Page 27 of Touched By a Traitor
“You brilliant devil!” Murphy exclaimed. “You mean to use her for your needs, then discredit her afterward?”
Andrew let them draw their own conclusions. “That remains… an option.” He had no such intention, but buying time required letting them believe what served his purposes.
“You could thoroughly ruin her reputation!” Rogers added with glee.
The group erupted into laughter. Andrew swallowed his disgust at these men who found humor in a woman’s potential destruction. “Let us maintain civility. Miss Morton is protected by the king’s relative. We cannot afford Chatham’s ire.”
Before Wilson could respond, a sharp rap sounded on the door.
“I beg your pardon, Lord Wilson,” the butler said. “Miss Morton requests admission to the Inner Temple soiree, but she’s not on your guest list.”
At her name, Andrew’s stomach lurched—a reaction most unwelcome. He held his breath until she appeared, her presence filling the room like electricity.
His gaze drifted over her dark-blue dress, modest yet elegant, the shimmering fabric highlighting her curves. Her hair was pulled back in a severe chignon, and she carried herself with the quiet dignity of someone who refused to apologize for her presence.
Charlotte held Wilson’s gaze steadily while he spoke.
“You are correct, Neville. She is not on the guest list. Please see to it that the interloper leaves the premise.”
Andrew’s blood began to boil at his insolence when the Duke of Chatham appeared beside her, his arm casually hovering near Charlotte’s waist in subtle possession. The gesture sent a stab of pure possessiveness through his chest that left him breathless with its intensity.
Wilson stammered, suddenly devoid of bravado. “Your Grace, I thought you were engaged elsewhere.”
The duke fixed Wilson with a glacial stare. “When I learned Miss Morton wished to attend her rightful Temple function, I changed my plans. She always brightens dull gatherings with her conversation.” His voice carried dangerous quiet. “But it seems you disapprove of my decision regarding Barrister Morton. Please enlighten me. What errors have I committed?”
The room fell silent although Andrew could think of nothing but the way Chatham’s hand lingered protectively at her back, the intimate familiarity between them—it ignited something savage and possessive in his chest. He could still picture her beneath him all those years ago, still remember her gasps ofpleasure. Now another man claimed those privileges, and the thought made his hands clench into fists.
Wilson, sensing the duke’s displeasure, quickly backpedaled. “I wouldn’t dare disapprove, Your Grace. In fact, we were discussing how Carlisle ought to hire Miss Morton for Lady Daisy’s case.”
Both Charlotte and Chatham turned surprised gazes on Andrew, but he barely registered their expressions. The jealousy coursing through him was like acid, burning away rational thought.
“Is that true?” Charlotte asked.
“Aye,” Andrew managed, his voice rough. “However, no barrister has been willing thus far. Perhaps you wouldn’t either—apparently it would be professional suicide.”
Charlotte’s eyes sparked with interest, and Andrew felt another twist of pain as he watched the duke smile proudly at her courage.
“Well, I’m intrigued,” she said. “Shall we discuss it privately?”
Andrew moved toward the door, desperate to take her away from Chatham. “We shall use your small library, Wilson. See that we’re not disturbed.”
As he passed Chatham, Andrew couldn’t help but catalog the man’s golden hair, handsome features, and fashionable attire. Everything Andrew was not—born to privilege, refined, able to champion Charlotte openly without consequence.
Andrew offered Charlotte his arm, noting how the duke’s eyes followed the gesture with sharp attention. When she took it with her gloved hand, she quirked a brow at finding his hand bare.
“I detest gloves,” he said, flexing his calloused fingers deliberately. “My hands are already too large for most refined tasks.”
Let Chatham see what real strength looked like, what real work was. He was no pampered aristocrat who’d never earned his position through anything more demanding than an accident of birth.
As he led Charlotte toward the library, Andrew tried to focus on Daisy’s case rather than the warmth of her touch or the knowledge that soon she would return to Chatham’s side—and Chatham’s bed. The jealousy burned steady and dangerous in his chest, a poison that would only grow stronger with time.
*
Charlotte stepped intothe library with trepidation, her emotions warring between excitement and fear. Andrew stood by the window, his matching coat and breeches molded to his form with impeccable tailoring. At two and thirty, he was even more magnificent than the man who had haunted her dreams for six years. The years had etched fine lines at the corners of his eyes—evidence of battles fought and won, of a boy who had clawed his way up from the docks to claim an earldom through sheer force of will.
The library was a quaint space with only a handful of shelves and a cozy seating area. She walked around the room, pretending to admire the ornate bookshelves while trying to calm her nerves. Alone in this small space, she felt Andrew’s presence intensely.
Taking a deep breath, she settled gracefully into a plush chair near the window. He sat directly across from her, and she fought to maintain her composure. Her eyes settled on the dainty flower patterns adorning his waistcoat, and she couldn’t suppress a smile.
