Page 91 of In Need of a Duke
She eased herself off him and plucked his discarded shirt up off the floor, slipping it on. He grinned the entire time, furious with the interruption. Seeing Charlotte in his shirt made him want to fire the entire staff and become hermits.
He quickly threw on a pair of trousers and made his way toward the door.
“Your Grace,” the butler continued speaking from the other side of the door, “I apologize for the interruption, but there is an emergency, and you are needed most immediately downstairs.”
He glanced back at Charlotte who climbed back onto the mattress, her bare legs crossed at the ankle and hanging off the bed.
Pure temptation.
“Can it wait?” he snapped, stalking back to the bed to steal another heated kiss.
“No, Your Grace. It’s Lord Nathaniel.”
Ian froze, his arms caging in Charlotte against the mattress with her legs twisted around his waist.
Charlotte pushed him away and straightened, her playful smile disappearing.
He strode to the door, running his hand through his hair before he wretched the door open, revealing the stodgy butler, his hand still raised as if he were about to knock again.
“Your Grace,” he said, stumbling back a step. “Mr. Fitzwilliam is here with Lord Nathaniel. They need your help.”
“Very well.” He glanced back toward Charlotte. “Stay here. I’ll make this interruption brief.”
He mumbled as he followed the butler downstairs, rain lashing against the windows of the townhome.
There, in the front hall, was Monty Fitzwilliam with Nathaniel at his feet, soaked and bleeding, groaning, and very nearly unrecognizable.
“What’s this?” Ian shouted, furious.
“Your Grace—” Monty began.
“What the hell happened?”
Nathaniel groaned once more, shivering as he lay bleeding on the tiled floor. “He needs a surgeon,” Monty said, “and I wasn’t sure where else to take him. He landed himself in trouble.”
“Trouble?” Ian pointed to his younger brother. “Trouble is a broken carriage axle or your valet packing the wrong jacket. My brother is bleeding, and I wish to know every detail as to why.”
But before he received an answer, Charlotte raced past him on the stairs, dressed in his robe and in bare feet, her hair loose around her shoulders.
“What happened? Was it a duel?” She dropped to her knees and cupped his face in her hands. She looked back at Ian. “Please,” she said, “we’ll discuss the rest later but fetch a surgeon.”
Monty shuffled on his feet awkwardly. “I can get a surgeon. I just needed to take him somewhere safe while we figure out what’s happened.”
“Well, what’s happened?” Ian snapped.
“A surgeon, now, Ian!” Charlotte insisted again.
Ian ordered the butler to send for the surgeon. Then he and Monty carefully picked Nathaniel up and carried him to the library. He peeked glances at Charlotte as she readied a spot on the sofa and ordered the housekeeper to boil some water and fetch some cloths.
He was struck with the sudden realization that despite her own impression of herself, she was no longer that shy wallflower hangingback against the wall, nor that scandalous duchess. Charlotte was shining bright because she refused to allow the rest of the world to define her.
While that pride swelled in his chest, he was torn at focusing on his brother. Or half brother. And the sinking realization that he was partly to blame for this evening. He had never inquired after Nathaniel, even after Lottie asked, instead far too distracted with tupping his wife for the past two weeks.
“I hit them back, Lottie,” Nathaniel said. “Don’t cry.”
Too late as Ian spied Charlotte wiping away tears and comforting him.
“I told him he was being a bloody idiot,” Monty snapped, tossing his top hat to the floor and shedding his jacket. “We were—let me stop.” He glanced toward Charlotte, then dropped his voice. “Your brother,” he said, “is madly in love with Miss Arabella Harris.”
