by Darcy Burke
They eyed each other in glum silence.
She had certainly poisoned the mood of what little precious time they had together. How on earth did one move on from a conversation about a dead boy? One didn’t. Caroline bit her lip and awkwardly arranged her skirts.
He skimmed her appearance, but still said nothing.
Knowing she had to break the cumbersome stillness she had unintentionally created, she leaned in toward him and asked, “So why did you want to see me? What did you want to talk about?”
He bumped back against the wall, wedging his hands behind his back. “Don’t lean in so close, Caroline. It really isn’t necessary.”
She tightened her hold on the fan dangling from her wrist, sensing he was panicked by her presence. “I’m sorry.”
Silence pulsed between them again.
He lingered but wouldn’t meet her gaze.
It was obvious this wasn’t going anywhere. She honestly didn’t know what to make of it. It was like he wanted to be with her but…didn’t. She set a trembling hand to her stomacher knowing it. “I should probably go,” she murmured, trying to hide her disappointment. “Before anyone notices I’m gone.” Knowing she ought to say more about the awkwardness between them, she added, “It’s all right to be nervous. I’m nervous, too. I feel much has changed between us since we have been apart, but please don’t pretend like we’re strangers. Because we aren’t. We have shared too much to ever be that. Or at least…I hope.” She nodded and slowly turned toward the curtain to leave.
His gloved hand jumped out and grabbed her arm, whirling her back to him.
Her breath hitched as he yanked her against himself. “Caroline,” he rasped.
She swallowed, fully aware that all six feet of him was against all five feet and four inches of her. This was it. Her kiss. Her first kiss. “Yes?”
His rugged features wavered.
She held his gaze, waiting.
His gloved hands trailed up the length of her bare arms. “I’m sorry I…” He paused, as if realizing he was touching her.
She didn’t know how her legs were even able to hold her up against the weight of her gown. She leaned against him, placing her hands on the tense bulk of his biceps and wanted so much to dig her soul into his soul. “Hold me. Please hold me. Just once.”
A breath escaped him. His muscled arms jumped around her and brought her savagely closer against the heated scent of shaving cream and soap that drifted from his face and evening coat. His hands unyieldingly dug into her back as if he wanted so much more but was fighting against it. Lowering his large frame and his head down toward her, he buried his entire face into the curve of her neck, the stubble of his chin grazing her skin.
She almost staggered against him in bliss, the heat of his large frame sinking into her body. She could hardly breathe knowing he was holding her and touching her.
He dragged large hands rigidly up her back and down again, grazing the hooks on her gown with several fingers. His chest rose and fell against her own. “You still smell the same,” he murmured against her skin. “Like nutmeg.”
Her pulse quickened. She had never realized she smelled like anything but soap. Maybe it was time to wear the powder and perfume her mother kept insisting on.
The warmth of his breath fanned her throat in uneven takes. Still buried in the curve of her neck, his full lips slowly, slowly dragged leaving a moist trail that cooled against the fire of her skin. The tip of his hot tongue suddenly slid across her skin just above her necklace, causing her to sway. His fingers trailed the hooks on the back of her gown, down toward the fastening of her skirts, just at the curve of her bum.
Her cheeks grew unbearably hot and her thoughts too muddled to see reason, yet she still managed to tilt her lips toward his shaven face and that masculine mouth and tongue that was sensually making its way back up her throat.
She was ready for their soul connection. “Kiss me,” she breathed out.
As if her voice had startled him, he lifted his head from the curve of her shoulder and stared down at her with a tight jaw, his fingers still digging into her corseted waist. His chest notably rose and fell against his embroidered waistcoat. “No.”
He instantly released her waist, breaking their heated embrace and swiped his flushed face with a gloved hand, before saying in an even, husky tone that penetrated the small space of the alcove, “We shouldn’t be doing this.” He edged toward the curtain. “We should leave. I’m sorry that I…that I did that. I’ll uh…I’ll leave. I ask that you wait before you follow me out. So no one sees us together. Good-night, Caroline.” Without meeting her gaze, he disappeared behind the curtain, leaving her alone.
Caroline fell against the wall beside the window, unable to hold herself straight. She almost slid down the wall in a hazy bliss. That was only an embrace. A kiss would no doubt shatter every last one of her bones. “You pierce my soul,” she whispered, reciting Persuasion, which she had read more times than she had lived years. “I am half agony, half hope.”
And hope, while dangerous to any heart foolish enough to believe in something too big to happen, was what carried her forward and onward through any doubt. She did know one thing. That embrace revealed that Caldwell was struggling to understand what they shared.
Which meant…it was up to her to help him understand it.
Lesson Six
Be aware that good intentions may be used against you.
-The School of Gallantry
Lingering a while longer in the alcove, to ensure Ronan had gone, Caroline dragged aside the velvet curtain to peer out. Not seeing anyone in the wavering shadows of the candlelit corridor, she gathered her skirts from around her feet and bustled out.
She hurried toward the brightly lit main entrance of the ballroom, the cool breeze of the hallway making her feel like she could breathe again.
“Lady Caroline,” someone called. “Is that you?”
Caroline froze to a halt and turned toward an older, hefty, mustached gentleman making his way over. It was Lord Whittle. The host.
He must have been walking through the galleries.
She inwardly groaned, wishing he hadn’t seen her. Known in all his elbowing male circles as Lord ‘Spittle,’ he was a terrible gossip, and if given the chance would use any part of a conversation against anyone. It was why her mother had warned her to never engage him beyond four minutes.
She inclined her head in greeting. “Lord Whittle.” She tried to come up with a reason as to why she might be wandering around his house alone. Uh... “I was looking for the refreshment table.”
Lord Whittle settled before her and lowered his round chin. “Out here? In the corridor?”
Caroline tried not to panic. “Silly, I know. I got lost. Your house is much bigger than the usual gatherings I attend. But a footman graciously directed me back to where I needed to be.” That was pathetic. But it was better than nothing. She glanced toward the ballroom entrance and gestured toward it. “My brother is waiting for me. I should go.” She tried to move past.
He stepped in front of her, bringing with his stocky frame the pregnant scent of pork pie. He leaned in. “You seem harried, dear. Is everything all right?” Spittle flew out from between his thin lips and latched onto the left tip of his silver, well-trimmed whiskers.
Rumor had it his painted wooden teeth caused him to salivate.
It made one wonder about inbreeding and its effects.
Caroline tried to keep her own mouth from twitching as the spittle gently swayed back and forth from the tip of his mustache. “Lord Whittle.” She almost said Lord Spittle. “Thank you for your gentlemanly concern, but I can assure you, everything is fine. I simply don’t wish to worry my brother or my mother.”
“Ah. No. Quite right. A lady should never wander about without a chaperone as it can lead to trouble. In fact…” He glanced toward the entrance of the ballroom and scanned the crowds beyond, his bushy brows flickering. “We ought to find someone to escort you back t
o your brother.”
Oh, dear. “That won’t be necessary, my lord. I can see my brother from here. He is standing next to—”
“Nonsense. Anything can happen between here and there.” He paused. “Do you know Lord Gifford?”
She blinked. Everyone in London knew of Lord Gifford. He was the epitome of the bon ton. Well spoken, wealthy and ridiculously respectable. She had met him on many occasions, at various events and had ridden past him on Rotten Row almost every afternoon while riding her horse with her mother. Odd though it was, she sensed that the man liked her because he always tried to engage her whenever they were within vicinity of each other and always glanced back at her when he didn’t think she was looking. Caroline also knew Lord Gifford was on a hunt for a wife after his own wife had died a few years earlier in childbirth and had left him with four children from the ages of five to nine. Something she didn’t need. “Yes, I do know Lord Gifford, but I don’t think—”
“He is a good man. You can trust him. And there he is right now.” Lord Whittle wagged a gloved hand over at a gentleman lingering at the entrance of the ballroom. “Lord Gifford,” he called out. “Can you please deliver Lady Caroline to her brother for me? She got lost. And we certainly don’t want that happening again.”
Caroline almost took her fan and hit it against her head.
Lord Gifford strode toward them as if he had been waiting for the opportunity to do so all night. “Of course.”
Lord Whittle brought his stubby, gloved hands together, appearing quite pleased. “Enjoy your evening. I should probably go find my wife.” He glanced around. “I can never seem to find that woman.” Smoothing his mustache, as if checking for dangling spittle, he disappeared.
Lovely. Turning toward Lord Gifford, Caroline managed a smile.
Though Gifford was two and forty, he had a face full of freckles and rusty red hair to match, which made him look more like a young buck of nineteen. He wasn’t a bad looking man. Quite the opposite. There was a dashing, boyish charm to him. His demeanor lent to it, of course. He seemed very genuine and warm, which, in her opinion, was rare amongst the male ton over forty who were usually cool and reserved. “Good evening, Lord Gifford.”
He inclined his head. “Lady Caroline. It’s a pleasure to see you outside the riding path.” Bright blue eyes intently held her gaze. “Would you like some wine or lemonade or anything? Before I take you to your brother?”
She shook her head. “No, thank you.”
He hesitated and glanced toward the entrance of ballroom just a few stride away. “I have been meaning to ask you something. If I may.”
“Of course.”
He returned his gaze to hers. “I haven’t seen you dancing at all tonight and I mean to change that. Is the waltz available?”
And here it was. Exactly what she didn’t want: the attention of a widowed man looking for a wife and a mother to his four children. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him. She did. She just didn’t want him liking her. Aside from her own affection toward Caldwell, Lord Gifford had no idea what her family was like. His poor children would have to be kept from visiting her mother lest they all faint from whatever left her mother’s mouth.
Caroline made certain her dancing card, which was attached to her wrist by a velvet string with her fan, was well-covered and buried in her skirts. “Sadly, my lord, the waltz is already spoken for.” It wasn’t, but he didn’t need to know that.
His eyes trailed to the dance card she was hiding. His jaw tightened and he half-nodded, clearly knowing what she was about. “I understand.” He adjusted his evening coat and averted his gaze, his freckled features visibly falling. “I’m getting too old to dance anyway.” He sighed. “Come. I promised to deliver you to your brother.”
Why did she feel like she had just slapped a puppy? God save her, she sometimes wished she was incapable of feeling sorry for people. She heaved out a breath and despite all common sense, held up the card. “I lied, Lord Gifford. It isn’t spoken for. I was merely worried you might see me as a potential prospect, but that is no excuse. To make amends for my behavior, I ask that you please take the waltz. If you still want it, that is.”
His gaze jumped to her face. “You don’t have to offer me a dance, Lady Caroline. I know most women aren’t comfortable with the idea of me being a father.”
Now she really felt like a goose. “I was being rude. And there was no reason for it. Please. Honor me. I insist. In fact, I am writing your name beside the waltz right now.” Flipping over the card on her wrist, she used the small pencil attached to the velvet ribbon to scribe in his name. When she was done, she released the pencil and card, letting them cascade against her gloved wrist, the ribbon keeping both in place. “There. Now you can’t object.”
His brows came together. “I don’t think I have ever known anyone to be so forthcoming with their thoughts.” He shifted toward her. “Are you always like this?”
She shrugged. “I find it’s better to survive a few minutes of being honest as opposed to feeling guilty for hours and maybe even days.”
A laugh escaped him. “Is that so?” He held out an arm. “Allow me to escort you to your brother, Lady Caroline. Before I altogether fall on my knee and ask you to marry me.”
Hoping to God he was joking, she placed her gloved hand on his forearm as was custom. “You had best not bruise that knee for me. Stay standing. Please.”
Another laugh escaped him. “My knees are a lot stronger than they appear.”
That sounded like an invitation. Why would a well-respectable gentleman like him with children take an interest in someone like her? It was astounding. Didn’t he know what people said about her family? He had to.
They walked through the crowds and back toward her brother.
Lord Gifford glanced at her several times as they walked.
She tried to ignore the fact that people were glancing at them and some were even whispering behind fans.
Her throat tightened. Now she felt bad. Because she didn’t want to tarnish his good name. Lowering her voice she said, “Maybe you should forgo the waltz. It isn’t good for you to be seen with me.”
He set a quick gloved hand against hers, squeezing it and countered, “I’m not worried what people think. In fact, you deserve to be held in a better light than you are. And I mean to showcase it. So let me.”
Her lips parted. It would appear she had been wrong about certain people of the ton. It appeared some of them could step outside what was expected of them.
Once they arrived at her brother’s side, she released Lord Gifford’s arm. Still astounded knowing she, the daughter of Hawksford, was being publicly accepted, she inclined her head. “Thank you again, my lord. I appreciate the time you took and for what you just said.”
He smiled. “You are most welcome. Time I have. And it is my hope you procure it. You will see me again the moment they cue the waltz.” He inclined his head. Still holding her gaze, he edged away and then turned and strode off into the crowds with a gloved hand set against his back as he wove around people. Halfway through the masses, he peered back at her, as if to see if she were watching him. He slowly grinned.
Inclining his head once again, he disappeared.
Something told her she should have never given him that waltz. A waltz involved three minutes of close proximity, touching and a woman’s skirts flying against a man’s trousers. Damn it.
She paused, realizing her mother wasn’t about. Turning to her brother, Caroline waved a hand toward him from behind another man’s back and caught his gaze. She mouthed at him, “Where is Mama?”
Alex discreetly held up an apologetic gloved hand, asking for her patience as he finished his conversation.
It was going to be a long night.
She flicked open the fan dangling from her wrist and waved it back and forth before her heated face. The cool rhythm of the breeze she created reminded her just how hot the room really was. Biting her lip, she discreetly scanned the room from
above her fan in the hopes of seeing Caldwell. He was nowhere in sight. He might have even left. She sighed. Trying to get any time alone with that man was like trying to breathe under water.
Someone leaned in, bringing the refreshing scent of rose water into the frowsty air. “I, along with the entire ballroom, saw the ever respectable Lord Gifford escorting you back into the room,” her mother drawled. “You go out to meet one man of ill-repute and sweep back in with one of great repute. Brilliant. Even I wouldn’t have thought of that.”
Caroline snapped her fan shut in exasperation and released it, letting it dangle from the velvet string attached to her wrist. “I can assure you, it wasn’t planned.” She swiveled toward her mother.
Dowager Hawksford lingered, sinfully adorned in a low-cut, emerald satin gown that tapered off ivory shoulders. ’Twas a gown her brother had complained about all evening. Because in his opinion, it was too decadent for a woman in her fifties.
Men.
The dowager’s jovial emerald green eyes flicked over toward Alex and then back to her. “Come.” Tucking her gloved hand into the crook of Caroline’s arm, she whisked them off in the opposite direction.
They bumped their way through the crush of people and didn’t slow their pace until they were on the other side of the ballroom, away from conversing and dancing crowds. They veered into a quiet, candlelit corner. Caroline knew her mother well enough to say the woman never sought out quiet corners during events unless it involved serious conversation.
Peering over at her mother, she blurted, “Am I in trouble?”
Her mother laughed. “No. I merely wanted to speak to you away from your brother and the crowds.” She leaned in. “So what happened with you and Caldwell? Out with it.”
Remembering the velvet heat of Caldwell’s tongue dragging against her throat sent her pulse skidding and her skin tingling. Caroline regally pressed her fan against her chest, feeling exquisite. “He kissed my throat and embraced me like the queen that I am. It was like eating cake with fresh berries. Only better.”
