“He doesn’t know. Apart from Mama, you’re the only one. And I haven’t exactly been courting Miss Hartley. But she is charming, gracious, and will make a most admirable countess.”
Confusion again turned Caroline’s mind to mud, and her legs refused to move. Instead she gave him a hard stare. “Excuse me? You are either courting someone or you aren’t, there is no ‘not exactly’ about it. If you haven’t spent any time with Flora, how do you know you’ll suit?”
“I am more than confident we will.”
“How can you be?”
“Because,” Stephen said irritably, with a less than subtle yank prompting her to recommence moving around the floor. “Unlike some men, I didn’t offer merely because of a pretty face or family name. I did my research.”
“What, you assessed all the unmarried women in London? Kind to children and animals, plus twenty points, laughs like a donkey minus five, that sort of thing?”
He didn’t reply, but color flooded his cheekbones.
Caroline felt her eyes widen and mouth gape, no doubt a particularly attractive expression reminiscent of a landed trout. Oh God. He was marrying Flora Hartley because she had topped a damn list.
“No! We thought you were joking when you talked about that stupid compatibility chart plan.”
“It’s not stupid,” he growled. “It was a sensible and logical method to find the right woman to marry and meet my responsibilities to the title.”
“There are people in Bedlam who think the same thing.”
“Then they are definitely in the wrong place. The Hartleys are excellent stock. Plus Mama has known Miss Hartley forever and enjoys her company. I signed the contracts this morning, we’ll be hosting a ball to formally announce our betrothal as soon as everyone is back in town. It won’t be a long engagement, I expect to be married by June or July.”
Caroline gritted her teeth as the longest waltz in history continued. This was pure torture. How could the blasted music still be playing? They must have circled the floor at least thirty-five times.
“Well, well, well,” she said softly. “A lot of exceedingly foolish women will be crying into their pillows, once this news hits the ears of the town gossips.”
“Your congratulations and best wishes mean the world.”
“I’ll be sure to pass them on to Flora when I next see her. She is indeed every inch a lady. So very sweet and…nice.”
“Caroline…” he said warningly, a very familiar glare darkening his eyes to black.
Caroline smiled, probably more a wolf-like baring of teeth judging by the way his expression went from annoyed to alarmed. Then she stepped back and curtsied.
“As my brother’s best friend, naturally I wish you every happiness, Lord Westleigh. But the waltz has now ended and I simply must find the powder room and attend to my troublesome hem. Excuse me.”
Dramatically swishing her ruby-red skirts, she left him standing in the middle of the ballroom, praying the bloodcurdling scream threatening to unleash would remain silent. Once the main double doors had been navigated, she nearly sprinted down the hallway, blindly flinging doors open and shut until the thankfully empty powder room revealed itself. Collapsing into a cushioned chair, she buried her face in her hands.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
She was the worst kind of fool and no one to blame but herself. A fool to fall head over heels in love with Stephen Forsyth, way back when he’d been a gangly, twinkly-eyed troublemaker at Eton. A fool to wait for him when he’d grown into his imposing frame at Cambridge, gone on his grand tour and shattered hearts everywhere. She was a fool to still love him knowing that when he inherited the vast and hugely wealthy earldom, he had shot a million miles beyond her reach.
But worst of all, a fool to believe she had time. For heaven’s sake, he’d inherited nearly two years ago; now everything was running to his satisfaction of course he’d be thinking about the future. So much for the common sense she had always prided herself on.
Leaning back, Caroline rested her head against the rose-patterned wallpaper and cursed her own cowardice. For it was too late. The dream, the excruciatingly constant sliver of hope that one day Stephen might see more than his best friend’s troublesome sister, had been cruelly and decisively dashed.
“Caroline? Are you in there?”
Startled, her heart sank at the sound of George’s voice just outside the powder room door. Damn it all, she’d been so numb she hadn’t even seen him follow her. “Go away,” she said dully. “I’ll be out in a m-minute.”
Ignoring her, and all seemly behavior, her twin ambled through the door and kicked it shut behind him.
“Why are you hiding in here?” he asked, for once no trace of mockery in his face or voice. Actually, his expression was positively thunderous. “Did someone hurt you?”
“I’d r-rather not t-talk about it.”
“Do you want to leave?”
“We can’t. Sir Malcolm.”
“Never mind about him. I asked if you wanted to leave.”
A lie hovered on her lips, something cool and sharp to regain control. She even dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief for an extra moment to regain her composure. But when she opened her mouth, only one word tumbled out. “Desperately.”
“Then we’ll go. I’ll tell Stephen—”
“No!”
“All right, all right,” he said, clearly taken aback at her vehemence. “I’ll leave him a note. Go and pack your things, the carriage shouldn’t take long to organize.”
Instead of answering, Caroline frowned as she noticed something very odd.
“Wait. Why is your left cheek so pink? Did someone hurt you?”
George stilled, and for a split second pure fury twisted his face into that of a stranger, cold and dangerous. Yet just as swiftly the expression was gone and his familiar, blandly mocking smile returned. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
The rebuff stung, but she couldn’t complain, not when he’d merely parroted her own words. At times like these it was hard to believe they once shared every wish, thought and secret, the distance between them had grown so great.
“Very well.” She took her twin’s outstretched hand and got to her feet. “To London, and not a moment too soon.”
Tonight she could mourn, but tomorrow her new life must begin. If she joined the legions of far smarter ton women who had followed their heads, rather than their hearts, she too could be a wife and mother. She could try to be content, perhaps even happy.
It was time to leave Stephen Forsyth, Earl of Westleigh, as nothing more than a footnote in her history.
***
“Such a pity Mr. and Miss Edwards were called back to London, my lord. It’s such a beautiful morning for a ride, don’t you think?”
Stephen forced himself to smile and nod at Nora Bruce. The lady had attached herself to his side at the start of their cross-country hack and hadn’t budged an inch since, blithely keeping up a steady stream of conversation despite his short and sometimes curt responses.
He couldn’t help it though, he was that furious. After the ridiculous events of the previous evening, George and his sister had left him only the vaguest of notes before fleeing into the night. Some sort of friends they were. The first task on the list when he returned to London tomorrow would be to hunt them down and strangle them both.
That was, of course, if he actually made it back to the city. His unease refused to diminish, and hadn’t been improved by the comments from his long-time valet.
“Strangest household I’ve ever been in, my lord,” Daniels had sniffed in absolute disapproval, as he’d expertly lathered and shaved Stephen’s overnight beard growth mere hours ago. “I’d almost swear someone is watching my every movement. I usually quite enjoy house parties, having a laugh with the lads or stepping out with a pretty maid, but not here. I c
an’t say I’ll be sorry to leave Bruce land behind.”
“You and me both,” Stephen muttered as he and Lady Bruce rounded another scruffy clump of bushes and rode toward a small clearing, all seven of her daughters trailing behind them. Despite his attempts at keeping up a brisk pace, somehow the other men in the party had gotten so far ahead, he couldn’t see them anymore. Not to mention his borrowed mount was skittish, constantly sidestepping and tossing its head in a way that required an annoyingly high level of concentration to guide it.
The Edwards twins would indeed be sorry once he got his hands on them.
“Excuse me, my lord? Did you say something?”
“No, no, Lady Bruce. Just woolgathering. This is a pretty spot. Do you come here often?”
“Not so much anymore. This was one of my late daughter Hermia’s favorite places. She used to drag a cushion to that big tree over there and sketch until her fingers cramped.”
“Ah,” Stephen said awkwardly, ashamed at his ill manners. Poor woman. Losing any family member to an accident was bad enough, but it must be excruciating to lose a child. God knew his mother had barely left the house since Gregory and his father’s deaths, a better man would be far more empathetic. “Well, I can understand why she liked it. Plenty to see, and lovely and sunny.”
Lady Bruce tilted her head and graced him with a brief smile.
“Oh, no, we get plenty of rain living so near the coast. But there are a few abandoned cottages scattered hereabouts, and travelers are welcome to shelter in them.”
“As long as that is all they use them for,” he joked, but her expression iced over so fast he regretted saying a word. Damnation. Forget tomorrow, he would collect his staff and leave this bleak place as soon as they returned to the manor house.
“Indeed,” she replied frostily, leaning down to open a small rucksack attached to her saddle. “I think—”
Crack.
For an instant time paused as the gunshot echoed through the clearing. Then all hell broke loose. Lady Bruce screamed, her daughters screamed, and his horse reared, nearly unseating him as it bucked and kicked.
“Take shelter!” Stephen yelled, frantically trying to control the beast, see where the sound had come from and keep his mind in the present.
Concentrate. Do not think about Gregory. Or Father. You’re unharmed and the horse will settle. It won’t throw you. Control your panic.
Stephen sucked in several deep breaths, trying desperately to calm his racing pulse. What the bloody hell was going on? Who in their right mind would hunt with a pistol and use it in the vicinity of a group of ladies?
Crack.
The second shot whistled past his head and embedded itself in a nearby tree, tearing off a thick chunk of bark and sending it flying.
Oh Jesus.
Horror tautened his muscles to breaking point. Raw memories overwhelmed—Blood, so much blood, and the suffocating dampness of the forest where Gregory’s life ebbed away. Cradling his father’s broken body. His mother’s chilling wail when Stephen had broken the news to her.
No. Not again. I can’t…
Screams intruded. The Bruce sisters’ distress gaining in volume and pitch, accompanied by frightened horse neighs ensuring he could barely think.
“We’re all going to die,” screeched one of the seven. “Mother!”
Movement near a cluster of trees caught his eye and Stephen swung his horse around as two demi-masked, roughly dressed men appeared, both brandishing large pistols.
Oh hell.
Poachers. They had to be poachers. The clearing was too far from the main road to tempt highwaymen, and today he hadn’t even brought a dagger with him. Unarmed he could have taken them easily in a fight, both were of average height and scrawny build, but he wouldn’t even get close.
“Well, well, lookee ‘ere,” one of the men said, spitting on the ground. “Looks like we got ourselves a nice fat pigeon.”
“I don’t have any money on me,” Stephen said as evenly as possible. “So you are quite out of luck.”
“Reckon you have a pile at home, though, am I right?” cackled the second poacher, lightly caressing his pistol as he wandered closer. “Can always tell a gennelman, and you dress a lot richer than any round here. Get off that horse.”
“No.”
“Get off that horse,” the man repeated. “Or I’ll take some of your fine ladies instead. Haven’t had me a woman in a while, and these look like good, fresh ones.”
Another chorus of screams filled the air.
“If you so much as touch one hair on their heads—” said Stephen in a low, hard voice.
“You’ll what?” said the first poacher, smirking. “Beat us with a riding crop? Now do as yer told, get off the damn horse and we’ll think about lettin’ the fillies go. But any funny business, and there’ll be a bullet in yer gut.”
Stephen slid slowly from the saddle onto the ground, frustrated rage churning like fire in his stomach. A pistol was shoved into the small of his back, and his wrists and knees were bound with thin, coarse rope.
“You’ll be hanged for this,” howled Lady Bruce. “Trespassing. Threatening my daughters. Kidnapping a senior peer of the realm.”
Stephen winced as both poachers’ faces lit up.
“Oh-ho! Senior peer of the realm, eh?” chuckled the man beside him. “A very plump pigeon then. Well, m’lord, our wagon is jus’ beyond those trees. It’ll take you someplace less fine than yer used to, but you’ll learn to like it. Now march.”
He stumbled forward, his gaze darting left and right, but there was no path to freedom. These men were clearly seasoned criminals, the way they had laughed off Lady Bruce’s words was ample proof of that, and if he attempted a weapon-less counterattack the girls would be hurt and he’d be dead.
Bloody, bloody hell.
Mama had endured so much already but a ransom note was better than another coffin, and his friends would certainly move heaven and earth to find him. Don’t forget your fiancée, a small voice whispered, and he stilled. Would Flora pace and fret and storm Bow Street to demand every Runner in London be assigned to the case?
His conscience snickered. You didn’t want that, remember. Just a quiet life.
A ringing blow across his face jolted him back to reality.
“I said march,” the poacher snarled in his ear, and again Stephen inched forward, knowing if they got him past the row of trees it was over.
Crack.
The pistol shot was followed by a roar as the second poacher fell to the ground, clutching his arm. Stephen’s disbelieving gaze flew to the west as a man on horseback burst into the clearing. A rescue?
“Unhand him!” the rider yelled, galloping toward them.
The first poacher cursed loudly, shoved him to the ground then took off into the trees, his injured accomplice close behind.
Rolling onto his knees, Stephen stared up at the man he owed his life to. Despite his civilian clothes, a ramrod-straight back and short-cropped red hair suggested military, while healed scars on his cheeks and around his deep-set pale blue eyes spoke of numerous dances with death. Yet the man couldn’t be any more than a few years older than him.
Lady Bruce shattered the silence with yet another hair-raising scream. “You saved Lord Westleigh,” she shrieked, half-sliding, half-falling off her horse to run toward his rescuer and hurl herself at his feet. “Bless you, sir! Who are you? I must know the name of such a hero.”
The stranger didn’t even glance at the woman, just stared at Stephen, his gaze all at once assessing and angry and cold. Then he grinned, as though they were long-time acquaintances meeting at a club.
Jesus. Who was this man?
Chapter Four
“Excuse me, miss, but Sir Malcolm wants to see you in his library right away.”
Caroline glanced up from the lette
r she was reading at her beloved miniature mahogany desk and grimaced at the maid’s words. She’d been expecting the summons from the moment she and George had arrived home in the early hours of the morning, but her stepfather had made her wait. And wait.
He was a sweetheart like that.
Reluctantly leaving her sanctuary, she walked briskly along a corridor lined with some of the frightful blue-hued landscapes Sir Malcolm had created during his painting phase and pondered which direction the vile creature might go. What would her punishment for leaving the Bruce house party early be? Another condemnation of her unmarried status? Or some other transgression she didn’t even know she’d committed?
Taking a deep breath, Caroline paused outside the library to brace herself. Hopefully a lecture would be the sum of it today, bruises were harder to hide during the busy Season.
Knocking briefly, she poked her head into the room. “You wanted to see me?”
Her stepfather turned from gazing out a large-paned window, his eyes, as always, violet ice. He might be a powerful senior magistrate, but he looked more like the criminals he sent to prison, with his completely bald head and too-small black jacket straining over a barrel chest.
Ugh. Sir Malcolm Edwards was truly a living, breathing reason not to get married. It would never cease to amaze how her sweet, intelligent, kind-hearted mother could have chosen such a vile creature as her second husband, and to add insult to injury, inflict his surname on her children. God knew she’d asked for an explanation hundreds of times, but it remained the one topic of conversation which caused Lady Edwards to clamp her mouth shut and exit a room at great speed.
“About time you showed your face, Caroline. Get in here and sit down.”
With affected calm, she strolled in and perched on a high backed chair. Being seated wasn’t a courtesy but a requirement; the only time her stepfather had a height advantage. When she raised a quizzical brow he glowered and stalked over to loom, until it felt like she might gag on the stomach-turning stench of rancid sweat and too-sweet cologne emanating from his heavy jowls.
To Love a Hellion (The London Lords Book 1) Page 4