Waiting for a Rogue

by Marie Tremayne

He extended his hand with a flourish. “I am at your service.”

  Watching Cartwick treat her aunt with such gentlemanly respect did something strange to Caroline’s insides. She’d never believed this man, or any man, could be capable of that level of kindness. A sensation like warm honey flowed through her chest, warming her frozen limbs, breathing life into her body, little by little. It was a small change . . . barely noticeable . . . but she could almost feel a tiny crack forming in the ice that had long encased her heart.

  And that same heart sank at the knowledge of who had caused it.

  Chapter Seven

  The sun had begun to lower in the sky, bathing the tree-lined landscape in luminous pink and lavender hues, and Caroline watched it go down from her aunt’s bedchamber window. She exhaled a prolonged sigh that fogged the glass and obscured her vision of the beautiful sunset. After a trying but not unexpected struggle during her bath, Frances was settled at last and dressed in a fresh nightgown, nestled cozily among the blankets on her bed. Caroline glanced down at her skirts, made heavier and darkened by the water that had soaked them earlier, and shook them out with another sigh.

  “Can you tell me what’s wrong, dear?”

  She glanced at her aunt, who had set aside her book to regard her in worry. Her earlier confusion had already seemed to pass, but Caroline was reluctant to leave her alone for fear that it would return. It often did when the sun went down; a phenomenon that she could not explain but tried to guard against, nonetheless. Meggie had gone belowstairs for a bit of dinner but would be back shortly to relieve Caroline, who would return later to sleep beside her aunt.

  “Oh Auntie, I wouldn’t want to trouble you,” she replied, crossing the room to lean against a mahogany poster at the corner of the bed.

  Meggie had been reprimanded for her lapse today, but Caroline’s remonstration of the beleaguered housemaid didn’t really have much teeth behind it. Not when the woman was already performing a job that was above and beyond what would normally be expected of a servant in her position. At this point, the housework could go hang for all she cared.

  And of course, she could never tell her aunt about the other thing that was troubling her. Namely their American neighbor, who had behaved with chivalry today, even after their earlier argument.

  Frances was often out of sorts but still a highly perceptive woman. She placed a bookmark between the pages then closed her book and set it aside. Smiling gently, she patted the spot next to her on the coverlet.

  “It’s no trouble, my goodness. Now come here. Is it still to do with Lord Braxton?”

  Caroline uttered a weary laugh and sank down beside her aunt. “I only wish it were. Such a simple man posed such simple problems.”

  “When has heartbreak ever been simple?”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to call it heartbreak, Auntie,” she replied. Not any longer, when her most conflicting feelings so far originated with the one man she was determined to loathe. “And heartbreak is surprisingly simple. I think it is love that poses the biggest challenge.”

  Frances held her gaze solemnly. “You are wiser than your years, little Caro.”

  She flinched at the endearment. It was a sobriquet that her aunt almost exclusively used when in the midst of an episode. Searching Frances’s gaze for signs of confusion, Caroline only found sincerity within her clouded eyes. Although her aunt meant well, she would probably not remember this conversation tomorrow.

  Caroline took her hand inside her own and gave it a tight squeeze. “I can think of many people who would happily disagree with you on that.”

  “Like who?” Frances asked, mildly offended at the notion.

  “Like the American, for starters.”

  “Pfft, the American. What does he know? Wait,” her aunt added with a thoughtful pause. “The handsome American?”

  She shifted uneasily. “Well, if you think him handsome, I won’t argue with you—just how many Americans do you know?”

  “The same handsome American who gave me a ride on his horse?” Frances asked, ignoring her question.

  Caroline stared. “You remember?”

  “Remember? I’m not likely to forget that anytime soon.” Frances’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “If I were you, I’d quit wasting my sorrows on the likes of Lord Braxton and set my cap at him.”

  “I don’t care about Lord Braxton, and I’ve no intention of setting my cap at Cartwick or any other man, Auntie. I’ve told you that before,” she bristled.

  Frances shook her head and clucked her tongue. “That’s too bad.”

  Caroline didn’t like the ominous sound of that.

  “Why?” she asked, preparing herself for the worst.

  Her aunt reached down to retrieve her bookmark, sliding it out from the pages of her book to hold it aloft so Caroline could see. The bookmark was actually a letter; a rectangle of neatly folded parchment with loopy penmanship on the front. It was handwriting she recognized, although the letters were so rarely addressed to her.

  “Because your parents are on their way home,” said Frances. “And they are quite set upon finding you a husband themselves.”

  Jonathan paced down the length of Caroline’s drawing room for what seemed like the thousandth time, the carpet upon the hardwood floor deadening the sound from his boots.

  He broke off from his anxious pattern to cross over to the window, swatting the gauzy curtain aside before leaning against the edge of the casement. After today’s events, it had become increasingly clear that Lady Frances was suffering from some type of malady, and that Caroline was already aware of it. Not clear was how long it had been going on, but he had seen signs of it at the dinner party a few weeks earlier.

  As Caroline had rushed Frances upstairs for a bath and change of dress, she had shooed him away in an attempt to dismiss him, probably regretting the fact that he’d been there to witness it at all. But the lady had yet to find out that he was not so easily dismissed, especially when it was clear the two women needed some kind of help. And while he would never outwardly admit to caring for Caroline’s good opinion, he couldn’t help but be bothered that she viewed him with such abhorrence.

  You must be capable of civility, and even softness . . .

  He quietly swore at his remembrance of the uttered statement, and heat spread up his neck to flood his face. It was something he’d had no business saying to her, especially when the only possible outcomes were stoking her anger or heightening his awareness of her as a woman.

  Then there was the question of what had taken place in London. Something must have occurred to cause her to flee in the middle of the night.

  And then there was the obvious question being alluded to by the ton. Had she invited Eliza’s future husband into her bed . . . even briefly?

  He pushed away from the casement and resumed his pacing across the floor. No. That notion still didn’t make sense to him. She was a mystery, it was true, but she also seemed fiercely loyal to her friend. Evanston must have been courting Eliza at that point—Jonathan just couldn’t conceive of a time when Caroline would betray her in such a way. And wouldn’t it be awful to have the gossips spread such a lie . . . especially if it wasn’t even true?

  Jonathan shook his head with a troubled sigh. This was taking too long. He needed to either find out what was happening or leave. Lady Frances was surely finished with her bath and resting in her bedchamber by now. No doubt Caroline would be furious at finding him still at Willowford House, but it would be worth a few angry words from her if he could just know they were fine, at least for the time being.

  His eyes darted to the bellpull, but he decided against it. Loyal servants would have no problem lying to his face for their mistress. Instead, he strode from the drawing room and into the foyer, listening for signs of action or movement. He approached the foot of the stairs and then stopped, discerning the quiet sound of weeping coming from upstairs, drifting down the sloping curve of the staircase. It could be a maid, or Lady Frances. Or it could
be Caroline . . .

  Knowing he was about to break a thousand rules of buttoned-up English propriety, he ventured slowly to the noise, his boots claiming one stair at a time, until he rounded the corner of the upper hallway. And there he found her—face buried in her hands, forehead pressed against the wall, auburn hair mussed and slipping loose from its pins. Crying.

  A peculiar tension built within his chest at the sight of her pose. It was almost unbearable to watch and do nothing while her shoulders hitched with each softly muffled sob. Here was the softness she was not willing to show him. The suffering that lurked behind her blustery demeanor. He’d wanted to know this more vulnerable side of her, but part of him regretted actually seeing it. This was much too personal, and he felt it with an intensity that he did not care to think about.

  But he was damned if he was leaving her like this now. In full anticipation of her rage, he hesitantly approached, and with each quiet step his heartbeat seemed to triple its pace. Finally, he stopped beside her, his eyes traveling over the rounded curve of her back before sliding a gentle hand over her shoulder.

  “Lady Caroline,” he whispered.

  With a gasp, her head jerked upwards and his jaw dropped at the sight of her. Normally vibrant gray eyes, now dull, red-lined and weary, stared at him. The porcelain luster of her cheeks had vanished, replaced with a distressed flush and the glistening sheen of her tears. Her dress was crumpled and appeared to have been splashed with what he guessed was bathwater. The total picture of disarray was a jarring contrast to the polished and perfect image she always tried to present.

  She viewed him for a moment in paralyzed shock.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Any verbal explanation from him would not serve as a sufficient answer. Jonathan had stayed after her offhanded dismissal because something inside him would not allow him to leave. If pressed, he wasn’t even sure that he could properly explain the reason. So choosing to remain silent, he did the absolute opposite of what she would expect.

  He stepped closer and tugged her into his arms.

  Caroline’s body turned rigid. She brought her fists up against his chest and pushed.

  “Don’t—”

  His hold loosened but his hands remained on her back, crisscrossing soothing patterns over the tense muscles, willing her to relax. Set on resisting, she continued to shake her head while her breath hitched audibly.

  “I don’t know what you think of me, Mr. Cartwick, but—”

  “And I don’t know what you think of me, my lady,” he murmured, pulling back to hold her uneasy gaze, bringing one hand forwards to trace his knuckles across the curve of her damp cheek. “But I would comfort you if you will let me.”

  Caroline froze in his arms, staring up at him in dismay. “I-I’m not sure what you . . . I don’t n-need any . . .”

  Her face crumpled and he felt that same disconcerting pressure in his chest as she collapsed to bury her face against it, her cries partially absorbed by his linen shirtfront. The hands she’d used only moments before to push him away were now curled around the fabric, gripping tightly to pull him closer. Not knowing what else to do, he let his arms enfold her shivering form. He lowered his chin against her head and whispered quietly against the disheveled arrangement of her hair.

  “Shhh,” he said, taking a moment to greedily inhale the faint scent of rosewater he’d begun to associate exclusively with her. “It will be all right . . .”

  She pulled back and shook her head once more, sending an errant teardrop flying off the end of her nose. “You can’t say that,” she muttered, staring straight ahead at the lawn of his shirt.

  “I can say it,” he corrected with some irritation, “but of course, it doesn’t mean it’s true. Let me try to comfort you, for God’s sake.”

  Caroline relented, tipping a watery glance upwards to meet his gaze. She seemed to finally understand that, at least in this moment, he posed no threat to her. To his considerable surprise, her hands spread out upon his chest. She regarded them thoughtfully, her stormy eyes dark and unreadable, the delicate pressure of her fingertips leaving burning pathways through the fabric.

  “You can’t comfort me,” she replied hoarsely. “You shouldn’t try.”

  Sweet Jesus, yes he wanted to comfort her, even though she’d brought him nothing but annoyance so far, and he knew precisely how he would go about it.

  But she had her own ideas too, it seemed.

  Her fingers moved as if they had a will of their own, and with each brush against the taut muscles of his chest, Jonathan’s breathing became shallower and more labored. His hands, too, coursed over her back, down her sides, slowly but eagerly, until lowering to wrap possessively around the slim indent of her waist.

  The shared intimacy was shocking . . . the feel of her tucked safely within his arms . . . her hands on him in an appreciative exploration he’d had no reason to anticipate. He yearned to explore her as well, and longed for her to allow it. It would be the greatest gift, to make her mindless with pleasure, to hear her breathing grow faster, have her call out his name—

  He released her and Caroline wobbled unsteadily on her feet then started setting herself to rights. She diligently re-pinned her hair, tidied her bodice and swiped at the tears on her cheeks with the heels of her hands.

  Surely she had been taken aback by his abruptness, but the shamed blush that crept up her cheeks told him she already knew a line had been crossed between them. Shoving her away had been the only reaction that made sense, and preferable to where his mind had been headed.

  Jonathan retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and held it out. She hesitated then accepted his offer, being careful to not allow their fingertips to touch when she slid it out of his hand. Caroline sniffed and dabbed gently at her eyes, and something shifted within him at the sight of his monogrammed kerchief brushing away her tears. Clenching his teeth, he waited and silently wished he’d never come upstairs.

  What he needed right now was for her to toss out one of her barbed comments. Anything to get his mind off how good it had felt to hold the infuriating vixen in his arms. His eyes scanned around the hallway . . . at the light fixtures . . . the wallpaper . . . trying to avoid the only thing he wanted to look at with a fiery intensity. He ended up looking at her anyway, once again noticing that her dress was half-soaked.

  “May I ask what happened to your dress?”

  She gave him a long-suffering look, then sighed and glanced away. “Lady Frances did not desire a bath.”

  His inclination was to smile at the image of Caroline trying to bathe the feisty older woman and getting splashed mightily for her trouble, but her state of disarray and emotional upheaval suppressed any amusement.

  “Did you have assistance?” he asked.

  Caroline smoothed down the front of her skirts and straightened her spine. It appeared she was about to reclaim her sense of empowerment and probably at his expense. For once, he welcomed it.

  “None of this is your business, Mr. Cartwick,” she replied primly.

  “Normally, I might agree with you. But after I give barely clothed ladies a ride on my horse, I tend to make it my business.” Jonathan widened his stance and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Does that happen to you often?” she asked, her eyes widening in shock.

  “Do you really care to know?”

  Caroline leaned back against the wall. She folded her own arms in a mirror image of his defensive posture, but it had a rather different effect than what she was probably trying to achieve. Cursing his own weaknesses, he tore his eyes away from the delectable way she’d pushed her breasts upwards and forced himself to meet her gaze, praying for the patience of a saint.

  “This house is full of servants, and Meggie was with me. Of course I had assistance.”

  “And yet,” he replied, “she still managed to find her way out of doors, despite your abundant staffing.”

  He knew she was bluffing anyways; had not missed the layer
of dust upon the mantel downstairs, nor how the carpets were clearly overdue for a cleaning. Jonathan craned his neck to view the empty hallway with a healthy dose of skepticism.

  The confidence fled from her eyes. “Yes, she did. And I need you to assure me of your silence on this subject, especially given your choice of company in recent weeks.”

  His expression turned serious. “You and I may have our disagreements, but I would never allow that to affect an innocent person. I would certainly not gossip about your aunt’s . . . affliction. And yes,” he added, “I do take offense that you believe I would stoop so low.”

  She squared her shoulders. “And here I thought you only cared about yourself.”

  Jonathan couldn’t tell if she was being serious or not, and felt his temper rising. “I care about a hell of a lot more than just myself,” he snapped. Anger, hot and heavy, started in his chest and flowed outwards in palpable thick waves. “I can tell you I even cared when you leaped off my horse like an idiot.”

  Caroline’s mouth fell open in outrage. “Spoken like a gentleman!”

  “I never claimed to be a gentleman.”

  “Well I thank you, but please spare me the honor of your concern next time. I’m sure there must be another property line somewhere that requires your attention more.”

  “The property line near Windham Hill required my attention today,” he pointed out, his irritation increasing rapidly. “But I was forced to delay my meeting after finding a trespasser on my land. Although if that trespasser doesn’t care enough to not throw herself under the hooves of my horse, then I suppose she won’t be troubling me much longer.”

  She glared at him, her eyes shooting sparks. “And you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Does it seem like I’d like it?”

  Caroline pushed away from the wall but he had already stepped forwards. She bumped into his chest and froze, stiffening in surprise.

  “What are you—”

  Transfixed by the luscious ripe redness of her lips, he realized too late that it had been desire, possibly just as much as his concern, that had led him straight up the stairs and into this reckless argument.