Thump.
“Bloody hell!”
Crash.
With a frown, she wandered down the corridor.
Marcus’ bedchamber door lay open and…
A leather chair was gliding across the room, ostensibly of its own volition. Charlotte blinked, peered closer and then saw muscled forearms griping its sides.
Halting at the threshold, she swallowed. “Erm…”
He placed the chair down with a thud.
And stole her breath.
For Marcus wore no waistcoat or cravat, merely open shirt, breeches and boots. The déshabillé displayed his physique – slender but muscular, imposing and magnificent – but…
“Whatareyou doing?”
“Ah…” A smile crossed his lips before he strode over and nestled his stubbled cheek into her neck.
Charlotte allowed just one whimper to escape her.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured, “with your hair down. Like a fire sprite. And to answer your question, I’m making my bedchamber a bedchamber again. One study is quite enough for any man. And furthermore, I’ve decided to never again work after dinner.”
“If you had to, I woul–”
“No. No more.”
She beamed before peering into the room.
A footman must have helped him as the desk had now been replaced by the original bed, its drapery and linens the colour of autumn. A new rug had been lain and all the papers had been cleared away. The walls held portraits instead of maps.
“Come see, Charlotte.”
“Your Grace!” She gave a tut. “A governess should never…enter a duke’s bedchamber.”
“You’re no governess now. You’re a soon-to-be duchess.”
And since he had the right of it, Charlotte sauntered in and then closed the door behind her.
Marcus cleared his throat.
With a saucy quirk of lip, Charlotte wandered the room, noting a small portrait of herself at seventeen that she’d never known existed, the somewhat subdued vase of festive holly upon the mantelpiece and a few history books of the Lake District on the chest of drawers.
“It’s charming,” she said. “Especially the bed. It must be like sleeping in an autumnal forest canopy.” She ambled over to it and sat. “Very firm. Sit by me, Marcus.”
“Charlotte…”
She stretched and fell back, knew her skirts had hoicked above her ankles.
“I…” She heard Marcus clear his throat again. “I had no intention of… But you are making it exceedingly difficult, Charlotte.”
“Am I?” She leaned up and fluttered her lashes.
Marcus had approached the bed and was watching her with hooded eyes, neck bare, and a button had gone astray on his shirt, displaying dark hair. She leisurely rose to her feet and with one hand, caressed his linen-clad chest, heard the hitch of his breath. She watched her own fingers trail his bared throat and cup his stubbled cheek.
