Waiting for a Rogue

by Marie Tremayne

  Frances was watching the discussion with great interest, while her mother’s frown indicated her stern disapproval.

  “He’s a brave sort, isn’t he?” Eliza whispered in awe.

  The duke approached Jonathan with predatory finesse. “Perhaps your time across the Atlantic has caused you to forget yourself. I couldn’t care less about a boundary line near a house I rarely visit, particularly if the discrepancy is in my favor. I only agreed to this meeting because you had written to me requesting it—”

  “And I am grateful for that. So if I can have no objection to whatever information the ladies may impart, surely you might be willing to allow it?”

  Caroline could hardly believe it, and indeed the entire group appeared to have stopped breathing, waiting in anticipation of whether the duke would relent . . . or kick the audacious American off his estate.

  Her father’s expression was one of pure distaste. “And if I don’t?”

  “Then we forego the meeting,” Jonathan replied with a shrug. “Although that would not be my preference.”

  Thomas let out a huff of amusement. “You know,” he whispered, “I may grow to like him after all.”

  Rather than delivering a reply, her father pivoted swiftly on his heel and marched into the house. Jonathan did not question the reaction, but simply removed his hat and gestured for both Frances and Caroline to follow, and the tremulous wave of encouragement from Eliza did very little to soothe her nerves.

  When the library door had closed behind them, the Duke of Pemberton sank down into a leather armchair with a long-suffering sigh.

  “You, Mr. Cartwick, are going to tell me what the hell is going on. And if I don’t like what you have to say, then this meeting will be brief.”

  “We will get to that, Your Grace, but first I’d like you to reconsider your decision to send back my servants.”

  The duke waved the idea away with the back of his hand. “I am perfectly capable of securing my own staff, Mr. Cartwick.” His dark brow lowered into a frown. “I’m not certain what gave you the impression there was ever such a need, but I’ve set things to rights now that I’m home.”

  Jonathan’s eyes darted over to catch her gaze, and Caroline heard Frances sigh beside her. She smoothed a remorseful hand across her back. It was only a matter of time now before the truth of her condition came out, and she gave him a silent nod of gratitude for his efforts. The muscle jumped in his jaw but he added nothing more. Her father’s mind had been made up.

  “Now,” the duke said, tapping an impatient finger upon the arm of his chair, “tell me about this debacle with the property lines.”

  Jonathan cleared his throat and leaned against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. “Actually, I think it is Lady Frances who will be able to explain this situation better than I.”

  Frances, who had sat and was busily straightening her skirts around her on the couch, glanced up. “Oh?” She smiled and folded her hands in her lap. “Please remind me of the situation.”

  “The fence line, Auntie.” Caroline lowered down beside her, looking up at Jonathan in confusion. “Do you know anything about it?”

  “Should I?” she asked.

  “Not unless you have knowledge of why it may have been changed,” Jonathan replied, his gaze shifting back to Caroline. “And I suspect the circumstances had something to do with your niece.”

  She froze. Was this another accusation?

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Cartwick, but I—”

  “Yes,” Frances interrupted, blinking up at him with newfound clarity. “It did.”

  Caroline fell back against the couch cushions, feeling sick to her stomach. Her eyes darted furiously between them. “What are you talking about?” she whispered hoarsely.

  Her father had shifted in his seat to lean forwards, elbows resting upon his knees. She was sure he’d love to have one more reason to despise her.

  “What happened?” he demanded.

  Frances resumed the attention to her skirts, her eyebrows raised in judgment. “It happened while you were away, Alexander. Which, let’s face it, you often are. Except your daughter was five instead of twenty, and she ran away to her favorite place. Windham Hill.”

  “I’m surprised at your tone,” the duke said tautly, a warning gleam in his eyes. “It is my kindness that has allowed you to live here all these years.”

  “And it is because of me that you were able to live as you wished,” she replied. “I’ve often wondered at my own role in enabling you and Eugenia to neglect your own child, but that discussion is for another day perhaps.” She reached over to take Caroline’s hand. “You broke your arm when you fell, dear—when you climbed over the fence.”

  “I . . . think I remember. But what does that have to do with . . .”

  Her voice trailed off as the pieces suddenly snapped into place. With a gasp, she straightened and covered her mouth. Jonathan watched silently from his position across the room, but his eyes were dark and full of emotion.

  “The Cartwicks . . . moved the fence?” She turned away to conceal the scorching tears that had filled her eyes, swiping them away when they spilled over anyway. “Oh, but why did you not tell me? Why did they not tell me?”

  Frances shook her head and squeezed her fingers in sympathy. “They didn’t want you to question it. I think they simply hoped you’d feel as if that place had always been yours.”

  “Fine,” the duke said, looking uncomfortable. “But why keep quiet about it until now?”

  Frances tipped a blithe smile at her brother. “I suppose nobody thought to ask me.”

  Caroline eyed her aunt with some skepticism. Frances’s recollections had grown unreliable since the start of her memory troubles, but she was still as sly as a fox. The bigger question, she supposed, was what purpose could it have served to conceal the truth?

  “Well, you weren’t entirely silent on the matter,” Jonathan corrected. “It was only after you told my mother about Caroline’s broken arm that we made sense of things.”

  “How long have you known?” Caroline asked him, suddenly needing the answer.

  His eyes held hers in their singular warm glow. “For a while.”

  Her breath hitched. Nicholas and Isabelle had loved her. She’d known it before, but this was beyond any of her feeble imaginings. They’d given her a gift she’d never been able to thank them for.

  Frances had loved her enough to keep it a secret.

  Did Jonathan love her? She hesitated to believe it.

  But the handkerchief safely hiding in her pocket—the one he’d insisted she keep—made her want to believe it was possible.

  Her father rose from his seat and placed his hands on his hips. “I have to admit, Cartwick, I’m confused. I thought this meeting was about restoring the original boundary . . . not solving old family mysteries.”

  “It started that way, Your Grace,” Jonathan admitted, staring down at the carpet. “But now I propose we leave them as they are.”

  The duke’s hands fell from his hips. Not even he knew what to say to that.

  “You do?”

  “No,” said Caroline, sitting upright in alarm. “Please, don’t.”

  Jonathan pushed away from the wall to regard her with a frown. “Why not? It’s my land.”

  She stood and crossed to the library door. She hoped to preserve her dignity if possible, and the longer this discussion went on, the more likely it was that she would lose it.

  “Because I have prevailed upon the charity of others for far too long, even unknowingly, it would seem. And I appreciate your offer, Mr. Cartwick . . . please know that I do. But—”

  “But nothing. The fence stays where it is.”

  Frances looked delighted at the turn of events while the duke had ambled to the sideboard to fetch himself a brandy. Before the argument could go any further in front of mixed company, Caroline threw the door open. She tipped her head at Jonathan.

  “Could we have a word in private?�
�

  Her father threw back his drink and tossed the tumbler back onto the sideboard. “Excuse me?”

  “The pair of them have been conversing without you for months,” Frances pointed out. “I don’t think a brief chat with a neighbor will ruin her, for goodness’ sake. Besides, it would give us a chance to discuss preparations for tonight’s dinner.”

  The duke eyed Cartwick in careful contemplation, then gave a gruff nod of permission. Caroline spun on her heel and walked briskly out of the room and down the hall, her pulse hastening at the knowledge that Jonathan was following. Taking a quick glance at her surroundings to ensure they would not be seen, she then slipped inside the music room. Caroline crossed over to the piano, turning to meet his eyes as he entered behind her and closed the door. The way his gaze drifted appreciatively over her caused her heart to beat faster, but she had been weak too often with him before; she could not allow it to happen again.

  “Why?” she asked, leaning back against the rosewood piano case. “Why did you wait to tell me?”

  Jonathan approached her dubiously. His hands were shoved into his pockets and that was good. Perhaps he was also trying not to be weak with her.

  “It needed to happen a certain way.”

  “Why?” she repeated.

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does to me,” she answered sadly. “At least it does right now. In a few hours at dinner, I’ll be meeting my future husband, and then it won’t.”

  He looked away. “I wanted your father to see the great lengths people had gone to . . . for you.”

  “Now you want to go to even greater lengths by letting me keep Windham Hill.” She said, scoffing lightly, “I cannot allow it.”

  “Consider it a gift.”

  “I will not. This—” she said, digging into her pocket to retrieve his handkerchief, “this is a gift. That is not the same thing at all—”

  “If we were married, it wouldn’t matter.”

  Silence . . . in the room. In her head . . . chaos.

  Caroline felt her lips moving, but the words were shapeless, airless. Briefly, she wondered if he had uttered the words on accident.

  Jonathan slid both hands out of his pockets and placed them on the piano on either side of her. He was suddenly so large, and so close . . . the heat of his body scorched right through her dress.

  “But, we can’t,” she breathed. “You know we can’t—”

  “I’d move that boundary back if that’s what you want,” he whispered near her ear. She squirmed as her body responded to his voice and to the desire that had thickened it. “But you’d need to be living on my side of the fence when it happens,” he added, his lips brushing against the teardrop-shaped pearl that dangled from her earlobe.

  “But why?” she asked, hating herself even as she leaned her head to the side to offer him the vulnerable skin of her neck. His lips hovered there in what she was sure was a deliberate attempt to torture her. “What have I done to—”

  “What haven’t you done?” he asked, raising a hand to gently trail it down her cheek. “You’ve fought me on almost everything.”

  His delightfully roughened fingers were sending sparks of sensation everywhere, while his words brought the reality of her actions crashing home. Yes, she had resisted him. But she’d had her reasons. Good reasons. And she couldn’t just run off and marry the man who had hurt Eliza . . . a man her father would laugh out of his house for even suggesting such a union . . .

  Could she?

  “So why suggest marriage at all?” she asked, her fingers clutching tighter at the piano case as his hand now strayed down the length of her collarbone. “If you feel that way?”

  “Because I don’t feel that way. I don’t think you do either.” He straightened, replacing his hand on the piano behind her. A light waft of his sandalwood scent caused her pulse to rocket in helpless reply, the need for more nearness with him clawing its way through her. “And I wasn’t asking you to marry me.”

  Caroline went still, and then she went cold. “You weren’t?”

  He shook his head thoughtfully, like a man who’d just discovered the solution at the end of a long and difficult mathematical equation. His gaze dipped to her lips, and he leaned in for just a moment before seeming to think better of it.

  “You almost sound disappointed, but you and I both know what would happen if I asked.”

  She blinked up at him, knowing she should end the conversation right here but unable to keep herself from taking it just a tiny bit further. Oh, how she ached to touch him . . . her body longed to feel his skin—

  “What would happen?” she breathed.

  He inched a bit closer, setting off alarm bells in her head.

  “You would say no.”

  The truth of his statement was an unwelcome reminder of how closely they were treading forbidden territory. Of course she would say no. She had no choice—not when her father had locked her into marriage with one of the three lords who would be arriving tonight, and not when accepting Jonathan would mean being disloyal to Eliza.

  “I-I suppose that’s true . . . but—”

  “You seem uncertain,” he murmured. His accent, that delightful blend of both America and England, sent a cascade of shivers all the way down to her toes. “Shall we test it?”

  She stood there, paralyzed, as Jonathan reached up to softly brush the curls away from the side of her face, then leaned down to whisper his request.

  “Will you marry me, Caroline?”

  His lips brushed against the delicate edge of her ear when he said it, and she squirmed as a warm tide of pleasure flooded through her veins. She could so easily imagine being this man’s wife. Had envisioned giving herself to him countless times already.

  And knew, after she had married another—as she must—that she would always think of him . . . always want him . . . never stop loving him.

  Cartwick pulled away to gauge her reaction, and when she finally managed to meet his eyes, a single tear had already slipped down her cheek.

  “I was wrong, then. You can’t bring yourself to say no. But you will also never be able to say yes.” He pushed away from her, but not before she saw the hollow look behind his eyes.

  “Jonathan,” she choked, her throat tightening around his name, “I can’t—”

  He took her hand and pressed a light kiss against her skin. “I know.”

  And that was the last thing he said to her before walking out of the music room and, most likely, the rest of her life.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Caroline stared dismally at the men who had arrived to court her, her stomach heavy and laden with remorse. Old men, all of them, but she’d known they would be. They were busy posturing and preening before the duke, and as she fought against the stinging tears that threatened just behind her eyes, her mother leaned close to whisper in her ear.

  “You should have worn the lovely pink gown I chose for you,” the duchess admonished quietly. “It would have brought a little more life to your face.”

  But Caroline had no interest in appearing lively for these men, and the cornflower blue dress she had chosen instead had suited her mood much better. She twisted her lips together, catching sight of Frances from across the foyer. Her aunt’s gaze swam with compassion, and Caroline glanced away quickly. Right now, she’d rather stare at a thousand annoyed relatives than a single well-intended loved one. Any softness directed at her would only make tonight’s task more difficult, and it was difficult enough already. Impossible, really. Tonight she would be expected to promise herself to one of these simpering lords, when all she wanted was to see Jonathan once more . . . to go back in time to the music room and beg him to stay. To tell him she loved him.

  The realization had come too late. For all her efforts to remain loyal to her friend, Eliza stared at her now as if she were in mourning again—except this time it was Caroline’s happiness she grieved for. Distantly . . . pointlessly . . . she wondered how Eliza might have reacte
d if Caroline had been truthful from the start. If she had confessed her feelings for Cartwick and let the cards fall where they may?

  Her struggles against loving Jonathan had been for naught, and she could see now with wretched clarity that despite his flaws or mistakes, he’d had enough perfection in him to carry them both. That life with him could have been the fulfillment of a dream, had she worried less about what everyone else would think and more about the call of her agonized heart. Jonathan Cartwick had asked her to be his, she’d had her chance, and then he’d walked out of her life for good. Now she was going to pay the price, and that price was steep.

  “My lady.”

  Baron Horne was standing before her, his bare pate gleaming in the light of the chandelier above. As she lowered into a listless curtsy, she saw a tiny drop of candle wax fall down to splatter the fabric on his sleeve.

  “My lord,” she said in greeting, suddenly fixated by the spot. At her mother’s pointed stare, she offered her hand, and was immediately repulsed by the baby-soft smoothness of his skin as he claimed it. Jonathan’s hands were large and strong, roughened by work, with long fingers that were graceful enough to either play a tune on the piano, or coax her body into finding such pleasure—

  Her heart seized at the memory of him and she twitched her head to forcefully dispel it, which startled the baron into releasing her hand. Caroline heard a cross sigh from her mother, and it only goaded her into vexation.

  “Forgive me, my lord, but you have a bit of wax on your coat.” She eyed him in faux concern, unable to help herself.

  You would have thought the man had lost a limb given his reaction. Even Caroline was surprised when he whirled around in a frenzy, and soon the footmen were off to fetch his valet in an effort to remedy the great injustice that had been committed to his formal attire. The duke shook his head in disgust, some of which was most definitely directed at her.

  “I beg your pardon, Lady Caroline,” said Viscount Bryant, hurrying closer to take advantage of Horne’s predicament to ingratiate himself to her. “I very much look forwards to getting to know you better.”