A Secret Desire Read online

  Charlie Lane

  A Secret Desire

  A Steamy Regency Romance

  Copyright © 2020 by Charlie Lane

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Charlie Lane asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Charlie Lane has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

  First edition

  Editing by Krista Dapkey

  Cover art by Holly Perret

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  To Brian, as always.

  Contents

  Acknowledgement

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Charlie Lane

  Acknowledgement

  So much gratitude goes to Holly and Krista, my cover artist and editor. They help me shine and are such stellar humans to work with! I can’t say enough how wonderful Rachel Anne Smith is (and her books are! Check them out!); without her, my characters would be unlikeable and my sex scenes would have more arms and legs than is likely.

  I also must thank Deidre and Julie, my two amazing friends who were the first to read and give feedback on Henrietta and Grayson’s story when it was just a 5000 word short story I’d thrown together for a contest. Without them, I wouldn’t have this full novel today!

  And most importantly, if my husband and sons didn’t put up with my absent mindedness, where would I be? Nowhere, I tell ya, nowhere.

  Chapter 1

  Grayson Maxwell, Viscount of Rigsby, and future Duke of Devonmere, lay shirtless on the grassy bank of the pond, eyes closed against the afternoon sun. Water beaded in the grooves chiseled between the hard, muscular planes of his chest, a chest that moved up and down in a steady rhythm as his lungs fought to soothe his racing heart. “Gah!” he cried to a sky as blue as Henrietta Blake’s eyes before vaulting to his feet and plunging into the pond once more.

  He swam its length and back. Then again. And again.

  And still, eyes as blue as the sky laughed at him, loved him, then scorned him.

  His heart clenched. A howl ripped through his chest. A year later, the thought of Henrietta Blake left him feeling feral, left him feeling raw, left him feeling like … like a volley of rocks were hitting him in the back?

  No, that was no metaphor for his broken heart. Rocks really were hitting him on the back.

  He stopped his smooth strokes and floated to an upright position, treading in the deep water.

  Collins, his father’s butler stooped on the bank, gathering another fistful of pebbles.

  “Can I help you, Collins?”

  The butler dropped the pebbles, straightened to his full height of five feet and a few inches, and brushed the dust from his palms. “My lord, your father wishes to speak with you.”

  Grayson didn’t have to ask what about. He sighed and waded up the bank.

  Collins’s eyes widened, then drifted up to the sky. “I’m sure whatever your father wishes to speak with you about can wait for you to don appropriate clothing.”

  His father had been waiting for months for an answer; it wouldn’t be respectful to keep the man waiting any longer. But if Grayson showed up in his father’s study in nothing but his smalls and dripping pond water, the little crease between his father’s eyes would deepen and his lips would thin, and he’d say, You remind me too much of your brother at times. It wouldn’t be a compliment.

  Grayson ran his fingers through his dripping hair, dressed in pants and shirt, shoved his cravat and waistcoat into a pocket, and slung his coat over his shoulder before following Collins up the hill to the house. No use putting on the full kit if he only meant to change everything as soon as he entered the house. And he would change. Of course, he would.

  Collins disappeared inside the house, and Grayson trudged up the stairs. In the pond he’d felt powerful and swift, alive and moving. Now each movement felt mired in treacle, slow, impossible.

  The mirror in his room reflected him a man with blond hair and tanned skin, a man made strong by activity and swept wild by the winds. He rubbed the stubble dotting his angular jaw, smoothed his hair against his skull, then stood still as a statue while his valet flitted around him, sculpting him into a more presentable picture. He moved only once Willems, his valet, had finished producing a man whose muscles and tanned skin were hidden, whose coat constrained his movements, whose coifed hair had never been bothered by a breeze.

  His father preferred such a man, so Grayson became such a man before knocking on his father’s study door.

  “Come in,” a muffled voice on the other side called.

  Grayson opened the door and slipped through.

  His father met him with a wide smile and approving eyes. He rose to his feet and strode around his desk. Clapping one palm onto Grayson’s shoulder, he gestured across the room with the other to where a tall, dour man stood rigid as a fireplace poker.

  Grayson bowed deeply. “Duke. What a surprise to see you this afternoon.” No surprise at all, actually. He’d expected the Duke of Valingford to intervene soon. Grayson couldn’t draw it out forever, and the duke’s presence meant Grayson’s could delay no longer. The Duke desired Grayson’s answer. No point in prolonging the inevitable. “I assume you are here in regards to your daughter, Lady Willow.”

  The duke nodded. “Precisely.”

  Grayson’s father’s head bobbed up and down like an excited pup’s as he towed Grayson closer to the Duke of Valingford. “You’ve been courting her all season, Grayson. Now’s the time, my boy.”

  The word “courting” sent a shiver of unease rippling up and down Grayson’s spine. He cleared his throat and avoided his father’s gaze. “You said I could decide when to formally propose.” He’d also said Grayson could decide if he would propose, but the possibility of the union left such a light in his father’s eyes, Grayson had found himself straying from if to when in a matter of weeks.

  “Yes, true. Arranged marriage or not, I wish for you to live a happy life with a woman you respect. But as the Duke of Valingford has rightly pointed out to me, if you propose now, you can wed at the end of the season, retire to the country when everyone else does, then return for the subsequent season with all the newlywed distractions out of your system.”

  Had
Willem knotted his cravat too tight? The air seemed thin in the room, hot and oppressive.

  The Duke’s voice slid over him like the chill before a winter rain. “You and Lady Willow both must take your positions in society. I have no son to ensure my own living legacy, and I give nothing but a more than respectable dowry to my daughter. But I will ensure she takes her rightful place at the ton’s table. She cannot do so as a spinster. It is time.” Only the duke’s lips moved during his little speech.

  How could he isolate his muscles like that? More baffling—the duke thought his attractive, though slightly-on-the-shelf daughter would remain unwed. Did he view her tendency toward silence as an insurmountable obstacle to marriage? Ridiculous. True, Grayson had found it deuced difficult to get to know the woman when she answered all questions in monosyllabic monotones. But he suspected she was nice, if you could ever become acquainted with her.

  Still, he felt no overwhelming desire to marry the girl. Grayson shifted in his seat. “There’s no other man courting Lady Willow. Why the rush? Has Lady Willow expressed a problem?”

  The duke’s voice echoed around the room. “No. And I assure you, she won’t. She’s a dutiful daughter.” He slanted his eyes at Grayson’s father. “Is he a dutiful son?”

  His father’s shoulders stiffened, and his mouth opened to answer.

  “I am,” Grayson said before his father could speak. Not like Kingsley.

  His father’s eyes flared with pride. “Grayson is the best of sons. You will find none more dutiful than he.” His father hesitated, eyes unsure, before continuing. “My firstborn son, Kingsley, did as he pleased and got killed on a battlefield. I used to think Grayson headed down the same reckless path, but it’s been some time since he’s done anything but make me proud.”

  Grayson felt his father’s pride settle on his shoulders like a stifling wool rug or an itchy hair shirt, no, crushing chain mail. He’d never donned chain mail, but he assumed it weighed at least as much as his father’s pride. He steadied his shoulders to carry it better and remembered the days after Kingsley’s death, when his father’s eyes had been full of despair and grief instead. He could carry the burden of his father’s pride if it meant making the man happy. He stood from the chair. “I’m not unaware of my responsibilities. I would, however, like an explanation.” Truthfully, he stalled. Marrying Lady Willow would bring his father the most happiness, but happy wasn’t what Grayson felt when considering the alliance. Determined, more like.

  “My daughter must take her place in society,” the duke said. His voice rang with steel. “You need no more explanation than what I have already given. We will be attending the Countess of Stonefield’s annual house party next week. You, Lord Rigsby, will be in attendance as well. By week’s end, you will propose, and by season’s end you will be wed.” He arched his eyebrows, the command clear. He would brook no arguments on the matter. The Duke of Valingford turned sharply toward the door. “Good day.” Then, he disappeared behind it.

  Grayson’s father knit his brows together. “The Stonefield house party. Hm.” He turned and stalked toward the window, shoulders hunched. “Can you handle it, my boy?” he asked without turning around.

  By it, his father surely meant her. Miss Henrietta Blake, Grayson’s one-time fiancée.

  “Perhaps she won’t be in attendance.”

  “Perhaps.” He turned his chin over his shoulder, piercing Grayson with a question. “And if she is?”

  Grayson’s spine snapped straight. “It will be of no matter. I’m a different man now.” At least, he tried to be a different man.

  His father turned fully around and sat in the chair behind his desk, steepling his fingers in front of his face. “You’re not over her, though, and I’m not sure you ever will be. How can you propose to Lady Willow with the specter of the Blake girl hanging over you?”

  Grayson flopped back into the seat behind him, leaned forward, propped his elbows on his thighs, and hid his face in his hands, damp hair brushing against his neck. Perhaps his father had the right of it. Everything, even the bloody sky, reminded him of Henrietta. And she likely never thought of him at all. He couldn’t be sure. He refused to inquire. She had, after all, married—or at least become engaged to marry—another man. Pain, anger, longing sliced through him. Funny how the emotions had not dissipated, even a year later. And by funny, he meant damnably annoying.

  His father had a point. He must take a decisive step away from what he could never have and toward what he could, away from Henrietta and toward Lady Willow. He stood and turned toward the door. “Miss Blake’s attendance will not affect me or my intentions. You may consider me engaged to Lady Willow.” His chest constricted, his fingers pulled into fists, but a deep breath uncurled the tension mounting in his body. “Are you happy, Father?”

  His father’s face lit up, but the burst of a smile disappeared behind a stoic, dukely expression. “I am.” He slapped the top of the desk playfully. “You are wonderful, my boy. The Duke of Valingford is correct, you know. It’s time you join the social world, move in political circles even. You will be a man of influence and must learn to wield that power.”

  Grayson’s cravat constricted further.

  “No more digging in mud holes at the country estate or climbing on tenants’ roofs. You have real work to do.”

  Too bad Grayson preferred the muddy work to the “real” work. He pulled at his cravat. “Of course, Father.”

  His father rubbed his palms together and relaxed into the back of his chair. “I’ll soon have a daughter-in-law.” He allowed a small smile to show. “And grandchildren, soon after. Your mother would be pleased were she still with us.” The ghost of past sorrow settled onto Grayson’s father’s frame.

  Too much sorrow, but Grayson could make it better.

  And yet … children with Lady Willow? Procreation with a woman he’d barely spoken to let alone kissed? He contemplated the act and felt nothing. Keep an open mind, he chided himself. Perhaps he’d find the same soft passion with Lady Willow as he had last year with Henrietta.

  He rose to his feet, feeling like a bag of bricks. “I’m glad you will be pleased.” He trudged toward the door, pulling each leg behind him like a broken tree limb.

  “Grayson.” His father’s voice stopped his treacly movement.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m proud of the man you’ve become. Quiet, dependable, steady, and controlled. I used to worry your emotions would undo you as they did your brother. But I know now you are made of marble. A good substance for a duke to be chiseled from.”

  Chiseled? Yes. He felt like a collection of hard lines and chips, of cuts and breaks. “Thank you, Father.”

  “Oh, and Grayson.”

  Grayson swung around this time.

  “You’ll need the necklace, my boy.”

  Fuck. Grayson only just managed to keep the heated curse locked behind his lips. His father’s face would have paled had the obscenity slipped into the air. The obscenity did not rate as dukely language. But only “fuck” could express Grayson’s reaction to any mention of the necklace.

  “Remember to bring it to the house party. I assume you still have it?”

  “Of course, Father. I’ll bring it.”

  “Perfection.” His father flicked a wrist toward the door. “I have much to do. I assume you’ll take care of all the travel arrangements.” He picked up a pen and sank into whatever world awaited on the paper before him.

  “Of course,” Grayson answered. The solid oak doors closed quietly behind him and Grayson looked down both ends of the hallway. Empty. “Fuck!” he hissed, pacing back and forth. He pushed his fingers through his hair so tightly his eyebrows lifted into strained arches. The necklace. He’d lied when he’d said he still had it. He didn’t.

  Henrietta did.

  He would not only have to attend the same house party as the woman he used to be in love with, he’d have to ask her to return his engagement present, as well. All so he could then gift it to
another woman, whom he unfortunately felt nothing for, to mark another engagement.

  Bollocks.

  Chapter 2

  The last time Henrietta had attended the Countess of Stonefield’s annual house party, her heart had been broken. Needless to say, she’d not wished to return this year. But needs must, she supposed. And in the last year, she’d found serious and dedicated commitment to a goal to be the best cure for a broken heart.

  And this would be the culmination of a goal more than a year in the making. She would win the patronage of the aristocrats who could transform her father from intrepid textiles merchant into the more prestigious source for fashionable ensembles in all of London, then hopefully, the world. But London first. Henrietta wasn’t unreasonable in her aspirations. In fact, they seemed quite reasonable indeed. If Blake Textiles conquered London, all of England would follow. And then, who knew? Paris might even be possible now that the wars were sorted out.

  She shivered in anticipation, then shrieked as a cold, wet tongue stroked up her arm.

  “Darling Henrietta!” Lady Pendleson stood much too close, her fat pug perched under one arm slobbered on Henrietta. Not that Lady Pendleson noticed. “How’s your dear Grandmama?”

  Henrietta took a step back and fisted her hands in her skirts to keep from wiping away the dog’s cold slobber. She might mortify Lady Pendleson if she brought attention to it, displease her certainly. And she couldn’t afford to alienate a woman with so much power in the fashionable world. Better to ignore the slobber. Ugh. She plastered a smile on her face. “Grandmama is in good health, my lady.” Henrietta nodded to the quietest corner of the conservatory. “She’s over there if you wish to speak with her. She would love a chat, I’m sure.”

  “Of course, she wouldn’t! Your grandmother has always been a quiet one. A good egg, but quiet. Kept to herself. Still does, I see.”

  “I confess, she would have preferred to stay home. But I so wished to attend.”