What would have come next? she wondered and grew even hotter at the imagined next stages of what he had started. How long would it have been before…
Caroline sat up sharply and thumped her pillow as if she wished it were Viscount Lyndon's face.
Or Lady Plumtree's perhaps.
Royston Astor, Lord Brindley, was in a bad mood, having quarreled with his wife again that morning. And again over Caroline. There was no one particularly eligible at this party, she had pointed out. They were wasting a whole week, when they could be in Brighton or somewhere else where Caroline could meet someone suitable to marry.
It had been in vain for him to remind Cynthia that family duty dictated that they put in this appearance at Elmdon Hall and that Caroline had met and rejected two quite eligible gentlemen during the past few months. She was three-and-twenty, Cynthia had said with that slow distinctness she always used when trying to make a particularly telling point, and had only just made her come-out. That was not his fault either, he had said, grumbling. First Caroline had not wanted a come-out and Papa had not fought against her wishes. Then Grandpapa died, plunging them all into mourning, and then Papa.
Caroline was not in her dotage after all, he had pointed out. Cynthia had given him a speaking glance as if to say that yes, indeed, she was. To give her her due, Cynthia's preoccupation with marrying Caroline off was motivated more by affection than by the desire to get rid of a superfluous sister-in-law.
Lord Brindley's neckcloth would never tie neatly when he was in a bad mood. He had noticed it before. There was a tap on his dressing room door and he turned to scowl at his valet as if the man were personally responsible for the uncooperative neckcloth. But he had merely come to announce that Viscount Lyndon would be obliged for a few minutes of his time.
Lord Brindley frowned. Lyndon? He had been annoyed, to say the least, to find that that irresponsible ass, Colin, had invited a man like Lyndon to such a respectable gathering. One did not feel that one's women were safe with such a libertine in the house. Cynthia he could protect very well himself. But Caroline? She should have been put in a room next to theirs, he had complained to Cynthia on their arrival. He had at least insisted that his sister's maid sleep in her dressing room at night. One never knew with someone like Lyndon.
"Me?" he said to his valet. "You are sure he said me, Barnes?"
Barnes merely coughed discreetly, and Lord Brindley realized that the viscount was standing behind him, outside the door. What the devil?
"Come inside, Lyndon," he said ungraciously. "I am getting ready for breakfast. Disgusting misty morning, is it not? I was unable to go riding."
Viscount Lyndon stepped inside and succeeded only in making Lord Brindley feel dwarfed. His mood was not improved.
"I am afraid I have a matter of some delicacy to discuss," the viscount said.
Lord Brindley met his eyes in the looking glass and stopped fidgeting with his neckcloth, which was doomed to looking lopsided anyway no matter what he did with it. He raised his eyebrows and turned to face the room.
"I feel constrained to ask for the honor of making a marriage offer to your sister," the viscount said.
The baron snapped his teeth together when he realized that his jaw had been in danger of dropping. "Eh?" he said. "Is this some kind of joke, Lyndon?"
"I wish it were," the viscount said, his initial unease seeming to disappear somewhat now that he had launched into speech. "I can see that she has not said anything to you yet."
"Eh?" Lord Brindley realized that his response was not profound, but really what did one say to such unexpected and strange words?
"I am afraid," the viscount said, one corner of his mouth lifting in a wry smile, "that I compromised Miss Astor last night. Rather badly, I am afraid."
Lord Brindley's hands curled into fists at his sides. To do him justice, he did not at the moment think of the vast difference in size and physique between the other man and himself.
"I mistook her room for, er, someone else's," the viscount explained. "Her virtue is intact," he added hastily, "but not, I am afraid, her honor. I beg leave to set matters right by offering her the protection of my name."
"Your name?" the baron said, injecting a world of irony into the words and using some of his wife's slow distinctness.
"I beg your pardon," the viscount said stiffly. "Is my name sullied and I know nothing of it? I have the name and the position and the means with which to provide for Miss Astor for the rest of her life."
"I would rather see her thrown into a lions' den." Lord Brindley said. "You did not take her virtue, you said?"
"No," the viscount said. "She awoke in time to fight me off, and her maid arrived to champion her cause."
Caroline and Lyndon? Lyndon touching Caroline? And thinking to marry her? It was perhaps a good thing that none of Lord Brindley's gloves were in sight. Perhaps he would have slapped one in the viscount's face and been precipitated into a dreadfully scandalous situation with which to celebrate his great-aunt's birthday.
"I will make my offer this morning," the viscount said. "With your permission, Brindley. I cannot think you mean what you just said about lions."
"What you will do this morning," Lord Brindley said, his hands opening and closing at his sides, "is pack your belongings, order your carriage around, and take yourself off with whatever plausible excuse for leaving you can contrive in the meanwhile. I will give you one hour, Lyndon, before coming after you with a whip. I trust I make myself understood?"
The viscount pursed his lips. But before either man could say another word, there was a second tap on the door and it opened to reveal a pale Caroline. She glanced at Viscount Lyndon, blanched still further, and stepped inside, closing the door behind her.
"Barnes said you were in here, Royston," she said, looking directly at him and ignoring the viscount just as if he were not even there, "and not to be disturbed. But I could not wait. There is going to be a duel, is there not? It will not do. For one thing the whole matter will be made dreadfully public, and for another, you are expert with neither a sword nor a pistol. He is, so I have heard. I will not have you killed for my sake."
"Caroline—" her brother began, but she held up a firm staying hand.
"It must not happen, Royston," she said, lifting her chin and looking at him with a martial gleam in her eyes, "or I shall reveal the full truth to everyone." There was a flush of color in her cheeks suddenly.
"The full truth?"
"That he was in my room by invitation," she said. "That if he compromised me, then I also compromised myself. A duel would be quite inappropriate, you see. You will withdraw the challenge, will you not?"
The viscount, Lord Brindley saw in one quick glance, was standing looking back at him, his expression utterly blank. If the baron could have throttled his sister at that moment and remained within the law, he would have done so. The minx. The slut. He had thought her sensible despite her strange rejection of two chances of an advantageous match during the Season. And yet she had given in to the damnably improper advances of a rake just like the most brainless of chits. Well, let her take the consequences.
"There will be no duel, Caroline," he said. "Leave us, please. Viscount Lyndon and I have certain matters to discuss."
She looked at him a little uncertainly, then seemed about to slide her eyes in the direction of the viscount, changed her mind, turned, and left the room. The viscount had stood still and quiet throughout her visit.
"Well," Lord Brindley said briskly, "we have a marriage contract to discuss, Lyndon. Have a seat. There is no time like the present, I suppose, despite the fact that we may miss breakfast."
Viscount Lyndon took a seat.
If he could do anything he wanted to the girl with utter impunity, Viscount Lyndon decided as he returned to his own room a considerable time later, he would throttle her. No, she was not a girl. He had seen that as soon as he had had a good look at her. She was past girlhood. She was three-and-twenty, according to
her brother. Thank goodness for that, at least. If he must marry—he winced—then let it at least be to a woman and not a girl straight from the schoolroom.
He could cheerfully throttle her. He had been so close to getting himself out of the most damnable mess he had been in in his life. So close to freedom. His mind had already been inventing an aged relative at death's door and a few other fond relatives who had written to beg his immediate presence at the event. He had already in his mind been away from a potentially dull house party and away from a dreaded marriage.
Until she, the sweet young thing, Miss Caroline Astor, had come along with her noble lie to save her brother from having a bullet placed between his eyes or a sword sheathed through his heart. If she had only known it, it was the exact midpoint between her eyes that he had pictured for one ungallant moment with a blackened hole through it.
And so here he was, a betrothed man in effect if not quite yet in reality. The formal offer was still to make, though the contract had been discussed and agreed upon. But if the girl—woman—had such an enormous dowry, the viscount thought, frowning, why the devil was she still unmarried at the age of three-and-twenty? And she was admittedly pretty too. What was wrong with her? Something must be—a pleasant thought to lie in one's stomach in place of breakfast.
If he made his offer with great care, he thought, throwing himself down on his bed and staring upward… If he made himself thoroughly disagreeable… But no. Honor was involved. If it were not, he would not even be making the offer. He grimaced.
She had not even looked at him after that one glance before entering the room. She had not even named him. She had referred to him only as "he." And she had lied through her teeth, not to protect him, but to save her brother's hide. And she had looked thoroughly humorless and belligerent while she was doing so. She had red hair—well, auburn anyway. She was bound to be a bad-tempered shrew. That was all he needed in his life.
A damned attractive shrew, of course. His temperature slid up a degree when he remembered… But not attractive enough to make a leg-shackle seem any better than a life sentence. The woman did not live who was that attractive.
Damn!
Perhaps after they were betrothed. The viscount set one arm over his eyes and thought. He could make himself extremely obnoxious if he tried. Gaze admiringly at himself in looking glasses and windows when he ought to be complimenting her on her appearance. Talk incessantly about himself. Boast about some of his conquests. Sneer at anything and everything he found her to be interested in. Within the week he could have her screaming to be released from her promise.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and ran his fingers through his hair. Gad, but it went against the grain. All his attentions toward women were usually designed to attract, not to repel. However, it would be in a good cause. Good for him and good for her too. If she only knew it, he would be doing her the greatest favor in the world. He would make the world's worst husband. The woman would be miserable within a fortnight of marriage.
He got resolutely to his feet. He had arranged with Brindley to talk with her before luncheon. He was suddenly eager to get the thing over with so that he could proceed to the serious business of freeing both of them again. He wondered if he could charm any of the female servants into serving him a late breakfast. He did not fancy making a marriage proposal on an empty stomach. Not that he really fancied making one on a full stomach either, of course.
He was going to make her a marriage proposal. And it seemed that everything had been arranged already. The proposal itself and her acceptance of it were to be a mere formality.
It had never struck her. Not through a largely sleepless night—she would have said it was entirely sleepless except that there were memories of bizarre erotic dreams. And not through an anxious early morning. She had visualized public denunciations and duels and horrible embarrassment. She had pictured all kinds of punishments that might be visited upon Viscount Lyndon, almost all of which would undoubtedly harm Royston more than the real culprit. But she had never imagined that anyone would consider marriage between the two of them necessary.
And yes, of course she must listen to the offer, Royston had said in a coldly furious voice when he had finally appeared in her room and dismissed a grimly vigilant Letty. And accept it too. He did not know what had come over her. Did she have no pride in herself or her family name? Did she not know Lyndon's reputation? Did she think any but the most unprincipled rake would have agreed to meet her in her bedchamber at night?
She had been unable to defend herself. After all she was the one who had said the viscount was in her room by her invitation. She had merely muttered something about love and romance and just a very few minutes during which to say a private good night.
"Love," her brother had said with the utmost contempt. "Romance. With someone like Lyndon, Caroline? Well, you will have them for what they are worth for the rest of your lifetime. I wish you happy."
She could have him for the rest of a lifetime. Caroline sighed. She could marry him. She could be his betrothed within the coming hour. Viscount Lyndon, over whom the romantical and foolish side of her nature had sighed from afar for months while the sensible part of herself had assured her that it was as well that she admired only from afar. That it was as well his eyes had never alighted on her.
She was to meet him on the terrace half an hour before noon. She wandered there five minutes early, well knowing that it would have been far better to be five minutes late. She smiled cheerfully at five of her young relatives, who were embarking on a walk to the woods half a mile distant, and expressed her regrets at being unable to go with them.
"I am meeting someone," she said.
"I hope he is tall, dark, and handsome," Irene said with a laugh.
And then he was coming through the double front doors and down the horseshoe steps and along the terrace toward her. Toward her. And looking at her. She had never been this close to him before—except last night, of course, and briefly this morning in Royston's dressing room. He had never looked at her. He was indeed very tall and dark. And handsome. And if she was not careful, she was going to be sighing and making cow eyes and be no better at all than Eugenia.
"Good morning, my lord," she said and listened with approval to the coolness of her voice.
"Miss Astor." He inclined his head and extended one arm. "Shall we walk?" He indicated the formal gardens before the house and the lawn that sloped beyond it toward the distant beach. The driveway and the road were behind the house.
She took his arm and glanced along it to a strong, long-fingered, well-manicured hand. The very hand that had come inside her nightgown and fondled her breast. She felt as if she had just been running for a mile uphill but quelled the urge to pant.
"I am afraid," he said, "that I have caused you a great deal of distress, ma'am, both last night and this morning."
The best way to cope with her very schoolgirlish reactions, Caroline decided, was to withdraw into herself, to keep her eyes directed toward the ground before her feet, and to keep her mouth shut as much as possible.
"You must allow me to make some reparation," he said.
They were strolling past brightly colored flowerbeds. All the flowers were blooming in perfect symmetry, she thought and wondered how the gardeners did it.
"It would give me great satisfaction if you would do me the honor of marrying me," he said.
Caroline Scott, Viscountess Lyndon. One day to be a marchioness. Wife to such a splendidly gorgeous man. Mother to his children. The envy of every woman of the ton. And the proud owner of their pity too as her husband philandered his way through the rest of their lives. Ah, it was such a dreadful pity. And it was taking a superhuman effort to put common sense before inclination. Perhaps she would wake soon from the bizarre dream that had begun some time the night before.
"I am sorry," he said, bending his head closer to hers and covering her hand on his arm with his, "you are quite overwhelmed, are you not? I am
more sorry than I can say to be the cause of such bewilderment. Would you like some time to consider your answer?"
"No," she said, her voice as calm as it had been before and quite at variance with the beating of her heart, "I do not need any longer, my lord."
"Ah," he said, his tone brisker, "then it is settled. You have made me very happy, ma'am." He raised her hand to his lips.
She spoke with the deepest regret. "I am afraid you have misunderstood, my lord," she said. "My answer is no."
"No?" He stopped walking abruptly in order to stare down at her. Her hand was still clasped in his.
"I will not marry you," she said, "though I thank you for the offer, my lord. It was kind of you."
"Kind?" he said, a new sharpness in his voice. "I believe you are the one who does not understand, Miss Astor. I compromised you last night. I must marry you."
Ah, romance, Caroline thought with an inward sigh. Whenever she had daydreamed about him, he had been gazing at her, eyes alight with admiration and passion. His eyes up close were even more beautiful than she had dreamed of their being, but they were frowning down at her as if she were a particularly nasty slug that had crawled out onto the path after the early morning mist.
"It seems a singularly foolish reason for marrying," she said. "Nothing really happened, after all." She willed herself not to flush, with woeful lack of success.
"Miss Astor," he said, "not only was I alone with you in your bedchamber last night, but I was also naked in your bed with you." Caroline would not have been surprised to see flames dancing to life on her cheeks. "We were seen together by your maid with the result that the story is by now doubtless common knowledge belowstairs. I admitted the truth of what happened to your brother with the result that a considerable number of people abovestairs probably know by now. And you even confessed to having invited me into your bed."
From the Rakes and Rouges Page 2
