The correction of the boundary between their estates might be inevitable, but she would not give up quietly, and especially not to a man like Cartwick. She would revel in causing him even a moment’s frustration, although truth be told, she hoped to vex him substantially more than that.
“There may be no winning the battle,” she agreed, tugging her kid gloves more snugly over her hands, “but I can still fight the war. Rather appropriate given his lineage, I think.”
Wakefield glanced at her, perplexed. “The man is not American-born, my lady. His parents moved the children when they were still young.”
She froze. “How young, exactly?”
“Mr. Cartwick was ten years old, I think.”
His peculiar accent suddenly made a bit more sense. It held the subtle remainder of a British lilt with the underlying edge of something else that was not local. It was why she hadn’t been able to place it when they had met on the road, although she’d been so distracted by the velvety richness of his actual voice that deciphering his accent had been the farthest thing from her mind. Somewhat closer to her mind, along with the way his nearness affected her, had been his topaz-colored eyes and the teasing light that had filled them . . . right up until her thoughtless slander of him. A remembrance of the embarrassing circumstances caused her stomach to lurch in mortification, and she turned to resume her course to the house.
“An interesting fact,” she replied over her shoulder. “Not that it makes a difference. I’m sure it will have no effect on his decision to find a tenant for Greystone Hall and return to . . . to . . . wherever he is from in America.”
“New England,” Wakefield supplied, urging his horse to catch up with her once again. “And I’m not certain he can return. Not after the entailment.”
“Well, I wish him luck in his pursuit of my parents. Where were they located last anyway?”
The question was asked nonchalantly, but an astute observer might have been able to guess at the subtle undercurrent of pain lying just barely beneath the words. And anyone with the slightest knowledge of her family history wouldn’t have to guess at all.
“Spain, my lady,” he replied, “but I believe they plan on returning to England soon.”
Caroline lapsed into moody silence, a heavy bitterness rising in her throat. She choked it down, as she always did. What wonders the world must hold for them. Wondrous enough to desert their only child in the Hampshire countryside to either marry or rot. They’d made it clear their preference was marriage and she supposed she ought to be grateful for that, although she knew what drove their motivations. One spinster in the family was quite enough of a drain on the Pemberton purse already; two spinsters just simply wouldn’t do.
Before long, their horses’ hooves were clattering into the side courtyard and the stableboy dashed out immediately to assist her. After requesting her agent keep her apprised of any new information concerning correspondence between Cartwick and her parents, he took his leave and she rushed into the house to find her aunt scratching away at a letter in the library. A cup of steaming tea was positioned on the desk within easy reach. The scene was so normal, Caroline found herself smiling despite her low mood.
“Hello, Auntie,” she said, thrilled to see her engaged in correspondence after a long stretch of having lost interest. Caroline came closer, being careful to adjust the uneven hem of her riding skirt so as not to trip over herself. “And who, may I ask, is to receive the pleasure of this particular letter?”
Lady Frances kept her head down, gray hair pulled back into a severe bun with only a few tendrils escaping down alongside her ears. She remained in that position until she had finished the sentence she’d been writing, then set the pen aside and turned in her floral chintz armchair to regard Caroline with a smile. She was relieved by the lightness of her aunt’s expression. It was a welcome change from the worry and forgetfulness that had plagued Frances these past months, and it was good to see her aunt feeling more like her usual self.
“I’m so glad to see you, dear,” she said, hooking a finger around the china handle of her cup and taking a small sip of her tea. “Before I answer your question, please tell me . . . did you and Mr. Cartwick come to some amicable understanding?”
Caroline’s brow lowered in reflexive response to the mere mention of him. “No, and what’s more, I don’t believe we ever will. He’s writing to Father as we speak.”
Her aunt’s faded eyes squinted up at her in steady evaluation. “I still think you should try,” she said. “He may be set upon righting the boundaries, but if you two could at least be friends he might give you permission to—”
“I don’t want his permission!” she exclaimed, surprising them both. Caroline inhaled deeply through her nose, then smoothed her hands over the ash-colored skirts of her riding habit. She cleared her throat. “Forgive me, Auntie. I just can’t abide the thought of requiring his approval to do anything when his very presence is an irritant. I look at him and I see . . . I see . . .”
Frances reached over to clasp her trembling hand. “You see the man who wronged your friend.”
“Yes,” she breathed with relief. Thank goodness someone understood at last.
Her aunt nodded. “Do you know what I see when I look at him?”
Caroline tensed, her body turning rigid. After years of attending the season with Frances, she knew exactly what was coming.
“No, don’t say it—”
“I see a wealthy and attractive man,” Frances continued, confirming her fears. “And I’m not the lady in need of a husband.”
“Who said I needed a husband?” Caroline said, then immediately regretted the outburst when her aunt’s gaze sharpened in response. Pressing her lips tightly together, she glanced down at her hands as Frances rose from her seat to face her.
“I know you value your independence, Caroline,” she said quietly, firmly. “And I know you had such high hopes for Lord Braxton during your last season.”
“I had no such thing for Lord Braxton—”
“Yes, my dear. You did. And I’ll never forgive myself for the part I played in your losing him—”
Caroline shook her head vehemently. “I won’t stand to have you blame yourself for that man’s behavior. If he had truly cared for me, he wouldn’t have married the first lady to look at him once we left London.”
“Yes,” Frances agreed. “He was fickle. But there comes a time when you must face the reality of your situation, and one disappointment does not turn you into a spinster, no matter what the ton says. Sometimes I think you resist simply for the sake of resisting, and that will not do.” She squeezed her hands tightly. “You cannot ignore your duty to this family. You must get married, and soon.”
“Duty?” Caroline jerked her hands away in a sudden flare of temper. “What a notion! Was there no obligation owed to me by my parents these past many years?”
Of course, she didn’t expect Frances to respond. How could her aunt truly take her side when the very people who had abandoned their own daughter had also provided her spinster aunt with a home and provisions?
Frances turned her back and seated herself at the desk once more. Retrieving the pen, she signed her name with a flourish while Caroline watched sullenly from behind, then set the missive aside to dry.
“I understand how you must feel, but marriage is better if you can manage it, my dear,” she said, glancing over her shoulder with a melancholy smile. “I hope you would trust my opinion on the matter, given the course of my own life. And if familial obligation cannot motivate you, then perhaps you should consider what not marrying would mean for you and your future.”
Caroline grumbled under her breath and picked fitfully at the lace on her sleeve. She would gladly earn her parents’ bad opinion forever than consider marrying the usurping American.
“I think I would rather grow old alone than settle on a man with no regard for his effect on the lives of people around him. He is not nice, Auntie, I don’t care how attractive
he is.”
Her aunt’s eyes grew alert. “So, you do think him attractive?”
“I, er . . . well—” Caroline flushed up to her hairline, a flood of heat marking the precise path of her mortification. “Fine. I suppose I can’t deny that he possesses some pleasing features. But every time he opens his mouth—”
Lady Frances abruptly rotated back in her chair and began folding her letter. “What about you, darling? I know I’ve taught you how to behave in civilized company, and yet for some reason I feel you disregard it all with this man, in correspondence and in person.” The parchment crinkled beneath her hands. “I’d say you set the tone before he even arrived at Greystone Hall.”
Caroline could bear it no longer. First her parents, and now her aunt? Scalding tears threatened to spill past her lashes and she swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat. She stared as Frances sealed the letter with red wax.
“Aunt Frances,” she said hoarsely, “my feelings for him are a direct result of his actions and his words. And marriage to him . . . or anyone . . . is out of the question. But especially him.”
Her aunt stared at her, then stood and tugged on the bellpull. “Can you tell me why?”
Because he hurt my friends . . .
Because men are unworthy creatures . . .
Because I’ve grown weary of disappointment . . .
She only shook her head, wishing she could be honest but knowing that the truth might only serve to break her aunt’s heart. She’d already said too much, as it was. The appearance of a footman at the door saved her from the need to provide an immediate response, and her aunt handed him the letter she’d been working on. He inclined into a polite bow and then left, closing the door quietly behind him, and Frances touched her upswept hair before aiming a long-suffering look in Caroline’s direction.
“Well, whatever the reasons for your dislike, I hope you work through them quickly.”
Dread turned her icy cold from head to toe. “Why? What do you mean?” she asked slowly, the words laced with caution.
Her aunt came forwards and placed her hands upon Caroline’s shoulders.
“Because that letter was our acceptance of an invitation to dine with Mr. Cartwick and his mother tomorrow evening.”
Chapter Three
“You did what?”
Startled, Dorothea Cartwick glanced up from her seat near the fireplace, temporarily forgetting the menu she’d been reviewing with the housekeeper. Jonathan was incensed to detect a smile lurking behind his mother’s warm brown eyes, but there so often was one. It was simply her way.
With a nod, she dismissed the housekeeper, waiting until the woman had fully exited the drawing room before turning back to regard him with amusement.
“Come now, my dear. Surely you didn’t expect me to shun our new neighbors?”
He scoffed. “Not any more than they would like to shun us.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Jonathan,” she said, folding her hands together primly. “Lady Frances was quite amicable when I called on her today.”
A moment of silence ensued. “You called on her?”
“Yes, I did. While you were off trying to make enemies with her niece, I was visiting the aunt and inviting the two of them to dinner.”
Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair. His mother had always possessed a spirited nature, one that had served him and his family well as they had carved out a new existence for themselves across the ocean. While he admired her initiative, he held no real hope of her forging a truce with Pemberton’s daughter . . . not as long as the girl insisted on being an unmanageable brat.
“You’re wasting your time. Even if Lady Frances were a saint, her niece cannot be tolerated.” He felt himself scowling in recollection of her haughtiness. “I’ve never met such an entitled woman in all my life. To think she thought she could insert herself into a situation where she doesn’t belong.” His eyes raised to the ceiling.
His mother appeared to consider his words thoughtfully, plucking softly at the polished jet necklace that hung around her neck. Despite his father’s death some five years before, and the fact that she no longer adhered to the requirements the traditional mourning period called for, there was always a hint of it in her daily attire; a dangle of jet or onyx; a flounce of black lace on an otherwise colorful dress. He knew his father was never far from her thoughts although she did not like to speak of his loss. Her natural fortitude and happy disposition demanded she carry on without him, however much he was missed, and she threw herself wholeheartedly into supporting her sons instead.
“Hmm, I wonder,” she said at last. “Does she not have a right to be concerned about a situation involving her home?”
Jonathan crossed over to stand behind a wine-colored armchair, his hands sliding restlessly over the top of it. He was trying to appear casual but could feel his fingertips digging into the rich velvet upholstery.
“She absolutely has the right. But the matter still doesn’t involve her.”
Her eyes were no longer smiling. “I happen to disagree. And I don’t think you believe it either.”
“And why do you say that?” he asked, tamping down his irritation. If there was any woman less deserving of his mother’s sympathy than Lady Caroline, he would be hard-pressed to name her.
“Well, for one, I am here with you.” She tipped her head over the various menus in her hands, the silver threads in her otherwise dark hair catching the light that filtered in through the windows. “I have no real authority over this estate, and yet I know you value my input. I wouldn’t be here if you did not. You obviously, however, do not value hers. Why?”
He stared at her, in growing disbelief over the line of her questioning. “Your input is valuable because I know you to be an intelligent person, while I have seen nothing of her intelligence so far. She appears to operate at the mercy of her emotions,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I don’t have time to deal with such ridiculousness.”
“On the contrary, you may have more time than you think if the Duke of Pemberton is so difficult to pin down,” she countered with a sober laugh. “Don’t you think you might be overreacting a bit? This seems like a bitterness our new neighbor doesn’t quite deserve. At least not yet.”
“Are you implying something?” he asked with a sigh, knowing full well what she was implying.
“I just worry about you, dear. I worry that the way things ended with Letitia might keep you from treating other women . . . fairly.”
“This has nothing to do with Letitia.”
His mother only nodded, surely detecting the annoyance in his voice.
“Besides,” he added, finally coming around the armchair to drop down into the cushioned seat, “her position is indefensible. The fence line is wrong. And not just a few feet over to one side; it is significantly wrong. I’m rather surprised that Reginald Cartwick did not bother to fix it while he was alive.”
She set a menu off to the side, having narrowed down her selections for what was sure to be one hell of a dinner. Literally.
“It is curious, for certain,” she agreed. “Surely, he knew? He and the duke both must have known—”
“But that’s another thing. She mentioned that her father doesn’t live at Willowford House. It could be he didn’t know, as I imagine he’s got estates all over the country and agents with which to manage them, albeit poorly. But doesn’t it strike you as a little strange that the duke’s daughter lives alone with her aunt?”
A tiny crease had appeared between the dark wings of his mother’s brow. “Yes, it does seem strange. And maybe a little sad.”
He leaned forwards to rest his elbows on top of his knees and shook his head. “I think you are being too generous a judge of her character. Trust me, she will not hold back when the time comes to judge you.”
“I understand you two have had your differences already,” she replied evenly. “I also understand the resentment you hold towards the aristocracy. I share
some of those same reservations. But it is still no reason to be unpleasant to a woman you hardly know, and a neighbor, no less.”
He viewed his mother in sardonic contemplation. “Lady Caroline is being difficult simply because she can. And on the first day we met, she told me precisely what she thought of me, even though we’d never met before.”
Mrs. Cartwick perked up. “She did? You didn’t mention that. Only that you’d seen her on the road and escorted her to her house.”
“Yes, for all the good being a gentleman does around her,” he muttered darkly.
Her eyes held the barest hint of suspicion. “Why would she speak so freely to a new acquaintance? Especially one she was eager to criticize?”
“It’s difficult to explain. I never had the chance to make myself known. And as for why she would speak freely, I think you’ll need to meet her to fully understand.” He paused. “Also, I suppose I asked her opinion.”
She stared blankly. “You asked her about—”
“Her thoughts on the new owner of the Cartwick estate.”
There was silence first, then the sound of his mother’s laughter. He glowered at her until her amusement had subsided into soft chuckles of mirth, and she wiped at her eyes while attempting to compose herself. Rising to make her way to the door, she placed an affectionate hand on his arm as she passed. Another giggle managed to escape on her way. Curling his fists at his side, he asked, although he was almost afraid to.
“What is it that you find so very funny?”
She turned to face him, her face flushed with the effort to suppress her laughter.
“It’s you, my darling,” she said as seriously as she could and pausing for a moment to catch her breath. “It’s you trying to act so very uninterested in her.”
Waiting for a Rogue Page 3