Waiting for a Rogue

by Marie Tremayne

  Caroline also couldn’t help but be amused at her aunt’s apparent partiality for Americans. In that, it seemed the two of them shared that in common, although Caroline was still surprised at the unexpected way her neighbor had worked his way into her heart, almost without trying. She knew things would have been considerably less troublesome had she not grown so very fond of him, and part of her wished for the uncomplicated rancor the pair had shared between them at the start. This friendship, this affection that existed now was unsettling and frightening in its potency. Every day she worried how on earth she was going to be able to conceal it from Eliza and Evanston.

  Still, she couldn’t deny that she was eternally grateful for his help. There was only so much time, energy and patience that Caroline could humanly devote to caring for Frances in a day, and after a long time of sleepless nights and uncertain days, it was a blessing for both her and Meggie to have more assistance. In fact, poor Meggie was probably collapsed in a corner somewhere, exhausted. Caroline was only shocked the poor woman hadn’t sought new employment long ago. Many months had passed since she’d spoken to the housekeeper about an increase in pay for the maid, but these things took time, especially when the duke and duchess were so difficult to reach.

  The arrival of Taylor next to her wrought-iron chair caused her to shift in her seat, and she squinted up at the butler.

  “Yes, Taylor?”

  He bowed to her, his silvery hair nearly glowing in the afternoon sun, then straightened. “Pardon the interruption, my lady, but Mrs. Cartwick is calling. Shall I tell her you are at home?”

  A surge of adrenaline caused her to stare blankly at him while she struggled to gather her wits. She managed to formulate a question before it was necessary for Taylor to ask her again.

  “Is it only Mrs. Cartwick?”

  The butler tipped his chin into a succinct nod. “Yes, my lady. She visits alone.”

  Caroline felt a wash of relief, followed by a rising tide of curiosity. She didn’t feel prepared to encounter Jonathan at the moment, especially knowing how awkward things had become after the news of Eliza’s upcoming visit. But it was interesting that Dorothea Cartwick was choosing to visit here by herself.

  “I see. Well then, could you show her outside to the terrace?”

  “Tea?”

  She smiled at him. “Tea would be lovely. Thank you.”

  Taylor bowed once more before disappearing into the house. Caroline set to smoothing her skirts and ensuring her hair was in place, then rose to greet Mrs. Cartwick as she was ushered outside, her cheerful face a welcome sight despite Caroline’s nervousness.

  “Mrs. Cartwick,” she said, coming closer to kiss the woman on both cheeks. Jonathan’s mother looked resplendent in a cobalt dress, and Caroline noticed the always present touch of mourning in the jet pendant that hung from around her neck. “I hope you don’t mind the show of familiarity, but I feel we are friends enough to warrant it by now.” Her eyes strayed to the garden, where Frances and Beatrice could be seen weaving through the plants, examining each one with studious care.

  Jonathan’s mother issued a friendly cluck of her tongue. “My lady, I hope you will call me Dorothea from now on. And, oh. Will you look at that?” she breathed softly, her gaze traveling to settle on Frances and Beatrice as they continued their exploration. “It seems your aunt has taken to Beatrice.”

  Caroline gestured to the chair beside her own, and both ladies sank down into their seats. “You could say that,” she replied with a fond glance at the pair, her eyes returning meaningfully to her guest. “Truly, I am grateful for your assistance. And I’d like you to know that I am still inquiring for help in the village. My hope is to be able to return Beatrice and Minnie to you as soon as possible.”

  “That is absolutely not necessary,” Dorothea answered with a small smile. “Jonathan was just happy you allowed him to help, and it will make him even happier to know that Frances is doing well. But I can’t help notice the dark smudges persist beneath your eyes.” She paused. “Have your nights not been made any easier through this arrangement?”

  Caroline waved away the question in nonchalant fashion. “I’m afraid it will take more than a few days for everyone to settle into the new routine, but there have already been improvements. Not the least of which is the security of knowing that Frances will always have someone with her to make sure she stays safe.”

  “Yes, that is certainly important . . .” A worried crease deepened between Mrs. Cartwick’s brows.

  The butler arrived with the tea set and Caroline realized she’d left her embroidery in plain view. Cursing her carelessness, she hurried to scoop it up from the table.

  “Oh, what are you working on? Are you embroidering a handkerchief?”

  Drat. It was too late. Taking advantage of Taylor’s interruption with rattling teacups and clinking silver spoons, Caroline shrugged and stowed it safely away in the side of her chair.

  “It’s nothing. Just some old slip of fabric to help me pass the time.”

  “Ah,” said Mrs. Cartwick, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I also enjoy needlework every now and then.”

  Thankfully, it didn’t seem as if she had seen the monogram on her son’s own handkerchief. Thinking on it now, Caroline wasn’t sure what she would have done if she had. Melting into her chair in a puddle of humiliation was the only realistic reaction she could possibly envision. She added some sugar to her tea and gave the drink a stir with an unsteady hand, her anxiety building again.

  “I’m sure you are much more adept at it than I am,” said Caroline with a shaky laugh. “You can ask your son for his thoughts on my feeble attempts.”

  “He told me you were working on a rather lovely piece for your aunt,” Dorothea said questioningly. “A rose, he said.”

  Her eyes lowered and she flushed. “I believe Mr. Cartwick must be exaggerating.”

  “I’m sure he isn’t,” her guest replied succinctly, taking a sip of her steaming beverage before setting it back down upon its white china saucer. “But you may be prone to an overabundance of modesty.”

  Caroline stared, then broke out into amused laughter. “You know, I don’t believe anyone has ever accused me of being too modest.” She knew that wasn’t exactly true. Eliza had made that claim to her before. And speaking of Eliza, she needed to address the news of her upcoming visit. It would only be anticipation and nervousness for her until she did.

  Heat bloomed in her cheeks and her fingertips plucked at the corner of the iron table. “I suppose you may have heard about Lady Evanston?” Avoiding the inquiring face of her guest, she cast her gaze out to Frances and Beatrice instead, who had worked their way to the far end of the flower beds.

  “I have,” Dorothea said quietly. “I understand she and the viscount will be arriving in Hampshire soon.”

  Raising her teacup to her lips, Caroline only nodded in silence. It sounded as if Jonathan had been talking to his mother. Unable to prevent the turn of her thoughts, she wondered how much he had told her about . . . them.

  “And your parents will be here soon after that.”

  “Yes, they will,” she said with another nod, glancing at Mrs. Cartwick over the rim over her cup.

  Dorothea toyed with the porcelain loop of her teacup handle. “I understand that, perhaps, things might prove a bit . . . uncomfortable . . . once they arrive. And while Jon and I are grateful for the friendship that has developed between our families, we realize this is a possibility.”

  Jon. Hearing him referred to in such an informal way set loose a chain of heated recollections that threatened to ruin her composure. Memories of the way he’d torn that awful bonnet from her head and tossed it across the room . . . and of what had followed after . . .

  She straightened her spine in horror. There was no good reason to indulge her fantasies, and especially not in front of the man’s own mother. Not now, and not any other day. In fact, Eliza’s arrival meant she would never have the chance t
o be alone with Jonathan again, so lingering too long on what had passed between them was pointless. The risk of discovery was too great, the danger of losing her friend even greater. Her sense of determination grew even as the hollow ache in her chest thudded insistently.

  “Yes,” Caroline muttered, her guilt prompting her to divert her gaze elsewhere. She’d lost sight of Frances and Beatrice, the women having made their way further into the thick of the gardens. “It could make things difficult for certain.”

  “Well, difficult for you, but also difficult for Lady Frances,” Dorothea said quietly. “I suppose she might be confined to her room for any gathering, if she were to have an episode?”

  A tremor of realization sliced through Caroline with the delicacy of a dull, rusted knife, and her troubled gaze moved back to meet Mrs. Cartwick’s eyes. “Eliza would never insist on such a thing. But my father—”

  Her guest interrupted with a barely perceptible nod. “Which is why Jonathan and I thought it might be nice to host a little party before things change . . . a party for Lady Frances.”

  Caroline said nothing. She sat there, unmoving, her stillness a stark contrast to the roiling waves of emotion that churned inside her now. The kindness in Dorothea’s gaze only increased the damnable pressure that was rising and expanding inside, but years of practice allowed Caroline to sufficiently stomp down the feelings. She would not lose control as she had that day in the hallway when Jonathan had discovered her sobbing against the wall.

  Even so, one scalding tear managed to escape down her cheek. Cursing herself, she hurriedly swiped it away with the back of a trembling hand just as her aunt came into view, face alight with happiness, gray hair flying in the wind and wrinkled fingers tightly grasping a colorful assortment of plants. Tipping her chin upwards, she could feel her mouth curving into an irrepressible grin.

  “I think that would be delightful, Mrs. Cartwick.”

  Jonathan paced the floorboards in the drawing room, tugging at his white cloth cravat while his mother viewed him with amusement from the couch.

  “For heaven’s sake, dear, why don’t you have a glass of brandy? You’ll wear your boots out before they arrive and you’re making me nervous.”

  His boots paused and he turned to regard her with a tug on his long black tailcoat. Normally, he abhorred tiresome attentions to formality, but tonight had found himself riveted on adhering to the details, even if the gathering today would be of the unconventional sort.

  “I’m fine,” he declared. “Besides, I’ve already had three.”

  Dorothea’s eyebrows shot up and she shifted noisily in her taffeta skirts, which gleamed a warm pewter color beneath the light from the sconces. “Three brandies? Surely, that’s two brandies too many.”

  “Or too few,” he muttered beneath his breath with a wipe of his brow.

  His mother tsked. “You act as if we don’t know these people, Jonathan. We’ve seen Lady Frances and Lady Caroline on multiple occasions—”

  Yes, he thought wearily. But the thought of feeling the soft curve of her waist beneath his hands again caused his pulse to increase to an unbearable degree. Hadn’t he imagined and reimagined such a thing countless times? They had shared much intimacy between them—too much, if he were being honest—but there was something about the notion of dancing with the woman in front of others that worried him. Was it the idea that he might not be able to conceal his growing tenderness for her in front of others? Possibly. Although, he also couldn’t discount the likelihood of her infuriating him to the point of dragging her away to silence the sharp-tongued beauty with his mouth . . .

  Heaving a disgusted sigh at himself, he raked a hand through his hair and glanced over at the sideboard. “Perhaps it’s the fact that I will be the sole male in attendance. Compared to the varied offerings in London, I am sure they will find me quite insufficient once the first dance is finished.”

  Dorothea uttered a tiny snort, and his head snapped over to her just as her gloved fingers flew up to conceal her mouth.

  “Forgive me,” she said, stifling her laughter, “but neither of those ladies consider you insufficient in the least. And don’t think I can’t see you eyeing the brandy again.”

  If the alcohol he’d already consumed had not worked to soothe his nerves, Jonathan knew another glass would only impair his abilities to approach Caroline with the cool detachment that was necessary. “Don’t worry yourself. Since the burden of keeping everyone entertained must fall to me this evening, I wouldn’t dream of overindulging.” Privately, he reserved the right to overindulge to his heart’s content after the night had concluded, knowing full well that after spending an evening with Caroline, determined to be on his best behavior, he would likely need to.

  The rattle of carriage wheels upon the gravel drive caused both of them to glance towards the windows, and he strode over to steal a glimpse before stepping away, a crease between his brows.

  “They’re here,” he said, anxiously adjusting his cuff links.

  “And thank goodness for that,” his mother replied with a smirk. “With all your pacing, I was becoming worried for the state of the floors.”

  Jonathan shot her a look of wry disapproval before offering his arm, and once she’d risen from her seat they advanced through the hallway, out the open front doors into the brisk late afternoon air, and down the curved stone stairway to meet their guests. Dorothea released his arm as they came nearer, and he increased his pace in order to assist the ladies in alighting from their vehicle. Lady Frances was her usual charming self and not the least bit confused, accepting his proffered hand with a grin that belied her age before proceeding to his mother with outstretched hands. But when he caught sight of Caroline . . . that was when his breath stopped in his throat.

  Wrapped in a silk gown the color of raw emeralds, she hesitantly emerged from the dim interior of the carriage to take his hand. In a considerable breach of tradition, her reddish-brown tresses fanned over her shoulders and back, very nearly down to her waist, with artful pieces braided and woven into the stylish fall. Her color heightened as their eyes met, and he attempted to neutralize his expression, for he could only imagine the shock she had already registered there.

  Both the long-sleeved cut and the color of her dress would have been considered unusual fashion choices for tonight’s festivities; the style of her hair, even more so. But Aphrodite herself couldn’t have affected him in such a way, and he would have spurned that goddess in a blink for the one standing before him now.

  The fine arch of her brows furrowed slightly, and he realized that he was staring, his jaw hanging open in astonishment.

  With a jerk of his head, he came nearer to assist, wishing with every fiber of his being that there was a way to avoid touching her. Close proximity seemed a perilous venture when all he could think about was how to steal her away from the party so he could have her all to himself. She touched him anyway, the slide of her slender fingers around his arm enflaming his already impassioned state.

  “My lady,” he said in his most carefully controlled voice. “You look . . .”

  “Ridiculous,” she whispered, turning her head away, abashed. “But my aunt insisted on all of it.”

  Sparing a grateful look at the relative in question, Jonathan then raised his eyebrows at Caroline in censure.

  “That was not the word I was going to use.”

  She finally raised her head as she alighted next to him, a ghost of a smile forming on her flawless, strawberry lips. “Well, you have quite the selection of words to choose from, Mr. Cartwick. Outlandish . . . absurd . . .”

  He pulled tightly on the arm that was looped around his, and she collided with his side, turning to stare up at him in breathless surprise.

  “Consider yourself admonished, Lady Caroline,” he murmured as they approached the other women. “And if you wish to discover which words I would have chosen, you’ll need to behave yourself from now on.”

  She was discomfited, for certain. Th
en he flashed her a smile and watched the tension dissolve into something . . . warmer.

  “I’ll only need to behave tonight?” she asked.

  He laughed quietly. It felt low . . . deep and satisfying and woefully unfamiliar. “It would be an unreasonable request to ask it for any longer. I wouldn’t wish for you to strain yourself unnecessarily.”

  The answering tinkle of her laugh was mesmerizing. And as they joined the others, Jonathan Cartwick thought that this night had gotten off to an amazing start for two people who would be forced to part ways, perhaps forever, at its conclusion.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Champagne?”

  Caroline nodded at the footman before lifting a gleaming flute off the silver tray he had extended in her direction. He bowed, retreating backwards, and she resumed her quiet observation of the dance floor. Jonathan Cartwick was waltzing with Lady Frances at the moment, and while it was nearly impossible not to stare in appreciation of his gentlemanly attention to her aunt, a tiny laugh reminded Caroline that the man’s mother was standing beside her. Turning, she faced the woman in polite inquiry.

  “Poor Jon,” said Dorothea, shaking her head with an amused smile. “How he hates being a spectacle, and yet here he is . . . the only man in attendance with each of us waiting to dance.”

  She took a long sip of her drink, the bubbly liquid searing a pleasant path down her throat before returning Dorothea’s smile with what she hoped was cheerful indifference. “He seems to be enduring rather well, given that my aunt has not yet relinquished him after three dances, and you danced with him before that. I imagine a lesser man would be sweating by now.”

  His mother surveyed him proudly, her fingertips lingering on the black lace that edged the satin collar at her throat. “Yes, well he has something that most aristocrats do not—an upbringing that included both education and physical labor, not to mention the running of a successful business. It would take a great deal more than dancing with a few ladies to make him perspire.”