Page 44 of Dukes All Night Long

C harlotte flopped back against the squabs, her body listless, thanks to the stranger who knew her name.

But how? He said “his club.” Did that mean he owned Club Knight?

And if he did, he would know every member and must approve every applicant, including her.

But how had he recognized her? As far as she knew, they’d never met before, though of course she didn’t know who he was.

Perhaps they had met somewhere. All sorts of scenarios went through her mind during the ride to her townhouse in Mayfair.

If he knew who she was, did anyone else know?

Her reputation could be ruined by this time tomorrow.

How would she ever find a gentleman to marry her and give her the children she desperately wanted?

It was a constant ache inside her heart—this need and desire for a baby to love and nurture.

Once inside her townhome, she hurried upstairs to her chambers. She’d told her maid, Lucy, not to wait up, and she was relieved to be alone, as melancholy pushed its way inside her mind.

Dressed in her night rail and matching robe, Charlotte stood looking out her bedroom window facing the street.

The streetlamp directly across from her house illuminated the area around it, and she realized just how alone in this world she was.

Even if her scandalous behavior tonight were to become known, would anyone truly care?

As far as prominent members of the ton went, she was nobody—the daughter of a wealthy English merchant and his American wife.

Sadly, they’d both perished from sickness, and her older brother now ran the business.

She hadn’t seen him in three years, not since their parents’ deaths.

However, he had established a trust for her, and she received a monthly allowance, which was greatly needed to support her household staff and pay the taxes on the townhouse.

She received a small pension for her husband’s service in the Navy, but that alone would never support her and her household.

Her husband, Lieutenant Hugh Beauchamp, God rest his soul, the second son of a viscount, died on his Navy ship off the coast of Portugal.

Hugh’s father, Viscount Perth, disliked her for her lack of family pedigree and had washed his hands of both of them the day they were wed.

Then last year, Hugh had died in an explosion on his ship, where he had been under the command of his old friend from Eton, Captain Nathaniel Nightingale.

She later found out Captain Nightingale had suffered severe injuries trying to save her husband and had nearly succumbed to his wounds.

It embarrassed her that she hadn’t sought out Captain Nightingale in person to thank him for what he’d tried to do.

She had written him a letter, but that hardly seemed adequate for what he’d sacrificed.

From what she had heard, he was now hideously scarred from his burns and had recently become the Duke of Tremont.

Closing her curtains with a sigh, she climbed into bed, burrowed beneath her pretty blue, flowery coverlet, and wondered why her mind had descended into such tragic and sad thoughts.

After what she had experienced at the club tonight, her body should have been relaxed and her mind occupied with the stranger who had given her so much pleasure.

What surprised her was that she didn’t feel embarrassed or remorseful for sleeping with a total stranger. It was actually liberating.

During their tryst and at the precise moment her body transcended into the stars, she thought she was going to die.

She had no idea her body was capable of such shocking pleasure, and she couldn’t wait to experience it again.

It would be a week from tonight before the next masquerade occurred.

How would she survive the week, wondering and dreaming about the gentleman with the deep laugh and very talented mouth and hands?

Not to mention his large shaft. She fell asleep anticipating their next encounter.

That was if she had the courage to attend and seek him out.

*

By the time Nathaniel closed the club with the help of his trusted employees, his body ached fiercely.

He didn’t have the energy or wherewithal to travel to Nightingale Manor, so he climbed the stairs to his room at the end of the hall—a room where he slept more nights than in his ducal chambers at home.

Spenser, his valet, would be disappointed when he didn’t return, but it couldn’t be helped.

When Nathaniel’s body stiffened and threatened to cease working, it was dangerous for him to take to the streets and travel across town.

He always used that as an excuse when he couldn’t face going home, even though he could always take his carriage, which was in the mews not far away.

He removed his mask, eye patch, and most of his clothing, leaving him standing in his drawers and bare feet.

With fresh water from a basin and a bar of soap, he lathered a cloth and washed the invisible grime from his body, hoping it would also cleanse his soul.

Sometimes, as now, his soul returned to his ship when it was bombed by the French—a bombing which had resulted in the deaths and injuring of many of his men.

Nathaniel understood it was simply war and not his fault for what happened—he had been ordered to approach and attack the French war vessel.

What he hadn’t known then was that there had been a traitor feeding the French secrets, and they had been expecting his ship to sneak up in the middle of the night.

They had been waiting for him with their cannons ready.

He dragged the cloth down the side of his face where his skin puckered from his burns.

His scars were still tender, but not nearly as much as they used to be.

He could see out of his left eye, but the skin around his eyelid was a gruesome sight, so he kept a patch on at all times.

The flames had burned a good portion of his left side.

Fortunately, his hand and most of his leg were spared, so he wasn’t crippled.

With his clothing and mask on to hide his face, no one knew what was hidden beneath.

He had masks custom-made to show the undamaged skin and hide the damage perfectly, in all colors to match his wardrobe.

Spenser insisted he be color-coordinated.

It was good that he mainly dressed in black, navy, and dark brown.

Even before his accident, he wasn’t one for bright colors, except for the red of his uniform.

Nathaniel snorted and said to the empty room, “What would I do without Spenser to keep me in fashion?” He didn’t bother drying off before climbing beneath the covers and settling on his back, allowing himself to think about Mrs. Charlotte Beauchamp.

It was a shock to come face-to-face with the wife of his closest friend from the Navy and Eton.

Nathaniel experienced nightmares often from when the French cannonballs hit in the dead of night as they readied for their own attack.

Fireballs were everywhere. He had witnessed Hugh being engulfed in flames, and he dove onto him, trying to smother the fire with his own body.

When the flames were doused, Hugh was beyond recognition, and Nathaniel was close to death.

What was shocking and unimaginable was that they still sank the French warship with the help of another English ship.

Months went by as he convalesced at home with his private physician, a doctor who believed in alternative therapies and urged him to get out of bed. He pushed his body and mind to heal.

He owed Dr. Hanson his life; the man had performed a miracle.

If only Hugh had lived, Dr. Hanson could have done the same for him.

Charlotte’s masked face flashed in his mind. Hugh had made him promise on their first voyage together that he would look after Charlotte if he were to die. Of course he promised, believing it would never come to pass.

He’d been neglectful regarding his promise.

Even when he had received a letter from Charlotte, he chose to discount it.

He had been assured by an investigator he’d hired that she was financially secure.

What more had Hugh expected? But when her name came across his desk seeking admission into his club, he realized he could not ignore her anymore.

He had planned to seek her out and speak to her if she ever came to the club.

However, fate had other plans and brought them together without their knowledge of each other’s identities.

Now that he had spent time in her company, he wanted more. His fingers touched his lips. He’d tasted her. Drunk from her sweet essence. Spilled his seed inside her.

His one regret was that he hadn’t told her who he was when he discovered her identity. Omitting that would only make it difficult when he did. Would she blame him for Hugh’s death? Would she hate him?

Bloody hell, all he had wanted was to relax and relive their time together. Instead, apprehension churned inside him. It was not what he needed tonight. Sleep was difficult even at the best of times.

All of this left him jumpy as he counted down the days and nights until he might see her again. Meanwhile, Club Knight would open each night for gambling and other more discreet vices.