Page 3 of In Need of a Duke (The Society of Scandalous Brides #3)

CHAPTER 2

Her hair still hung around her face as if it were the damn sunshine, and he despised it.

His duchess.

Ian Gairdner, the Duke of Dandridge stood silently in the doorway of his family’s ancestral seat, Stonehurst, deep in Cumbria, disgusted with the view in front of him.

Charlotte lay reclined on a velvet chaise, with a sheet draped around her curvy figure, only drawing his attention to her large bust. A soft, sensual smile was spread across her lush pink lips as she giggled at something another guest whispered above her.

She was beautiful.

But that had never been the problem.

It was well past midnight, and he had ordered the carriages to drive well past a sensible time. His only savior, the full moon that lit the way.

Besides, no one would dare tell a duke no.

Him, especially.

Everyone feared him, though he had no vicious streak. It was more something about his demeanor. And since people’s reactions and perceptions of him often worked in his favor, he didn’t spend the time to change their minds.

Let them think what they wish.

Ian stretched his neck from side to side, attempting to shake the stiffness from the journey. Not that it mattered. The sharp bite of sleep nipping at his eyes was nothing in comparison to the fury simmering through his body as the guests before him shrieked and laughed, spilling claret on the floor, and losing themselves in the debauchery of a country house party.

That he was paying for.

“Hark,” a familiar voice called out. Then a man… no, not a man—his reprobate younger brother, Nathaniel—leaped out from behind a room divider dressed as a Roman foot soldier, staggering back a step. “I have come to pillage… Damn it, Brother! You scared me.”

The rest of the guests tittered before swinging their astonished stares to Ian standing idly in the doorway, bored with their poor behavior.

Of course, Nathaniel had such acquaintances but to bring them here at Stonehurst? Had Charlotte allowed it?

His father had warned him once never to marry for love. He had ignored that advice, and now he had truly made a mess of things.

Ian cleared his throat but remained still. He wouldn’t give Charlotte the satisfaction of his anger. Better to let her believe he didn’t care. He found it only bothered her more.

“This is my house,” he said.

“I am aware…” Nathaniel shook his head and rubbed his eyes, laughing as if he didn’t believe Ian was standing before him. “It’s only…”

“We are so glad you have decided to join us.” An older woman, her hand pressed to the base of her throat as if in shock, blinked, then grinned wide. “I last heard you were traveling the continent. No doubt you have some excellent stories to share with us.”

Ah, Mrs. Vessey. An old acquaintance of his mother’s. He knew he recognized that grin, and the same silk turban she always insisted upon wearing. As if her crimson hair and wide-set emerald-green eyes weren’t memorable enough.

Ian slowly moved his stare to the woman married to an absolute buffoon of a man who slept most of the time while occupying the House of Lords. It didn’t help he was nearing his seventies, not that his much younger wife minded. Or so the rumors went.

“Join you?”

The woman nodded, and he wondered if she knew he had just returned from burying his mother in Italy.

All the while, he studied Charlotte who refused to look at him. She moved to make herself smaller as if attempting to disappear altogether.

Convenient.

That had always been her problem, whether intentional or not, Charlotte would never fade from view.

Two years had passed since they had last seen one another, and he still craved her as much as he ever had. Almost as much as he hated her.

“Well, yes. The duchess hadn’t shared with us that you were expected, but we are so glad?—”

“Hello, darling.” His voice, colder than an early morning in February steeped in ice, choked out the endearment. The effect was altogether devastating.

Charlotte pawed at the sheet to cover herself up but still refused to look at him, even as a bright red flush blossomed on her cheeks down her neck and across her exposed chest.

“Now, Brother,” Nathaniel said, holding a fake sword in his hand and looking absolutely ridiculous. “We are in the middle of an important stage production.”

Ian glanced around at the empty glasses and various bottles of port and brandy. He never thought Charlotte would stoop so low as to host such a scandalous party at Stonehurst, but his brother being in attendance explained the half of it.

“Nathaniel, I believe it is time to bid everyone a good evening. I have business to discuss with you. Now. I trust you know where my office is.”

“I do.” Nathaniel ran a hand through his hair and narrowed his eyes. “It was Father’s office long before it was ever yours.”

Father .

What a rotten night.

To return to his wife to find a house full of half-drunken London idiots, and his damn younger brother with his bride, and now to be reminded of father. As if Ian could ever forget.

The room might have belonged to his father, but Nathaniel was lying to himself if he thought Father conducted business in that office. He had despised his family, leaving the first chance he could, and often for months at a time.

“I will wait no more than five minutes,” Ian said instead, turning on his heels and tromping through the halls. At the sound of his retreating footfalls, hushed whispers erupted about his return.

“No, I am fine. Fine, I insist, really, Monty.”

But her voice broke, and Ian, though he had been away, knew her when everyone else only adored her from afar like some pretty prize. Maybe Ian had trapped her as well, condemning her to a life alone to bear the brunt of the rumors of the on-dits . He left her with a sizable account to spend as she wished, and use of Stonehurst and the home in Mayfair. And she had chosen to spend the majority of her time in Stonehurst.

Ian grumbled, eating up a large distance to his office before his valet, Daniel, stopped him. “Your Grace?”

“What?” he snapped, his hand gripping the doorknob so tight he was afraid he’d tear the door off its hinges.

She hadn’t so much as looked at him.

Not once as he had stood there, waiting.

Waiting .

Like a damn fool.

Daniel grimaced, his brown eyes nearly shutting as his wide mouth pulled to the side in apology. “We are having a problem with your rooms.” He shrank back, which was ridiculous given the man stood two inches taller than Ian.

He spun, staring down his excitable valet. “What do you mean? Problem?”

“The duchess has moved into the room. At least according to her lady’s maid. The door is locked, and she refuses to hand over the key.”

“I am the duke.”

Anger rushed through him, drumming into his ears as if he would turn red and steam like a tea kettle, yet years of practice kept all that hidden.

“I will sort it out when I am through speaking with my brother.”

He neatly dismissed the valet and opened the door to his office, furious the room was cool, and the fire wasn’t lit. Furious the decanters of liquor on the sideboard were empty though he hadn’t drunk in sometime. He ruffled through the drawers, finding a cheroot. He struck a match and lit it, inhaling the smoke before blowing out an aggravated stream as his brother strutted in like a bloody birdbrain, waving a paper sword in the air.

“Can you not do anything seriously?”

Nathaniel snickered, holding his hands up. “I haven’t seen you for a few years, Brother. That’s how you wish to greet me?”

“You never answered when I wrote to you about Mother.” Ian leveled a glare at his younger brother.

“There was no love lost there.”

Ian shrugged, the weight of his mother’s confession pressing on him. He had traveled for nearly two weeks, and in all that time, he still hadn’t thought of a good way of telling Nathaniel the truth. It didn’t matter if he hadn’t been close to her. In the end, his world would never be the same.

“I’ll keep this short,” he snapped instead. “Why in the hell are you at my house?”

“I didn’t realize I wasn’t allowed to visit.”

“Let me be specific. Why are you here with my wife?”

His brother tossed his head back and laughed, his wide shoulders rising and falling. He had allowed his hair to grow a tad too long, and his dark eyes were rimmed red after imbibing too much, no doubt.

“I don’t find anything funny with that question.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Nathaniel turned and started for the door.

“I’m not through?—”

“I am, however. See, that woman in there—” Nathaniel raised his hand and pointed down the hall, “has been left alone for far too long. If you cannot show her any kindness, then I will. And no, before you get your knickers twisted, we are merely friends. But if you don’t wish to be her husband, I will tell you now I know at least one man eager for the job.”

“I am her husband.” Ian’s voice bordered on quiet but minacious. The last thread of his patience snapping as he slammed his hands on the desk with a resounding smack.

Nathaniel froze, first looking at the desk before catching Ian’s annoyed glare. “I’m not married myself, but I think for that to be true, you can’t abandon your bride. Certainly not for eight years…”

“This is ridiculous.”

Nathaniel raised his eyebrows and a baiting, indolent smile spread across his lips. “Welcome home, Brother.”

“I want you and the rest of the guests gone.”

“Are you planning on leaving?”

Ian took another drag on the cheroot. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, simply, are you here to stay, or will you be leaving again? You left without a word, haven’t written to me or Lottie…”

“Take her name out of your mouth.”

Nathaniel rocked back on his heels, wagging his eyebrows and smirking. “You’re quite possessive for a man who refuses to acknowledge the existence of his wife.”

“I’m not.”

“Not possessive or not leaving?”

“It’s none of your concern.”

“Oh, but it is, Brother. You love to paint me as a terrible man without ambition or much foresight, but I won’t allow you to hurt her any longer. You are so used to the world bending to your every whim, but as long as I am around, you won’t be allowed to torture her with your indifference. She’s endured more than you could ever know.”

Ian raked his hand through his hair. “Out.”

“Leave her be, Dandridge.”

Nathaniel slipped out of the dark, cold office leaving Ian standing there, feeling as if he would rage through the house, pull down the family portraits and tapestries, and yell and stomp like a spoiled child.

But such emotion was not tolerated.

And he had a far better handle on his feelings since he had discovered the truth about his father. It was best to keep his heart behind a wall, locked away from the care and love of others.

Even Charlotte.

He opened a ledger, then slammed the cover shut, annoyed it was both dusty and several years out of date. Where did she keep the ledgers and conduct business? He paid for a land steward because the last time he had returned it had been a disaster.

He resisted calling out her name, instead politely greeting the butler and footman who helped him when he set off down the hall to visit his office. When Charlotte barreled around the corner, her arms full of books, a smear of dirt on her forehead, they collided, and she tumbled backward before he could grab her, falling onto the floor with books strewn everywhere. Her eyes were wide as her voice squeaked, “Your Grace.”

Ian reached down to help her stand, about to apologize, when she pulled away, shrinking back as if he were a monster. “Your Grace,” she repeated, her voice cold. She brushed back her hair, gathered the books, and turned her back on him. He was dumbstruck. It wasn't as if he expected her to greet him with open arms or endearments, but she certainly didn't look at him with civility. He stiffened, straightening his jacket to find his footing. She believed him a monster. He could play that role. He could be whatever she needed him to be.

“I have a meeting with a steward,” he announced. She stood on her knees, balancing the books on her wide hips. “You've dirt on your face.”

Her cheeks reddened, and she moved to wipe it away, nearly dropping the books once more .

“Do you need help?”

She shook her head, swallowing hard.

"I would have written about my visit," he said, "but I didn't think you would have responded either way."

“Of course.” She moved to step around him when his hand shot out to gently grab her arm. Touching her only led to trouble.

She had stiffened underneath his grasp and pulled away. "Let go. And I will stay out of your way. Good day, Your Grace.”

And that small glimpse of hope held then—at rekindling his romance with Charlotte—was immediately ruined the second she recoiled from his outstretched hand and rushed back to her rooms. It didn’t matter that after his meeting was finished with the steward, Charlotte was dressed in a beautiful blue gown and whispered for him to stay. He left her on the stairs, crying, determined to reach London or place an ocean between them once more.

Like an utter cad.

It was foolish of him to believe there had been any hope in rekindling what had been between them, foolish to think she had been waiting, pining for him, foolish to think she loved him still.

He turned toward the window, tilting his head up as he inhaled his cheroot once more. The silver light of the full moon flooded over him, illuminating the room.

She had claimed his bedchamber?

No.

She couldn’t look him in the eye, and now she had kicked him out of his quarters? He owned this damn house. Everything she enjoyed belonged to him.

And he wouldn’t tolerate being made to feel less than within the walls of his own home. She had altered the course of his life enough.

No longer.

Now, he would alter hers.

Ian was back for his wife. She would be his again.