Page 23 of Tamed By a Duke
He had guessed that there was some sort of history between the two, but owing to Charlotte's reputation, he had wrongly assumed that the pair had crossed swords in a battle of words, not a battle of hearts.
A cascade of feelings—most quite new—washed over Hugh, threatening to drown his sense of reason. His mind reeled as he experienced anger, fury, and an overwhelmingly male urge to protect and defend Charlotte. If Mr Deveraux had been standing before him at that very moment, Hugh was certain that he would have throttled him to within an inch of his life.
For a man who prided himself on possessing a cool detachment when it came to women, this thunderstorm of feelings was rather perplexing to the Duke.
You are merely being chivalrous, a voice in Hugh's mind whispered soothingly. Was he not a gentleman? And as a gentleman, was he not obligated to defend the fairer sex?
For Hugh, accepting that his reaction was on account of his chivalrous disposition was far easier than delving into the reasoning behind the cold, hard fury which filled his heart at the thought of Deveraux.
"Deveraux is no great loss to Miss Drew," he growled in reply, still unable to master the art of nonchalance, "She can do much better than a fortune-hunting second son."
"Indeed," his mother said, barely able to conceal her delight at Hugh's obvious latent jealousy.
Hugh, who was holding onto the last of his dignity by a thread, decided that it was best to excuse himself from his mother's presence, rather than endure her matriarchal triumph.
He loved his mother dearly, but even a son's love was not enough to endure suffering the smugness of her smile.
With his sense of pride slightly ruffled, Hugh took his leave from the duchess' Mayfair abode and set out on his journey home. As the morning was exceptionally fine, Hugh decided to take a slight detour through Hyde Park, hoping that he might enjoy a canter along the Serpentine.
The park was quiet and tranquil, given the unfashionable hour. There were few riders on the Row and Hugh urged his steed into a gentle gallop along the path, relishing the feeling of freedom that it gave him. Usually he felt most comfortable in London, and adored the hustle and bustle of the capital, but of late he had felt hemmed in by the crowds, the smoke which choked the air, and the constant noise of the city. He felt a longing for something, but he could not put his finger on just what it was that he wanted.
He had just decided that a trip to his Kent estate might be in order, when the sound of laughter from nearby drew him from his thoughts.
Hugh looked up and spotted four figures standing by the banks of the river. He squinted against the spring sun, as one of the figures threw back her head and gave a familiar laugh.
It was Miss Drew, accompanied by her two fellow wallflowers and a young gentleman whom Hugh did not recognise.
"Lud, Sebastian," he heard Charlotte cry, as the young man made a poor attempt at skimming a stone on the water, "Even Fifi could do better than that! Look, watch me."
Miss Drew leaned over to pick up a stone, before launching it with an elegant side-armed throw. Even Hugh had to admire her artistry, though his stomach clenched a little as he heard the young gentleman give a whoop of appreciation for her efforts.
"Well done, Charlotte," he called, using Charlotte's given name with an easy familiarity which left Hugh envious.
A sudden awareness came over Hugh and he urged his steed onward, lest he be spotted gawking. A six-foot tall duke upon a stallion of sixteen hands could hardly be called inconspicuous, and he felt painfully vulnerable at the thought of Miss Drew catching him spying on her fun.
For a moment, Hugh had a vision of how Miss Drew viewed him; an austere duke, perched upon his metaphorical and literal high-horse, looking down on all and sunder.
Yesterday, when she had suggested that Hugh saw himself only as his title, he had proudly replied that she was right. Who would want to be a mere man, when as a duke he held a position of such power and wealth?
Today, Hugh wondered if perhaps he was mistaken in his beliefs. He had inherited his title at the tender age of twelve, and had been schooled on the importance of his title—and ergo himself—by zealous tutors employed by his uncle. In his formative years, he had come to understand how his every word, action, and even his thoughts, impacted on the line, leaving him with a sense of detachment from others.
Loneliness pierced his heart with such force that Hugh was astonished it did not knock him from his saddle. He had never before thought of himself as lonely, but he realised with a jolt that this was exactly what he was.
Lonely, isolated, and aloof.
Hugh's mind wandered from thoughts of Miss Drew, to thoughts of his brother, and as he progressed on his journey home, he became more and more irritable.
Dash the chit, he thought with a scowl, as he finally reached his palatial residence in St James' Square. Dash her for making him long for someone to laugh with on a stroll through the park. For wanting someone to see him as Hugh, and not just the Duke of Penrith.
Still, as much as he might curse Miss Drew, Hugh's treacherous mind was already making plans to call on her the next morning. And he was so absorbed by thoughts of making her laugh, in the same way that the young gentleman had earlier, that he clear forgot he was only courting her as a favour to Dubarry...
Chapter Seven
Morning calls—the making and receiving of—were always something that Charlotte had found rather tedious. Sipping tea with society mamas and their daughters, whilst trying to make pleasant—but unremarkable—conversation seemed to Charlotte to be a special kind of torture. A needless device devised by women such as her grandmama to stop ladies like Charlotte indulging in more interesting activities.
Their only saving grace, in Charlotte's eyes at least, were that they allowed her to disappear from the house for lengthy periods of time, without having to give too much of an explanation for her absence.
"I am calling on Violet," she had uttered that morning at the breakfast table, her words so usual that neither her father or her sister had deigned to reply.
