Waiting for a Rogue
Page 22
“My lady,” he replied, towing his horse behind him as he approached slowly, cautiously. “Where are you going?”
Caroline’s eyes of cool polished gray stared at him in confusion, then her gaze shifted to the road behind him.
“Going? I—” She moistened her lips before pressing them together and shaking her head. “I don’t know.”
Something was wrong—he could see it in the way her eyes darted wildly. He slid his hands over her shoulders to steady the tremors that visibly shook her.
“Tell me what’s happened,” he said softly. “Is it Frances?”
Her bottom lip trembled and she nodded. “Yes, it’s Frances.” A glassy tear tumbled down her cheek.
Christ. Ignoring the fact that they were standing on a public road, he pulled her into his arms, feeling a pervasive spread of satisfaction as she submitted to the embrace. His hands trailed across the graceful length of her spine.
“Is she all right?”
Her ribs hitched beneath his touch, and burying her face against his jacket, she nodded again.
“My parents wish to marry me off . . . and Aunt Frances . . . she helped them.” The moisture from her tears absorbed through to his shirt, warm and wet and devastating. “She invited three lords herself.”
His fingertips paused on her back, as did his breath, but not for the reason she was probably expecting.
“Lords, you say?”
“Y-yes,” she said with watery sniff.
Jonathan wanted to reassure her, but he stood frozen as his thoughts had suddenly become a whirl of uncertainty. Her words echoed in his head.
Aunt Frances . . . she helped them.
Could it be that Frances had tried to help him as well?
His train of thought was derailed when she gripped his lapels and sank against his chest with an agonized sigh. “That’s not all. Lady Hedridge selected my suitors. She made inquiries to see who might be able to t-tolerate having me as their wife.”
He’d known this already. But hearing the truth stumbling from her lips, her voice tainted by a shame she didn’t deserve to feel, brought every emotion he’d struggled to contain these past months rushing heedlessly to the surface. He pulled her tighter against him, lacing one of his hands through the upswept mass of her dark ruby hair.
“Any one of those men would be damned lucky to have you for a wife,” he ground out, savoring the feel of her in his arms and the scent of rosewater that suddenly seemed to be everywhere. He inhaled hungrily, then checked himself and the passion that could quickly overthrow his better judgment. Releasing her, he stripped off his coat, and the unexpected heat in her gaze as he removed the garment nearly caused him to ravish her right there.
Christ, you’re not undressing for her . . . just give her the coat.
Averting his eyes, he wrapped the black broadcloth coat gently around her shoulders, not missing her tiny shiver of relief. Her moonstone eyes trapped his.
“Do you really think that?” she asked softly.
It was impossible to miss the hopeful tone in her voice. And it made him question what he had done to earn that hope. Displaced her best friend? Argued back and forth over a blasted boundary line?
No wonder she hadn’t liked him. No wonder Eliza disliked him still. He was just thankful he’d finally managed to come to his senses—not that it would help him in the least. Not even Frances could help him at this point.
Trapping an errant lock of auburn hair between his fingers, he tucked it softly behind her ear with a chiding glance. “Do you really believe I would say such a thing without meaning it?”
A tiny crease formed between her elegant arched brows and he longed to soothe it away with his fingertips, or perhaps with a kiss. Her only reply was a reluctant shake of her head.
“You should join me at Greystone Hall. Warm yourself with some tea before returning home,” he said, extending a hand out to her. At least it would get them off the road and out of plain sight, should the duke come looking.
She stared at his gloved hand in silence, probably contemplating whether such a thing would be wise. Then she slid her bare fingers inside his before accepting his assistance up onto the bay.
The ride home was thankfully short, as the saddle did not properly accommodate two riders. The press of her lush bottom against his hips would have been enough to test any man, but they soon arrived. He dismounted swiftly, reaching up to assist her in similar fashion before handing the reins to a footman and leading her up the curved stone steps at the front of his house. Shaw greeted him at the door with a polite incline of his head, then his eyes widened at the unexpected sight of Lady Caroline, still enfolded in Jonathan’s coat. He delivered a deeper bow in her direction then straightened to regard them both with a neutral countenance.
“Welcome home, Mr. Cartwick. And welcome to Greystone Hall, my lady.”
“Thank you, Shaw,” he replied, continuing past his butler to usher Caroline inside. “Is my mother at home? As you can see, we have a guest.”
The man blinked and shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. Mrs. Cartwick left an hour ago for town.”
Jonathan halted in the foyer, suddenly remembering. Yes, she’d had an appointment with the tailor, and he’d left before her to attend a meeting with his land agent. How he’d forgotten that little detail, he couldn’t say.
“No matter,” he said dismissively. His manner belied his sudden awareness that he and Caroline would be here together . . . alone. “Tea in the drawing room, if you please.”
Shaw hurried off to fulfill his request, and once the drawing room door had closed behind them, Caroline turned to lance him with an accusatory gaze.
“You’d forgotten that your mother would not be here?”
He gave a shrug of apology and crossed the room to stand by the fire. “Actually, I did. I suppose my mind was more occupied with my own meeting today and by finding you alone on the side of the road.” Eyeing her in amusement, he continued, “It’s much warmer over here, I assure you.”
Likely realizing he was correct and that she was still freezing, she ambled closer to him and gave a grateful little shiver at the warmth that flowed forth from the fire. Best intentions aside, he couldn’t help but imagine her shivering beneath the eager heat of his mouth. But the truth was, he didn’t have to imagine it at all. He could still recall—all too well—her cries of pleasure as he had tasted her flesh.
The soft rap on the door snapped him out of his trance, and he took a step back as if the fire rather than mere closeness with her had scorched him.
“Enter,” he said tersely.
Shaw wheeled the tray into the drawing room and poured two steaming cups of tea before departing with a bow. Striding to the cart, he glanced at her in inquiry.
“How do you take your tea, my lady?”
She stayed facing the fire, the feminine angles of her face alight with flickering golden light. “No cream. One lump on the side, please.”
Jonathan uttered a laugh. “One lump on the side?”
Caroline turned her head and said nothing, her expression one of cool defiance. Clearly, she had been challenged on this before. He raised his hands in capitulation and grinned before grasping the tongs to remove one sugar cube from its china container, placing it with more care than was required upon the side of her saucer. By the time he’d reached her with the tea, her eyes had narrowed.
“Thank you,” she said. Skirting around him, she lowered herself onto the settee with her drink, still swathed in the coat that was much too large for her. He watched in wonder as she simply raised the cup to her lips, leaving the sugar cube where it lay. “So, you had a meeting today?” she asked.
“I did. With my land agent. It was in preparation for meeting with your father.”
Her eyes lifted to meet his, their granite smoothness a perfect complement to the sumptuous red hue of her mouth and the fiery shade of her hair.
“When is your meeting with my father?” she asked, taking another s
ip of tea. A hint of annoyance had crept into her voice.
Jonathan found himself still staring, bound by suspense, at the glittering sugar cube that seemed to hold no purpose. “He’d like to discuss the issue with the fence lines just before the start of dinner.” He paused before adding, “And I’d like to have both you and Lady Frances present.”
Caroline’s eyes widened and her arms fell, the saucer lowering to rest upon her lap. Distractedly, she plucked the sugar cube up between her fingers and brought it to her mouth, nibbling a bit off the corner before replacing it beside her cup.
There it was . . . the most adorable use of a sugar cube he’d ever witnessed. A little treat when times were tough. And now he found himself damnably obsessed with the idea of tasting her sugar-sweetened lips for himself.
“Why?” she asked at last. “You’ve waited all this time to speak exclusively with my father.”
He shrugged and sank down onto the opposite side of the settee, watching her carefully. “Perhaps now I think you ought to have a voice in the matter.”
With a shake of her head, she took another sip of her tea. “I appreciate the gesture, Mr. Cartwick, but it won’t make a difference. He won’t even allow us through the door.”
“Back to Mr. Cartwick, am I?”
Caroline evaluated him in shock. “You’ve always been Mr. Cartwick.”
“No, not always,” he corrected, glancing down at his hands. “Not when I kissed you in my study, and not on the road earlier today.”
“I—” Her gaze fell to the floor. “Well, I apologize. That was improper.”
Change the subject.
Jonathan welcomed the barely detectable whisper of conscience, especially when his mind was overwhelmed with all the improper things that might cause her to say his name.
He reached up to tug at his cravat. It suddenly seemed much tighter than before . . . or he was warmer, one of the two. “With regards to the meeting, I think I might be able to bring the duke around to my line of thinking. Also, I feel your aunt may be able to shed some light on the matter.”
Her lips were worrying at the sugar cube again, lost in thought, and he could actually feel his temperature increasing now. Catching herself, she placed it back onto the saucer and cleared her throat.
“You think Frances knows something that I do not?”
“I think it’s possible,” he conceded reluctantly.
“Why? Did your land agent say something?”
Jonathan twitched his head in negation. “My land agent has not been able to produce any official documents that reflect the change in boundary. Everything we’ve found so far show the fence lines as they should be. I don’t suppose—” He hesitated. “I don’t suppose you’ve any idea why or when the fence would have been moved?”
“Me?” Her cheeks paled. “Do you think I would conceal that kind of information?”
“No, I don’t. Not intentionally. But—”
Setting her tea aside, she rose from the settee, her slim torso dwarfed by the oversize drape of his coat. “I wish I could help you, Mr. Cartwick, but I can’t. And it seems like you might not believe what I say anyway.”
His brow lowered into a frown. “That wasn’t what I intended to—”
“I really should be leaving anyway, Mr. Cartwick.”
Caroline’s eyes had taken on a glassy sheen, and he inwardly cursed himself for adding to her woes. She shrugged out of his coat and tossed it onto the settee with a noise of frustration, and in doing so, loosed a neatly folded handkerchief that had been hastily tucked into her skirt pocket. The square of cloth fell to the carpet and before she could trouble herself, he knelt down to retrieve it.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll take that now—”
The words tumbled out of her mouth rapidly, unnaturally. Which only further drew his attention to the linen he now held in his outstretched hands. There was a brief moment when he did not realize what he was holding. Then he unfolded it, and the world seemed to rotate on its axis.
A square of white, meticulously pressed, the initials JRC monogrammed at the corner . . . a cluster of bluebells painstakingly stitched onto the linen . . .
JRC.
Jonathan Robert Cartwick.
His handkerchief. The bluebells embroidered by her. Tucked away in her pocket for God knew how long, almost as if it held some kind of sentiment.
Jonathan stood slowly, raising his eyes in amazement, and saw that her expression had already changed. Regret colored her features, quite literally, with the pink blush that crept over every inch of visible skin. He swallowed hard, raising the handkerchief up in the air.
“I don’t understand . . .”
“It’s nothing,” she said, her face now bordering on crimson. “Simply something to pass the time—”
“As I recall, needlework was not your preferred method of passing time,” he pressed.
She still couldn’t meet his gaze. “You’re right, and it’s nothing. I should have just returned the handkerchief. And now I should be heading back home—”
He came closer, the fabric clutched tightly in his fingers. She stood her ground but he observed her own fingers tighten over the polished mahogany trim of the settee.
“No. This is something, Caroline,” he said quietly. “I want you to tell me what it is.”
“Please, don’t call me that.”
It was more of a plea than a demand, but he was unwilling to let her off the hook quite yet. He shook his head. “We’ve engaged in more scandalous behavior than the simple use of first names, or have you forgotten?” The way her teeth closed over her full bottom lip told him she had not.
“It’s useless to speak about any of that now,” she replied, her nostrils flaring. “I’d take it all back if I could.”
His chest tightened at her words. “Would you, really?” he asked.
“I would,” she choked. “Those moments have brought me nothing but pain. And now I will marry some withered old man with a title, tortured by memories of you . . . and wish none of it had ever happened.”
Sensing that any pressure from him would cause her to flee, he took another slow step in her direction, like a snake charmer wooing a rebellious cobra.
“For my sake, I hope that isn’t true,” he said. “Even if the rest of my days are lived out in solitude, I’ll remember our times together fondly.”
Sparks shot from her eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’d be living a life of solitude by choice. I don’t get that choice, Mr. Cartwick. It seems I owe my family a great debt for not being born a man.”
Jonathan’s mouth twisted. “Caroline—”
“Don’t . . . call me that,” she sputtered, charging forwards to jab an accusing finger at him.
Seizing her wrist, he tugged her until she fell against his chest, speechless and disarmed. She stared dazedly into his eyes, then her lashes closed as he lowered his face to within inches of hers. Her flawless lips were trembling, and now he knew he was going to kiss them before she left this room.
“My handkerchief . . . why did you keep it?” he rasped. “I need to know.”
But in his heart, he thought he already might. The notion that she truly cared for him was enough to rock him in dizzying waves.
Caroline uttered a little sigh, her eyes rolling in frustration beneath the pale satin of her lids. Staring in awe, he could see that even her eyelashes were the same rich, reddish-brown hue of her magnificent hair.
“I just—” Shaking her head, she paused to consider her words, then started again. “I suppose I thought—”
A sharp rap on the door caused those lashes to fly open in astonishment, and she turned to the sound, twisting in his arms. The movement, and the enticing friction of her body against his, pushed his already taxed resistance past its breaking point. Rather than answer the servant, he sank his fingers into her hair and brought her head back around as he lowered his own. She made a small noise when their lips met, and her familiar, sweet softness set him instantly on
fire.
Her initial shock briefly rendered her motionless, but soon his lips had teased hers open and he gladly delved inside her mouth, his body thrumming in excitement at how she submitted to him. The sugary sweetness of her kiss nearly caused him to take things further, but before he could, another knock sounded at the door. He groaned in agony before tearing himself away.
“What is it, Shaw?” he snapped, frantically willing his blood to cool. Caroline raised her fingers to her lips and stared down at the floor. The door opened to reveal the butler.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he stated with a bow, “but Lord Evanston is waiting to speak to you on the drive.”
Jonathan eyed the man in shock. “Is he?”
And not a moment too soon.
“Fine,” he relented with a sideways glance at Caroline who looked ready to hide behind the curtains. She shook her head but he held out a staying hand in reply. “We’ll be right out.”
The moment the door closed behind the butler, Caroline set to pacing, tidying her appearance with smoothing hands and crisp tugs on her dress as she strode across the carpet in a panic.
“What were you thinking? He can’t find me here . . . like this . . .”
“He must find you here,” Jonathan said, reaching out to catch at her arm when she passed. “Otherwise, you risk the duke sending out a search party to the village and beyond. Better to just deal with the viscount, don’t you think?”
Her face had gone ashen, but she nodded and wrapped her arms around herself to steady her shaking limbs. More than anything, he longed to go to her and promise that all would be well, but he couldn’t do that. There was no guarantee that it would be. Instead, he simply came closer and tucked his handkerchief between her fingers.
“Take it. It’s yours.”
Her head raised, brows furrowed in wordless inquiry.
“Consider it a gift,” he insisted on his way to the door. “And if I were you, I’d hide it before we greet Lord Evanston.”
He continued on his course to the foyer, and Caroline’s light steps quickened behind him. Glancing her way, he spotted her shoving the fabric back into her skirt pocket. There was a peculiar sense of satisfaction at the sight, which was quickly erased when he saw her change of expression. It was cool. Detached. Almost as if he’d disappeared entirely . . . or as if the incendiary moment they’d just shared in his drawing room hadn’t even occurred.