Page 24 of Her Temporary Duke (Rakes and Roses #2)

His confession to her in the dressmaker’s shop had been the most thrilling of her life. To know that she had attracted such a man in a way that her sister had not was extraordinary. But since then, he had become exclusively focused on Amelia’s need to prove that she did not wish to marry him.

Is it so that he is free to court me as Charlotte without the need for subterfuge? Or does he seek to free himself of any attachment and return to the life of a rake?

Being in his company and seeing him ignore another woman made her heart sing. But then she realized that all was not set between them. Nothing was certain. And suddenly, she was afraid to be too direct lest she hear something she did not like.

The palace was a warren of marble halls and murmured titles, each corridor more lavish than the last. Servants pointed the way, but the route was circuitous, and soon Charlotte had lost all sense of direction.

Gilded portraits loomed overhead; stern men, coy women, eyes that seemed to follow the pair.

After a few more minutes of wandering, Seth slowed beside her, brows furrowed. “I believe we have been ceremonially… misplaced.”

“We should carry on until we find a footman,” Charlotte replied, scanning for signs of life. “Surely someone knows where we are meant to be.”

“Must we?” he said lightly. “You sound so tragically eager to escape my company. Am I so intolerable when I’m not half-drowned or half-dressed?”

She glanced at him—too quickly—and hated the way her pulse reacted. “You are perfectly tolerable. When you are quiet.”

He stepped closer. “A rare review. I shall treasure it.”

Before she could answer, Claire Willoughby’s unmistakable voice rang out from around the bend: “But Mama, no one else is wearing a green bonnet!”

“Then we are the pioneers. Everyone else is out of step,” Aunt Phyllis was saying.

They sounded just around the corner, and suddenly, Charlotte did not care to be in their company. She didn’t want to have to play the part of her sister presently. Of smiling, pretending, performing.

Without thinking, she grabbed Seth’s hand and pulled him across the corridor. She opened a door—thankfully unlocked—and ushered him inside. Empty . She shut the door behind them, muffling the Willoughby chorus.

Seth glanced toward it. “We could follow them, you know. Assuming they are not as lost as we are, they’ll lead us back to the others soon enough.”

“I don’t want to,” Charlotte said flatly. “I… I needed to speak with you.”

That brought his gaze to her. Then he smiled and stepped forward. She met him with a hand to his chest. He didn’t stop. Just leaned into her palm, forcing her arm straight. His grin widened.

“What… what are your intentions?” she began.

He looked down. “To reclaim Excalibur and possibly the hors d'oeuvres ?”

She gave him a withering look. “Be serious, please.”

“To preserve my birthright, then,” he shrugged smoothly. “By maintaining the illusion of our engagement. As we agreed.”

“And after that?” Her voice dropped. “What happens when Amelia returns and tears off the mask for everyone to see?”

He tilted his head. “What would you have happen?”

And that was the trouble. She didn’t know.

This man was a walking contradiction—charming, reckless, sharp-tongued, and silver-spined.

He’d schemed his way through two broken betrothals, manipulated every rule designed to bind him, and yet here he stood.

Close enough for her to see the fast rise and fall of his chest. The glint of something too raw to be false in his eyes.

“It seems,” he began carefully, “that we are presented with a rather useful fiction. You are Amelia. I , your devoted fiancé…”

Charlotte’s lips parted. “What are you implying…”

He shrugged boyishly. “No one would blink if they caught us lingering in some dim corridor, lost in the throes of betrothal bliss.”

Her breath hitched. “You… you are suggesting we use the pretense to… indulge ourselves?”

“I am suggesting,” he iterated, his voice lowering, “that we take advantage of what’s already expected of us. A shared glance. A stray touch. A kiss stolen in the shadows. All perfectly explainable. I see it in your eyes, I saw it from the very first moment—you seek that thrill too, don’t you?”

He moved then—not abruptly, but with slow, assured ease—until she felt the whisper of his presence in every inch of her skin.

His arm braced beside her head, the metal of his vambrace cool against the door.

She realised she’d retreated, step by step, until the wood was at her back and he was everywhere else.

“No. There—there would be whispers,” she started, though her breath caught halfway through the sentence.

“Undoubtedly,” he smirked. “Your aunt will require smelling salts.”

“And the rest of London?”

“They will assume what they always do. That we are young. And very much in love. As I said, a useful fiction .”

“Then… there is no danger,” she murmured, trying to convince herself.

“None. Only pleasure.”

And then his mouth was on hers.

It wasn’t sudden—it had been building, moment by unbearable moment, until the kiss felt inevitable.

Charlotte melted into him, the taste of him dizzying, the weight of his presence stealing breath and thought alike.

She curled her arms around his shoulders, pulling him close, only to hiss at the jolt of cold steel pressing into her ribs.

He groaned, broke the kiss, and stepped back. “Hell’s teeth, this armor—”

In one motion, he yanked off the ceremonial robe and began wrestling with the chainmail hauberk. “The Regent is a preening lunatic. Who requires a man to dress like a knight at a diplomatic function?”

He got the thing halfway over his head and immediately became entangled, with arms trapped and vision gone. He staggered blindly into a chair, then ricocheted into a sideboard. A vase wobbled on the edge, but Charlotte lunged and caught it just in time.

She burst into a fit of laughter. “You are a veritable menace.”

“Help me or mourn me!” he barked, still half-swallowed by chainmail. “I may die like this.”

She tried to help, but he stumbled again, tripped on a rug, and the world pitched sideways.

With a crash, they landed on the floor in a tangle of limbs and overturned furniture. The chaise they'd fallen onto teetered, then toppled after them, landing askew and forming a canopy of silk upholstery above their heads.

Charlotte was utterly winded from laughing, her body pinned beneath his. He braced his hands on either side of her, his face flushed, his chest heaving, hair a golden mess.

She caught her breath. “Well. That was dignified.”

“Wasn’t it just?”

The door burst open. “What was all that noise? It sounded like a bloody bull in a ballroom—” A pause. “Look at that! The chaise is overturned!”

Charlotte’s eyes widened. Seth clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling the helpless giggle threatening to escape. She shook with silent laughter beneath him, her shoulders trembling.

Another voice spoke. “Leave it. His Lordship is starting the reception. This can wait.”

Footsteps retreated. The door clicked shut.