Waiting for a Rogue

by Marie Tremayne

  She couldn’t stand it any longer. Everyone at the table focused on her when she stood once more, nearly knocking her chair over in the process, but it was Eliza’s gaze that she sought.

  “I am confused,” she said, her eyes pleading for answers.

  Eliza rose as well, but any reply she might have made was cut off by the angry suitors.

  “As am I!” Lord Bryant raged, banging his fist upon the table and sending the oysters jumping on his plate.

  “And I!” added Baron Horne.

  Now it was Caroline who rolled her eyes. Her dress rustled loudly as she made her way around the end of the table to reach for Eliza’s outstretched hands, and her friend tugged her away for a bit of privacy near the edge of the room.

  “It’s obvious you love him, and he’s fighting for you, Caroline,” Eliza whispered in a gently scolding tone. “Why aren’t you fighting for him?”

  She stared at her best friend, the blood draining from her face in a cool rush.

  “I—what?”

  Eliza pulled her closer with considerably more urgency. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I knew something had changed from the moment you called him Jonathan. Thomas could see it too.” Her peridot eyes shifted past Caroline’s shoulder to glance at Cartwick. “Whatever is stopping you right now, don’t let it. If you’re worried about me, you shouldn’t be. Everything has worked out for the best—surely you can see that. And if you’re worried about him loving you in return, then let me put you at ease . . . the man is completely enamored.”

  Caroline turned slowly to follow her gaze. “He is?”

  “Do you think Lord Braxton ever would have stormed in here and taken on the Duke of Pemberton for a chance at winning your hand?”

  The raised voices in the dining room were growing louder, as her two titled suitors were now shouting across the table. Thomas could be heard chuckling at the errant barbs that were occasionally directed at Cartwick, who was much too preoccupied by Caroline’s secretive conversation to be bothered by the animosity. His serious gaze caught hers for a brief moment and she glanced away with a blush.

  Eliza winced. “This is getting out of hand.”

  “It’s hopeless,” Caroline cried. “I don’t know what I could possibly do to convince my parents to let me marry him.”

  Lips pursed in thought, her friend considered the options. When her eyes came alive with the light of an idea, Caroline thought she might kiss the woman.

  “Yes?” she pressed.

  The doors flew open with a bang and Caroline and Eliza both jumped.

  “What on earth is going on in here?” raged the duke. The room lapsed into silence as his gaze passed over each person accusingly, and it was no surprise when it settled on Caroline last with an irritated gleam.

  “Take your seat,” he said in a deadly tone.

  She felt that old, but familiar, quake of fear after having displeased her father, and her first inclination was to hurry back to her chair. But Eliza’s fingers caught at her wrist.

  “What would your Aunt Frances do?” she asked softly. “If she could have it to do over again, what would she do?”

  Stunned, Caroline contemplated the question.

  Her father took another step in her direction. “Take your seat. Now.”

  She heard Jonathan rise from his chair, and knew he would defend her if need be.

  What would Aunt Frances do? She cast her gaze in her aunt’s direction, then paused in horror. Frances’s plate was nowhere to be seen, and the lady was kneeling on the floor—half tucked beneath the tablecloth—whispering fervently. Caroline strained to hear her.

  “Tipper, you leave some for the rest,” her aunt admonished quietly. “You greedy thing.”

  The duke and duchess stared with widened eyes, and a crease formed between Cartwick’s brows as he turned, realizing something was amiss. Moving to assist Frances, he leaned over and gently gripped her around the shoulders.

  “Forgive me, my lady. Allow me to assist you with your dropped plate.”

  Her aunt could be wildly unpredictable at times like these, and Caroline held her breath as Frances whirled around sharply.

  “Don’t, I—”

  The protest died in her throat. Caroline couldn’t say with certainty whether she recognized Jonathan, but a small smile appeared nonetheless. She allowed him to retrieve the plate and replace it upon the table before accepting his help in standing.

  “Frances, you should retire to your room,” said the duke solemnly.

  Her aunt’s head swiveled to stare at her brother, chin jutted out in defiance.

  “No.”

  Baron Horne pushed himself away from the table. “Well, Your Grace, I think I’ve seen enough. I’ll be on my way, if you please—”

  “And me, as well,” agreed Viscount Bryant.

  “Everyone take your seats,” demanded the duke. “Except for Mr. Cartwick. The duchess and I would like a word with you in the foyer.”

  “My apologies, but I’m not leaving this room,” he replied. His eyes flicked over to meet Caroline’s and he nodded in her direction. “Unless she desires it.”

  That was about the farthest thing from what she desired as far as Jonathan Cartwick was concerned. She held his gaze and shook her head slowly, and if the heat in those amber eyes was any indication, he was of a similar mind.

  The duke glowered at him. “Let me be clear, Mr. Cartwick. My daughter will not be marrying you.” He gestured to the unhappy suitors at the table. “She will be marrying one of these . . . What the devil . . . Where has Lord Davenport run off to?”

  “Oh, he left fairly early on, Your Grace,” Thomas supplied helpfully.

  “Mr. Cartwick would be an excellent husband,” Caroline said, ignoring her father’s edicts to try and reason with him. “He’s from a respectable family—”

  “The wrong side of it. And I don’t care what family he’s from. He is not suitable, and if he doesn’t leave on his own power, I’ll be forced to have my footmen remove him.”

  Jonathan scoffed. “I’d like to see them try.”

  “But, Father, won’t you even listen—”

  He silenced her with a glare that told her, in no uncertain terms, that he was not willing to budge where her marriage prospects were concerned.

  The room was an immediate cacophony of noise. There were shouts and various threats from the suitors. Eliza and Thomas argued her case to the group. The Duke and Duchess of Pemberton railed at everyone in offense.

  Caroline’s breathing turned shallow and quick. Try as they may, there wasn’t anything else her friends could do to help her now. She would have to help herself. Frances had already done more than her part. Eliza had released her from the shackles of betrayal that, as it turned out, had ceased to exist. Jonathan had fought—first to earn her regard, and then to win her hand—but it was all to no avail if she didn’t do something, and fast.

  What would your Aunt Frances do?

  She glanced over at the gutsy woman who had raised her. Frances had become increasingly confused, yes, but she was still as fearless as ever. Her aunt had even managed to put one over on the duke just to give Caroline a final chance to make her own choice . . .

  And the answer came to her in a sudden flash of insight. Aunt Frances would do whatever she damn well pleased, and there was only one thing that was going to send these suitors packing . . .

  Amidst the chaos and noise of the acrimonious gathering, Caroline strode with purpose towards Jonathan. She heard the din that had surrounded them fall almost completely silent as his eyes widened in realization.

  “Caroline!” yelled her mother.

  But it was too late. The stubborn, self-declared spinster daughter of the Duke of Pemberton had already risen up on her tiptoes to kiss the very willing Cartwick heir, and she’d managed to do it before anyone could stop her.

  Scandal and ruination had never tasted so sweet.

  Chapter Twenty

  Jonathan glanced out the window at
the first weak, gray light of dawn. He had been dressed for half an hour already, impatiently considering how best to go about seeing Caroline. Their time had been cut short the previous evening after her shocking, but incredibly effective way of asserting her own choice of husband, and he still couldn’t help but marvel at her audacity. He ran a finger across his lips and smiled. She was every inch a duke’s daughter . . . much to the chagrin of the duke himself.

  Tomorrow, she had breathed as their fingers had touched one last time. But when? He knew her night had surely been filled with all sorts of commotion and turmoil, and he longed to ease her burden in any way she wished, although he definitely had his own rather heated thoughts on how best to go about it. But more than anything, he simply wished to revel in the victory of this battle that had been hard-fought, and most certainly hard-won. He wanted to stroke the dark ruby gleam of her hair with his fingers, enfold her protectively in his arms and brush his lips against her forehead while he watched her sleep. Had dreamed of such a thing since first laying eyes on her.

  Lady Caroline Cartwick.

  He couldn’t deny that the thought of her being his at last sent thrills of desire coursing through him. The knowledge that she would soon be his in name—and in every way that mattered—caused his carefully crafted control to slip ever so slightly.

  Jonathan sighed, willing his passions to cool. He briefly considered donning his black morning coat, then decided against it given the warmth of the morning and quietly exited his bedchamber. Casting a look down the long hallway in the direction of his mother’s room, he knew it would still be hours before she rose from bed. It was the perfect time to seek out his bride-to-be; he only hoped he wouldn’t have to gain admittance to Willowford House in order to find her. Something told him that, at least for a while, his presence there would be frowned upon.

  Once he’d retrieved his bay from the stables, he set off across the drive and turned out onto the road. The air was still brisk due to the early morning hour, but the gently slanting rays of sun had already warmed the landscape, and Jonathan breathed in the scents of the English countryside.

  He broke off to frown at a figure in the distance, his heart galvanizing its pace at the mere suggestion of her, although he knew it wasn’t entirely realistic to expect her on the road at this time of day. But as he neared, he could see it was merely a merchant ambling slowly along with a pony towing an equally diminutive cart behind it. Stowing his disappointment, he moved past, giving his horse’s flanks a jab to spur it faster until the wind was whipping through his hair. So it was only the purest irony when he almost didn’t see her a half mile later. With a sharp yank on the reins, he managed to correct course before passing her entirely.

  There was no doubt it was her, though. She had a way about her, a lithe athleticism tempered with unpretentious feminine appeal. It was what had drawn his eye that first time they’d met on the road. Caroline was a beauty, and he used to think she flaunted it. It was only over time that he came to realize she was not even aware of her splendor. Jonathan looked so very forwards to changing that.

  This morning she was achingly pretty in a peach-colored walking dress, her burnished chestnut locks mostly hidden beneath a bonnet. Her lovely gray eyes grew bright in both surprise and recognition, and bringing his horse around to a stop, he swung off the saddle to land in the road.

  “Caroline,” he said in a rush, coming close to take her chilled fingers in his own gloved ones. “What are you doing alone on the road?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” she said with a smile and a mischievous quirk of her eyebrow.

  Pulling her to him with one hand and sliding the other greedily around her waist, he searched for the rosewater aroma he hungered for—the same smell that would now forever be tied to his craving for her.

  “Why, I was looking for you, my lady,” he said huskily with a light kiss on her neck, his body growing warmer at the way she writhed in his arms. “Although I must say, I’m rather disappointed at this understated headgear you’re wearing.”

  She laughed breathlessly, her usually stormy gray eyes turning brilliant. It was perhaps the first truly carefree laugh he’d heard from her during their acquaintance. “Now that I’ve managed to secure you, Mr. Cartwick, there’s no longer a need to astonish you with my aunt’s tremendous bonnets.”

  Jonathan pulled back to gaze at her and trailed a finger down the length of her simple ivory ribbon. “There was never a need. From the first moment I saw you, there was never a need.”

  “Even after I insulted you to your face?”

  “Especially after you insulted me to my face,” he said with a smothered laugh. “Much to my dismay.”

  With a little sigh, she slid her hands up to frame his face and met his awaiting mouth with her impossibly soft lips. In an instant, he was lost. The kiss they’d shared last night had been satisfying in a different way—it had been Caroline declaring her love for him publicly, and choosing him above all others. He would always remember that kiss fondly. That kiss was important. But this kiss was private. It was between them. And as she rose up to deepen it by sliding her fingers into his hair, he knew with certainty that she had no regrets. He would spend the rest of his life making sure it stayed that way.

  He toyed playfully with her tongue, his darting slyly with hers amidst a series of soul-stealing kisses. Gripping her waist, he pulled her flush against his body. He wanted her to feel what she did to him . . . how hot he was . . . how incredibly ready for her . . .

  “Oh—” she cried softly against his lips. Wrenching away from the kiss, she stared at him in something nearing desperation. “Jonathan . . . take me home, please.”

  God, yes, he would take her home. And then he would take her straight into his bed.

  Once she was nestled into the saddle with her legs draped over to one side, he swung up behind her and immediately stifled a groan, his teeth clenching with the effort. She turned to survey the way his eyes had squeezed shut.

  “What is the matter?” she asked innocently. A little too innocently.

  His eyes flew open to stare at her, his need only increasing at the impish gleam in her eyes. He reached around her to grab hold of the reins and gave her a very serious look indeed.

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

  With a jab of his heels, the horse lurched forwards, right as the amusement on her face was replaced with something much, much warmer. Christ. It would take all the restraint he possessed—and even some he did not—to make it back to the house without compromising her on the way.

  They passed the merchant he’d seen earlier, and the old man tipped a knowing glance up at them as they flew by. Jonathan couldn’t bring himself to care. It hadn’t been long ago since he had ridden together with her like this, but he had been on his best behavior that day. Now he had earned the love of his moody little aristocrat, and they burned to be joined at last. The only solution was to ride quickly, and he hooked an arm around her waist to keep her safe as he did just that. But by God, the soft bouncing motion of her lovely derrière would likely kill him before they got there.

  Riding into the stables, he dismounted before the horse had even fully stopped. Tearing off his gloves, he reached up to help ease her off as expeditiously as possible, then tossed the reins to his stableboy and tugged her behind him. They went through the back door and swiftly up a darkened staircase normally reserved for servants. Halfway up, he heard the tinkle of her laughter.

  “I’m flattered by your impatience, Mr. Cartwick,” she said with a cheeky grin.

  Even in the dimly lighted stairwell, he could see the color that had risen to her cheeks. He also vaguely noted that at some point along their journey, she had lost her bonnet. But that quick glance at her had been a mistake, and the frayed cord that had been holding him together snapped. He released her hand and press her up against the cool surface of the wall. Her eyes widened in surprise, then fell closed as he inserted one of his legs between the folds o
f her skirts.

  “What will it take, I wonder, for you to call me Jon?” he asked hoarsely, slowly moving his thigh higher until it came to rest against her sex. The layers of fabric maintained a slim element of separation between them, but he could hear from her soft whimper that the contact was definitely having an effect. “Will it take this?”

  Caroline wasn’t about to give in so easily . . . it was one of the many things he loved about her. She clenched her fists against the sensations and licked her lips before speaking.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what it will take—”

  He lunged down to claim those wet, luscious lips with a kiss, and when he finally raised his head, she was gasping.

  “Do you think that it would take this?” he asked, pulling down the neckline of her dress to reveal the petite, perfect shapes of her breasts. His shaft, swollen and rigid with arousal, twitched eagerly at the sight, straining to be freed from beneath the tight confines of his waistband.

  Sweet Jesus, he needed to stop before he took her here on the stairs. But his impetuous fiancée only arched her back in a silent plea for him to take it farther, the rosy circles of her areolas tipping up into the air while she moved against his thigh.

  “I think . . . it might take a bit more than that,” she struggled to reply.

  Absolutely intent now on helping her find her pleasure, he cupped one breast with his hand and squeezed, finding the tight bud of her nipple with his fingertips. The other hand followed the line of her thigh, searching through seemingly endless layers of peach muslin until reaching the linen-covered shape of her mound through her drawers. He used his leg to open her wider to him.

  “And this?” he ground out, his breathing labored with the effort to keep himself in check. She was warm and damp against his fingertips, and that thin layer of fabric had become his lifeline. It was absolutely essential. Without it, he was a hairsbreadth away from simply undoing his trousers and plunging into her.