Page 21 of Tamed By a Duke
It was perfect.
"Not only that," Helga continued, her aggravation gathering wind, "But His Grace wishes for Charlotte to attend the theatre with him. You know, my lady, that the theatre is nothing more than a den of iniquity."
"Er, yes," Lady Everleigh replied, a little perplexed as to how she should respond to the maid's indignation, "I shall keep that in mind, Helga. Thank you. Will you please give Charlotte and I a minute alone?"
The Nordic woman nodded, taking Charlotte's coat and gloves as she departed, leaving Charlotte alone in the entrance hall with her stupefied relatives.
"Well, Papa," Charlotte said, trying to conceal her triumph, "I have done as you asked, and secured a duke's attentions. You might permit Bianca to make her come-out now."
"Not so fast," Lady Everleigh held up a hand, before Brandon could have a chance to reply, "One swallow does not make a summer, and one carriage ride with a duke does not make a-a-"
"A romance," Brandon supplied helpfully.
"Yes," Lady Everleigh nodded in agreement, "You will have to continue on with Penrith for a while, Charlotte, before your father decides you have redeemed yourself enough in society's eyes."
The unfairness of her grandmother's statement rankled Charlotte; she had done as requested and delivered their prize pig—not, of course, that she thought Penrith comparable to a pig—yet she was still being held captive.
She opened her mouth to object against her grandmother's wishes, but when she caught sight of her grandmother and father's expectant faces, she hesitated.
The whole point of this ridiculous charade was to prove that Charlotte was capable of change; stubbornly objecting was what they would expect of her. So, Charlotte clamped her mouth shut and offered them both a spurious smile.
"As you wish," she said, as she valiantly refused to acknowledge the part of her which was secretly quite pleased with the prospect of another outing with Penrith...
Chapter Six
Guilt was not a feeling that Hugh was accustomed to. This was not to say that the Duke of Penrith had never wronged a person before, but rather that he had never before thought to feel guilty about his wronging.
Now, his deceiving of Miss Charlotte Drew, was all that Hugh could think upon.
Well, that, and her bewitching green eyes, which had somehow seared themselves into his memory.
Hugh had never thought of himself as a rake, nor had he ever been infested with the same mad urges as some of his peers, who delighted in stringing young ladies along for sport.
No, Hugh had always been upstanding in his dealings with the fairer-sex; he avoided young, marriageable ladies like the plague, preferring instead to focus his interest on the worldly ladies of thedemi-monde, who knew exactly what to expect from a dalliance with the Duke of Penrith.
Miss Drew, for all her spark, was still a green-girl when it came to dealings with men, Hugh thought. He recalled, with a light smile, the blush which had stained her cheeks at hisrisquéremark during their carriage ride. His usual partners would have parried his flirting with a mildly scandalous remark of their own, but Miss Drew had revealed her innocence by flushing and looking away.
And Hugh, for the life of him, could not understand why he found this so beguiling.
Innocence was not something he had ever sought in a partner and now here he was; transfixed at the thought of a virtuous miss and addled by guilt for his desire.
She is not so virtuous, Hugh thought stubbornly, as he climbed the front-steps of his mother's Mayfair home, she is just as guilty as I of deceit.
Miss Drew was leading him on a merry dance of her own; but while Hugh might reason duplicity on both their parts, it was only he who was consumed by base desire.
"Ah, there you are dear," the dowager duchess remarked absently, as Hugh was delivered into the drawing room by the butler.
His mother was seated upon an overstuffed chaise, holding a letter in her hand. Even from across the room, Hugh recognised the impatient scrawl which covered the page, and as the duchess hastily hid the letter beneath a cushion, it confirmed again who it was that had written to his mama.
"How is he?" Hugh queried, with a nod to the cushion, as he took a seat on a vacant chair.
"Hmm?"
"Leo," Hugh said, again glancing pointedly at the cushion. His mother had many talents, but acting was not one of them.
"He is well," the dowager duchess gave up on her pretence and removed the letter from its hiding place, "He is still in France, engaging in diplomatic tasks for Wellington. He mentioned that, perhaps, he might soon make a return to England."
The pause which fell between mother and son pressed down on the room like a ton weight. The dowager duchess was failing spectacularly in her attempts to look nonchalant and Hugh was certain that her neck would ache tomorrow from the strain of not turning it to look at him.
