Page 25 of A Bride for the Scottish Duke (The Gentleman’s Vow #5)
CHAPTER 25
Charity
C harity wandered around the ballroom when Eammon and his cousin emerged from the smoking room, his cheeks flushed. It became evident that the two of them had engaged in more than mere smoking. As she made her way towards him, she slowed her pace on noticing the evident apprehension in his eyes. He rubbed his lips together at the sight of her approach, and she could not quite discern whether he was displeased, if the alcohol had muddled his mind, or if something else vexed him.
“Charity,” he said, acknowledging her presence.
“You were gone for an inordinate length of time,” she replied.
“I did not know you were keeping track of my whereabouts,” he retorted, his tone stiff and somewhat irritable. His cousin had drifted away, engrossed in conversation with a lady nearby, who giggled and offered him her dance card, prompting him to inscribe his name.
“Well, yes, I had been noting your absence. We are here, after all, to demonstrate to all that we are happily wed.”
“You are quite right. Shall we take a turn about the room together?” he suggested. “Smile, if you can, as it will sell our tale to the participants.”
She glared at him. “You know I do not like to be ordered about.”
“I am aware, but in this case, please do as I say,” he replied, extending his arm.
They walked side by side. Many attendees greeted them—most with smiles, courtesy, bows, and other forms of respect—while a few regarded them with what Charity could only assume was suspicion. A woman raised her fan and turned to her companion, engaging in whispered gossip.
Despite this, Charity maintained her composure, smiling brightly as she had been instructed.
“There is something troubling you,” she observed. “You have been remarkably quiet this evening.”
He met her gaze. “Nothing has transpired, nothing beyond the usual strain. One of the tenant pharmacists is ill, and I am concerned. And of course, Lord Markham and his conniving ways trouble me, but nothing beyond that.”
Yet there was something more, a strange feeling that had resurfaced on and off since their marriage. Eager to build on what had—or had not—emerged between them, she decided to ignore it. “Should we not dance?” she inquired.
“Dance?” he replied, as if he had never heard such a notion. “We are married; we cannot dance.”
“At a public ball, surely not,” she urged. “But at a private gathering in your relative's home? Surely we can dance. Look, your uncle is partaking in a dance at this very moment,” she indicated, pointing to the Duke and Duchess of Ashburn engaging with other couples.
“I fear I am not much of a dancer,” he replied. “In fact, if you would excuse me, there is someone I need to speak with.” Letting go of her arm, he turned away. What was the matter with him? Why must he act in such a manner?
“Mercurial” was hardly a sufficient description for her husband.
She paused for a moment, a frown creasing her brow as her hands curled into fists, realizing that all eyes would be on her. Quickly, she composed herself; she pulled back her shoulders, held her head high, and approached a servant carrying a tray of white wine flutes. Taking one, she sipped the bubbly liquid before positioning herself at the edge of the dance floor, awaiting Eammon’s return.
“Lady Charity,” a voice called, and she turned to see a tall gentleman with striking blue eyes, a face she vaguely recognized.
“Yes, though I must beg your pardon; I do not recall your name,” she replied.
“Miles Farnsworth, Lord Barron,” he introduced himself, and her lips formed an “O” as recognition dawned. He was a friend of Lord Markham, someone she had met during a visit to Pembroke. Instantly, her guard rose. What could he want? She scanned for signs of Markham but found none.
“I am quite alone, and Lord Markham is not with me,” he assured her, sensing her hesitation. “In fact, I should inform you that he and I are not closely acquainted.”
“You are not?” she asked in surprise. “He gave me the impression you were when you accompanied him to Pembroke.”
“The impression was misleading,” Miles replied. “We are distantly related—second cousins, in fact. I accompanied him to Pembroke as we were on our way to visit mutual relations. I wished to express my regret over his unkind treatment of you. I am aware of the rumors he spread.”
“Oh,” Charity responded, recalling how much had transpired over the past few weeks. She had somewhat forgotten about the unpleasant stories circulating about her at Stafford House.
“I had my suspicions he was behind it. I thank you for that confirmation,” she said quietly.
“My cousin is never one to take ‘no’ for an answer, especially when he covets something very much,” he added.
Charity bit the inside of her cheek, carefully considering her response. “I lament that he felt the need to fabricate unkind stories about me because I turned him down. I still do not comprehend why he was so determined to claim me as his bride in the first place.”
“Do you truly not?” he asked, sounding genuinely puzzled.
“I would very much like to know,” she replied. “For he continues to cast quite the shadow over this period of my life, which should be exceedingly happy. After all, I am newly wed.”
“I see you are,” he smirked, appearing more at ease. “To the very fortunate Duke of Leith, no less. Good on him.”
Charity wondered why these men insisted on speaking in riddles.
“Pray, would you care to dance? The waltz is next and it is a wonderfully slow dance for making conversation.”
The waltz—of all the dances, this was the one dance she genuinely would not wish to dance with anyone at all. The intimacy of it had always struck her as overpowering. She had to turn him down, but before she could form a response, Eammon’s heavy presence loomed behind her.
“Excuse me, my lord,” he intoned sharply, having seized Lord Barron’s hand. “But my wife and I are about to dance the waltz. If you wish to engage in an intimate dance with a lady, I strongly urge you to find a wife of your own and not bother mine.” The words flowed from his lips like a series of harsh slaps, leaving Charity captivated. Was Eammon jealous? The thought had not previously occurred to her.
“Come, Charity,” he said, using that tone she despised. They proceeded to the line of dancers streaming onto the floor. Once they were positioned, he placed his hand on her waist. She felt the grip of his hand digging in, not unpleasantly, but rather in a manner both possessive and reassuring. He took her hand and gazed at her with eyes as steely as iron.
“I thought you claimed you did not wish to dance,” he remarked.
She blinked at him. “I asked you earlier, and you asserted that we could not because it was improper for husband and wife to dance together,” she stated. “If I might remind you, it is rather an antiquated way of thinking, especially at a private function.”
The music commenced, and he led her into the dance, tightening his grasp.
“That was before I witnessed your readiness to allow another man to dance with you this waltz,” he said evenly.
“I did not wish to dance the waltz with him,” she retorted. “I would have preferred to dance with you. You made it quite evident you did not desire to dance with me until you perceived another’s interest.”
He scoffed lightly as they twirled to the sound of the music. “I shall not have another man dancing with my wife without my knowledge. We must demonstrate to these people that you belong with me.”
“And you with me,” she replied, disliking the notion of being reduced to an object.
“Very well, then,” he said. “Everyone shall know that we belong to one another.” He raised an eyebrow. “This verbiage seems to suit you better.”
She nodded, indeed it did.
“Do you know to whom this gentleman is related?” she added.
He nodded. “I am well aware that Miles Farnsworth is Lord Markham’s cousin. They are thick as thieves.”
She inhaled sharply. “That is what I suspected, despite his attempts to convince me otherwise. He attempted to persuade me that they are not closely connected and that he disapproves of Lord Markham’s actions against me. He outright confessed that Markham was the one to spread the rumors about me at Stafford House.”
“Rumors?” he replied, tilting his head to one side. “I am unaware of this.”
“Before your arrival, all manner of horrid stories were shared regarding me. Lord Millie believed that the best way to extricate me from the arrangement my mother sought with Markham was to drive me into the arms of another suitor. She thought the most effective means to accomplish this was to have another man dance with me. No one would acquiesce until one of her friends divulged the reason.” She shuddered. “Scandalous tales were being spun about me that could have ruined me…”
“If I had not arrived and compelled you to marry me instead?” he asked, a slight smile resting on his lips. “Are you stating that I rescued you from more than one unfortunate fate?”
She loathed to admit it, yet it was true. “Yes, you did,” she conceded. “I believe our marriage was the only reason such stories did not find their way into the scandal sheets.”
“Well, yes. The only thing the scandal sheets revel in more than a scandal is a grand scandal. And our marriage, this tale we have spun and the fact it took place at a registry office, no less, was surely the grandest scandal of this season. You are most welcome.”
Why did he invoke such a storm of emotions within her? One moment she adored him, and the next, he was undeniably infuriating. She yearned to distance herself from him, yet simultaneously desired for him to hold her closer. Indeed, as they danced, she felt the muscles moving beneath his shirt in a manner that suggested what the rest of his form might feel like.
As she danced, she could not help but wish for him to draw her closer, so that she might rest her head against his chest and feel his body move against her. She looked up and saw the slight smirk still on his lips, pondering what those lips might feel like against hers.
But then, a moment later, all such thoughts dissipated, replaced by the general expectation he invariably inspired within her.
“Do you not think Lord Markham sent Lord Barron here because he was aware he could incite seeds of mistrust between us?”
“I do not doubt it,” he responded, casting a glance over his shoulder at Lord Barron, who stood with several gentlemen, currently preoccupied with a snuff box. “What did he say?”
“He implied that I possessed something that many gentlemen coveted, and I do not believe he referred to my accomplishments or my beauty,” she replied. “He hinted that you had gotten what many desired.”
The smile faded from Eammon’s lips, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“It is true; many sought your hand. But I am the one who claimed you. And whether you care for it or not, we are bound to one another. We shall ensure that it remains that way; should you find yourself alone again, men such as Markham will not hesitate to attempt to claim you.”
“But why?” she asked, perplexed.
He opened his lips, and for a fleeting moment, she believed he might divulge the full truth. Yet he closed his mouth again and leaned forward, so much so that their shoulders brushed against one another. She felt his breath rush across her skin, and then his voice whispered in her ear. “You need not worry. You are safe now with me.”
And though he had spoken these words before, and she had found them delightful yet vague, in that very moment, she could not help but feel a shiver race through her body, utterly exhilarating.
“I know it,” she whispered and blinked once, raising her eyes to his.
He looked at her and the world faded away. The gentle tones of the waltz, the sound of dancing shows on the parquet—it all slipped away as all she could hear was his breathing and the sound of her own heart thundering in her ears. She didn’t know what was happening to her for their conversation had not been romantic in the least—and yet, something about the way that he had made it so very clear she was his, that she belonged to him and nobody was to harm her, had awakened something inside her.
It was something she could not name, and yet, something so powerful it was all-consuming. Her lips parted, and then, she felt his grip on her tighten.
“I hope you will forgive me,” he muttered.
“For what?” she asked, feeling as though she had drunk far more than one glass of wine.
“For what I am about to do,” he said. Then, as the music ended, he tipped her sideways so that her hair flew backward, and she let out a gasp. As she looked up, she saw him hover above her, and above him, the sparkling chandelier that tinkled and burst with bright lights where the candle light hit the glass.
“Eammon,” she whispered as he leaned down and placed his lips on hers.
The kiss was warm, sweet, and demanding all at onc,e and Charity’s eyes fluttered shut as she heard murmurs rise around them. However, she did not care.Whateverr she and Eammon were, whatever they might be in the future, right no,w they were united in a most mesmerizing kiss.