Page 63 of In Need of a Duke
She nodded, retreating upstairs to dress.
An hour later,Charlotte was still out of sorts after riding to the modiste with Ian. When the carriage rolled to a stop, she gathered her things to leave, but he leaned over and grabbed the door handle.
“Lottie.”
She peeked at him from over her shoulder.
“I will go with you.”
“I have visited the modiste by myself often enough. There is no need. I will not be long.”
He released his hand and relaxed back against the seat. “Very well. I will be in the bookshop. When you are finished, please come find me. We can get ices after.”
Charlotte was ready to agree until her thoughts caused her to spin to him. “Why have you come back, Ian? Truly?”
He scoffed. “I told you. I want to spend time with you. It’s as simple as that.”
It felt like he had her heart in his hand and continued squeezing. A sweet torture, a painful madness. And she wasn’t certain there wasany other way through such pain unless she decided she no longer could hide in what happened and instead, move through what he was offering her—a second chance.
“Very well.”
Charlotte entered the modiste to a wave of whispers. The skin on the back of her neck prickled in awareness.
“Your Grace,” Madame Gaillot greeted, walking out from behind the counter. “I didn’t know you were in Town.”
Though her accent was French, it was one of London’s worst-kept secrets that she was in fact born in St. Giles. The henna she used to dye her hair, or the coal pencil she used to place a mark on her left cheekbone, did not fool everyone. But at the end of the day, she made gorgeous gowns, and those were nearly as important as one’s reputation.
“She can’t hide now that her husband has returned,” someone said, none too quietly from behind a bolt of magenta satin.
She forced on a smile, even as her fingertips grew cold, and she was certain the room was closing in on her. The truth was, however inconvenient, Charlotte never outgrew her aversion to people or crowds. The gossip when Ian left only served as another reminder of how wicked the attention of others could be when turned her way.
“I should have written for an appointment, but I was out and thought I would stop by. I wish to have a new gown made.”
The modiste nodded and glanced at the other shopkeeper. “We might have some…” But the woman quickly studied Charlotte. “They might not be the correct fit.”
“Bad luck. Her husband will likely flee again…” Another whisper shot across the shop.
Charlotte glanced at the dark-stained floor, wishing to disappear. “I have several dresses from this shop.”
“It’s been some time since you have visited.”
“I’ve no need,” Charlotte said, wringing her hands together. “I haven’t spent much time in Town recently…”
“A dress won’t help her keep the duke.”
Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment and dragged in a deepbreath. Even with his return, she was at fault. Even with him only a few shops down, the rest of thetonsaw their story finished.
“Your Grace?” the modiste asked.
The ground wobbled beneath her feet, and she was certain her skin was red with the way it burned, but still, she opened her eyes and spread a docile smile across her lips. It would never serve to be rude. She was above the gossip even if it was cutting.
“I will make an appointment and return another day.”
It wasn’t as if she fled out of the shop. She tried her best not to appear so affected by the hateful words, but as Charlotte stepped out into the street, she didn’t have tears in her eyes from the chilly spring breeze either.
She searched the street for Ian, deflating when she didn’t spot him or the waiting carriage. Charlotte wiped her eyes and shivered, making her way to the bookshop. She weaved through the narrow aisles, searching before finding Ian hunched on the ground next to a pile of books.
“Charlotte?” He sprang to his feet. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” He braced his hands on her arms, but that wasn’t enough. She pushed forward, collapsing against his chest.
