Page 21 of Her Temporary Duke (Rakes and Roses #2)

“ F or the Marquis of Renton’s garden party, we should all have new bonnets. One cannot rely on the weather anymore,” Aunt Phyllis shuddered as she led her daughters like a mother swan along Oxford Street with Charlotte in tow.

She had stopped before a milliner's shop and was peering into the window.

“Bonnets are very fashionable this time of year, Mama,” Francis declared, joining her mother.

“But what color is currently preferred?” Claire asked, catching up after lingering at the window of a haberdasher.

“For that, I must defer to your cousin, Amelia,” Aunt Phyllis said primly, “now, wherever has she got to?”

Charlotte had fallen behind the group, lost in thought after the revelations of the morning. She walked along, heedless of the other ladies and gentlemen with whom she shared the pavement.

I am at a loss to anticipate how Amelia should be behaving around Seth. I know there is a man whom she is fond of. But who? Was it indeed Seth? Oh, where are you sister? What has become of you?

“Amelia, do catch up!” Claire called out, earning a glare from her mother for raising her voice in public.

Disturbed from her reverie, Charlotte looked towards her aunt and cousins. She lengthened her stride and forced a smile, disguising her anxiety.

“What is the preferred color for bonnets this year, Amelia?” Francis asked.

“If we are to be properly attired for the Marquis of Renton’s garden party, we must ensure we are wearing a fashionable color,” Claire nodded.

For a moment, Charlotte was confused, wondering why they were asking her. Then she remembered.

They are asking Amelia because Amelia knows about the fashions of the moment. Oh dear, I do not, however.

“Green…?” Charlotte murmured with a confidence that she did not feel.

“Green?” Aunt Phyllis asked.

“Green,” Charlotte repeated.

“Green,” Francis echoed, thoughtfully.

“I do not like green,” Claire complained.

“Your social betters do, however,” Aunt Phyllis chided, “and if you wish to be accepted, then you must give deference to their opinions over your own. Who are you to tell them that they are wrong because you have decided you do not like the color green?”

Claire pouted. “There is not even a green bonnet in the window!”

“Well, this cannot be a very fashionable establishment, then,” Aunt Phyllis tutted. “Come along, girls; we will not risk being seen in front of an unfashionable shop.”

She ushered them along, looking around to see who might be watching. Charlotte peeked into the window, seeing a selection of perfectly nice bonnets, but none meeting the criteria she had now trivially established as being of paramount importance.

I did not anticipate that, but it was not so difficult. Perhaps that is all there is to being an arbiter of fashion, no knowledge as such. Just a whim?

Ahead, Claire called out excitedly, “Mama, I think there are green bonnets in that shop across the road!”

After earning another scolding glare from her mother, the three honed in on the point like lurchers. Aunt Phyllis waddled her way across Oxford Street, her two daughters in tow.

Charlotte lingered a step behind, caught in their wake. Just as she moved to follow, a carriage veered in front of her and came to a jarring stop, cutting her off from the others.

The door flung open. Seth leapt down.

He tossed a coin towards the driver that had the man stammering his thanks. All the while, Seth glared at Charlotte.

She took a step back. He wore neither coat, waistcoat, hat, nor tie. His hair looked as though it had been raked back with fingers rather than brushed or combed. His green eyes were lances, pinning her to the spot.

“Your Grace...” she managed, breath hitching.

“Not a word.” He seized her by the elbow.

Charlotte found herself propelled down Oxford Street, imminently, through any passerby who didn’t get out of the way fast enough.

Her Aunt and cousins were so fixated on their green bonnets that they did not notice.

Seth glanced around, then hustled Charlotte into the doorway of a dressmaker’s shop.

Inside, they were greeted by a woman with jet-black hair coiled high upon her head, a pincushion strapped to her wrist, and a measuring tape draped like a badge of office around her neck. She offered Charlotte a warm smile—one that faltered the moment her eyes landed on Seth’s disheveled state.

“How may I be of service, milady, milord?” she asked, the words sugar-sweet but cautious.

“I wish I knew,” Charlotte murmured, frowning as she wriggled her arm free from Seth’s unyielding grip. “Would you care to explain, Your Grace?”

“My fiancée would like a new dress,” Seth replied swiftly, “and I see a number of eminently suitable garments displayed here. We would like to try a few. Could you point us to an area where we could be afforded some privacy?”

The dressmaker hesitated, glancing at the garments displayed on a row of polished wooden mannequins.

“Well, Your Grace, it would be far more appropriate to have a gown tailored. You may not be aware, but the female form requires precise—”

“I assure you,” Seth cut in, flashing a smile that was all teeth and provocation, “I am intimately familiar with the intricacies of the female form. We'll start with one of these. Pick something you like, darling.”

Charlotte blinked up at him, stunned.

He is behaving like a madman. What in heaven’s name is he trying to prove now?

Forcing composure into her spine, Charlotte offered a stiff smile and drifted toward the row of gowns. Her fingers skimmed the fabrics until they settled on a blue silk dress, the shade deep enough to rival twilight.

“That one,” she said quietly.

The dressmaker hurriedly stripped the mannequin of its garment. Seth took it from her. The woman led them to the rear of the shop, where a curtain was drawn aside. Beyond the curtain were stand mirrors and a chaise. Seth seized the curtain and yanked it across in front of the astonished proprietor.

Charlotte glared at him. “Am I to change in front of you now?”

She wondered if she would comply if that was his request. Stripping down to her undergarments in front of a man would have scandalized her a few weeks ago. Now, she wasn’t sure whether she was scandalized… or thrilled.

He didn’t answer. He tossed the dress aside. It missed the chaise and crumpled to the floor. Before she could reach for it, he caught her by the arms and kissed her.

Hard.

Charlotte stiffened. Her eyes flew open in shock, but his kiss didn’t falter. It was fierce, searing, almost wild—less a kiss than a claim. Her thoughts scattered like startled birds in trees. She gripped his sleeves, caught somewhere between resistance and surrender.

Then, just as abruptly, he broke away, holding her at arm’s length.

“I didn’t feel the difference before,” he muttered, breathing hard. “Now I do.”

“What difference?” Charlotte exhaled shakily.

His jaw tightened. “A letter arrived. I do not know precisely when it arrived, but it is, frankly, impossible.” His gaze honed in on her visage, as if searching for a truth.

“It is from you … Except written from Scarborough, and written for the purpose of breaking off our engagement. The reason cited is that you love another.”

A chill gripped Charlotte’s chest, sharp and sudden. A letter from Yorkshire—from Scarborough —there could be no doubt. It had to be Amelia.

Finally, our ruse has been discovered, and Amelia herself shattered the illusion. She is not at Hamilton House after all. Why did she not warn me beforehand?

Seth’s voice broke through her spiraling thoughts.

“Can you explain,” he asked, quietly but intently, “how you can be here in London and send me a letter from Scarborough at the same time? Or why you would lie beside me in that boat, kiss me as though nothing else existed… and then write to say you love another?”

She looked up into his eyes, expecting fury, mockery—anything but what she found.

He wasn’t angry. He was bewildered. Almost… hurt.

There was a wild flicker in his gaze, as if some part of him already knew the truth and had hoped—foolishly, desperately—not to be right.

But why? His behavior has not told me that he cares for Amelia, so why should her rejection of him sting as much as it so clearly does?

“Amelia...” he began, voice rough.

Charlotte pressed her fingers to his lips to silence him.

“I am not Amelia,” she finally whispered.

He stared, unmoving. Then he took her hand and moved it from his mouth.

“I knew it,” he rasped softly. “God help me, I think I knew it from the first time I kissed you. I kissed Amelia, once before. It was nothing like this.”

Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat, and her heart pounded.

“So, who are you?” he asked, still holding her hand as though it tethered him to something real.

“My… my name is Charlotte Nightingale. I am Amelia’s twin sister. We are identical,” Charlotte began carefully.

Seth’s eyes widened a touch. He searched her face, as though looking for some difference to confirm whether she had told the truth or lied.

“I… I cannot see it,” he conceded in defeat, finally.

“But I… feel it. There’s a fire in you she never had.

Something untamed, just beneath the surface.

..” He paused, brows furrowing. “I thought it was a trick. I figured you were trying to ensnare me when I noticed the change. But it must have been the moment you took her place. Why?”

Before Charlotte could answer, a voice called out from beyond the curtain.

“Can I help at all? A man’s no use when it comes to women’s fittings, I daresay!” the dressmaker called cheerily, her voice thankfully distant.

“No,” Seth snapped, sharper than intended. Then more calmly, “Thank you. We’re quite all right.”

Charlotte began to unlace her bodice. “Let me try the dress on or she will wonder what we have been doing,” she whispered.

“Hang the dress!” Seth hissed.

“No! This is Amelia’s reputation we are playing with. We will not hang it,” Charlotte retorted with equal vigor.