Waiting for a Rogue

by Marie Tremayne

  “I wouldn’t call a discrepancy of nearly five acres ‘the slightest of errors,’” he said acidly.

  Her mouth dropped open at his unexpected censure of her. “How can you know how many acres—”

  “And,” he interrupted, “I can’t see how the entailment of the estate could possibly concern your friend any longer, as she has just been married to a viscount. But I am still more fascinated by how you are able to ascertain the blackness of a man’s character . . . all without ever having met him. I’d say that’s a better reflection of your own nature.”

  Before she could make sense of what he was saying, the front door flew open and they were greeted by Lady Frances, clearly overjoyed by the arrival of her festooned bonnets and in the midst of one of her better moods. “Oh Caroline, darling, thank you for fetching these for me,” she sang, plucking the hatboxes from her nerveless grasp.

  She paused upon noticing her niece’s male companion, and a servant ferried off the boxes so she could extend her hand daintily in his direction, glancing at Caroline for an introduction. Grudgingly, and still confused, she complied.

  “Sir, this is Lady Frances Rowe, my aunt . . .” She searched her memory, struggling to recall, her voice trailing off with the realization that she would not be able to complete the introduction. That she didn’t even know this man’s name.

  “Lady Frances,” he said drily, when it was clear that Caroline could not finish.

  Without missing a beat, he took her aunt’s hand in his own and placed a kiss neatly upon her knuckles. When he straightened, his eyes focused only on Caroline.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Jonathan Cartwick. The American.”

  Chapter Two

  Jonathan’s eyes scanned the ridge while he waited for his meddlesome neighbor.

  Now that he was viewing it in person, he supposed he could understand why Lady Caroline was putting up a fight about the loss of such a peaceful bit of land, but he still had no intention of backing down. The majestic hillside, dappled with silvery birch groves and tapering down into gently rolling meadows was stunning despite its current lack of spring flora. A lingering mist clung insistently to the early afternoon air, seeming to challenge the sun that glimmered faintly from above.

  “They call it Windham Hill. And aye, it’s a capital spot,” muttered his land agent with a nod, as if reading his mind.

  He cocked an eyebrow in his direction, determined to seem unimpressed. “What makes you say that, Mr. Conrad?”

  The man scoffed lightly. “Well it’s got to be the prettiest place on the estate, in my opinion. The elevation provides such wondrous vistas of the lands below, and the trees give enough privacy to feel as if you’re in your own little world. And just look at it.” He waved a hand over the landscape. “Imagine this little copse come summertime.”

  Jonathan couldn’t deny that it would be beautiful. In a few more months, this place would be awash in wildflowers, and almost against his will, Jonathan could imagine many a leisurely afternoon spent here—could feel the sunlight’s warmth upon his closed eyelids as he reclined on a blanket among the tall grass. Could almost hear the linnets trilling insistently to each other from the trees. Could imagine the freshness of the air, so different and so very still compared to the sooty noise of New York.

  “Fine. It is lovely,” he admitted.

  Not that he’d missed this part of the world. Not that he even remembered it other than bits and fragments of a happy and heedless childhood. His chest ached when he thought of what his parents had actually endured at the hands of the ton—the ostracism, the dirty looks, the sniping gossip—all while taking great steps to shield their children from the ugly fact that while they shared an esteemed family name, they were decidedly the wrong sort of Cartwicks. Their only crime, it seemed, was not being born into land holdings and money. They were merchants who earned their living through hard work, and they were proud of it. But every man had his limits.

  So his father had done what most men wouldn’t have had the courage to even attempt. He’d packed up his family and moved overseas to try his fortune there, and it was a gamble that had certainly paid off. Robert Cartwick’s shipbuilding business had not only grown to become a shining example of entrepreneurial spirit along the New England coast, he hadn’t required one wealthy snob to make it happen.

  Jonathan tapped his fingers restlessly on the reins, his irritation rising. He had never met his father’s cousin, Nicholas Cartwick, nor Reginald, the son who had recently perished. He didn’t know what kind of people they were, and he didn’t care. All he knew was that his father had not lived long enough to truly enjoy his success. Jonathan had barely been of age to take over the company affairs when he had died. Much too soon, his father was gone, and it led one to wonder: Had Robert been born to a privileged family, would he have lived longer? Did the derision of fashionable society contribute in any way to his early demise? After all, it had been no easy task to start over in a new land.

  He also had to wonder if he had made the right choice coming here. It was impossible to tell just yet. All he knew was that it had felt necessary to claim the birthright his beloved father had been unable to enjoy, and now it was only the purest irony that the same circle of society snobs that had looked down their nose at his merchant father were now falling over themselves to welcome his son into their fold. Their duplicity was anything but surprising.

  A hare bolted out from a cluster of bushes behind them, and the agent clutched at his chest, exhaling shakily, his face nearly as white as the whiskers that blanketed the sides of his face. Jonathan withdrew his pocket watch and checked the time.

  “They’re late,” he muttered.

  Conrad chortled obsequiously but could apparently think of nothing to add.

  With a sigh, Jonathan walked his horse over to a particularly charming spot beneath a large ash at the top of the hill, the smooth branches sparsely ornamented with velvety black buds. He could hear the grass rustle and bend beneath the wind. There was certainly something comfortable about the place. Soothing.

  He could appreciate this all now, but in a month . . . dear God, he could imagine the boredom. There were only so many turns about the garden one could take before completely and utterly losing your mind. It was partly why the vapid English existence repulsed him the way it did. Men and women of leisure and privilege who had never had to work an honest day in their lives. Idle rulers whose authority was based solely upon their social ranking and the good fortune of their births.

  Women like Lady Caroline, for instance . . . her title acquired merely by being the offspring of a duke. He supposed her scorn was to be expected. Leave it to someone like her to find offense at the entailment of an estate, and to fight against the correction of a property line. From their brief interaction on the road, he could already see that she was no different than the aristocrats who had made his father’s life a living hell.

  Although . . . she was lovely. After all, there had been a reason he’d delayed his ride into town the day they’d met. Even upon discovering the truth of who she was, and after hearing her scathing and uncensored assessment of his integrity, he’d still found himself intrigued. By the thick dark hair that gleamed with fiery abandon in the light. By the eyes that shone with the fierceness of polished granite. And by the red lips that had pursed at him in displeasure, yet still managed to look so very soft . . .

  He shifted in his saddle, earning a quiet whicker from his horse. If she was anything like other aristocrats, Lady Caroline likely had no real accomplishments of her own to speak of, other than perhaps playing the piano or excelling at needlework. Occupations that would not tax her feminine mind excessively, as the English seemed determined to avoid such a thing at all costs. The luxury afforded to a woman in Lady Caroline’s position would surely quell any of her more intelligent objections, for a life of convenience for a beautiful woman of rank was easily bought, as long as there was a man present to pay for it. And loyalty was never gu
aranteed. He’d found that out the hard way . . .

  Stay on task, he thought with a jerk of his head.

  Jonathan sighed. He might be forced to make nice with the jackals who had driven his father to settle in America, but he’d treat them about as well as they deserved. Lady Caroline included.

  The sudden sound of pounding hooves roused Jonathan from the grim turn of his thoughts, and both he and Mr. Conrad straightened. He squinted at the impending arrival of the lady herself, this time free of hatboxes, accompanied by her family’s own agent. The thin mist curled around the pair then retreated as they made haste to the meeting spot. He found his glance lingered over the curve of her hip, swathed in the dove-gray felted wool of her riding habit and graciously displayed by the way her leg curved around the pommel of her sidesaddle. The ladylike drape of skirts cascading down the horse’s flank along with her regal posture completed the picture of airy refinement.

  Jonathan straightened his back and gripped the brim of his top hat to raise it in wary greeting as they came to stop before them. Her agent spoke first.

  “Greetings, Mr. Cartwick.” A pair of serious blue eyes greeted him from beneath a brow topped with curly dark hair. “I am Reuben Wakefield, land agent to the Duke of Pemberton. Allow me to present—”

  “Lady Caroline,” Jonathan interrupted, his gaze shifting immediately to the woman in question. He had no patience for unnecessary introductions. “We meet again. I wonder why you are so insistent upon speaking to me when both these men could converse together and save us the trouble. This is a situation easily remedied.”

  She rolled her eyes heavenward. “I’m sure you would be happy to leave this to our agents, Mr. Cartwick. But the nature of this dispute would preclude that, I’m afraid.”

  “I can only assume you mean the nature of your dispute, because I see no cause for issue. It appears that the boundary between our estates is quite clear.” He hitched his shoulders in a shrug. “I only seek to correct an error.”

  “An error of such little consequence that the previous owner saw fit to disregard it entirely,” she said with a sniff, the tip of her nose turning a delicate shade of pink in the cold.

  He accepted her point with a congenial nod, but his gaze was sharp. Both agents remained silently nearby, allowing the master and mistress to speak, clearly terrified of the explosive argument that could erupt at any moment.

  “Yes, they did, although their indifference to the discrepancy was merely a willful acceptance of the mistake,” he replied succinctly. “That is not how I do business.”

  Her gray eyes flashed with anger, like fathomless dark stars priming to explode. Intrigued, he felt an answering pulse of excitement course through him. A curious reaction.

  “Yes, thank you for the reminder that this is simply business to you,” she answered with a baleful stare. “And I’m sure you won’t trouble us with your presence for longer than is absolutely necessary before you choose to lease Greystone Hall. But some of us must live here—”

  Her words had taken on a biting tone that he did not like, and Jonathan interjected with an abrupt raise of his hand. The astonished way her mouth snapped shut told him she was not used to being silenced. Mr. Conrad fidgeted nervously beside him.

  “Do you, in fact, own Willowford House and the surrounding lands?” he inquired almost pleasantly. He fought to suppress a smile at the venomous way her eyes narrowed at him.

  “You must know already that I do not own this property,” she answered in irritation.

  He allowed his horse to amble a bit closer to her position while he surveyed her thoughtfully. There was some satisfaction in seeing the way her cheeks flushed beneath the mockery of his gaze.

  “And you live here with your aunt who, I also assume, is not the owner of the estate?”

  At his belaboring of the point, her agent attempted to insert himself. “Now see here, Mr. Cartwick,” he said, gallantly intent on defending the lady’s honor and jabbing his plump finger in Jonathan’s direction. “I will not stand for this effrontery—”

  “It was not my intention to insult,” he clarified. “But unless you are the owner of this property, I cannot see the point in conversing with you at all.”

  “I am simply here to . . .” She paused, dipping her chin down in thought, then began again. “My only wish is to . . .”

  “Waste my time?” he supplied helpfully, with a sardonic lift of his brows.

  She pressed her lips together and looked away, probably in humiliation. Had she been a different sort of person it might have made him feel bad. Thankfully, she wasn’t and he didn’t. A violent clearing of throat from his left interrupted the acrimonious exchange before it could continue afresh, and Jonathan turned to regard Mr. Conrad who looked as if he were ready to faint off his steed.

  “Forgive him, my lady,” he begged with an excess of deference, his eyes bulging beneath his brow, now damp with perspiration. “What Mr. Cartwick means to say is that we welcome your opinions during this process, although any final input will have to be made by the Duke of Pemberton, of course.”

  The lady’s head swiveled back to the conversation at hand. “That might prove difficult, as the duke is so often away on travel,” she replied tightly. “Perhaps you are aware that he does not make his home here?”

  Jonathan supposed he found that bit of information surprising, but he refused to get into the particulars of the man’s familial relationships. “I will reach him wherever he may be located, rest assured.” He bristled and jerked on the reins, his horse spinning around to face Mr. Wakefield. “Send me his most recent address. I’ll be drafting a letter immediately upon my return to the house.” He focused on his own agent. “Can any progress be made prior to receiving the approval of the duke?”

  Mr. Conrad looked astounded that he would even ask such a thing. “No, sir.” He looked uneasily at Lady Caroline. “Although we may be able to adopt a new understanding of the boundaries, even before the fence line can be adjusted?”

  “Absolutely not,” she declared with thinly veiled irritation. “Nothing changes until my father has his say on the matter.”

  Which would be a while, if her earlier talk of the duke’s travel could be believed.

  Oh, she was maddening. The feeling was mutual, he knew, so there was at least a little satisfaction in that. With an exasperated sigh, he turned around to approach her once more. Her long lashes swept down as she avoided his gaze, and Jonathan noticed her audible intake of breath as he drew near. She had been plenty outspoken up until now, so he wasn’t sure why she would choose this moment to act demurely.

  No matter. It was about time the little princess received some sort of reckoning.

  “Well I’d been hoping to deal with matters of the estate quickly and efficiently, but you’ve just guaranteed that this will be a long, drawn-out process instead.” He touched the edge of his hat and leaned forwards in a grandly exaggerated show of respect. “I look forward to becoming much better acquainted over this godforsaken scrap of land.”

  Her eyes met his then, luminous and surprising, but with that unflinching hardness she seemed to work very hard to preserve. In an odd moment of weakness, he found himself wondering what it would be like to see that stony gaze softened into warm pools of surrender. Then he wondered what on earth it would take.

  Perhaps the brush of his lips against hers would render her too shocked to argue over some meaningless hillside . . .

  His head twitched of its own volition—an unconscious attempt to banish the thought. He saw her expression change upon his momentary lapse, a subtle look of confusion dawning in those lovely eyes, and part of him wondered if she had guessed the sensual shift of his thoughts. Impossible, of course, but he almost wished she had. Part of him ached for an excuse to somehow feel her in his arms.

  Lady Caroline looked to her agent and Mr. Wakefield obediently came to her side.

  “I’ll do my best to keep the interactions to a minimum, Mr. Cartwick,” she replied
haughtily. “I can see now that there is no use in appealing to the better nature of a man who doesn’t have one.”

  And with that last parting shot, she urged her horse on, leaving him to stare after her in silence.

  Caroline swore she could feel Cartwick’s unsettling golden gaze searing into her back, and felt her temperature rise accordingly. Leaning forwards, she prodded the temperate gray horse into a less sensible pace, the need to place as much distance as possible between her and the American growing greater by the second.

  There had been a moment . . . she was sure of it . . . where his eyes had betrayed an awareness of her that was not limited to their rancorous discussion of fence lines . . .

  No. She must have imagined it. And even if she hadn’t, entertaining the idea of that man as anything other than an adversary wasn’t acceptable. Not for her, and certainly not for the beloved friends who had been booted from their home because of him. Yes, Eliza had managed to settle safely with Viscount Evanston, but that was hardly the point. Entailment was such a dirty game to begin with; a game that women were not designed to win. Watching her friend lose it all before her very eyes had not just traumatized Eliza and her daughter, Rosa, but Caroline herself. She still agonized over the loss of her cherished neighbor, especially now that Lady Frances had taken a turn for the worse.

  “My lady!”

  Mr. Wakefield sounded out of breath as he attempted to catch up with her, and she pulled reluctantly on the reins to slow her horse, who whinnied softly in response. A subversive glance over her shoulder reassured her that Cartwick was not only out of earshot, but no longer visible. She turned to face the agent who approached with a loud sigh.

  “Lady Caroline, I feel I must remind you—”

  “There’s no need,” she said, cutting him off.

  The man blinked, his dark head tilting to evaluate her. “So you know there is likely no winning this battle?”

  She looked past him, back at the shape of the grassy knoll that had become her refuge over the years. At the little grove of trees that had stood patiently nearby while she had cried out her heartache for only them to hear, their leafy canopies sheltering her from wind and sky and the cruelty of the world beyond. The loss of this place was like another well-timed stab to her heart after what felt like a lifetime of such wounds.