Page 11 of In Need of a Duke
Perhaps being here allowed him to hide away from London as well, but she knew that wasn’t the entire reason.
Charlotte, the pitiful, lonely duchess.
That had been the fourth time Monty had asked her to marry him in as many months. The first time, he had asked earnestly, nearly begging her to do so. And each time since, she felt he asked only out of habit.
“Behave,” she chastised once more, then tossed her arms up in the air and ascended the stairs to her room, shaking her head as the men continued yelling and laughing downstairs.
At least the house wasn’t empty.
At least she wasn’t stuck with the damning silence.
Even though she wished she were alone.
Never had she been so lonely in her life.
She pushed through the door to her room and leaned against it. The room was dripping in green silk and elaborately woven French tapestries. She had amassed a beautiful collection of French chairs to scatter about the room for seating as well as several oil paintings from Flemish masters.
It had been her room, but it never felt like home. It never felt like a refuge when she returned each day, alone, wondering if he would ever come back for her. If they were ever to have a proper start to their marriage.
Charlotte only felt shame here.
But she wouldn’t any longer.
Eight years was far too long to allow her life to be governed by a man who didn’t wish to know her.
She pushed off the door and searched her wardrobe, grabbing a few dresses and a dressing gown. The rest could be moved later, but there was no better time than today to move where she wished in this house. She refused to hold space for someone who was never a sure thing.
Her bedroom was never a refuge. It only served as a reminder that she must remain and wait, as if she were a dog doing her master’s bidding.
With her arms full, Charlotte strode through her dressing room and opened the hidden door connecting the two bedrooms.
It had been eight years since she had stepped into this room. A shiver chased up her spine.
Eight years since her wedding night.
Charlotte slowly padded across the large room with towering ceilings painted with bucolic scenery and stopped at the forest green damask chaise at the foot of the large bed. Perhaps it was a trick of design, but the bed had an invisible weight to it thanks to the ivory curtains hanging over each of the four mahogany posts. A bed made for a king.
She had never met the duke’s father, but if he were anything like the man she married, she had no doubt he had an ego to justify the large monstrosity. It was like a throne, a declaration.
And since the duke had left without a word, she felt it only right that she claimed this room now. It was her dominion until he agreed to a divorce. It would be a hostile negotiation if ever she grew confident enough to confront him.
Or, more importantly, he stayed in one place long enough for her to discuss ending their marriage.
Charlotte crept around the side of the bed and traced her fingertips over the fine silk coverlet.
Cold.
Like the bed.
Like this house.
Like the duke’s heart.
Ghosts were beneath her fingers, woven into the emerald silk.
If things had happened differently, instead of an empty bed, she could be beneath the sheets with her husband. She could have felt the heat of his skin against hers, the beat of his heart against his chest as he pressed his lips to hers. Her wide hips, the ones her mother chastised her for having, would have carried children by now.
Her dear friends, once Miss Lily Abrams and Miss Katherine Bancroft, now Lily Davies and Katherine MacInnes had found love in the time she had been abandoned by her groom. They had their interests and desires, and Charlotte was left holding the unbearable grief that she would never have a child. Certainly not if her husband couldn’t even tolerate being in the same room as her.
