I am newly settled in New York, where previously I had only visited briefly. Yet, I am not certain I settle here. I feel as though I am starting over and it’s time to move on, perhaps to leave America and try to live and work somewhere else for a time. I have been looking into the United Provinces of South America, which are in the process of declaring their independence from Spain. Land is cheap there, and I believe there is a fortune to be made in mining.
Perhaps I’ll go there, perhaps elsewhere. For now, I’m residing in New York and considering my options.
The letter went on from there, describing the handsome city of New York and Nate’s impressions of it. He ended by saying that perhaps his next letter might be from a foreign port somewhere. Until then, he said, it would be a mystery to them both.
After he finished it, Mark folded the letter carefully and handed it back to her. “New York, then,” he murmured.
“If he hasn’t left already. He might be in South America. Indeed, knowing Nate, he could be anywhere.”
Mark gave a slow nod. “I’ll go to New York. If he isn’t there, I can find out where he’s gone and follow him.”
Caro frowned. “Wait. What do you mean, you’ll follow him?”
“I need to seek him out myself. A letter might never reach him, especially if he’s already left New York. If I don’t go find him—now—he might never learn that he’s the new Duke of Beckworth.”
Mark was right, of course. But something swelled up in her—and she suddenly, desperately, wished she hadn’t shared that letter with Mark. She wanted to be the one to share this news with Nate, to tell him he had everything—and more—than he’d ever dreamed of. That he could now come back to England, his head held high, and claim his legacy.
Mark’s lips quirked into a smile—and something flashed in his eyes, reminding her of the old Mark. In truth, she’d seen more seriousness from the man since he’d walked through her door today than she had in her entire life.
Something had changed Mark, she realized. He was no longer the lighthearted youth she’d known. Something must have happened to him to turn him into this serious, sober man. The realization tightened her chest, made a part of her want to reach out and take him into her arms.
But she couldn’t forget the words they’d exchanged. Mark hated her.
So she sat up stiff and straight as she said, “If you’re going to New York, Lord Mark, then I’m going, too.”
Chapter Two
“No you’re not,” Mark said, scowling. Leave it to Caro to try to upset his plans.
“I am,” she said, her beautiful, pale face as serene as could be. “I’ll help you find Nate.”
He wanted to kiss that look off her face. He wanted—so damn badly—to see Caro wild and uncontrolled. He wanted to see that thick black hair removed from its tight chignon and flowing down her back in silky waves. But she was just as he’d last known her, a cold, tightly restrained ice queen. She hadn’t changed a bit.
Unlike him.
He took a deep breath, trying to rein in his temper. Most people thought of him as an easygoing, friendly man, easy to talk to, easy to befriend. Not Caro though. She’d always wound him up in ways he couldn’t begin to understand.
“No,” he said, “it’s not necessary. I’ll find him and bring him home.”
“I want to be there when he hears the news.”
He sighed. “Why?”
“Because I simply want to.”
Suddenly, the truth of it hit him. Like a punch to the gut. “I see,” he said coldly, gripping the arms of his chair.
Her pretty black-lashed blue eyes narrowed. “What do you see?”
“I see what you’re doing.”
“Oh?” Her brows quirked upward. “What’s that?”
“The viscount is dead, and he wasn’t enough. You want to snag yourself a duke now.”
Caro gasped. Her face went pale, and for the briefest of moments, Mark thought that perhaps he’d gone too far.
“How dare you?” she whispered in a voice so full of rage and pain something inside him twisted.
“Oh come now, Caro. We both know what motivates you. Titles and money. Congratulations—you’re now richer than Croesus. All you require is the more esteemed title, and you’ll have it all.”
Caro’s eyes narrowed. “You know nothing, Markus Hawkins. You definitely don’t know me.”
“I thought I knew you once. But then you married Whytestone, and I realized I never knew you at all.”
“Is that what’s happening here? After all these years, you’re still angry with me for marrying George?”
He gritted his teeth. He didn’t think he would ever forgive her for choosing that pompous bastard over Nate.
“You know nothing,” she repeated bitterly.
“I know enough.”
“I think then that there is no more left for us to say to each other,” she said, rising. “I hope you have a lovely voyage to New York, Lord Mark.”
Good. This meant she wasn’t going to insist upon going. That should make him happy, but instead he just felt a dark heaviness settling within him. He rose, too, more an automatic instinct based on years of training than anything else.
They had more—so much more—to say to each other. He didn’t want to leave. He hated leaving Caro on these terms.
He gazed at her. Her face was hard, impenetrable. And what could he say? He’d told her nothing but the truth as he saw it.
He didn’t understand why he felt so… wrong.
“Goodbye, then,” she clipped out.
He inclined his head. “Goodbye, Lady Whytestone.”
And he took his leave.
Ten days later, Mark boarded the Liberty, a three-masted American schooner bound for New York, large and sleek and shining new.
A small, dark-haired man with a deeply receding hairline approached him as he stepped onto the deck.
“Welcome aboard, sir,” the man said in an American accent. He reached out and shook Mark’s hand vigorously.
“Thank you.”
“I’m Newt Woods, the first mate of this fine vessel.”
“Markus Hawkins.”
“Lord Markus, of course. It’s an honor. We’ve quite an elite crowd on this voyage, I’m proud to say. Welcome, welcome. Now”—the older man grinned—“have you ever sailed on a schooner before?”
“No, I haven’t.” Mark had sailed on brigs and barkentines and a packet or two, but no ship so sleek and low to the water as this gleaming, black-painted, 150-foot vessel. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“She’s fast. We’ll be in New York in no time. No time at all.”
“That’s good news.” The faster, the better. Mark could only pray that Nate wouldn’t already be somewhere on the other side of the earth when Mark arrived in New York.
“I’ll show you to your cabin. Follow me.” The man hefted Mark’s valise and turned toward the bow of the ship before opening a companionway hatch and descending down a short set of wooden stairs.
Mark had brought a valet along with him on his very first trip out of England five years ago—to Ireland, that had been—and realized fairly quickly that he preferred to do most things on his own. His travels had taught him that in fact he was quite good at being self-sufficient. He preferred taking care of himself to sitting passively and letting others do things for him.
Of course, allowing others to pamper him was nice, too, once in a while. Whenever he was home at Ironwood Park, his brother’s seat in the Cotswolds, or at Trent House, the duke’s residence in Town, he made full use of a valet and enjoyed living in luxury for a few days.
The stairs led to a tiny area with two open doorways, each leading down a corridor on opposite sides of the ship. Mark followed the first mate down the corridor on the left-hand side, or the larboard side, he supposed. When he was on a ship, he always tried to use proper terminology, though it hadn’t come naturally to him at first.
Mr. Woods stopped at the second door ou
t of four along the outside wall of the short passageway. “This will be your stateroom, sir. I hope you find it to your liking. If you require anything at all, please do not hesitate to ask me or the steward, Mr. Jones. We will set sail with the tide at three o’clock sharp. Dinner will be served in the dining room at six. Until then, feel free to explore the ship and occupy yourself in whatever way you like.”
“Thank you, Mr. Woods.”
“Very good then. I’ll see you at dinner.” Woods bowed and took his leave.
Mark stepped inside the cabin and looked around with interest. He’d been in far worse. The compact space contained a mahogany-paneled narrow bed built into one wall and a floor-to-ceiling wardrobe built into the other, its wood slats gleaming with fresh varnish. A washbasin sat beneath a small round porthole, with a bench upholstered in blue velvet attached to the wall beside it.
Mark took his time withdrawing his belongings from his valise, though there wasn’t much to unpack. He had learned in his many adventures the virtue of packing only the bare necessities. When he finished, he stood up, stretched, and looked at his pocket watch. It was nearly three o’clock, and he wanted to be outside as they left London—he always enjoyed watching the scenery slide by as a ship left port.
It was a chilly autumn day, so Mark slipped on his greatcoat. Not that the season made much of a difference in the weather—not this year. Winter had lasted through August, and now it simply seemed on hold, ready to roar back in with a vengeance.
He opened his door and stepped into the narrow corridor. And straight into a person. “I am so sorry!” he exclaimed, reeling backward as she squeaked in surprise.
But then he recognized her, and his heart began to drum in a staccato beat against his rib cage. Squinting at the woman in the dimness, he took another step back, frowning. “Caro? Er… Lady Whytestone?”
“Lord Mark,” she said dryly. “Fancy meeting you here.”
His mouth dropped open. “But… How… Why?”
“I did tell you I intended to go to New York to help you find Nate, didn’t I?”
“But you changed your mind!”
“No, not at all. You misunderstood.”
He scowled at her. “You said you weren’t coming.”
“I said no such thing. As I recall, I simply wished you a lovely voyage. I said nothing further about my own plans, as you seemed to possess no interest in hearing them.”
Jesus. Caro was on board? They were going to be on this ship together for an entire voyage across the Atlantic? What the hell was he going to do? He wasn’t sure he could manage weeks in close quarters with Caro. He had seen her in London less than a fortnight ago, and only about five minutes had passed before he’d been certain his head would burst in frustration if he spent another minute with her.
“I told you that your presence wasn’t required,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I decided I’d be the judge of that,” she replied coolly.
He didn’t want her here. This wouldn’t—couldn’t—end well. He and Caro were like oil and flame—they caused each other to crackle and spark, often explode.
This was a test, for certain. Of his patience and endurance. He unclenched his tight fists, one finger at a time. “Forgive me for misinterpreting.” He managed to say the words with some semblance of sincerity.
“Not at all,” she countered. “Forgive me for giving the wrong impression.”
He took a deep breath and gestured toward the companionway. “I was just about to go on deck. Would you like to join me?”
“Why, thank you.”
She walked ahead of him, her backside swaying gently. She was a beautiful woman. Painfully so. His mouth went dry as she ascended the five stairs, then disappeared onto the deck, showing a flash of pale ankle as her skirts swished around her shoes.
He closed his eyes, battling a sudden, unwelcome flash of lust. Then, resolutely, he followed. Side by side, he and Caro circled the deck, trying to avoid getting in the way of the dozen or so seamen who were rushing this way and that, attending to their various duties. They were all Americans, and he enjoyed listened to their drawling accents as they shouted at each other to Let go the foresail halyard! And Heave and haul! And Easy there, boys! And Sheet home!
Caro looked around as if in amazement, seemingly fascinated by every small detail. Out here in the watery, cool afternoon sunlight, she was dazzling. Everyone saw her, everyone was affected by her presence. Even the sailors, as much as they pretended to ignore them both, kept sending her furtive glances. She was tall and statuesque, slender and elegant. She wore a straw bonnet, but hair so black it had highlights of deep blue in the sunlight descended in loose curls over her ears, falling to her shoulders. Her face was oval-shaped, her nose straight and patrician, her eyes a compelling dark blue. Even as a small lad, he’d thought she had the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen.
And then he realized something. “You’ve never been on a ship before, have you?”
“No, in fact I have not,” she said.
“Do you suffer from seasickness?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, do you ever feel ill in enclosed carriages?”
“No, never. That was George—he suffered from terrible traveling sickness.”
“That’s a good sign,” he said, ignoring her mention of Whytestone. Every reference anyone made to the man had always made him bristle. “You will probably do well then.”
“What about you?” she asked him. “Do you ever get seasick?”
“I haven’t… yet. But I’ve seen those that are afflicted by it. It can be a terrible malady.”
“Well, I shall hope I don’t have the misfortune of experiencing it then.”
They fell into silence again. Mark covertly watched her, realizing his heart was still beating hard. What was it about this woman that made him so agitated?
White sails were erected around them—bigger sails than the sails on the ships he’d been on in the past, with smaller topsails over each of them. At the bow, three triangular foresails were raised with a strong flutter of canvas. And then came the command from Mr. Woods: Hoist the anchor, boys! and finally, Prepare to make way!
And they were moving, slipping through the waters of the Thames, passing scores of other ships at anchor.
“Oh… goodness,” Caro breathed. Her blue eyes glowing, she leaned over the deck rail, taking in great breaths of cool autumn air. “This is absolutely lovely.”
“Yes,” he said. But he was looking at her, not at the passing scenery. “It is.”
A few hours later, Mark arrived at the dining room in the stern cabin. The table was close to the ship’s wall, with a long bench along that side. Chairs lined the head and foot of the table and the side opposite to the bench.
The captain—Captain Torrance, Mark had learned when he’d met the man earlier in the day—was already seated at the head of the table, his bald pate gleaming in the lantern light. Torrance was a large man—not fat, just large—tall and brawny—with a voice to match. The first mate, Mr. Woods, greeted Mark from his place at the foot of the table. Caro was seated on the bench at the captain’s right hand, and beside her was an older American couple who were commenting on the excellent wine.
“Lord Mark,” Captain Torrance boomed. “Welcome. Here, man, have a seat.” He gestured to the chair at his left hand.
“Thank you, sir.” One of the seamen—who couldn’t be over twelve years of age, pulled out the chair for him, and Mark sat.
“Have you met our other guests?” Captain Torrance asked.
“Just Lady Whytestone.”
She inclined her head. “Good evening, Lord Mark.”
“Good evening.”
“Well, that’s excellent.” The captain gestured at the older couple. “Sitting beside the lady, we have Mr. and Mrs. Frank of Albany. Mr. and Mrs. Frank, this is Lord Markus Hawkins. He’s the brother of a duke!”
“Good evening,” Mark said with a polite nod.
“Such an honor,” Mr. Frank emphasized. “And you’re not just any duke’s brother, we hear. You’re the Duke of Trent’s brother.”
“Why, yes, I am,” Mark said with a mild smile. Trent was famous throughout England, so Mark was used to this kind of gushing over his relationship to the man. Though he hadn’t known that his brother’s fame extended to Americans as well. But leave it to Trent to become revered anywhere people breathed.
“Such a good man,” Mrs. Frank said. “A very, very good man.”
Mark nodded. “Yes. He is.”
Mark agreed with them completely. Many brothers might grow annoyed at being the younger and incessantly inferior sibling to a great man like the Duke of Trent, but the truth was that Trent deserved all the accolades he received. And Mark owed him everything.
“How is Trent?” Caro asked. “I haven’t seen him in over two years.”
“He’s well,” Mark said. “His wife recently gave birth to healthy twin sons.”
She smiled. “How lovely.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, trying to judge if she was being genuine or sarcastic. It had always been difficult to tell with Caro. “He has four sons now.”
“Four sons,” Mrs. Frank exclaimed. “How perfect.”
“Yes, he has his heir, and how do you Brits put it? Three spares?” Mr. Frank chuckled.
“Yes, that’s right,” Mark said.
“All those boys,” Caro mused. “It sounds rather like a repeat of you and your brother’s generation.”
He stared at her for a moment then down at his empty plate. “Yes. Rather,” he said in a clipped voice. In fact, though Mark had four brothers of his own, as well as a young sister, their family was nothing like the one Trent had created with his duchess. Trent truly loved, admired, and respected his wife, and he was unflinchingly faithful to her. He was nothing like their father.
Eager to change the subject, Mark turned to the captain. “So Captain, what is the weather outlook for our voyage?”
“Rather good, in fact,” Captain Torrance said. “After the summer we had—”
An Affair in Autumn Page 2
