Waiting for a Rogue

by Marie Tremayne

  “—is that so, Mr. Cartwick?”

  His gaze snapped over to Lady Frances, who was obviously awaiting the answer to a question he had not heard. Dorothea’s eyes were overly bright as she took a sip of wine, and Jonathan straightened in his chair with a frown.

  “My apologies . . . what was the question?”

  Frances dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “I was inquiring about the nature of your business in America,” she said. “Is it true, as I have heard, that you have found great success?”

  Jonathan regarded the elder woman’s curious expression and found no malice lingering there. She could quite possibly be the only member of the ton who would ask such a question without a show of disdain. Lady Caroline raised the spoon to her lips once more, but her gaze did raise ever so slightly, displaying the barest show of interest.

  “I suppose you could call it that. We build ships. Excellent ones. And the demand in the industry has increased over the past two decades to the point that we build a steady and ever-increasing supply of vessels for fishing companies.”

  Lady Frances regarded him in confusion. “But your father had no maritime or shipbuilding experience while living in England, correct?”

  “He did not possess those particular skills as an English merchant, but he owned a wealth of intelligence and was highly motivated as an American entrepreneur. His charisma earned him the respect of men who could teach him the necessary skills. When they grew old, those same men sold their share of the business to my father, who left it to me upon his death.”

  “And your younger brother has now assumed the mantle of responsibility?” asked Frances, leaning back in her chair as her soup bowl was removed. “Is he the sole remaining Cartwick in America?”

  “He is.”

  “You don’t sound happy about that,” Caroline said sharply. “Perhaps you should have stayed where you were.”

  Lady Frances pivoted in her chair to lance her niece with a dark look, and Caroline had the good sense to look away in shame. It was almost as if the words had escaped her lips before she’d been able to really consider them, which was just more confirmation that they reflected her true feelings. He could only imagine her disdain if he were to tell her the truth of things. That he wasn’t happy here. That he wasn’t certain why he’d left everything he loved in America to return to England. That he didn’t feel like saying no was an option.

  Jonathan raised his napkin to touch the corner of his mouth and regarded Lady Caroline with a neutral expression. “Perhaps you’re right. Leaving my father’s business . . . and my home . . . for such a reception here was a difficult decision to make. But my brother is just as capable as I ever was, and I rest easy knowing the company is in good hands.”

  “Robert Cartwick was the kindest, most amiable man. Hardworking too,” his mother said with a small smile and a wistful look, as if momentarily lost in a recollection of her treasured husband. Remembering herself, she hastily reached down to straighten her silverware upon the linen tablecloth. “My sons remind me of him very much.”

  Jonathan smiled warmly at her for just a moment before refolding the napkin on his lap. “I’d venture to say you had something to do with that, Mother, although I don’t believe everyone shares your good opinion of me.”

  Naturally his eyes sought Caroline, who blushed but kept silent for once despite his goading.

  Dinner passed slowly, with Mrs. Cartwick and Lady Frances chatting animatedly with one another while he and Caroline contributed fragments of conversation when prompted. Their limited participation was for the best, really, and yet he couldn’t dismiss the pervasive disappointment that kept him from enjoying himself.

  For some incomprehensible reason, Jonathan was intrigued by the woman, and part of him was eager to know her better while the more sensible part told him to run away. Hadn’t Letitia put him through enough? Had he not learned that being miserable by one’s self was much preferable to being miserable because of another?

  Still, he’d been stopping himself all evening from contemplating the feel of her small hand wrapped around his elbow, and the enticing pressure of her breast against his arm when she’d risen on her tiptoes to insult his drawing room décor.

  Your wallpaper is atrocious.

  Out of all the things she could have possibly said, he was incredibly amused she had chosen that. Though his amusement had immediately dissolved at the feel of her, and when the silky warmth of her whisper had caressed his cheek, the beginnings of lust had stirred briefly in its place.

  No, he’d thought fiercely. Not her. Lady Caroline was nothing but trouble in a lovely little package. Her biting retorts were a reassuring sign of her intelligence, although she wielded it with the delicacy of a battle-ax. And even though she tended to rashness and often rushed to judgment, he was annoyed to find he could not dismiss her altogether as the prissy daughter of a duke.

  When the meal was finished and the party had moved into the parlor, he poured himself a brandy at the sideboard while the women took tea. His mother had made efforts to include Caroline this evening, but still she removed herself to stand alone by the piano while the older women were seated cozily on the couch.

  He heaved a sigh. Considering everything, he supposed his mother was right. Caroline might like to overstep traditional boundaries, both figuratively and literally, but perhaps since she was their guest, he could at least try to be amiable. Looking at her out of the corner of his eye, he tossed back his drink and returned the glass to the sideboard, his stomach tensing in anticipation. There was no way of knowing whether she would greet him with a smile or a hiss.

  The lady stood immobile, running her fingers absently along the gleaming rosewood piano case, her rich auburn coiffure studded with pearls displaying her slender neck to perfection. The glimmering light from the candelabras fell softly upon gently rounded, bare shoulders, and he took a step closer to gain her attention. Caroline jerked in surprise at his appearance, and while she did not cheerfully welcome him, she also did not scowl.

  “You seem bored, my lady,” he said in a low voice.

  Her back stiffened and she regarded him with flared nostrils. “You smell like brandy.”

  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It wasn’t an insult, simply an observation,” he replied. Then trying again, “Are you bored?”

  Her eyes widened, then she looked away and shook her head. “No.”

  “What are you, then?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  Jonathan viewed her in silence, wanting to press the question although he knew it would be ungentlemanly of him to do so. Instead, he noticed the way she held her hand on top of the piano. It reminded him of an affectionate gesture. Protective. He supposed that made sense given her familiarity with this house and the things in it.

  “Do you play?” he finally asked.

  “Yes, of course,” she replied, her head still lowered.

  “Will you play something for me?”

  Caroline’s eyes lifted. Instantly, his heart doubled its pace.

  “For you? No. Although—” she trailed off with a sigh. “I do owe you an apology for what I said at dinner.”

  A rise of conflicting emotions caused Jonathan to pause; the obvious discontent at her rejection, and the ensuing astonishment at her apology. He tried to gather his thoughts although at the moment, standing near enough to discern the faint drift of her rosewater perfume, he could not quite remember to which comment she was referring.

  “Remind me, if you will,” he managed.

  “It’s surprising you’ve forgotten. I—I made an unkind remark.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said, nodding and folding his hands behind his back. “Perhaps I should have stayed where I was.”

  She blushed and briefly caught her bottom lip between her teeth—her full, luscious bottom lip that was the color of ripened summer strawberries. How he wished she wouldn’t do that. When it was finally released he felt his body relax co
nsiderably, although with her still so very close to him he would never be entirely at ease.

  “Yes. Well, I shouldn’t have said it,” she said.

  “Has that ever stopped you before?” he asked, needing to steer his mind away from thoughts of ravishing her velvety lips with his own eager mouth. His willingness to make peace was disappearing. An argument seemed preferable to this . . . this damned pull that seemed to intensify each time the two of them met. “You seem to speak your mind most freely whenever you like.”

  Her eyebrows lowered. “You are not particularly gracious when accepting apologies.”

  “Well perhaps you should have just played the piano, like I asked, and saved us the inconvenience of conversation—”

  He broke off at the sound of a commotion behind him, and Caroline’s face grew taut with alarm. Turning, he saw Lady Frances abruptly swat at the empty space on the couch beside her.

  “No!”

  Mrs. Cartwick sat motionless, frozen on the other side of the couch, her eyes wide. Jonathan frowned, unsure of what the trouble was yet, and stepped forwards to assist.

  “Is there something I can—”

  Lady Caroline beat him to it, though, shouldering hurriedly past to assist her aunt.

  “Auntie, you look tired,” she said hurriedly. “Here, let me help you. We can return home if you like.”

  Frances still stared at the empty space on the couch, jabbing a finger at it for emphasis.

  “Naughty!” she cried.

  Caroline gently grasped the lady’s arm and helped her rise to a stand, her worried expression plain to see. The moment made an impression on him, as he would not have thought her capable of such tenderness or concern. Anytime he was with her, she was pricklier than an angry hedgehog, but it was clear this was no ordinary situation.

  Frances stared at her niece in confusion and Caroline leaned in, her head tilting close to whisper softly to her aunt. One hand was placed firmly on Frances’s shoulder while her other hand rubbed her back in soothing circles, and the whispering continued until finally Frances relented with a beleaguered nod.

  He strode forwards and touched Caroline’s elbow. “What can I do?” he asked.

  “Yes,” his mother added, nodding. “We’d like to help.”

  Caroline refused to acknowledge his offer, pulling away to slide an arm around her aunt and glancing at his mother instead.

  “I fear my aunt has overexerted herself,” she said. “Would you be so kind as to call our carriage around?”

  Mrs. Cartwick rushed over to tug on the bellpull then opened the door of the parlor. “Of course, my dear,” she said, her fingers clasped together in a worried tangle.

  “Is there anything else you need?” he asked, trying again. This time he did not make the mistake of touching her.

  Her answer was short and to the point. “No, thank you.”

  Then she was ushering her aunt out before anything else could be said, giving barely enough time for the butler to fetch their cloaks. Jonathan and his mother followed them in dismay as the ladies flew down the front steps to board their carriage, hands extended in farewell with no real hopes of reciprocation. The vehicle lurched down the drive, turned the corner and disappeared, a lingering remnant of Caroline’s perfume still drifting lightly upon the wind. The delicate scent of roses was as alluring as the lady herself.

  After such a sudden departure, it was the only indication she’d been there at all.

  “Thank you, Meggie. I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

  Caroline turned the knob and slipped into the hallway. She closed the door quietly behind her and sank against the oak panel with a pained sigh. Glancing down at her dress, she gripped the bodice and tugged it straight. It had twisted uncomfortably when she’d been lying next to Frances in bed, arm wrapped around her aunt’s waist, praying for sleep to claim the woman at last. It had been half past three o’clock when the mercy had finally happened. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  What do I do? Oh, what do I do . . .

  Caroline willed herself not to cry. She had learned long ago that crying never did any good, but still the annoying urge came over her from time to time. The muscles in her jaw tensed as she staved off the wave of emotion, and when she was satisfied the moment had passed, she pushed off the door and started walking to her room.

  She had hoped—she had truly thought—that her aunt had been improving. In hindsight, her supposition had not just been wishful, it had been foolish. These things did not typically get better with age. They got worse. She knew the signs of what they called senile dementia. Her aunt’s hallucinations of pet rabbits she’d owned as a child was most likely an indication of the severity of her case, but calling for the physician was not an option. Caroline would never allow Frances, the only true mother she’d ever had, to be taken away to a lunatic asylum so she could live out the rest of her days in a windowless room. A horrid place where she would sleep upon a straw bed while the screams of the other residents echoed loudly throughout the halls.

  It was also why her parents could not discover the truth. Such selfish creatures would only seek to make their own existence less distressing, and an elderly woman with diminished mental capacity would be highly inconvenient for them. It would be off to the asylum for poor Lady Frances, regardless of her distinguished pedigree or upbringing, and irrespective of the fact she was the duke’s very own sister.

  Her biggest regret was that this recent lapse had happened in front of others. And not just any others . . . the American scoundrel and his mother. She did not know Mrs. Cartwick well enough to assess whether or not she was a gossipy sort of woman, but Jonathan Cartwick already thought badly of her—a fact that troubled her more now than it had upon his arrival in England when he was nothing but a faceless enemy.

  With a tiny groan of impatience, she cast all thoughts of him out of her mind, her pace hastening. Once reaching her room, she ducked silently inside. The welcome click of the door latch caused relief to flood through her from head to toe.

  She started towards her vanity table then stopped, electing to sink down against the edge of the bed instead. Her mass of silvery blue skirts spilled out to the sides around her. She hadn’t had the chance to change out of her finery yet. Caring for Lady Frances had been the task of utmost importance on her mind tonight, and that brief hint of her aunt’s troubles at Greystone Hall had continued in a prolonged event that had stretched throughout the rest of the evening back at home. Now her aunt lay resting in bed, comfortable in her nightgown, sleeping peacefully the last time she saw her. That could change quickly, Caroline knew.

  Leaning forwards, she propped her elbows on her knees and cradled her head in her hands to massage her aching temples. She would need to hire more staff. It made no sense to continue on in this way . . . she needed to make adjustments now before things took an even more conspicuous turn for the worse. It was best for Frances’s comfort and safety, after all. And much as the thought killed her, perhaps it was best to limit her aunt’s exposure to outside society, even here in the country. Frances would be mortified if she were to be seen acting out. Tonight, the damage had been minimal, she hoped. But next time she couldn’t be sure. There simply couldn’t be a next time.

  With a quiet grumble, she mentally kicked herself. Hadn’t she learned her lesson after Lord Evanston had helped them leave London during the season? It had cost her everything to avoid the scandal that would have ensued if Frances acted out in society. Her courtship with Lord Braxton had been one casualty. Her reputation was another, and the local peers had not turned a blind eye to her predawn flight with a notorious rake. Just thinking about their constant slander of her was enough to make her stomach churn.

  Rising from the bed, she crossed over to seat herself at the vanity, unfastening the pearl and diamond necklace around her neck. She found herself staring off into space, lost to her own melancholy thoughts. The thought of most concern was whether or not the American could be trusted to keep his mou
th shut.

  She would worry about that later. For now, she needed to get some necessary rest. After an acute episode of agitation, her aunt often required a day of close watching and assistance. If Caroline was lucky, that would be all she needed for a while. If not, she would need to be close at hand for days.

  Caroline knew she could ring the bell and wake her lady’s maid to help her out of her gown, but she was so tired and it was so very late. Her eyelids drooped heavily as she raised her arms to pluck the bejeweled pins from her hair. One by one, she slid them out and laid them upon the table, the auburn locks gradually uncoiling to fall in russet waves down her back, then she took the silver brush and briefly ran it through her hair. She only wanted to get the worst of the tangles worked through—there was just no energy for the rest.

  A tear landed with a soft plunk on her skirt. She glanced down in surprise at the dark spot that widened across the expensive satin.

  Crying has never done a bit of good.

  No, it hadn’t. And she would not start crying now.

  With a weary sigh, she brushed the back of her hand across the wet tracks upon her face. Then Caroline pushed herself upwards to a stand and stumbled across the room to flop facedown upon her bed.

  Jonathan dug his heels into the sides of his bay, and the horse immediately responded to the demand by lowering its head and increasing his pace upon the worn country road.

  Against common sense—but in line with the dictates of courtesy—he had decided to ride to Willowford House to check on the status of Lady Frances. His mother had not found the past two days of silence reassuring in the least, and even he had to admit that he would like confirmation that all was well with the women after what had occurred during the dinner party.

  Woman, he corrected himself. You are inquiring about Lady Frances.