Page 42 of In Need of a Duke
“I didn’t come to order you back into the house.”
She heard the soft footfalls of his boots against the stone floors of the conservatory. Her hands shook as she grabbed the nearly dull shears. She would need to have them sharpened soon. Still, she remained silent.
This was her space.
This had been her house after he left.
Her safe place.
“I only brought you this.”
She felt the heavy weight of the shawl collapse onto her shoulders, cascading down her arms and back, shielding her from the chill of the conservatory.
The candle on the bench flickered as it settled around her, and she was met with the smell of fresh air confusingly clinging to her husband’s clothes, and the scent of him, something she had missed for years.
And suddenly, it made gooseflesh break out over her arms as a shiver chased down her spine.
“Thank you,” she whispered. Charlotte couldn’t force herself to turn around. It wasn’t until she heard the hushed groan in his throat, as if her rejection had cut him, that she braced herself and slowly spun to face him.
Dark stubble shadowed his jaw, but she could still make out the dimple on his chin. Her index finger fit there perfectly. That sheremembered. How she used to settle her finger against the spot, then trace the line of his jaw to tip his lips to meet hers. Like Ian, his lips always possessed contradictions—soft to touch, yet powerful and hungry.
For Charlotte.
Years ago, now.
It might as well have been lifetimes.
He remained still, as if he were afraid he might frighten her. She lingered in that pause, sweeping a gaze over the corner of his mouth. God, how she missed his smile and the sound of his laugh. Then up to his eyes, so brown they might as well have been black and all-consuming. Charlotte always wondered if others noticed the way his eyes were flecked with gold when the light fell upon him just right.
Once, she swore every room centered around him. Once, she had made him her entire world, her own personal sun. And perhaps it was still true. But it couldn’t be. If she were to survive, she must find a way of freeing herself from loving her husband—this near stranger. If she had discovered anything, it was that remaining in his shadow left her little light to grow. It was like the flush of wildflowers by the hedges near the bees, and if left to grow without a trim now and again, the hedges soaked up the light, leaving little for the flowers in their shadows.
That was Ian.
And Charlotte, who had once adored him, could barely bring herself to finally look him in the eye, far too vulnerable.
A soft rain fell against the glass, filling the deepening silence with an echoingdrup-drup.
“I tried to care for them all while you were recovering.” He lifted his hand above her shoulder, and she pushed herself to rest against the bench, weary of his touch. “I’m afraid that one might have received too much water.”
Charlotte didn’t have to look to know he meant the tulips she had overwintered in the conservatory, favoring to savor their beautiful purple inside while she sorted through her journals and drawings asshe had each spring. There was always so much to prepare before the flowers began to wake up at Stonehurst.
“The bulb rotted.”
“I apologize.”
She nodded, then peeled her gaze away and glanced up at the roof. “Well, thank you.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Don’t pretend to be humble now, Ian.”
He reached out and tapped his boot against her slipper. “Will you tell me more about what you’re doing here?”
The question was innocent enough, but that didn’t explain why it felt like a battering ram against the small sanctuary she had hidden away in all these years. Beyond walking the park at Stonehurst, this room brought her the most joy.
She frowned down at his foot, and he removed it, straightening and clearing his throat.
“If you want to, that is.” When she didn’t immediately reply, he reached around her and grabbed the opened journal from the work surface, smudged with soil. “Like this. Can you explain what you are trying to build?”
