As if of their own volition, her fingers settled on his sleeve. Without a word, he clasped her fingers in his ungloved ones. A touch that made her want to hug him, to comfort him. Releasing her, he turned and entered the room, closing the door softly behind him.
For what seemed an eternity, she listened to the muffled voices.
Maggie motioned to the kitchen. “Miss, come sit. I’ll make you some lavender tea. You look like you might collapse. And you aren’t doing the gent any good standing there.”
“Perhaps not, but I wish to stay here anyway.” A sense of helplessness grasped her. She remembered this same feeling when Mama had been ill. Wanting to do something but only being able to wait and pray.
Finally, the door opened and James stepped out. His gaze trailed over her from her face to her bare toes. Her dressing gown had come undone, exposing the thin cotton of her white nightgown. She pulled the soiled robe closed and tied the sash.
He glanced briefly at Maggie. “Caroline, is there a private place we may talk?”
“Yes, of course.” She walked to the nearby laundry room and stepped inside the dark space redolent with soap and starch. James turned an oil-fueled sconce up, sending light spilling over the room while casting shadows into the corners.
“Anthony will be fine, won’t he?” she asked.
“Dr. Trimble believes so. Though the next few days will be crucial as far as infection.”
“Yes, I’m sure they will.”
His gaze, once again, seared a slow path down her.
A tingling sensation washed over her as if he drew his fingers over her bare skin. She wanted his touch, craved it, knowing it would distract her from her fears over Anthony.
“Dr. Trimble told me Anthony arrived here injured. I’m sorry. I don’t know what possessed him to come to your residence.”
Caroline didn’t miss the question veiled in his words. He wondered if she’d become intimate with Anthony. She should feel angry, yet it seemed a reasonable assumption. She’d asked herself, repeatedly, why Anthony had come here. Yet no sound answer came to mind. Perhaps he’d feared his brother’s wrath, but James’s face reflected only concern. She understood that about James. He loved his siblings and would do anything to protect them.
“I’m not quite sure why. I have wondered myself.”
“I can’t fathom it. He should have thought about what consequences his appearance at your house during the middle of the night would have on you. On your reputation. Are the housekeeper and lady’s maid trustworthy, or are they fond of gossiping?”
“Neither will say a word, but . . .”
“What?”
“I’m not sure about the coachman. Ferguson has been in my father’s employ since I was young, and his loyalty to Father is strong.”
“I shall take care of him.”
There was an ominous tone to his voice.
“Take care of him?” she echoed.
“Money has a way of making a man forget. How about your cousins?”
“Mrs. Roth woke only me. I told her not to disturb them.”
As if gathering his thoughts, he briefly searched the shadows of the room. “You are sure there is no reason Anthony came here? To you?”
She stiffened her shoulders. “Veer your mind away from what you’re pondering, my lord. I’m not as experienced with men as my actions with you might imply.”
He opened his mouth.
She lifted a hand. “If I was to venture a guess why he came to me instead of you, I would say because he values your good opinion of him more than anything else. He didn’t want you to know what happened. I had trouble wheedling your Park Lane address from him. He’s not thinking with all his wits about him.”
The corners of James’s lips turned up fractionally. “You are too kind. He’s soused with whisky . . . that’s what he is. I would have understood. I was once young and foolish in many ways.”
She smiled at his candor—the first genuine smile that had touched her lips since she’d learned he intended to leave London. Strange that the man who caused her to experience such heart-wrenching melancholy was the only one capable of alleviating the emotion.
“Perhaps I’m still foolish.” He curled his long fingers about hers, and with his thumb gently stroked the nerve-filled skin of her palm.
Heat shot through her veins. She longed to touch him back, to stroke his jaw, already shadowed with stubble, and ask if the second anonymous bouquet of yellow roses that arrived this week was from him. But the smell of a woman’s perfume clinging to him halted her words as decisively as a splash of cold water on her face.
Feigning detachment, she pulled her hand out of his and walked to the threshold.
For a long moment, he stood motionless. “I thank you for all you’ve done, Caroline.” He exited the room.
“My lord?” she called after him as he moved down the dim corridor.
He turned back.
“I hear you are to return to Trent Hall shortly.”
“Yes, after Anthony is well enough to travel.”
“Will you keep me informed? Let me know how he is progressing while in London?”
He hesitated, seeming to assess the question. “Of course.” Then without another word, he slipped back into the room where Anthony and Dr. Trimble were, leaving her to drown in a quagmire of emotions.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Outside Park Lane, a torrential rain fell, pelting the study windows. James dragged his fingers through his hair. What was taking Dr. Trimble so long? Over the past week, the physician had never spent this long examining Anthony.
James forced his attention back to the report his steward in Essex had sent regarding the new hydronic water system’s progress. He flipped through the pages, the writing nothing more than a blur of figures.
Someone rapped on the closed door. He shot to his feet. “Come in.”
Reilly entered the room. “Is the doctor still with Anthony?”
James sank back into his chair. “Yes, a good deal longer than usual.”
“Doubtful anything’s wrong. Your brother is itching to be up and about. I think if he’d taken a turn for the worse, you wouldn’t have to practically tie him to his bed.”
It made sense, but if the doctor didn’t deliver his report soon, James would check on them.
Dr. Trimble appeared in the doorway. “May I come in?”
“Of course.” James motioned to one of the chairs before his desk.
“I’ll give you some privacy.” Reilly pulled the door closed as he exited the room.
The doctor sat and placed his medical bag down by his feet.
“How is he today?” James asked.
“He’s doing remarkably well. No signs of infection. It’s been seven days. At this point, I’m beyond optimistic.”
The weight clamping James’s chest eased. “I was concerned. You were up there so long, I thought . . .”
“Yes, well, after I examined your brother, he wished to give me some pointers on vingt-et-un. I told him I rarely gamble, but he thought it might come in handy if I’m ever in need of quick funds.”
Cards? Damnation. Anthony was incorrigible. “Is he well enough that I can box his ears?”
The doctor grinned and stood. “Nearly, but I’d give him a few more weeks to heal before you invite him into the ring for a good thrashing.”
James shook the man’s hand. “Thank you.”
After the physician left, a vision of Caroline flashed in James’s mind. Over the past few days, not an hour seemed to pass where he didn’t recall her standing in her nightgown, her light brown hair cascading over her shoulders, her bare feet peeking from below her hem, and the tears shimmering in her green eyes.
Hellfire! What had possessed Anthony to go there? He’d frightened her. Yet Caroline had handled the situation remarkably well. His brother owed her his life. He took a piece of parchment from the paper tray. He’d sent Caroline two missives over the past week informing her of Anthony’s pr
ogress. He’d found it difficult to keep the notes brief. Impersonal.
He jotted several quick words about Anthony’s health. With a hasty stroke of his pen, he signed his name. He set the ink blotter over it and folded it before he made a fool of himself. As he’d done last time, he addressed the note to Mrs. Roth, knowing the housekeeper would pass it along.
Unable to stop himself, he opened the top drawer of his desk. The yellow rose he’d removed from the second bouquet he’d sent Caroline over a week ago had wilted and dried.
Why had he sent them to her? Uttering a curse, he slammed the drawer closed.
* * *
Caroline moved her queen on the chess board. “Checkmate.”
Charles frowned. “Dash it all, Caroline, you didn’t even give me a chance.”
She’d played recklessly, hoping he’d take advantage of the opportunities she’d given him.
“He’s here!” Anne said, turning from the rainy scene outside the drawing-room window.
Caroline stood. Yesterday they’d received a letter stating Father would return from Paris today.
Mrs. Roth stepped into the room. “Mr. Lawrence’s carriage has arrived, miss. Would you like a tea tray sent up?”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Roth. I’m sure my father would enjoy that.”
As Anne sat and nervously arranged her skirts, the housekeeper stepped close and slipped a note into Caroline’s hand.
James. A mixture of excitement and anxiousness coiled within Caroline. Discreetly, she shoved the folded parchment into her pocket.
“I’ll be back in a moment. I’m going to meet my father in the entry hall.”
Anne bolted to her feet. “Really? Then I shall accompany you.”
“There is no need for both of us to go. Father will come upstairs. He’ll wish to have tea before he does anything else.”
Caroline stepped into the corridor. Downstairs the front door opened and Father’s voice, along with the butler’s, drifted up. Hurriedly, she unfolded the letter and scanned it. Anthony was doing well. She slipped the paper back into her pocket.
James’s words were concise. Nothing more. That familiar ache in her chest revealed its presence. She forced a smile and started down the steps.
“Father, how are you?”
“Daughter. Are Anne and Charles in, or have they gone out?”
“They’re in the drawing room. Mrs. Roth is bringing tea.” She tentatively pressed a soft kiss to his full cheek. As usual, he said nothing. Father wasn’t a demonstrative man. Even with Mother, he’d barely said a word the day she died.
Mama had disappointed him by not bearing a healthy son. Her mother had borne two other children, but both boys had been stillborn. Now when Father looked at her, she sensed his regret, saw it in his eyes and the firm, almost disapproving set of his chin.
He thought women frivolous creatures that should be seen and not heard. If only he would converse with her and not quash her words. Perhaps Father’s disregard was the reason she’d found such joy in writing and expressing her opinions.
He pulled his gold watch from his fob pocket and snapped it open. “I’ve got an hour before I need to go out.”
“I didn’t think you’d be heading off so soon.” She tried to smooth the disappointment in her voice.
“I have a meeting with Prime Minister Disraeli.”
She should have known he’d rush away. Work had always come before family, even where her mother was concerned. And Caroline was a female, in Papa’s view not worthy of much conversation. She wanted to yell at him to see her, not as a woman, but as a person with opinions and sensible thoughts, but knew it a futile waste of breath. Her outburst would only anger him and make him more eager to see her married off.
“Then we shall have our tea straightaway,” she said.
* * *
“Must we wait much longer?” Charles asked, tapping his fingers against the pristine white tablecloth on the dining room table.
They should have dined an hour ago. She’d instructed Cook to prepare several of Father’s favorite foods. Turtle soup, tender beef joint, and roasted vegetables drizzled with cream sauce.
The long-case clock in the corner ticked loudly.
“Percy, there’s been no word from my father as to his delay?”
“No, miss.”
“Then will you please start serving.”
The butler nodded, then snapped instructions at a footman.
Charles smiled and set his napkin across his lap. “Smells divine.”
Caroline agreed. The aromas coming from the kitchen belowstairs filled the air.
Voices in the corridor drew their attention. Father walked into the room with Lord Hamby. “Sorry I’m late. I’ve brought a guest. Hamby, you know my niece and nephew, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wallace, and my daughter.”
Hamby’s gaze settled on her breasts. His ruddy jowls swayed. “Of course, I know your daughter. As always, a pleasure, Miss Lawrence.”
The way he eyed her, as if he could see through her clothes, made her want to gag.
Charles stood and shook the man’s hand as Hamby greeted them. She took the opportunity to glance at Father.
He averted his gaze.
Why wouldn’t he look at her? Even though the room was not overly warm, a bead of perspiration trickled down Caroline’s spine. It took all her fortitude not to stand up and ask Father what he hoped to accomplish by inviting Lord Hamby to dinner, but she feared she knew. How could he wish to align her with such a deplorable man? Surely, he realized the earl was a lecher. Did he think she would simply go along with this like a lamb to the slaughter?
She would not!
Another place was set next to hers, and as Hamby sat, he brushed his hand against her arm. She bit her tongue and shot Father a furious glower.
Halfway through the meal, Hamby turned to her. “Dear,” he said, spittle dampening his lips, “you’ve not eaten much. Do eat up. Can’t have you skin and bones.” He loaded his fork with beef and shoveled it into his mouth.
She set her utensil down. “I’m not feeling well, Father. I think it best I excuse myself.”
Hamby pushed his chair back and stood. He reached for her hand with his sausage fingers and held them too tight. “I hope you’ll be feeling better tomorrow. Your father has invited me to dinner again. Haven’t you, Lawrence?”
“Yes,” Father replied, his expression rather sour.
Nausea edged up her throat. Perhaps if she retched on the earl, he’d leave and not darken their doorstep again.
Anne stood. “I should go with you if you’re unwell.”
“Thank you, Anne, but that isn’t necessary.”
Lord Hamby brought Caroline’s hand to his big fishlike lips and dampened her knuckles. “Till tomorrow, Miss Lawrence.”
She nodded, and without looking at her father or bidding him good night, she left the room.
An hour later, a soft tap on Caroline’s bedchamber door stopped her frantic pacing. “Come in.”
Anne entered.
“Is that blight on humanity still here?” she asked.
“Hamby? Yes, but he’s about to leave. He’s speaking with your father in his office.” Anne touched her arm. “Do you believe he’s here because he wishes your hand?”
“I can see no other reason. Does my father hate me, Anne?”
Her cousin twisted her hands together.
“Well, I shall not marry the man. I would rather live on the streets.”
“Don’t say that, Caro. Lord Hamby is not handsome, and he’s a bit old, but he is an earl.”
“Ha! As if I give a fig about his title. I will not wed a man who forces his unwanted attention on his staff. No female servant is safe in Hamby’s house.”
Her cousin pressed her fingers to her lips. “How do you know this?”
“I just do.” She wouldn’t reveal that Mrs. Roth’s cousin was a footman in Hamby’s household. Father wouldn’t abide the housekeeper gossiping, whether it was true or n
ot.
“I didn’t know, Caro. I swear. I thought it was his appearance that revolted you. Your father must be told.” Anne bit her fingernail. “Perhaps I should have Charles inform him.”
The clopping of hooves on the street drew Caroline’s attention to the window. Lord Hamby was wobbling toward his carriage. She squared her shoulders. “No, I’ll speak with my father.”
She made her way down the stairs. Without knocking, she flung open the door to Father’s office.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “I expected you.”
“I won’t marry him!”
He slammed his fist on his desk, rattling the inkpot. “Do you honestly believe I would choose him as a suitor?”
Her mouth gaped. “Then why?”
“Because I saw him at the Carlton Club, and he all but threatened to ruin you with gossip if I didn’t invite him to dinner. Says he has it on good authority you were caught during a rather lurid indiscretion at the Burrows’ ball.”
Her heart pounded against her ribs. She would bet the good authority was Lady Randall. “What exactly did Hamby tell you?”
“That you were found alone with Lord Huntington. That’s not all. He says Huntington visited this house during the small hours and entered through the back entrance like some thief.”
The blood pounding through Caroline’s veins filled her ears. The room tipped. Her hand shot out to grasp a chair. Someone had seen James.
“Sit. Damnation. Sit.” Father’s voice came to her as if from a distance, yet his strong hands grasped her elbows, helping her. “Is it true, Daughter?”
Unable to find her voice, she nodded.
“By God, child, what have you gone and done?”
“It’s not what you think.” At least the incident at the house wasn’t.
“Really?” Disbelief dripped from his tone. “Hamby says he’s willing to marry you anyway and will remain silent if you wed him. You will accept his offer.”
“Father—”
“You’ll marry him, or I’ll toss you out. And I don’t want to hear your regrets. They are too late!”
“I’d rather marry the devil.”
“Foolish girl, Hamby is the devil, but you’ve made your bed and must lie in it.”
Never Kiss a Notorious Marquess Page 19