“Good.” Simon nodded. “Excellent” He glanced out the study window at the twilight sky. “It’s still early, isn’t it?”
“Nearly six, sir. Would you like the chef to speak to you about dinner?”
Simon cast his eyes about the room, tapped his fingers on his desktop. He suddenly smiled. “Why not.”
The chef was so alarmed when he received his summons, his knees went weak. Quickly sitting down, he wondered what disaster had precipitated his being called upstairs. He’d never personally spoken with the duke. On the rare occasions when a dinner was given at Hargreave House, the dowager duchess or Lady Adele gave him his instructions.
Mounting the stairs to the main floor, he was certain he was about to be sacked and trembling, he entered the duke’s study.
Simon looked up and smiled. “Good evening- er-”
Fenellon, sir,“ Gore interposed.
“Ah, yes, Fenellon. May I compliment you on your fine work.”
“Thank you, thank you, Your Grace.” The chef’s hands were tightly clasped in an attempt to repress his agitation.
“Gore tells me you might make some suggestions for dinner tonight.”
Fenellon almost fainted on the spot. It was already six o’clock. “For… how many… guests, Your Grace?” he whispered.
“Just myself. Don’t take alarm.” The man’s face was chalk white. “Anything will do.”
The duke never ate at home. Never. Fenellon had no idea what he liked. Meat, fish, game? Did he eat salads, ices, vegetables? How important was presentation? And the wine list? He had no notion what the duke preferred.
“Maybe a sandwich,” Simon suggested, kindly. The man appeared distrait.
“A sandwich!” The chef’s face turned from white to red in an instant. “Impossible, Your Grace! A sandwich! It would be a disgrace to my kitchen!”
Moving to the chef’s side, Gore spoke quietly to him as he guided him from the study.
Returning to the study a few moments later, Simon’s secretary rendered clear the chefs sudden explosion. “I believe you startled Fenellon, sir. But rest assured, we’ll find you something you like for dinner.”
“It’s not a concern. I could go out.” Simon leaned back in his chair, rested his head against the tufted leather. “On the other hand, I have no interest in going out.”
“Very good, sir. Should I have Manchester bring you a brandy?”
Simon sat up. “Yes, please, and have the lights turned on.” He glanced at the clock. “Good Lord, it’s only quarter past six.”
“Would you like to look at your mail, sir?”
Simon surveyed his secretary with an amused gaze. “If I wanted to look at my mail, I wouldn’t need you, now would I?”
“No, sir-er, yes, sir.” Gore began backing out of the room. “I’ll call Manchester.”
The duke felt as though he were a boy waiting for class to end, the hands of the clock moving as slowly as they did when he was a young student. It took four-and-three-quarters minutes for Manchester to arrive with his brandy and nine-and-a-half very long minutes before Gore came back with a tentative menu for dinner. A minute more to glance over it and give his approval.
And then twenty-one long hours stretched before him.
He had his coach ordered for half past three.
Sipping on his brandy, he mentally reviewed the required items for his journey to Yorkshire: a ring-promised by noon; a marriage license, ditto; a wedding gown-even under intense pressure, not until three; numerous pieces of jewelry from various jewelers, ten sharp; all the papers from his solicitors, first thing in the morning. If he didn’t need that damnable wedding gown, he could leave London by noon. He frowned. Sighed. Poured himself another drink.
Women liked fripperies like gowns, though.
He’d wait until three.
But it wasn’t going to be easy.
Chapter 21
It was the last night of the holiday festivities and whether she was weary from the frantic pace of the last fortnight or touched with the amorphous melancholy that had plagued her of late, Caroline found herself fighting back tears.
The party had retired to the great hall after dinner to enjoy hot punch and the last night of the yule log. Hundreds of candles decorated the chamber, the scent of pine boughs was fragrant in the air, the sound of laughter accompanying a rowdy game of charades resonated through the room.
And Caroline felt like crying.
Pleading a sudden headache, she excused herself and left the room. Running down the corridor until she was well away from the great hall and any guest that might wander out, she leaned back against the wall, her hands against the linen fold paneling. Drawing in great gulps of air she swallowed hard, trying to quell the building pressure of tears.
She tried to tell herself it was senseless to cry; she was so much more fortunate than most. The problems she faced were trivial compared to those without the basic necessities of life. She was well treated; her employers were kind. Her teaching duties were far from difficult; her small bedroom was cozy and warm. She should be grateful for what she had. As she tallied all the positive virtues of her life, she found herself able to swallow her tears and breathe a little easier.
But just as she was feeling more composed, she saw Will coming toward her and she experienced an unsettling rush of emotion. He was always so kind and gentle, offering her the comforts of a life she’d almost forgotten existed, reminding her perhaps of all that she’d lost. Stirring emotions she wasn’t sure she wished recalled.
As he reached her, he took note of her distress, her attempt at a smile pitiful. “Tell me what’s wrong, darling,” he murmured, gathering her into his arms. “Let me help.”
Swallowing hard, she tried to reaffirm the goodness and satisfactions in her life-the man embracing her part of that good fortune and as she rested in the circle of his arms, it seemed as though she was more in control of her emotions, calmer. A bland platitude about gratitude was looping through her mind, soothing in its implications.
“You’re not alone, darling,” Will murmured. “I’ll always be here if you need me-for anything at all.”
With a hiccupy sob, she burst into tears-because she was alone no matter how she rationalized.
Drawing her nearer, he held her close, implicitly offering her his strength and understanding, his affection and she clung to him and cried as though her heart were breaking.
“Let me take care of you, darling and you’ll never have to cry again,” he murmured, gently stroking her back. “I’ll keep you safe always and ever,” he whispered, brushing away her tears with the back of his hand. “Just give me the chance.”
Lifting her face to his, she gave him a shaky smile. What would it be like if she simply gave in and said yes to all he offered? she wondered. Would her melancholy vanish? Would she come to love him? Would she indeed find happiness?
“I can’t stand to see you so sad,” he whispered, as if knowing her thoughts. “Let me make you happy…” He dipped his head, his eyes, blue as the skies even in lamplight, were only inches away. “Let me love you,” he breathed. And he kissed her for the first time, a gentle, tentative kiss.
Inexplicably, she kissed him back. Overwhelmed and lonely, no longer certain she wished to brave the world alone, she allowed herself the comfort of his affection. But almost as quickly as she’d given in to impulse, she regretted her unguarded response. Kindness didn’t equate to love in her romantic soul and no matter how well-meaning the viscount, she could never care for him the way he cared for her. Even confronting the utter disarray of her emotions, of that she was sure. She tried to pull away. “Will-no, please… don’t.”
A sudden gust of cold air swept down the corridor, swirling her skirt about her ankles, the heavy front door slammed and a voice she knew said with fraudulent obsequiousness, “Do forgive us. Have we interrupted something?”
She jumped.
Without relinquishing his hold, Will turned toward the two men approachi
ng them, the distance between them narrowing swiftly.
“Will, please.” Caroline tried to ease away. “I should go.”
As though the viscount sensed some connection between the tall, dark-haired man striding toward them and the woman he loved, he shook his head and tightened his embrace.
“Will, you must let me go.”
Although she spoke quietly, her words carried in the silence.
“You heard the lady,” Simon murmured, having come to a stop a few feet away.
“This is none of your affair,” Will countered, challenge in his voice, his stance, in the taut dip of his drawn brows.
“Ahem. If I may intrude…”
Will’s gaze shifted to the man who had come up beside Simon, his cleric’s collar clearly visible at close range.
“Perhaps we could discuss this like gentlemen,” Aubrey Galworthy suggested, his placid expression like his voice, forbearing and mild.
Will hesitated a moment more before he let his arms fall to his sides, his reluctance obvious.
Quickly stepping away, Caroline nervously straightened the neckline of her gown, tugging up the décolletage against Simon’s piercing gaze.
Simon had last seen that azure velvet gown sliding down Caro’s hips into a silken puddle on the floor of her bedroom. He beat back the provocative memory with effort.
Caroline dipped her head in polite withdrawal. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll rejoin the other guests.”
“Stay.”
Her chin came up at Simon’s curt order. “I beg your pardon,” she said, sharply.
Aubrey coughed delicately. “Your Grace, if you please, allow me to intercede.” At Simon’s nod, he added, “Lady Caroline, I believe Lord Blair wishes to speak with you on a matter of some moment.”
“You may tell Lord Blair, I have no wish to speak to him.” She turned to go.
Simon moved with quicksilver grace and blocked her path. “Surely, you can spare a moment of your time, Lady Caroline. Bishop Galworthy will attend our meeting. You’ll be treated with the utmost respect.”
Every word was unctuous and suave, his polite smile beyond reproach. Caroline gazed at him with distrust. “Why should I bother?”
Simon met her distrust with so guileless an expression he would have passed muster on judgment day. “We’ve ridden hard from London to see you.” He bowed faintly. “We’d appreciate your indulgence.”
The cleric moved to Simon’s side. “There’s no need for concern, my lady.”
Why did Simon have a bishop in tow? If nothing else, her curiosity was piqued.
“You needn’t talk to him, Caro,” Will interposed, a dogmatic note to his voice. “If this man’s attentions are unwanted, I’m here to protect you.”
And there was the devil’s own dilemma-whether unwanted was indeed the case. The travelers had brought with them the fresh fragrance of the outdoors as well as that of wet wool, Simon’s cape beaded with the winter mist. His mud-spattered boots were leaving small rivulets on the stone flags, his black hair was sleek and wet, pulled behind his ears to keep the unruly waves in place. He looked tired, a trace of stubble shadowing his jaw. He had ridden hard. But he was as beautiful as ever, dark and towering, his audacious gaze heated, tempting her with its boldness. Thank you, Will. I appreciate your concern,“ she acknowledged politely. ”But the duke is a friend from my childhood.“
She had no idea why she’d referred to Simon in such a way; she had less idea why he tempted her when a man of substance and heart was at her side. But then, perhaps she’d not been raised to honor conventional goodness so much as foolhardy adventure. And the most rash and reckless man she knew had ridden all this way to talk to her. “Why don’t we use the Tuscany parlor,” she suggested, turning to Simon.
“Caroline, I must protest,” Will exclaimed. “Let me accompany you at least”
“This won’t take long, Will,” she placated. “Wait for me in the study. I’ll be there directly.”
Simon repressed a smile, the word, directly, inappropriate under the circumstances. She perhaps would be gone a trifle longer than she suspected since he’d come north with but a single aim. But since it wasn’t productive at the moment to make a scene, he bowed to the man he didn’t know and didn’t care to know and offered his arm to Caroline.
Waving away his escort, she moved toward the small nearby room, the contents of which a Carlisle earl had brought back a century ago from an Italian journey.
Simon was in good humor, his mission going much better than he’d anticipated. He’d considered the possibility he might have to abduct Caro from the midst of a crowd of holiday guests. The privacy of the parlor had much to commend it. Although he mustn’t forget her sullen-eyed beau who was currently staring a hole in his back. He mustn’t lose sight of the fact that Will may or may not wait in the study as directed.
On the other hand, Caro might accept his proposal with delight, fall into his arms, they could announce their marriage plans to everyone at the castle and then ride off to a future of scented rosebuds and silvery moonlight.
Wishful thinking.
With the bishop as witness, Simon escorted Caroline to a chair in the Tuscany parlor and then explained with utmost courtesy what exactly had brought him to Netherton Castle. His proposal, he thought, was all that was required-gallant, refined, couched in politesse. He couldn’t quite bring himself to go down on one knee, but in all other things, he was the model of civility.
“Are you stark, raving MAD?” Caroline cried, unheedful of his extremely civil tone, not to mention the gravity of his proposal. Jumping to her feet, practically snapping with outrage, she stared him in the eye like some small terrier about to take a bite out of his hide. “What the hell makes you think you can barge in here with a priest and a marriage license and a wedding gown-”
“And a ring, I almost forgot.” Pulling a small velvet packet from his pocket, he upended it and a ring set with a huge ruby fell into his palm.
“This isn’t humorous, Simon!” She jerked her head toward Aubrey. “Does he have to be here?”
His grin was playful. “I might need protection.”
“Everything’s a joke with you, isn’t it?,” she exploded. “For your information, I don’t find this amusing! Nor do I intend to marry your lying, cheating, heartless, disreputable, I-don’t-care-if-you-can-buy-half-of-England bloody ass!” Spinning around, she made for the door.
This time it was Simon who jerked his head toward Aubrey before stalking after Caroline. “Don’t leave just yet” His voice was mild, but his fingers were biting into her flesh as he lifted her off her feet “Let’s discuss our differences,” he murmured, his deferential tone as spurious as his bland smile. He set her down directly before him, her back pressed hard against his body, his arm around her waist, vise-tight. “Shut your fucking mouth,” he whispered in her ear. “Wait for us outside, Aubrey,” he said in a conversational tone to the man hesitating at the door. “This shouldn’t take long. We’ll be ready to leave soon.”
The bishop paused a moment more, but the duke had paid him enough to buy a modest race stable-in advance.
The duke had been generous for a reason and he waited now for his paid retainer to make the right decision.
A moment later, the door shut on the bishop.
Once they were alone, Simon released his hold, although he took the precaution of stepping between Caroline and the door.
“We will not be ready to leave soon,” she hissed, standing rigid before him. “You’re not going to order me about like one of your underlings. How much did you pay him,” she spat, “to look the other way?”
“Enough,” he said, grimly, his temper barely leashed.
Glancing at the door, she smiled tightly. “Apparently. But I’m not for sale, Simon and you’re not going to be able to come up here with your accoutrements of marriage and buy me like some fucking cow! Good God, Simon, do you think you can command me to marry you like you command everyone within y
our earthly realm?”
“I asked you to marry me,” he said, clipped and terse. “Something I don’t make a practice of doing,” he growled. “Something I was planning to avoid for another decade at least”
“Good. Then we’re both in agreement. I’ll wish you good journey.”
He put his hands up and the muscle over his cheekbone began twitching. “Just a damned minute. As I recall, in our last conversation, you berated me for asking you to join me in an arrangement you perceived as irregular. I thought you wanted me to propose marriage. Fucking make up your mind.”
She glared at him. “I should be gratified, I suppose, that a fine lord like you deigns to marry me. I should be kissing your toes, shouldn’t I, for having made such a great and mighty sacrifice when you could have say-Daphne-or are you still fucking Arabella who dances better than she reads? Or maybe Chloe is still available; I’ve been out of touch. So marry one of them; don’t do me any bloody favors. I don’t need you!”
“I’m not deigning to do anything,” he said, grimly. “I’m not making any sacrifices, other than wasting my time arguing with you. Do you know how many days I’ve been on the road to get to this outland? And it’s colder than hell this time of year.”
“As cold as your proposal?” she sneered. “I was under the impression a marriage proposal might actually mention the word love.”
His gaze didn’t quite meet hers for a moment and then he said in a tautly constrained voice, “Would it help if I used the word love?”
“Help?” Her voice rose to a breathy shriek. “What would help, is if you even knew what the hell the word meant!”
“I know what it means,” he replied as calmly as his volatile emotions would allow.
Tell me,“ she said, very, very softly.
The bishop must have been listening at the door, because the sound of his breathing was suddenly audible in the absolute silence of the room.
“Exactly.” And for a moment she hated him and his flagrant indifference. “Now why would I want to be married to a man who doesn’t know what love is? Or what marriage involves. In case you weren’t aware, it’s not all about fucking.”
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