My Darling Caroline

by Adele Ashworth

  He loosened his arms and placed his palms on her cheeks. “My darling Caroline,” he whispered in the wind.

  Then he kissed her deeply, passionately, embracing her fully, his mouth locked with hers in a private communication only they shared.

  She ran her fingers through his hair, inhaling the scent that was only her husband’s, relishing in his strength, the hardness of his body beneath hers. She would have given almost anything to allow the moment to last an eternity, to be lost in his touch forever.

  She moaned softly, aching with needs untouched when he finally pushed her lips from his. He ran his fingers over her swollen mouth and flaming cheeks, then back through her hair.

  “Caroline…” he said softly, gently cupping her head. “Thank you.”

  She stared into a sea of vivid hazel-green, blinking back her tears of warmth and joy. Then Rosalyn was kneeling beside her once more, tugging on her gown for attention.

  She looked up, in the direction of the house, and to her complete mortification, all three of her sisters stood no more than thirty feet away, staring at her in stunned disbelief.

  “Oh, God, they’re early,” she murmured, coming to her senses quickly as she pushed against her husband. He held her firmly and chuckled.

  “Brent, let me go,” she said frantically. “They’ll think—”

  “They’ll think what?”

  He was grinning unashamedly, and that made her mad. “Let me go!”

  “Kiss me again.”

  She gaped at him. “They’ll see us.”

  “They’ve already seen us, Caroline. Kiss me…”

  “No!”

  He grinned rakishly. “Kiss me, or I’ll give them something to really talk about.”

  She rolled her eyes and lowered her head to give him a peck on the cheek. Instead, he pulled her head forcefully against his once more and smothered her mouth until she became breathless.

  At last he released her. “Do you know what I think, Caroline?”

  “I don’t care,” she countered, pushing herself up.

  He smiled. “I think your sisters will think you’re happy.”

  She stared at him, feeling strangely defeated. “I am happy.”

  Quickly turning her face away, she smoothed her hair behind her head with trembling hands and stood, brushing grass from her skirt.

  Not only that, my sweet, brave husband, she allowed herself to admit with a sinking heart. They’ll think I’m falling in love with you.

  Chapter 12

  He preferred thick, strong coffee in the morning, but alas, when one was on a mission, one had to bow to the customs of the region. Unfortunately he hated tea almost as much as he hated En gland.

  Philip René Rouselle stirred a trace amount of sugar into his cup, smiling pleasantly at the fat, pock-faced man in front of him.

  “I do say, Sir Stanley, the bed felt marvelous, and the breakfast and tea are superb.” He forced a small laugh and took a sip. “It’s amazing what comforts one fails to recognize until one goes to war, hmm?”

  Sir Stanley Grotton, suffering from a chill, sat beside him at the polished oak table, his plate of sausages, eggs, and toast sitting untouched in front of him while he repeatedly pinched his red nose with a handkerchief. “Honestly, I don’t see how you boys survived all that nonsense with Bonaparte. Good to have so many of you back alive after such a dreadful circumstance.”

  Philip tightly grasped the handle of his cup and took another sip to calm his building anger. He didn’t come to this stinking country to hear some old, fat bastard talk about a person and situation of which he knew absolutely nothing except gossip spread by dirty English pigs. And a circumstance? How could the man call a great and magnificent battle a circumstance? He dreaded the necessity of staying in this ill-decorated home, eating bland food, while he listened to an old pig talk of nothing but nonsense for perhaps weeks. His glorious mission required such a sacrifice, however, and he refused to leave until he completed it. It would all be worth the effort anyway when he finally cornered his mark.

  The Raven evidently thought Philip presumed him dead—murdered at Waterloo—or he wouldn’t have been so careless in returning home. Stupid English bastard. But even as Philip now made his way on the freezing, filthy, rat-infested island, he knew it would soon be worth the effort. Surprise would be his weapon this time, and he would finish his job with pleasure. The Raven would be his, on English soil, and Philip would have the last laugh, would be the one to triumph in their long and arduous personal war.

  Smiling, he purposely relaxed in his chair. “I hear your neighbor, the Earl of…”

  “Weymerth,” Grotton offered.

  “Ah, yes, Lord Weymerth. I hear he’s recently returned from the war himself, eh?”

  Grotton sneezed loudly. “Brave boy. Came back skinny as a rail and hungry as a horse. Never seen him look so weak in the twenty years I’ve known him, but he’s filling out nicely from what I hear. Probably due to having a wife now—”

  Philip choked on his tea, and for the first time in nine years, the time he’d been working for the government, he nearly lost his composure. Coughing gently for distraction, he laid his cup back on the table, wiped the corners of his mouth delicately with his white lace napkin, and turned his attention to his eggs.

  A wife? A wife? That seemed so unlikely and bizarre. Incredible. Why would someone so keen on deception, so focused on his work, want to marry? Not the Raven. He got plenty of sex from Christine, the stupid bitch always spreading her legs for his convenience whenever he snapped his fingers. And there were certainly others here he could use just as casually.

  “So the earl took a wife after returning from battle, eh?” he asked evenly.

  Grotton nodded and blew loudly into his handkerchief. “Baron Sytheford’s daughter. Haven’t met her, but I hear they’re all handsome, blond ladies.”

  “How very fortunate for the earl,” he conceded lightly, seething inside. The Raven mocked him even from afar, first stealing his woman, then abandoning her for a beautiful but witless English wench. If he didn’t know his own capabilities, he might be tempted to believe there was truly no justice in the world.

  “Quite fortunate,” Grotton maintained, becoming interested in his food at last as he picked at his sausage. “Perhaps you’d like to meet them, Mr. Whitsworth. I could invite them for dinner during your stay.”

  Philip hid his surge of panic well. “That would be lovely, I’m sure.” He sighed deeply, casually lifting his cup to his lips and draining it of the pale, tasteless liquid only English weaklings would enjoy.

  “However,” he continued, delicately dabbing at his mouth with his napkin, “it might be better if you invite them for a visit after I’ve taken care of straightening your stables. Does the earl ride, perchance?”

  Grotton swallowed a mouthful of tea and nodded. “The man’s a magnificent horseman.”

  “Well, there, you see?” Philip gently swiped his palm across the table, smiling, his voice jovial. “If the man can ride, why not show him your new horses after they’ve been properly conditioned and trained? A good horse man will always appreciate a decent mount, and the stallion and mare your cousin gave you are fine steeds indeed.”

  Grotton grunted and stuffed his mouth with eggs. “What I don’t understand,” he said while he chewed, “is why Marjorie would think of giving me horses. What the devil am I supposed to do with them? I haven’t ridden in years.”

  Philip shook his head patiently and answered the question in an extremely condescending tone. “Who can understand a woman? The whole lot of them tend to be scatterbrained at least most of the time.”

  Grotton nodded in agreement.

  “I’m sure she must have felt you could do something with them or benefit from them in some way,” he went on. “And if you think about it, what would a spinster do with two horses she inherited from an old reclusive grouch like my former employer? The man died and left her the horses along with my services until they are t
rained, but she doesn’t even own a stable.”

  “So why leave them to her? That hardly makes sense.”

  Philip shrugged nonchalantly. “She’d been caring for him as a good Christian neighbor while he was bedridden, and I think that was the only way he knew to repay her for her kindness when he passed on.” He leaned forward in his chair and lowered his voice. “I’ll admit that after his death I was ready to return to the city, but Mr. Perkins paid me well, and I suppose training these two horses that now belong to you won’t be much trouble.

  “Frankly,” he stammered with forced embarrassment, “these horses, Sir Stanley, are of the finest stock. You will be able to show or breed them, or perhaps even sell one of the offspring to the regent himself if my talents are used fully.” He sat back in his chair. “Just think about that.”

  Grotton eyed him speculatively as he freely ate at last, devouring his breakfast with such speed that Philip thought he might actually choke on underchewed meat. English animal. He knew the man inside and out, had taken the time to learn his weaknesses, two of which were money and pride—and, he considered with disgust, the third was probably food if his table manners were any indication. But if the fat man thought for a moment that the prince regent might want to buy the horses his cousin had freely given him, his arrogance and desire for an elegant lifestyle would surely be his undoing.

  Since his arrival only yesterday, Philip had used his charm and good graces to weave his way into the man’s home, gently applying the right amount of persuasion in offering to stay and care for the two Arabians he’d supposedly brought with him from poor cousin Marjorie, the fat man’s spinster cousin he hadn’t seen in years, who now lay dead at the bottom of a lake.

  He’d introduced himself as a down-at-the-heels gentleman, an authority on horses, doing a favor for a friend, only just hinting at payment for services rendered. He discussed the war and English heroism at length with Grotton, so the man, for the sake of his company both knowledgeable and patriotic, would want him to remain in the house instead of the servants’ quarters. Indeed, he’d presented himself as an equestrian scholar, far above the station of a simple trainer or groom, and naturally he spoke, looked, and acted like the perfect gentleman. He deserved the comforts of a soft bed and warm surroundings for the trouble of being in such a filthy land, and if the idiot fat man adored the talk of battle, he would endure it.

  He now stayed only miles from the Raven, allowed to roam the property at will for an indefinite period of time, and training two horses would be his only trouble for the opportunity. Simple. Only the French could be so cunning and gifted, and patience was his gift.

  “I suppose I’ll have to write Marjorie and thank her for her thoughtfulness,” Grotton remarked at last as he sat back in the creaking chair, his plate nearly licked clean.

  Philip smiled. “I think that’s a marvelous suggestion. I’m sure the lady would appreciate your gratitude.” Slowly, deliberately, he creased his brows. “I do believe, however, that your cousin mentioned she’d be in Lincoln for the winter visiting an old lady friend who suffers.” His voice brightened. “But you could write her all the same. She’ll eventually receive the letter.”

  Grotton nodded and blew his nose again. “Good heavens, it’s been…five years now since I’ve seen Marjorie. The last time was a Christmas celebration with my aunt Helena.” He rolled his eyes. “Now she was a character, let me tell you…”

  Philip sat back casually and smiled with feigned interest, knowing that by the end of the month, he would suffer as well.

  Chapter 13

  On her twenty-sixth birthday, exactly eighty-six days after her arrival at Miramont, Caroline found the greenhouse. She came upon the structure so suddenly that she nearly tumbled into dirty, ivy-covered glass. But as she stopped and stared in acute surprise, she realized she’d accidently discovered the greatest birthday gift imaginable.

  Only two hours after a luncheon with Rosalyn and her husband to celebrate the event, she’d decided to walk the grounds thoroughly for the first time, all alone, to contemplate the changes in her life. The afternoon was lovely, the sun shining warmly through the tree branches, and the relaxing atmosphere gave her the distraction she needed to think.

  It had been nearly four weeks since Rosalyn had first spoken to them with her hands, and in that time she’d practiced patiently with the child each day to teach her new words, the meanings of which she was slowly beginning to grasp. Rosalyn made gestures for feelings now and knew several words, an accomplishment that continued to amaze everyone. Even Brent finally took the effort to learn to communicate, stopping his daughter frequently to gesture or motion for this or that. Caroline taught him the alphabet she’d created as well, so eventually they could all spell words and talk to each other with their hands and fingers, easily and efficiently. Over time it would all come together, but time was not on her side.

  She would be leaving for America soon. She’d made her plans, persuading her sister Stephanie to sell her emeralds and book passage for her aboard ship. It took a great deal of persuasion, actually, since Stephanie, young and romantic, couldn’t understand why she was still inclined to leave England, and especially her husband, for a lifetime of study and research. She’d vocalized her irritation and disapproval, nearly scolding Caroline outright for her determination and continued intentions. And the pressure was starting to take its toll.

  For the first time in her life Caroline was uncertain of her path. She had never been torn between two things as she was now. Logically she wanted only her flowers, her plants and precious lavender roses, her breeding calculations, and the recognition of being a learned botanist. But emotionally she wanted the little girl she’d taught to communicate to grow up to know her as her mother, and she had to admit she ached for Brent to want her for more than her ability to bear and care for children.

  He already respected her, which was more than most wives could ever expect from a husband. He never demanded that she sleep with him, although he discussed it frequently and teased her shamefully with suggestions. Only two nights before, he’d awakened again with a nightmare and she had gone to him.

  He kissed her, sometimes sweetly, sometimes passionately, but never did he touch her with more intimacy than she was willing to accept. And she was fully aware that the passion they shared could only be held in check for so long. Eventually, if she stayed at Miramont, she would push reason aside, honor the marriage vows, and succumb to his lovemaking. Acknowledging that need in her was tearing her apart.

  So, confused and alone, she’d left them all to think, to walk without direction through the thick forest, and suddenly it stood before her. A greenhouse, old and covered with ivy and weeds from years of neglect, but a greenhouse nonetheless.

  Slowly, excitement overtaking the initial shock, she walked around the rectangular building, finding it to be of average size and sound of structure, the door on the far end tightly shut and covered with wild greenery.

  Carefully she tried the rusted handle, but it wouldn’t give, and she didn’t have the adequate tools with her to pry it open. But, as she considered all the options for breeding, with a greenhouse now available to her, her mind immediately began to race with possibilities.

  And she was instantly filled with questions.

  Did it belong to him? It had to, for she was only a mile from the house, in deep woods, and it certainly hadn’t been used in years, maybe decades. So why had he never mentioned it when he knew how desperate she was to acquire such a structure?

  Did he even know it existed? He had to, Caroline surmised after careful consideration, for the man owned the property surrounding the house for miles and rode his horses daily over his land. Yes, he would have to be aware of a greenhouse on his property, so why the secrecy? The only conclusion she could draw was that he wanted to keep the use of it from her for personal reasons.

  That made her angry. She’d asked for a greenhouse, and he had spitefully denied her one he already owned, alth
ough truthfully she had been overly flirtatious in bringing up the subject. But this would cost him nothing, not even his time. He needn’t be concerned with it at all.

  The more she thought about it, the angrier she became, and with it came the awareness that she wouldn’t be able to acknowledge the find. If he learned of her discovery, he could reasonably deny her access, and that she refused to allow.

  So, determined and annoyed, she turned and marched back toward the house. If he could keep his greenhouse a secret, she could keep the use of it a secret. He obviously didn’t go near it often, and if she was careful, she could work in it during those times she knew he’d be otherwise occupied. Keeping the greenhouse a secret would be something they could both share.

  Quickly she made her way through the trees and across the meadow, feeling the urgency to start exerting her efforts on the structure immediately. She stepped through the back door, passed the dining room, and was so engrossed in thoughts of planting that she nearly ran into Nedda, who in turn raced into the hallway from the drawing room.

  Nedda took a step back, breathing fast. “We have guests,” she blurted anxiously.

  Caroline smiled. Obviously whoever had arrived had startled her housekeeper by calling without notice. And since she wore only a plain white blouse and cotton work skirt, she would have to change before receiving.

  “Why don’t you serve tea while I dress, Nedda. I’ll be there shortly.”

  Her housekeeper faltered slightly, her eyes shifting to the drawing-room door. “I think it would be best if you saw them now,” she mumbled before darting past and racing away.

  Caroline gazed after her, curious, having never seen Nedda so pink-cheeked and flustered. Deciding she didn’t need to be announced, and forgetting completely her inappropriate attire, she walked to the door of the drawing room and swiftly stepped inside.

  She saw the woman first, a lovely blond woman, sitting primly on the blue velveteen sofa, staring at her gloved hands while she nervously rubbed her fingers together. She wore a pale-pink day gown and her hair was fashionably pinned to frame her creamy, pale face. For just an instant, Caroline feared this was Pauline Sinclair, here to announce she’d given birth to her husband’s second child.