It was only late that night that he began to wonder what on earth he was to say to Caro that could attempt to explain his behavior.
CHAPTER NINE
OUR HEROINE RECEIVES AN APOLOGY
(OF SORTS)
Caro did not mind missing the party downstairs. In fact, her twisted ankle, though painful, was a welcome excuse not to mingle with the couples from the neighboring countryside while Beverley sneered from the sidelines.
She simply could come to no satisfactory explanation for his behavior unless it was the one Elise had offered. The attraction she had always sensed for the duke had never been stronger. Whenever he was in the same room with her, she felt him, When his eyes fell on her, she felt a touch akin to down floating against her skin. Whatever emotion was in his eyes when he looked into hers, something in her leapt to greet it—to refute it, dismiss it, or treasure it.
Right before he blurted out the bit about offering her carte blanche, his eyes were caressing her with what she still believed to have been tenderness. Something in her had hoped that at last . . . no. She would not even formulate that thought. Had he not dashed it most brutally? All the way home in the carriage, even when Cleaverings was speaking to her, the words carte blanche had rung in her ears. They still rang until she gripped her ears with her hands and twisted and pulled at them, trying to inflict physical pain so her emotional torment would be overruled.
When that did not work, she tried fantasy. She imagined a guillotine. Beverley’s shade and her own were grasping hands beneath the blade as it came crashing down. Severing them. She was severed from the actual duke every bit as certainly. His words had put him beyond the pale. A respectable young lady would never speak to him again. Surely, he would leave this house before she could see him once more. When she saw him in Town in future, she would be obliged to give him the cut direct. And whatever else befell her at any future date, she would never, under any circumstances, be alone with him.
So. That was a very logical declaration of what her behavior should be. But how could she reason with her heart?
So far was this from any experience in her life to date that she had no idea. It was absurd, but the fact that he obviously felt the same attraction for her gave her comfort. She clung to that fact, though she knew doing so was reprehensible. In fact, her mind even strayed into another kind of fantasy, for brief moments only, of what it would be like to surrender illicitly to the passion that was threatening to overtake the two of them. She could scarcely admit it to herself, but a tiny, wayward part of her thrilled at the idea of . . . no. She shut her mind to the idea. She must not think it. But she grew warm all over her body. His eyes had shone with that same longing that she had felt in the moment he had made his declaration. Caro knew that he had temporarily lost hold of who she was and spoke the truth as it existed in that moment.
Her thoughts would not lie still, and the pain in her ankle was very real, so she slept little. Finally, near dawn, physical exhaustion claimed her and she fell into a deep slumber.
Caro woke to the sound of someone sneezing violently. Eyes still closed, she sorted through her thoughts. Only a man would sneeze like that. But what would a man be doing in her room? When she was sleeping? Only one man would be that bold. Her eyes flew open, and there he was. Like a vision: dressed in a black velvet coat that fit him to an inch, a silver waistcoat, white pantaloons, a white shirt, and an expertly tied cravat. Someone had pulled back the drapes, and the duke stood in a shaft of sunlight with dust motes dancing in the air about him. For just a moment, she feasted on the vision with a kind of awe.
Then he sneezed once more.
“Deuced fomentation of Jack’s!” he said. “Stinks to high heaven. I must be having a reaction to it.”
The spell was broken, and Caro was immediately aware of her unbrushed teeth, her wild locks strewn over the pillow, and the sheets and blankets which did not adequately cover her form. Clutching at them, she brought them underneath her chin. The illusions wrought by sleep dropped from her like a cloak.
“There is a very effective relief for your condition, your grace. Get out. At once!”
“When I have planned my campaign so carefully? Fear not. Everyone is at church. I stayed behind to locate a missing glove.”
“Wretch! I thought I had seen the back of you.”
“Caro, or Miss Braithwaite . . .”
“It had better be Caro, as calling me anything else is specious and ridiculous under the circumstances.”
“Caro, then. I want to explain about yesterday.”
Her heart began to thump so hard, it pained her.
“What possible explanation can you offer? Your words expressed your feelings more than adequately. You are attracted to me, are you not?”
“Ah, yes. Very. Extremely, I would say.”
“However, it is not the sort of attraction you wish to feel for someone who would be your wife . . .”
“Devil take it! There you are wrong! The problem lies elsewhere.”
“Let me make this easier for you, so that we may get it over and done with. Your heart is given to another. You still hope to marry Lady Sarah.”
“You understand,” he said, his relief evident as his features relaxed.
“It is a matter of complete indifference to me. The fact is, I understand because my situation is identical.”
“It is?” His eyes narrowed and he drew back, clearly affronted.
“You are aware, perhaps, that I cut my Season short?”
“I had heard so from Kate, or someone.”
“I, too, have given my heart to someone who, I am sorry to say, has given me much pain in return.”
“Caro! Who the devil would do that? You are first prize in the Marriage Mart!”
She felt the irony of his exclamation like a blow.
“I will tell you no more. I only have one question I would like you to answer for me, and then I would appreciate if you would vacate the premises entirely. It would be too soon if I never saw you again.”
“You’re talking melodramatic gibberish. You know you feel the same attraction that I suffer from.”
She could not keep the blush from creeping up her neck. “It means as little to me as it seems to mean to you.”
This declaration clearly put the duke out of countenance. “Confound it, Caro! What is your question?”
“Why did you feel me so sunk in depravity that you could make such an offer to me?”
Drawing himself up, he strode to the window and began to twirl his quizzing glass on the end of its black ribbon. He was silent so long, she did not think he would reply.
“The fact of the matter is,” he began pompously, “I don’t know why I said it. Believe me, it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me.”
“Do you often make such offers?”
“Not frequently, no.”
“But something about me inspires you to associate me with a courtesan?”
“Damnation, Caro. You know that you are beautiful! I desire you! I cannot have you! I misspoke. I should have said . . . no. I should not have said anything.”
She sat up from her pillows, dragging the coverlet with her. “You are a bare-faced scoundrel. Get out. And never, ever come near me again.”
Instead of leaving, he looked down upon her with an expression that appeared to be an amused fondness. “Caro . . . I would that things were different.”
“You have forgotten,” she said as icily as she could manage. “I do not. As a matter of fact, were there a pistol close to hand, I would shoot you. Jack taught me. I am a very good shot.”
He cupped her chin in his hand. Mesmerized, she watched as he moved his face closer to hers. At the last moment, she jerked her head around and a kiss landed on her hair. She kept her head averted as she listened to his footsteps leave the room, traverse the hall, and descend the stairs. Then, holding a hand to her head over the place he had kissed her, Caro burst into tears.
.
CHAPTER TEN
IN WHICH OUR HERO BROODS
Ned regretted accepting the invitation to travel with the Ruisdells from London to Wiltshire for the house party. The contretemps with Miss Caro Braithwaite had left him a stranger to himself, and he wished now to be travelling home to Cornwall instead of riding further and further in the other direction.
Miss Archer’s brother was to stop on his way from London to Shropshire to carry her home, so the only other resident of the carriage in addition to the Ruisdells was the Marquis of Somerset. Ned knew that the duke and duchess were aware of his insult to Caro and was very glad that they refrained from castigating him over it in the presence of the greatest gossip in London, though he was presently nodding in slumber. If the story were to get out, it would not reflect poorly upon Ned, of course, but it could ruin Caro’s reputation completely. One of the most frequent strictures of ton gossips was “no smoke without fire.” His careless utterance would lead people to believe Caro’s morals less than pure and that he, somehow, was aware of the fact.
Now, he only wanted to forget the whole thing. He wanted to put Caro Braithwaite and her unexpectedly vivid personality from his mind and concentrate on his other concerns. Namely, Lady Sarah and the project he had begun in Gloucestershire this last year. But it was far more difficult than he expected. Seeing her sitting up in her bed, surrounded by all that glorious hair, her bedclothes in a muddle around her, was a memory that would stay with him for a good many weeks, he expected.
“Have you any news for me from the East End?” he forced himself to ask Ruisdell.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have,” the duke said. “Elise, tell Ned what you heard last week.”
“Infantryman Crabtree’s widow has died. She left three little ones under ten years old. Two boys. The girl has been taken in by her aunt, one of our cooks, as it happens. But the boys are trying to make a living on the streets, sweeping crossings.”
The haunting image of two scrawny boys dressed in rags, sweeping horse droppings for pennies so that people like him would not have to walk through them, wrested his thoughts away from women. “Where can I find them?” he asked.
“Come to the soup kitchen tomorrow. Angelina, the cook with that long red plait, is the aunt,” Elise said. “After they have finished feeding the soldiers, you can probably round up the boys between the two of you. I know you do not like to hear it, Ned, but what you are doing is really very fine.”
He felt uncomfortable. “You have promised not to let word of it get out,” Ned said, his voice gruff with embarrassment. “I trust that you will keep your promise.”
Ruisdell said, “Beverley, you are not questioning my wife’s word, are you?”
“Sorry.”
“I should like to visit this establishment of yours,” Elise said. “Has it had the benefit of a woman’s touch at all?”
“I have hired a local village woman in Chipping Campden to cook for them, and the chars are women, of course, but the headmaster is, of course, a man, as are all the teachers.”
“Do these women hold them in affection, as a mother would do?”
“I suppose not. I had not thought of it.”
“They need mothering, Ned, or they will not grow up to respect women.”
“How do you propose I remedy the situation?” His tone bordered on uncivil, and he knew it. “I beg your pardon. You are no doubt correct. But my own mother lives far away from Gloucestershire, as do you and your friends.”
“I have an idea!” Elise exclaimed. “Do you know the person who would be absolutely splendid with them?”
“Who is that?” He was really not at all certain he welcomed the duchess’s interference.
“Darling Caro. Jack was telling me that she was so relieved to be home and back in the company of the parish children. Apparently, that company is far more to her taste than the company of the ton. She was looking forward to her Season, but ended by coming home early, you know.” The duchess gave a little sigh. “Disappointed in love, Kate said.”
“Hmm.” Ned nodded and looked out the window. “I can do without your matchmaking schemes, you know.”
Ruisdell said, “I had not heard that about Caro. Any idea what party dared disappoint an Incomparable?”
“For someone who sorely tried Kate with her tendency toward being a rattlepate, Caro is remarkably reticent on the subject,” Elise said. “You know, Ned dear, Caro need not know it is your orphanage. I daresay, Peter and I could carry her to Gloucestershire this summer, telling her that we know of a project that would be dear to her heart.” Ned could feel his heart sink within him as Elise gathered enthusiasm the way his stallion gathered speed during a gallop. “I could write to her ahead of time and ask her to compose a play especially for the boys. You must send over an account of them to Shearings. Tell me how many and what ages they are.”
“Darling, what a splendid idea!” Ruisdell said. Ned detected a wicked glint in his eye. “Jack says Caro has been writing little plays for the children since they were children themselves. Quite amusing, apparently.”
Ned tried to picture Caro with the rough-and-tumble lot he was trying to civilize and educate in his establishment. “I do not think these young fellows would be at all what a young woman like Miss Caro Braithwaite would be used to.”
“You sound disdainful of her,” Elise said. “In fact, your whole manner to her during this weekend has been disdainful.”
Somerset gave a snort. Ned peered at him. Was he really sleeping?
He put a finger to his lips. “I think Miss Braithwaite to be a fine young woman. Just not quite to my taste.”
Ruisdell chortled. “You need not worry about George, there. He sleeps like a top. And after the offer you made to Caro yesterday, I cannot believe what you say is the truth.”
“I am in love with Lady Sarah, as you well know. I am determined to make her my wife, no matter how long it takes.”
“Even George has not been able to unearth what was behind Lady Sarah’s bolt to Oxfordshire and her message to the Morning Post,” Elise said, wonder in her voice. She leaned across and patted his hand with affection. “I long to see you happy, Ned. I think she would see me, if I wrote and asked her.”
“All these plans for junketing about the countryside, Elise!” the duke said. “You forget that you are increasing, Sunshine.”
“Oh, Peter, dear, do not put me in a gilded cage, I pray. It will make the time pass much more quickly if I am allowed to interfere in the lives of my friends.”
Ned stared at the passing fields. Should he avail himself of the duchess’s offer? No. Ruisdell was right. Besides, that approach smacked of underhandedness, and Lady Sarah must be treated fairly in every way. “I will go to her again, myself, as soon as I have paid a visit to see how the lads are coming along in Chipping Campden and have had a conference with my agent in Cornwall.”
“I beg you to reconsider my idea about Caro, then. I can write to her upon my return to Shearings tomorrow. I can tell her about your boys, their background, and so forth. With your permission, I will broach the idea of her writing a play for them.”
“She is writing something based on nursery rhymes! They would laugh until they were sick!” he said.
“I shall tell her to write something horribly hair-raising. Hobgoblins and haunted castles.”
Ned had to admit that such a prospect would probably be a high treat for boys who were proving to be very bored by lessons given deep in the Gloucestershire countryside away from the danger and excitement of London. He had even had a pair that had been caught trying to run away. Just because he was uncomfortable with Caro didn’t mean that he should deny them her talents.
“Just make certain that I am away when she is there. We did not part on the best of terms.”
“I do not imagine that you did,” Elise said.
“Wha? What was that?” Somerset sputtered.
George was awake. Ned was glad. He lapsed into silence, musing upon all the ways he mi
ght try to make Lady Sarah reconsider her decision.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE FORMS
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
Caro was very glad to return home after the swelling in her ankle subsided. She still required a crutch for the following two weeks, but that did not stop her from writing her play. Enjoying the experience thoroughly, she almost managed to put the house party and its emotionally harrowing events to the back of her mind. Her heart remained bruised, however. This circumstance caused her great impatience with herself.
How could she still want the Duke of Beverley to be part of her life? Why did she want to feel his touch, hear his voice? Thinking about it, she realized that when she was with him, she was more alive to her surroundings, to her actual thoughts and feelings. And she was not afraid to speak these things. But he did not think of her as she would wish to be thought of. For some reason, she only seemed to stir his baser emotions.
She must try harder to forget the rude duke. Clearly, he was not the person she had thought him. He was not for Caro Braithwaite.
While she was still recuperating with Jack and Kate, her mother had brought her a letter from the duchess:
Dearest Caro,
It was lovely to see you, my friend. I was happy to find you in such excellent looks and spirits. Our journey back to London was uneventful, fortunately. Beverley was quite a curmudgeon. Interpret that however you wish, but I think he did not like to be parted from you. I still think my interpretation of his actions to have been the proper one, but Ruisdell begs that I will not keep refining upon it.
London is growing sultry, and we shall be glad to remove to Derbyshire for the summer. However, the time until my confinement stretches a long way before me, and I hope not to grow bored. To this end, I have hatched a splendid scheme. Through my work at the soup kitchen, I have become acquainted with a peer (who must remain anonymous) who has established an orphanage and school for the now-fatherless sons of impoverished soldiers who run ragged in the East End. (The sons, not the dead soldiers.) The establishment is in Gloucestershire.
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