Caroline glanced around the bedchamber. Last night, even in her rather foggy state, she’d noticed the exquisite mahogany furnishings. Yet she’d not paid the décor a great deal of attention. Neither had she this morning, when thoughts of returning home consumed her. Now she realized how lovely the room looked with its light purple counterpane and matching curtains with elaborate swags and tassels. Several paintings dotted the walls, mostly stills of floral arrangements and garden scenes with a proliferation of flowers.
Rolling onto her side, Caroline reached to turn up the wick of the bedside lamp. Her fingers bumped into a large cream-colored vase, and it toppled to the floor with a loud thump. She scrambled from the bed and examined the thick pottery.
“Thank goodness it’s not damaged,” she mumbled.
Footsteps sounded outside the door that connected this bedchamber to the private sitting room.
“Miss Armoire? Are you all right?” Lord Huntington asked.
“I’m fine.”
“May I come in?”
She placed the vase onto the table and slipped back between the sheets. “Yes.”
Chapter Five
Heart beating fast, James opened the door to the bedchamber Caroline Armoire slept in. Seeing her sitting in bed eased the tightness in his chest. “I heard a noise. I thought perhaps you’d fallen.”
“Forgive me.” She pointed to the vase on the bedside table. “I knocked it over. Thankfully, it’s not damaged.”
“Was the mishap caused by a dizzy spell?”
“I fear it was nothing more than clumsiness.”
He tried not to grin at her honesty. “Miss Armoire . . .” He was tired of addressing her by that foolish name she’d given him. She was no more Miss Armoire than he was Lord Dresser. “Won’t you tell me your real name, so I may use it and be done with this charade?”
“I did tell you my real name.”
“Perhaps your given name is Caroline, but Armoire . . . I doubt that is your true surname.”
Looking uncomfortable, she shifted in the bed. The counterpane inched lower, revealing the white cotton nightgown he’d instructed a maid to deliver. It had seemed benign enough. It wasn’t. The rounded neckline drew taut against the lush swell of her breasts.
He wandered to the window and surveyed the gardens below. “Is your family coming for you?”
“No. I informed them I shall be delayed a couple of days.”
James glanced over his shoulder. “A couple of days?” He spoke too fast, failing to temper the agitation in his voice.
She tipped her chin in the air. “This morning you all but insisted I stay.”
Indeed, but earlier he’d thought her family would converge on his residence with haste. “Did you tell them where you are?”
“Yes.”
Her voice sounded puzzled—a confirmation she didn’t know the rumors that shadowed him about his wife’s death. He peered out the window again. The setting sun highlighted a patch of yellow tulips in the garden. Perhaps the ones Georgie had watered.
Leaning his hip against the windowsill, he asked, “Do you have siblings, Miss Armoire?” He wasn’t sure why he asked. Why he wished to know.
She tipped her head to the side, obviously baffled by the shift in the conversation. Most likely baffled by the whole situation. He couldn’t blame her. The absurd scene didn’t escape him. She sat in bed wearing a nightgown, while he was in his shirtsleeves. It painted an intimate picture, yet they were all but strangers. He really should leave, but something about her drew him. Perhaps nothing more than the simple fact she didn’t judge him or hold him in contempt.
“I have no brothers or sisters,” she replied.
Even with the grief his siblings gave him, he couldn’t imagine them not being in his life. Though, he was sure at times Nina wished he wasn’t. Caring for his siblings and insuring their well-being had become his primary goal. Was Caroline alone in the world except for the aunt she’d mentioned? The thought bothered him. “Are you an orphan?”
Averting her gaze, she fiddled with the edge of her sleeve. This secretive woman didn’t wish to reveal too much.
“No, my father is alive, but my mother suffered with poor health for most of her life. She died nearly two years ago.” Melancholy filled her voice.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. Before her death, she and I spent a great deal of time in Harrogate, hoping the spring water might heal her.” She took a deep breath.
Maybe her absence from London during her mother’s illness explained why she didn’t know about his past.
“What of your parents, my lord? Is your mother . . . ?” Her voice faded as if she couldn’t force herself to complete her sentence.
“She died eight years ago after my youngest brother, George, was born. My father only months after.”
“How tragic. It’s difficult to lose someone. It’s like you’re missing a piece of you that can never be replaced.”
“It is,” he agreed. This young woman understood the bleakness one felt over losing someone. His thoughts shifted to his wife and the unborn child she’d been carrying when she died. His chest grew tight.
“You have an eight-year-old brother, my lord?” she asked, pulling him from his memories.
“Yes, amazing, is it not? Sometimes he seems more like my son.” Had he ever admitted that out loud before? Ever told Henrietta how he felt about Georgie? Doubtful. He and his wife had never sought familiarity in conversation. And surely it was a mistake to want to attain it with this young woman who made him feel comfortable, but also distracted him beyond reason.
“You must be famished. I’ll have a dinner tray sent up.” He pushed away from the window and strode back into his own bedchamber, anxious to get away from his houseguest and her stunning green eyes.
* * *
The following day, it rained nearly all morning, but by the afternoon the sun had made an appearance. So far today, Caroline hadn’t seen anyone except the doctor and the servants who’d lighted the grate and brought her breakfast and luncheon.
Thankfully, her headache was only a shadow of itself. Though Dr. Clark suggested she rest a few more days, she intended to return home tomorrow. She slipped from the warmth of the bed and padded to the window. A terraced garden stretched out beyond the rear of the country home. A young boy was laughing at a small dog who futilely tried to catch his tail.
Most likely his lordship’s young brother, George. She smiled at the antics until the boy and the dog moved down one of the terraces and out of view.
Restless, she peered at the door Nina said led to a sitting room. Perhaps there were books in there or paper and pen that would allow her to jot down a few ideas for her upcoming article about the marriage mart.
She slipped on the white robe that matched the nightgown she’d been given and inched the door open. Through the crack, she peered inside. The sitting room held none of the femininity of the bedchamber she rested in. It was a stark contrast, purely male, with wood wainscoting. A large desk and a tufted leather chair stood before double, mullioned windows. The paintings dotting the walls were landscapes, done in the style of the old masters. Wine-colored velvet curtains framed the bank of windows. She tiptoed across the thick cranberry and navy patterned rug to several floor-to-ceiling bookcases.
“Is there something I can help you with?” a familiar, deep voice asked.
She spun around.
Lord Huntington sat in a corner chair. A tall brass floor lamp with a beaded shade cast light on him, highlighting his white shirt and gray trousers.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was in here.” Caroline pulled the sash of her robe tighter.
His lordship unfolded his large frame from the chair and walked to the bookcase. “Are you looking for something to read?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind. My headache has eased, and I find myself restless.” She glanced at the book in his hand, curious as to what type of novels he fancied.
As if notici
ng her regard, he lifted it. “I’m enjoying Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Have you read it?”
The question startled her. Most men seemed to think she only perused fashion magazines. “I have.”
“What did you think of it?”
Even more startling that he asked her opinion. “Once I started reading it, I couldn’t put it down.”
“Fascinating story, isn’t it?”
And thus began a rousing conversation about the novel.
What seemed only minutes later, a tall case clock in the room chimed the time. Caroline peered at it, startled to find they’d been talking for nearly an hour. She smiled. “Time slipped away from us.”
“Engaging conversations can do that.” The corners of his lips turned up, once again, easing the hard angles of his face, making him look younger.
“They can.” She lifted a copy of Around the World in Eighty Days from the bookshelf. “Our conversation has put me in the mood to rediscover another of Jules Verne’s books. Thank you, my lord.” She meant her thanks not only for the book, but for the conversation and for treating her as if she possessed a brain.
He nodded, and his gaze dipped to her mouth.
Was he going to kiss her? Her stomach fluttered with an unfamiliar anticipation.
He cleared his throat. “I hope you enjoy the book.”
“Thank you.” Stomach still doing little flips, she strode to her bedchamber. She could almost feel the heat of Lord Huntington’s gaze on her back. A frisson trailed over her spine, but it wasn’t fear.
Several hours later, as Caroline flipped a page in the novel, footsteps in the corridor drew her attention. Was Lord Huntington returning from dinner? A few minutes ago, a servant had collected Caroline’s dinner tray.
She set the book beside her on the counterpane and glanced at the doorway that connected this bedchamber to the private sitting room. Her mind returned to their discussion on Jules Verne’s book. Did his lordship realize the connection between Captain Nemo’s name and Homer’s poem the Odyssey?
Wanting to ask him, she slipped from the bed, removed her black dress from where a maid had hung it in the armoire, and put it on. She routed through the armoire for her shoes, but could not locate them. If she took small steps, his lordship wouldn’t realize she was barefoot. She smoothed a hand over the gown’s fabric and opened the connecting door.
A movement through an open doorway on the opposite wall caught her attention. Lord Huntington, dressed in shirtsleeves, stepped in front of a chest of drawers.
The side of his body faced her. He slipped the braces connected to his dark trousers off his shoulders. With quick movements, he unbuttoned his white shirt and pulled the fabric over his head.
Lamplight kissed his bare skin, emphasizing the delineation of muscle.
Close the door, her conscience urged, yet her feet seemed rooted to the floor as if vines grew up through the carpeting to secure her to where she stood.
He turned slightly, exposing the breadth and sculpted surface of his chest. She swallowed. Good Lord, he was lovelier than any painting she’d ever seen exhibited at Burlington House or any of the private galleries near the Royal Academy. Warmth spread in her belly, flowed outward, heating her skin.
His arms flexed as he tossed the shirt onto a chair and turned. His back looked just as tantalizing, the way it tapered from broad shoulders to his waist. His hands moved as if unhitching his trousers. The material at his hips slipped an inch lower, then he walked out of view.
Nerve endings tingling, Caroline quietly eased the door closed.
* * *
Moonlight filtered through the sheer under-drapes, casting the room in a blue-gray hue. Caroline stopped pacing as the mantel clock chimed eleven times.
Why couldn’t she sleep?
Oh, she knew why. Ever since she’d watched Lord Huntington disrobe, fidgety energy coursed through her. Thoughts of his scent, his skin, and his mouth caused a low hum deep within her.
Desire? Yes. And the way he’d stared at her mouth earlier proved he desired her as well. She’d seen lust in men’s gazes before, but she’d never experienced a reciprocal jolt of it.
With a sigh, she moved to the window and swept the Nottingham-lace panels aside. Her gaze jerked to a tall figure moving through one of the lower garden paths.
Lord Huntington.
She wanted to chat with him again. She touched her lips. Was that all she wanted?
Mama had once wistfully talked about her first kiss, saying, You will never forget it, especially if you hold the gentleman in high regard. Caroline doubted her mother had meant Papa, since she wasn’t sure Mama had ever held her overbearing husband in high regard.
What would it be like to be kissed by Lord Huntington? Would it really be so wicked to give in to her desires? To grasp a memory? A single, perhaps unforgettable, kiss with a man who treated her as though she possessed a brain?
Surely, the young bucks who partook in the season had experienced life more fully than the debutantes. Society allowed men to broaden their knowledge in this realm. A ritual of manhood that did not taint them but made them virile in their counterparts’ eyes. Another injustice. Men became worldly. Women were labeled soiled or fast.
His lordship’s sister said he didn’t partake in the social season. Therefore, there was little chance they’d meet again.
Without further thought, she glanced about the room for her missing half-boots. Still nowhere to be found, but if she didn’t hurry she might never have the chance to kiss someone she felt attracted to—a gentleman who treated her like an intelligent person. So unlike the man her father would wish her to marry.
She dashed to the door and opened it. Poking her head out, she surveyed the long, dark hall. With no one in sight, she quietly moved down the passage and spiraling stairway.
A center corridor ran from the entry hall toward the rear of the house. On her tiptoes, she made her way through the quiet residence. An archway led into a room with French doors overlooking the terrace. With her stomach fluttering, she stepped out into the cool spring air.
Mist hovered above the flags, causing a thin sheen of dew on their smooth gray surface. The cold stones prickled the warm soles of her feet. Undeterred, she lifted her hem and glided down an outbound path, bordered by a row of low boxwood.
As she moved away from the house, shadows darkened the gardens, and the scent of flowers and freshly turned soil, heavy with moisture, filled her nose. Ahead, glowing under the crescent-shaped moon, stood a marble statue of a nymph with a crown of roses circling her long, flowing hair.
If the chiseled stone could speak, would the deity whisper the word foolish and advise her to turn back? Shaking the doubt from her mind, Caroline skirted past the figure to a balustrade. Hands braced on the cool rail, she scanned the lower gardens. A shadow shifted, drawing her eyes to the tall form slipping behind a row of evergreens. She took the granite treads to the next terrace and walked deeper into the garden where yews stood guard like rows of militant soldiers.
The aroma of tobacco flavored the slight breeze. Not as pungent as Father’s pipe tobacco, but subtler, like the cigarettes men favored with their evening port.
Strange, she didn’t recall the scent of tobacco lingering on Lord Huntington. Perhaps he only enjoyed a cigarette before he retired. Beyond a group of towering conifers, wisps of smoke drifted upward to contrast with the dark night. She snagged her lower lip between her teeth.
For a long, uncertain moment, she stared at the plumes floating up until they dissolved in the sky. She glanced over her shoulder at the grand house behind her. Several windows revealed the lighted rooms within. They glowed like eyes that watched her. Judged her. A fanciful thought, prompted by guilt over the kiss she contemplated. She shoved the unwanted emotion into the deep recesses of her mind as the rebellious side of her prompted her forward. Society wouldn’t dictate her actions.
Life was a compilation of experiences. Some good, some bad, and some, she suppos
ed, a bit scandalous, if one were so inclined. With new determination, she moved toward the evergreens. She released her skirts and stepped around the trees.
Chapter Six
“My lor—” Caroline’s voice seized in her throat.
The gentleman who stood behind the conifers, sending circles of cigarette smoke floating into the dark night, was not Lord Huntington.
Similarities abounded. They both possessed a tall stature, dark hair, brown eyes, and a strong jaw, but this man was leaner, not as broad shouldered. And when he grinned—as he was doing now that he noticed her—one could clearly discern he was less reserved and younger than his lordship.
A brother?
Most likely.
He dropped his cigarette and ground it under his shoe, then took one measured step toward her. “Goodness, when you emerged, for a moment I thought you were that goddess statue come to life. But you’re real, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m—”
“Lovelier than anything I’ve ever set eyes upon,” he interjected, stepping closer.
This young buck was a rogue of the highest order, one of those rascals who played havoc with a woman’s heart, then left it bleeding. She knew his type; they filled London’s drawing rooms at every social function. Most were well-to-do and bored, so they compensated by flirting and womanizing, and they spent their purses on good wine, gambling, and their tailor’s bills. Even in the dim light, she could see the costly patterned damask of his blue waistcoat, the superfine texture of his charcoal-colored wool coat, and the shimmer of his gray silk neckcloth.
She glanced at the hem of her skirt. Thank God, the mist hid her bare feet. He’d think she’d come down here for a dalliance—which she had, but not with him.
She took a step back.
“You are Miss Armoire, yes? Might I introduce myself?”
“Seeing as you have me at a disadvantage, I wish you would.”
Grinning prodigiously, he bowed. “Lord Anthony at your service. I would be honored if you’d drop the formality and call me Anthony.”
Never Kiss a Notorious Marquess Page 4
