Chapter Seven

ChapterSeven

The days ticked by with Charles' departure creeping ever closer, a thing they both refused to acknowledge through unspoken agreement. Ariel and Charles continued their dalliance in secret, meeting as often and for as long as they were able. Despite this private closeness, however, their public interactions were far more subdued.

For every social event one of them was invited to, he or she would drop hints until the hostess felt it had been her idea all along to ask the Duke of Ryton or Lady Ariel and the Earl of Darby to the gathering.

They managed to boil it down to an art.

When Charles and Ariel were near one another at those events, stolen, heated glances full of promise were cautiously timed and spaced out so as not to draw attention. They were careful to only nod politely in greeting or exchange simple, paltry pleasantries. It was agreed that they would never dance, though each secretly longed to do so. Charles wanted desperately to hold her in his arms in front of the shallow-minded assemblage and stake his claim; Ariel wished to be held close to him in the light. Both knew, however, that it would not do to set tongues wagging or get Arnie's hopes up if they spoke too frequently or danced too often. Even the dustiest of spinsters would attract notice if it appeared a duke had taken an interest in her…and Ariel knew deep in her heart of hearts that this was only a temporary arrangement. No matter how easy it was to forget when they were pressed skin-to-skin, or when his deep chocolate eyes were focused on her with earnest intensity when she spoke in long rambling sentences about a book she'd read or an artifact she'd seen during her last visit to the museum…Charles' departure was inevitable.

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It was only a matter of time before he returned to his old life…or at least as close to that as it could be. News traveled remarkably fast, especially in small social circles. The excited whispers had begun even before his trunks had been packed. With his unwanted inheritance secured, Charles had no doubt he'd be returning to a different Boston than the one he'd left. The upper echelon to which his firm catered would no doubt luxuriate in the fact that they did business with a duke; connections were everything and a duke was as close to royalty as many of them could hope to meet. The real question was whether his partners would wish for him to stay.

He'd recognized almost immediately that his newfound notoriety could draw unwanted attention to the practice and, while it could initially bring a boom in clients, evil and negativity would inevitably follow. If he'd been a sought-after catch in those circles and at those glamorous events before, then, doubtless, it would be at least a dozen times worse now. As grating as it was in London, at least these people were familiar with titled lords. In England, a duke was respected, even if the extra attention was fairly irksome; in America, Charles would be a fascination slathered in unwilling celebrity. Wealthy men would foist their daughters upon him, offering him any amount of money to bring an ancient title to their family. People would claw at him for his attention if only to say they'd rubbed elbows with a duke.

It didn't matter that he was still Charles Burke, the businessman born and raised in Boston; he would be Charles Matthew Burke, Fourth Duke of Ryton, Marquess of Camberly, Earl Browning, Viscount Stolle. He had more names now than he'd had addresses in his lifetime.

It was a painful process, but he was gradually prodding himself toward coming to terms with the fact that the life he'd once known was dead and gone, buried along with the old duke. Charles could return to America and pretend his trip to England hadn't been more than he'd thought possible, but it would be nothing more than an illusion born of denial.

The memories he took with him would not be of the interminable sea voyage, nor the grand receptions and balls and glittering Society, nor surveying his holdings and realizing for the first time just what it meant to be truly wealthy. To claim so would be a lie.

He would think only of plush curves fitted perfectly against his body, a sultry laugh, glittering eyes, and rose-gold hair draped across his chest.

No matter how frequently he denied it, there would be a decision to be made when his time in London reached its inevitable end.

∞∞∞

Ariel did her best to not develop feelings for Charles.

Really, she did.

As a matter of fact, she employed a number of tactics to keep her wayward mind and body in check. She pinched the inside of her wrists when she felt herself melting into a puddle at his nearness. She allowed herself to remain in his arms for no longer than five minutes after they made love, though, despite her best efforts, he tended to pull her back down beside him more often than not. She did her best to steer their conversations to neutral topics, but it was difficult when

he seemed to drink in her words and find her genuinely interesting. He wasn't offended when she inadvertently corrected his reference to a passage from the Odyssey—in fact, his sensuous lips had split into a blindingly charming smile and he'd thanked her for her knowledge. Thanked her. It had taken every ounce of willpower she possessed to not pounce upon him right then and there regardless of the fact that they were in a group with seven others sharing conversation and refreshments after a musical performance.

Hardly an hour passed when Ariel didn't remind herself that there was nothing more than physical attraction on Charles' side. He was far too handsome, and a duke on top of it! He would hardly have true feelings for her, an unconventional spinster. It didn't matter how often she caught him watching her, the ghost of a smile upon his lips; the way he leaned toward her when she spoke, how kindly he doted upon Mr. Bibbles, though Charles would deny it until his dying breath.

Besides, his days in London were growing short. He had frequently mentioned how he had a life and a business back in America, and he had no desire to live in England. He'd made it all very, very clear on several occasions.

It was exhausting, but Ariel continually reminded herself that pin- ing after the unattainable was futile, and she was better off settling for this brief period where they could enjoy one another before they each moved on with their respective separate lives —Charles, a duke in America; she, a spinster resigned to a life where she never again knew the feeling of being in a man's arms. She did her best to remain detached as they met for their coordinated interludes, but it grew more and more difficult.

They discovered a shared love of sweets when Charles surprised her with a bag of lemon drops coated in a dusting of sugar crystals.

Lounging naked and sweat-slickened upon Charles' bed, they'd taken turns popping the morsels between each other's lips.

Once, he'd handed her a rich red-leather bound book and admitted he'd come across it in the house's grand library and had immediately thought of her. It was a beautifully illuminated text detailing the history of Athens, the Grecian city named for her favorite goddess. She'd tried to decline the gift when she noted the inscription assigning it to Ryton House's private library, but he'd insisted with, "What good is a dukedom if I cannot pass out a gift or two?"

For her part, Ariel brought along small offerings for Mr. Bibbles (a ball of string one day, more kippers the next) as well as his owner.

She'd been shy the first time she brought Charles a miniature of a black cat she'd discovered in a shop. It was beautifully wrought despite its small size, the cat sitting regally upon an impractical ivory cushion, its jade eyes piercing and alive. The white splash on its chest made it look remarkably similar to Mr. Bibbles, "If," Charles had commented, "this frustrating feline managed to rid himself of at least a dozen pounds."

Ariel had immediately set about consoling the real cat with cuddles and pets, assuring him that he was utterly perfect just the way he was. And she'd watched out of the corner of her eye as Charles placed the miniature on his desk, eyeing its position, and then adjusting it just right so he could view it while he worked.

She listened when little whispers about his past slipped past his tired lips in the languid afterglow of their intimacy—how the dowager's recent surprise party had been the first birthday celebration he'd had in decades, that he had colleagues rather than friends back in Bos- ton, and she deduced that he was often so stoic in public because of the importance his father had always placed upon reining in one's emotions. This last made it all the more special when she was the sole recipient of his warmth and when he opened up to her in these quiet little private moments.

Every one of their interactions wore down Ariel's resolve until, late one night, she was forced to admit to the terrible, heartbreaking truth: Despite her best efforts, she had fallen madly in love with Charles Burke.

She had never been so at ease in the presence of a man. He didn't require any stuffy pretenses; he did not ask her to dim her excitement or quiet her speech. In fact, he seemed to appreciate her most when she was unabashedly herself—both inside and outside of the bed- chamber. There was something about Charles that was so humble, so gentle, even when he presented such a hard facade in public and—she blushed—so commanding in their most private moments. She enjoyed the juxtaposition of his personalities.

The way he held her and kissed her made her feel nothing short of cherished.

And her heart cracked a little more each time she reminded herself that he was not for her and that everything between them was temporary.