"You were there?"
"At the door. I arrived after eleven. Willis wouldn't let me in."
A vision of the careless Lucas in velvet knee breeches and silk stockings barred from entry drew a chuckle from her. "Too bad."
He looked as sulky as a boy refused a treat, almost as morose as the first time he had asked for her hand. "Goddamn it, Caro. It's not funny." His voice rasped and his words were not entirely crisp.
Caro blinked. With his hair falling loose, his cravat hanging free around his neck, and his waistcoat unbuttoned, he looked thoroughly dissipated. "Are you foxed?"
His broad shoulders lifted. Strange that such a small movement should have the power to hold her gaze, to fascinate. "A little warm perhaps," he slurred.
And from his expression, he wasn't particularly happy. Her exciting news would have to wait. "I hope you will excuse me. I am too tired for conversation." She picked up her skirts and started up the stairs.
His hand covered hers on the balustrade before she had taken two steps. Storms swirled in the depths of his dark eyes as he stared up at her. "I want a word with you."
"Surely, this can wait until morning?"
His warm hand clenched down like a vice. "It is important."
Prickles raced down her spine, the same kind of excitement she'd felt at his kiss. Her stomach dropped at the recollection of his distaste. She tugged at her fingers. "Do you want to wake the whole house?"
A hard smile curved his lips. "Do you?"
The thought of the servants listening stopped her dead. She shook her head.
He jerked his head toward the study. "In there."
Pulling her hand free, she swirled around and marched into the small ground-floor room where Lucas took care of his business. Whatever that was.
She sank onto the single comfortably stuffed armchair fronting the desk. "Well?"
"Well what?" he drawled and perched one hip on the corner of his desk.
She felt a flutter of disquiet. Perhaps he wanted to discuss what had happened in the bedroom. She steeled herself. "You said you had something important to tell me."
"I wanted to warn you," he said vaguely. "You are not completely up to snuff."
"Warn me about what?"
"About the kind of men who spend their time at places like Almack's, for one thing."
"You mean men like your cousin?"
He waved a dismissive hand. "Not poor old Cedric. Men who make it their business to dance with other men's wives."
She wrinkled her nose, not sure she understood, but sensing that he placed a great deal of importance on this mysterious group of men. "Men like Mr. Walton? I danced with him. Or Mr. Bascombe?"
"Yes. Like Bascombe. Unattached men looking for the main chance," he ground out.
"The chance to dance," she hazarded, giggling at how silly it sounded.
"It is not dancing I am talking about."
This was all very confusing. "Then what?"
A groan rumbled up from his chest. "You are such an innocent. Can't you see? Almack's is not only a marriage mart; it is a place where gentlemen seek out female company."
"They could hardly dance with each other."
He blinked. "What are you talking about?"
"There is also the card room."
"At a penny a point? No self-respecting man would tolerate it unless he had an ulterior motive."
This conversation seemed to be going in circles. "Please, Lucas, what is it you wanted to say?"
"I am telling you to be careful. Take Charlie Bascombe, for example."
Caro nodded, hoping to still his growing agitation.
"He ain't interested in the parson's mousetrap. Couldn't be, if he spends all his time dancing and flirting with my wife."
She frowned. "He wasn't flirting; he was dancing and talking."
Triumph crossed his face. "There, that's just what I mean. Why is Charlie Bascombe doing the pretty with a married woman? And Walton."
"You are wrong. They all behaved like perfect gentlemen."
"Unlike me, of course."
She narrowed her eyes. She'd had just about enough of this drunken interrogation. He seemed bent on spoiling her wonderful evening for no reason at all. "Very unlike you indeed, from the way he dresses to the way he behaves with respect to his family."
She pressed a hand to her mouth, wishing the rush of words back where they came from.
"Is that right?" He stalked closer and stood over her, his eyes fathomless in an expressionless mask. His fingers encircled her upper arms and he dragged her to her feet, the smoky tang of whisky strong on his breath.
She gasped. "Stop it."
He pulled her close, capturing the back of her head in one hand, pressing his mouth savagely against hers.
Sandalwood and whisky and cigar smoke filled her senses, and she yielded to the soul-draining pressure of his hard body.
His hands ran over her shoulders and down her back, hot and heavy, pressing her into him, kneading her flesh. His harsh breathing drowned out the sound of her heartbeat.
This could only lead to trouble. He must be too drunk to know what he was doing. If only she had the strength to stop him.
But she couldn't let him go. Her body arched against him, yearning to feel him hard against her, longing for his strength, his searing kiss. Her hands slipped around his neck; her fingers raked through his silky hair. She opened her mouth to his questing tongue and quaked with passion. She had gone mad.
Their tongues intertwined. A quiver of sweet tension spiked low in her stomach.
He lifted his head and gazed into her face.
Afraid her trembling legs would give way, she clung to him.
His beautiful mouth curled in derision. "How does that compare with your perfect gentleman?"
He thought she had kissed his friend? A red mist clouded her vision. She clenched her fingers in his hair, saw his wince of pain, and felt a rush of satisfaction tinged with fear at her daring.
She dropped her hand and stepped back, her chest rising and falling in time to the angry pulse in her blood. "It bears no comparison, Lucas, because it didn't happen. Mr. Bascombe is not a despicable rake. At least he knows how to behave with honor."
He flinched.
The words hung heavy in the silent room.
He remained utterly still, his onyx eyes bleak and cold. Caro felt as if he were piercing her soul with shards of ice. Unable to bear the taut silence any longer, she ran from the room and raced up the stairs. He'd ruined a wonderful evening.
Eight
"I think Lady Audley was right about this color
suiting me." Caro ran her hand down the front of the rust-colored silk with its blue frog closing over the white satin slip. She glanced at Lizzie. "I would never have chosen such a strong color myself, but I think these short sleeves make the tops of my arms look bigger than they are."
Lizzie tied the matching blue cord under Caro's bosom in a neat bow. "Rubbish. It looks fine enough. But you should have let that seamstress do the neckline like the picture. All the ladies wear them lower, even out walking. There's nothing like a bit of bosom to keep a man on his toes."
Fire crept up her neck and into her face. "Perhaps a bit, but not acres."
"Lord love you, why not make the most of it?"
"Lizzie, this is hardly a suitable topic of conversation. And I know I've added at least an inch since we arrived in London."
Lizzie's homely face crumpled. "It's because you aren't happy." She shook her head. "His lordship never did you any favors asking you to marry him. Can't have, when all you wants to do is eat sweets."
"Nonsense. It has nothing to do with Foxhaven. I'm just not getting enough exercise here in Town. We never walk anywhere." Not that any amount of walking would turn her into a wraith like the wispy Louisa Caradin or the dainty Tisha Audley. Her childhood had taught her that much.
She frowned. "I suppose I should go down."
"When are you going to tell his lords
hip about meeting yer cousin?" Lizzie asked, holding out the spangled shawl.
Caro bit her lip while Lizzie settled the shawl around her shoulders. She hadn't set eyes on Lucas since their unpleasant encounter two days ago—the reason she'd taken to ordering cream cakes from the local confectioner. "I'm waiting for the right moment."
"Aye," Lizzie said, with a dour look. "Best tell him at dinner before you run into the fellow tonight."
Perhaps she'd tell him over dessert.
"Be off with you, my lady. And enjoy yerself."
She braced her shoulders as if preparing to face an ogre and made her way downstairs. Perhaps she would pretend that their argument had never happened.
Entering the drawing room, she found Lucas slouched on the couch, a moody cast to his mouth. He appeared to have made a special effort this evening. Even his cravat had several folds and a complex knot. His choice of a dark wine-colored coat, rather than his usual black, emphasized his dark hair and eyes and made him seem sinfully handsome.
Too handsome for a pudgy female, she thought. She could almost hear the ton whisper, "No wonder he keeps a mistress."
He rose, bowed with stiff formality, and indicated the tray of drinks set on the inlaid sideboard between the windows. "May I offer you a glass of wine, my lady?"
She forced a cool smile around the shake in her breathing. "No, thank you."
"You do not mind if I do? These types of affairs always make me nervous."
Nervous? Lucas? She couldn't imagine it. She sank onto the sofa. "Please do, if it helps."
He poured himself a drink and turned to face her. "You look charming in that color, Caro."
A swift glance at his polite expression assured her of his lack of sarcasm. "Thank you. You also look quite splendid."
The silence dragged on. Then they both spoke at the same time.
"I beg your pardon," Lucas said. "What did you say?"
"Nothing. The merest commonplace." Caro lifted her hand. "Please continue."
He strolled over to the chair opposite her and dropped into it.
A ball of wool knotted up somewhere in her hollow stomach.
"I'm sorry about the other night," he said, the words bitten out as if they cut his tongue. "According to our agreement, you have the right to dance with whomsoever you wish. I just want you to take care of your reputation. Tisha Audley is not necessarily a good role model, and Bas has a reputation as a ladies' man."
Talk about the pot slandering the kettle.
"You would do better to put yourself in Cedric's hands," he said.
For a moment, Caro longed to accede to the appeal in his dark eyes. "I like your cousin and will certainly be guided by your aunt, but Tisha and Mr. Bascombe have been nothing but kind. They are good friends."
The faint lines around his mouth seemed to deepen. "Then I will say nothing more."
Her heart stumbled, her resolve faltering as it always had when he had had that hurt puppy-dog look as a boy. It rarely appeared any more; he seemed so sure of himself these days. She drew in a breath, ready to recant.
Before she could speak, he reached into his pocket. "I noticed how little jewelry you have, and since I have not given you a bride gift, I thought you might like this." He drew forth a velvet pouch and emptied a shimmering strand of diamonds into his palm.
She gasped. "Oh, Lucas. It's beautiful, but I really cannot accept such an expensive gift."
"Why not?" His voice sounded harsh. "Because it's from me?"
"Of course not. I could never wear anything so expensive . . . so exotic."
"Nonsense. With your long neck and beautiful shoulders, it will look lovely with that gown."
Beautiful? Her. She almost melted. His eyes gleamed as bright as the diamonds in his long fingers. Was this more of his careless flirting? "I might lose it," she murmured.
He shrugged. "Then I will buy you another. You are the future Countess of Stockbridge. How does it look if you have naught but a string of pearls to your name?" As he spoke, he came around behind her. "Hold still."
Quite enchanted by its delicacy, she let him fasten the choker around her neck. If he wanted to use this to make up for their quarrel, she ought to be gracious. She did so hate being at odds with him. She always had.
Taking her hand, he brought her to her feet and led her to the mirror beside the window. As fine as a bedewed spider's web, the necklace lay against her throat as if designed for her alone. He traced the edge of it with a fingertip. The knot in her stomach unraveled so fast her head swam.
"It is glorious," she gasped. "Thank you."
"It has been in the Rivers family for generations, but I believe it looks better on you than any of the former countesses."
"How would you know?"
"From their portraits, of course." His smile in the glass faltered. "Do you think we can call a truce tonight? It will be dashed awkward otherwise."
She'd like nothing better. They had never argued before, and it hurt. The smile on her lips trembled with effort. "Very well."
His gaze dropped to her mouth. The air between them picked up the fire of the diamonds, glittering back and forth in jagged points of heat. Her breathing shallowed to small sips of air in time with her heartbeat.
The light graze of his fingers on her throat burned a fiery trail. It drifted lower. He leaned close. He was going to kiss her again. Her heart pounded with a mixture of excited fear and terrified anticipation.
A knock sounded on the door. They jumped apart like children caught in mischief. Lucas turned away, but not before she saw what looked like disappointment on his face. A spurt of something dangerous coursed through her veins. Clearly there was more than friendship between them, now. She just wished she understood what it was.
Beckwith cleared his throat. "Dinner is served, my lord."
How could she now risk spoiling their new accord by telling him about her cousin?
* * *
The line of carriages waiting to disgorge their passengers started almost two streets from the Cardross townhouse.
Lucas passed the time telling wicked gossip about the people they were likely to meet. By the time the coach drew up, he had her in fits of giggles.
"At last," he said helping her to alight. He shot her a lopsided grin. "Ready to face the beau monde? Don't worry, I'll be right behind you."
"I would prefer to be behind you. Not that it would do me much good." It would be like trying to hide an elephant behind a gazelle.
He chuckled, resting his hand gently on the small of her back, guiding, supporting, assuring her she wasn't alone.
A sense of indescribable happiness swept over her. Things were back to normal. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him. A strange little smile caught at her lips. That might prove risky in public if their response to each other flamed out of control, the way it had the last time they kissed.
Arm in arm, they strolled up the steps of the magnificent portico and past the waiting servants. A butler took Lucas's card at the entrance to the ballroom and bellowed, "Viscount and Lady Foxhaven."
Caro snickered.
"Behave," Lucas muttered and gave her arm a friendly squeeze. His eyes gleamed amusement. "You're not supposed to look as if you are enjoying this. Ennui is the thing."
Why couldn't it always be like this? The way they were before he left Norwich for London.
"There are Bas and Lady Audley," he said.
In an overflowing ballroom, Lucas had managed to see their friends over the heads of the crowd. He guided her through the crush of the crowd, and they joined a merry group of young people.
Some of them Caro recognized from Tisha's afternoon tea and others from Almack's. She joined the conversation as if she had known everyone all her life.
Within minutes of her arrival, several gentlemen claimed dances. Lucas had insisted on two waltzes before they left home, and Charles asked for a quadrille.
"Shall we?" Lucas asked as the orchestra struck up the first
waltz.
"I would love to," Caro replied, smiling up at him.
Content that she looked her best, she held her chin up as Lucas swept her onto the dance floor. He danced with ease and grace, his body flowing with the music. Instead of feeling awkward and leaden, she floated beneath his gentle guidance.
She glanced up at him.
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