Waiting for a Rogue

by Marie Tremayne

  She glanced up, eyes alight with newfound interest. “I haven’t heard of them.”

  “They only started producing pianos a few years ago, so that’s not surprising.”

  Caroline’s brow creased in confusion. “You bought a lovely new piano and then left it behind?”

  “I did. But I imagine my brother, James, is taking very good care of it.”

  She eyed him curiously. “Do you play?”

  “A little,” he said with a modest shrug.

  She softly smiled. “Given the rough feel of your hands, I would have guessed you were using them for building your own ships, not playing the piano.” Her tone was teasing. It was a pleasant change.

  “Well, I was an apprentice for years and did assist my builders when necessary. My hands are still coarse, I suppose, but they were also able to coax out a tune,” he said, glancing down at his palms, stretching his long fingers out to survey the calloused surface. “I never stopped to think that they might offend a lady such as yourself.”

  A pretty wash of color infused her cheeks. “I never said I found them offensive.”

  Jonathan forced himself to maintain control. It was not easy when he found himself overwhelmed from the sudden heat her words had incited.

  “Well, I—” His voice sounded rusty, unused, and he swallowed before making another attempt to speak. “I am glad of it.”

  He was almost relieved to hear footsteps and conversation growing louder in the foyer. His mother and Lady Frances were returning from their viewing of the gallery, no doubt, and he glanced over to the open door. The ladies would be expecting to find them in the drawing room, so he and Caroline had but a moment before being discovered. Remembering his purpose, he swiftly skirted the edge of the piano to join her.

  “Lady Frances will be here soon, my lady,” he said in a hushed voice. “Tell me you’ll accept the help.”

  Caroline stiffened and gazed up at him, her mouth moving wordlessly before she looked away at last.

  “Mr. Cartwick, I-I can’t,” she said, pressing her lips together and staring down at her hands.

  “For God’s sake, why? This help is freely offered.”

  He could see her tears threatening under the weight of his reply, but she took a deep breath and shook her head again, much as she had earlier when he’d started this conversation. “And I thank you and your mother for the kind gesture—”

  His eyebrows flew upwards in astonishment. “This is more than just a gesture—”

  “Oh, there you two are!”

  Jonathan straightened immediately. His mother stood at the entrance to the music room, looking worried, and only then did he realize how unfriendly things must have looked from her perspective. Lady Frances was at her side, smiling and seemingly unaware of the frantic exchange that had been occurring only a moment before. Caroline brushed past him and crossed the room to stand beside her aunt.

  “I apologize, Mrs. Cartwick,” she said, looping her arm through Frances’s, her mouth pursed with regret, “but it turns out this wasn’t exactly the best time for guests, after all.”

  A shock of disappointment caused him to flinch, and he took a step in her direction, hand outstretched.

  “Lady Caroline, let us discuss things further—”

  “I’ll thank you to drop the subject if you please, Mr. Cartwick,” she answered quickly, shooting him a warning glance and leaning over to tug on the bellpull. “Taylor will call your carriage around and escort you outside.”

  And with little more than a parting nod, Caroline ushered her aunt out of the room, leaving Jonathan and Mrs. Cartwick to stare at each other in speechless surprise.

  Shoop.

  The arrow tucked itself neatly underneath her last one, both projectiles still straying to the right of the bull’s-eye in irritating fashion. With a quiet growl of annoyance, she slid another from her quiver and drew back the bowstring yet again.

  What she ought to be doing was trying to nap, as her aunt was resting peacefully in her bedchamber and she had not slept much the night before. Come to think of it, she had not truly been able to sleep well since Jonathan Cartwick had moved into Greystone Hall. Frances’s bouts of evening difficulties only made matters more trying. Caroline had noticed her aunt’s episodes were no longer exclusively occurring at night, as that day in the field had shown, although her mental faculties were still relatively sharp otherwise.

  It was easier to convince herself that the situation wasn’t so bad when Frances was her usual self, but she knew denial would only take her so far. Part of her very much regretted spurning the Cartwicks’ offer the day before because Jonathan was right . . . she needed help.

  Frowning at the target ahead, she tried to recall his instructions to her that day he had happened upon her practicing. What was it he had said? Aim more to the left . . .

  Straighten your back.

  Ah yes, that was it. And now against her own will, she was remembering the slide of his palm over her lower back, the illicit shock of contact and the way her body had awakened to him with just the lightest touch.

  Caroline banished the thoughts immediately and flattened her spine the way he had shown her. A sudden gust of wind rushed around her skirts and whipped her hair into her face. Twitching her head to clear her eyes, she felt the familiar frustration welling inside of her until her chest threatened to burst.

  She had longed to accept his offer. But things had grown . . . complicated . . . between them lately, and putting herself in a position that depended upon both his charity and his secrecy was not the wisest move. Plus, it would amount to a partnership of sorts, and she couldn’t imagine trying to explain that to Eliza.

  Shoop.

  Again, the arrow struck right of center. She scowled and retrieved another arrow from her quiver. Drawing again on the bowstring, she straightened her back once more while searching for another piece of advice he had given her on that blustery afternoon.

  Rotate your elbow.

  Caroline checked her elbow to find it was indeed turned too far upwards and corrected the rotation. She’d been exaggerating her ignorance on that day with Jonathan, but she’d definitely been having more trouble since the problems with Frances had become so much worse.

  Shoop.

  Shading her eyes with a hand, Caroline squinted down the lawn. Her aim had struck slightly more to the left that time, and she broke into a grin. As much as she’d wanted to discount his assistance at the time, she couldn’t dismiss Cartwick’s masterful and seemingly effortless shot into the bull’s-eye, or the way arousal had flashed within her at the sight of him—calm, confident and at ease taking charge. Part of his appeal was his ability to challenge her.

  In fact, Cartwick’s magnetism seemed to increase every time he came near her, and she had grown to fear any future meeting with him. The likelihood of shamelessly throwing herself into his arms only seemed to increase with each passing second.

  Christ, Caroline . . . you drive me mad.

  She turned her head sharply as if to drive away the thought. She couldn’t let herself think of how his words had driven her mad. Couldn’t bear to think about the lean muscles acquired from his years of shipbuilding, or the way her fingertips had eagerly traversed the planes of his chest in her feverish attempt to get closer. Or the dizzying press of his mouth against hers and how good it had felt when he’d kissed her deeper. And the thrilling sounds of the groans he had been unable to suppress . . .

  I care about a hell of a lot more than just myself.

  Open your shoulders.

  Inhaling sharply through her nose, Caroline grasped weakly at the memory of his words and pulled on the bowstring once again, straightening her back, correcting her elbow and adjusting her shoulders until she was in perfect alignment with her target. She released her breath in a long exhale.

  Shoop.

  Straight through the bull’s-eye.

  Caroline stared in astonishment then let out a whoop of celebration.

  �
�Yes!” she cried.

  Smiling like a fool, she pumped her bow high into the air and spun around in a dance of unparalleled joy, then stopped to simply admire the sight of her arrow buried in the middle of her target. Glancing at the house and seeing no one, she set her longbow down and reached into her skirt pocket, pulling out a handkerchief. She stared at it, a little ashamed of herself, running her fingertips across the soft linen square.

  Cartwick had forgotten his handkerchief after their kiss in the upstairs hallway, but since he’d just been slapped it was unsurprising that he’d left in haste. It was only later that afternoon that she discovered the item safely tucked away in her pocket. The bit of fabric showed a tiny monogram on the corner, JRC, and still held the enthralling scent of its owner. Her pulse galvanized at his singular masculine smell. Starch and a hint of cedar and sandalwood mingled together in erotic harmony with his own delicious aroma.

  Caroline was more than a little worried that she might be infatuated with the man. Although, truth be told, she knew so little of these things it was difficult for her to tell. She’d fancied herself in love with Lord Braxton at one time too—had thought the feeling was reciprocated—only to discover how easily she could be replaced.

  With a troubled sigh, Caroline hid the handkerchief inside her pocket once more. Eliza would view her as a traitor for even considering him. The two of them had already kissed, and that was bad enough. But if things were to progress even further? Even if he did want to marry her, which he did not, there was no way she could ever become the next mistress of Greystone Hall. It would be an inexcusable slap in the face to her friend, the prior mistress.

  Suddenly archery didn’t seem so exciting. Unfastening the quiver from around her waist, she set it down beside her bow and began her return to the house when she was interrupted by the appearance of Meggie outside on the back steps. The maid’s forehead was creased in concern.

  “Begging your pardon, my lady, but Lady Frances wishes to speak with you—”

  Caroline’s boots crunched in the gravel and she came to a stop, smiling quizzically. “Then, by all means, let her speak to me.”

  “I would, but she won’t come outside,” Meggie said, glancing uncomfortably back to the house.

  Craning her neck, Caroline looked through the garden to the glass windows that lined the rear of the house. A pale face in the interior gloom peered back out at her, and she waved a hand at her aunt. With no indication she had seen her, Frances pivoted around and walked away from the window, concealing herself further in the shadows.

  “Can she not see me, Meggie?”

  The maid nodded and glanced back at the house in apprehension. “She can see you, my lady. It’s not her sight that is the problem . . .”

  “What is the problem, then?” she asked with a frown, swatting away a tendril of hair that had come loose in the wind.

  “Well, it’s, er—”

  The maid was twisting her hands together, and the fine hairs on Caroline’s forearms lifted in nervous anticipation. Taylor was the next person to exit onto the back terrace, and his eyes quickly found her. The normally distinguished butler was wide-eyed and upset; something unusual for him.

  “Apologies, my lady—”

  “For goodness’ sake,” she said, her frantic eyes darting between the two servants. “Please tell me what’s wrong!”

  Meggie’s face turned pale. “I think that . . . it seems to be . . .”

  The maid stammered then gave up, shooting a pleading look at Taylor who responded by bowing his head with a solemn sigh. Caroline stared at him, trying to quell the trembling of her limbs that had just begun, and he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  “My lady, it seems that—at least for this moment—Lady Frances doesn’t who you are.”

  Chapter Ten

  Jonathan scanned the contents of the letter once more, then sighed and set it aside. The Duke of Pemberton was truly on his way home.

  The correspondence had made no mention of any upcoming efforts to marry off his daughter. He supposed it wouldn’t have been relevant in these circumstances unless they’d been actively considering him as a candidate. But they would no more give their approval for Caroline to marry an American shipbuilder than they would promise her hand to a lowly fishmonger. Hopeless notion that it was, his exclusion from the running of eligible men did grate on him. It was typical of their ilk. Returning to England and expecting his family to be treated any differently than before was the ultimate naivete, and he reminded himself not to be foolish, especially where the duke’s daughter was concerned.

  The letter had merely stated that the property lines would be addressed and resolved, and while the news should have brought him a considerable amount of relief, he found himself sitting here instead, contemplating, wondering if there was still something that had been missed. Something about the situation still didn’t quite add up, and even though every document he had showed that he was in the right, he couldn’t help but feel apprehensive about making any permanent adjustments to the boundaries. He also couldn’t deny that his growing feelings for Caroline, vexing as she was, could constitute part of his reluctance.

  Jonathan ran a hand along the back of his neck and sighed. His dealings here had become incredibly complicated. It had been much easier before to vilify the woman when she had been resolutely against any effort to make peace. Now they were at least civil to each other, but he knew that for her to diverge from the notion that he was a self-serving interloper would make her feel as if she had wronged her friend. No . . . it was pointless to think about Lady Caroline as anything but an intriguing neighbor. A surprising and intelligent woman who had suffered at the hands of the ton, of the inconstant Lord Braxton . . . even her own parents. And with her parents’ renewed determination to see her married to a lord, she would certainly suffer more before this was all said and done.

  His thoughts strayed dangerously again to the auburn-haired beauty, and he pushed back from the scarred oak surface of his desk, stood and crossed over to the window of his study. Bracing a hand against the casement, he cast his gaze across the gardens behind the estate, noting it was another lovely day, if a bit windy. He reflected on his home back in New England. For as much as he’d loved life in America and as often as he missed his brother, he knew his new life here was an attempt to fill some inexplicable need. He was still in the process of figuring out exactly what that was.

  Recognition? Retribution? Jonathan couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but what he did know was that dealing with his neighborly adversary had become one of the things he looked forward to the most.

  With a restless growl, he returned to his desk and sank back down into his butter-soft leather chair to examine the parchment leaves of the letter again. He found it hard to believe that the duke and duchess were entirely ignorant of Lady Frances’s condition. But if it was true, then that made Caroline’s unwillingness to let him help her even more troubling. Would it not be more likely for the duke to whisk his sister away to an asylum if he were to come home to discover insufficient staffing and no plan in place? Even Caroline’s concerns about privacy and misplaced gossip seemed small in comparison, although he understood her worry over that as well.

  Leaning an elbow on the arm of his chair, Jonathan’s mind wandered again, this time in recollection of her shining gray eyes. There was nothing quite like them; eyes like dark stars, simmering with contained energy. Despite his best efforts, his thoughts often lingered upon the interlude they had shared, and the tantalizing softness of her lips against his. He found the idea of such a vital spirit wed to a curmudgeonly old lord did not sit well with him. The notion of somehow being able to convince her to marry him, however, seemed just as preposterous.

  A soft knock sounded upon his study door, and his head jerked up.

  “Yes?”

  The heavy wooden portal opened to reveal his butler, Shaw, who crossed the threshold and addressed him in a curiously hushed voice.

 
; “Pardon the interruption, Mr. Cartwick, but Lady Caroline has arrived.”

  Jonathan’s breathing stopped to hover anxiously inside his lungs. He was not expecting her, and after how she had dismissed him the last time they’d met, this visit was . . . surprising. His throat went dry, and he swallowed before attempting to speak again.

  “Did she state the purpose of her call?”

  The man shook his head. “No, sir. And Mrs. Cartwick is still in the village and not here to receive her.”

  It would have to be him, then. “I’ll receive her here in the study,” he said, shuffling his papers—including the duke’s letter—into a tidy stack and depositing them in a desk drawer. “You may send her in.”

  Shaw departed with a nod and Jonathan took a cursory glance at the informal state of his own attire. Brown trousers, white linen shirt with no cravat and lack of waistcoat could hardly be considered appropriate clothing for greeting a lady in his own home. But his worries were dispelled when Caroline appeared at the door, bedecked in one of the large and conspicuously atrocious bonnets she’d been carrying on the first day they had met. She was beautiful as always, but the thrill of seeing her in his private study was nearly offset by his amusement at her choice of headgear, festooned as it was by iridescent feathers and multicolored folds of satin.

  The butler closed the door behind her and Jonathan rose from his seat, gesturing for her to come closer with a stifled laugh that he masterfully transformed into a smile.

  “Please be seated, my lady,” he said pleasantly. “Perhaps you would like an extra seat for your considerable bonnet?”

  Caroline froze in mid-step, her hands flying upwards to the creation, then she was swiftly tugging at the ribbon fastened beneath her chin. She ripped the decorative straw headpiece hastily off her head and tossed it into the chair as he’d suggested.

  “I’d forgotten about it,” she muttered. “My aunt insisted on my wearing it today.”