Waiting for a Rogue

by Marie Tremayne

  But part of him knew that wasn’t true. He couldn’t help his thoughts from wandering to the beauty with dark hair that glittered with the intensity of a thousand rubies.

  He snapped the reins in irritation. He needed to stop being a fool. Lady Caroline was the daughter of a duke and entirely uninterested. One could even say she was repelled by him. He’d never be able to kiss her anyway because that tempting mouth would never cease spitting venom in his direction.

  She was pleasing to look at but that was as close as he’d ever be, and what was more, he was glad of it. The woman was entitled and arrogant, just like all the others of her ilk. She could go make some other man miserable; Lord knew she’d already succeeded with him in their short time of knowing one another.

  With a deep breath, he turned in and proceeded up the drive to stop before the stately ducal residence. After relinquishing his horse, he vaulted the stone steps two at a time. The heavy front door swung open to reveal a formidable butler who was tall with a slightly rounded belly, a full head of silvery gray hair, and a hawkish nose. He looked down that nose with a hooded gaze to assess the man standing before him now.

  “Mmm . . . yes,” he said. The man’s dignified affectation made it sound like one word. “May I help you?”

  “I am Jonathan Cartwick from Greystone Hall,” he said, gesturing in the general direction of his estate. “Is the lady of the house at home?”

  “Mmm. Lady Frances is not inclined to receive visitors at the moment.” He started to back away.

  “One moment, if you please,” Jonathan said with a staying hand on the door. “What of Lady Caroline? Is she available? I must speak to one of them,” he added. “It is a matter of some importance.”

  The butler’s steely gaze was sharp while he considered his request. Finally, it eased just a fraction.

  “You will find Lady Caroline out back.”

  Jonathan blinked. “Outside?”

  “Indeed.”

  The door slowly closed in his face.

  He uttered a small, disbelieving laugh, then turned on his heel to retrace his path down the steps. Ornamental gardens surrounded the grand house. Hedges had been trimmed and shaped into unyielding submission. The bare fingers of leafless willow trees drooped and swayed in the considerable breeze, and multiple terraces with balustrades surrounded the sides and rear of the house. Jonathan knew the duke owned many other properties throughout the country, and the fact that this was probably one of his less ornate holdings set his teeth on edge.

  Walking along the gravel lined path, he continued until he was greeted by the quiet shoop of an arrow piercing a target at high velocity. And there she was—like some aristocratic version of Artemis—practicing archery on the back lawn with a cup of tea perched upon a small table beside her.

  For a moment, she did not see him and was wholly consumed by her focus upon the target and her draw on the longbow. This allowed him a few seconds in which to observe her unnoticed. A lock of dark auburn hair had been teased out by the wind and it swayed and bounced along the nape of her neck. Her informal day dress of champagne-colored muslin was trimmed with lace and enveloped her body in a most . . . flattering way. Jonathan was surprised to see she was not wearing a cloak or something warmer. In fact, it almost appeared as if she’d been reading in the library when the desire to practice archery suddenly took her.

  The high round neckline concealed her skin, but the fit of her bodice only illustrated the petite curves beneath. Suddenly he had the most infuriating desire simply stride right over and pull her into his arms. To feel that softness molded against him. To shock her with his touch, then tease her with his kiss—

  God, no.

  He cleared his throat loudly and she loosed an arrow in surprise, the projectile skittering off awkwardly into the rosebushes. His answering smile was instantly countered by her frown, and she lowered her bow.

  “Mr. Cartwick. What are you doing here?”

  Her discomfort was gratifying, and he wondered at its exact cause. Was it merely that he had startled her? Or could it be something else . . .

  Banishing the thought, he came closer to where she stood. “Forgive me, Lady Caroline. I’d hoped for conversation but I see I’ve interrupted your archery practice instead.”

  Lady Caroline’s frown deepened and she cast a sheepish look at the target. “I was doing fine until you showed up here, uninvited.”

  Jonathan smiled at her, a bit too politely. “I believe you.”

  Every inch of her exposed skin turned pink, from her chest right up to the delicate tips of her ears. Her eyes somehow grew darker yet brighter, and that same thrill he’d felt before in her presence expanded again within his chest.

  “Why are you here?” she demanded.

  He gazed at her in fascination. Answer her, you fool.

  Jonathan smoothed a hand over his cravat. He wasn’t going to be able to resist teasing her. It was just too tempting. “I came to ask after the welfare of your aunt,” he finally said. “But I have time to join you, if you like. Perhaps offer a few pointers.”

  The surprise on her face made his visit entirely worthwhile, even if she were to turn him away this instant. She placed a haughty hand on her hip.

  “The Duke of Pemberton, himself, taught me how to use a bow.”

  He felt his mouth quirk upwards. “I see.”

  “Besides, what do you know of archery?”

  It was impossible to not want to provoke the little minx when she was so provocative herself. He closed the remaining distance between them and took the bow out of her hands.

  “You are about to find out, my lady.”

  She rolled her eyes while he examined the longbow; flexible and fine and constructed of yew. He would have used a larger, heavier bow under normal circumstances, but adjustments in calculations could be made . . .

  Pivoting around, he assumed the proper stance, planting his feet shoulder width apart. Jonathan performed a test draw on the bowstring, pulling back to his ear, then keeping hold of the string, he released it before turning around to slide an arrow slowly out of the quiver at Caroline’s hip. This earned him an offended glare that he relished. He turned away, nocked the arrow and took his aim.

  “Oh, please,” sighed Caroline from behind him. “What a pointless display—”

  He breathed out in a prolonged exhale and released the arrow, the shot making the same shoop noise as hers had before.

  Only this time, it drove directly into the heart of the bull’s-eye.

  He stood there for a moment in satisfied silence, then turned back to revel in the shocked expression on her face. Reaching down with his free hand to grasp the delicate china cup, he took a sip of her tea before setting it back on its saucer with a tiny, satisfying clink.

  “Would you like that lesson now?” he asked with a grin.

  Chapter Five

  Caroline stared at Mr. Cartwick, the unexpected excitement at finding him so near having quickly transformed into annoyance. There was no way to convince him that normally she was an excellent shot. That after days of worrying and caring for her Aunt Frances, she was just having a bad afternoon. And the longer he looked at her with those incredible eyes of his, the more she knew she would keep losing her aim. It was useless.

  “No, thank you, sir. I practice only for my own pleasure, which you have seen fit to ruin today. I believe I am done for now.”

  She stepped away, intent on retrieving her arrows, but the gentle pressure of his hand upon her own halted her progress. Surprised, she glanced up at him to find a contrite expression on his face.

  “Apologies, my lady,” he said in a voice that was rich with his singular accent that was a fascinating blend of two different worlds. “I would never wish to interrupt anything that brings you pleasure.” He paused, the heat from that incredible gaze causing her to look away.

  Surely he hadn’t meant for his words to sound so . . . seductive.

  “F-fine, then,” she stammered. “In that c
ase, you are free to leave.”

  “But would it not please you even more to strike the target precisely where you are aiming?”

  Silly her. She thought he was going to be polite. “Mr. Cartwick,” she seethed, “if you are not careful, I will be aiming at you next time.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, clearly struggling to keep his composure. “And if you move your aim to the left, you may very well hit me.”

  Caroline’s eyes widened in disbelief. Ooh, he was impossible. Turning on her heel, she stormed across the lawn and began yanking arrows out of the target. One . . . two . . . Yes, she was tending to err on the right side today.

  “Do you see?” he asked, ambling closer to where she stood.

  Upon being caught, she resumed removing her arrows with sharp tugs. “I’m not sure what you mean, but—”

  “Come now. Don’t be stubborn,” he admonished softly, stopping before her and causing her heart to hammer insistently beneath her ribs. “A minor form correction is likely all that’s required.”

  “My form is fine,” she argued.

  His glance dropped to graze across the fit of her bodice, the filmy drape of her skirts, as if to ascertain the truth of her statement. He took his time, and only when he was done did his eyes meet hers again. Caroline could feel herself growing hot in embarrassment, indignation and . . . something else.

  Had Lord Braxton ever looked at her that way? Even if he had, she doubted it would have stirred the same restless craving deep inside of her.

  Clearing his throat, Cartwick came forwards and began pulling arrows out of the target for her. She watched him in carefully subdued amazement.

  “Your form is admirable,” he agreed boldly, sending a flare of heat up into her cheeks. “But as I’m sure you are aware, if your aim is off then something is not right. Would you like me to help you figure it out?”

  Caroline wanted to give him a proper setdown of some sort, but found herself unwilling to send him away. Pursing her lips in what she hoped appeared to be reluctance, she gathered the arrows and slid them back in her quiver, being careful not to meet his eyes.

  “I suppose.”

  She marched back to the table and took a sip of her now lukewarm tea, remembering too late that he had taken a drink from it before when he’d been showing off. The knowledge didn’t bother her . . . but it did seem rather too intimate . . . almost like sharing a kiss.

  Nervously, she glanced up at his face and saw his color had heightened. Perhaps he felt the same way.

  Cartwick approached, then offered the longbow back to her. “Assume your usual stance when you are ready,” he said.

  Turning her back to him, she widened her feet to roughly shoulder width apart and angled them slightly outwards with the bow lowered to her side. He circled around her, examining her stance carefully, and a corresponding sheen of perspiration broke out upon her forehead despite the chilliness of the air . . . and despite the fact that she didn’t like this man. Did not like him. A fact that didn’t affect his inconvenient appeal at all.

  “That’s good,” he said. “Try straightening your back just a little.”

  Caroline knew what proper form was. But for some odd reason, she hoped to prolong this little interlude. She brought her shoulder blades back slightly instead.

  “No, no. Your lower back. May I?” he inquired with a questioning glance, his hands raised.

  Oh—

  He was asking permission to touch her. She knew she shouldn’t let him, and yet before she could refuse, found she had already tipped him a tiny nod of assent.

  Cartwick moved closer and her lungs began to struggle. The pressure of his hand, confident and warm, slid across the small of her back and caused her to jump. He glanced at her.

  “Is this all right?”

  “Y-yes, I—” She paused to compose herself. “It’s fine.”

  “Good. Now curl your back against my palm, as if you are trying to push it away. There—stop.” He smoothed his hand over the line her spine had created, a wave of sparks chasing after the pathway of his fingertips. “This likely feels curved, but you had too much arch before. You have now corrected it.”

  It did feel strange, but not nearly as strange as it felt to have a man’s hands on her. It made the close hold of a waltz feel tame and harmless in comparison. He stepped away and Caroline exhaled in relief.

  “Now draw and hold.”

  Raising her bow, she nocked an arrow and hooked her fingers around the bowstring. Pulling back toward her right ear, focusing on her target, she tried to ignore the fact that he was standing so near.

  “This elbow is rotated too far.” His fingers touched the arm that was holding the bow.

  Oh, she knew. But some devilish part of her wondered if she could get him to touch her again. Releasing her draw on the bowstring, she stared at him. “It is not—”

  Cartwick again reached out, taking her arm in his hands and gently guiding her back into position.

  “If your concern is simply hitting anywhere on the target, then you’re right,” he replied. “If, however, you are interested in bull’s-eyes . . .” He gripped her elbow and rotated it downwards. “. . . then you will need to perfect your alignment.”

  Caroline accepted the correction with a sigh, even as a shudder of awareness traveled through her. He was so very, very close. Cartwick released her arm to step back, and her eyes darted across his black frock coat, the gray fitted waistcoat beneath that clung to his broad chest like a second skin. He was so near that she could see the pulse in his neck, feel the heat from his body. The shameless urge to press herself against him, to sink into his arms and taste the warm skin that was visible above his collar, was nearly overwhelming. It was something she’d never felt before. Noting her difficulty, his brow creased in concern.

  “Perhaps you are tired.”

  “I, no—I feel fine,” she replied, shaking her head. “Please continue.”

  He eyed her distrustfully before resuming. “As you wish. I believe your shoulders also need to be more open. This is the primary reason why your arrows consistently strike to the right of your target.”

  She opened her shoulders a tiny bit, but not enough to make much of a difference. Meanwhile, her nerves sang in anticipatory delight.

  Perhaps the ton is right, she thought shamefully. I am a wicked girl.

  Cartwick did nothing for a moment, perhaps considering how to make the adjustment without being too inappropriate, and Caroline kept her eyes focused down the lawn the whole time while she awaited his instruction. She couldn’t look at him again. Not when he was so near. Not when he was about to touch her again.

  He circled around, coming to a stop behind her. Places Caroline had hardly ever thought about became unwittingly alive with him standing there. Cartwick was so near she could feel his breath caressing the side of her neck. Her arms trembled as she held her position, and she jumped a little when his hands slid over the tops of her shoulders, the thin muslin doing very little to disguise the incendiary potency of his touch.

  “Like this, my lady,” he said softly.

  He gently exerted force on Caroline’s shoulders, pulling them back into proper position. Her posture improved instantly and her arms fell into place, creating one seamless pathway to the target. His hands fell away, but before she could breathe a sigh of relief, he had slid them lower into a possessive clasp around her waist. She gasped.

  “Mr. Cartwick, I don’t—”

  Her objection was silenced when she felt his hands increase their pressure, rotating her hips just a fraction so they were facing straight ahead. His right hand traveled upwards to lightly tuck a stray lock of hair around the side of her neck, then returned immediately to its place around her waist.

  “One clean line. Everything in alignment,” he murmured near her ear.

  What was it that made her ache for him with all of her being? Her wayward imagination wondered what it would be like if he simply tugged her back against him. She envis
ioned one hand snaking its way down below her belly while the other rose higher to seek her breasts, the heated brush of his lips upon her neck. She couldn’t help it . . . she felt so deliciously vulnerable with him standing behind her.

  Then she experienced a moment of clarity. Here she was, imagining this man ravishing her outside on her own back lawn. And this was not just any man. He was the American. The one who was now living in the house that Eliza had been forced to vacate. Eliza . . . who’d been like a sister to her, and whose parting words still rang in Caroline’s head.

  I trust you won’t make it easy for him.

  She struggled to be loyal for the sake of her friend, but his strong hands were still on her waist.

  “Please unhand me, sir,” she forced out, “so I can make this shot.”

  His hands jerked away, allowing for some much-needed concentration. Inhaling deeply, she focused on her target down the lawn, released her breath and took the shot.

  Shoop.

  She had overcorrected. The arrow hit just to the left of center, but it was still a good shot. Turning, she saw Cartwick nodding in approval.

  “Well done.”

  It was probably the best she’d be able to do with him anywhere nearby, and that thought immediately led to another one.

  Do I affect him the same way?

  She wanted to find out. Releasing her draw, she extended the bow in his direction.

  “Can you do better, Mr. Cartwick?”

  He tipped her a smile. “I’ve already shown that I can.”

  “Then there should be no problem duplicating your success,” she said with a shrug.

  Cartwick stared at the bow in amused silence, then slid it from her hands. She offered him an arrow from her quiver then moved back, wrapping her arms around her midsection, being certain to stay in his periphery.

  He found his footing, nocked the arrow and pulled back on the bowstring. It appeared his focus was entirely on the target and on the arrow that would pierce it. His gaze was steady, brow lowered, jaw tight—and all at once she saw the face of the man who had run a prosperous shipbuilding company. Serious and determined, she couldn’t imagine anyone standing in his way. Failure was simply not an option.