Waiting for a Rogue

by Marie Tremayne

  Ah.

  Trying not to be offended at the abrupt change in her demeanor, he descended the front stairs to square his shoulders at the rider who was waiting for him below, eyeing him critically.

  “Greetings,” called the man before swinging down from the saddle of a lithe and muscled chestnut horse. He strode forwards to shake hands after shooting a curious glance at Caroline. “I am Lord Evanston.”

  The infamous Lord Evanston, come to claim the Duke of Pemberton’s daughter from her ill-advised outing. With his sleek black locks and powerful frame, Jonathan had to admit the man possessed quite a presence. He squeezed his hand strongly in return.

  “Jonathan Cartwick.”

  The viscount released his hand, stepping back to survey him with bright blue eyes that were now alight with equal parts intrigue and realization. “I see,” he said, placing his hands on his hips. “And it seems you are already well acquainted with our Lady Caroline.” Evanston’s gaze slid over to Caroline, who stared back at him uneasily.

  “Yes, of course we are acquainted,” Jonathan replied with an annoyed jerk on his sleeve. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the current boundary dispute.”

  “I have.” The corner of Evanston’s mouth hitched up in a smile, but there was no humor behind it. “Forgive me for not being clear. My confusion stems not from the fact that you two might happen to know each other, but more that I might find her here at your estate. By herself.”

  Caroline stepped closer to the viscount. “Thomas—”

  “If you are insinuating something inappropriate about finding Lady Caroline at my home,” Jonathan said sharply, cutting her off, “then you should know I encountered her on the road. We returned here so she could warm up near the fire with some tea.”

  Evanston scoffed. “Could she not be warmed in her own drawing room just as well?”

  “Perhaps she wasn’t ready to return home quite yet,” he replied, narrowing his eyes.

  “Perhaps she is standing right here, and doesn’t wish to be spoken of as if she is not!”

  Both men paused, realizing that their introduction had been derailed, then glanced her way. Caroline stared at them and Jonathan thought there was nothing lovelier. Her lips were still slightly reddened from their kiss, chest heaving as if she’d like nothing more than to strangle them both.

  The viscount fell silent and bowed his head, but Jonathan steadily, and stubbornly, maintained eye contact. Her eyes brightened at his show of defiance, then she glanced quickly away.

  “Let’s try this again, shall we?” she said.

  “I’ve no need to prolong this debate,” Jonathan growled, pinning the viscount with a stare. “If you’ve come to collect Lady Caroline then by all means, do so. My only question would be why you came here to look for her in the first place.”

  Evanston shrugged. “It seemed like a good place to start. Better, anyway, than scouring the entire village.”

  Even Caroline seemed flummoxed by his leap of logic, but reluctant to explore it further, given the circumstances. Before any more could be said, Jonathan caught the gaze of his butler, waiting patiently at the top of the stone staircase.

  “Bring my carriage around for Lady Caroline.”

  Shaw hurried off while Caroline looked around in panic. “But, I-I can’t be seen in your carriage.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, because I . . .”

  “The alternative, you realize, is riding on horseback with Lord Evanston,” he pointed out. Jonathan had enjoyed the exhilarating, tight press of her body not an hour before on his own saddle, but the thought of watching her ride off like that with another man caused every muscle in his body to coil in unspent tension. “You can say that I saw you on the road and sent my carriage.”

  “While we’re making up stories, why don’t we just tell everyone that none of this even happened?” snorted the viscount.

  Jonathan stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Tell them whatever you like, my lord. But her reputation has very nearly been ruined by you once, however inadvertently. I will not have it happen again.”

  “Mr. Cartwick!” Caroline exclaimed. “Please—”

  But Evanston’s amusement had already vanished from his face, and he also took a step closer in challenge. “Forgive me. I’d no idea what a staunch defender of women you are.” He winced and tipped his head. “Yes, you removed a widow and her young daughter from the only home they had, but—”

  “I had every right to claim this estate, as I’ve explained to Lady Caroline many times before. Although after so much trouble, I am starting to wonder if I wouldn’t have been better off staying in America.”

  The comment had been tossed out carelessly, but it hit a mark he hadn’t even known to aim for. Pain flickered across Caroline’s face, almost as if she’d been physically attacked.

  “I see,” she said in a small voice. “Well then, I wouldn’t wish to take up any more of your time. Thank you for your assistance this afternoon. Good day.”

  She curtsied then turned away to the sound of horses rounding the drive, growing louder on his carriage’s approach. It took every bit of restraint he had to stop from going after her, but he could only watch helplessly as she accepted a hand from his coachman and disappeared into the vehicle. Jonathan sighed and massaged his temple as it departed briskly for Willowford House, then realized that the viscount was still standing beside him. Lowering his hand, he cast a weary glance in the man’s direction.

  “Shouldn’t you be leaving too?” he asked.

  Evanston gave him a baleful stare before slipping his gleaming black boot into his stirrup and swinging up onto his horse. The chestnut stomped restlessly upon the gravel.

  “Listen, Cartwick,” he said, tugging his kid gloves more tightly over his fingers. “Our differences aside, I expect we’ll be seeing you again. I also expect that you’ll refrain from ravishing the duke’s daughter in the future. In fact, I insist upon it.”

  Jonathan worked to conceal his surprise by smoothing a hand over his linen shirtfront. He cleared his throat.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Come now,” said Evanston, jerking on the reins. “I know what a woman looks like when she’s been kissed. More importantly, I know what she acts like.”

  And with a jab of his heels, the viscount left Jonathan alone on the drive, standing in slack-jawed contemplation of what else the viscount might know.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Caroline sighed and leaned against the windowpane, her eyes fluttering in nervous anticipation. This evening the guests would be arriving, and with them would be her suitors: Viscount Bryant, the Earl of Davenport and Baron Horne. And of course, Jonathan Cartwick would be present earlier in the afternoon for his long-awaited meeting with her father, although the thought of seeing him after their last uncomfortable parting was nearly too much to bear.

  Rubbing her hands over the gooseflesh that had suddenly raised across her arms, she came away from the window and stood before the looking glass. Impossible to miss was the waxen curve of her cheek and sunken hollows beneath her eyes. The past few days had taken their toll, and she’d spent most of her time trying to avoid nearly everyone in the house, save Eliza—who had not yet mentioned anything about Thomas finding her with Jonathan. She thanked God for that small favor, as she knew concealing any awkwardness over that encounter would be incredibly difficult.

  Frances was being dutifully cared for by Jonathan’s servants, and as far as Caroline knew, her behavior since the duke’s arrival had been close to normal. Grappling with the notion of her aunt’s betrayal was still difficult and, at times, overwhelming. She wanted to believe the best, but found herself fearing the worst: that Frances had acquiesced with her brother’s demands because her allegiance to him was stronger than the affection she held for her niece.

  Even so, there had still been one night . . . just one . . . when she had knocked softly at her aunt’s door and crawled into bed beside her.


  Frances had been fast asleep—both a blessing and a testament to the nurturing efforts of her caregivers. Beatrice had nodded with solemn brown eyes and slipped into the darkened corner of the room to allow her some privacy. And it was there, in the warm and blanket-cocooned softness of her aunt’s slumbering embrace, that she squeezed her eyes shut and sobbed wretchedly into the pillow.

  She’d meant to be gone in the morning. Instead, she’d awoken to cloudy gray eyes and the soft stroking of a hand upon her tangled hair.

  “He’ll be here, little Caro,” Frances had whispered. “I made sure of it.”

  But she’d spoken no more after the one curious admission, and Caroline had no clue what to make of those few nonsensical words.

  Now she stared at herself in the mirror, the sage-green dress she was wearing a lovely complement to the chestnut sheen of her hair, which had been artfully arranged into a decadent mass of braids and curls. She had not chosen the dress, and she had not instructed the maid on how to style her hair. It was safe to assume that her mother had played some part in their selection, and the salmon-colored evening gown that was hanging from the front of her armoire had also likely been chosen by her. The Duchess of Pemberton did not know her daughter well, but she knew enough to know that Caroline would do nothing to further her own marriage ambitions . . . including but not limited to, dressing to impress her suitors.

  The one man she cared about would be meeting with her father today about the property lines, but he would not be calling on her. He’d all but admitted that his time in England thus far had been a disappointment, and this just mere moments after kissing her. And after accusing her of withholding information about Windham Hill.

  Her attachment to Jonathan had not lessened, no matter what she’d told herself. And she’d told herself many things. That he was an opportunistic American who would probably sell off parts of the Cartwick estate for a tidy sum. That his kindness towards her was offset by the way Eliza had been turned out of Greystone Hall. That his attention to fence lines would far outweigh any attention he would pay to her. Little matter that she believed none of these things anymore.

  The soft knock at her door interrupted her bleak reverie, and she opened it to find Eliza waiting for her, seeming a little anxious herself.

  “You’re being summoned downstairs,” her friend said, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. “Mr. Cartwick is set to arrive at any moment.”

  “Right,” she replied anxiously. “I’ll be right down.”

  “Surely it’s a formality, but one we must observe.” Eliza cast her green eyes to the ceiling. “You can hold my hand, if you think it will help.”

  She stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind her. “Thank you, but if I haven’t wilted by now, I think I’ll be fine.”

  “I was rather hoping you’d hold my hand anyway,” Eliza admitted with a laugh. “For my sake, perhaps?”

  Caroline stopped in mid-step to regard her friend, her own cares momentarily forgotten.

  “How thoughtless of me. Are you very anxious to meet him?”

  “I’m not sure anxious is the right word, but I’m certainly something,” Eliza replied with a wan smile. “Thomas said he was rather unpleasant.”

  “Oh, no—not at all. I mean, well, yes . . . he was unpleasant to Thomas, but Thomas was interrogating him. I think he felt cornered.”

  Caroline realized she was talking about that day with Jonathan—something she’d managed to neatly avoid until now. Eliza hadn’t pried or pressed her with questions, seeming content in the fact that Caroline had been found and safely returned. But here in this hallway, her gaze was alight with newfound interest. It could be because she was trying to reassure herself before meeting the man.

  Or it could be because she suspected something.

  Eliza nodded. “You’ve found he can be reasonable?”

  “I suppose any man can be reasonable, if given half the chance,” Caroline said. Her heart started to pound and she renewed their course through the hallway. “He’s been sympathetic about Frances, anyway.”

  Her friend clasped her arm tightly and leaned closer with a smile. “So, does that mean you’ll hold my hand?”

  “You know I will.”

  When the Cartwick carriage pulled up before Willowford House minutes later, they were doing just that. Caroline couldn’t think about what Jonathan might think to see her fingers linked with Eliza’s, but figured there was a chance he’d see it as a show of unity against him. For her part, it was not. She couldn’t speak to Eliza’s intentions.

  Frances stood near her brother and his wife. Her complexion was unusually pale today, and with a start Caroline realized that Minnie and Beatrice were not in attendance. She spun in place and searched the servants gathered in vain.

  “What is it?” Eliza breathed under her voice.

  “I-I can’t find my aunt’s helpers . . . can you?”

  Eliza’s eyes widened and she also attempted to glance around without catching notice. Thomas bowed his head in surreptitious inquiry, and at his wife’s whisper, he straightened and scanned the drive, then looked over at Caroline with a small shake of his head.

  Perhaps futilely, she hoped that they’d been asked to remain inside. But still, she couldn’t help the nagging feeling that something was wrong. Cartwick’s perturbed expression as he disembarked from his carriage only cemented that notion, but the duke was oblivious to it.

  “I am pleased to meet you at last, Mr. Cartwick,” her father declared with a nod. He gestured to the duchess. “This is my wife, the Duchess of Pemberton.”

  Eugenia performed a tiny curtsy, and Jonathan obligingly took her hand, lowering into a deep bow. “Your Grace.”

  Caroline glanced at Eliza from the corner of her eye, hoping to ascertain what her friend could possibly be thinking. As usual, Jonathan looked resplendently handsome, his golden eyes gleaming in the afternoon sun. Eliza’s gaze was fixed on him and although she could surely see these things for herself, her face was as unreadable as a sphinx. Thomas scowled discreetly from beside her. There was no mystery there.

  “And I believe you already know my sister, Lady Frances—”

  Caroline watched her aunt perk up at mention of her name, and Jonathan came to a stop before Frances, his amber gaze holding hers meaningfully as he grasped her hand and bowed deeply.

  “My lady,” he said. “I hope you are well.”

  Her aunt’s hand shook slightly as she reached out to pat the side of his face.

  Nobody was quite expecting such an interaction, not even Caroline, who knew of the mutual respect between the pair. Eliza’s lips were parted in astonishment.

  “And here, of course, is Viscount Evanston,” her father continued, “with his viscountess, the former Lady Eliza Cartwick.”

  Caroline inhaled sharply through her nose and tightened her hold on Eliza’s fingers. How could her father introduce her in such a way? But Thomas was clearly used to dealing with aristocrats who often spoke with little thought for others. He slid an arm around Eliza’s shoulders as if to shield her from any other words.

  “This is my wife, Mr. Cartwick. Lady Evanston.”

  With a nod to Thomas, Jonathan came to a stop before Eliza, and he held out his hand.

  “I can’t say I ever thought the two of us would meet, my lady.”

  Eliza didn’t say anything at first, seeming nonplussed. Then slowly reached out to place her fingers inside his awaiting clasp. “No, I suppose you didn’t.”

  “I hope you’ll forgive me for any awkwardness,” he replied, bowing politely over her hand.

  “You’ll need forgiveness for a lot more than that,” muttered Thomas under his breath.

  “I’ll do my best, Mr. Cartwick,” she replied with a small smile, acting as if she hadn’t heard her husband.

  Jonathan released Eliza’s hand and his eyes flicked cautiously in Caroline’s direction. She was sure to receive the tamest version of a sanitized bow after their last meetin
g. But the duke’s words cut across the stillness of the crowd.

  “And my daughter, of course.”

  Of course. Why would she require an actual introduction? Even Jonathan frowned at the slight, and she could feel her cheeks growing warm as Eliza squeezed her hand then let go, perhaps so she could offer them to him in greeting. But all she wanted to do was escape up the stairs to disappear into the safety of her bedchamber. All she wanted was a little respect . . . to feel like she had some control . . .

  Smoothly, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, Jonathan reached down and took her hand from its stubborn place near her side. He bowed over it, and to her surprise he did not stop until he had pressed the enticing warmth of his lips upon her skin. By the time he straightened to regard her, she could feel her face flaming.

  “Lady Caroline, I am pleased to see you again.”

  She stared at him mutely, then reminded herself to speak.

  “I—Thank you.”

  His hand gripped hers for perhaps a second too long, but with a nod he released it and her father’s voice asserted itself once more.

  “Mr. Cartwick, it is a busy morning and there is much to do.” The duke squinted in the sunlight and started walking to the house. “Join me in the library and let’s get this little meeting underway.”

  “Yes of course, Your Grace,” Jonathan replied, turning to face his host. “And with your permission, I’d like it if Lady Caroline and Lady Frances could join us as well.”

  The scuff of her father’s boots as he came to a sudden stop caused Caroline to flinch.

  “I can’t see why that would be necessary,” he said. Annoyed, he motioned for the servants to file back inside.

  “And I can understand your reservations. But I believe they both have valuable insight into the situation. Insight that cannot be gleaned from the documents we have already found.”