The Runaway Duchess (25 page)

But
Dobson did not seem to hear her. He was muttering to himself again, lost in a
world Charlotte could not begin to fathom, let alone understand. She had always
known he was a mean man. Ill tempered and short with his word. But how had he
hidden such madness? From her. From Gavin. From the rest of the staff. Unless
they knew… and that was why they obeyed his every word without question.

The
door was so close. It would be now, or not at all. Carefully positioning
herself into a crouching position, Charlotte moved her skirts to the side, gave
one more cautious glance at Dobson, and sprang to her feet.

She
heard his chair crash to the floor as he lunged towards her. She darted to the
side and he slammed into a desk with a howl of fury, his shins cracking sharply
against the polished mahogany. Her breaths came in shallow pants as she raced
for the door. She collided against it at full speed, her fingers scrambling
frantically across the smooth wood to find the knob.

The
creak of a foot on a floorboard was her only warning.

She
screamed when she felt Dobson’s hands tangle in her hair. Screamed again when
he yanked her backwards. Pins scattered, pinging off the walls. With a strength
Charlotte never dreamed Dobson possessed he flipped her onto her back. She
landed on the floor hard enough to knock the air out of her lungs and bright
flashes of light flew in front of her eyes. Then he was on her, his larger body
easily pinning her down. Still she fought, kicking and slapping at any part of
his anatomy she could reach. Sucking in a mouthful of air she screamed again.
Dobson brought the backside of his hand crashing down across her face, stunning
her into silence.

“You’re
only making it worse for yourself.” His eyes were unfocused. His tone mild. He
even smiled slightly, his lips pulling back to reveal a line of crooked teeth.

“What
do you want?” It was, Charlotte realized dimly, the first time she had asked.
Most likely because she was afraid of the answer. Dobson must know what he
risked by attacking her. Gavin’s wrath was no small thing. He would see the
butler beaten within an inch of his life, or worse. Which meant Dobson did not
care what happened to him. Which meant he did not care what happened to her.
“Just let me go,” she whispered when he continued to stare blankly at her. “Let
me go and I swear I will not tell anyone. I swear it.”

His
smile widened. “Do you think I am stupid?”

“No,
no of course—”

“Yes
you do. You do,” he insisted even as she shook her head from side to side, “and
in your blind ignorance you have sealed your own fate. I won’t be able to stay
in London. I know that. But he’s given me the means to buy my own estate in
America where I will have the respect and recognition I deserve. And Shire
House will burn,” he said dreamily. “She will be turned to ash and your husband
will never touch her with his filthy hands again.”

Charlotte’s
vision was going in and out; one moment clear, the next blurry. Her ears rang
and her head pounded as though someone were striking her repeatedly with a
sledgehammer. It was difficult to focus on anything except the pain of being
held to the ground against her will and the knowledge that she was at the mercy
of a madman.

 “Who?”
she croaked, her voice little more than an aching rasp that burned up through
her throat and spilled out the side of her mouth. “Who are you doing this for?”

“Who
am I doing this for?” Dobson’s head tipped to the side. He seemed oblivious to
the fact that his knee was digging into her abdomen and his forearm was pressed
tight against her neck. They could have been discussing china patterns in the
drawing room, and the nonchalance of his tone frightened Charlotte far more
than anything else. “For myself, first. You’ve had your nose stuck up in the
air since you came here. Nothing has been good enough for you. Shire House
hasn’t been good enough for you.” He leaned his weight into the arm he held
against her throat. The foul scent of his breath clogged her nostrils and she
gasped for breath, her body writhing and contorting against the floorboards.
Just as her vision began to darken completely, Dobson sat back on his heels.

She
gasped and sputtered, sucking in air and crying out when her chest burned as
though on fire. “I’ll give you whatever you want.” The plea tasted sour in her
mouth, but she had no other option than to beg for her life. Hating him, hating
herself, she whispered, “Please don’t hurt me. I swear on my mother’s life I
will not tell Gavin.”

“Hurt
you? I am not going to hurt you.” Dobson rocked back on his heels and stood up.
Wiping his sweating palms on his vest, he straightened the lapels on his jacket
and leered down at her. “Well, no more than I already have. But this will be
child’s play compared to what he has in store for you.” The butler made a
tsking
sound and wagged his finger at her. “You never should have tried to run
from him. He’s giving me a fortune for your return. I’ll never have to open
another door for the likes of you and your husband again.”

Charlotte
thought she had been afraid before. It was nothing compared to the terror that
consumed her now. Her blood turned to ice, chilling her to the bone. She felt
all the color drain from her face and her fingers, even though she willed them
not to, trembled violently when she raised them to her lips.

How
could she have lulled herself in a false sense of security? Crane was not a man
who gave up easily. He had seen two wives dead and buried. He wanted a third by
fair means or foul. What was he going to do with her? What was he going to do
to
her?

Months
had passed since that day in his garden when she spurned his advances and he
laughed in her face. A sane man would have moved on. A reasonable man would
have forgotten, if not forgiven. But the duke was neither sane nor reasonable,
and Charlotte shuddered to think what fate awaited her if she were delivered
into his hands.  

“No.
No, you do not understand. You can’t do this, Dobson. Whatever he’s paying you
I’ll double it. I’ll triple it,” she said wildly. Reeling onto her elbows she
scrambled back and bumped hard into a chair. With Dobson standing between her
and the door there was nowhere else to go. Nowhere else to run.

But
she would be damned if she surrendered willingly.

“Get
up.” Dobson nudged her leg with the toe of his boot. “The carriage is waiting.
We can do this the hard way or the easy way. I would prefer the former, but I
do have orders to bring you to him in” – he smacked his lips together
suggestively – “working condition.”  

Squeezing
her eyes shut, Charlotte forced more tears to fall. “Please don’t do this,” she
whimpered piteously. “I’ll give you anything you want.”

Another
nudge, harder this time. “I said get UP.”

“I
can’t. I… I feel like I am going to be ill. You have to help me.” Curling one
hand over her stomach, she hunched forward and extended the other. She heard
Dobson sigh, grumble something unintelligible under his breath, and tried not
to cringe when she felt his cold, clammy skin slide against hers.

For
a moment she considered screaming, but what good had it done her so far? Taking
a deep, even breath she allowed Dobson to pull her to her feet. He released her
hand and she swayed back and forth, bracing her fingers to her temple as though
dizzy.

“There
is no time for this,” he growled impatiently. When he reached to jerk her
towards the door, she attacked.  

Gavin
knew something was wrong.

The
feeling hung over his head all day. It followed him like a dark, heavy cloud
threatening rain. He may not have felt the drops, but he knew the cloud was
there nevertheless, and his wariness grew by the hour until he finally stood up
and excused himself in the middle of one of most important business mergers of
his life.

The
lord with whom he had been attempting to negotiate an alliance with that would
benefit both of them greatly in the months to come stood up, his jowls
quivering in indignation when Gavin gathered his coat.

“What
is the meaning of this?”

“My
attorney will handle the rest of the details.” Gavin paused at the door to look
pointedly at his lawyer, a tall, slightly built man in his forties with a
nervous tick and a mind just shy of genius. “I will return tomorrow to sign the
contracts.”

Lord
Hansel Burn, an earl of considerable wealth accustomed to getting exactly what
he wanted when he wanted it, was not satisfied in the least. “Now see here,
Graystone. It’s you I am doing this deal with and it bloody well better be you
I get, not your lackey. Now kindly take off from the door and sit yourself down
so we can settle this like gentleman.”

“Ah,
see, that is where you’re wrong.”

“Wrong?”
The earl’s forehead creased.

“I
am not a gentleman.” Ignoring Burn’s request to return to his seat, Gavin
stepped out of the opulently decorated drawing room and into the hall. “And
with all due respect, if you believe my signature underneath yours means I’ll
be taking orders from you, you can take that pipe you haven’t stopped smoking
for the past two hours and shove it up your arse. Good day to you, Lord Burn.
Timothy, see that everything is handled accordingly.”

“Yes
sir.”

The
earl’s eyes threatened to bulge out his head when Gavin slammed the door behind
him. “Is he always like this?” he asked, turning to the attorney in disbelief.

“Oh
yes,” Timothy said, nodding vigorously. 

“Well
where the bloody hell is he off to in such a rush?”

“Home,
I believe. He’s a newlywed and is quite taken with his wife.”

“Is
he now.” Leaning back in his chair, Burn rubbed his chin and hid the grin that
tugged at the corners of his mouth with the palm of his hand. Having been more
or less happily married to the same woman for twenty-two years, the earl
fancied himself a knowledgeable man where matrimony was concerned. Even so, it
had taken him quite a while to figure out that if you wanted to keep your wife
happy, their needs always held priority over business. The fact that Graystone
seemed to know this already made him a smart man, and Burn liked working with smart
men.

“Go
on then,” he said, nodding to papers scattered across the desk between them. “I
do not have all day. Draw up the next contract. Does Graystone want an eight or
ten percent commission on this one?”

Timothy
didn’t bother to glance at the list in front of him. “Twenty,” he said. “Mr.
Graystone takes twenty percent across the board and not a shilling less.”

“Smart
man,” Burn said, repeating his thought out loud. “No wonder he’s going to end
up richer than the rest of us combined, devil take him. Very well. Fifteen it
is.”

Timothy
didn’t blink. “Twenty.”

“Eighteen.”

“It
was a pleasure to meet you, Lord Burn.”

“Oh,
sit down,” the earl grumbled when Timothy began to gather up his papers, “and
have a glass of scotch. If you and Graystone are going to insist on robbing me
blind you might as well be civil about it.”

Hiding
a grin of his own, Timothy sank back down into his chair. He had come to work
for Gavin three weeks ago, and in that short amount of time his respect and
admiration for his employer had grown to epic proportions. People often asked
him why he thought Gavin was so successful. The answer, to Timothy’s mind, was
simple enough.

 Gavin
was not afraid of failure.

He
was a man who knew what it was like to go hungry. He had done it before, and
was prepared to do it again. He carried that nonchalance with him into every
meeting. It frightened and intimidated far more than any words or actions ever
could, and as a result he almost always got exactly what he wanted.

Only
Timothy and Ernie knew that Gavin was beginning to dictate more of his
responsibilities. This was not the first meeting he had left early, nor would
it be the last. Timothy would often catch him staring off into space, a vague
smile on his lips, and knew he was not thinking of the business at hand but
rather of his wife.

He
would never hand over the reins completely – of that Timothy was certain – but
there was a shift taking place. An unspoken rearranging of priorities. Timothy
only hoped one day he would find someone who put the same light in his eyes
that he saw in Gavin’s. Until then business would be his mistress, a mistress
he had willingly inherited from his employer.

Pulling
a contract from beneath the pile of papers, he pushed it across the desk
towards the earl and offered a quill freshly dipped in ink. “Your signature, my
lord.”

Releasing
one long, suffering sigh Burn bent his head and signed. 

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Charlotte went for Dobson’s eyes.

Curling
her fingers she clawed mercilessly at his face, stabbing and scratching at the
soft, doughy flesh until blood trickled down her wrists and stained the sleeves
of her dress a dark, ugly crimson.

Dobson
howled in agony. He wrenched himself from side to side but Charlotte clung to
him with all the tenacity of a feral dog, unhooking her claws only when he
managed to get a fist between them and plowed it into her stomach. 

“My
eyes!” He staggered blindly away, upending a small wooden table. It crashed to
its side, splintering on impact. “You bitch! You’ve blinded me.”

Ignoring
the pain in her abdomen, Charlotte darted forward, wrapped her hands around one
of the spindly legs jutting out from the broken table, and wrenched it free.
She tripped over the hem of her skirts and stumbled, but managed to right
herself without falling. Holding the table leg in front of her like a club, she
waved it at the butler’s mangled face. Tears she hadn’t even realized she was
crying streamed down her cheeks, mixing with the blood splatter from the long,
vicious gouges in Dobson’s cheeks to create a macabre watercolor.

She
swung the leg. Dobson tried to jump back, but with his eyesight compromised he
moved clumsily. She brought it down across the arm he raised to protect his
face and the impact of wood against flesh sang through her entire body. Dobson
cried out in pain. Charlotte felt only grim satisfaction.

“Bastard,”
she hissed. Raising the leg she waved it menacingly in the air. The butler
cringed, tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away. He landed
sprawled in a heap, pinned between a bureau with a long scratch mark running
down the length of it and the wall. He did not try to get up. Charlotte was not
surprised by his cowardice.

It
took a coward to attack an unarmed woman. A coward to plan something so
devious. A coward to attempt to carry it through. She tried not to think of
what would have happened if he had managed to get her out of the house and into
the carriage. Instead she thought of why Dobson would ever do such a thing, and
when no answer immediately presented itself she could not help but ask.

Still
keeping a tight grip on the makeshift club, she rested it over one shoulder and
kept her gaze pinned on the butler. He may have appeared outwardly defeated,
but she was not about to let herself be fooled by him again.

“What
did I do to make you hate me so? I have done you no wrong. I have never been
unkind to you.”

Squinting
up at her out of the eye that wasn’t swollen shut, Dobson said, “Your husband
never should have purchased Shire House to begin with. If not for him, none of
this would have happened.”

“But
why?” she persisted. Her hands unconsciously tightened on the club, her
knuckles turning white. “Without Gavin, the house would have fallen into
complete ruin.”

“Because
it was not his to buy!” Dobson’s face darkened to a deep, incensed red. “It
should have been mine. It all should have been mine.”

Charlotte
shook her head. Devoid of pins, her hair tumbled in a long tangle of curls down
her back. With her torn and bloodied dress, bruised throat, and swollen eyes she
imagined she looked quite a fright. Her body ached. Her chest burned. She
wanted nothing more than to soak in a hot bath for the next three days
straight, but she couldn’t leave without knowing what had pushed Dobson over
the edge into insanity.

Nothing
he said made sense. As head butler Dobson was given a comfortable salary, but
he never would have possessed the means to buy Shire House outright, a fact he
surely must have been aware of. “I do not understand.”

“Of
course you don’t.” Turning his head to the side, he spat on the floor. His
saliva was the color of blood. “You are a woman. As weak and spineless as the
rest of them.”

“Funny,”
she said softly, “you did not seem to find me weak and spineless a few moments
ago.”

He
flushed. “You caught me off guard, that’s all. Underneath that pretty face
you’re just like my mother. A helpless, cowering, pitiful excuse of a human
being who couldn’t give her son what was owed to him by birth!”

A
piece of the puzzle fell into place. “You truly believe Shire House is
rightfully yours, don’t you?”

“Because
it IS mine!” Dobson shouted. He started to get up on his knees, but one pointed
swing of the chair leg had him crouching back down. “It is mine.” He spoke in
the sullen tone of a child. “It was always meant for me since the moment I was
born. He didn’t have any other children, did he? His wife was barren. Serves
the bitch right. Always walking around here with her nose up, barking orders
left and right.”

Charlotte
nearly dropped her club. “Lord Shire was your father. You… You are his son.”

“His
illegitimate
son,” Dobson said scornfully. “My mother could have made
him claim me, but no. I was an accident, she told me. A mistake made after Lord
Shire went up to the servants quarters looking for someone to tup after a few
too many glasses of wine. To cover it up she married the butler before she
began to show. He had had his eye on her for years, never knowing what kind of
a slut she really was. Shire House should have belonged to me! I grew up inside
her walls. I cared for her when I came of age. I loved her as no one else ever
did, and what is my reward? Bowing and scraping to the likes of your husband, a
man without an ounce of blue blood in his veins!”

So
much hate, Charlotte thought dazedly. It had festered inside of Dobson all of
his life. Hate for his mother. Hate for his father. Hate for those who had what
he could not. It was a wonder he managed to hold onto his sanity for as long as
he did, and despite the pain of what he had put her through she could not help
but feel a stirring of pity.

“I
am certain your mother provided for you the best she—”

“What
do you know of it? You, a lady who married a commoner! Your husband is
nothing.”

Ignoring
the protesting ache and pull of her muscles, Charlotte drew herself to her full
height and lifted her chin. “He means something to me, and that is all that
matters. I am sorry your life did not turn out as you hoped, but we all have
choices to make, and you will have to answer for yours.”

Dobson
glared at her. “I have no one to answer to, least of all—”

“CHARLOTTE!
CHARLOTTE, WHERE ARE YOU?”

At
the achingly familiar sound of Gavin’s voice, Charlotte forgot Dobson existed.
Her knees wobbled and she was forced to lean against a desk.
At last,
she
thought.
It is over at last
. The chair leg clattered to the floor.
Relief came in a sigh, one that threatened to turn into a sob before she choked
it back and called out, “In here! Gavin, I am in here.”

She
heard his pounding footsteps as he raced through the house. The door to the
parlor was swung open so hard it crashed into the wall and plaster rained down
in white powdery flakes. Gavin did not even seem to notice. He had eyes only
for Charlotte, and when he took in her disheveled appearance he released a
vicious curse the likes of which she had never heard before.

“Who
did this to you?” His eyes wild, his face pale, he kicked aside what remained
of the broken chair and pulled her against the length of his hard body,
cradling her as though she were made of delicate glass, which at the moment it
felt as though she was. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, clutching at
the folds of his jacket as she inhaled his scent.

“I
am so glad you’re here,” she murmured, burrowing her face into his chest. “I
was so frightened.”

He
touched her gently, his hands running down the length of her spine before
traveling up her arms and across her ribcage as though to ensure himself she
was all in one piece before he cupped her cheeks. She stared up at him, her
eyes swimming with unshed tears, and he swore again. “All of the blood—”

“It
isn’t mine. Well, most of it isn’t,” she amended.

“Who?”
he repeated harshly. “Tell me who did this to you.”

Charlotte
did not speak. She simply pointed.

“Dobson?”
The shock in Gavin’s voice was mirrored by the shock on his face. He gazed
slack jawed at his trusted butler, seemingly unable to move, before Charlotte
felt a hard shudder wrack his body and he released her to throw himself at
Dobson.

The
butler screamed like a stuck pig and then there was only the sound of flesh
hitting flesh, furious curses, and mewling whimpers.

“Gavin,
stop. You are going to kill him. Gavin, STOP!”

Breathing
heavily, Gavin whirled away from Dobson. The butler appeared unconscious but
alive. His nose was grotesquely broken, as well as his jaw. It hinged crookedly
off to one side, and Charlotte averted her gaze.

A
vein pulsed in Gavin’s forehead. His hands, streaked red with blood, were still
curled into fists. His chest rose and fell in time with his raggedly drawn
breaths, and the pain in his eyes reflected the pain she felt in her body. “He
hurt you.”

“Yes,”
she acknowledged with a nod, “he did. Have him arrested. Have him sent away so
I never have to see him again, but do not kill him. I do not want his death on
your conscience.”

Gavin
swallowed with visible difficulty and Charlotte took his hand. How odd it felt,
and yet how right at the same time, to be the one giving comfort. It steadied
her, grounded her, and without speaking she leaned up on her tiptoes to press a
soft kiss to his cheek. “I am going to have a bath drawn,” she whispered into
his ear, “and go lay down in our bed. Will you come to me when you are done
with this?”

“I
need to know why—” he began, but she silenced him by pressing a finger to his
lips.

“I
will tell you everything,” she promised. “But first, I need to bathe and change
and you need to arrange to have him taken away.”

He
gave a hard, tense jerk of his head which she took for a ‘yes’. Looping her
arms around his neck she squeezed him tight, as though to reassure herself of
his realness, before she stepped around and left the room without sparing
Dobson a second glance.

Gavin
waited until Charlotte had closed the door behind her to kneel over Dobson.
Staring down at the bruised, battered face of his butler he felt neither regret
nor sympathy for the beating he had inflicted. Dobson’s wounds would heal with
time; his nose worse for wear, his jaw never working quite right again, but he
would recover, and he would live if the court so wished it. One thing was for
certain: he would never touch Charlotte again.

“If
not for her I would choke the life out of you with my bare hands. You hurt the
one person most precious to me in the entire world. If you had killed her…”
Unable to finish the threat for the rage pulsing through him, Gavin stood up.

He
made the necessary arrangements, and Dobson was dealt with accordingly. Still
unconscious he was loaded into a carriage and taken to Newgate where Gavin’s
money and influence would ensure he remained imprisoned for the rest of his
miserable life. He sent Ernie along to ensure the butler ended up where he was
supposed to and went upstairs to find Charlotte.

She
was sleeping curled up on his side of the bed, her hands tucked between her
thighs and a line of worry creasing her brow. Smoothing away the line with a
kiss, Gavin silently undressed and stretched out beside her.

She
had changed into a ivory nightgown with a high neck and long sleeves trimmed
with lace, but the soft fabric was unable to cover all of her bruises. They
were already turning purple and would be darker still by morning, temporary
tattoos that spoke silently of the abuse she suffered.

There
had been bruises on Dobson as well, he recalled. Bruises not delivered by his
own hand. Charlotte had fought for her life. Even faced with outstanding odds
she had not given up, nor given in. She was a true warrior, both inside and
out. It would be a foolish man who ever thought he could stand against her.
Thankfully Gavin did not consider himself foolish.

If
his soul had not already belonged to her he would give it to her now. She
deserved it. She deserved everything: his love, his adoration, his devotion.
Without her he was only half of a whole, and while it had not taken her near
death to make him realize what he felt in his heart was real, it was the urging
he needed to tell her his true feelings, for the thought of something happening
to her without her knowing the depth of his love was more than he could stand. 

It
was early yet – the sun was only just setting – but with his arms wrapped
protectively around her slight body and his eyes drifting closed, a deep sleep
claimed him within moments.

Charlotte’s
dreams were of Gavin.

His
voice. His touch. His heartbeat.

He
consumed her, and when she woke it was not in a blind, fearful panic, but
slowly and softly, summoned by the gentle stroke of his fingertips along the
long, sweeping curve of her arm.

When
her eyes blinked open she stared into his eyes, and when he smiled she smiled,
and when he kissed her she kissed him back.

“Good
morning,” she murmured sleepily once they had broken apart.

“Good
morning,” he returned, his voice husky and deep.

For
a long time they simply basked in the glow of each other as they had never done
before; accepting and receiving each other’s love in a silent ebb and flow that
filled Charlotte with contentment. When Gavin’s expression grew serious, she
took a deep breath and shared what had happened with Dobson as thoroughly as
she could, leaving no part, no matter how trivial, unspoken.