Without uttering a word of explanation, Jonathan lowered his head and kissed the Duke of Pemberton’s daughter in what was sure to be a colossal mistake.
If Caroline was surprised when he’d pressed against her, she was utterly overwhelmed when his lips came crashing down over hers. But it didn’t take long to adjust. Her body had been primed from weeks of longing for him—the desperate struggle to hate him while aching to be closer.
His mouth was slick and hot, dragging across her lips in every fulfillment of her inexperienced girlish fantasies. And just like in those daydreams, she did not play the part of the passive submitting damsel. Tipping her head up to meet him, she matched his every move . . . every vertigo-inducing tangle of their lips, each tantalizing dart of his tongue. Her hands sought the sides of his face, needing to preserve the closeness, savoring the rough scrape of his jaw beneath her sensitized palms.
Caroline had no clue if she was kissing him properly—or if there was such a thing as a proper kiss—but Cartwick groaned quietly as he lunged down to plunder her mouth again, a hopeful indicator that she was doing well. She had the good sense to be scared for just a fraction of a second before he pulled away to gaze at her, his chest heaving as he struggled to regain his breath.
“Christ, Caroline . . . you drive me mad.”
The roughly whispered admission caused her body to come alive in unsettling ways, and in unsettling places. Disturbing, but oh, it was pleasing too. Relinquishing control over herself was the last thing on earth she should be doing, yet she could only stare up at him . . . at his mouth . . . wishing he would kiss her again.
She didn’t have to wait long. Cartwick dived down once more, softening the play of his lips for just a moment before flicking the velvety wetness of his tongue inside her parted mouth. Caroline jerked at the contact, then passion robbed her of thought and her hands involuntarily curled around the back of his head, her fingers weaving through his hair to pull him closer, kiss him harder. She was rewarded with another groan from him, this one louder than the first, and he moved his hands from her arms to the wall on either side of her, framing Caroline between them.
He was obviously mindful that her aunt was resting just down the hallway and there might be servants nearby, but his caution did not carry over to the way his teeth closed sharply over her bottom lip, nor how he was flattening her against the wall with the hard press of his body. She whimpered, the unbearable pleasure forcing the cry to rise helplessly from her throat, and he released her lip to caress the swollen place with the tip of his tongue.
The mere curiosity that had interested her before had exploded into a full-blown need that burned straight down through to her core. She wanted to feel his hands on her, all over, touching everywhere, but he insisted on maintaining some distance by keeping them firmly planted on the wall. Trapping her, but never touching.
Crying out in frustration, she wrapped her arms greedily around his neck to kiss him again, returning the bite he’d paid to her with a nip of her own. His body froze and went rigid, hovering just inches away from hers, and she could sense he was possibly on the verge of losing control.
It snapped her out of her trance and she shoved him away with all her might.
Then she slapped him for good measure.
His head rocked to the side and he stood frozen, in shocked silence, staring incredulously at the wall. Caroline’s mouth moved silently, struggling to find her words even as she was sickened by her own remorse. She hadn’t meant to strike him and could not justify it in the least. After all, she had eagerly reciprocated his advances, even if they had initially surprised her.
“I apologize,” she said softly in a voice that didn’t quite sound like her own. “I-I don’t know what came over me.”
Cartwick rubbed a hand over his cheek, then he straightened and tugged sharply down on his coat.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he replied succinctly.
While she couldn’t disagree, she wasn’t sorry that he had. Her body was still trembling with exhilaration; a feeling she already wanted more of. Much more. Her conscience screamed at her from the depths of her psyche.
“You’re right,” Caroline said sternly, remembering herself. She planted her hands on her hips, trying to appear stronger than she felt. “You should leave.”
An immediate coolness registered behind the previously warm amber gaze, and he viewed her for a moment longer before giving her a curt nod and turning on his heel. She felt another shock wave of regret as she stood there, watching him go, finding it more confounding than her guilt about the slap had been.
And now she had to wonder how she would ever be able to face him again.
Chapter Eight
Tossing his reins to an awaiting stableboy, Jonathan exited the musty interior of the stables, crossed the yard and bounded up the front steps of Greystone Hall. One long day had passed since his ill-considered kiss with Lady Caroline, and his muscles were still tightly coiled in tension, the length of his body fraught with anxiety and frustration.
It had been the worst idea imaginable—the most foolish thing by far—for him to sacrifice common sense in favor of that stolen moment with her, and he was considerably worried by his lack of discipline. Could he ever really trust himself around her again?
And though he had tried, he could not forget how she had kissed him too. So unlike a shrinking debutante and so very like the enchantress he knew she would be once she had surrendered to her passion at last.
But then, of course, she had slapped him.
Jonathan was frowning as he entered the foyer, and the butler was immediately at his side to divest him of his riding jacket. But before he could proceed upstairs, he heard his mother’s approaching footsteps echoing loudly upon the checked tile floors. Her sudden appearance indicated she’d been waiting for his arrival, which she probably had since he’d taken great pains to avoid her yesterday. After his accidental meeting with Caroline, he’d been in no mood to pretend all was well.
“There you are!” she said. “You’ve been busy these past two days, and just look at how much you’ve missed. We’ve received a letter from your brother this morning.”
Jonathan’s cares were forgotten in an instant. “Did we?” he asked brightly. “And how is James faring at the shipyard?”
“Not so fast,” she said with a wry smile, her gaze turning hooded. “I want to know why you’ve been avoiding me, first.”
He grumbled in irritation then tipped a nod to the butler. After the man had left, he guided his mother into the drawing room with a sigh.
“My meeting with Mr. Conrad did not go as planned yesterday.”
“Oh?” She tipped her head, the gray filaments in her hair catching the late morning light streaming in from the windows. “What was the problem?”
He shot her a pointed look. “Lady Caroline was the problem.”
Mrs. Cartwick’s eyes grew round with surprise, then she burst out laughing. “But how could she possibly have known of your meeting?” she asked, trying to stifle her amusement.
“I don’t believe she did.” He crossed over to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. “It seems she really does enjoy that particular spot of land and was simply taking advantage of the fine weather.”
His mother eyed him in concern. “A bit early for brandy, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he replied, tipping his glass upwards for a drink. He hissed at the sweet burn of the alcohol and squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes, it is.”
“Oh goodness. It was that bad, then?”
Jonathan frowned and polished off the rest of his drink before setting the glass down to face her. “It wasn’t meeting her there that was the worst of it, surprisingly enough. She was as argumentative as ever, but . . . it was what followed after that gave me the most cause for concern.”
Mrs. Cartwick crossed over to the settee and lowered herself down as if in preparation for what he was about to say. “And what was it that followed?” she asked quie
tly.
Guilt flashed through him. He could not divulge what had taken place between them yesterday. And although he knew his mother could be trusted, Jonathan’s lack of manners and self-control around a highborn aristocrat’s daughter would absolutely be cause for condemnation. It was all better left unsaid. Besides, the seriousness of the situation with Frances took precedence over any of his more . . . romantic . . . dealings with the woman’s niece.
Seating himself in an armchair opposite her, he ran his fingers distractedly through his hair before leaning forwards to plant his elbows on his knees. “Well, Lady Frances made an unexpected appearance too, in little more than her nightgown.”
His mother’s shocked reaction might have been comical given alternative circumstances, but in this case, it was perfectly fitting.
“I—” Snapping her mouth shut to collect herself, she tried again. “I see.”
“Yes,” he agreed, scrubbing his face between his hands. “Now you see. Her aunt had somehow ventured outside without being detected by the household staff, and I escorted both of them back to Willowford House. Obviously, Lady Caroline regretted me being there to witness the event.”
“I would say she did, the poor dear. The decline of a loved one is such a private matter,” her mother added sadly. “Do you think there is anything we can do to help?”
Her response was unsurprising, as she had firsthand experience with the agony of watching a loved one fade before your very eyes. After years of ostracism and poverty in England, followed by the massive undertaking of doing business in America, the stresses of life had caught up to his father. Robert Cartwick’s heart had soldiered on, stubborn but failing, for the better part of a year before the release of death finally took him.
“Perhaps,” he answered. “I’ve been giving it much thought—it seems that more staff might be helpful. We could spare one or two servants for a period of time?”
“She will likely resist, not wanting to place herself in a position of owing you in any way.”
“Yes,” he said with a sigh. “I’m sure she will.”
“Do you think she would take offense at our offer?”
“I’ve yet to find a subject on which she doesn’t take offense,” Jonathan said, “but she needs the help. That much is certain. Perhaps she would find it less offensive if you made the offer and not I.”
Mrs. Cartwick nodded. “We will call on her tomorrow, but I still think you should be the one to speak with her. You two may enjoy your arguments, but regardless of what you think, I feel she holds you in some esteem.”
Although the shock had lessened over the past day, the sting from her slap still resonated throughout his being, leaving him feeling hollow and foolish. Jonathan shook his head.
“I think you’re wrong. And I do not enjoy arguing with her,” he added.
She gave him a hint of a smile. “If you say so. In any case, I’ll speak to the staff later today and come up with a plan.” Leaning back against the burgundy cushions, she evaluated him curiously, folding her hands over her lap. “I must admit I am surprised by your ready willingness to help, knowing how you feel about the peerage, and after hearing those terrible rumors from Lady Hedridge.”
His gaze lifted to meet hers, not missing the unmistakable twinkle lurking there. She was fishing for information that he was unwilling to provide. He shrugged in practiced indifference.
“I would expect you to be more surprised if I had taken the baroness at her word.”
Her eyes were steady. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said. He could tell she wasn’t entirely convinced by his casual treatment of the subject, but he didn’t need to convince her. He just needed her to stop asking questions.
In an effort to curtail her asking any more of them, Jonathan stood and approached his mother, hand outstretched, a smile playing about his lips.
“Now I’d like to see that letter from James, if you please.”
“Ouch!”
Caroline’s breath hissed between her teeth and she sucked on her finger. Tasting the coppery tang of her own blood, she withdrew her hand to stare forlornly at her tiny wound. Frances’s dry admonishment came from her place on the couch beside her.
“If you’re not more careful with your needle, my dear, you’ll be embroidering a field of poppies instead of that rose you’d been planning.”
“I should have thought by now that your expectations regarding my needlework would be set appropriately low, Auntie,” she countered. “It has never been my forte.”
Caroline glanced over at Frances who was pushing her needle with ease through her circular embroidery hoop, creating lovely stitches of colored thread without seemingly any effort. The beginnings of an intricate pattern were starting to emerge—a bouquet of pink peonies and purple lilacs had taken shape already, lovely and distinct. It was the work of an experienced and delicate hand. Her work, on the other hand, was not nearly as refined nor as swiftly performed.
She stared down at the sad beginnings of the thorny stem she’d been stitching, then sighed and set her hoop aside to gaze longingly out the windows. It was another fine spring day. A bit chilly, perhaps raining a little, but what she wouldn’t give to go outside and walk into town. The reality was that Frances needed more supervision nowadays, and Meggie was overworked. Caroline had always enjoyed her aunt’s company, not just for the fact that she was quite possibly the only relative who cared about Caroline, although that did place her well above all others. Even her judgments on her embroidery and lack of suitors brought Caroline amusement. Usually.
Her parents’ decision to return home had been anything but amusing, of course, but the news was no surprise. Caroline had always known that her surly attitude towards the marriage mart and its unsatisfactory offerings would wear thin with the duke and duchess. Many times, she’d imagined the day they would drag themselves back home to be reunited with their disappointment of a daughter. In her younger years, there had been anticipation, even excitement. Now there was only dread . . . and contempt.
“Is something wrong?” asked her aunt, head still lowered over her work.
She smiled. “No, Auntie.”
But yes, of course there was. Her parents would be arriving in a few weeks, which meant they would soon be seeing Frances’s condition for themselves. The first thing they would do would be to have the family physician whisk her aunt away to an asylum. The second thing they would do would be to marry Caroline off to a man who was not terribly choosy . . . a man who would find any of her more objectionable qualities or rumored ruination slightly less important than the fact that she was still the Duke of Pemberton’s daughter. She had a feeling they already had a list of local candidates in mind. A list that she already knew would never include the tempting Mr. Cartwick, thank goodness . . . even if the memory of their moments together had been keeping her awake well into the night.
Her throat constricted. In a way, those illicit events had made her question her own sense of identity. She felt unmoored, adrift. Who was she if not a loyal friend to Eliza? Who was the woman in the hallway that had returned the hungry kisses of the hated Cartwick heir, then callously slapped him upon realizing her mistake?
Squaring her jaw, she retrieved her embroidery hoop and set to stitching again, her needle piercing the fine cloth with more vigor than was required. The sound of a carriage pulling up on the drive caught her attention. Caroline looked over at Frances in surprise, only to stab her finger yet again.
“Ow!” she exclaimed angrily, hurling the hoop down onto the couch.
She could have sworn she heard her aunt snicker before standing and crossing over to peer out the windows, then Frances’s wrinkled fingers rose to her lips.
“Oh—”
Immediately, her aunt began tidying her hair and smoothing over her skirts, giving Caroline a potential clue about the identity of their caller. Her heart sank down into her shoes.
“Is it the American?” she asked.
Frances turned to give h
er a disapproving look. “You know, you really should stop calling him that.”
“So it is him, then,” Caroline said. She sighed and set her needlework on the side table.
“And his delightful mother.”
She paused. “Both of them?”
Oh no. What if Mrs. Cartwick had somehow learned about their kiss yesterday, and was now showing up to demand their marriage?
The drawing room revolved slowly around her, and she reached out to steady herself on the arm of a chair. Jumping to conclusions would do no good at all. Besides, he would no sooner confess the truth of their kiss than relent on the property line dispute near Windham Hill. She needed to breathe and act normally. They were just here for a social call; she was sure of it.
A sharp rap upon the door preceded the butler’s entrance, and he greeted them with a bow. Before he could announce the arrival, Caroline interrupted.
“We know the Cartwicks are here, Taylor. Please send them in. And some tea as well.”
He lowered into another bow. “As you wish, my lady.”
She’d hardly had time to still her trembling hands before Jonathan Cartwick and his mother entered the drawing room, bowing and curtsying their respective greetings.
“It is so lovely to see you both again,” effused Mrs. Cartwick. “I hope you don’t mind our stopping by.” The woman hesitated, her eyes growing large. “Do you mind?”
In her typical fashion, she behaved with a frankness that the British would typically find uncouth. It was a lightness of manner that made Caroline relax the tiniest bit, putting her at ease even as Jonathan’s presence caused its expected turmoil.
“Not at all,” replied Frances. “Please be seated,” she said, gesturing to the settee.
Caroline stole a glimpse of Cartwick, and noticed his gaze was studiously affixed to her aunt. He was making a very deliberate effort to avoid looking at her in any way.
While Frances and Mrs. Cartwick launched into the niceties, Jonathan continued to ignore her, which suited her just fine. Not just because she didn’t feel like arguing at the moment, but because it gave her the rare opportunity to admire him, unobserved.
Waiting for a Rogue Page 10
