Page 20 of In Need of a Duke
Revealing the cold, determined man he had become.
Handsome, yes, but he always had been.
Tan skin from his mother’s Italian heritage. Cold, obsidian eyes beneath a strong, pronounced brow that was furrowed now. At her. Astraight, Roman nose. Wide lips, once soft and skilled at whispering alluring promises to her, now pressed into a frown. Dark stubble shadowed his strong jaw, hiding the dimple in his chin. He was almost always clean-shaven, so that was interesting.
His shoulders were wide and dressed in a flawless bespoke suit.
She shut her eyes for only a moment, summoning the courage tossing around in her stomach. She had practiced this speech for years now, but still, with him mere inches away, the words were no easier to say.
“You may have decided to return, but I will no longer be staying. I want a divorce, Ian.”
CHAPTER 4
Ian.
How he loathed the name on her lips now. The same mouth which once kissed him and confessed her love. The very same mouth that lied to him and promised she was not some scheming title hunter like his first betrothed.
He had believed her.
Until that evening.
And now, she stood before him, hiding behind her dressing room door, her large blue eyes red from crying.
Hate.
That was all he felt.
No, not entirely.
Rage.
At himself. At his father. At her damn parents. For everyone who had interfered. Because now he was left pleading with a woman who might as well be a ghost. A reminder of something he had well and truly lost.
“I have no time for tears.”
“Then what do you have time for, Ian? Are you planning to be gone before I break my fast in the morning, or are youplanning on waiting until you have a row with your brother by lunch?”
Sweet Charlotte.
“Why didn’t you look at me?”
He sneered at her, disgust curling up in his stomach. He was furious. She had been beautiful when they married, nearly twenty-one, and when he had last seen her here at Stonehurst one regretful morning. Now she was gorgeous.
“Haven’t you made a fool of me enough?”
She wiped her nose, squaring her shoulders as if trying to muster up the courage to confront him.
The hell of it was, Charlotte smelled like apples and persimmons and roses after a spring rain. It was the most intoxicating scent that had haunted him these past eight years because he never had encountered anything like it while traveling.
He had spent time in Spain, Greece, France, and Prussia before dividing his time with relatives of his mother, an Italian countess, in Venice and a small village several miles south of Naples.
Red bit Charlotte’s rounded cheeks as she tucked her honey hair behind her ear. She always had the appearance of being meek, of placating even.
When he had seen her at the gallery all those years ago observing a large Flemish portrait, he understood it wasn’t that at all. She was observant and shy.
After staring at her a moment too long, he scratched his jaw and leaned a hand on the doorway. “A fool ofyou? You lied to me. You told me you loved me.”
She shook her head, tears springing to her eyes once more. “I don’t know how many more times I must tell you, no matter what my parents may have told you, I did not seek you out for your title. Everything I felt for you then was earnest.”
