Chapter 25
Victor sat alone in his study with one elbow resting against the arm of his chair while Morgan’s words continued to echo irritably through his mind.
Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the tall windows of Mulford Manor, casting long bars of gold across ledgers and correspondence scattered upon his desk.
Usually, the study calmed him, for numbers and contracts were sensible things that behaved predictably, unlike people and certainly unlike wives.
Yet today the room felt too quiet, and every moment of silence seemed to fill itself with thoughts of Charlotte.
“You are completely ruined.”
Victor huffed under his breath at the memory of Morgan’s smug grin.
Ruined indeed.
This entire marriage had been intended as a practical arrangement born out of necessity and scandal, nothing more dangerous than convenience and mutual benefit.
He had meant to provide Charlotte with security while maintaining his own emotional distance, just as he had done with everyone else in his life for years.
Yet somehow that woman had smiled her way past every wall he possessed without even seeming to realize she was doing it.
Worse still, I allowed her to coax me into a carriage.
Victor leaned back heavily in his chair and rubbed a hand over his jaw as memories of that journey resurfaced with alarming clarity.
Charlotte’s shy obedience as she had touched herself for him.
The soft little gasps she had tried so desperately to hide.
The way her eyes had looked at him beneath lowered lashes while his hands travelled across her skin.
His entire body tightened unpleasantly at the recollection.
“This is madness,” he muttered aloud.
He stood abruptly from the chair before his thoughts could worsen further. Marriage was one thing. Desire was manageable. But this constant need to be near her, to hear her laugh, to see her smile at him as though he were something worthy of affection, that was dangerous territory entirely.
Victor strode toward the door and pulled it open sharply. “Baxter.”
The butler appeared with impressive speed, as though he had been materializing silently from walls for decades.
“Yes, Your Grace?” Victor crossed toward the desk and gathered several folded documents into a leather satchel. “Have my horse prepared,” he ordered curtly. “I have business in town.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
Victor barely paused long enough to pull on his gloves before leaving the study.
As he departed, he deliberately avoided glancing toward the drawing room where Charlotte had spent much of the afternoon with Elizabeth.
The temptation to seek her out before leaving tugged at him immediately, which only worsened his already sour mood.
He was a duke, not some lovesick schoolboy sneaking glances at his bride.
Outside, the cool evening breeze struck pleasantly against his face as a groom brought forward his black stallion.
Victor mounted swiftly and took the reins with practiced ease.
Horses he understood. They were honest creatures who required firm handling and clear commands, unlike women who smiled sweetly while dismantling a man’s entire carefully structured life.
The ride into London gave him too much time to think.
By the time he reached his solicitor’s office near Grosvenor Square, Victor had almost managed to convince himself he was behaving rationally again.
The elderly solicitor, Mr. Hembroke, rose immediately upon Victor’s arrival and bowed politely.
“Your Grace,” he greeted warmly. “I received your notes regarding the shipping investments.”
Victor removed his gloves and handed over several documents from his satchel. “The figures from Liverpool were lower than expected,” he said briskly. “I want the contracts revised.”
Hembroke adjusted his spectacles while examining the papers. “Certainly,” he replied. “You look rather well, Your Grace. If I may say so, married life appears to suit you.”
Victor narrowed his eyes slightly. “Has all of London become determined to torment me?”
The solicitor blinked in surprise before chuckling nervously. “My apologies, Your Grace.”
Victor spent the next hour discussing estates, trade agreements, and investments with ruthless efficiency.
Numbers soothed him somewhat. Contracts did not blush beneath his gaze or tempt him into forgetting his own rules.
By the time he departed Hembroke’s office, the sharp edges of his frustration had dulled slightly.
Unfortunately, London itself refused to grant him peace.
At his merchant offices along Cheapside, one of his shipping associates greeted him with a broad grin.
“Your Grace!” the man exclaimed. “I hear congratulations are in order for you and your beautiful new Duchess.”
Victor removed his hat with visible restraint. “If one more person offers congratulations today,” he replied dryly, “I may begin committing crimes.”
The merchant laughed loudly while leading Victor through the warehouse accounts.
“You cannot blame society for wanting your happiness,” the merchant said while sorting invoices. “A beautiful duchess softening the infamous Duke of Mulford.”
Victor nearly frowned at the phrase softening. “I have not softened,” he said coolly.
The merchant wisely hid his smile after that. The hours dragged onward in a blur of business meetings, property inspections, and endless correspondence. Victor reviewed contracts near the docks, argued over grain tariffs with one associate, and inspected textile shipments with another.
Everywhere he went, someone inevitably mentioned Charlotte.
The seamstress thanked him for purchasing so many gowns for the duchess and her sisters.
A banker remarked that married gentlemen always seemed more stable.
Even a bookseller smirked knowingly while discussing poetry volumes suitable for wives.
By sunset, Victor was exhausted. Yet still he lingered in London.
He sat astride his horse outside White’s club for nearly a full minute debating whether returning home was truly wise. The image of Charlotte waiting there rose instantly in his mind. Her soft smiles. Her warm skin. Desire stirred inside him so sharply that he muttered a curse beneath his breath.
“Your Grace?”
Victor looked up to find Morgan standing outside the club entrance holding a cigar.
The marquess grinned wickedly the moment he spotted Victor’s expression. “Good Lord,” Morgan said cheerfully. “You look precisely like a man attempting to flee his own marriage.”
Victor dismounted stiffly. “You are insufferable.”
“And yet you came anyway,” Morgan replied brightly.
Inside the club, the atmosphere was dim and warm with cigar smoke curling lazily beneath chandeliers.
Gentlemen lounged in leather chairs discussing politics, gambling losses, and society gossip while servants drifted quietly between tables with trays of drinks.
Morgan immediately claimed a private corner table and slid a glass toward Victor.
“To domestic bliss,” Morgan toasted smugly.
Victor drank half the brandy in one swallow.
Morgan leaned back comfortably. “Now then,” he said. “Tell me how miserable marriage has made you.”
Victor fixed him with a flat stare. “You seem remarkably invested in this topic.”
Morgan shrugged carelessly. “Naturally. Society spent years wagering whether the Duke of Mulford would ever wed. I merely wish to enjoy my winnings.”
Victor snorted despite himself.
“So,” Morgan pressed. “Have you thought again about resuming your old habits yet?”
Victor swirled the amber liquid in his glass thoughtfully. “No.”
Morgan blinked dramatically. “No pleasure gardens? No singers? No mysterious widows?”
Victor’s mouth tightened slightly. “No.”
Morgan stared at him for a long moment before grinning. “You are hopelessly devoted.”
“I am not devoted,” Victor muttered.
“Oh?” Morgan leaned forward eagerly. “Then why are you sitting in this club looking utterly miserable instead of out there enjoying your freedom of not being devoted?”
Victor opened his mouth to answer, then stopped. Because the truth was humiliatingly obvious.
I do not want freedom. I want Charlotte.
The realization unsettled him enough that he drained the rest of his drink immediately. Morgan watched him carefully, then spoke with unusual gentleness.
“It is weakness to care for someone deeply,” Victor said.
Victor’s jaw clenched automatically. “You know nothing about it.”
“No,” Morgan admitted honestly. “But I know loneliness when I see it.” Silence stretched briefly between them while the noise of the club hummed softly around them.
Morgan sighed and reached for the decanter again.
“Besides,” he added lightly, “your duchess looks at you as though you hung the stars themselves. It would be rather tragic if you spent your life running from that.”
Victor stared into his glass without answering.
Because deep down, beneath all the fear and stubbornness and years of carefully guarded distance, he knew Morgan was right.
I must put some distance between Charlotte and me or I will place myself in a position of weakness.
* * *
The following evening, Charlotte stood near the pianoforte with a polite smile fixed upon her face while chaos unfolded around her in the drawing room of Mulford Manor.
Candlelight flickered warmly against the gilded walls, illuminating crystal decanters and polished wood as laughter rang through the chamber.
Bridget sat at the pianoforte in a pale blue gown, her fingers dancing gracefully across the keys while Joan loudly accused Penelope of cheating at cards.
Charlotte ought to have felt nothing but happiness seeing her family so alive and comfortable beneath Mulford Manor’s grand roof, yet her eyes kept drifting toward her husband.