Page 19 of Her Temporary Duke (Rakes and Roses #2)

C harlotte lay in the bottom of the small rowboat, the silk of Amelia’s borrowed gown soaked through where it met the damp wood. The gown, no doubt ruined, clung to her skin in a way that should have mortified her. But mortification required the presence of shame—and at this moment, she felt none.

Seth stretched beside her, his presence more comfort than burden. One arm curved possessively around her waist, his chest pressed to hers with every shallow breath she took. Above them, the night sky unfolded in pinpricks of silver, the hush of the Thames carrying them gently downstream.

The boat rocked in a gentle rhythm, soothing and somewhat sensual.

The sound of water lapping against the hull was like soft kisses.

And Seth—he kissed her as if she were made of moonlight and breath.

His mouth traced a reverent path along her jaw, the slope of her neck, the neckline of her gown where skin met silk.

She let her eyes close, her world narrowing to sensation—his lips, the warmth of his body, the rough glide of his coat beneath her fingertips.

On impulse, emboldened by the night, she slipped a hand beneath the hem of his shirt.

Her palm met the heat of him—taut muscle, bulging beneath her touch—and she felt his breath catch against her throat.

When he dropped his head to the curve of her shoulder, she turned into him, nosing through the unruly gold of his hair. She kissed it, inhaled it, losing track of where he ended and she began.

Then he lifted his head, his mouth hovering just above hers. A cruel breath of distance. His eyes burned into her, waiting. She could not bear the waiting. She curled her fingers into his hair and pulled, closing the distance in a fierce, aching kiss that threatened to undo her completely.

For one devastating moment, she forgot everything.

Who she was.

Who he thought she was.

There was only this—the unbearable sweetness of his mouth, the heat rising in her limbs, the certainty blooming in her chest that no man would ever make her feel like this again.

There will never be another man in my life to compare to him. Never be another who makes my nerves sing and my body quiver with desire. I want him to be my first and my only. I will live the rest of my life a spinster if he is the one to claim my maidenhead.

At those times, she fought for self-control, knowing that it would be a disaster—for her and for Amelia when she eventually returned. The gentleness of the river contrasted with the savage war that Charlotte fought inside herself.

She wondered if Seth felt the same conflict.

His desire was self-evident from the hardness of his body, from the groans as her lips and tongue tasted him and her hands explored him. She delighted herself with private thoughts that he was on the verge of losing himself and that it was she who had driven him to it.

Not Amelia, but her.

Seth lifted Charlotte’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles before helping her into the cab. The door shut with a soft thunk , but she leaned out through the open window.

“When will we see each other again, do you think?” she asked.

In the early morning light, her smile was radiant, and her eyes sparkled. Her cheeks had a rosy hue that made her glow.

He leaned in, stealing one more kiss. It was meant to be brief—a chaste goodbye.

But her lips lingered, and his resolve wavered.

They had drifted in and out of sleep wrapped in each other’s arms, her body pressed to his in the quiet dark of the river.

He had woken to her touch more than once, and each time it had felt like something sacred.

Not conquest. Not diversion. Connection. ..

And she had listened. He had told her about Hillcrest, the dream of his mother, stories of his past. She had cradled his head, running fingers through his hair while he spoke. No woman had ever held him like that—without expectation, without guile. Just... held him.

He cleared his throat, masking the sudden tightness there. “The Regent hosts a monthly contest at Hampton Court—archery, pistols, all manner of manly pursuits,” he said with a boyish grin. “I rarely miss it. Perhaps you'd like to come see me dazzle the cream of London with my prowess?”

Lord, I am not sure I need to be so bullish any longer. Being a bore has become such a habit after driving these three women away from me that I cannot stop.

For some reason, though, Amelia’s eyes sparkled at his words.

“Perhaps it will be my prowess that will impress you,” she giggled.

Seth gaped for a moment, and Amelia suddenly slapped the side of the carriage.

“Prescott Estate, please, driver!” she called out.

Seth leaped down as the cab rumbled away through the streets of Limehouse, where they had eventually come to rest on a mudbank. Amelia leaned out to look back at him, and he watched her until London hid her from his view.

He began to stroll the river behind him and the Commercial Road in front. He didn’t know this part of the East End well but could see what he took to be Stepney Church in the distance. With the sun rising to his right and the river at his back, he knew the way was west.

It would be a brisk, invigorating walk through the city to Fleet Street. Blythe would have had his correspondence delivered, something he did on a weekly basis, and Seth would have the rest of the day and the next to puzzle out what he intended to do about Amelia before the Regent’s tourney.

I do not even know how long until the marriage clause ends. How long do I have to drive her away?

The sun was well above the horizon by the time he was climbing the stairs of the building atop which he had his garret. He fished in his coat for the long, iron key to the door, but upon inserting it, found the lock already unlatched. He pushed the door open tentatively.

Inside, Tharpe Monkton sat on a chair, hands folded over a silver-topped cane.

“You are a housebreaker now?” Seth muttered, walking in and slamming the door.

“I am a man of many skills. I expected to find you incapable of answering my knock, given that you spent the evening at Catesby’s,” Monkton murmured in an oily voice.

“A spy, too, eh? Who do you have reporting on me?”

“A reliable source.”

“Who? I shall have to pay him double whatever you are,” Seth yawned.

“You could not bribe him, Your Grace. He stands to gain your entire estate, you see,” Monkton finished smoothly.

Seth had been making for his bedchamber for a change of clothes, but now paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“That is the second time you have mentioned an heir. And now I know he is someone whom I am familiar with.”

Monkton shook his head flatly. “No. Merely able to monitor your activities.”

Seth frowned, hoping to puzzle out who it could be.

“Irrespective, he is not doing his job well. I did not spend the evening at Catesby’s. I started the evening there. And then left—”

“With a young fair-haired lady,” Monkton cut in promptly with a telling smirk. “You see, Your Grace, I am aware of more than you might believe.”

Seth laughed and was rewarded by a twitch of Monkton’s eyebrow.

“ Chrissie ? She tried to inveigle herself into my company, but I was having none of it. Did you pay her, too, Monkton? With instructions to swear to my adultery? She was sent packing, and I have a witness to that.”

Monkton stood, bracing his hands flat upon his cane.

“Nevertheless. You are neither married, nor rejected by all three women. I must inform you that you have one month precisely to fulfill the terms of your father’s marriage clause before it is invoked and your lands, wealth, perhaps even title, pass to. ..”

The solicitor raised his hands in a shrug.

“To whom, I cannot say. Good day to you.”

He left the room, and Seth listened to his cane clacking its way down the stairs. His attention turned to his post lying in a neat pile on the mantle, bound by a ribbon bearing the Bellmonte seal imprinted on wax.

A month to untangle my feelings. To accept the shackles of betrothal or to drive Amelia away once and for all.

He picked up the letters, threw himself into a chair, and tossed his coat over the arm of another.

Tearing the seal away, he dropped the ribbon on the floor and began poring through the letters.

The first half-dozen were mundane, and he skimmed them—business correspondence relating to the management of his estates. The seventh was different.

Tearing it open, he began to simply skim the letter, then paused and reverted back to the beginning, reading it more thoroughly this time.

Your Grace,

I hope you are well. I wish to take this opportunity to write to you to inform you that I do not intend to hold you to the marriage which your father and my uncle had arranged.

I have never cared for the notion of being anyone’s third choice, as I understand I was to be.

I like it least of all when the gentleman concerned treats me as onerously as you have.

It has left me confused and a little distressed over the last few weeks, but I now thank you for it.

I have no desire to marry you, as there is another whom I love, and I intend to pursue happiness with him.

I do not think we shall meet again, as I write this from my temporary home in the town of Scarborough.

I would kindly request you do not seek me out either, for I will be long gone by the time you receive this post.

I hope this news does not leave you downhearted. I suspect that it will not.

Regards

Amelia Nightingale.

Seth had to re-read the letter several times to fully absorb the contents. Then he convinced himself this was some kind of bizarre practical joke. But that notion lasted only a moment. Something else was happening here.

Amelia Nightingale is in London, yet writes from Scarborough. It would not take more than a week for this letter to reach me from there. Amelia Nightingale, or rather, someone claiming to be her, wrote this letter.

Someone claiming to be Amelia Nightingale…

Either the author of the letter or the woman he had been alternately wooing and trying to drive away was an impostor. The letter crumpled in his fist as he strode for the door.

Am I being played for a fool? Is this some machination of Tharpe Monkton? To what end?

If the letter was genuine, then Seth had won, the marriage clause was passed, and his inheritance was safe.

If the woman he had spent the night with was the real Amelia, then everything was still hanging in the balance, for she showed no signs of rejecting him anytime soon.

He took the stairs three at a time and flew out of the door into the street.

He searched Fleet Street for a cab as he strode along, sans coat, hat, or waistcoat, all of which he had stripped away inside to change.

An upraised hand, the letter still clutched, finally summoned a carriage, and Seth leaped inside, barking his destination.

“Prescott Estate!”