was her habit. She lay in bed for a long while, watching the sun rise through the window. She had been so exhausted the night before that she had quite forgotten to close the drapes, but for that she was now grateful.

She had slept well and for many hours, but her dreams had been full. She was at the lake again, her hands raised above her head as she prepared to dive into the glistening water below. She heard the crack of the twig, just as she had in real life. Though, this time, it wasn't from a man hiding between the trees but from a man approaching her.

She caught sight of him just as she launched herself into the air then sliced through the water seamlessly. She swam beneath the surface until she reached the far side of the lake. When she broke through, water cascading from her hair, she found herself next to the man.

He was in the water now, moving seamlessly thanks to the magic of dreams. He gazed at her as if she were an angel come down from heaven. She stared at him open-mouthed, this, the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

"I am sorry to disturb you," he said, his voice like soft velvet. "But I couldn't resist joining you."

In her dream, Charlotte could hear the blood rushing in her ears, feel the first stirrings of desire in her belly. The tightness began to wind within her, and she want him to reach inside her and loosen it.

"I was hoping you would," she replied in a husky voice.

He stared at her as if she were the only woman in the world, and she stared back, her own world reduced to only him. They said nothing, yet they communicated with their eyes, their souls talking silently to one another.

He leaned forward, his body gliding through the water, and he placed a hand on her cheek. His touch was cool against her warm skin, and she leaned into him, placing a delicate kiss on his damp palm. Her heart beat loudly, urging her on in her boldness. With him, this dream man within a dream, it didn't feel like boldness. It felt natural, like it was all she had ever wanted.

When she turned her head to look at him again, he leaned in. His lips touched hers with the softness of silk. He leaned in further still. His chest, hard and muscular, pressed up against her breasts, and Charlotte moaned into his mouth.

When she blinked awake, she gasped. Her body cried out for the man she knew wasn't real. Even if she'd allowed him to talk to her the previous day, he would not have been that man in her dreams. She squirmed beneath her blanket, not wanting the tingling sensation to go but too fearful to encourage it to stay, until eventually she lay still and watched the sun rise through her window.

It was barely thirty minutes before she decided to get up. She had never been one for lounging in bed, preferring instead to do something active, and as the last wispy images of her dream faded from memory, she rose from her bed with a sigh and dressed quickly.

It would be the first day since her arrival that she didn't go to the lake for an early morning swim, but how could she go? She couldn't risk seeing the poacher again, or whoever he was. The man of her dreams. She wanted to, that secret part of her that still churned with desire, but she knew she couldn't. She knew it would be a mistake. He wouldn't be there, she was certain of it, but it just wasn't something she could risk.

Alas, instead she found her way down the stairs, deciding to take a little breakfast instead. At least she was certain she would be left in peace, given how early it still was. The others in the household seemed not to rise until late into the morning.

When she stepped into the breakfast room, however, there was already someone there. She paused, uncertain. It was a man, though she couldn't see much of him for the broadsheet that he held open in front of his face. She considered turning and leaving, not in the mood for conversation. But she hesitated for just a moment too long, for the man cleared his throat and spoke from behind the wall of newspaper, amusement lacing his voice.

"Well, well, sleeping beauty arises early this morning."

Charlotte turned to look at him, shocked by his words, just in time to see him lower the newspaper and gape at her in horror.

"I... I, goodness, I am sorry, I thought you were someone else."

In equal shock, Charlotte stared back at him, her mouth hanging open in the most unladylike of manners. It was the man from her dreams turned real. It was the man from the lake, sitting in front of her as if that were entirely normal. In Lord Hurtle's estate!

And to make matters all the more confounding, he was dressed as a lord and looking several times handsomer than he had the day before. Charlotte raised her hand to fan her reddening cheeks, worried she would swoon.

"What are you doing here?" she managed to ask at exactly the same moment that he uttered the words, "Goodness, it's you."

Charlotte's eyes darted around the room, wanting to land upon him yet avoiding him as much as she could. To look at him would send her swooning yet again, and she didn't think she could handle any more emotion than already swirled around inside her. She felt the tingling from this morning return to her thighs as flashes of her dream came back to her.

She cleared her throat, suddenly infuriated, and she looked directly at him and marched into the room. She would not be made to feel awkward and uncomfortable, not when she had every right to be there. With her chin in the air, she found a seat opposite him, sat down with aplomb, and motioned to the maid to pour her a cup of tea.

His eyes had not left her, his disbelief coming off him in waves. Charlotte continued to focus on her breakfast, first taking a little toast and then dipping her knife in the marmalade. She scraped it across the toast then put it on her plate. She leaned over for a little ham, wildly conscious of his presence, of his gaze, when he spoke again.

"I didn't mean to call you sleeping beauty," he said, the words tumbling out quickly before he yet again cleared his throat .

She glanced up at him, risking a look. She wanted to remain furious, annoyed that this man had intentionally deceived her about his true identity. He hadn't, of course. She hadn't allowed him the chance to explain himself at all.

But that didn't mean she couldn't be furious about it, and the way his eyes sparkled made it all the worse. She felt as though he looked into her very soul, as if he could see the dreams she'd had last night. She squirmed and looked down again.

"Do you make a habit of saying such to ladies you do not know, sir?" she asked, her lips pursed in annoyance.

"No," he snapped defensively. "Of course not. I thought you were…" He sighed, giving up on his line of thought. "Perhaps we ought to start again. Are you a member of this household?"

Charlotte glanced at him again, her eyes flicking to him from under her lashes. She considered rebuffing his question, refusing to answer him, but if he was there, with free reign in the house, he must have been important to Chelsea's family. And that meant that she was likely to see him again.

"Miss Charlotte Fairchild," she replied, her focus still entirely on her breakfast. "Best friend to the bride to be, Lady Chelsea Hurtle. And you are?"

She raised her head and looked at him properly, taking in the shape of his face, the squareness of shoulders. A flash of the naked chest from her dream ran through her mind. Would his real chest look similar? Would it feel the same beneath her palms?

"The Duke of Ashbourne," he said through tight lips. "Alexander Wentworth. Here with one Stewart Stanhope, cousin to the bride."

Charlotte's hand paused with her toast halfway to her mouth, and she raised a single eyebrow at him. She had known that Chelsea's cousin was bringing a friend . She'd even been told that he was a duke. But such a handsome one? No one had told her that .

"Duke, you say? And there I was thinking you were a poacher on the Hurtles' land, what with the way you were stalking through the trees."

"And I thought you a maid, for I have never before seen a lady behave with such little care for prying eyes."

Charlotte stared at him, shocked for the briefest of moments, while he stared her down with daring. But the tension lasted only a second or two because Charlotte could not stop herself from giggling.

" Touché ."

They fell into a companionable silence, each working on their own breakfasts with the utmost concentration. And though she cut her ham into the smallest, daintiest of slices, she sensed every part of her body. The way her gown brushed against her bare skin every time she moved. The tickle of the loose strands of flyaway hair at the back of her neck—oh, how much she'd like it to be his lips instead. The very presence of her legs and the secret space they held between them.

And him. He is here.

Deciding she couldn't very well sit there in silence, allowing herself to be a painting for him—for he was surely looking at her—she huffed and put her knife and fork down.

"I must admit, Your Grace, I would have thought someone of your position would have better manners."

When she looked at him, he was leaning back in his chair, his hands around the rim of the teacup that was far too dainty for his manly hands. He stared back at her and scoffed.

"I beg your pardon, my lady, but I have done something to offend you?"

It was Charlotte's turn to scoff. "You mean other than the fact that you were spying on me yesterday?"

"Spying! I don't see how one can spy when the person is question is positively flaunting—"

"With all due respect, Your Grace," she interrupted, refusing to allow him to accuse her of flaunting anything. "But the fact you made an attempt at an apology yesterday proves to me that you knew yourself to be in the wrong."

The duke chuckled, eyeing her carefully. "I take your point on board, my lady, and thus I shall I offer you my apology again and hope that will be the end of the matter. I am dreadfully sorry that I happened upon you in the woods.

I should have left as soon as I spotted you, but as I am sure you will agree, the water looked tremendously inviting, both for myself and my poor, thirsty horse. Thus, once more, I apologize for the fact that you were in no fit state to receive a gentleman—or indeed, anyone else."

Charlotte narrowed her eyes at him. That was no sort of apology, and she could see the teasing in his eyes. She ground her teeth. He had not openly insulted her, and so she felt she must respond in kind. But that didn't mean she had to be civil toward him. She pointedly ignored him, instead taking tiny bites of her toast and chewing thoughtfully. She would show him who was ladylike!

After a long and awkward silence, during which he did not take his eyes from her once, he said, "Would it hurt you to at least try to be nice to me? It seems we will be living together for a few weeks, at least, and I am the duke."

Charlotte glared at him, partly because she had no desire to be nice to him—her irritation still burned inside her, after all—and partly because, even more infuriatingly, the man was right. They were likely to spend a great deal of time together over the coming weeks. Charlotte already knew how close Chelsea and Stewart were. She had even met Stewart once or twice when she had been very young, though she doubted he would remember her.

Grudgingly, she sighed, putting aside her annoyance. For Chelsea's sake, of course, not for his . Not for the annoying, alluring man in front of her. She certainly would not afford him any kindness for his own sake alone.

"Very well," she replied. "Though I cannot deny it will be a challenge."

"I do not doubt it," he countered. "Ladies of your ilk often struggle with nicety."

"Of my—" Charlotte stopped herself from snapping as she saw the laughter in his eyes. He was teasing her, tricking her into proving herself unfriendly and incapable of being civil. She wouldn't fall for it.

"You are down from London, then?" she asked.

"I am, as you can plainly see. Do you often go to London yourself?"

"I live primarily in London, yes."

"Oh!" He blinked at her in surprised. "I can't recall having seen you last season, and I attended every event there was."

"I am sure you did," she replied. "But I have not attended season for a year or two . I'm afraid I got rather tired of it all."

"The pomposity?" he asked. "It does get a little much, doesn't it?"

She raised her eyes at him, surprised that he had so easily agreed. It was rare to find someone who thought the same way as her. "Yes, that and the stuffiness."

"And the gossip doesn't help either," he said with a groan. "It becomes tiresome after a while, especially when one is subject to the sheets."

Charlotte raised her eyebrows at him. "Have you been mentioned in scandal sheets?" she asked, surprised at how easily he had admitted it.

"You mean to say that you haven't read them?" His disbelief made his voice squeak.

"I can't say such things interest me much," she admitted. "May I ask why you were targeted? Were you caught with some lady or other? I mean… well… given your habit of spying."

The duke chuckled, and the laughter lit up his face. She liked it, was drawn to it.

To him.

"Why would you think such a thing? Is it because of my wonderfully good looks?"

Charlotte reddened again and turned away. "I did not say that, Your Grace. Honestly, did no one ever teach you modesty?"

He chuckled again. "Ah, you're quite right, my lady. Perhaps I shall remember that the next time I am leaping off a rock into a lake, quite unaware of who might be watching. Oh, wait, no. That's not me, is it?"

Despite the tease in his voice, Charlotte gasped. She opened her mouth to speak, but the rage that coursed through her was too strong, too fierce, and words failed her. Instead, she snapped her jaw shut, threw her cotton napkin onto her half- finished breakfast, pushed her chair back, and stormed out of the room.