Page 14 of Her Temporary Duke (Rakes and Roses #2)

C harlotte couldn’t sleep.

The mattress was lumpy, the room draughty, and every beam seemed to groan in protest of its own age.

But that wasn’t why sleep eluded her.

It was the image of Seth, soaked and staggering, collapsing into the trough in the stable yard—drunk, shivering, gasping. The man who had once seemed so regal, so untouchable. A warlord in evening dress. A feral god.

Yet, he had looked so… human.

With a sigh of frustration, she pushed back the bedclothes and crossed the room barefoot, reaching for the heavy wool dressing gown she’d found in the wardrobe earlier.

It dwarfed her, the hem skimming her ankles, the sleeves swallowing her hands.

It smelled faintly of tobacco and leather, worn soft with age.

And it probably belonged to Seth .

She glowered and tightened the belt.

“Amelia, you had better write to me soon and explain yourself,” she grumbled into the damp air. “I cannot believe the lengths I am going to for you.”

But even as the words left her mouth, she paused. Was it really for her sister?

If I felt nothing for Seth, would I persist despite all the provocation he offers? Appearing drunk in front of me and my family. Abusing his servants. Behaving boorishly. Why am I so drawn to him?

Perhaps because, in between the drunken stumbles and careless charm, he burned with something wild and unrepentant.

He wasn’t kind. He wasn’t safe. But he was alive—too much for the world around him, and too much, apparently, for her to ignore.

He made her furious. And he made her feel awake in a way no one ever had. He didn’t treat her like glass, yet the moments where his passion seeped through, he’d treat her like nothing less.

Even soaked and swearing in the mud, he was still the most vivid being in the world.

She scowled, dragging the dressing gown tighter around her.

“This is absurd,” she muttered, pacing from the room. “He’s reckless. He’s rude. And he deserved nothing less.”

In spite of it all, she decided to check that he had made it back to his own bed and that, if he had fallen into a drunken stupor, he was at least warm and safe. His servants should be ensuring that, at least, but she would forgive them for not doing so if his behavior at dinner was typical.

First, she checked his rooms next to her own. She listened at the door but could hear nothing. She knocked softly and then slipped in.

The outer room was dark, as were all the subsequent chambers. His bed had not been slept in. She left Seth’s rooms and descended the silent house’s main staircase. At each turn, a window looked out over the stable yard, which was moonlit and empty.

Reaching the ground floor, she realized that she had no clue where to look next, so she began opening doors and peeking inside. Everywhere was moonlight, and it spilled through the windows and shadows. Seth could be hiding in any of them, but she didn’t think so.

Finally, Charlotte found herself in a library. The floor was wood and dusty from the musty smell that rose as she walked. Bookshelves filled the room, against the walls and freestanding. A large circular window in the ceiling beamed a pale halo at the center, but otherwise, the room was dark.

Charlotte paused after advancing halfway into the room. There was no sight or sound of another soul within. Her bare feet were dusty, and she was beginning to despair of finding Seth.

Then she heard a noise from behind her.

Instinctively, she hid behind the nearest bookcase, peering between books towards the door. Soft golden light formed a pool around a figure holding a candle before it.

It was Seth.

His hair was disheveled, and his chest and feet were bare. He wore a pair of breeches and nothing else.

Noble savage indeed! He certainly looks the part. Oh my, but he is handsome. Amelia, if you are destined for this man, I envy you, sister.

But something told her that Amelia would not be able to manage him. He was too wild and unpredictable, and he wouldn’t fit into the life of a London socialite.

So, where would he fit? As a country Duke in Yorkshire? I must be sensible. This is not my life. It is a brief fantasy, a dream that will come to an end only too soon.

Seth stumbled towards the bookcase Charlotte hid behind, and for a breathless moment, she thought he had seen her.

But his glassy eyes roamed over the shelves as though scanning for something.

Charlotte watched his bare, sculpted torso from a few feet away through the books, then lifted her gaze to his face.

He appeared almost sorrowful.

Did he regret how he behaved? Was he seeking refuge in a bottle from some anxiety that he could not face? Could she help?

Seth picked out a book from a shelf above Charlotte.

Reaching for it, she had an unadulterated view of his flexing muscles: lean arms with flesh like steel cables and a broad, smooth chest with fine golden hairs across it.

She carefully placed a hand over her mouth, afraid that he would hear her breathing. It felt as though she were panting.

She wondered what it would feel like to touch that chest. How firm were the rigid contours of muscle across his abdomen? The hairs rose on the back of her neck, and a tingle ran through her.

“There you are,” Seth whispered, and Charlotte thought that she was caught.

But he was looking at a book. It was broken-backed and well-thumbed, with at least one page appearing to be loose. He brushed its wooden cover with reverence.

“So, he never found you after all… If he had, he surely would have burned you. The works of the Earl of Rochester wouldn’t be appreciated by the previous master of this house.”

Talking to yourself. The first sign of madness. Or drunkenness. Rochester? I have heard of him. A poet?

Seth turned his back, and Charlotte heard the sound of his leafing through the book.

“Cupid and Bacchus my saints are, may drink and love still reign...” he read aloud, then chuckled.

Charlotte watched him sink to the ground, his back to the bookshelf.

She crouched too, thankful for the soft cotton folds of the dressing gown which made not a rustle as she moved.

Suddenly, she was very aware of her nakedness beneath the garment and her thin nightdress.

As naked as Seth was, now with his back to her.

Her view was blocked by a row of books far better stacked than the ones above.

In attempting to move one and be able to see Seth, she made a slight noise. Leather cover against leather.

Seth’s head came up from the book.

Horrified, Charlotte stood, starting back and only just stopping herself from colliding with the bookcase behind her. Her dressing gown fell open. Seth was also standing, peering through the bookcase.

“Have I invoked the ghost of Richard Redmaine with my blasphemy?” he whispered.

“ No ,” Charlotte whispered back.

“Then is it Mary? Mother?”

Charlotte could hear the brandy strongly in his voice. But the hostility of dinner was gone. He sounded like a little boy.

“I would have come back sooner if I knew I would see your shade, Mama,” he murmured.

He reached through a gap in the bookshelf, fingers reaching for her. Charlotte moved closer, tentatively reaching out, and laced her fingers through his.

“W—why have you stayed away?” she stammered.

“You don’t… you don’t know what it was like after you were gone.” He sniffed, shaking his head slightly. “Papa—he didn’t yell. Didn’t beat me. Didn’t need to. He just… there was nothing. Never said your name again. Like you never existed. Like I was supposed to forget you, just like that.”

He rubbed at his face. “I cried quietly for you once the first night. I remember. Just once. He sent the nurse away. Locked the door. Told me—told me crying didn’t suit a future duke. I was eight.

“After that it was just... tutors. Quiet. No hugs, no stories. Meals alone. Smiles—when he needed them. I wasn’t a son. I was a… a thing he was polishing. Like silver for display. Kindness always meant something was coming. And mistakes... meant silence. That cold, tragic silence.”

He dragged in a shaky breath. “All I ever wanted was to breathe. To run. Go somewhere. Anywhere. So I... I found what I could. Cards. Women. Drink. Foolish pastimes... Just to feel something that was mine. Just to feel like I wasn’t still trapped in this damnable house...”

He squeezed her fingers, and she squeezed back, watching his anguished features through the gaps in the books.

“I’m sorry for that,” Charlotte whispered.

“I’m sorry if I have disappointed you, Mama. I have behaved... poorly,” he uttered in a broken voice.

“But you are betrothed to a beautiful woman, are you not?” Charlotte asked.

The need to know if he intended to marry her sister burned in her. She felt torrents of guilt for taking advantage of his sodden state and impersonating his mother.

But he has behaved abominably, too. I have no choice. I must protect Amelia.

“I was not. She was selected for me by Papa. But it is the strangest thing...”

Charlotte found herself stroking his hand with her thumb, trying to comfort him. In every word, she could hear his pain.

I need not feel sympathy. I am attracted to him, but he has behaved worse than poorly. Why do I feel his sorrow?

“What is?” Charlotte murmured.

“She changed. I cannot put my finger on it. It happened all at once. She looks the same, but it is as though there is another person looking out at me with her eyes. And this other person is... captivating .”

The words made Charlotte’s heart both sing and slump.

“What… what about her captivates you?”

“Her spirit. She is a lioness. Intelligent and sharp as a rapier…”

“Beautiful?”

“I have spent my life seeing only the physical beauty in women. Yes, she is beautiful, but in more ways than on the surface. But...”

“But?” Charlotte breathed.

His fingers were slipping from her grasp as he withdrew his hand, turning to slump against the bookshelves.

“But?” she whispered again.

“But I cannot have her... never...”

Then he was silent. Deep breathing was followed by the thump of a book hitting the floor and then by light snoring. Charlotte stared at the shape half in shadow, half in light, candle on its side before him.

Did he just say that he did not love Amelia until she seemed to change? Until another person was staring out at him from her eyes. Me? It cannot be…

She carefully rounded the shelves and knelt beside his sleeping form. She snubbed out the candle lest it torch the library. Then she unfastened her heavy dressing gown and draped it over him like a blanket.

“Sleep well, and forget this conversation, my sweet lord,” she whispered and kissed him softly on the forehead before leaving the room, quiet as a ghost.