Page 74 of How to Seduce a Duke this Autumn
He spun on his heel and marched toward the stairs that led directly from the rooftop to the ground. His boots struck marble in hard steps. He refused the greetings of the staff in clipped waves, his mind fixed and his hands trembling with more than exertion. Emerging onto the cobbled front courtyard of the hotel, the evening air rushed at him, thick with the smell of damp stone, roasting chestnuts, and the faint sharpness of coal ash from the passing carriages. His eyes cut through the milling servants and the finely dressed guests descending their steps. No sign. “No,” he muttered under his breath. His brother had a knack for creating the worst surprises. Did he know he was meeting Charlene here?
Or was this but a mere coincidence?
Across the street, a crowd surged toward the gates of Vauxhall Gardens, the gates lit with elaborate lights spilling warmth onto the froth of activity. For a moment, Adam’s heart sank into the churn of figures, hats, and parasols jostling against one another. And then he saw it—the cursed hat, green feather bobbing jauntily over the messy, rakish lower brim, his brother moving into the press of evening revelers with his head tilted high.
Adam clenched his teeth so tightly his jaw ached. His hands balled into fists at his sides as he stalked forward, his boots catching briefly on the uneven cobblestones before finding momentum through the street. He barely registered the exclamations of those he nudged aside. The lanterns of Vauxhall, the sounds of a string quartet beginning their prelude—the world you might have called magical only minutes ago seemed totwist into something else entirely. He pushed through the crowd, intent on catching that nasty rat of a brother and—
He cut off whatever thought threatened to follow.
This wasn’t just about a man. It was about what he represented—the shadow, the stain, the awful pull of hostility when Adam wanted nothing more than freedom from this… from him. Freedom for her.
*
The smell oflantern oil and crushed grass hung heavy in the air as Charlene stepped hesitantly from the packed thoroughfare onto the loose gravel near the hotel. Her skirts drew close around her legs with every rushed step, and her gloves clung uncomfortably as she dodged another stranger pushing past. She despised the way people pressed too near, their voices rising into one cacophonous roar that made her temples throb.
Tonight, though, she had no choice.
The carriage could only get her so far before the throng became unbearable even for the horses. Running late to meet Adam—again, no less—she had hurried on foot through the swelling tide of revelers gathering for the balloon ascension.
By the time she caught sight of the Crescent Pavilion Hotel, her breath came in quick pulls, her chest too tight with worry. It wasn’t like her to be tardy, though these delays seemed cruelly ironic given how much this evening mattered. Adam had been such a gentleman to send a carriage. However presumptuous it might have been. And yet, here she was, scrabbling to reach him because she was late.
Her heart leapt when she saw him—or, at least, she thought it was him. He stood across the street, sharp even in profile, the set of his jaw unmistakable. The faint tilt to his head was familiar, though the slightly crooked top hat gave her pause, odd in itsimperfection. Adam rarely looked unkempt. And she didn’t quite know why her breath hitched as his tall frame began moving purposefully through the shifting crowd. His broad shoulders cut a clear path, his coat emphasizing the rigid determination in his gait.
But… why was he leaving the hotel?
She frowned. They were supposed to meet there, right? Had something gone wrong? Was there something urgent that needed his attention? Her fingers clutched at the folds of her cloak as a flicker of worry pricked her thoughts. She stole another glance at the rooftop, but she couldn’t glimpse anything. Whatever had drawn him away, she couldn’t just let him be swept into the festival without a word.
Charlene squared her shoulders and pushed forward, weaving through the crowd. Her boots scuffed against the dirt path, and twice she stumbled as someone stepped into her way. She pushed past the person.
“Adam,” she called, lifting her gloved hand to wave. If he heard, he gave no sign. Her voice might as well have been a grain of sand against the noise—laughter, chatter, the sharp clinking of bells swung by children darting between adults. Her throat tightened as she called again. Still nothing.
Her determination steeled. His form hadn’t vanished yet. Adam’s locks caught the lantern light in fleeting glimpses; it had grown longer, she noticed, the soft waves unrulier than memory served. She hadn’t realized how much the sight of him stirred in her—the reminder of his presence, solid and near, always without hesitation. But now, he seemed elusive, slipping just beyond her reach.
Charlene shoved through another cluster of chattering women, whispered apologies tumbling from her lips as she nudged past. At last, she saw him in clearer view. He had stopped near a circle of onlookers. His figure seemed to drawglances as naturally as bees to blooms. She exhaled a shaky breath, lifting her hand again. Relief started to loosen her anxiety… until she froze, her smile faltering on her lips.
He wasn’t alone.
Then there was a woman. Dressed in a carmine velvet, she appeared first, her dress clinging to impossibly slim curves. Dark hair tumbled over her shoulders, and red-painted lips parted in a smile distinctly designed to draw attention. Charlene barely noticed the crowd’s murmurs or the faint trill of a street violin nearby—the world stilled in that awful, frozen moment.
Adam—her Adam—reached for the woman, his strong arms wrapping around her slim frame with staggering familiarity. And then, as if the very pit of her stomach dropped away, he kissed her. Openly. Unapologetically.
The breath caught in Charlene’s chest, sharp and painful. Her pulse roared loud enough to drown the voices around her, though tears blurred her vision before long. A numbness spread through her limbs as the scene burned itself into her mind. Her Adam—her duke, the man who had seen her, knew her, wanted her—held another so easily.
Her knees trembled, threatening to give way.
A man bumped her from behind, muttering a distracted “Pardon,” but Charlene barely noticed. She wanted to turn away, to flee, but her legs betrayed her. She stared, unable to move, unable to catch her breath as he—no, this man—finally angled his head and turned back toward the sea of faces.
Her heart ceased entirely for one impossible beat.
The grin was wrong. Crooked, overconfident, and far too sly. The chipped tooth peeking at his smile’s corner stood as undeniable proof.
This wasn’t Adam.
It was him.
His brother.
David.
