DukeAndEnchantress_PGolden-eBooks Page 8

“Good.” He frowned.

  “Want to play for stakes?” She sipped her second glass.

  His eyes drifted over the top of his cards. The corner of his mouth twitched.

  “It’ll be fun,” she tittered. “What if…the winner gets to kiss the loser?”

  He leaned back in his chair, tongue in cheek, lips curling. “Just how is that fair if both parties are rewarded? If I win, then I get to kiss you, but since you would be getting kissed, wouldn’t that make you the winner, or more aptly, both of us the winner?”

  Ah, now he was getting into the spirit of adventure.

  “I amend the prize, then. The winner gets to kiss the other person wherever he or she wants. The loser isn’t allowed to protest.” Not that she could think of anywhere remotely creative to kiss him besides his lips, which looked deliciously soft this evening.

  Drake’s howl of laughter startled her. Reaching for his glass, he said, “May the best man, or woman, win.” He raised his glass to her before tipping it between his lips.

  Charlotte leaned forward, determined to win so she could shock him by kissing him somewhere unexpected. Or, wait, maybe she should want him to win. No, as curious as she was to find out where he might choose to kiss her, hopefully not on her forehead, she wanted the upper hand this evening. She was tired of being dominated in this house and wanted to assert herself. Yes, she must win. This was her planned seduction, after all. She needed to convince him to want her.

  “So, Charlotte,” he drawled, trying to distract her, she suspected, “enjoying being a duchess?”

  She played a card before replying, “Not especially. I feel like a dress-up doll for your mother. What have you done all day?”

  “Point of 6, Sixième for 16,” he declared, leading a card. “I’m not surprised. My mother is like that. I’m positive the two of you will be bosom pals before autumn, seeing as how you’re both likeminded.”

  After she declared and played a card, Drake played two more then added, “I spent the day in my study. Responded to letters mostly, and then invited Winston to call. Boring, really, compared to your dress-up day.”

  Her cards were a blur. More wine should help focus her attention. Yes, a third glass would do the trick. Motioning for more wine, she declared and played another card. Before her next move, she fortified with a fresh sip.

  Sliding her foot across the floor until it nudged his shoes, she ever so casually glided her slipper over the tip, then peered beneath her eyelashes to see if he noticed.

  The only tell-tale sign was the twitching corner of his mouth as he cashed five of his cards.

  Continuing her foot’s trek over his shoe, she slid further up his shin until she could rest her sole on the edge of his chair. Curling her toes against the inside of his thigh, she inquired, “Where’s your study? The tour I received didn’t reveal this oh-so mysterious room of yours.”

  “No mystery. It’s in the west hall past the staircase.” His eyes twinkled when he looked at her.

  Was it the warmth of the wine she saw in his eyes or lust? She felt so lightheaded she couldn’t tell what she saw, but she hoped it to be the latter.

  “The rounded tower?” she queried.

  “One and the same.” After laying down a card, he paused, grinning. “Would you like to see it?”

  “After the game?”

  “Bollocks to the game. Let’s go now.” He tossed aside his cards and drained his glass with a fluid movement.

  “I believe by forfeiting the game, I’m declared the winner.”

  “By God, I hope so. You can collect your winnings in the study.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her up with a tug.

  Charlotte swayed, the room tilting ever so slightly to the left. She hadn’t remembered the blue carpet swirling when she came in, but there it swirled, right before her eyes.

  “Woah there, my dearest,” Drake said.

  She felt strong arms steady her and heard a throaty chuckle next to her ear. All she could do was giggle and lean against his chest as he guided her out of the drawing room with one arm at her waist.

  Mmm. She won the game, even if by default. She giggled again thinking of kissing him. Oh, wait, she was supposed to be concentrating on the location of his study. Squinting kept the gallery from blurring, but it strained her eyes, causing a slight headache. The wine, in hindsight, might have been a poor choice.

  Past the staircase, they came to a small oval hall with a single door. With one hand still on her waist, he directed her inside, closing the door behind them.

  The study was smaller than she expected. An imposing floor to ceiling bookshelf stood behind a nondescript desk. Windows faced the front of the house on one side, a lit fireplace with a sitting area on the other side. The rounded tower had seemed so much larger from the outside. The room wasn’t even rounded. She wanted to ask, try to make sense of the space, but the room spun too rapidly for her to think straight.

  She leaned against his chest for support, his arms snaking around her.

  “Where’s my kiss?” His husky whisper rumbled, raising gooseflesh on her skin.

  He turned her towards him and waited, his hands on her waist to steady her.

  Placing her hand on his waistcoat to fiddle with silk buttons, she asked, “And I may kiss you anywhere?”

  Drake purred, his arms tightening around her as he leaned against the door. “This is your game, my dear. You did say anywhere.”

  She felt the muscles of his chest flex beneath her hand as she inched her fingers upwards, over his cravat and stiff shirt points, and around his neck. Combing his scalp with her fingernails, she gripped a handful of his hair and pulled him to her.

  Her cheek chafed against bristly skin until her lips found his earlobe. She tightened her grasp on his hair, holding him in place, and then she traced her tongue along the ridge of his ear.

  He moaned against her, spurring her efforts. Flicking the lobe with the tip of her tongue, she drew it between her lips, nibbling until he writhed against her.

  Someone pounded on the door, startling them both.

  Eyes widening, Charlotte pressed her finger against his lips and shook her head. She wanted to finish what she had started. She wanted him as she had never wanted anything in her life.

  She needed him.

  The pounding came again, louder, more insistent.

  “Open the door.” The dowager duchess snarled from the other side. “You are late for our appointment.”

  Charlotte shook her head, mouthing a simple no.

  “I do not tolerate tardiness. Let me in. We have things to discuss,” the beast demanded, rapping the door with her cane.

  To Charlotte’s dismay, Drake mouthed I’m sorry and dropped his hands from her waist. For a moment, she thought she would lose her balance, her head swimming from the wine.

  He opened the door to a darkened figure looming in the doorway. Although she couldn’t see those obsidian eyes, she felt them lancing her, shredding her to tiny pieces. And then she almost vomited on the woman’s shoes.

  “Excuse me. I must retire,” Charlotte murmured as she slipped past her husband and mother-in-law, stumbling her way to the stairwell.

  She worried she wouldn’t find her bedchamber, not from dizziness, but from the tears.

  “I hate her. I hate her. I hate her,” she said to the bare walls of her bedchamber once she flung herself onto the bed.

  She cried into her pillow until the tears were spent, until her throat scratched when she swallowed. In a small way, she hated him, too. She hated him for not defending her. She hated him for avoiding her for days, leaving her with that woman. She hated him for choosing his mother over her.

  Tonight, she wanted to be with him, needed him and his reassurance, and he had chosen his mother instead. She hated them both.

  Tucking her knees under her chin, she tried to ra
tionalize through the haze of wine. Maybe he would still come to her tonight. Maybe his discussion with his mother would only take a few minutes, and then he would race up the stairs two at a time to make it up to her. Maybe she was throwing a tantrum because she had been treated like a child for days. What she needed to do was calm herself and have confidence he would come.

  She buried her face in her hands and inhaled the essence of almonds where his scent permeated her pores, fragrant and intoxicating. Yes, he would come to her as soon as that woman finished whatever set down she had for him.

  Chapter 9

  The strings cut into Drake’s fingertips, bruising already callused skin. His bow sawed at the strings rather than glided, his fingers hammering furiously across the fingerboard rather than dancing gracefully.

  He pivoted his palm to stretch from the index to pinky, a multi-octave jump that plagued him despite relentless trials. The transition lacked fluidity.

  Setting the violin and bow on the lid of the harpsichord, he snatched the music from the stand and stomped to his writing desk. How could he affect this transition without overburdening the sound or the violinist?

  The worn cushion sank beneath his weight. With tired eyes, he concentrated on the measure in question. The transition needed to be smoother. Portamento perhaps? Tapping his finger against his chin, he watched the notes blur.

  He had needed a release after dealing with his mother, especially since he couldn’t go to Charlotte until he had purged his anger. With the evening going so well between them, he daren’t go to her in anger. Music provided the perfect outlet on this occasion.

  Make that every occasion. Music always provided an outlet. He funneled his emotions into the work, crafting pieces, both raw and dynamic, that would shake the musical world if ever played for the public. Mozart would have an apoplexy if he heard the chaos on this page.

  Emotion over technique with a full range of dynamics, Drake’s own passions charged the phrases in each movement. His growing stack of compositions mostly consisted of violin quartets with pianoforte accompaniment, but he had composed a handful of short works for solo pianoforte, solo violin, and an opera he may never finish beyond one scene.

  He composed music for lovers, music that could stir even the blackest of hearts. In some small way, he saw himself as a revolutionary in the music world, but given society’s distaste of emotion, he doubted the beau monde of aristocracy would appreciate how such music might move them. He would never find out, for as far as he was concerned, no one would hear his compositions, at least not while he lived.

  Not quite by choice, rather by necessity. If he could find a way for the music to be performed anonymously, he might brave it, but only for the right crowd, and only if his mother never found out. She abhorred music of any kind and especially loathed his interest in it, calling him effeminate and common.

  Her words shouldn’t rankle him, not after years of proving through reputation he was neither effeminate nor common, yet her words stung nonetheless. As far as he was concerned, he would die before the world had a chance to agree with her, as they well might.

  This evening’s exercise in finger dexterity adequately purged him from Mother’s little chat, he decided. The fact his hand ached finalized his decision. Circling his wrist and flexing his fingers, he winced.

  It was time to seek out his wife. With any luck, Charlotte would pick up where she had left off. He’d only been delayed an hour, two at the most.

  God, what time was it?

  He hauled himself to his feet and snuffed out the candles in the room, taking only one candlestick with him. The double-sided bookshelf yawned into his study, serving its purpose well as a hidden pocket door in the wall.

  Outside, rain beat against the panes, tree branches tapping and scratching in rhythm with the wind. He hadn’t realized it was raining, not with the soundproofing he had spent a fortune on for the music room, experimental noise dampening he had been told was impossible, yet his room proved otherwise. With enough cob and stone, any room could be silenced.

  The room was his sanctuary, cut off from sound, sight, and even time. He refused to have time dictate his actions while he composed, so he kept the clock where it would perform a more noble duty—tic-toc to the darkness of the desk drawer.

  Shutting the bookshelf firmly behind him, he set the candlestick on the desk and collapsed into a chair. Hopefully, Charlotte wouldn’t mind him coming to her sweaty. He ran his hands through wet hair, grimacing. Better sweaty than angry.

  Charlotte should still be awake, and with any luck, waiting for him. Excitement flooded his body at the memory of her lips, of her tongue. Oh, the things he wished she would do with that tongue.

  He tugged at his cravat, his throat raw from the starch. Beneath the irritation, his skin recalled vividly the sensation of Charlotte’s stroking fingers. Remembering how she had aggressively, possessively latched hold of his hair to pull him to her made him harden with a growl. Oh, he liked this side of her, controlling, dominating.

  If only they hadn’t been interrupted. Would Charlotte have let him take her on top of the desk, pressed against the door, bent over the arm of the chair? Or would she have taken him?

  More to the point, what had gotten into her? After all her prickly behavior, she had been a little minx this evening. He loved it. He wanted more of it. His firm belief she’d married him for the title was again in question if she was flirting so heavily. If she’d already gotten what she wanted, why bother with him now?

  Perhaps a quick wash would be the best choice before going to her. He could freshen up, put his best face forward, and all that, especially for their first time. If he’d only been an hour, he had time for a wet cloth and change.

  Yanking at the desk drawer, he pulled out the time keeper. Dear God in Heaven! One glance at the clock sent all his hopes plummeting to his feet. Three in the morning. How had he been in the music room so long? He swore he had only been an hour, two at the most.

  She would be asleep by now, he supposed.

  His burning loins tempted him to go to her regardless. If he knew her better, he wouldn’t let a little thing like three in the morning stop him. The fact remained, he didn’t know how she would react. He didn’t know her at all, really. For all he knew, she would scream for help, bringing half the servants to witness the duke trying to seduce his wife.

  Tonight was out of the question. What a fool he was to allow his mother to rile him to the point of losing his opportunity to rekindle romance with Charlotte. Had she sincerely wanted him, or had her behavior been wine induced? What a depressing thought if she only wanted him because she was foxed.

  He wanted nothing more than to love and be loved. Was that too much to ask? That’s all he’d ever wanted and the one thing he could never seem to have. Bollocks to Society’s views of convenient marriage. Bollocks to the lot of them. His arms were made to hold a woman, his heart made to beat against her breast, his lips made to taste, caress, and whisper.

  Nothing would make him happier than to connect with his wife, really connect with her, and not just physical coupling. Truthfully, he wanted a reason to enjoy his home, his entire home. After years of being cooped inside a private room hidden behind a double-sided bookshelf and cobbed walls, soundproofed from the world, he wanted his home to be his own.

  Above all else, he hated being alone.

  He fantasized playing side-by-side with his wife, imagined her playing his music. Charlotte played the pianoforte quite well, as he’d learned in London. His heart wept at the thought of connecting with someone so deeply, of ripping out the bookshelf to his music room, of turning the drawing room into a performance hall, of not hiding himself any longer.

  At one time in his life, he believed he’d made such a connection with a woman. He’d been mistaken.

  He couldn’t say with any confidence Charlotte was his second chance. Times like tonight,
she revealed a suppressed passion he was dying to ignite. Had he been mistaken when he assumed she wanted him for his title, or was his mistake seeing a passion that wasn’t there? He’d be damned if he was going to repeat the same error in judgement and give his love away to someone who didn’t want it.

  He slammed the desk drawer closed with a thwack. Why was he cursed to this life of rejection and isolation, hiding behind bookshelves?

  Mother’s beady eyes flashed into his mind, chilling his blood and plunging him back to their conversation.

  After Charlotte left the room, Mother had thumped her way past him into the study, and before he could shut the door behind Charlotte, the diatribe had begun.

  “You are intentionally avoiding me. Don’t deny it.” Her cane thudded against the Parisian rug, leading her to the middle of the room where she about-faced and glowered.

  Only after the door clicked closed did he reply. “My wife wanted to see my study. I fully intended to seek you out after showing her the room.”

  After a nervous twist of his pinky signet ring, he reached into his pocket for the snuff box. There wasn’t enough snuff in the world for this evening. Better make it two pinches, one for each nostril.

  Feeling calmer, he sauntered to one of the chairs in front of the hearth and fell into the cushion, box still in hand, ready for the next moment he needed to calm his nerves.

  “Nonsense. I told you one hour. You knew I would come for you, so you hid yourself. I resent your intentional avoidance.” Mother remained standing, staring down at him from the bridge of her nose.

  “You caught me, Mother. I confess. I’ve been purposely hiding from you, engaging my wife as a co-conspirator to avoid you, never mind that you’re the one who has monopolized every waking minute of my wife’s time. Snuff?” He held out the peace offering, the contents of which held his mother’s one sinful pleasure, a solitary reminder she was human.

  Narrowed eyes bore into him without a glance to the box.

  “Don’t mock me.” Each word punctuated with a thud of the cane.