Anne gasped.
Anthony snorted.
The dowager narrowed her eyes.
Lord Alstead, never one to be outdone in conversation, concurred, while Huntington peered at her over the edge of his own goblet. She lifted her glass, acknowledging his stare, and downed the remainder of the liquid.
Anthony leaned close. “Sweeting, I think I know what you’re about, but watch you don’t take the charade too far.”
He was right. The room already swayed.
“Ladies,” the dowager said. “We shall retire to the drawing room. I’m sure the gentlemen are anxious to take their port in the smoking lounge. Anthony, assist me.” The woman tapped her cane imperiously against the gold and red Turkish rug.
Caroline stood. The floor tipped and seemed to sway like a ship taking on rough waters. She braced a hand on the table to steady herself. Oh goodness.
“Lean on my arm,” a deep voice whispered.
She blinked at Huntington, who suddenly stood next to her.
Her expression must have conveyed reluctance, for he added, “Don’t be foolish, Caroline. Let me escort you.”
His warm breath coasted over her ear. The memory of his skilled mouth trailing a hot, seductive path over her body flooded her mind. She shoved the intrusive thought away. She needed to concentrate on placing one foot before the other, and those recollections would land her flat on her face. She set her hand on his sleeve.
Beneath the superfine cloth, his strong muscles tightened and flexed. The same unsettling sparks she’d experienced in the summerhouse on his estate exploded in her stomach. Madeira and this man, together, were a potent combination.
As they left the room, she glanced at Lady Randall, now escorted by Lord Hanover. The woman’s sour expression clearly indicated displeasure that her beau needed to play the gallant. Leticia Randall possessed a sharp tongue and was a formidable member of the ton—a woman not to be taken lightly. It wouldn’t serve Caroline well to agitate her, yet a giggle bubbled up in her throat. A bizarre reaction which attested to the excess liquor she’d imbibed.
Huntington leaned close as they stepped into the corridor. “Do you normally drink so much, or was that performance for my grandmother’s benefit?”
“Better to play the fool today, my lord, than be made a fool tomorrow.” She punctuated this philosophy with a hiccup.
For the first time all night, he offered her a slight smile. “You might be right.”
“I am. I know what the dowager is up to. She is trying to play matchmaker. Your brother Anthony is a fine gentleman, but I have no desire to marry him.”
He laughed, a low sound devoid of humor. “Is that what you think she’s about? You and Anthony?”
“Yes. And by the daggers you’ve cast at me all evening, I assume you were not privy to this scheme.”
“Daggers?” He arched a brow.
“Indeed. Daggers, scowls, glowers. Whatever you wish to call those unsettling expressions you’ve tossed at me since I stepped into this house. Mind you, I do understand why you wouldn’t desire me to be your sister-in-law. Not after . . . Well, the situation is awkward at best. But you may ease your discomfort. I have no intention of marrying Anthony.”
“Really?”
“I’ve other plans.”
“Ah, yes, the convent.” Humor colored his no-nonsense voice and his lips twitched.
She couldn’t halt the smile that tugged at her mouth. “Surely, you know I never considered that. Forgive me for not being truthful, but . . . My father wouldn’t understand my desire to attend such a rally. No, I want to be . . .” She pressed her fingers to her lips. The Madeira had loosened her tongue. She’d nearly said journalist. She needed to be more careful around him, especially after the article she’d written.
“Yes?”
“I wish to marry a man of my choosing.”
He nodded. “An admirable sentiment.”
There was an edge to his voice. Had his marriage been forced on him with no concern for his wishes? She remembered Anne saying that many assumed he would become betrothed to Lady Randall, but instead married Henrietta Channing. She studied his face. His taut visage, which had relaxed a few minutes ago, looked tense again.
“Do not worry about my grandmother’s machinations with regard to you.”
“But if she suggests this union to my father, I fear—”
“Caroline,” he said, his tone firm, “I do not believe in arranged marriages, and contrary to what you have presumed, the dowager does not make decisions for my siblings. I am responsible for their well-being. A union between you and Anthony will never come to fruition. You have no need to continue playing the lush for the dowager’s benefit, and surely not for mine.”
Well-being? That word clearly indicated his view on this. She was not worthy. She’d behaved improperly with him, yet some deep part of her didn’t regret the experience. She must be drunk.
They stepped over the threshold of the drawing room, and he directed her to a chair near an open French door draped in gold moiré silk. A slight breeze billowed the fabric inward.
“Thank you.”
He nodded. “I suggest you don’t move about.”
Goodness, not likely. At least not until the furniture stopped listing sideways. She’d not risk tripping over a table and smashing one of the brightly colored vases that looked like Ming dynasty.
He gave a formal bow, pivoted on his heel, and moved toward the doorway—a tall, formidable force of tightly constrained energy.
Anne dashed across the room, a scowl on her face. Her cousin sat in the chair next to hers. “Caro, what were you thinking, drinking so deep?” Anne scolded. “You know you have little tolerance for spirits. Thank heavens your father isn’t here.” Anne waved her fan furiously before her red cheeks. “I all but swooned when you drank your Madeira in two gulps. And when you saluted Lord Huntington with your glass.” Anne set a hand to her bosom. “I nearly suffered an apoplexy.”
“I believed it necessary.”
“Necessary?” Anne echoed with disbelief.
“Yes. I know why we were invited. Lady Huntington seeks an alliance.”
“I thought the same thing. Why does that trouble you? Lord Anthony is charming.”
“Too charming and too young. He’d be unfaithful after the first month.” She didn’t add how she didn’t wish to marry yet. Anne wouldn’t understand her desire for a career.
“I sympathize with your concerns, Caro. Lord Anthony might not remain constant, but to overindulge in front of these people . . . You court social ruination. Thankfully, Lord Huntington escorted you from the room. His assisting you saved us all from a great deal of embarrassment. I wonder why he did so. Lady Randall was not pleased.”
“He wanted to assure me the dowager’s wishes are secondary to his. And that he’s not in favor of arranged marriages.” Or at least not one involving his brother and her.
“Oh.” Anne’s shoulders slumped. It appeared becoming a relation to the Trent family, even if through Caroline’s ill-fated marriage, held appeal to her gossiping cousin.
Lady Huntington and Lady Randall stood in the center of the room conversing. Every few minutes, the women glanced at Caroline. It didn’t take a scholar to deduce they were discussing her. She could imagine Lady Randall’s snide comments. She was probably saying she didn’t believe Caroline a worthy match for Anthony. She wasn’t sure what she’d done to garner the other woman’s animosity. Well, that wasn’t true. She’d done plenty, but she was sure Huntington hadn’t disclosed what transpired between Caroline and him.
If Caroline wasn’t so set against the match, she would inform Lady Randall she was nearly Anthony’s equal. Her grandfather had been an earl. Her cousin Edward was the present Earl of Thorton, even if he was a scoundrel and a womanizer.
A cool breeze drifted over Caroline’s arms. She turned to the window and drew in a deep breath. Thankfully, the spinning was slowing down and the temptation to curl up on the floor
and sleep was passing.
The thumping of Lady Huntington’s cane on the rug alerted Caroline the matron and Lady Randall approached.
With each step that brought the dowager closer, Anne’s fan fluttered faster, as if the hangman drew near. Her cousin’s gulp resonated in the air.
“Miss Lawrence,” the Dowager Marchioness of Huntington said, stepping before her.
Caroline thought one more performance couldn’t hurt her cause. “Lady Huntington, the assortment of wine you served at dinner was superb.”
“Oh God,” Anne mumbled, folding her fan and smacking it soundly against Caroline’s thigh. “Lady Huntington, might I say how lovely it was of you to invite us.”
“You are indeed welcome, Mrs. Wallace,” the old woman replied.
Lady Randall smiled. “I was just telling Lady Huntington you are a virtuoso at the piano, Miss Lawrence.”
The arch of Lady Randall’s brow and the smug expression on her face relayed she wished Caroline to make an utter cake of herself.
“You’re indeed kind, my lady. I admit I am no more than adequate.”
“Not true,” Lady Randall countered. “I’ve heard you play. Quite accomplished.”
Caroline was not sure if her fingers would cooperate, which was obviously Lady Randall’s plan. “I am out of practice. I have not played much since my mother’s passing.” It was not a complete lie.
“Leticia,” the dowager said in her sharp, no-nonsense voice. “I wish Miss Lawrence to walk with me about the room. Find someone else to play.”
Walk? Was Lady Huntington as set on making Caroline embarrass herself as Lady Randall was?
Anne quickly stood. “My lady, you are more than welcome to my seat, if you wish to converse with my dear cousin.”
“Yes, perhaps that would be wiser.” The dowager sat, then glared at both Anne and Lady Randall as if they were ants invading her picnic.
Anne quickly excused herself.
“Leticia,” the dowager said, “I think Lady Pendleton wishes to converse with you.”
Lady Randall sucked in her cheeks and stormed off.
The dowager’s lips thinned. “I take it this act is somehow meant to deter me from promoting a match between you and my grandson?”
Caroline’s mouth gaped. She snapped it close. What a shrewd hen. “I do not know what you refer to, my lady.”
“Do not play the ingénue with me, Miss Lawrence. That whole scene at the table was worthy of the theater, but your performance didn’t fool me.”
“Performance?”
“Indeed. Are you so averse to a union?” The woman’s pale eyes sparkled with mischief. “I thought there was . . . shall we say an undercurrent between the two of you that would smooth out any differences.”
What did her ladyship mean by that? There was no undercurrent between her and Anthony. Male voices drew Caroline’s attention. The gentlemen were reentering the drawing room.
Huntington marched toward them, a scowl etched on his handsome face. The dowager showed no signs of distress. Instead, she smiled like a cat accidentally locked in the dairy. “My grandson seems rather protective, the way he’s storming over here, doesn’t he?”
Of course, he was protective. He cared deeply for his siblings and didn’t want his grandmother to pursue an unfavorable match between Caroline and Anthony. “He’s averse to your pressing this issue with Lord Anthony and me,” Caroline replied, trying to maintain an even tone.
The dowager lifted one slim gray brow. “I believe you have confused the situation, Miss Lawrence. Did you think I referred to Anthony when I said my grandson? I have much loftier aspirations for you. I wish you to marry James. I want you to become the next Marchioness of Huntington.”
Chapter Seventeen
Clearly, wine could make one a ninny, or at least impair one’s hearing. Caroline blinked at the dowager. She would have sworn the old woman just said she wished Caroline to marry Huntington, not Anthony.
The dowager frowned. “Don’t gape, child. It makes one look simpleminded. Yes, yes, that’s it. Close your mouth. A marchioness-to-be must always portray an air of superiority.”
Marchioness-to-be? Goodness. The Madeira she’d drunk seemed as potent as the tincture that physician in Essex had given her. She would never swig the stuff again. She shook her head in an effort to clear the wine-induced fog muddling her brain.
The dowager’s already taut lips grew thinner. Her nostrils flared. “No, no, no. That affectation is no better. Don’t shake your head like a dog with fleas. I see I have much to teach you.”
A shadow fell over the dowager as Huntington came to stand before the matriarch. “Grandmother, what did you say to her?”
“Miss Lawrence was confused, Huntington. The chit thought I wished her to marry Anthony. No wonder she acted the lush. The boy has the morals of a—”
“Enough,” he said in a lethal, razor-sharp voice. He turned to Caroline. “I told you my grandmother’s wishes mean nothing in this regard. Don’t doubt me.”
So, she had not misunderstood. The dowager did wish her to marry Huntington. This explained the unsettling expressions Lady Randall had cast at Caroline all evening. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why didn’t you tell me it was not Anthony, but you?”
“Caroline, I will not discuss this here with these people hovering around.”
The dowager motioned to the terraced garden beyond the French doors. “Why don’t the two of you step outside? It will afford you some privacy.”
His lordship glared at the old woman. “You will accompany us.”
“Me? Why?” the dowager asked, all innocent sweetness.
“Because I’ll not have you drawing our guests’ attention to the fact that Miss Lawrence and I have stepped into the garden without a chaperone. I know what you’re about.”
Lady Huntington sniffed. “I would never.”
His bark of laughter held no humor. He offered Caroline his arm. “Are you recovered enough to walk?”
She nodded and stood.
“Grandmother,” Huntington said, extending his other arm.
With a disgruntled noise, the dowager took her place beside them. They stepped onto the terrace lit by the moon and several globed candles that hung from potted trees.
The cool evening air drifted over Caroline, a welcome respite from the heat and spirits overwhelming her senses. In silence, they walked down a path bound by two symmetrical gardens, each with boxwood, juniper, roses, and some deciduous trees and bushes still spindly without their summer foliage.
Lady Huntington’s cane thumped heavily on the flagstone. “I need to sit,” she snapped as they passed a concrete bench. “No one can see us from here. Go have your talk, Huntington, and make it quick before our guests think both you and I have abandoned them.”
“Anthony will handle it. Most likely, he’s already asked one of the ladies to play the piano.” As if on cue, the sound of music drifted in the air. “And we shall be no more than a few minutes.”
Huntington set a hand to the small of Caroline’s back, ushering her farther down the path.
Caroline stopped and turned to him. “Why didn’t you explain?”
“You acted mortified enough when you believed she desired a marriage between you and my brother. I figured your reaction to marrying me . . . a man some whisper murdered his wife, would be—”
“I didn’t even think of that.”
“No?” The expression on his face reflected doubt.
“I was startled. Nothing else. Why me? Why not . . .” This didn’t make sense. Didn’t he and Lady Randall share something more than friendship? “What of Lady Randall?”
“We are nothing more than friends.”
That knowledge pleased Caroline more than she wished to admit. “You haven’t answered my question. Why me?”
Huntington peered at his grandmother, then entwining Caroline’s hand in his, he pulled her slightly off the path, behind a tall juniper.
The scent of pi
ne momentarily overpowered the spicy essence drifting off his warm skin.
“My grandmother is aware I do not wish to marry again. She hopes that your presence might sway me to change my mind.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“She’s aware something happened between us.”
Her palms grew damp. “What?”
“Did you ever wonder how I realized you were in the theater the day when I visited your box?”
“I presumed you saw me from your own seat.”
“No, I heard you. Your father’s box is adjacent to mine. When I left to visit you, my grandmother was sleeping, but when I returned . . .” He expelled a heavy sigh. “The walls are thin.”
Caroline’s heart skipped a beat. “What did she hear?”
“Enough, I presume.”
Had the woman figured out they’d met in Essex? If Caroline’s father found out . . . She drew in a lungful of bracing air. “Will she tell anyone what she overheard?”
In the dim light, she noted the way his dark eyes reflected a mischievous glint. “Doubtful. I’ve warned my grandmother if she whispers so much as a word, she shall find herself relocated to Scotland. To an old family property that once served as my grandfather’s hunting lodge.” He grinned.
She wished he’d smile more often. He looked not only younger, but also content. She wanted that for him—contentment. She couldn’t say why his peace of mind mattered, but it did. Perhaps guilt. Her latest article must have hurt him deeply. She had acted too rashly. Whatever had transpired between him and his wife, her intuition told her it was nothing nefarious. He’d told the truth in Lady Randall’s garden. He had not murdered Henrietta. She was sure of it. The sorrow she’d seen in his eyes when he’d spoken about his wife’s death. Caroline had seen that same sadness in her own reflection after her mother’s death.
She returned his smile. “Thank you.”
“Caroline, I would never allow my grandmother or anyone else to cause you distress if I could halt it.” His hand, still holding hers, shifted. His thumb swayed slowly over the sensitive skin of her arm. That odd gravitational pull which ignited whenever they were in proximity made her ache to step closer.
Never Kiss a Notorious Marquess Page 14