Would Huntington be present? The knot in her stomach tightened. If he was, she’d give him the cut.
Chapter Twelve
Lady Randall’s gathering was a terrible crush. James ignored the whispers and blatant stares as he strode into the ballroom. He peered around, looking for the evening’s hostess. He spotted Leticia, holding court with a group of men.
Her gaze shifted toward him.
How could he have forgotten her face? Though several years older than he, she’d always looked younger. She was lovely, with unblemished skin, corn-silk hair, and a body lush in all the right places. Though not tall, from a distance, she gave the illusion of height.
Leticia walked toward him. “Ah, James. I did not know you’d be attending.”
“Am I de trop?”
Her blue eyes smiled, and she surreptitiously slipped her gloved finger under his cuff to touch his bare skin, reminding him of the intimacy they’d shared many years ago after her husband’s death up until his betrothal to Henrietta.
“Never. You know that. And unlike everyone here, I know you too well to entertain the rubbish that is whispered.”
Her words—her trust alone, should have halted his gaze from roaming the room. Yet, as they moved through the crowd, he searched for Caroline.
“I should be angry with you,” Leticia said. “Rumor has it you were at the theater, yet this is the first I see you.”
“I only arrived in Town a few days ago.”
“Still, since we are such dear friends and both widowed. . .”
He knew what she wished, yet he surveyed the crowded room, searching for Caroline. He motioned to the throng. “It appears everyone in Mayfair is in attendance.”
She peered up at him through the sweep of her lowered lashes. “Yes, a terrible crush, but tonight I’m hoping only one guest will remain.”
He smiled but said nothing as he set his hand on the small of her back and began walking toward the card room. Like at the theater, the hum of voices escalated as he moved through the assemblage.
Leticia grinned.
She loved the attention his presence drew. Tomorrow the drawing rooms of London would be abuzz with gossip about whether they had renewed their liaison. Some would call Leticia a reckless fool, but she wouldn’t care. She enjoyed notoriety as much as he disdained it.
“Lord Adler told me Caruthers would be in attendance. Has he arrived yet?” James’s steps slowed when a woman garbed in a deep blue silk caught his attention. Caroline’s back was to him, exposing her long tresses that hung in curls. She stood next to the cousins who’d accompanied her to the theater.
The one Caroline had addressed as Anne noticed him, and her mouth gaped.
Feeling mischievous, he winked at her.
Anne’s face flooded with color.
Caroline glanced over her shoulder. Their gazes locked for several heartbeats, then she turned away, but not before her cheeks flushed a rosy shade of pink that matched her lovely lips.
“Do you know Miss Lawrence?” Leticia asked, her gaze volleying between him and Caroline.
Intimately. The sight of her aroused body remained imprinted on his mind. Yet, they’d never been formally introduced.
“I saw her at the theater yesterday. Her father’s box is next to mine.”
“Don’t let her beauty distract you. She’s shown little interest in gaining an attachment. A bluestocking, to her poor father’s regret. They call her the Ice Princess. Do you wish for an introduction?”
The Ice Princess? How laughable. It might be interesting to note Caroline’s visage when Leticia introduced him. “No, dear. I’m here to play cards. Not woo a reluctant bluestocking.”
Leticia smiled, but he caught the scowl she cast at the younger woman.
After several hours of playing cards, James lifted his glass of brandy and let the fine cognac coat his palate as he surveyed his winnings, pitiful as they were. His mind had not remained completely on the game. Like at the theater, his thoughts veered to the young Miss Lawrence.
Was she still in attendance?
Julian Caruthers raised his hand and beckoned to someone entering the room. Sir Harry headed toward the table.
Raking up his winnings, James stood. “Here, take my seat.”
“Are you sure . . .” Harry’s voice trailed off as his gaze connected with James’s. “Huntington? I’ll be, haven’t seen you since . . .” The man’s face reddened, and he coughed. “How have you been?”
“Well, and yourself?”
“Not bad. Not bad at all.”
“Good.” James nodded to the other players at the table. “A pleasure, gentlemen.”
Caruthers smiled. “Then we’ll see you again before you venture back to the country?”
“Yes, count on it.”
James stepped into the ballroom, where stark black evening coats contrasted with the women’s brightly clad bodies as they swirled about the dance floor to a waltz. A young swell twirled Caroline about. Her face flinched as the lad stepped on her toes. Recovering quickly, she smiled as the man led her through a less than graceful turn.
The music ended, and the gauche buck escorted her back to her cousins. Lord Hamby approached Caroline. James’s body tensed. The old lord was a wretch, a man with a penchant for debauchery. Caroline motioned to the hem of her dress. Had the lad torn it or was it a ruse to avoid Hamby?
Hamby’s full face flushed slightly, but he bowed and walked away.
Smart girl.
Caroline spoke briefly with her cousins before turning to make her way through the crowd. Was she going to the retiring room to have her gown mended? She moved to the perimeter of the ballroom—to the French doors left open to help cool the overheated space—and slipped outside.
Was she meeting someone in the garden? Bluestocking his arse. The girl seemed intent on ruining herself. Reginald Lawrence was a fool to let his daughter anywhere near a garden. Before James could think better of it, he found himself following her. He’d nearly reached the edge of the ballroom when someone in the tight space bumped into him.
“Huntington, by Jove, is that you?”
How many deuced times had he heard that tonight? Too many. He turned around. Lord Alastair McGinnis, sporting a red nose, grinned.
“How are you, McGinnis?”
The man swayed. Obviously, he’d downed an exorbitant amount of Leticia’s liquor. “Damn good,” he replied in an overloud voice, garnishing stares for his vulgarity.
“Where’s that lovely wife of yours?” McGinnis asked.
Several people standing near them gasped. James drew in a deep breath. With a firm hand on the man’s arm, he led the sot to a chair. “You better have a seat, old fellow. You’ve drunk a bit too much.”
McGinnis looked ready to argue the point, but then his expression cleared as if attaining a long ago memory. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “So sorry, Huntington. I f-forgot about the missis. Tragic accident. Tragic accident, indeed.”
Yes, it was. James gave the man a stiff nod, then slipped out the doors. The cool night air felt like a benediction upon his skin; if only it could reach his soul. Shaking himself free of his thoughts, he tugged on his cuffs as he scanned the gardens. He knew them like the back of his hand. On more than one occasion, before his marriage, Leticia and he had met here during parties. He took the steps down to the lower terrace. There was a bench surrounded by yews in the right corner, a secluded spot perfect for assignations. He nodded at several people who walked the main path lit by lanterns.
A couple passed him.
The woman sucked in an audible breath. “Gerald, wasn’t that—?”
“Shh, I believe so,” her companion replied.
James stepped off the path and made his way toward the garden alcove. The scent of pine filled his nose as he stepped deeper into a patch of evergreens. Ahead of him someone moved; branches swished against a man’s dark attire as the gent ducked into the secluded area.
A woman released a s
oft sigh of pleasure.
The muscles in James’s back tightened. He moved forward and halted as he noted the woman’s pink gown visible through the evergreens. Unless Caroline was a quick-change artist, it wasn’t her.
Pebbles crunched under his shoes as he stepped back onto the main path. He should return to the ballroom. Caroline Lawrence wasn’t his concern. If the girl was set on folly, who was he to stop her? He walked toward the upper terrace, set his foot on the first step and peered over his shoulder.
Hell and fire. Why did he feel the need to protect her? He spun around, headed to the opposite corner of the garden, which contained another bench. Though remote, it lacked privacy, since a rear window of the carriage house overlooked it. It was a favorite spot for those who enjoyed having their amorous pursuits watched by the stableboys and coachman.
He ducked under an arbor, passed a fountain, and shifted around several tall short-needled pines. He stopped dead in his tracks. Caroline sat alone on the bench, a small book in her hands, which she held angled toward a lamp that hung from the wall of the carriage house.
Reading? He nearly laughed aloud.
Perhaps he did, for she glanced up and sprang to her feet. “You!”
He strode closer.
Caroline edged around the wrought iron bench, placing it between them.
Was she now frightened of him? Of course. She’d obviously listened to the gossips who branded him a murderer and believed them.
He should return to the house, yet... “I saw you leave.”
“And you followed me?” An accusatory tone heightened her voice. She slipped her book into a side pocket hidden in the seam of her blue gown.
“I wished to hinder whatever folly I found you engaged in.”
She squared her shoulders. “I’m not engaging in reckless conduct, my lord.”
“I see that, but the assumption is not so farfetched, considering the last time we were in a garden.”
Red flushed her already pink cheeks.
“You should return to the ballroom, Caroline.”
“I already have a domineering father, my lord. I don’t need another man telling me what I should and shouldn’t do.” She tipped her little chin in the air.
He strolled up to the bench “You should be concerned about your reputation.”
“The ballroom is stifling. I needed a breath of fresh air.”
He walked around the bench. The scent of roses drifted off her skin, adding to the fragrances in the garden.
She took a step back.
Did she think him capable of hurting her? The thought would have been laughable, if not for the concerned look in her eyes.
“You have me all figured out, don’t you, Miss Lawrence? I’ve ventured out here to what . . . harm you? Perhaps commit murder? Do you think the three steps to the upper terrace are of a sufficient height to do you in? Rumor has it stairs are my weapon of choice.”
* * *
Lord Huntington turned, started to walk away, then wheeled around. “You’re an intelligent person, Caroline. Do you always believe every tale you hear?”
She didn’t. So why had she, with regard to him? She averted her gaze and stared into the shadows of the garden. “No.”
“I might not care what is said about me, but by God, I do not want to see my siblings tainted by these malicious lies. Yet, I return to Town to find that even you, a woman of sound intelligence, will continue to perpetuate and believe these falsehoods.”
He strode away, but not before Caroline had seen the near palpable expression of disgust on his face. She deserved it. She abhorred gossip, yet she’d taken Anne’s words as a decree.
She spoke to his retreating back, “My lord, perhaps I was hasty. Tell me why I shouldn’t believe what’s said.”
He continued walking.
She moved out from behind the bench and took a step after him. “Please.”
He stopped, and she heard the exhale of a heavy breath. When he turned and strode back, she realized he looked tired. It couldn’t be easy for him, the way everyone gawked and whispered.
“Because I swear on the lives of those I hold dearest that I didn’t harm my wife. And if you have gleaned any knowledge about me, you know I hold my family close to my heart, especially my brother George.”
She knew what he meant. He’d confessed that George was like his own child. The sorrowful look in his lordship’s eyes made her heart ache. What would it be like to have so many think you capable of such a heinous act, if innocent? Perhaps she shouldn’t believe him. Perhaps she was letting her emotions cloud common sense, but . . . “I’m sorry about my rush to judgment. And . . . and I’m sorry about your wife’s accident.”
“Thank you. Whether you believe me or not, so am I.”
“Might we start this conversation over?” she asked.
Silence settled over them. He raked a hand through his dark hair. “You really should return to the ballroom.”
“My feet would disagree.”
“Your feet? Ah, yes. I saw your last partner trounce all over them.”
“Mr. Reed has just learned to waltz, and his mother thought I should martyr myself for the cause of improving his skill. My toes are only bruised, but my dress . . .” She lifted her torn hem. “It didn’t fare as well. All the same, Mr. Reed is a most pleasant young gentleman.”
The corners of his lips turned upward. His lordship didn’t smile often, but when he did, it transformed his face.
She returned his smile. “You find humor in the bruising of my toes?”
“No, I find humor in the fact that you talk about the young man as if you’re so much older than he. Yet, I think you’re close in age. Might I ask how old you are, Caroline?”
“I will be twenty-one in November.”
His grin broadened. “Ah, twenty. A mere babe.”
She drew her shoulders back. “Twenty and a half.”
He laughed outright. “And a half. I beg your pardon.”
“And how old are you?”
“Ancient, if you think twenty and a half so old.”
“Come now, you must be fair, my lord, and tell me.”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Really?”
He flinched. “Do I look older?”
“In truth, when you smile, you look younger.” She glanced toward the house. The music had stopped. “I must return. Will you walk with me?”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t think it wise. You go ahead. I’ll wait here a bit.”
She nodded. “Very well.”
As she walked by him, his hand touched her arm, and he pressed a finger to his lips, motioning her to be silent. “Someone is heading this way.”
Voices carried in the slight breeze. A woman giggled.
“You’ll be ruined if found in this corner of the garden with me. Come.” Huntington entwined his fingers with hers and pulled her behind a vine-covered trellis that stood about two feet off the wall of the stable. His lordship’s large frame took up most of the narrow space, while the clinging vine all but obliterated the light from the lantern.
Nibbling her lower lip, she squinted up at the man whose hard body stood tight against hers. Heat flooded her face. She tried to step back.
“Don’t move,” he whispered in her ear. His warm breath sent a frisson down her spine. He wrapped his arms around her as if to ward off the cooling night air.
A man with a familiar deep voice approached.
Edward? After what he’d learned about her returning from the country unattended, if her hot-headed cousin spotted her with Huntington, he’d react with his fist first, and ask questions after.
Lord Huntington’s visage conveyed he recognized the speaker as well.
Caroline peered around Huntington’s shoulder. Edward and a woman came into view and stopped only a few feet before the trellis. Her cousin’s broad back faced them. Caroline couldn’t see the woman’s countenance, but her blond hair shone under the moonlight.
Edward lo
wered his head and kissed the woman, and she purred like a contented feline.
“Are you out here, Edward?” another female in the distance called out.
“Who is that?” the blond hissed.
If the woman thought Edward would be faithful, she was a ninny. The man was a rakehell.
Edward shrugged his large shoulders. “Come, let’s slip out the back gate.” He took his companion’s hand and tugged her to the path.
A moment later, metal hinges squeaked.
Caroline let out a gust of air and peered up at Lord Huntington. His face, angled downward, was cast completely in shadow. He leaned close. His brandy-scented breath coasted against her lips. Her heart thundered in her chest.
He was right. Visiting the garden alone was reckless. Visiting it with him was madness. She closed her eyes and waited for his kiss.
Chapter Thirteen
As James lowered his mouth to Caroline’s, a warning twisted itself around his mind, yet he seemed unable to stop himself. His lips touched hers. Awareness shot through his body, igniting a warmth that tightened his gut.
As though Caroline experienced the same heat, the same gravitational pull, she shifted closer. Her gloved hands twined around his neck. Her pliant mouth molded to his.
He nipped at her lower lip.
Caroline moaned and opened her mouth—the invitation explicit. He’d taught her to kiss this way, and though he’d sensed her hesitancy, he’d known a fire burned within her.
Framing her delicate face with his hands, he explored the welcoming recess, tangled his tongue with hers, and drew her soft breaths into his lungs. Desire that only the touch of her skin would satisfy clawed at him. Almost feverishly, his hands lowered, skimmed over her body and down the swell of her hips. His greedy fingers fisted into the silk fabric of her skirts to drag the material upward—a reckless, foolish act, considering who she was and where they stood.
Luckily, the vine clinging to the trellis hid them from any curious servants peering through the rear window of the carriage house, but still this was imprudent. Pure and simple. A short distance away stood a house full of people, some with a penchant for gossip, others high sticklers for morality. If found here, she’d be ruined, and he’d be . . . leg shackled.
Never Kiss a Notorious Marquess Page 10
