Page 72 of How to Tempt a Duke

Lottie gave a deep sigh. “Very well. I will send my regrets and hope we can meet once I return.”

Charles didn’t move, overwhelmed at his own self-hatred for having abandoned her all those years ago, when she’d needed him most. “I despise that you’re doing this.”

“And yet you love me enough to understand I must live my own life.” She regarded him in silent search of confirmation.

His shoulders sagged. “Yes.”

Lottie rose on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Give me a moment to pack.”

“You were more of a success with Eleanor than you realize,” he said, before she could turn away. “You brought a light to her world she never would have had without you.”

Lottie’s smile touched her eyes. “And that is enough for me.”

Charles nodded and left her to pack. For now he had everything he needed. Even though Lottie was forgoing a potential protector—at least for the time being. Eleanor’s reputation would be salvaged once they were wed, and he would be getting the remainder of the journals. Thomas would even stop haranguing him about his ducal duty to wed.

For the first time since his return to London everything was going exactly right.

In all, the exceedingly bumpy trip took the better part of six days—primarily due to Eleanor insisting on several occasions that they stop at an inn for the night, to sleep in a real bed rather than endure another stiff slumber on the narrow seats of the coach.

It was a curious thing to reconcile herself in those six days to the idea of having a husband. After seven failed seasons and a botched courting only two months prior, Eleanor had become resigned to a spinster’s future. Never had she thought she would be on her way to Gretna Green to wed an incredibly handsome duke.

During those days she sat beside the man who would be her husband, very aware of every part of him. His intoxicating scent and the heat of his thigh touching hers. In truth, all of him was impossible to ignore. He gazed at her often, in a manner she believed he thought discreet, and glanced away each time she met his stare, perhaps accepting the idea of marriage to her very much the same way she was doing with him.

Late into the afternoon of the seventh day, they arrived at the small inn near the blacksmith’s at Gretna Green where many clandestine marriages took place. As with all their prior stops, Charles got them each their own room, which were well-appointed and comfortable.

Regardless, Eleanor lay awake, her body and her mind on fire with curiosity and anticipation for what the next day would bring, when they were wed.

When the sun had finally risen high enough to deem the day worthy of waking, Eleanor was more than ready.

Lottie helped her dress in a white gown of Brussels lace and silver beadwork that twinkled at her sleeves and hem when she moved.

Lottie herself wore a pale blue gown of a much more demure fashion than any other garment Eleanor had ever seen her wear previously. The clothing made her even more beautiful, with her silky black hair and those large blue eyes.

It was Charles, however, who took Eleanor’s breath away. She saw him first when she began to descend the stairs of their quaint inn. He stood on the first floor, waiting for her, wearing champagne-colored silk breeches, white stockings and a blue waistcoat Eleanor had never seen him wear before, in a deep blue brocade set against a paler background. All of this was quite nicely complemented by his navy jacket.

He stopped his conversation with his valet as if he’d sensed her approach, and looked up the short flight of stairs to where she remained in observation of him. His gaze moved slowly over her, devouring her like a delectable treat. He did not wait for her to descend to him, and instead climbed the stairs to be at her side.

“You are stunning.” Charles offered Eleanor his arm.

“And you’re the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”

And he was. His face was clean-shaven, his dark hair swept smoothly back, and the brilliance of those blue, blue eyes was shining as it rested on her.

“Are you ready to become my wife?” he asked.

“I daresay I would not have engaged in such a journey if I were not.”

Charles chuckled. “I’m inclined to agree with you. I’m eager for a few days’ escape in Scotland.” He led her down the stairs and spoke in a low and intimate voice. “Alone. With you.”

The breathlessness came rushing back, and the decadent torment of hot temptation. The journals, she reminded herself. Despite what he said, she knew what they meant to him. She would do well to keep that at the forefront of her mind.

He led her outside to where an endless sky spread over the lush, rolling green hills. Eleanor closed her eyes and breathed it all in—the sweetness of the sun-warmed grass, the moisture in the air suggesting it might later rain, and the wonderful spice of Charles’s scent. Then together they walked to the squat white building where the infamous anvil awaited them.

With Lottie and Thomas behind them, Eleanor and Charles strode through the wooden door of the simple blacksmith’s. The whitewashed walls were pocked and smeared with soot, and various odds and ends of the trade hung from pegs.

A large man tottered into the room. Sweat dotted his brow and stained the leather apron he wore. His head seemed screwed down into the bulk of his neck and he eyed them for a considerable length of time.

“Could you direct us to Joseph Paisley?” Charles asked.