Waiting for a Rogue

by Marie Tremayne

  So Caroline raised a hand and slowly, as if lost in thought, traced her fingertips across her lips.

  With a blink, his grip slipped and he released the bowstring too soon, sending the projectile high to miss the circular area entirely. He stared down the lawn, glowering as if his arrow had betrayed him, and an unmistakable sense of satisfaction raced through her. She shook her head in mournful contemplation.

  “Oh, dear. Perhaps you would appreciate some guidance?” she asked innocently.

  Cartwick’s gaze snapped over to her. He opened his mouth to reply, seemed to think better of it and shook his head instead.

  “Fine, then. I suppose I win.” Setting her bow against the table, she lifted her tea and began walking to the house, leaving him to follow or not as he wished.

  “Why am I not surprised,” he muttered behind her.

  She spun around. “Remind me, Mr. Cartwick. Why did you come here today?”

  “I came here today to ask after your aunt, as I said earlier,” he replied.

  Drat. She didn’t want to talk about her aunt. Not to anyone, but especially not to him. She started walking again.

  “Lady Frances is doing well,” she casually mentioned over her shoulder. “Your inquiry is appreciated but entirely unnecessary. It had grown late and she was tired.”

  The masculine waft of starch and soap meant he was still following her closely. She felt inordinately irritated at the foolish flutters in her stomach.

  “Was it as simple as being tired?” he asked, his voice deep and velvety. “It almost seemed as if it could have been something else.”

  This was not good, Caroline knew. She felt the blood drain from her face and stopped once more to turn around.

  “What do you mean, exactly?” she demanded. “Are you implying something?”

  An English gentleman would know better than to ask such questions of a lady, and she would be happy to shame him into compliance, if need be. As it turned out, Cartwick was properly chastened, his golden gaze dipping down to the grass in realization.

  “My apologies for causing offense. I ask only out of concern for your aunt.”

  “My aunt is well,” she repeated tersely. “Thank you.”

  Pivoting on her heel, she resumed her course. Again, his pace matched hers . . . it would seem he was intent on following her into the house. If she were being polite, she would have invited him in herself, but she was unsure of Frances’s whereabouts and state of dress. Meggie tried to keep an eye on her aunt, but had other duties to tend to on occasion. Caroline would rather not encourage more scandal at this point. Still, it would cause just as much suspicion, perhaps, to be rude to a visitor.

  Her head was still a muddle when he asked her one more thing.

  “Will you be attending Lord and Lady Hedridge’s ball?”

  An icy chill chased over her skin. Baron Hedridge’s wife was one of the biggest gossips in Hampshire. She was also the lady who’d showed Caroline the least mercy after the events of the last season. As the Duke of Pemberton’s daughter, Caroline was always invited to their balls and soirées, but she often declined in an attempt to avoid the whispered sniping. And there was always sniping about Caroline’s reputation, whispered and otherwise. They’d never let her forget that they knew she’d left London with Lord Evanston. What they would never know, if she could help it, was why.

  The china teacup she was holding rattled noisily on its saucer as she stared at him, trying to remember to breathe.

  “Why do you ask?”

  He blinked. “Well I suppose I was curious, since my mother convinced me to accept their invitation.”

  “No doubt they will be eager to satisfy any curiosity you or your mother may have, Mr. Cartwick. Now if you will excuse me, I have matters I must attend to—”

  She turned to leave but he reached out to curl his fingertips around her elbow. A now familiar thrill seared a burning pathway up her arm, and she leveled a glare at him. This would all be so much easier if she weren’t fighting against this blasted attraction.

  “How could my question have possibly caused you offense?” he asked with a confused frown.

  Because soon you will be sniping with them. Joining in their gossip. Laughing at me while you occupy my friend’s home, and laughing harder, still, when you and your land agent take away my hillside.

  Tears pricked at her eyes and she tugged her arm away.

  “Mr. Cartwick, please. I need you to leave.”

  He recoiled at her words, and his eyes went from a congenial amber to black within the span of a heartbeat. Cartwick viewed her with a sardonic tip of his hat.

  “Understood. I wish your aunt well.”

  Caroline watched him leave the way he’d come, his stride long and powerful, the gravel crunching loudly beneath his boots. And although she had achieved her intended goal of driving him away, she couldn’t quite explain why it didn’t make her feel any better, or why she felt a sharp slice of regret at his parting.

  Jonathan glanced over at his host for the evening, Baron Hedridge, who was crossing the floor in a quadrille with his wife and three other couples. The man was competent enough as a dancer, although it was easily deduced that the baroness was at least thirty years his junior. The baroness, by comparison, was quick and light, chatting sociably with the other guests throughout.

  Dear God, he wasn’t certain if he’d be able to make it through tonight, prancing about like an aristocrat and laughing at terrible jokes. He was an imposter. One who had no interest in imitating the very sort of people who had made his father miserable before, and it all felt like some exercise in play-acting compared to his gritty upbringing in America. He and his brother running through the shipyards, covered in mud and playing with swords made from wood they had taken from the lumber piles, seemed to him more real than any farcical pretense of civility in this ballroom tonight. His brow lowered into a surly frown.

  Oh, to place such enormous importance on things like balls and dinners.

  A vision of Lady Caroline, practicing archery with a cup of tea, entered his mind before he could prevent it. Had she been here tonight, he would have expected her to ignore him for the duration. Still the evening would have been more interesting. Her earlier dismissal of him had stung, but he could admit that there was something appealing in her unconventional ways . . . in her guileless banter . . . in the way she had caressed her lips while he’d been lining up his target . . .

  Clenching his teeth, he dragged his thoughts away from anything to do with her mouth. Clearly she despised these people. And against his better judgment, he wanted to find out why. Needed to learn more about his beautiful, but vexing, neighbor.

  No doubt they will be eager to satisfy any curiosity you may have, Mr. Cartwick.

  They meaning Lord and Lady Hedridge.

  What could she have meant?

  “The punch is tolerable, Jonathan. You should have some.”

  With a blink, he glanced down at his mother, who was staring straight ahead, drink in hand. He leaned down to whisper in her ear.

  “When can we leave?”

  She turned to eye him accusingly, setting her dangling onyx earrings swaying. “My goodness, you can do better than that. You’ve only danced with two ladies tonight and stubbornly refused to ask for any more, even though it appears you’ve already made quite an impression . . .”

  He followed her glance to the young women he’d danced with earlier, suddenly feeling outnumbered. They were perhaps sixteen years old, and they gazed at him with a ferocity that was startling. The girls affected to be demure, he could tell, although the hungry gleam in their eyes was difficult to ignore. Was this what passed for flirtation here in the English countryside? His eyes widened and he turned his head to stare unseeingly at a potted plant.

  “Perhaps they should learn to control their expressions a bit better.”

  Mrs. Cartwick raised a hand to conceal her sudden laugh. “It is terrifying,” she admitted, then scanned the ballroom
. “But surely there must be someone here tonight who could interest you in another dance?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “I’d rather drink the entire bowl of that vile punch than dance with another girl who’s just come out . . . especially if that is the result.” Jonathan twitched his head in the direction of the maidens who still stared eagerly in his direction. “Besides, why they would have such an interest in an American is beyond me. Not while there are all these lazy lords to choose from.”

  His mother snapped out her fan, fluttering it before her in an attempt to cool down in the stifling heat of the room. “You are more than wealthy in your own right, although I’m surely not the best person to ask about your other charms.” Her eyes rotated slyly up to his face. “Perhaps Lady Caroline might be better able to enlighten you?”

  He jerked his head in surprise. “What—”

  “Mr. Cartwick,” came the effusive greeting of his hostess, just approaching to his left. Baroness Hedridge curtsied before him in all her golden blonde, topaz satin-swathed glamour. She was the outer picture of welcoming warmth, although he did not fail to notice the cold azure gaze that was riveted solely on him. Finally, it shifted to his mother. “And Mrs. Cartwick. So good to have you join us this evening for our little party,” she said, gesturing to the large crowd of glittering attendees with a musical laugh that he supposed was meant to convey modesty.

  His jaw clenched down on his smile, preventing it from fully showing. He forced himself into a perfunctory bow, while the beginning strains of the orchestra’s next piece provide a musical backdrop for their unpleasant conversation.

  “My lady. Thank you for inviting us here tonight,” he managed.

  “Oh, no thanks are necessary, sir. I would hardly be doing my duty to country society if I didn’t invite the most handsome bachelor in recent memory to grace our little part of England. And his mother, of course,” she added with a tiny smile.

  Mrs. Cartwick added a small smile of her own, deftly ignoring the subtle slight. “We’ve met some lovely neighbors already, but this is our first ball back in England.”

  “It’s our first ball in England, ever,” Jonathan corrected under his breath.

  His mother swiftly closed her fan and just happened to smack his arm in what was definitely not a coincidence. The baroness’s eyes sparkled in delight.

  “Do tell. Have you met the inhabitants of Willowford House?”

  Jonathan could feel his distaste growing at the predatory excitement with which the baroness had asked her question.

  “Yes,” answered his mother before he could reply. “We had both Lady Frances and Lady Caroline over for dinner. It was a splendid time.”

  “Was it?” Baroness Hedridge raised her eyebrows. “Well, any time spent in their company is sure to prove interesting.” She turned to her husband who had just joined the group. “Wouldn’t you agree, my dear?”

  The baron gripped the gleaming lapels of his formal black jacket and viewed his young wife with a smile. “You know I agree with you on most everything, darling. Who are we discussing that is so very intriguing?”

  “Why, Lady Caroline, of course,” she said, curling a perfectly manicured hand over his forearm. Jonathan had the sense that these two together made quite a formidable—and bloodthirsty—team. “And Lady Frances. I was just telling these good people how very interesting they can be.”

  Hedridge’s bushy gray eyebrows lifted high onto his forehead and he chuckled scandalously. “Yes. Interesting is one way to describe them, especially after last year’s season.”

  He felt his body tense in anticipation of whatever rubbish was forthcoming, although he could not deny his curiosity where Caroline was concerned.

  “Why do you say that?” he nearly growled.

  Lady Hedridge’s icy eyes widened to near comical proportions. “Well, haven’t you heard? Surely you must have, by now.” At their blank looks, she uttered a shrill laugh and waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Lady Caroline was heartlessly jilted during last year’s season. It was done quite out in the open for the public to see too. Poor creature.” She tutted in false sympathy, her pleasure in sharing the dire news oozing out from her like some disgusting contagion.

  “No!” his mother said, aghast. “Oh, how hard that must have been on her.”

  She was appropriately horrified, while Jonathan thought the information may have actually explained a few things. Although his heart clenched upon hearing it in such a way, so callously delivered. He, too, had once been the victim of a fickle love and would not wish that pain on anyone—not even the temperamental Lady Caroline.

  “Oh, it was.” Lady Hedridge nodded. “We’d all believed Lord Braxton’s request for her hand to be a foregone conclusion at that point, but then he surprised everyone by offering for another.” She tipped her head in thought. “Perhaps it made sense, though, given that she left London in the dead of night with one of the ton’s most notorious rakes.”

  Her last sentence hung in the air leaving silence in its wake. He was stunned at such an accusation, brandished in the presence of others. Given what little he knew of Caroline already, something didn’t seem to fit. What did seem to fit, however, was why she’d suddenly gotten upset when he’d made mention of attending this ball.

  And here . . . now . . . in this ballroom? He needed to check his emotions, and quickly.

  Neither he or his mother uttered a word of reply, and at their unsmiling silence, the lady finally submitted with a coquettish laugh, intent on driving her point home.

  “Rumor has it she departed with Lord Evanston, of course, not that anyone could blame her,” she said, a blush brightening her complexion. Lord Hedridge wagged a finger at her in amused censure.

  Jonathan inhaled sharply through his nose. “You speak rather plainly,” he said at last, his cheeks burning in annoyance.

  His mother cleared her throat and took a mortified sip of her punch.

  Entertained by his offense, the baroness tittered once more. “But my dear Mr. Cartwick, why mince words? The man is intolerably handsome, at least that’s what I’ve heard,” she added quickly with a wink to her increasingly disgruntled husband.

  Lord Evanston . . . why have I heard that name before?

  He struggled, searching for a fragment of thought that was eluding him. There was a piece to this puzzle that he was simply not seeing . . .

  “Is that not the man now married to Reginald Cartwick’s widow?” asked his mother softly, deep in thought, glancing at Jonathan for confirmation.

  Realization struck him like a frigid wave from the Atlantic.

  Yes. It was the very same man. And Lady Caroline had just become that much more of a mystery.

  Chapter Six

  With Eliza’s note tucked safely away in her pocket, Caroline decided to take advantage of the first truly sunny day she’d seen in months by heading out to Windham Hill. It was a long walk across the estate and over the fields to get there. Normally she would have ridden her horse, but today she felt the need to make the journey on foot, and her skirts dragged over the uneven terrain as she made her way.

  It had been nearly two weeks since the Hedridges’ ball, and her usual tactic of ignoring the ton wasn’t proving as effective this time, and she had an idea why.

  The American.

  As much as she didn’t like to admit it, the idea of Mr. Cartwick believing any of the gossip about her was troublesome. It shouldn’t have mattered. But she knew what stories the baroness could conjure up. And Eliza’s most recent letter had given her plenty of cause for concern.

  Removing it now from within the folds of her skirt, she unfolded the parchment to squint at it in the bright glow of the afternoon sun, her gaze lingering on one passage in particular:

  I thought you should be aware that word has been circulating about your hasty departure with Thomas from last year’s season. I’d hoped enough time had passed and the ton had lost interest, but this does not seem to be the case. Do not worry y
ourself over us; Thomas couldn’t care less and would even enjoy the attention were it not for how the talk might affect you and me. It does not affect me . . . my only concern at this point is how it might possibly affect you.

  She sighed and hung her head, folding the note and tucking it back into her pocket. Her eyes burned and she squeezed them shut, her walking boots still somehow able to navigate the uneven terrain with which she had grown so familiar over the years. Thomas was worried for her, Eliza was worried for her, and the only thing filling Caroline with an unsteady terror was the possible reveal of Lady Frances’s deterioration. It was sure to come out if these jackals kept prying into her affairs.

  Of course, there were her marriage prospects to consider. But that would only matter if she were actually considering marriage. Still, the idea of Jonathan Cartwick laughing alongside Lady Hedridge, those captivating eyes alight, caused her stomach to roil unpleasantly. If it bothered her this much when she couldn’t stand the man, she could only imagine the pain if she did somehow like him. Truth be told, it bothered her more than it should.

  I trust you won’t make it easy for him.

  Her breathing grew shallow, the cage of her ribs seeming to crush down against her lungs. Caroline had felt this way many times throughout her life, and often. It usually happened when the frustration and helplessness of her situation made all her efforts seem futile, the pent-up energy rising high enough to choke her.

  Briefly considering whether she should turn around, Caroline pushed herself further, her marching stride through the tall grass consistent and unrelenting. Soon her lungs released their hold and loosened, allowing her to take grateful gulps of air by the time the hill came into view up ahead. A carpet of blue, woven gracefully between the trees, greeted her and she laughed out loud, running the rest of the way. She felt like a child again as she fell to her knees in the partial shade of the still budding trees. Caroline plucked a fistful of the early blooming bluebells and raised the succulent flowers up to her nose.