Page 45 of How to Seduce a Duke this Autumn
Two days of riding and twelve days of work.
Twelve days of riding from tenant to tenant, inspecting fields, touring cottages, shaking hands. And so many new names to remember while there was only one on his mind—the one that ought not be. Two days’ hard ride to return, only to fall straight into more obligations, more hours spent proving to everyone—even himself—that he deserved the title he hadn’t asked for. His shoulders ached from the strain of sitting in the saddle and keeping his back straight during every overly polite conversation. But his physical discomfort paled in comparison to the gnawing unease that had been with him every step of the way.
Charlene.
No matter how exhausted he was, he couldn’t seem to push her from his thoughts. She owned them. Left him with no respite. When he’d finally fallen into his massive bed at Rotheworth Manor, pillows perfectly fluffed by the housekeeper’s staff, he’d expected to black out with the kind of sleep only true fatigue could warrant. But instead, he only saw her face. The way she looked at him. The way fire would light up in her eyes. And even the way she’d swallowed a retort when he struck too close to her heart.
He groaned, running a hand through his hair as he leaned against the heavy desk.
Adam hadn’t wanted to leave her like that.
He wanted to spend more time with her. He wanted to deepen the frayed connection between them. Strengthen it. And for that, he needed time. He needed proximity. He needed to show up wherever she was.
He raked his hand over his face.
He wanted to see her. Badly.
Charlene was on a pedestal of female perfection, and he felt as though he could only ever roll a rock to her like Sisyphus up the mountain—she was so much better than him in every way, he’d never truly reach her, no matter how much he tried to touch her. But he wanted to try. Had to try.
He patted his vest pocket. There it was, the apology he’d never delivered.
I have to go to her.
A knock creaked against the study doorframe, interrupting his brooding.
His mother swept in, the light-gray sheen of her silk gown catching the firelight with every purposeful step. Her smooth and commanding expression reminded him that no matter howhigh his shoulders stood, hers bore decades of practice above his.
“You’re not dressed,” she stated flatly, her gaze dropping to his mud-dusted coat.
Adam gave her a curt nod. “I’ve only just returned.”
“And yet society doesn’t pause.” Her tone was crisp, the voice of a woman who’d run one of the country’s largest estates by her strength of will—and expected him to do the same. “The Guy Fawkes Fair is scarcely an hour away. You’ll join us at the square. This is not an invitation, Adam. It’s part of the role your father left to you.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m exhausted. The tenants—” And he wanted to hunt down word of Charlene.
“Have occupied you for twelve days. Society deserves the same attention as your fields do. Or will you allow the gossips to write you off as too aloof for the Ton before the year’s end? You’ll attend, and you’ll smile. That is the duty of a duke.”
And then what?Adam wanted to snap, but swallowed the retort.
He stared at the fire for a moment, jaw flexing as he weighed his reply. But there was nothing to weigh. She was right. She always was, and it grated on his fraying temper—even when, in this case, it was his conscience that agreed with her. Shallow as it might be, he was at the very least duty-bound to attend events. He’d reserve his opinion on the smile. Unless Charlene was there. Then he’d smile all night long.
“Very well,” he bit out. “I’ll dress and inform the footman I’ll need the carriage ready within the hour.” He’d go to this blasted festival or whatever it was. Then, he’d hunt down Charlene.
She gave a small nod of approval and turned without another word, leaving him to collect himself. The second the door clicked shut behind her, Adam slouched against the desk with a sigh.
One more obligation. One more night of appearances, of playing the part the world demanded of him. And no matter how short the fair might prove, no matter how many smiles he offered to the Ton beneath the fireworks sky, he wouldn’t rest tonight either—because she would still be there, lodged in his mind.
And like everything else, this would need to be dealt with eventually. The harder truth was that the matter with Charlene couldn’t be ignored—and he didn’t want her to be.
*
November 5th, 1818
Guy Fawkes Dayhad come and gone, and the celebrations of the night became louder as the hour of the fireworks loomed.
Charlene might as well have been a wisp of smoke among the guests at Cavendish House but Ashley and Maddie had joined forces with Waylon, so Charlene had to bow to them and come along. Below the balcony, the crowd swelled, their voices a lively chatter woven through the crackle of roasted chestnuts and the bite of gunpowder in the crisp November evening air. She adjusted her spencer jacket against the bite of the autumn chill, her eyes drawn to the sprawling bonfire being built in the center of the square. Bundles of wood stacked high, glowing in the golden light of dusk, gave the promise of warmth that the breeze denied.
From her perch among nobility, she should have felt grand. Instead, loneliness curled around her like a shadow, unseen yet inescapable.
