“If there is discomfort, let me know,” he cautioned.
She nuzzled his ear, nipping the lobe. “I assure you it’s fine.”
He groaned and caught her up to him, then ushered them into his rooms and locked the door.
Magnus began making plans immediately to go to London. He even seemed excited about it, which surprised Caroline. She had rarely seen him enthused about anything, yet since the news of her condition, he was like a different man. It was as if the darkness had lifted from him. Almost. The mercurial moods had evened to a steady pleasantness, but a sadness still clung to him. He would look at her sometimes, and she could almost read his thoughts.
He was wondering if he would live long enough to see his child born.
Yet he was never morose. When he lectured her about how the child was to be raised, she would roll her eyes and complain and he would catch her to him and kiss her soundly, sometimes, if they were alone, tumbling her onto the bed.
He marveled at the changes in her body, astounded he had not noticed before the darkening of her nipples to dusky pink and the plumper, tighter form of her breasts. If she bemoaned the imminent increasing of her waistline, he would admonish her, saying that when it happened-though no sign appeared yet—it would be the loveliest, most exciting thing he could ever imagine.
And so Caroline was utterly lost to him, loving him secretly as he transformed before her eyes into a man almost unrecognizable from the glowering Earl of Rutherford she had met not so long ago. When she told him so, she quipped that had it not been for his dimple, she might not know him at all. And he showed her he still had enough wickedness in him to fascinate her.
It became easy to love him. She longed to tell him, but she didn’t dare. He was ecstatic because she bore his child. She knew she must never forget that. It had nothing to do with her.
Sometimes she forgot. Those were the best times.
The worst was when James’ fees were due again and Caroline summoned the jeweler once again to the village. This time she stole the crystal candlesticks.
“Arthur, who cleans the salon?” Magnus inquired.
The majordomo’s eyebrows shifted ever so slightly upwards at the unusual question. “Maggie, sir.”
“Is she the only one?”
“Mainly. Gillie helps her, I think, when it’s time to move the furniture and wax the floor, but Mrs. Gervis trusts only Maggie, my lord.”
Magnus rubbed his hand over his mouth. “How long has Maggie been with us?”
The brows elevated a fraction higher. “Six years, my lord.”
“How old is she, about thirty, would you say?”
“Perhaps. She worked for the Dorristers before us.”
“Does she have a young man?”
The silvered eyebrows shot full up at that. “I am sure I do not know, my lord.”
Magnus was oblivious to Arthur’s shock. “Find out. Is the salon always locked when not in use? Yes, I thought so.” He blew out a long breath and frowned.
“Is there something troubling you about the salon, my lord?”
Magnus sat perfectly still for a moment. “Several things are missing, Arthur. The Waterford punch bowl, the Dresden figure, some crystal candlesticks, and now a small Chinese vase. I have been watching them slowly disappear. I think someone is stealing from me.”
“Perhaps the countess has moved them to other rooms, in order to enjoy them better if they pleased her,” Arthur suggested.
“I looked and could not find them, though I did not ask her.” He was not about to mention the nagging doubt in the back of his head, mostly because he was ashamed of this wretched jadedness. “I would rather she didn’t know.”
“Very good, sir,” Arthur said, but there was more than a hint of disapproval in the old man’s voice.
“We leave for London in three days. I want no one to go into the salon when I am gone, not even to clean.” He paced a few steps away, thinking aloud. “There are treasures all over this house, but the salon is where my mother’s gifts are kept. The room is rarely used, and these items are less likely to be missed, whereas the other items, while worth more, would be instantly noticed as having been taken. Someone is being very clever, Arthur, but I do not intend to lose another memento.”
“I shall take care of it.”
Magnus made his way to his and Caroline’s adjoining chambers. Excitement stirred in his chest just at the thought of seeing her. It was so silly, he reflected, and completely out of character. It was as if he had never lost that part of himself that could take utter joy in the company of a woman he admired. As if Natasha had never taken it away.
Caroline was with Lillian, discussing what to pack. When he entered, his wife swung toward him with a welcoming smile. “Magnus, I am so glad you’ve come. Will I be needing a ball gown, do you think, and do I still have time to have Mrs. Dungeness make one? What about the opera? Do you think we shall attend? I have nothing suitable, except the deep blue silk I wore on my first visit to Hawking Park. I am afraid my lack of skill with a needle would be apparent and I would shame you to death with its shabby workmanship.”
Magnus crooked a smile, liking her breathless excitement and the faint flush in her cheeks. “As I recall, I had no complaints about that gown.”
Her teeth caught her bottom lip, and she chewed thoughtfully. “Do you think? It will be nighttime, after all. I hate to have anything made up, it just seems so frivolous.”
“Yes, darling, you mustn’t get anything new,” he agreed. “Despite Mrs. Dungeness’s inarguable talent, we shall visit the finest London dressmakers and have them create worthy confections for your debut as the Countess of Rutherford.”
She was taken aback, but pleased. “Oh, no, Magnus, it is too—”
“I insist. Now, I will hear no more of it.”
She giggled, catching his light mood, and shrugged. “I know nothing about what is fashionable at the moment.”
“Neither do I,” he said, “but I suspect it will be easy enough to educate ourselves.”
“And enjoyable,” she said. “I suppose I will be needing larger gowns soon enough.”
“Ma’am, yer still slim as a youth,” Lillian interjected. She was the only servant Magnus had ever encountered in his home who joined in the conversation as if she were an equal. Surprisingly, he found he didn’t mind in this instance. In fact, he agreed with the maid, and said so.
“Not for long,” Caroline reminded him. “And I am looking forward to it.”
That absurd warm feeling began again. He watched his wife as she dealt with the servant, ordering which gowns would go with her and their companion accessories. After a while, she turned to him. “Don’t you have some business or something, or are you suddenly interested in women’s clothing?”
He was about to counter with a quip when he remembered Lillian’s presence. For Caroline’s sake, he suppressed it.
“Actually, I have paperwork to do. I have been feeling well enough lately to take over much of what I had previously delegated to David, and there is a lot of catching up.”
“Then go catch up,” she smiled, “because you are making me nervous.”
Again, a wonderful retort went unsaid.
Chapter Seventeen
In the two years since her father’s death, Caroline had come to hate London. Its overcrowded streets, the soot and fog and perpetual damp. The smell.
But she had never lived in Magnus’ London. The Palladian-style house in Mayfair, right on Park Lane across from fashionable Hyde Park, was gorgeous. Not far away, Constitution Arch heralded the pastoral entrance to Constitution Hill, and Buckingham Palace just beyond. Within hours of their arrival, she persuaded Magnus to have the cabriolet brought out of the carriage house for a drive down Grovesnor Street. They crossed to Berkeley Square, then back to Bond Street for a quick perusal of its exclusive shops, then back up Piccadilly toward home.
It was still London. The smell was a bit better than the east end, where she had lived on
a crowded, squalid street after the sale of the family’s modest home, and traffic was horrendous, especially on Piccadilly. But it was a clear, dry day and not a trace of haze marred the crisp views of this, the poshest section of the city.
“Where to now?” Magnus asked as they drew to a halt in front of Eddington House. “Care to have a stroll in the park?”
She would have loved it, but the truth was she was exhausted. “Tomorrow. I promise.”
He brought her into the house and right up to their chambers. Caroline would have never imagined she would love being fussed over so much, but Magnus’s attentions were sweet and comforting.
“Rest, now,” he said sternly, “and don’t argue.”
“I don’t want to sleep through dinner,” she protested.
“I’ll wake you,” he assured her. She knew he wouldn’t. Sighing, she lay back in the huge four-poster that dominated the room they were to share. No master suites in this house, or if there were, Magnus had not utilized them. They were both ensconced in the spacious room situated at the front of the house with three sets of French doors leading to a long portico overlooking the park. It was lovely, dressed in hues of blue, green and deep violet. Magnus did not call for Lillian, drawing the brocade draperies himself and standing in the shadows until she slept.
As she had suspected, he left her to awaken on her own. It was late when her eyes fluttered open and the room enshrouded with twilight. The fire still burned steady, attesting to the fact someone had tended it while she slept. It was not long until Magnus appeared, informing her that he had arranged for dinner to be served in their apartments. Caroline allowed his solicitude. The way he looked at her, she was quite content to play the coddled wife.
“Tomorrow we shall go for an early ride in the park,” he suggested when they were lounging in the chairs by the fire after the meal, “and then on to Bond Street to get you started on those gowns. There is a Madam Bouchert who is reputed to be excellent. We shall visit her first.”
“I don’t wish to tie up your whole day, Magnus. I know you have a great deal of business to attend to.”
“Actually, I postponed my appointments until next week so I would have the entirety of this week to spend with you. I have told Kenneth not to hang the knocker. Perhaps that will discourage callers until you’ve recovered from the journey.”
“Really,” she protested prissily, “I’m not a porcelain doll.”
“Oh?” His eyes danced. “You look like one. Perfectly formed, with just the right blush to your cheek and jeweled eyes.”
She laughed, for he was being dramatic to tease her. “You sound like a poet!”
He stopped then, looking at her as if she had uttered some epithet. Glancing away, he attempted a smile. “I suppose I do. My mother used to call me that. Her poet. Well, actually, it was her little poet, but a man is not fond of such descriptors as that, even in recollecting youth.” It was a poor attempt at humor, helped along by his lopsided smile.
Caroline remembered Mrs. Bronson’s telling her about Esmine’s nickname for her son. She wished she had not mentioned it.
“It’s something about myself I haven’t allowed in a long time,” he said at last. “Not since I was very young.”
He fell silent again. She wanted to know more. “What happened, Magnus? Is it something to do with your father?”
He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. His eyes stayed on the snifter of fine brandy that lay in his upturned hand. “There was a woman, a Russian countess, when I was a boy. Boy? I was almost a man. At least my body had begun to look like one, but my heart was still immature. I was infatuated with her. She was very beautiful, but she was cold. She seduced me. When I told her. I thought I loved her, she laughed at me. I pretended I didn’t mean it. I was too much of a coward to do otherwise.”
“Natasha?” Caroline asked.
Magnus froze. Caroline explained, “You called for her once in a delirium. You merely spoke her name, thinking I was she.” It wasn’t completely true, but she could spare his pride. “It made me jealous,” she confessed.
“Never be jealous of her,” he snapped. “She was a whore.” He caught himself, clamiping his jaw together. Still frowning, he continued, “I threw myself into the life of debauchery which Natasha had shown me. I felt like such a fool. I wanted to prove to myself that my hurt didn’t matter, that I was a man of the world.”
Gently, she asked, “Was that when you and your father fought?”
“We never fought. It is hard to explain how it was. My mother was indulgent. She would laugh, or sigh and ask me when I planned to grow out of such things. But it never truly troubled her. Father, on the other hand, said nothing. He was always silent in his disapproval. It was only when he was dying that he spoke of his great disgust of me.”
The timbre of his voice shifted lower, hoarser, heavy with emotion. “He had, it seemed, been waiting ever so patiently for me to change. To become the son he wanted. To become a man in truth, for he said—quite rightly—that I had never accomplished anything manly in my life. He wanted me to marry and take my duties as the future earl to heart as a sacred trust, just as he had done. Produce heirs. Give him the security of knowing the house of Eddington would not perish, thrown away on a wastrel’s depraved extravagances.”
“Oh, Magnus. How horrible for you.”
He shot a look at her. It was almost feral in its intensity. “Why?” he snapped. “It was true enough. I had never done anything of value. When he passed on, I went a little mad, I think. Decided if he thought I was a no-good profligate, why then, I’d apply myself to be the best—or worst—one in London, in all of England for that matter. When my conscience pricked me, I told myself I had time, and I pushed it away. Then I got sick. And I ran out of time.”
She rose and went to him. Kneeling beside his chair, she took one large hand in both of hers. “You are married now. And the house of Eddington will have an heir. You have done all your father wanted of you.”
“But I shall not live to see it, Cara. It’s justice, I know that, but goddamn it all to hell, it’s bloody awful.”
Reaching up to smooth a dark lock from his brow, she said, “Let us steal what we can, then. Come to bed and let me make love to you.”
His strong hands curled into her shoulders, yanking her to him with a small groan. His mouth covered hers, hungrily seeking the sweet promise of her words. Artlessly, he pulled her to her feet with him and they stumbled to the bed, never breaking the kiss.
With reverent, slow movements, she removed his clothes, touching his beautifully masculine body as it was revealed to her. He was impatient and needful as he quickly divested her of her gown, her petticoats, her lacy chemise. She slowed his pace, taking time to tantalize and arouse, teasing him until he growled with impatience and need.
He rolled onto his back, grabbing her legs so she straddled him, one knee on each side. With a firm tug on her bottom, he pulled her over his arousal. “You want to take charge, do you?” he said, guiding her hips lower. Her mouth opened, and she gasped as he sheathed himself inside her. “Then have your way.”
Her head fell back, spilling streamers of pale hair onto his lap. He reached up for her breasts, brushing his fingers against the sensitive peaks until she cried out. She moved her hips, stroking his manhood slowly, taking him into herself and withdrawing over and over again until she had spun a dizzying crescendo of pure ecstasy.
“Ah, Cara,” he muttered, “you make me forget everything.”
She gazed down at him, his heart-stopping look of desire mixed with pain making her wish she could tell him how much she loved him. It hurt not to, the ache within her heart mingling with the pleasure of her body in exquisite union. Leaning down, she claimed his mouth, slipping her tongue inside to mate with his. He moved under her, quickening the rhythm as the tension mounted to nearly unbearable heights. Wave after wave bore her aloft, lifting her toward fulfillment until she felt herself reach the brink, then spill over into wondrous
sensation.
She felt Magnus stiffen underneath her just before he thrust powerfully again and again. He gasped her name as they rode out the harsh cadence of his release.
Breathless, weak, she collapsed on him, savoring the replete laziness that followed in the wake of their pleasure. His arms came to lock around her, holding her snugly against him.
She waited until his breathing had softened and slowed before moving. Drawing up the coverlet, she tucked it around his waist. When she touched his face, his breath caught and he turned his head away. He was deeply asleep.
She curled up against his back with her arm across his chest. Pressing a kiss to his shoulder, she said quietly, “Goodnight, Magnus. I love you.”
It did make her feel better. She lay her cheek against his back and smiled.
The following days were filled with shopping and sightseeing. Caroline had lived all her life in the city, but she had never visited the Athenium, nor had she perused the masterpieces of the Royal Academy of Arts. With Magnus, she did all these things, as well as venture into the quirky delights of King’s Road, a highly entertaining shopping district of questionable respectability. With her husband as her guide, everything was exciting, for he had endless stories—some of them quite shocking—for every corner of London.
He took her to the finest milliner, the most exclusive haberdasher who showed her fabulous undergarments in an array of satins, silks and lace. The shoemaker was commissioned for seven pair of slippers to match the gowns Magnus had ordered for her, and two pair of boots. Even the grocer had a smile on his face when they left his shop, laden with all of the wondrous delicacies Magnus had selected. On the evening of their sixth day, Magnus announced he would be taking her to the opera the following night.
“If you are up to it,” he amended.
“I will be if you would cease dragging me all over the city and purchasing things for me.”
“You lazy chit,” he drawled, “I suppose I shall have to allow you one day to lounge about.”
A Rose at Midnight Page 17
