Waiting for a Rogue

by Marie Tremayne

  Caroline glanced across the room at him, intrigued. “And yet he had to give all that up to claim this estate on the other side of the Atlantic.” The echo of Frances’s laughter rang through the ballroom as Jonathan whirled her around with an athletic grace that nearly stole Caroline’s breath. She looked away before his mother could detect her obvious admiration. “I’ve often wondered why he would do such a thing,” she said, tipping her glass up for another drink.

  “Have you?” Dorothea’s mouth compressed in thought before she raised her eyebrows and sighed. “I suppose he felt a sense of duty to his father; to explore his birthright in a way my Robert never could. And . . .” She paused before continuing hesitantly, “It may have had something to do with his broken engagement.”

  Caroline sputtered and lowered her champagne. “His broken engagement?”

  “Why yes,” his mother answered, her face suddenly serious. “She never deserved him, in my opinion, although he doesn’t like to speak of it.”

  But remembering now, Caroline thought back to a time when he had spoken of it. The two of them had been alone in his study, just mere moments before he’d kissed the sense right out of her . . .

  Clearly you don’t know me at all. If you did, you would know that you are not the only one who has endured the changeable nature of love.

  She felt the blood drain from her face. Perhaps she’d been too distracted with his closeness to really hear what he’d been saying, or she’d been too busy complaining about her treatment at Lord Braxton’s hands. Jonathan, as it turned out, had actually been engaged—

  Her gaze darted across the floor as the musicians played the final strains of their song. Frances’s cheeks were flushed with happy color, and Jonathan played the gentleman to her debutante, leading Caroline’s aunt back to the group. It was impossible to reconcile what Mrs. Cartwick had just told her with the charming vitality that shone from him now, but she couldn’t deny that knowing of his past heartache affected how she saw him. This man had wounds she hadn’t known about, and he hadn’t wanted to bother her with them either. Her chest tightened at the newfound knowledge.

  Pasting a smile on her face, she came forwards to wrap an arm around Frances’s shoulders, feeling the unwelcome fragility of her aunt’s frame.

  “What is this?” she asked lightly, avoiding the amber evaluation of Jonathan’s gaze. “Are you allowing Mr. Cartwick a chance to rest at last?”

  Frances laughed wryly and swatted at her arm. “I’m only giving him a chance to recuperate so he will be able to properly dance with you, my dear.”

  Caroline’s eyes caught Jonathan’s, her face growing unaccountably warm. “I am certain he must need at least a few moments of rest,” she replied, her heartbeat thundering oddly inside her chest. To her surprise he reached out smoothly in her direction.

  “I’ll dance with you this moment, if you are ready.”

  The velvety richness of his voice with that curious blend of accents—a lilting softness tempered by sharpened r’s—caused her knees to weaken beneath her skirts. How had she ever loathed the things that had made him different? Now she found herself admiring those same qualities. Here he stood, looming large before her while Caroline stared mutely at his gloved hand. She knew the feel of the skin underneath, grown coarse from his time as a shipbuilder’s apprentice. It was all too easy to remember the rousing scrape of his hands as they had passed over her flesh to touch her, to torment . . .

  The subtle jab of an elbow caused her to turn and blink at Lady Frances, who had delivered it.

  “I, oh,” she stammered, eyes darting to each inquisitive face while panic raced through her. “I suppose we could, although—”

  The thought of dancing together—the emotions between them still so raw and absolutely forbidden—seemed like the surest pathway to disaster. She was certain it would take only a moment of being in his arms for Frances and Dorothea to glean that they had lost themselves in each other’s arms before, however ludicrous that might seem.

  “Perhaps you might care to see the greenhouse instead?” he asked, deftly sidestepping her discomfort. “I’ve made some changes that I’d like to show you.”

  She dreaded being alone with him, but before she could make herself seem like any more of a fool, she set her glass down on a nearby table and looped her hand around the hard curve of his bicep. “Yes, Mr. Cartwick. I would like that,” she replied breathlessly, willing herself to ignore the way her body sang at the contact.

  With a polite nod to the other ladies, he guided her across the floor and into the foyer. Despite the absence of dancers, the orchestra began its next piece in a flourish of stringed harmony. Caroline retrieved her hand once they had rounded the corner into the hallway, where they paused to face one another.

  “Forgive me,” she started awkwardly. “I’m sure you’ve heard by now that I am wretched at social engagements.” Especially when I am terrified that I will throw myself into your arms at the least provocation.

  Jonathan evaluated her with a small smile. A knowing smile. “I would qualify that as an inaccuracy.” Narrowing his eyes, his gaze slid curiously over her features as she worked to seem impassive. “Truth be told, I wasn’t looking forwards to dancing with you either.”

  Her gasp caused him to smile wider, and she realized he wasn’t being serious. Still the comment made old wounds seem fresh, even if that had not been his intent.

  “I see. Well then, it seems I am equally repulsive to both British and American men,” she quipped, casting her burning eyes over the familiar oil paintings that spanned the walls.

  He shook his head slowly. “I don’t believe you have a proper notion of yourself at all.”

  “I can tell you how my parents would describe me. Although they’ll tell you themselves very soon, I’m sure.”

  “I have no interest in hearing their thoughts on the matter,” he said, his voice suddenly serious.

  “It won’t be terribly shocking,” she said with a shrug. “Likely just a variation of what I said earlier. A spoiled and selfish girl who looks ridiculous, outlandish, absurd . . .”

  Caroline heard the breath hiss out through his teeth, and his brows lowered in irritation. Wordlessly, he slid a hand around her wrist and she felt a sudden flurry of excitement. Had she annoyed him on purpose? She couldn’t say, but all she knew was that the last time she’d uttered those words out on the drive, he had jerked her bodily against him . . .

  He tugged her through the maze of hallways and just like that, Caroline felt like a very willing sheep being led off by a just as hungry wolf. Her thoughts were pleasantly fuzzy—probably from the champagne—and his strong clasp was a bit too authoritative for her liking.

  “You don’t have to tow me along. I know my way well enough.”

  He spared her an annoyed glance as he kept going, his pace and his hold on her unrelenting. “If only you knew when to stop talking,” he grumbled.

  “And just a few moments ago you were taking me to task for not speaking enough,” she said drily, yanking at her hand. “Besides, why you are so upset is beyond me—”

  “Is it?” he demanded, releasing her to whirl around and pin her with a stare. “Has the disappointment of your family brought you so low that you cannot see your own virtues? Did your experience with Lord Braxton make it impossible for you to tell when a man wishes to pay you a compliment?”

  “I—” Caroline struggled to make sense of his words, blinking as she focused on the impressive breadth of his chest, the way his waistcoat was molded to the muscles beneath. “Of course I can tell when a man is spouting flattery, although whether or not he means it is another thing altogether. And I couldn’t care less about Lord Braxton,” she added acidly. “Or my family.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is,” she replied with a sniff.

  His expression gentled. “Fine. But at the very least, I wish you would allow my opinions more credence than those of some unworthy suitor.”

 
; She raised her gaze to meet his, seeing hurt, frustration and longing in equal and disconcerting measures. “I thought we had established that you weren’t courting me,” she said quietly. “What difference could your opinion make?”

  He ran his fingers through the short cut of his hair. She could feel his heat . . . could smell the pressed fabric of his shirt mingling with his own scent . . . slightly sweet and absolutely irresistible.

  “It makes no difference, Caroline,” he murmured. “None at all. Unless you’d like to hear it anyway.”

  Saying no and pivoting on her heel to flee back to the drawing room would save her countless hours of heartache later. But oh, it was so tempting to know the turn of his thoughts, which was why she could never ask him.

  “I think that is an exceptionally bad idea, Mr. Cartwick. And you should address me as lady.”

  A hint of a smile passed over the tempting, full shape of his mouth, its presence fleeting and gone all too soon. “I’ll call you lady if you’ll call me Jon.”

  Caroline viewed him in something close to astonishment, heat spreading through every cell at the thought. “You know I can’t do that.”

  “We’ll see,” he replied. Then changing the subject, he inclined his head towards the end of the hallway. “Follow me.”

  He led her to the greenhouse, holding the door open as she approached. The heated air struck her face as she entered, laden with moisture. Caroline inhaled deeply. It was a place she was very familiar with, having spent many a fond afternoon running along the narrow pathways as a child under the smiling gazes of Nicholas and Isabelle Cartwick. Taking tea with Eliza and helping Rosa toddle between the bushy green plants and towering palms made up some of her more recent memories, and her heart throbbed at the recollection.

  “It’s strange to be in here again,” she said, weaving between the rows of lilies, the air heavy with their aroma. Her gaze lifted hesitantly to find his. “I’d never thought to return after Eliza’s departure.”

  Jonathan viewed her in silence before replying. “Did you not?”

  Caroline shook her head and stepped past him, taking another breath. His enticing scent was more alluring by far than anything else in this shining glass room, and she took care to avoid him while surveying the selection of plants. They were strategically arranged, but there was a haphazard method that contributed to the garden’s charming layout. Large spiky palms rose above them, tall and mighty, framed down below by a riotous collection of carefully cultivated flowers that she could not name. She trailed her fingertips over the dark waxen leaves of a shrub adorned with lovely white blooms tinged with pink.

  “I’d like to thank you for hosting this gathering for Frances,” she said softly, still avoiding his gaze. “And for accommodating us with the unconventional hour.”

  “You are most welcome,” he answered with an incline of his head. “I would not wish to tax your aunt’s endurance during the evening.” His eyes slid over the emerald silk of her dress, and she felt her cheeks warm in response. “I have to say that all seems well with her so far. And while I appreciate the daring of your dress and coiffure, I am a little confused as to why she would choose it since . . . well, since—”

  “Since she is not actively experiencing an episode?” finished Caroline, meeting his eyes finally. “That is a good question, and one I asked myself as we rode over in the carriage. Also, I’m not certain this style truly constitutes a coiffure.”

  Her embarrassment rising, she swept the loose hair over her shoulder in an effort to contain what felt like an intolerable mess. Too late did she realize that by doing so, she had exposed the naked length of her back to view, the bold cut of her dress further illustrating the strangeness of Frances’s choice. Caroline threw her hair back down to conceal her mistake, but not before noticing how his topaz eyes had widened at the sight. He glanced away.

  “Surely, you could have refused her requests, had you wished to do so?”

  Caroline leaned down to inhale the scent of the flower, trying desperately to act normal. “I could have, I suppose. But she has so very little control of her life now. If seeing me in an outrageous dress with wild hair—or in a ludicrous bonnet, for that matter—gives her any comfort at all, why would I not acquiesce? Besides,” she added, throwing a deliberate look over her shoulder, “it’s not as if I am trying to impress anyone.”

  Lies, lies, lies. Regardless of whether she wished to impress him or not, there was a stubborn part of her that hoped she did. But the dimple that appeared in his cheek told her he could have already deduced the truth of things.

  “No?”

  She laughed weakly. “Be serious.”

  He reached in front of her to pluck a pale pink bloom from the plant she’d been admiring, his solid chest grazing her shoulder as he did. Caroline felt the room tilt when his arms raised up to tuck the stem into one of the braids at the crown of her head.

  “As you know by now, I am always serious,” he said in a husky tone that triggered a rolling wave of delight throughout her body. “And I think this camellia would suit you well. It is a variety called ‘Lady Hume’s Blush.’”

  As if summoned by the words, Caroline’s face grew warm. She looked away, but not before Jonathan lowered his hand, allowing his fingers to graze her cheek.

  “I-I thank you,” she forced out. “It’s lovely.”

  Cartwick’s eyes dipped briefly to her lips, venturing down her shoulders, continuing over the front of her green bodice and layered skirts. When he met her gaze again, she saw his color had heightened too.

  “Yes,” he said in a rusty sounding voice. “Lovely.”

  Caroline’s lips parted in astonishment, and perhaps sensing that he had shocked her, he cleared his throat and turned the other way, leaving her to trail numbly behind him.

  “I have arranged a meeting with my land agent,” he mentioned, almost offhandedly, over his shoulder. “But before I see him, I have some questions for both you and Lady Frances. Perhaps we can put this matter of fence lines and boundaries to rest once and for all.”

  She let out a tiny groan. “Why not just dig up the fence and be done with it? Surely that will be the end result anyway.”

  Now it was his turn to be surprised, and he stopped to pivot suddenly in front of her.

  “I’m certain I have no idea what the result will be.” His brow furrowed in thought. “May I ask why, after all your letters and arguments, you have suddenly chosen to give up?”

  She felt her mouth twist into a grimace. “I think I am simply tired of fighting.”

  The truth she could not bring herself to confess was that he’d not turned out to be the heartless monster she’d believed him to be. The thought of losing Windham Hill to a cruel and reckless American had been intolerable, but the reality of the Cartwick heir was profoundly more disturbing. He was intelligent and thoughtful in ways she’d never thought to expect from a man—and she was being forced to accept that she may have fallen for him, at the likely expense of her friendship with Eliza.

  The knowledge placed a strain on her already weary heart.

  “Really?” he asked.

  “Yes. Don’t tell me that comes as a surprise.”

  His boots sounded on the stone pathway as he approached and she felt every muscle tighten in anticipation. “But I am surprised. This is not what I’ve come to expect from you.”

  The distant melody of the orchestra floated into the greenhouse. She had not heard it upon first entering, and wondered if perhaps the musicians had been asked to play louder in an attempt to lure her and Jonathan back to the party.

  “I see you are still quite free with your opinions, Mr. Cartwick, even to a lady.”

  He pursed his lips in thought, which had the decidedly distracting effect of bringing her attention to his mouth. “I’m not usually,” he admitted. “but I’m also not used to British sensibilities. American ladies are—in my own experience—a different breed of woman.”

  She bristled, a prickle of
jealousy making itself known. “A better breed of woman?”

  Instantly, she regretted saying it. Her heart started to hammer as he took another step, closing any remaining distance between them.

  “That’s not even close to what I said. Why do you ask?”

  Her foot slipped off the pathway and she stumbled slightly, realizing she’d been backing away. “I may have heard that you were once engaged,” she confessed sheepishly, her eyes darting about the room to avoid the fiery inquiry of his gaze. “To an American woman.”

  Jonathan’s body went rigid in surprise, then he let out a sigh and his eyes fell closed. Reaching up, he pinched the bridge of his nose as if to stave off a sudden headache.

  “Dear God, why would she tell you that?” he muttered.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  His hand fell away and he stared at her for a long moment. Finally, he shrugged. “I just . . . don’t like to talk about it. It’s not important.”

  “It sounds more important than whatever I had with Lord Braxton,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Cartwick shook his head. “My relationship didn’t play itself out in front of every rumormonger in London. It’s not the same situation at all.”

  An intoxicating warmth expanded inside her chest at his acknowledgment. In that moment, Caroline wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around his torso and squeeze tightly. Hold him until the pain they both felt ebbed gradually away, leaving a light-filled space for something better. Something more.

  Something impossible.

  Her stomach felt hollow. “If you have found me to be more insufferable than—”

  “I’ve never compared you to her,” he interrupted. “If I have found you insufferable, it’s been on your merit alone.”

  Caroline laughed shakily. “I’m not certain if you are paying me a compliment, or chiding me for being misbehaved. Either way, we should rejoin the party before—” Glancing behind him, she broke off her words, her brows lowering into a frown. “Did you remove the pineapple plants?”