Caroline remembered threading that light brown hair between her fingers; thick wavy hair that had brushed against her palms as she pulled him down to kiss her even deeper. She remembered the press of those wicked lips against her own, and the sly darting of his tongue. She could recall the deep, reverberating groans that had issued from his throat, as if it had taken every bit of restraint he possessed to keep his hands pressed firmly on the wall behind her . . .
His eyes shifted over to meet hers. And in that moment, she knew that he was remembering it too.
A heated flush crept over her face.
Luckily, Taylor made his timely entrance with the tea cart, and everyone’s focus shifted. Frances glanced over at her.
“Be a dear and pour Mr. Cartwick a cup of tea. He looks like he could use it.”
His dark brow raised in amusement. “Do I now?”
Her aunt surveyed him with a wry smile. “Well, you look like you could use something.”
Caroline decided to spare him any further teasing and rose to retrieve his tea. The ladies mercifully resumed their chatting—something about artwork from what she could hear—and she approached him hesitantly with his cup and saucer. Cartwick accepted her offering without so much as an upwards glance.
“Thank you,” he said gruffly.
She nodded in reply, then returned to pour for her aunt and Mrs. Cartwick. When that was finished, she seated herself once more and laced her fingers together nervously upon the yellow muslin of her skirts.
“Are you not having tea?” he murmured .
Caroline glanced up to find his amber eyes locked on to hers, sending tiny shivers of awareness chasing across her skin.
“I’m not in the mood for tea,” she said. Although truthfully, she was more afraid of spilling it on herself given the current state of her nerves.
He considered her answer. “What are you in the mood for?” he asked, setting his cup aside. His gaze dipped slightly to her left, landing on the side table next to her. “Needlework?”
Caroline almost groaned out loud. She should have hidden the blasted thing away, but it wasn’t like she’d had a lot of time to tidy for visitors.
“No, as a matter of fact, I am not fond of needlework,” she said, hoping to discourage any further talk on the subject.
His eyebrows raised. “May I see?”
She shrugged but could feel herself flare crimson in mortification. “If you must,” she said, reaching across to hand him her hoop.
Cartwick held it in his hands, squinted, then turned it upside down to squint at it some more.
“Is it a walking stick?” he asked.
Caroline scowled. “It’s not finished, for heaven’s sake. Obviously, it’s a stem.”
“Obviously . . .” he said slowly, rotating the hoop to the side to find a better angle. “And what are these bumps along the, er, stem?”
Her eyes narrowed further. “They are thorns.”
“Ah,” he said, lifting his gaze to catch hers. “Well, that makes sense at least.”
“Why?” she asked in irritation. “Let me guess . . . because you think I have a prickly disposition?”
Cartwick leaned forwards to lower his voice. “After the other day, do you really need to ask me that?”
She was certain her entire body blushed pink at his words. With a cautious glance at her aunt on the far end of the couch, she whispered a reply. “I said I was sorry.”
He handed her back the embroidery hoop. “And I said I shouldn’t have done it. Lesson learned.”
“Oh, did you truly require that particular lesson? The one that instructs all gentlemen not to ravish innocent women?”
Cartwick shook his head. “Of all the words one could use to describe you, Lady Caroline, innocent is probably not the first one I would—”
Closing his teeth shut over his next words, he glanced over to their companions who were still chatting with one another. With a swipe of his hand over his face, he sighed then nodded at the needlework in her hands.
“I’m surprised it’s not a bluebell.”
She blinked at him, then stared down at her pathetic representation of a stem. She was a little surprised by the thoughtfulness of his comment, especially when he’d been in the middle of delivering a withering assessment of her character. Either way, she was glad to steer the conversation away from anything having to do with their kiss. She could not pass that place in the hallway without every nerve ending spontaneously igniting in fiery remembrance of the event.
“I—well I suppose it could have been,” she stammered. “But Lady Frances requested a rose.”
“Ah,” he said, the reserve behind his eyes softening just a bit. “Well then I have no doubt she will like it very much.”
It shouldn’t have pleased her to hear him say such things, and yet she couldn’t help but feel a corresponding warmth expanding inside her chest. It also should have been easier to glance away, but again she found herself snared by the man’s hypnotic gaze, which had just lowered to her lips in a way that was highly disconcerting.
The clink of teacups upon their saucers interrupted the spell, and Caroline jumped a little in her seat then set her needlework aside. Both Mrs. Cartwick and Frances abruptly rose to a stand.
“Mrs. Cartwick has requested to see the gallery,” said Frances. “Would you care to join us?”
She and Cartwick stood as well, but before they could respond to the question, Caroline saw the subtle but pointed look Mrs. Cartwick gave to her son before answering her aunt herself.
“Ah, but then I wouldn’t have your company all to myself, Lady Frances,” she said warmly.
And suddenly, Caroline felt as if this friendly visit might have been part of a larger scheme. Perhaps Mrs. Cartwick had heard of their kiss and was intent on giving him a moment of privacy to make a proper offer for her hand. Cold sweat broke out beneath the squeezing confines of her corset.
He doesn’t even like you, and he certainly isn’t the type of man to be pressured into an arrangement by his mother.
Frances smiled at Mrs. Cartwick. “Very well.” Now it was her turn to lance Caroline with a meaningful look. “I trust you will treat our guest with the civility he deserves.”
Caroline viewed him sardonically and held her tongue, simply nodding instead. She waited until the ladies had left the room completely before leveling him with an accusatory look.
“What is this all about?”
He paused, then shoved his hands down into his pockets and tipped his head quizzically. “What do you think?”
“You really want to know?”
He smiled in thought. “I really do.”
“Fine. I believe you intend to entrap me into marriage after our kiss the other day.”
She didn’t think it was possible for a man to look more shocked than Jonathan Cartwick appeared at that very moment, wide-eyed, his jaw slack. In fact, the magnitude of his surprise was anything but complimentary, and suddenly she very much wished she had kept her mouth shut about that particular suspicion.
“I—” His voice was a ragged scrape from his throat. “I can assure you that nothing is farther from the truth.”
Caroline’s heart squeezed painfully tight. The blunt words were just another reminder that nobody wanted her in their lives. Not her parents, not Lord Braxton and not even the dishonorable Mr. Cartwick.
Her expression must have betrayed some of what she was feeling, for his demeanor changed at once and he stepped forwards to take her hands in his.
“I don’t wish for you to misunderstand me,” he murmured, the brush of the callouses on his palms a strangely sensual feeling against her own bare hands. She was suddenly aware of how close they were again. “Kissing you was quite . . . pleasing. But that alone is not the basis for any marriage that I would wish to be a part of.”
Willing away the rise of her embarrassment, she tore her hands out of his grasp. “Fine, it was a silly notion,” she said. “I understand.”
&nb
sp; “No, I don’t think you do,” he replied slowly. “And I must say I’m a little confused at your reaction since we both know I represent everything you seem to despise.”
So he had seen her hurt. The knowledge made her feel strange and vulnerable, something that had started to happen more and more in his presence. Taking a second to recover, her eyes lingered over the golden-brown waves of his hair and the singular eyes that matched. The sharp angles of his cheekbones, strong line of his nose, appealing jut of his chin with the tiny indent in the middle . . . the man was all masculinity. Lean muscle and hard surfaces. Even his hands were roughened with work, which was highly unfashionable but somehow so incredibly attractive. It would be easy to imagine the feel of those hands as they slid across the more sensitive areas of her body . . .
Caroline clasped her fingers together in front of her skirts and gazed at him with as much neutrality as she could muster.
“There’s no reaction,” she said calmly.
“Are you sure?”
She crossed the room to finally pour herself some tea. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Cartwick,” she said, adding a touch of cream then blowing lightly on the steaming drink. “I’m only wondering why you won’t get to the point and tell me why you are here.”
A nervous shadow passed over his countenance, and Caroline felt her own sense of unease increasing. When he gestured to the couch, she found herself sinking down without objection, and Cartwick lowered down beside her, turning slightly to view her more easily from where he was seated. His hand passed down over the length of his midnight blue cravat.
“I would like to offer my assistance, should you permit me,” he said quietly. “I am here to help both you and Lady Frances.”
Chapter Nine
The confusion that spread across Caroline’s lovely face rapidly transformed into something more like horror.
“Help us?” she asked with an almost imperceptible twitch of her head. “What do you mean?”
Jonathan shifted uncomfortably. Her hackles were already up, meaning this was going to be tougher than he’d originally thought—although he’d never been foolish enough to think it would be easy. His next words needed to be chosen with care.
“Well, first,” he said earnestly, “I would like to emphasize that your acceptance of my assistance would not oblige you to me in any way.”
She eyed him with skepticism. “You and I both know that any bargain made between a man and a woman has the potential for unforeseen complications, including obligation.”
“I knew that you would think that, and again I would like to assure you of my honor in this regard.”
“You will forgive me if I reserve my judgment for the time being.”
“Of course,” he replied. “But if the notion of my honor gives you pause, then perhaps you will accept the word of Mrs. Cartwick instead.”
Her gaze snapped back over to his, the gray pools of her eyes blowing wide in panic. “What kind of offer is this?” She shot to her feet. “What have you told her?”
Jonathan stood and came close to grip her upper arms. He could feel her trembling beneath his hands.
“My lady,” he murmured, “I told her only as much as she needed to know, and she wishes to be of help. We have two members of our household staff that we can offer to assist with your aunt, at least until you are able to secure staff of your own. Or for longer, if you like.”
With one agile twist of her body, she slipped out of his grasp and marched over to the door, flinging it open then rounding on him with a hostile stare. “Get out.”
Even he wasn’t prepared for that reaction, and he thought he’d been ready for anything.
“Why?”
“I knew you would start telling others about Lady Frances,” she said, turning to pace fretfully. “I knew I would come to regret you being there to witness . . . to see her . . .”
His brow lowered and he strode toward her, angry now, trying to keep himself from throttling the girl. “I have done nothing of the kind,” he growled, shocking her into silence. “You take every word out of my mouth as a personal affront, even if it is meant as a kindness, and I’ll be damned if I will continue to listen to your insults.”
Caroline’s face paled, casting the scattering of her tiny golden freckles into stark relief. Her dazed eyes drifted away from his own, down to his chest and finally to the carpeted floor. Then with the briefest of nods she spun around and dashed from the room. Jonathan stood there for a moment, staring solemnly after the frothy feminine mass of yellow skirts that hurried away from him across the foyer.
Christ, he thought, running a hand through his hair. Now I’ve done it.
Jonathan charged out to follow Caroline down the hall and into the music room. A gleaming piano was stationed proudly at the far end of the room, and Caroline had dropped into an armchair nearby, leaning over to cradle her head in her hands. The sight of her like that, defeated and overwhelmed, reminded him of when he had discovered her in the hallway, and he felt that peculiar sensation in his chest once again. The one that squeezed his heart, making him feel as if her problems were somehow actually his.
How could you help a woman who made it so very difficult to even try? He approached slowly and she remained curled over in her seat, despondent, shaking her head. He took another step closer.
“Just accept the help,” he said, placing one hand lightly on the back of her chair. “I know you could use it—I am surprised the duke is not more involved.”
Caroline’s head continued to move from side to side, a silky auburn lock sliding free from her upswept hair with the repeated movement. “You don’t understand,” she said with a wretched glance. “I don’t want him to know. Do you know where they put people with her condition? It’s bad enough you had to see it, but now your mother, and soon my parents—”
He blinked. “Your parents?”
She stood and walked to the piano, spreading her hands across the polished rosewood surface. “Yes. My parents will be arriving soon to marry me off,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s simply not fashionable to support a spinster daughter. Especially a stubborn one like me.”
“I—” Jonathan stared after her, his lungs squeezing. Then crossing the room, he came to a stop beside her. “I see,” he said at last, “although I would hesitate to call you a spinster just yet.”
“Would you?” she asked with a laugh entirely devoid of humor. “I’ve told anyone who would listen that I have no intention of ever marrying. My parents demanded I attend the season again this year, and I only managed to avoid it because it was impossible for them to impose their will from hundreds of miles away. Now it seems they are coming home to force the issue.”
“Will they take you to London?” he asked, shaking his head, his mind still reeling in disbelief.
Caroline turned to face him, her expression unreadable. “I doubt it. That’s rather a lot of money to spend, and with my reputation in its current state, they will probably settle on some eligible peer here in the country. Perhaps one who owes them a favor.”
Pain shot through his jaw and he realized he was clenching his teeth. Jonathan found he had a visceral reaction to seeing this bright and intelligent—albeit temperamental—woman being offered up to the first willing lord in a marriage she did not want. It made him hate the aristocracy all over again. And oddly enough, he realized he’d stopped including both her and Lady Frances in that group at some point.
He was also forced to admit that the thought of her marrying another bothered him.
“I am sorry to hear that,” he said. And he honestly was.
“Don’t be,” she quipped. “In one fell swoop, you will rid yourself of an annoying neighbor and her troubled aunt, while gaining Windham Hill in the—”
He silenced her with a black look. “Stop.”
She relented, lapsing into silence with a sigh. Stretching out an arm, she ran her graceful fingers along the artfully carved edge of the piano case.
�
��That piano looks to be nearly a duplicate of my own.”
“It is identical,” she confirmed, her voice dreamy and lost in thought. “It was a gift.”
“Oh? From whom?” he asked, walking around the side to view it more closely.
Caroline reached over to softly plunk one of the ivory keys. “Nicholas Cartwick.”
Jonathan stared at her. “Reginald Cartwick’s father?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes found his and registered the surprise she found there. Jonathan smoothed a hand over his cravat and tried again.
“Forgive me. Was he close to the duke?”
“No, not particularly,” she said slowly, gradually relaxing. “And Reginald and I were not playmates due to our difference in age. But his parents grew very close to both Lady Frances and me.” A ghost of a smile flickered across her face for a moment. “In fact, Isabelle taught me how to play on the piano at Greystone Hall.”
It was an answer to just one of the many questions he had about her. She was sad near pianos because they reminded her of those who had cared for her . . . treasured friends who were no longer alive. Friends who, along with her aunt, had probably been more like parents to her than the Duke and Duchess of Pemberton had ever been.
And now she would once again be faced with their cold disregard. Parents who would rather get rid of her than get to know her. Her father, who she feared would commit Frances, his own sister, to an asylum.
In other words, the worst kind of people.
Jonathan had been wrong. This hadn’t just answered one question—it had answered many. And God help him, but he wanted to kiss her again. Slowly. Thoroughly. Until her considerable worries had been soothed away and replaced with that same desire she had given him a glimpse of that day before.
Forcing down the urge with willpower he didn’t even know he had, he cautiously came closer, ignoring the heavy tension of arousal that had settled in his limbs. “My piano in America was much like this one,” he observed. “But it was made by a company in Boston. Hallet and Davis.”
Waiting for a Rogue Page 11
