Caroline peered out the carriage window at the night sky. Through the jostling darkness, there wasn’t much to see except the trees that stood like shadowy sentinels along the road leading to Greystone Hall. She regarded them moodily before sinking back against the seat cushions in a sulk, her gloved fingers twisting around each other in apprehension. Soon she and Frances would arrive at Eliza’s old home, and she wasn’t sure she could pretend to behave as if none of it bothered her. As if the man who had taken her friend’s place didn’t bother her.
“Cheer up, for heaven’s sake,” came her aunt’s voice from beside her. “This isn’t a funeral.”
She glanced over with a flutter of her eyelids to meet Lady Frances’s cool gaze. “It might as well be a funeral; a farewell to my illusion of free will. Forced to share company with a man whom I despise—”
“Now you’re being dramatic, my dear,” Frances replied with a small smile. She reached over to unwind Caroline’s fingers, then gripped one of her chilled hands inside her own and squeezed it tightly. “It’s only dinner. A chance to get to know these people a little better.” At Caroline’s unmoving expression, she added, “I don’t expect you to be cheerful, but I do expect you to smile.”
She had to laugh at her aunt’s demand. “You may very well discover how unfriendly a smile can be.”
“While I cannot stop you from being uncivil outside my presence, I do expect a little more of you when I am here at your side,” she stated, frowning. “And if you can’t manage to be polite at a private country dinner with four people in attendance, then perhaps it’s time for you to head back to London for another season.”
“No!” she exclaimed with wide eyes, seeing that Frances indeed meant business. “I’ll be good. I promise.”
Frances patted Caroline’s hand in approval and stared at her meaningfully. “That’s more like it.”
The carriage springs creaked noisily as the vehicle came to a halt in front of Eliza’s former home. The footman opened the door and an unwelcome wave of guilt washed over her as she gazed up, eyes wandering across the familiar gray stone facade of the house. What would her friend think of her now—arriving to dine with the new master of the Cartwick estate after she and Rosa had been turned out so unfeelingly? If only her aunt hadn’t taken steps behind her back to smooth things over, she could be back at Willowford House right now, safe in the knowledge that she’d not blurred the lines between her and the invasive new resident.
Caroline tipped her chin up a bit higher, reminding herself that she was in complete control. There would be no blurring of lines; not tonight or any other night. In fact, she’d do her best not to even look at him.
After waiting for her aunt to disembark, she took the footman’s hand and brushed her skirts aside to join her on the drive. A thick garnet cloak concealed her aunt’s high-necked velvet dress in a shade of rich, dark chocolate brown, trimmed in ivory lace. Caroline couldn’t ignore the relief she felt at seeing Frances looking so dignified and poised. Privately, she was still anxious about whether or not her aunt would be able to make it through the night without suffering some kind of setback, but she wasn’t nearly as worried in tonight’s company as she had been in London. It wasn’t as if she and Frances would have to flee in the middle of the night to avoid scandal, as they had before. They would merely ride back to Willowford House, and it would be just the excuse she needed to never speak to Mr. Cartwick again.
Standing there to greet them was the man himself dressed immaculately in black-and-white formal dinner attire. The sight of him jarred her carefully structured defenses, and she found herself admiring how well he looked, the cut of his jacket highlighting the lines of his naturally pleasing male form. Upon realizing her mistake, she forced her eyes upwards to glance at him in awkwardly held silence. He held her gaze, daring her to misbehave, but she resisted the urge to level him with a glare and simply lowered into a curtsy instead. Her aunt did likewise, smiling like a young girl when he approached to clasp her hand in his own. She was regretting the fact that Frances was never able to resist a good-looking man. Caroline sighed inwardly and prayed for the fortitude she would require to endure this.
“Lady Frances, such a pleasure to see you again,” he murmured over her gloved fingers with a bow.
Caroline observed his lips as they grazed the back of her aunt’s knuckles, and she glanced quickly away. Pleasantries were exchanged while she stood off to the side, staring down at the silvery blue satin skirts that showed between the folds of her forest green cloak. Moments later, as she had predicted, he merely bowed in her direction, abstaining from the effusive courtesy he had shown to Frances.
“Lady Caroline.”
Having already curtsied and feeling annoyed at the obvious slight and her own irrational disappointment, she tipped her head in mute reply then gazed past to the woman standing behind him on the drive. Thankfully, he caught the hint and stepped aside with an outstretched arm.
“Allow me to introduce my mother, Mrs. Dorothea Cartwick.”
Mrs. Cartwick smiled warmly and came forwards as if it had taken every ounce of restraint to wait, her large brown eyes shining in anticipation. She was a handsome woman, and the violet shade of her dress complimented her thick sable hair nicely. The black accents of silk and lace did not escape Caroline’s attention, though, and she wondered if the woman still mourned for her husband.
In an artless but charming expression of her excitement, Mrs. Cartwick reached out to squeeze both women’s hands at one time. “It is good to meet you, my ladies,” she said with a bright smile. “I’ve heard so much about you from my son.”
An almost imperceptible snort of laughter escaped Caroline before she could prevent it. She could imagine what things Jonathan Cartwick might have said about her, and they would not be flattering in the least. Clearing her throat, Caroline glanced at her hostess and was surprised by the tiny wink that greeted her. She found herself liking the woman despite her efforts against it. The woman’s unfashionable candor was surprisingly refreshing.
Lady Frances attempted to shake the woman’s hand in awkward fashion, then gave up and withdrew her hand with a polished smile. “Thank you for the invitation to dinner.”
“It is my pleasure, of course.” She aimed a look in her son’s direction. “Let us go inside and escape this frigid air.”
To Caroline’s horror, Jonathan Cartwick extended an elbow in her direction, his reluctant gaze partially illuminated by the nearby torches. The older women had already started their way up the stairs together, Aunt Frances already at ease and chatting with their amicable hostess. She supposed she could just ignore him and proceed into the house on her own, but even her brazenness had its limits.
Her hand stretched out towards the gleaming black broadcloth of his sleeve that hovered, waiting for her. The grim silence she received told her that the gesture was borne out of simple formality, but she supposed a tiny part of her was grateful that he was offering his arm at all. She hesitated, then came closer to slide her palm over the warm strength of his arm.
Butterflies flew fickle patterns in her stomach as that familiar scent of shaving soap, the same intoxicating smell she’d detected upon the day they’d met, radiated off of him with the heat of his body. There were also hints of his fresh linen shirt, crisp starch and some other nameless, dizzying element that seemed to be uniquely his own. Swaying briefly, she righted herself and noticed the way his gaze flicked over to the side just a fraction.
“Are you well?”
The quiet inquiry sounded uninterested, almost annoyed, but Caroline saw that a tiny notch had formed between his brows. It was most likely exasperation that had prompted its appearance. She couldn’t imagine it was concern.
“Yes,” she forced out in a voice resembling a croak. His nearness was affecting her strangely. Swallowing hard, she continued in as bored a manner as she could muster, “Let us follow.”
Without further delay, he strode towards the steps and took her
along with him. Caroline hurriedly clutched at her skirts with her free hand to keep from stepping on the fine material as his legs were long and his pace a touch faster than she would have liked. She was certain he only wished to be rid of her as expeditiously as possible, but she refused to give him any reason for thinking he could upset her in the slightest. She needed to present her most immovable and unshakeable self to him tonight, and goodness knew she had plenty of experience in pretending to be all right when she was not.
Before Caroline could truly process what was happening, she was in the foyer and Cartwick had released her, striding into the drawing room without another look. The butler came forwards to divest her of her cloak, and she continued her harried pace to join the group, in a rush to not be left behind.
Then she found herself staring in speechless surprise at the interior of Eliza’s old drawing room. The settee Eliza used to prefer for needlepoint work . . . the lovely old grandfather clock her friend had hated with a passion . . . the fireplace by which they’d shared many cups of tea and conversations. Caroline had spent long comfortable afternoons in this place with her friend, and now she felt like the worst kind of traitor, sharing the same space with the American.
She could see the wallpaper had been changed from its former print of gold-and-peach tones, to a pattern scattered across a light bluish-green background, and found the change pleasing, which she immediately felt guilt about. The contrast of newness and familiarity was to be expected, yet it still came as a shock. Caroline worked to leash her emotions before she made a fool of herself. It would not do to lose control in front of these people, especially when she had already worked so hard to craft an attitude of surly indifference.
Meanwhile, Cartwick stood nearby, his dazzling amber eyes watching her like a hawk marking the movement of its prey. He was probably loving every second of her struggle. A fresh wave of loathing for the man poured through her like a tide of poison, although she knew she was upset with herself too. Hadn’t she allowed herself to enjoy the feeling of his arm beneath her hand? How good the rest of him might feel had been the next natural thought to occur and was yet another reason why their closeness should be avoided. Little wonder, then, that her pride now assailed her with stinging barbs of embarrassment. Mrs. Cartwick’s voice roused Caroline from her reflections.
“Lady Caroline, is the house much as you remember it?”
The question was bold given Caroline’s history of bitterness on the subject, and she found Mrs. Cartwick gazing at her in pleasant expectation, her dark eyes wide with curiosity. Beside her, Frances appeared similarly interested in Caroline’s response, while Jonathan Cartwick crossed to the tall windows across the room.
“I—” Her voice awkwardly faltered as her eyes moved about the beloved surroundings, Eliza’s presence nearly palpable to her even under these strange circumstances. She crossed her arms around her torso and attempted a fraction of a smile for the sake of her hostess. “There are changes here and there, of course, but I can still see my friend’s influence in these rooms.”
The woman beamed. “I believe Lady Eliza made many charming additions.”
“Yes, she did,” Caroline replied. Then she added, “Nicholas Cartwick and his wife also contributed quite a lot to the beauty of the estate.”
Her aunt threw a dark look in her direction. It was a reminder to maintain the peace, but there was no need. Caroline found it difficult to be angry with Mrs. Cartwick, who clearly had no intention of offending—unlike her son who seemed to take advantage of every opportunity.
Dorothea nodded warmly. “I have heard that, as well.”
The women resumed their soft conversing and Caroline elected to seat herself on the settee, glancing over to where Mr. Cartwick stood by the windows. He stared out at the nearly lightless drive below. Since the torches outside provided very little in the way of illumination, he couldn’t be seeing much. And while they did not care for each other’s company, she couldn’t help but feel dejected at his insistent ignoring of her, particularly since she had been invited here as a guest.
But Lord Braxton had taught her much throughout the course of her last season, with perhaps the most important lessons being not to lower your defenses to any man, and don’t expect too much of them if you do. Physical attraction was the surest path to a difficult situation, but it was also the thing most out of her control. Even though she held Jonathan Cartwick in the highest contempt, she could still sense the danger in being around him.
A small ahem succeeded in catching his attention, but she was quick to cast her eyes elsewhere when he turned, his gaze landing squarely upon her. He remained where he was for a moment, then approached warily as if he didn’t trust her not to cause a scene. Part of her wanted to, of course, while the other part—the one that was incredibly curious to know if he found her at all appealing—hoped to surprise him by being docile and compliant.
Cartwick stopped to eye her critically. “Are you in need of a drink, my lady?” he asked. “It seems your throat has been troubling you this evening.”
Any thoughts of compliance were dashed by his sarcasm. “Why yes, I foresee the need for multiple drinks if I am to somehow survive this night,” she said sweetly. Her eyes flicked quickly to the women on the other side of the room to ensure they had not been overheard, but his quiet scoff regained her attention.
“Is that any way for a lady to speak?”
She straightened her posture and ran a gloved hand along the pearl and diamond necklace that circled her throat. “Am I to believe that you think me a lady?” she asked wryly. Noticing the way he followed the course of her fingertips, she swiftly returned her hands back to the decadent swaths of satin that covered her lap.
“No more than I am to believe you think me a gentleman,” he replied evenly, seating himself in a cushioned armchair across from her.
The casual way he draped an elbow over the back of the chair caused her already rapid pulse to stutter out of control. Caroline clung to her animosity in an effort to subdue her more inappropriate responses to this man, but that same urge she’d felt before soared inside of her again.
“Is it not customary to make polite conversation with ladies where you come from?” she asked, hoping he would not notice the nervous tremor in her voice. “You’re rather bad at it, if it is.”
The lopsided grin that flickered briefly across his face was a revelation. So was the dimple she had not known he’d possessed. Thankfully, it disappeared almost as quickly as it had arrived, and she waited in something like anticipation of his next targeted jab.
“When I meet one, I’ll be sure to practice sufficiently,” he answered, nonchalantly examining the edge of his coat sleeve.
Her reaction could have been quantified as a gasp, except her lungs lacked the oxygen to produce a sound. In fact, she noticed the room had gone strangely quiet, and both she and Cartwick glanced over to where Mrs. Cartwick and her aunt were standing, observing them with serious, and possibly displeased, expressions. It seemed that part of their brief conversation may have been overheard after all.
“I certainly hope you two are being polite,” Frances said lightly, her forehead creased in concern.
Feeling sheepish, Caroline stood to prevent things from continuing as they had, and Mr. Cartwick rose to cross back over to the windows.
“Well, I—”
The sudden entrance of the butler to announce dinner saved her from the necessity of finishing her thought, but could not rescue her from the look of censure she received from Lady Frances. Their hostess also seemed perturbed, but only gestured to her son with an outstretched hand.
“After you.”
Caroline could see the visible rise and fall of his shoulders as he sighed in annoyance. Of course it was expected that, as a gentleman, he would escort her into the dining room. She nearly laughed at his reaction, but instead raised her eyebrows expectantly when he extended his arm to her once again.
“I should have known tonight would
be miserable,” he muttered under his breath.
Her breath quickened when she slid her hand around his arm and stepped close. “You should know something else too, Mr. Cartwick,” she said.
He glanced down at her. “And what is that?”
She rose up on her toes to deliver a vengeful whisper as they began walking out of the drawing room.
“Your new wallpaper is atrocious.”
Chapter Four
Jonathan twirled the stem of his crystal wineglass between his fingers, contemplating Lady Caroline from his seat at the head of the table. In a flash of intuition—most likely resulting from their earlier contention—his mother had changed the seating arrangement so Lady Frances, instead of her niece, was closest to him. Instead of being offended as one might normally be, Caroline seemed almost relieved. When not engaged in conversation with the other women, she ate her meal in silence with what seemed like an unnatural dedication to the task. He did not mind the seating switch either as it provided him the freedom with which to surreptitiously view her from afar.
His gaze traveled furtively over her countenance as she took a small sip of her carrot soup, entranced by the lushness of her lips and the way they pursed forwards around the edge of her spoon. There could be no doubt regarding her beauty. He might have wondered at her inability to find a husband during the course of her past seasons, except for the obvious issue of her abrasiveness. Aristocrats did not find that behavior at all charming, not even from the daughter of a duke. It held no appeal for him either, but he couldn’t deny that he still found her interesting. And her fiercely delivered comment about his wallpaper had only managed to entertain him rather than affront, as he was certain was her purpose.
Most interesting to him at the moment, however, was her abundance of seemingly effortless sensuality. It was impossible not to notice, and even easier to see in those moments when she was being quiet. The way the candlelight reflected softly against the fiery glow of her hair. The graceful slope of her nose and the light scattering of tiny freckles across it. The dark lashes that lowered to conceal eyes that glowed brightly, like polished agates and moonstone . . .
Waiting for a Rogue Page 4
