Seducing the Duchess Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Teaser chapter

  Rules of the House

  Philip turned around then, his expression inscrutable. He spoke as he strolled toward her. “You have told me how to behave when we are in public, when we have guests. But what about when we are alone, Charlotte?”

  He was getting close, far too close.

  “How should I behave then? Or should I behave at all?”

  Her instincts told her to leave, to sashay away, to use the movements of her body to distract him from whatever devious purpose he intended.

  “Would a good husband touch you like this?” Philip raised his arm, cupped her cheek tenderly in the palm of his hand.

  “Or perhaps like this?” He laid his other hand at the small of her back. Charlotte wasn’t certain whether he used it to pull her toward him or to keep her still as he stepped closer to her, but suddenly she had no space to breathe, to move. He was there, everywhere, surrounding her.

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  First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, October 2010

  eISBN: 9781101465417

  Copyright © Ashley March, 2010

  Excerpt from My Lord Scandal copyright © Katherine Smith, 2010 All rights reserved

  SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

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  To my mother, who never doubted my success or ability, whom I could always trust for her unfailing support and love. I miss you every single moment.

  Alisa Tate, 1960-2010

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am fortunate not only to become a published author, but to have had two fantastic agents to guide my every step. Stephanie, thank you for being the first reader to fall in love with Philip. And to Alanna, thank you for your enthusiasm when I needed you most.

  Also, to my wonderful editors Laura Cifelli and Jesse Feldman. Thank you for your unending patience and kindness, and for transforming Philip into an even better hero.

  To Kat and Anna, my fabulous critique partners. I could never have done this without you! Thank you for reading . . . and rereading . . . and rereading. . . .

  Finally, to my husband, Luke. For the cleaning and the cooking, for getting up with the baby at four a.m. so I can sleep in, for your many sacrifices and love and support. You bless me every day. 143.

  Chapter 1

  She was exquisite, a sin to be indulged in and never repented.

  The sound of her laughter, rich and full, a siren’s song, caught at his soul. It lured him to the edge of his seat until his nose was nearly pressed against the carriage window.

  She did not walk like a lady; she didn’t walk like any other woman he had ever known. Every move was calculated to draw masculine eyes to the voluptuous lines of her body—the taunting sway of her hips, the subtle arch of her spine, the inviting tilt of her head. Even the moon desired to be her lover, its long fingers caressing her face and throat in admiring regard before she disappeared into the gambling den.

  She was stunning. A beautiful harlot.

  Six months he’d spent wooing her. Invitations to the theater, the opera . . . giving his undivided attention in the hopes she would at last turn her affections toward him.

  He’d tried to ignore the other men, knowing that soon he would be the one she graced with her smiles, the one she would return home with each night. He’d waited patiently, desperately. Even this night, he’d followed her across London, watching her flit from one social engagement to the next, on the arm of a different man each time . . .

  But no longer.

  Philip stared at the building’s entrance, his heart speeding foolishly.

  Straightening, he opened the door and stepped from the carriage.

  No sooner had he passed through the foyer of the gambling den than he spotted her, perched on the lap of some rotund, fortunate bastard, her half-naked bosom exposed to his leering gaze. One gloved arm was looped around his neck, a purchase for balance as she leaned forward over the table, the spin of dice cast from her hands in a cheery clatter.

  As Philip strolled toward her, he lifted his hands to his cravat, slowly, single-mindedly, untying the careful knot his valet had perfected earlier in the evening.

  The cravat fell apart easily in his fingers, and he dragged it loose, the mangled cloth dangling from his fingertips.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  Immediately the gaiety at the small table ceased. Upon spying their new guest, a few of the men scraped their chairs backward, their eyes darting nervously between Philip and the woman.

  For too long he’d allowed them to believe that her actions and the company she kept didn’t matter to him. Now he was prepared to create a scandal in front of
everyone for his message to be undeniably clear: despite her past lovers, she would soon belong to him alone.

  The man whose lap she occupied met his eyes and then quickly glanced away, his tongue creeping forth to wet his lips. Philip couldn’t blame his indecision; if she had been sitting upon his lap, he would have been loath to give her up as well.

  Philip nodded to him. “You, there. What is your name?”

  The man’s eyes bulged out of their sockets. “Lord Denby, Your Grace. My name is D-Denby.”

  Philip nodded. “Very good. Denby, my dear fellow, I believe you have something which belongs to me.”

  A bead of sweat popped out on the man’s forehead. “Y-Your Grace?”

  The woman, who thus far had only watched the proceedings with an amused smile, narrowed her eyes at Philip and tightened her grip on Denby’s neck. “He means me, Lord Denby.”

  “Oh.” The man started, and with trembling fingers grasped her arm, frantically trying to push her away. His breath came in short gasps, and he looked at Philip with a plea in his eyes. “She won’t come loose, Your Grace.”

  “Oh, Denby, you coward,” she murmured. With a toss of her head, she detached herself from him and rose gracefully from his lap. She stared up at Philip for a long moment, her bright blue eyes daring, mocking.

  When she attempted to brush past him, he caught her arm easily in his hand.

  The entire room hushed. Philip could feel the heat of a hundred eyes scrutinizing his every movement.

  Tomorrow morning this would be in the scandal sheets, upon everyone’s lips. Even if he wished it, there was no going back now. He had made his decision.

  Her chin had lifted when he halted her departure, and he smiled down at her, a quick flash of teeth. Her sharp indrawn breath gave him no small measure of satisfaction; she was not as immune to him as she would have him believe.

  “Lord Denby,” he said, his eyes still focused on her sweet, temptress face.

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  Philip maneuvered her until she stood between them. “Be a good fellow and hold on to her for a moment, would you? Don’t let her escape.”

  “Er, yes, Your Grace.” Denby settled his thick, ring-laden fingers on her shoulders.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, twisting in his grip, her eyes furious, darkening from sapphire to the dusky haze of twilight.

  Philip ignored her struggles. He drew her arms together with one hand and draped his cravat over her wrists with the other. Then, quickly so she didn’t have a chance to resist, he knotted the material and gave it a tug.

  Perfect.

  “Very good. You may release her now, Lord Denby.”

  “What are you doing, Philip? This is ridiculous. Untie me at once!”

  It had been a very long time since she had said his name. Even though it fell like a curse from her lips, it was good to hear it all the same.

  Philip grasped her upper arm again and looked around the room. Trollops and whores, rakes and scoundrels gaped at him, openmouthed. He nodded to them, ever aware of the sinuous heat seeping from her skin—a twisting, vagrant fire now burning past his gloves to the flesh of his palm.

  The woman tried to jerk away, but Philip held her tightly. He would never let her go again. “Release me, you arrogant son of a—”

  Philip clapped his hand over her mouth. With a shake of his head, he withdrew a linen kerchief from his pocket. “I had hoped this wouldn’t be necessary, but you force my hand, dearest.”

  She tried to sink her teeth into the flesh of his palm, but fortunately he withdrew it in time. He was certain she’d meant to draw blood. While she sputtered more curses, he proceeded to wrap the cloth around her head, careful only to muffle and not gag her. He tied it at the back of her head, his fingers lingering on the silken tresses of her upswept hair. The sable locks gleamed beneath the dim, smoky lights, tempting his restraint, provoking memories of a time when his hands had tangled freely in her hair. When she had sought his touch, his embrace—

  Philip wasn’t fast enough to block her kick, her foot connecting painfully with his lower shin.

  He crushed her against him, her back to his front, his hands clasped together beneath the delicious swell of her breasts. He tried to move her toward the door, but she hung like a dead weight in his arms. Only when he dragged her did she begin to writhe against him, her body pitching against his.

  His audience had apparently recovered from their stupor, for their voices rose in a fevered crescendo as he neared the exit. But the noise was only an indistinct rumble in the background as he focused on her attempts at freedom.

  Her elbow managed a sharp blow to his ribs. Philip grunted, then hoisted her over his shoulder and carried her out the door. Her gag was loose enough that her curses brutalized his ears, but Philip continued on with grim determination. She struck his back with her bound fists at every step, but he didn’t stop until he stood in front of his carriage.

  The groom opened the door.

  “Here we are.”

  She shrieked as he dragged her down and shoved her headfirst through the entrance, his hands helping as they pushed against her bottom.

  “Damn you, Philip!”

  He climbed in after her, careful to avoid stepping on her skirts or any scattered appendages. Leaning down, he grabbed her by the elbows and assisted her to a seated position.

  The door closed, the carriage shifting as the coachman and groom took their places. The sharp crack of the whip rent the air, and they were off.

  Philip allowed a brief sigh of victory.

  He’d done it. He had kidnapped his wife.

  Chapter 2

  Charlotte took a deep breath, but it did nothing to stop her fists from shaking or her knuckles from knocking together in her lap. He had bound her. She inhaled the masculine scent of his handkerchief, draped loosely across her mouth. He had bound and gagged her.

  “I hate you, you know,” she mumbled, the angry thrum of her blood beating a furious tattoo in her temple. After three years of almost completely ignoring her, tonight he had intentionally and ruthlessly humiliated her.

  “Yes, I know. You are always so accommodating as to remind me, lest I forget.”

  Charlotte considered him carefully. His response was uttered in the same stiff, mocking tone he always adopted with her. Despite this, she could come to only one conclusion: the man sitting across from her was not her husband, the Duke of Rutherford. He was a stranger.

  For one, her husband made it a habit to never seek her out. If not for the despicable habit he’d acquired in the past few months of escorting her to the theater or the opera, Charlotte doubted he ever thought about her existence.

  He certainly didn’t care how much she disliked—no, absolutely loathed—the theater and the opera.

  But secondly—and most importantly—her husband hated scandals, and especially the people who created them. This, of course, was the primary reason she made her own actions as shocking and outrageous as possible.

  It was why she’d become a whore, refusing to relinquish the hope that she would one day break him . . . Only she’d never thought he would abduct her and make a scandal of them both.

  As he leaned forward to peer out the curtained window, Charlotte studied his profile. Despite his uncharacteristic display, he did not appear any different externally.

  He looked as cold as ever, more marble than man. The carved line of his jaw, the firm sculpture of his mouth—not even a strand of black hair dared to stray from its place.

  The violent sway of the carriage as the coachman urged the horses faster and faster did not seem to unnerve him. She, on the other hand, was close to lurching forward into the chasm of space between them.

  He turned to face her, and she started with the realization that she’d been staring at him for quite a while. And he must have known she was; Philip somehow always seemed to know everything.

  “Shall I remove the handkerchief?”

  His polite t
one and small smile made Charlotte narrow her eyes in suspicion.

  She knew this tilt of his lips at five degrees indicated humor, whereas an exaggeration at forty degrees revealed his condescension and indulgence. Over the past three years she had become rather adept at reading his every expression, picking apart his every utterance to find the meaning behind the screen of words.

  And it was important to distinguish the two lip movements, if for no other reason than that he very rarely allowed any trace of genuine emotion to escape through his carefully guarded stoicism. She had witnessed his ducal mask slip on only two other occasions, and both times something had gone dismally awry.

  Shifting uneasily in her seat, she attempted to decipher the devious thought which had provoked that singularly frightful curve of his lips. He could be smiling simply because he was pleased with himself—the ass—or because he enjoyed the sight of her all trussed and trundled up like a Christmas Day goose. Or, she reflected hopefully, he could be smiling because he was considering sending her to another country, after which he could go about finding a new wife, a better wife. She would like to go to another country, far away from him, where memories could not taint each day.

  “Ah, yes.” His slight smile disappeared, his lips folding into a neat, tightly formed line. “I had forgotten for a moment that I am the spawn of Satan. Of course you don’t wish to speak with me.”

  “There’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been said between us. Or are you at last willing to petition for a divorce?” Her words were muffled as the linen cloth rubbed over her lips, but she could tell by the way he stared at her, his gaze unreadable, that he understood the words. She was well accustomed to his lack of expression, this defense of his.

  It always made her want to shake him until a shadow of humanity slipped through his facade—anything but this emotionless detachment. However, since he had tied her hands together so cleverly with his cravat, she could only swallow her exasperation.