“We have, Mr. Gage. Thank you for the invitation.”
“Mr. Gage,” her father said, stepping forward. “Might I present my daughter, Miss Caroline Martin.”
He bowed quite formally, and she almost forgot to curtsey. Her eyes swept the room, noting the other people. A thin young lady with light brown hair and pretty eyes smiled at her. A plump woman of perhaps fifty with knitting needles in her hand eyed her suspiciously. Mr. Lochley, the source of all this to-do, was nowhere to be seen.
“How good to meet you, Miss Martin,” he said without any trace of innuendo. He smiled genuinely, and she almost believed he was glad to meet her.
He turned to the two women standing beside a pretty chintz couch. “May I have the pleasure of introducing my sister, Miss Georgette Gage. And this is her companion, Mrs. Clotworthy.”
Both ladies bowed, and Miss Gage smiled broadly. She had a very pleasant smile, and Caro liked her immediately.
“Please sit, Mrs. Martin. Miss Martin,” Miss Gage said, indicating the rose arm chair beside the couch. “May I offer you refreshment?”
Caro and her mother accepted the chairs and the refreshment, and then they sat and looked at Miss Gage, who looked back at them. More than anything, Caro wanted to ask after Mr. Lochley, but she dared not appear too interested in the man. In any man.
“You are from London?” her mother asked easily.
“We are, but Bertie has lent the house for the year.”
“And how are you liking Hemshawe?” her mother inquired.
“Oh, I simply adore it,” Miss Gage said. “Everyone is so welcoming and kind.”
Caro stifled a snort.
“And the country air is so very refreshing. I wake every morning feeling more hale and hearty than the morning before.”
Her companion cleared her throat. “Miss Gage was quite ill recently. Her brother and I thought the country air and the spa might restore her.”
“And I am quite restored,” she said, her lips in a tight smile. Obviously, she didn’t enjoy being coddled.
“And what about you, Mrs. Martin?” Miss Gage asked. “Are you from Hemshawe?”
Her mother went on to explain she was from a nearby village, which led to a discussion of how she met Caroline’s father. Caro allowed her gaze to roam about the room. Her father and brother were nodding and gesturing, obviously in deep discussion with Mr. Gage. But where was Mr. Lochley? Had he left Kent already, or had he declined to dine with her? What sort of man issued an invitation to dine and then did not attend?
“And how do you find Hemshawe, Miss Martin?” Miss Gage asked. Caro’s head jerked up at the question.
“Do you enjoy the country, or do you long to run away to Town?”
“No!” Caro said far too abruptly.
Her mother gave her a stern glance.
“What I mean to say is, I have no interest in London or any of the cities. I prefer the country.”
“But what about—” Miss Gage began.
“Mister Monsieur Peregrine Lochley,” the butler with the French accent said from the doors.
Like everyone else in the room, Caro stared at the man in the doorway. She wondered if the sight of Lochley took anyone else’s breath away. He was even more handsome than she remembered. He still had the tousled hair and the scruff of shadow upon his jaw, but he wore tailored evening clothes. In contrast to the other men’s colorful coats and waistcoats, his coat was black as onyx, and the remainder of his attire was as white as winter’s first snow.
His gaze traveled directly to her, and he flashed her a smile. Caro almost smiled back, but she could feel her father’s gaze upon her, so she lowered her eyes to her lap instead.
“There he is!” Gage said with a laugh. “Lochley does like to make an entrance.”
“It’s these dam—dashed country hours.” Lochley’s velvet voice seemed to carry across the room and stroke her. “How does one inure oneself to eating in the middle of the day?”
Gage introduced the others to Lochley and then escorted him to where the ladies sat. “Of course you know my sister and Mrs. Clotworthy. Mrs. Martin, Miss Martin, allow me to introduce Mr. Lochley, my very good friend. We were in the 13th together. I couldn’t ask for a better man fighting at my side.”
Caro felt her jaw open and hastily closed it again. Lochley had served in the cavalry? He’d gone to war?
“I didn’t want to fight, but you insisted on galloping into battle, and since you always lost to me at cards, I had to ensure you survived so I could collect.”
“Don’t believe a word he says.”
“I don’t,” Caro said. She drew in a sharp breath when she realized she’d spoken aloud. “What I mean to say is—”
Lochley waved a hand. “No, no, Miss Martin, you are quite right to doubt. After all, I was certainly no soldier and not even a gentleman when we met the other morning. And I do wish to beg your forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness for what?” her father asked, his face red as he stood beside Lochley with his hands balled. “What the devil did you do to her?”
Chapter Three
* * *
Lochley raised a brow at Martin, who looked as though he would challenge Lochley to a duel at any moment. Clearly, he’d said the wrong thing. “I didn’t do anything to Miss Martin, sir. I assure you I did not even look at her askance.”
Martin blew out a breath and seemed to recover himself. His daughter could not have been redder if she’d jumped into a vat of grapes.
“Pray excuse me. I misunderstood.”
“There is nothing to excuse,” Lochley told him. “It is I who must be excused, and that is why I proposed this dinner. Your lovely daughter braved the muddy road to free my curricle. I would have fetched a footman, but Miss Martin is obviously quite independent, for she would not hear of it.”
“That does sound like our Caro,” Mrs. Martin said with a look at her daughter.
Caro. So that was her name. It must be short for Caroline. A lovely name for a woman, but Caro suited her better. She didn’t have the formality of a Caroline. Her eyes tilted at the corners, making her look slightly mischievous, and her nose was too small and adorable for a Caroline. Not that he’d ever thought anyone’s nose adorable before, but the description suited hers. The rest of her was not at all adorable. The ugly dress and the shawl she’d been wearing had disguised a lush body that was better suited to a woman with a scandalous name—Delilah, Bathsheba, or Desdemona.
With her father standing beside him, Lochley dared not allow his gaze to drop below her nose, but his brief glimpse of her from across the room told him Miss Caroline Martin had a body that would seduce and entice any man.
“Mr. Lochley despaired of soiling his coat,” Miss Martin said with a contemptuous glance at him. “I wore an old dress that was no worse for the dirt.”
Lochley bowed to her. “You are too kind to me, Miss Martin. Even if I’d had to soil the coat—a travesty, as it was made by Weston—I should have insisted you refrain from muddying your dress. It was not the behavior of a gentleman, and I hope tonight begins to make amends.”
“There are no amends necessary.”
Lochley would have objected, but Mr. Martin cleared his throat. “Are you in Hemshawe for long?”
Only if his father refused to listen to reason. “Not long.”
“We are attempting to persuade Mr. Lochley to extend his stay through the Hemshawe Fair,” Miss Gage said. “I would so like to suggest he replace Mr. Greenleaf as the judge in the wine-tasting this year.”
All four Martins seemed to startle and turn their gazes intently upon him.
Lochley held up a hand. “I am certain the committee will have plenty to say in the matter.”
“You know wine, sir?” Mr. Martin asked.
“A little.”
“Don’t believe it,” Gage said. “He knows wine and knows it well. In fact, he chose the wines we’ll drink at dinner. I trust they are excellent.”
“And do y
ou know English wine?” Martin asked.
Lochley wanted to say he’d rather not know most English wines. “I am more familiar with the French and Italian varieties. Do you have an interest in wine, Mr. Martin?”
“We have a small vineyard,” Matthew Martin put in. “We produce pinot noir, as do most of the vintners in Kent.”
“Now my brother demurs,” Miss Martin said with a smile. She had a wide, somewhat carefree smile. “The Martin family has won top honors at the Hemshawe Fair for the last fourteen years. Our pinot noir is the best in England.”
“I do not doubt it,” Lochley said with nod. Considering the appalling English wines he’d tasted, the title was not much contested.
“Shall we go in to dinner?” Miss Gage asked, taking Lochley’s arm. He led her to dinner, disappointed that he’d been seated between Georgie and Mrs. Martin. Miss Martin was near Bertie—lucky devil.
The dining room was a vast improvement upon the drawing room, in Lochley’s opinion. One of the newer additions to the Friar’s House, it featured crown moldings, elegant cream and light green paneling, and a large window festooned with green and gold draperies. The chairs were quite comfortable and the table large enough to accommodate the party without the guests having to knock elbows.
His wine selections were roundly approved and applauded. Fortunately, he had not selected a pinot noir for the evening, so there was no awkwardness. Lochley tempered his wine consumption throughout the meal. He found for once he was more interested in the conversation—mostly that between Miss Martin and Bertie—than the food and drink.
The problem was he could not hear most of their conversation, which meant he was forced to give Mrs. Martin and Miss Gage opinions on lace and parasols. As he had none, he simply agreed with each in turn.
Finally, dinner ended and the men retired. Ridiculous custom, really. He would have preferred to spend more time with the ladies. Silently, he willed Bertie to cut short the port and cigars. But Gage ignored him, and the conversation turned to one banal topic after another.
“I must say, Lochley,” Mr. Martin said after some time, “you do know your wine. The selections tonight were very good.”
Lochley bent his head in acknowledgment.
“I wonder if you might stop by and give your opinion on our pinot noir.”
“That would hardly be fair,” Matthew Martin told his father. “If Mr. Lochley is to judge the wine-tasting, he must be fair and impartial.”
“I haven’t agreed yet. I haven’t even been asked.” And he’d prefer never to be asked if not judging the wine-tasting meant he could spend more time with Miss Martin.
“You will be,” Bertie said. “If Georgie and Mrs. Clotworthy have their way—and they always have their way—you will soon be formally summoned to the committee.”
“I don’t think I like the sound of that,” Lochley said. “Rather reminds me of being summoned to court.”
“Have you been summoned to court?” Mr. Martin asked.
“Not yet.”
“Speaking of being summoned,” Gage said. “We should return to the ladies.”
Caro Martin’s gaze met his when the men returned, but before Lochley could find a way to approach her, he was drawn into a conversation about King George and his illness, which led to discussion of the king’s profligate son. As Lochley had drunk with the Prince Regent on more than one occasion, he could offer insight as to the Regent’s preferred wines. The gentlemen and ladies decided they might like to taste the Regent’s favorite wine. Lochley happened to have brought a bottle and had considered serving it at dinner then changed his mind. Consequently, it was in his bedchamber and not the wine cellar. He retired to his room to fetch the bottle.
His task completed, when he opened the bedchamber door, bottle in hand, Caro Martin stood outside.
“Oh!” Her eyes widened, and her mouth formed the shape of her exclamation. “I’m terribly sorry. I must have made a mistake.”
“Were you looking for me?” he asked.
“No. No, of course not.”
“That’s a disappointment,” he said in a light tone he did not feel.
“Miss Gage said she was not feeling well, but she did not want to alarm her brother. She asked me to fetch a tonic from her bedchamber.”
“Miss Gage said she did not feel well?” He rubbed a knuckle over his chin.
“Yes. I thought she said to turn right at the landing, but she must have said left.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” Lochley said, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. He could hug Miss Gage. “Which room did she say was hers?”
“This one. Second from the end.”
“Miss Martin, you do not know Miss Gage well, so please believe me when I say, you made no mistake. Georgie sent you to my room, not hers.”
She shook her head. “But why would she do that?”
“Because she has a reputation as a matchmaker. She obviously saw we have an interest in each other and sought to find a way to give us a moment alone.”
“But I don’t—”
He took her gloved hand, which silenced her. “Please do not say you have no interest in me. My pride is hurt enough already. Suffice it to say, I have an interest in you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Then perhaps the two of you are in league, and you planned this in order to lure me away.”
“To lure you away?” He released her hand. “You make it sound as if I have some nefarious plan. May I remind you that it was your father who suggested I fetch the bottle of wine, and your brother who asked after the Regent’s preferences. I would have preferred to stay in the drawing room so I might have the opportunity of speaking with you.”
“Oh, you men are all the same. Is every woman an object for your game of seduction?”
“I hardly call this conversation or us meeting here a game of seduction. I assure you, if I were to seduce you, this is not at all how I would go about it.”
“I do not have any interest in your methods of seduction, sir. If you would simply direct me to Miss Gage’s room, I would be grateful.”
“I’m afraid I do not know which room is hers. The ladies’ wing is on the other side of the landing. I can have a maid show you, if you like.”
He found a maid and placed Miss Martin in her safekeeping, then made his way back to the drawing room. Lochley didn’t fail to notice Georgie’s gaze on him. He gave her an annoyed look and opened the bottle of wine. He poured everyone a glass, including Miss Martin, who had returned by then.
For once, he did not even taste the wine. What the devil had she meant in saying all men were the same? Had many men tried to seduce her? Had any been successful? She obviously did not have pleasant memories of the interlude. Had she been forced or treated roughly then? The thought made him unaccountably angry. He was so angry, in fact, he drank a second glass of the Regent’s wine—again without tasting it—and gave the Martins a barely civil good-bye.
* * *
Someone was coming.
Caro could hear him or her tromping through the woods, just to the south of where she lay on the bank of the stream staring up at the sky. She sat and turned in the direction of the noise. This was still Martin land, so it might have been her father or brother, except neither of them ever ventured into this untouched patch. And if they did, they would not stumble about like a group of lost schoolchildren.
Peregrine Lochley stepped into the clearing, and Caro emitted an audible gasp. His head whipped left then right until he spotted her, the expression on his face equally surprised and relieved.
“Thank God it’s you.”
She closed her hand into a fist until her fingernails dug into her palm. The pain was very real, which meant she was not sleeping, not dreaming. He actually stood before her, in all his masculine glory, looking very much like he’d stepped out of one of her dreams.
She’d had several about him in the days that followed the Gages’ dinner party. All of them left her restless, her body aching with need. Sh
e blushed now as she remembered the last dream, the one where he’d undressed her slowly, taking his time and kissing every single inch of her bare skin.
She stood, brushing off her dark green skirts. She wished she’d worn a different dress today. This one was four or five years old and had a wine stain on it. But she’d thought she would be feeding the chickens and collecting eggs, not conversing with Lochley in the woods. She hadn’t even planned to come to the woods until, as she’d collected the eggs, her thoughts had turned back to the dream and she’d decided a brisk walk would do her good.
She’d paused at the stream for a drink of the cool water, then removed her shoes and dipped her toes in. And then the day had been so lovely, she’d lain down and gazed up at the sky. Why had she ever wanted to leave Hemshawe and this peace for the ugliness of London?
Love. That was it. She’d thought she’d been in love.
“I was beginning to think I’d never find my way back,” Lochley said. “Pardon me, I suppose I should have begun with something more customary. Good day, Miss Martin. Fancy meeting you here.”
She would not play these silly games of etiquette. “Are you lost Mr. Lochley?”
“Quite. What gave it away?” He stepped closer. “I thought I heard water. My throat feels as if I’ve swallowed half the Sahara.”
She moved aside, and he knelt on the bank, cupped his hands, and drank. She could not stop her gaze from trailing to his throat and watching the way it moved as he swallowed. Finally, she looked away.
He splashed water on his face and rose. “That brings back memories,” he said, slicking his hair back.
Lord, but he was handsome. She looked down and spotted the patch of dirt on his buff trousers. “What will your tailor think, Mr. Lochley?” She gestured to it.
“He’ll think I was dying of thirst and desperate measures were called for. I know I did not make the best first impression the other day, but I am not a complete arse. I did serve in the military. I drank from streams far less pristine than this.”
A Gentleman For All Seasons Page 12
