Waiting for a Rogue

by Marie Tremayne

  He was here to reclaim his family’s rightful place in the world. And now through his father’s initiative and hard work, their branch of the Cartwick family had two rightful seats, an ocean apart.

  Shoving his chair away from his desk, he stood and crossed to the window. This was the truth, but something had been noticeably wrong since the last time he’d ridden away from Willowford House. Since saying good-bye to Caroline one final time. His happiness had now become indelibly tied to her. It was the only logical explanation for why he felt as if he’d left half of his heart behind that day. Not in America with the faithless Letitia, but here in Hampshire with the surprising, beautiful and vexing Lady Caroline.

  A sheen of perspiration prickled across his forehead, and he lowered himself onto the soft leather couch at the far end of his study. Right this minute, Lord and Lady Evanston were guests in her home, likely poisoning her against him, undoing hard-won familiarity and shared affection. He was the one to blame for Eliza’s removal from Greystone Hall. And yet if he hadn’t ventured to England at all, he and Caroline would never have met, and he would not be yearning for her now.

  His eyes wandered over to the door where he had kissed the duke’s daughter, and Jonathan’s body came alive in remembrance. It didn’t seem possible that the highborn woman he’d once viewed as a nuisance could so thoroughly haunt his thoughts, yet here he was, grasping after that lingering apparition.

  Had he ever truly loved Letitia? He’d thought so until he’d fallen in love with Caroline.

  Jonathan sighed before propelling himself off the couch and to the door. He threw it open and stopped in place at the sight of his butler standing there with a silver tray, knuckles raised in the air. Light blue eyes regarded him in surprise.

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but it appears this was somehow mixed in with the rest of the house correspondence. My apologies for the delay.”

  The man bowed over the salver and Cartwick smiled, bemused. “The delay was negligible, Shaw. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes.” Jonathan plucked the folded parchment off the tray, his movements slowing at the decorative script on the front. “I appreciate your diligence, though,” he added absently, turning to close the door behind him.

  It was a missive from Willowford House.

  He slid his finger beneath the wax seal to break it. And Jonathan’s eyes widened as he scanned the pages, looking for evidence of some kind of mistake. His anxiety only increased when he could find none, for it appeared that—despite having been at war with the man’s daughter and being a shipbuilder to boot—he held in his hands an invitation to the Duke of Pemberton’s private dinner.

  Caroline slid further down in her wingback chair and stared sullenly at her father.

  Upon his arrival, and after greeting the rest of the group with a hastily sketched bow, he’d deftly gripped her by the arm and hauled her up the front steps. Frances’s face had remained impassive during the spectacle, but she had followed them closely as they’d made their way into the house, not stopping until they were all safely concealed within his study. Likewise, Thomas and Eliza had given her a serious and supportive nod as she’d been ushered away, and she knew that, for her sake, they would try to soften his temper in the days that followed. But she also knew there was only so much they could do or say in her defense. He was her father, and he was the Duke of Pemberton.

  He was much as she remembered him; still the same stick-thin, upright sort of man from her childhood, even if his black hair had now faded to white at the temples and wrinkles framed his eyes at the corners. She imagined he’d gained those creases by smiling. But there was no smile to be found now as those eyes pinned her to her chair, thunderous in their anger. Her mother, Eugenia, stood close at hand, her own gray gaze filled with disappointment and reprobation. Frances sat in the chair next to Caroline’s with her hands folded in her lap, docile and polite. There was comfort in having her aunt there with her, but there was fear as well. She prayed Frances would not expose her own condition . . . not now, when Caroline was not in the best position to defend her. In their current rage at Caroline, they would give her words no weight at all.

  “To think that my daughter would have the gall to defy me,” he ranted. “How dare you refuse to return to London when I expressly—”

  He spoke with emphasis, with at least one especially important word scattered in the midst of each sentence. She stared at him in taut recognition, but let the cadence of his lecture lull her into a sort of waking sleep. Speaking of gall, she wondered at his. Yes, of course she knew he provided for her—although it was from hundreds of miles away and came without the gift of familial affection. But being the Duke of Pemberton, the man was quite used to getting what he wanted without any resistance, even if it came from a willful daughter who did not appreciate being tucked away in the country to be forgotten.

  There was a break in his cadence and she jerked herself into awareness, raising her eyes to meet his. It was a tactical mistake.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” he demanded, leaning forwards across his desk.

  She cleared her throat and folded her hands upon her lap. “Father, it was not my intent to displease you. But I can hardly see how my marriage can be of much importance when you are so often away—”

  “You question my authority in this?” he bellowed. Not for the first time, she wondered how such a tall, yet slightly built man could be so surprisingly loud.

  “I would never question your authority,” Caroline replied quietly, hating how she could already feel herself shrinking under his scrutiny, noticing how suddenly small and less like herself she was. “I merely question whether or not marriage is absolutely necessary. I live a peaceable existence here with Aunt Frances, a respectable life—”

  “There is no respect to be had as a spinster,” he spat.

  Caroline flinched and glanced sideways at her aunt, who either had not heard her brother’s insult or had, in fact, heard it so many times before that she no longer felt its effect. Frances seemed more concerned about her, and Caroline gladly accepted the warm clasp of her wrinkled hand as she reached across the gap between their chairs to give her a reassuring squeeze.

  She tipped her chin up at her father. “I disagree.”

  His expression was a stormy range of emotion, fury crossing his face with uneven and disconcerting tics. She didn’t think she’d ever seen her father so angry, and while her parents had often wounded her by being absent, they had rarely resorted to such displays of emotion.

  He shook his head bitterly. “Tell me then. What respect is there to be had in your existence? Stubborn child that you are.”

  Hot tears willed themselves to pour forth, but she fought them back. She thought of Nicholas and Isabelle Cartwick, neighbors who had treated her well. She thought of Frances, whose loving care and sound advice had carried Caroline through some of her darkest times. Even Dorothea Cartwick had shown her a maternal sort of kindness. And not one of them would have asked her to justify her own existence, even if they saw marriage as her best course of action.

  Frances’s voice cut through the tense silence, and her cloudy gaze was the clearest it had been in weeks. “Caroline tried her best in London. I was there.”

  “Oh?” Her mother had chosen to speak at last—the silent shade hovering near the bookshelf, her face gently twisted into a moue of disapproval. Her upswept hair shone in the light, as dark as the coffee Jonathan claimed to prefer over tea. “Then what of the rumors? How is it she came to leave London in the presence of a known rake, when she should have been nurturing the affections of Lord Braxton?”

  Frances released Caroline’s hand to sit up straighter in her seat. “Viscount Evanston accompanied both of us back to Hampshire at my request. I was not feeling . . . myself.”

  Caroline jerked in alarm.

  No . . .

  She would not have her aunt endanger her own situation merely to appease her parents. “Auntie took ill near the end of th
e season. Her stomach . . . all the rich food . . .” she blurted out. “Lord Evanston was kind enough to see us safely back home, and if the ton wishes to concoct their own version of events, we can hardly be held responsible.” Caroline slid a look of reprimand in Frances’s direction, willing her to stay quiet, then shuddered in relief at her tiny nod of acknowledgment.

  The duke tilted his head. “Why did you not write of this, sister?”

  “I have not written of a great many things these past few years, Alexander,” she said defensively. “Perhaps I didn’t think you would care for the details of my digestive difficulties.”

  “Point taken,” he answered with a sigh. “However, I still think if Caroline had truly been committed to finding a husband, Lord Braxton would have continued his pursuit after her departure . . . not offer for the first pretty face in a ballroom.”

  There was a twinge of hurt at the remembrance of her humiliation, but no feelings of a stronger nature. It only caused her to think of Jonathan. Of how Caroline wished she could wrap herself around him and keep him from leaving her now.

  But he’s already gone, she thought bleakly.

  “Please tell me how exactly you find me lacking, Father,” she forced out. “Because if it is because I am a woman, I can assure you I had no choice in the matter.”

  “No, of course you didn’t. And had your birth not been so very difficult, your mother might have been able to produce an heir,” he said. Caroline supposed he held her accountable for this crime as well, but the duke continued before she could dwell for too long. “That doesn’t change the fact that this dukedom will never pass to a child of mine. Instead, it will go to our distant cousin, Marcus in Sussex, an unworthy lad.”

  Caroline uttered a harsh laugh. It was only slightly gratifying to see that his tendency towards strict censure did not apply exclusively to her.

  “Cousin Marcus is but two years old, is he not? It seems he could use a bit more time to establish his worth.”

  His eyes narrowed beneath the dark furrow of his brows while Caroline stared at him in silence. “Your mother and I have discussed things at length. Even though Frances failed in her duty to facilitate you finding a marriageable suitor—”

  “Aunt Frances failed at nothing,” she snapped, shooting up from her seat to stare down at him for once. Her hands curled tightly at her sides. “She is the only relation of mine who sees me as a human being rather than some nuisance that must be sold off—”

  “If your cousin’s family had agreed to the match, you would have accepted your role and fallen in line,” he said, rising to glower darkly at her.

  “Pemberton—”

  Her mother’s lilting voice cut quietly through the air, giving him a necessary moment of pause. The duke’s shoulders dropped almost imperceptibly and Caroline’s eyes darted between them in resentful intrigue. The graceful Eugenia had always possessed a way with her father . . . a manner of language and movement that put him at ease and ushered him in a certain direction. In this instance . . . calm.

  Why couldn’t you have convinced him to come home, Mother?

  The answer to that, of course, was that Eugenia had not cared overly much about coming home, or about the people waiting for her there.

  He tipped his head in warning, and his next words were spoken through gritted teeth. “Your days of living like a hellion are over. I’ve already written to Lord and Lady Hedridge, and they were able to make inquiries for us while we were en route—”

  “No.” Caroline backed away, her face suddenly numb with panic. The thought of Lord and Lady Hedridge scrounging together a few passable suitors who might consent to marry her was beyond mortifying. “Not them, Father . . . please. They do not like me.” She gazed down at Frances in panic, who seemed strangely unsurprised.

  He silenced her with a slash of his hand. “They are well connected. I’m even going to be generous and give you a choice between three men who have already indicated their openness to the pairing. You will have a chance to meet each of them—Frances sent out the invitations earlier this week.”

  Icy fingers trailed over Caroline from head to toe, and she struggled to speak. Her aunt’s eyes shifted guiltily up to meet hers.

  “Aunt F-Frances?” she stammered.

  Betrayal . . .

  Her heart writhed helplessly inside her ribs. She wouldn’t . . . she couldn’t . . . believe her aunt would have participated in such an orchestration of events on purpose, but there was no way to be absolutely certain without speaking to her in private.

  Frances reached out to her once more, but she tugged her hand out of reach and looked away, unable to grasp the situation quite yet.

  “You will meet the suitors that evening. A decision can be made afterwards.”

  She felt the bitter rise of nausea. Caroline would end up marrying a man chosen for her by an enemy, approved by her loveless father and invited into their home by the aunt she’d tried so hard to protect. Would still protect, no matter what the cost.

  Then she paused in wide-eyed contemplation. The American had socialized with Lord and Lady Hedridge. One might even consider him an acquaintance of theirs, however remote.

  Her father continued. “They are . . .”

  A spark of hope flared to life.

  Jonathan Cartwick.

  “Viscount Bryant . . .”

  Caroline, felt the keen slice of disappointment, knowing that to even wish for such a thing made her the worst sort of person. That were she ever to admit to loving him, she stood to lose the dearest friend she’d ever had. Yet strangely enough, in this moment she couldn’t bring herself to resist the idea as she knew she should. Right here, right now, there were still two names left, and the hope was still burning.

  Jonathan Cartwick.

  “The Earl of Davenport, and . . .”

  Caroline winced. A widower, old and grizzled and set in his ways. She kept her attention turned to her father. There was one name left. She held her breath. In her heart, there was only one name that would do.

  Jonathan Cartwick.

  “—Baron Horne.”

  The hopeful spark winked out of existence.

  Caroline tried to speak and she couldn’t. Swallowing hard, her throat issued a dry click, and she tried again as she backed away from them and towards the door, feeling blindly behind her with trembling fingertips.

  Frances rose from her chair. “Caroline—”

  A taut shake of her head silenced her aunt, then she returned her gaze, wide-eyed and accusing, to the illustrious Duke and Duchess of Pemberton.

  “When I was a little girl,” she said hoarsely, “I used to dream about you and Mama coming back home for me.”

  Both parents blinked at her, as if waiting for her to finish her sentence. But she already had. And the tears she’d been holding at bay fell at last when she twisted the knob, escaping the study to run down the hallway and out the front door.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Despite the sunshine that peeked stubbornly from behind the clouds, this particular spring day was a cool one. Jonathan raised the collar of his coat then snapped the reins, urging his horse faster out of town.

  His head was pounding. This morning, the discomfort had increased with every hoofbeat that brought him closer to Willowford House, and his brain had throbbed mightily by the time he’d actually passed the place. And as he passed it again this afternoon on his return home, he caught the unwelcome sight of the ducal carriage parked in front of the grand estate.

  Although he resisted, he couldn’t help but wonder about Caroline and how she was faring. Her friend might be willing to forgive a little assistance from a well-intended neighbor, but a personal visit from that same man would most certainly push the limits of what she was willing to believe about their relationship.

  What is our relationship, anyway?

  The question darkened his mood and he couldn’t help but deliver an irritated jab of his heels into the horse’s muscular flanks. The bay tossed it
s mane, letting out a loud snort of protest before complying to the demand, and Jonathan reached forwards to pat its neck soothingly.

  The rooftops in town became visible just as he noticed his jaw beginning to ache, and he forced himself to unclench his teeth. If only she’d been the vapid and pampered princess he’d thought her to be instead of the intriguingly complicated and challenging little minx she was—how this all could have turned out so differently. But here he was, he thought grimly . . .

  And . . . there she was?

  With a soft whoa, he tugged on the reins and leaned in the saddle to squint up ahead. At first he thought his mind might have conjured her up, as if he could call her into being using only his thoughts. But raising a gloved hand to shade his eyes, he saw that it really was Caroline, her slim figure and the chestnut gleam of her hair impossible to miss as she walked, head cast down unhappily.

  She stepped along quickly beside the overgrown grass at the side of the road, her slender arms wrapped around her torso in what appeared to be an effort to keep warm. The need to be out of doors must have taken her by surprise, and he fondly recalled a similar instance on the back lawn of Willowford House that had included archery and a hot cup of tea. He also remembered the first time they’d met, with her walking on this very same road while dutifully toting Frances’s hatboxes.

  But what was she doing here by herself with no coat or chaperone to speak of? The ruffled muslin dress she was wearing, while charming, would not protect her from the chill.

  With a quick flick of his reins, he brought his horse closer before swinging his leg to dismount, his boots landing solidly on the packed dirt. Caroline’s gaze, previously fixed upon the ground in front of her, snapped over to him in astonishment and she stopped in mid-stride.

  “Jonathan?”

  His heart gave a peculiar little lurch at hearing her call him by name, but he could not allow himself the same kind of familiarity. Not when that same heart trembled in expectation of her rejection.