And whether James wished to admit it, he loved her. She remembered the words he’d whispered as his body joined with hers. Endearments meant to soothe any discomfort she experienced. They were sweet words. Tender words.
Closing her eyes, she relived the experience of his skilled hands caressing her skin. A gentle touch.
It proved something, didn’t it? “He must love me,” she said as if saying it aloud made it God’s truth.
A knock sounded on the door. She swiped at a tear trailing down her cheek and lifted a book to shield her face. “Come in.”
Maggie peeked around the door’s edge. “I saw his lordship leave the house. Do you wish me to prepare your bath?”
Caroline’s heart skipped a beat. She sprang to her feet. The book toppled to the floor, landing with a heavy thud. “He left?”
“Yes. I overheard the staff saying his lordship rides every morning at the crack of dawn and . . .” Maggie’s voice trailed off.
The lady’s maid rushed forward, her skirt knotted in both hands. “You’ve been crying. Did his lordship hurt you? The bounder. I’ll pack your trunks and we’ll head back to London!”
“No. He didn’t hurt me. He was most gentle. I realize how much I love him.”
Maggie smiled. “I knew that.”
Caroline blinked. “Really?”
“Indeed. I saw the way you gazed at him the night he came to get his brother. And if I may say, he’s a right fine-looking gent, and I for one don’t think it’s true what they say about him. Now, come sit, and I’ll have a tray sent up for you with toast, strawberry preserves, and lavender tea. You’ll feel better after you eat.”
No, she intended on breakfasting with her husband. Whether James wished it or not, she would join him after she bathed and completed her toilette. “Did the staff say where his lordship takes his morning meal?”
“Mr. Reilly said Lord Huntington usually eats in the dining room with his youngest brother, Lord George.”
His siblings were still in London. Perfect. “Tell Mrs. Anderson I intend to eat there, as well.” If James thought he could shove her away, he was in for a battle. He was about to learn she wouldn’t be pushed aside.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Caroline hurried down the winding stairs. Whether James liked it or not, she was about to prove her love, and make James admit his true feeling, as well.
In the entry hall, a maid dusted a rosewood table. The servant knotted her fingers in her white pinafore and bobbed a curtsey. Caroline indicated the long center corridor. “Is the dining room this way?”
“Yes, m’lady. ’Tis the last room on the right. The double doors are always open. Do you wish me to show you?”
“Thank you, but that isn’t necessary. I shall find it.” Caroline nibbled her lower lip. How would James react to her presence? She neared the entrance. Her heartbeat escalated. She smoothed her damp palms over the pleats of her green cotton day dress and stepped over the threshold.
James sat at the head of the table, his face obscured by the newspaper he read. He was not alone. The butler stood beside a marble-topped sideboard, which held an assortment of chafing dishes.
Langley inclined his head. “Morning, my lady.”
Her husband’s fingers clenched the newspaper. Slowly, as if he didn’t wish to set eyes upon her, he folded the publication and placed it next to his dish. His hair looked damp as though he’d recently bathed, and he wore casual country attire: a tweed jacket and white shirt.
She walked toward him.
His dark eyes narrowed.
If looks were lethal . . .
A shiver ran down her back. A wiser woman would turn tail and run. She steeled her spine, continued forward, and pressed a kiss to James’s cheek. “Morning, dear. What a lovely room. So bright and inviting.”
It was true. The sun shone through a bank of windows, warming the dark hue of the mahogany table and the pale yellow walls. Now, if only her husband didn’t look so foreboding.
As courtesy dictated, James rose from his chair. For a brief moment, she feared he’d fling her over his shoulder and physically remove her from the room.
She tipped her chin in the air, daring him to do so in front of the butler.
“I thought you’d take breakfast in bed,” he said through clenched teeth, his anger as tangible as a firm smack on one’s bum.
She perched on the tips of her toes and brought her mouth to his ear. “If you had stayed in bed and joined me, indeed, but I became lonely.”
Without taking in James’s facial expression to her whispered words, she turned and strode to the sideboard. The heat of his stare followed her, all but burning a hole in the back of her dress. She lifted the lid of a chafing dish to find sausages, then another with coddled eggs, and a third with bacon. Though the food looked tasty, the scents conspired against her anxious stomach. She placed a scone and some fresh grapes in her dish and turned around.
James remained standing, an odd expression on his face.
The butler withdrew the chair at the opposite end of the long table.
Too far away.
“Langley, I’ll sit here.” She set her plate down and pulled out the seat adjacent to James’s.
The butler hastened toward her, halting when James stood and curled his long fingers over the back of her chair. He leaned close. The hard surface of his chest pressed against her shoulder, while his warm breath touched her ear. He spoke in a low voice, meant for her alone. “I’m not sure what you’re up to, but I’m not in the mood for any games.”
She glanced over her shoulder. Her mouth was a mere inch from his. Their breaths mingled. Sparks of current exploded in the thickening air between them.
He reared back.
“Thank you, darling,” she said as he returned to his seat, eyeing her as if she were the devil incarnate.
“Would you like tea, my lady?” Langley inquired.
“That would be wonderful.”
The butler tipped an ornate silver pot and filled her cup with trained precision.
James’s tight jaw relaxed. “Langley, her ladyship and I do not require assistance at the moment. We’ll ring if we do.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Caroline smiled at James.
In response, he picked up his newspaper, snapped it in the air, and obscured his face.
After staring at the newsprint for endless minutes, she contemplated tossing a grape over the edge. Thinking better of it, she plopped the plump fruit in her mouth. “James?”
He exhaled a heavy sigh and lowered the paper, revealing a forbidding countenance. “Yes?”
How could such a simple and succinct reply sound so untrusting? “I wondered if you would take me on a tour of the house and grounds.”
One dark, slashing brow lifted in a not-before-hell-freezes way, and she knew the answer before he spoke.
“I have a meeting with my steward. My siblings will arrive tomorrow. I’m sure Nina or Anthony will show you about. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He unfolded himself from his chair and strode for the door.
He was upon the threshold when she found her voice. “Darling?”
His shoulders stiffened. He stopped but didn’t turn around.
“I realized something this morning. After you walked out of the bedchamber. I comprehended how much I care for you. I lov—”
“I’m late,” he said, his long strides removing him from the room.
Caroline’s shoulders slumped. She propped her chin in her palm. James wouldn’t make this easy on her, but she’d not give up. She’d convince him of her love. Prove to him she’d not married him to escape a union between her and Lord Hamby. Her gaze drifted to the painted domed ceiling. Several nude cherubs sat on puffy white clouds in a blue sky. The angels reminded her of a bacchanalian painting she’d seen in a book, where angels floated above a nude man and woman as they held each other.
Last night, James had all but forgotten his anger as his body joined with hers. She nibbled o
n the scone and smiled.
She had an idea. A wicked idea.
As she stood, her gaze drifted over the City Globe. She lifted the newspaper as the title of the editor’s column caught her eye. “Suffragists and the Radical Mind.”
Heat crept up her face. Suffragists weren’t radicals. They were visionaries. The column made it seem like members of the movement were fanatic ape leaders. What balderdash! Caroline tossed the paper into the hot grate. It burst into flames.
Watching it burn gave her little satisfaction. There was only one way to handle the editor’s vile denouncement. She needed to write another article and send it to the London Reformer. Would Hinklesmith print it? Or had James given the man orders to ignore her articles? The possibility made her pulse quicken. Well, if he had, she’d find another newspaper willing to publish them. She wouldn’t be silenced.
A couple of hours later, sitting at the massive desk in the private sitting room adjacent to the master bedchamber, Caroline signed her pen name to her latest article. As always, the elation she experienced while writing about things she was passionate about filled her.
Today was Maggie’s half day, and the lady’s maid intended on going into the village. She’d ask her to post the letter.
Stepping into the adjoining room, Caroline smiled as her gaze settled on the bed. With her article done, she needed to center her mind on how to seduce her husband tonight.
* * *
With an impatient utterance, Caroline snapped her book shut and slipped out of bed. She stared at the clock as her hand skimmed over the sheer nightgown she wore again. Past midnight. Where was James? She’d not seen him since breakfast. He’d sent a note only minutes before luncheon, informing her he was still with his steward and would not be joining her for the midday meal or dinner.
She set her hands on her hips. Was he already asleep in another bedchamber? She tamped down the desire to dress and go searching, doubtful she’d find him in this monstrous home. There had to be twenty-five bedchambers. At least his clothes remained in his dressing room.
Restlessly, she padded to the door of the private sitting room and flung it open. Unlike last night, it was empty. Moonlight from the bank of windows shone on the massive desk. She strolled forward and ran her fingers over the dark wood as she slipped into the chair. The thin fabric of her nightgown offered little protection against the cool leather. She rubbed her palms over the gooseflesh on her arms, plucked a match from the silver holder, and lit the oil lamp. The facets of a crystal decanter reflected the light, making the amber liquid within look appealing.
She pulled the stopper. Sniffed. The potent scent of whisky filled her nostrils. She scrunched up her nose. Why did men find it appealing? Perhaps because some claimed it took the edge off one’s nerves.
At the moment, she felt as tightly strung as a violin. She picked up one of the two glasses next to the decanter and filled it. Tentatively, she touched the liquid to her lips and licked at the moisture. It didn’t taste as strong as it smelled.
She tipped the cup, drinking half the contents in a single gulp.
Heat exploded in her mouth, followed by a wet, fiery path which singed her throat. She sucked in a quick breath. The burning intensified. Placing a hand to her mouth, she violently coughed.
God have mercy. It tasted like medicine. Yet already warmth settled within her, filtering into her arms and legs, even her toes.
Lady Nottinberry had once sat with her husband and his male guest drinking heavy spirits. Father had called it disgraceful.
Why? Women should have the right to drink and converse with men instead of being sent off like useless ninnies who didn’t possess a coherent thought. What would James say if he walked in to find her drinking whisky?
What did his opinion matter? She was a strong woman who didn’t need a man’s approval. She drank the remaining liquid and set the glass down with a heavy thud.
* * *
The clock in James’s office struck two. He folded up the blueprints for the new pump house and stood. Hopefully, his tempting little wife was fast asleep. Last night, her luscious body had rendered him mindless, momentarily withering his resistance and anger.
Even during breakfast he’d ached to touch her again. He’d used the newspaper as a barrier. Useless. The clean, soapy scent drifting off her skin had conjured images of her bathing—soap sliding over her nude body. He’d wanted to swipe the dishes off the table and make love to Caroline atop it—to taste and lick every inch of her, from the sweet tips of her pink nipples to the berry-colored bud between her legs. Worse, throughout the day he’d thought of her—of the way she’d snuggled her naked body to his after they’d made love, then fallen asleep with her palm pressed to his heart. A memory incomparable, yet cruel and bittersweet.
How could he desire her after what she’d done? After her deceit? You love her, a voice in his head whispered.
“Idiot,” he mumbled, making his way up the west wing corridor. He should have relocated Caroline to another bedchamber. The most distant one from his. A less foolish man would have done so.
He stopped before a door to one of the guest rooms. He should sleep in there. It would be pure torture to crawl into bed with Caroline and not touch her silky skin. He continued up the corridor.
Singing drifted to his ears.
Had the woman waited up to torment him? The traitorous appendage in his trousers twitched with excitement.
He stepped into the bedchamber.
The room was empty.
His gaze jerked to the open sitting room door. Caroline’s voice floated to him again. “‘. . . for me and my true love will never meet again. La, la, la . . . bonnie banks of la, la, la.’”
With quick strides, he marched into the room. Caroline sat in the chair behind the desk. She wore that enticing diaphanous nightgown again, and her bare feet were propped atop the wood surface.
Was she drunk?
The glass cradled in her hand, along with the half empty decanter of whisky, said yes, and if any doubt remained, the pen tucked between her toes confirmed it.
She held up the glass and saluted him. “Ah, my absent husband returns.” She finished the statement with a hiccup.
Lord. Completely soused.
Gracelessly, she set the tumbler down on the blotter. Liquor splattered over the crystal’s edge and onto her fingers. She drew her wet index finger deep into her mouth, then slowly withdrew it.
His bollocks pulled tight to his body. “Christ, Caroline, how much have you drunk?”
Casually, she shrugged a shoulder, then peered at the decanter. “Hmm, I’d say this much.” She lifted her hands and indicated a span of about two feet.
“It’s time for you to go to bed.” He rounded the desk.
She moved the foot with the pen tucked between her toes. The nib scratched against a sheaf of paper. She smiled proudly. “I’ve learned to write with my feet.” She arched a shapely brow. “Do you know how?”
“I must admit, it’s a talent I don’t possess.”
She frowned, as though lacking such a skill labeled one completely inept. “Really? While waiting for you, I’ve perfected it. Look at the note I’ve written.”
Illegible squiggly lines covered the parchment, not to mention the tan blotter. “What does it say?”
She hiccupped again. “It’s an apology to you, along with my retraction. I’m going to send it to Mr. Hinklesmith and demand he print it.”
“You claimed to have already done so.”
Her green eyes grew wide. She blinked. “Yes, I did. But this time I’m going to tell him my husband owns the newspaper. And that if he won’t listen, I shall . . . I shall . . .” She scratched her head.
“Hit him with your umbrella?”
“Yes, brilliant idea! I’m glad I thought of it.” She plucked the writing implement out from between her toes and scribbled something on the bottom of the paper and set the pen down. “There! I’ve signed it. Will you post it for me in the morning?”
“Of course.”
A radiant smile wreathed her face. She drew the tip of her nail over one lovely breast. Her nipple responded, as did his dashed cock. “Don’t you want to make love to me, James?”
So much it addles me. “No.”
She eyed the front of his trousers and grinned. “Liar.”
“When I make love to you again,” he whispered in her ear, “I want you to remember it. I’m going to torture that little nub between your legs with my tongue until you beg for mercy. Just dues for making me crave you all day.”
She peered at him through lowered lashes. “Have you craved me?”
If he thought she’d remember this conversation, he wouldn’t admit it. He reached for her. “Yes. Now, time for you to go to bed.”
Caroline swatted at his hands and tipped her chin in the air. “No, stand back. I’m quite capable of walking on my own two . . .” She peered at her legs. “By God, James, I have three feet.”
“Too much whisky can do that, love. I assure you, you’ll only have two in the morning.” He didn’t doubt, the third leg would be replaced with a monstrous headache. Gently, he lifted her into his arms.
This time she didn’t resist. Instead she snuggled against him.
By the time he reached the bed, she was snoring softly. He placed her under the blankets. After washing up, he stripped off everything but his drawers. He climbed in beside her, settled against her back, and wrapped his arms about her.
She pressed backward, snuggling her luscious bum against him.
Hell. It would be a long, torturous night.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
God help me. Caroline moaned—the pounding in her head was relentless. How foolish to drink whisky when she couldn’t even handle Madeira. She pulled the blankets tighter over her head. A dashed miracle she’d not awoken on the floor.
A flicker of memory sprang forth. James’s voice. Christ, Caroline, how much have you drunk?
She groaned. Too much. After her first drink, the night was swathed in a thick amnesiac fog.
“My lady?”
Biting back another moan, Caroline lowered the bedcovers. Even with the curtains drawn, the dim light in the room intensified the pounding in her head. Maggie’s concerned face came into focus.
Never Kiss a Notorious Marquess Page 23