A Season for Love

by Blair Bancroft

  Caroline cringed. Lady Eugenia . . . and the man she called Tony. If the careless ease with which they addressed each other were any indication, they were closely related, perhaps even brother and sister. Caroline’s fingers clutched the soft blue velvet; a tear fell onto the appliquéd white satin rose beneath her cheek. Those few moments before the arrival of Lady Eugenia had been the most delicious of her life. Imagine, a girl from Little Stoughton having a conversation with a perfect stranger. And that stranger a member of the ton, instantly recognizable by the style and elegance of his clothing. By that certain je-ne-sais-quoi that set him apart from any man she had previously known. And made her devastatingly aware that in his eyes she was no more than a country miss.

  Tony. A lovely name. Which would, of course, never pass her lips. They were destined to remain strangers forever.

  Yet he had looked so fine in his understated black tailcoat and pantaloons, which fit like a second skin, and a white nubbed silk waistcoat embroidered in white, each button winking with a central diamond. His cravat . . . Lady Caroline sighed. Neil Lissett, the squire’s son back home in Little Stoughton, would give his favorite hound for the secret of how Tony’s cravat was tied. In spite of a valiant effort to remember that she did not approve of the ton, that their careless ways had ruined her mother’s life, Caroline had been thoroughly charmed.

  Undoubtedly in the same fashion he charmed every other woman he met!

  And he was connected to that woman.

  Abruptly, Caroline sat up, pulled her knees up under her chin, glaring at the fog-shrouded windows above the drive. Lady Eugenia was not at all what she had expected. Not that she had had a clear picture in her head, yet . . . Her mother had been a belle of the ton. Even at her death it had been possible to see she had once been a ravishing beauty. Therefore, Caroline had anticipated that her father’s betrothed would be a veritable princess, tall and stately, or possibly the opposite, a pocket Venus like her mother, delicate and infinitely appealing to a gentleman’s desire to protect. Caroline had not expected a woman who was tall and sturdy, a dark-haired Boadicea who looked capable of standing at the top of the duke’s staircase, managing his multiple homes, bearing an infinite number of children, perhaps while taking an occasional holiday to ride at the head of an invading army.

  Not her father’s sort of woman at all.

  But, then, her mother had been exactly the Duke of Longville’s sort of woman, and look at the disaster they had made of their marriage.

  It was fortunate, Caroline decided, that she had convinced herself she did not want a Season, for in less than twelve hours in London she had ruined any hope she might have had of finding a niche in London society. Then again, after she met with her father in the morning, it was likely there would be no marriage. No Lady Eugenia, no Tony, no future. Now that she had made such a mull of it, Caroline was forced to admit she had harbored, deep down, a faint hope that a new, quite wonderful life awaited her in London.

  Another tear splashed onto the blue velvet coverlet.

  “Papa.” Caroline curtsied to the Duke of Longville, who was standing before the fireplace in the bookroom, the very same fireplace that had crackled so merrily during her highly irregular conversation with a perfect stranger. An anxious glance at her father’s face could find no indication that the duke had heard of last night’s indiscretion. On a wave of relief, Caroline sank into the same black leather wingchair she had occupied the night before.

  “You have broken your fast?” the duke inquired politely.

  “Yes, papa. I breakfasted in my room.” A cowardly maneuver, but as the dreaded moment approached, Caroline’s gift for polite conversation had deserted her. Hiding had seemed the lesser of two evils.

  Her father seated himself in the chair across from her. The comparison with her companion of the night before was inevitable. Oddly enough, the younger man was not the easy winner. The Duke of Longville, at only two and forty, was still a stunningly attractive man, his wealth and power adding an additional confidence to the set of his shoulders, an unconsciously arrogant tilt of his head. It would be a number of years, if ever, before even the insouciant panache of the man called Tony could compete with Marcus Carlington, Duke of Longville.

  How odd, Caroline thought, as her father clutched the arms of the chair, shifted uneasily on the soft leather upholstery. Almost . . . almost she could suspect he was as disquieted as herself. As unsure of what to say and how to say it. How did one talk, father to daughter, after eight years of nothing more than a letter at Christmas, duly channeled through her parents’ respective solicitors? Years when the duke had not known where his wife and child had gone, a secrecy insisted upon by Amy, Duchess of Longville, and reluctantly agreed to by her husband.

  “Caroline,” the duke declared, a spark flickering in the depths of his amber eyes, “how is it you have arrived on my doorstep accompanied by a young person who looks and speaks not more than a cut above a tavern wench?”

  Ah! Mama had warned her of this gentleman’s ploy. In a spurious effort to avoid an emotional issue, the duke was attacking on a minor and totally irrelevant front. “Nell Brindley reminds you of a tavern wench,” Caroline responded briskly, “because that is exactly what she is. Her parents own the one and only tavern in Little Stoughton, and Nell was the only female in town brave enough to accompany me to London.”

  And what of Miss Tompkins?” the duke inquired most awfully. “Surely I still pay her salary?”

  Not yet, oh, please, not yet. She wasn’t ready. Caroline clenched her teeth, fighting panic. “Miss Tompkins was unwell, papa,” she lied. “It would have been cruel to ask her to make the journey.”

  The duke nodded, evidently accepting her explanation. “Little Stoughton,” he murmured. “Is that not in the Lake District?”

  “Near Windermere, papa. A very fine place. Believe me, we have not been deprived.” Another nod, then the duke fell into a scowl. Obviously, he was not comfortable with his thoughts.

  “Caroline,” he announced stiffly, “I did not invite you to the wedding because I thought you would not come. And, to be frank, your grandmother, the Dowager Duchess, felt it would be painful for you.” Not to mention painful for his prospective bride who was well aware that her step-daughter could not possibly like her. “I am abjectly sorry if you feel I have slighted you,” the duke rushed on. “You did receive my invitation to live with us, to make your come-out in society as a girl your age should?”

  Her father’s fears were so far from the problem at hand that Caroline had difficulty making sense of his words. “Ah . . . yes, papa. Most generous,” she murmured, “but I am quite certain you and Lady Eugenia do not care to have an additional person intrude when you are newly married.” And where had that cloying sentiment come from? She doubted her papa would be marrying Lady Eugenia at all.

  Which was fortuitous, considering the scene in this very room only a few hours earlier.

  “Nonsense!” the duke decreed. “Lady Eugenia is well aware that one of her duties will be to arrange your entrance into the ton. You are my daughter, Caroline. Now that the period of mourning is complete, I am scarcely going to leave you moldering in the wilds of the Lake District.”

  “Papa,” Caroline ventured, her heart thudding even more erratically than it had last night when she gazed up at the handsome stranger from her ignominious perch on the bookroom floor, “there is something I must—”

  “Caroline—” The duke leaned forward, thrusting long aristocratic fingers through the black hair his valet had taken such pains to arrange. “Caroline, you are old enough now to understand what happened between your mother and myself—”

  “No!” Caroline’s protest was close to wail. “No, I do not wish to hear it.”

  “You will,” the duke declared, “for I find I cannot tolerate your thinking the fault was all mine.”

  “I never thought the fault was all yours.”

  Father and daughter stared at each other. “You do not think me a
villain?” the Duke of Longville inquired on a note of disbelief.

  “No, papa, nor do I think my mother a saint.” Lady Caroline toyed with the folds of her beige wool gown, scalloped at neckline and hem in dark blue. Her very best gown, packed with exactly this momentous meeting in mind. When she raised her eyes to meet her father’s, Caroline was astonished to see vulnerability, even pleading. Whatever had happened eight years ago, it was time to let the animosity go.

  “I confess I do not have a good opinion of the ton and its ways,” Caroline admitted. “I must tell you the manners and morals of the people I know in Cumberland seem far superior to those of London society. But, then, it is possible the on dits I read in the newspapers and the gossip I hear in Little Stoughton are greatly exaggerated.”

  The look he gave her was so full of gratitude Caroline was almost totally disarmed. Perhaps it was not going to be so difficult to tell him after all. “Papa . . . you must listen to me now,” she declared earnestly. “I did not come to London for the wedding or to make my come-out.” Amber eyes, so like her own, grew darker. Behold, the Duke of Longville, bewildered. It was a moment Caroline would cherish.

  If he didn’t wring her neck before she had an opportunity to enjoy it.

  “I want you to understand,” Caroline said carefully, “that I have been bound by a promise to mama. I have never understood why she felt so strongly about secrecy, and I have always known that, promise or no, I would one day have to tell you. As it is, I have been able to observe a year of mourning for mama and can now come to you with a clear conscience. This, you see, was something even mama knew she could not keep from you forever.”

  “For God’s sake, Caroline,” the duke snapped, “stop this roundaboutation and say what you have to say!”

  Caroline peered at the duke over hands clasped tightly under her chin. The moment had come, and she was nearly petrified. The words stuck in her throat. He was going to be so angry. “When we left, mama and I—”

  “Get on with it!”

  Caroline gulped. “Mama—well, you see mama was enceinte.” Somehow the French word was easier for her to say. Not quite such a blatant blow.

  Slowly, the Duke of Longville straightened up in his chair, his piercing eyes fixed on his daughter’s face. “You are saying there is a child?” he whispered.

  “An heir,” Caroline nodded. “Kenrick Laurence Carlington, age seven.” It was Caroline’s turn to lean forward in an unconscious plea for her father’s forgiveness. “Do you recall the Gainsborough portrait at Longville, the one of you at that age? Well, Laurence could have posed for that portrait himself. Perhaps that’s why mama wished to wait,” Caroline rushed on hopefully. “She wanted you to see that Laurence is truly yours.”

  “By God, if she were not already dead, I swear I’d—”

  “Do not say it, papa, I beg of you!”

  The Duke of Longville squeezed shut his eyes, drew in a deep breath. A shudder wracked his tall elegant frame. It was some moments before he unclenched his fists and regarded his daughter with something less than murder in his eye. “Was the birth properly recorded?” he demanded.

  “Yes, Your Grace. The doctor and the vicar have always known, but they are highly discreet.”

  “A bit too discreet,” the duke snapped.

  “Papa, you could not wish them to—”

  Would I not?” His tone was ominous.

  Hastily, Caroline fumbled with her reticule, finally producing much-folded letters from both the doctor and the vicar who served the small village not far from Windermere. After handing the documents to her father, Lady Caroline folded her hands and waited with wary fortitude. Was not “kill the messenger” a well-known ancient adage? Would he beat her? Cast her into the street? Tell her never to darken his door again?

  When the duke finished reading, he let the letters rest in his lap, one finger slowly tapping against the fine parchment. “Caroline,” he said gently, almost as if she were a child caught sneaking an extra biscuit from the tea tray, “did you truly believe I would doubt your mother’s virtue?”

  For a moment she was speechless. “No-o,” she stammered at last, “but I knew you would insist on having proof.”

  “For me, proof is seeing the child.” He looked down at the letters in his lap. “But the solicitors will, of course, demand more. Tell me,” he asked with sudden intent, “did Hervey, your mother’s solicitor, know about the boy?”

  “Oh, no, we never told him.”

  “And no one in the Lake District ever revealed your secret?”

  “We—mama—that is . . .you see,” Caroline raised her anguished gaze to confront her father bravely. “No one knew who we were. Mama was Mrs. Tennet, just another widow forced to rusticate in a cottage in the country.”

  The duke’s supreme effort to be reasonable failed. “You know perfectly well she might have lived in a manor house of her choosing,” he roared. “There was never a need for her to wear a hair shirt or live without the deference due her.”

  “Yes, papa,” Caroline murmured, “but she did not see it so. I assure you, though we lived quietly, we lived most comfortably. Mr. Hervey never failed to deliver our allowance in timely fashion.”

  After several moments of vibrating silence, Lady Caroline was treated to the surprising sight of His Grace, the Duke of Longville sinking his teeth into the knuckle above his index finger. “He looks like me?” he said at last. “He is healthy?”

  “Oh, yes, papa. To both your questions. And he has had Miss Tompkins to teach him all that is proper. I knew, of course, even before I heard of your intended marriage, that I must tell you soon, so he might go to school as a marquess should, but . . . when I read of your betrothal, I knew I must come straightway.”

  Two pairs of amber eyes, father and daughter, met in an odd moment of complete understanding. Longville was appalled. His Caroline was too young to be so world weary, to be so certain he was marrying again solely for an heir. Of course, that was undoubtedly the word being spread as fast as the mail would travel by the meddling tabbies of the ton. Nor was there any point in denying it. The dukedom needed an heir. Therefore, the duke needed a wife. A sorry, but absolute, fact.

  Wedding. Lady Eugenia. Here he was about to go haring off to the Lake District, with his nuptials less than a fortnight away. Strong and particularly pungent profanity was trapped behind closed lips only when Marcus Carlington recollected, in the nick of time, the company he was keeping. Instead, he shot out of his chair, threw the letters onto his desk, before slamming several drawers in a search for fresh parchment, which was exactly where he always kept it. His quill was not sharp enough, the inkwell seemed on the verge of going dry. While his blasted daughter, who he had thought would never serve him such a back-handed turn, watched him in wide-eyed wonder, the duke scribbled a note to his betrothed advising her that he must attend to a family emergency. He would, of course, return in time for their wedding.

  “Sims,” he bawled, waving the note as the butler materialized in the bookroom doorway. “See this is delivered immediately. And tell Benton to start packing immediately. I shall be journeying into the country for a sennight or so.”

  “But, Your Grace—” Sims’s customary aplomb gave way to a mix of shock and disapproval.

  “I have not forgotten the wedding,” the duke growled, “but go I must. Lady Caroline will accompany me. Move!” he shouted as the butler continued to hover.

  “Your Grace,” Sims announced bravely, “you have a visitor just arrived. Lord Frayne.”

  “Tell him to go away.” One glance at the thin line of his butler’s mouth, the speaking suggestion in his long-familiar eyes, and the duke’s lips curled in derision. At himself. There was nothing quite like a reprimand from a servant who had known him since he was in short coats. “If you think I should use Frayne as a messenger,” he told his butler, “you are fair and far out. See that the note is delivered as instructed.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Shoulders not quite as straig
ht as they had been, Sims retreated toward the door. Just a moment too late.

  “Longville!” Anthony Norville, Viscount Frayne, came striding through the door, looking as impeccably dressed and full of life as if he had had more than four hours sleep. “I came to congratulate you on surviving an evening with my stultifying and occasionally shocking family connections. Or is that a retraction of the betrothal you are sending off to the newspapers?” he added, eyeing the missive in Sims’s hand.

  “I’m off on a journey, Frayne. Haven’t time to talk—” The duke broke off, following Norville’s inquiring gaze to the young lady who had risen from her chair and was—blushing? Good God, had she reached that age? Blushing over Frayne, that care-for-nothing fribble? Surely not. The duke gave his daughter a sharp look before performing the necessary introductions. By God, she was blushing. The child had gone from porcelain to rose red. He was missing something, and Marcus, Duke of Longville, did not care for secrets. Not in the least.

  Particularly not today.

  “Run along, Frayne,” he ordered. “We must pack. I have sent your sister a note. Never fear, I will be back in time for the wedding.”

  “You are going to go through with—” Caroline gasped.

  “We will leave within the hour,” the duke interrupted, deliberately misinterpreting her protest.

  “You can’t,” his daughter countered. Flatly.

  “Tony, be off. You will have time enough to become acquainted with Lady Caroline in the future.”

  Since Tony knew the only packing the Duke of Longville would be required to perform for himself was the removal of funds for the journey from his safe, the viscount easily sniffed a mystery in the air. Such abject haste, such determination to turn a well-known visitor from the door, had more behind it than the necessity of preparing for a journey.

  And if there were a mystery, Tony speculated, his enigmatic young acquaintance from the night before was surely in it up to her magnificently regal neck. “I trust you will be returning to London, Lady Caroline,” the viscount pronounced, showing no signs of obeying the duke’s irritable commands to take his leave.