Page 46 of Her Temporary Duke (Rakes and Roses #2)

TWO MONTHS LATER

T he soft clink of hoofbeats on cobbles echoed down the main street of Burrow’s End, a sleepy village nestled at the edge of the Lake District, just shy of the Scottish border.

Mist curled over the moors like spilled cream, golden with the early light.

A sharp spring wind carried the scent of peat, damp grass, and baking bread from the nearby shop where the postmaster’s daughter was learning to knead properly.

Charlotte Redmaine— née Nightingale, or perhaps still Nightingale, depending on one’s view of legality—braced her boots against the stones, her skirt hitched indecorously high around her knees as she perched one foot on a wooden fence and pulled at a recalcitrant bit of wool snagged in the hawthorn.

The lamb, the offending culprit, bleated mournfully beside her.

The creature belonged to old Mr. Talbot, whose flock had an abominable habit of slipping through gaps in the low stone wall and scattering themselves about the village. She and Seth had encountered the straggler on their morning promenade across the meadow, tangled halfway in a thicket.

Seth crouched on the other side of the fence, one shirt sleeve rolled up and blonde curls falling into his eyes, holding the wriggling creature still with one strong hand.

“Are you certain you were raised in the countryside?” he asked, laughing as the lamb attempted to bolt.

“I wasn’t tending sheep, Your Grace,” she said with mock hauteur. “I was busy being ignored in drawing rooms and wearing the same dress two seasons in a row.”

The lamb kicked again, and Seth grunted as he caught it. “And now look at you. Smelling faintly of lanolin and about to ruin your stockings.”

Charlotte gave him a wicked smile. “Wouldn’t be the first pair ruined at your hands.”

He looked up at her, something hot and knowing in his emerald eyes. “That was one time.”

“It was two .”

“That second time, you were sitting in my lap,” he said, voice low and amused. “And it was very cold outside.”

She smirked. “It was very hot inside.”

He grinned, a devil of a thing, the sort of smile that once had made her knees wobble, and still did more often than she liked to admit. She freed the wool with a sharp tug and tossed the clump over the fence.

“There. You’re welcome, you little fool,” she muttered to the lamb.

Seth let it go, and the creature scampered back toward the field, tail wagging indignantly.

They climbed over the fence together, Charlotte swinging down first, Seth catching her waist as if by reflex. She lingered in his arms, breath fogging in the chilly air, hands resting on his chest.

“You’re flushed,” he murmured.

“I have just chased a sheep through half a meadow.”

“Mm.” He tilted his head slightly, studying her. “Or it’s the air again.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Not this again.”

“Well, forgive me, but it is not the first time you’ve gone a little pink and wobbly on me. How many times has Mrs. Newton been forced to examine you over the past fortnight?”

“Twice. Thrice, if you count that morning with the dizziness.”

Seth looked at her pointedly. “I do count that morning. You almost fainted into your porridge.”

Charlotte smothered a secret smile and slipped out of his arms. “As I said, it is merely a precaution.”

“That, or you’ve developed an allergy to peace and quiet,” he said, arching a brow.

“Don’t be absurd.”

“I’m only saying, some women would be unnerved by too much contentment.”

She turned, walking backward now, skirts swishing, wind tugging at her raven curls. “If I grow ill from happiness, I’ll be sure to let you know first, Your Grace .”

He laughed and caught up to her, threading his fingers through hers as they crested the rise toward the cottage. The subject drifted away like mist in the sun, and Charlotte let it go with it.

It wasn’t worth troubling him over. Not yet.

Charlotte leaned into him, warm beneath her cloak. They were alone on the pasture edge now, the nearest cottage hidden by a swell of hill, and the world smelled of dew and earth and new beginnings.

“I like it here,” she said softly. “I like our little cottage and our silly sheep and our nosy neighbor who always asks if I’m ‘keeping a good man at home’ and winks.”

Seth pulled back slightly to meet her gaze. “I like it here too.”

His voice was lower now, serious beneath the teasing. “I never thought peace would suit me. I thought I’d be a dull thing without the clubs and the scandal sheets, and the constant, looming threat of Monkton.”

Charlotte laughed. “Poor Monkton. He must be positively despondent without you.”

“I like to think he cries himself to sleep every night holding a rolled deed after Tewkesbury could offer him nothing,” Seth sighed in contentment.

“And all because you lost your Dukedom marrying an imposter,” she gave him a sidelong glance.

“I married precisely the woman I wanted to,” he corrected. “She just happened to be dressed as her twin.”

They walked on in comfortable silence for a moment, Charlotte’s hand tucked into the crook of his arm, boots soft against the worn track that curved toward home.

Just beyond the hills and a good ride’s journey into Scotland, Amelia and Luke had taken up residence in a modest estate once belonging to one of Luke’s more forgiving relations.

It wasn’t grand, not by the standards Amelia and Charlotte had once dreamed of as little girls, but it was elegant in its simplicity—white stone, soft gardens, and enough space to host the occasional guest or house a rescue spaniel that had adopted them sometime in March.

Once they were within looking distance, Seth threw his arms about Charlotte and carried her up the slope toward the cottage, boots crunching frost, her laughter spilling into the air like music. The stone house came into view, chimney puffing merrily, ivy curling round the window sills.

Inside, the warmth wrapped around them like a blanket. Seth kicked the door closed with his boot, still holding her against him. She’d unpinned her hair this morning and the curls spilled down her back like wild brambles.

He kissed her before she could protest, and she melted into him, heat coiling low in her belly. He tasted like wind and salt and home. His hands skimmed her sides, her ribs, her hips—familiar and reverent.

When they parted, she was breathless.

“That was not a kiss of a man who’s planning to tend sheep all day,” she giggled.

“If only you knew,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to hers.

They kissed again, laughter still on their lips, and it was blissfully easy to believe the world had shrunk to this little cottage, this muddy lane, this stolen life.

And then—

A knock at the door.

Charlotte froze against him. Seth groaned.

“Tell them we’re busy,” he said.

“You answer it. I’ve got hay in my hair.”

“I like you with hay in your hair.”

But the knock came again—more insistent, oddly familiar in its rhythm.

Finally, Seth doubled back and opened the door shirtless, his breeches hanging low on his hips. When the figure came into view, Charlotte’s mouth fell open.

“ Reginald ?”

She reached for her shawl as Seth leaned against the doorway, one eyebrow raised, his expression somewhere between annoyed and dangerously calm.

Reginald, in a travel-stained coat and scuffed boots, looked utterly miserable.

He had the grace to glance away when he realized Seth wasn’t precisely clothed for polite society—or any society at all. “I do beg your pardon. I—erm—didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

“If you came to make good on your threats, or seek money from my wife and I, I suggest you leave now, lest I send you home in far less pristine conditions than you arrived in,” Seth muttered, his voice deceptively mild.

“No!” Reginald’s face went pink. “Good God, no. I—that was... that was unforgivable. And I’m not proud of it, if that means anything.”

Charlotte stepped forward, pulling her shawl tighter. “Then why are you here, Reginald?”

He hesitated. Then, with visible effort, he lifted his chin. “May I enter?”

Seth made no move to step aside. Finally, Charlotte touched her husband’s forearm lightly. “Let him in. He’s half-frozen.”

Seth gave her a look—brief, unreadable—but after a long breath, he stepped aside. Reginald ducked his head and entered, his coat soaked through at the shoulders, curls wind-tossed and damp.

The door shut behind him with a thud. For a moment, only the spitting fire dared make a sound.

Charlotte gestured toward the chair opposite the hearth. “You’d best sit before you fall.”

Reginald obeyed stiffly, lowering himself as though his limbs had locked from cold. He peeled off his gloves with numb fingers and turned them over in his lap, not quite looking at her.

“I wasn’t certain I would find you,” he said, voice quieter now, but more sure of itself. “Though I admit I had the advantage of a scullery maid with a fondness for brandy and no loyalty to Aunt Phyllis.”

Charlotte blinked. “You questioned the servants?”

“I bribed Amelia’s—the real Amelia’s lady’s maid, Marie. With an entire bottle of Southwick sherry.”

Seth crossed to the mantle and leaned his hip against it, arms folded. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t uncork one in your honor.”

“I didn’t come for drink,” Reginald said. Then, glancing up at Charlotte, “I came for you.”

She arched a brow, folding her arms too. “Need I remind you, you threatened me the last time we spoke, cousin.”

“I did,” he agreed softly. “I meant to—well. I believed I was justified at the time. I thought I was acting in desperation, but in truth, I was acting out of vanity and fear. I hoped to buy a future that I hadn’t earned, and I thought—foolishly—that you owed it to me.”

Charlotte said nothing.

Reginald looked between them. “And I see now, I owed you. An apology. A proper one.”

Seth snorted. “Did Victoria send you?”

That caught him off guard. “No—well… not directly, so to speak.”

He rubbed a hand through his hair, dislodging a bit of mist.