***
Caroline’s turmoil left her incapable of appreciating the al fresco party’s elaborate arrangements. The string quartet under the spreading oak might as well be nails scratching on tin. The tables festooned with garlands and damask linens made no impression. The delicacies the liveried footmen served were bark and ash, for all she tasted of them.
Last night, she’d written to West in the frantic hope that she’d feel bold and independent—and free of Silas Nash. But she didn’t feel brave and powerful. Instead she was a vulnerable woman rushing headlong into a future she no longer wanted. She’d been so set on becoming a dashing widow, and it turned out that she was a pitiful coward. Silas was right about her.
Nonetheless, West’s circumspect behavior left her bewildered. Caroline hadn’t expected overt advances, but as the day progressed, the absence of any signs of anticipation started to grate. No wink. No special smile. Not even the occasional double entendre. He treated her as he always had, like an attractive woman who aroused admiration, but no urge to overstep the bounds of propriety. If his note wasn’t folded in her reticule, she’d wonder if they’d made a rendezvous at all.
Silas’s behavior, too, left her floundering. After she’d told him she meant to have West, they’d parted in bitterness. She’d imagine after that, he’d be eager to avoid her. But all day she flitted from guest to guest a pace ahead of him. Whenever she saw him across the field or, worse, sauntering in her direction, her stomach clenched with humiliation and anger and forbidden longing.
The happy laughter around her indicated that everyone else was having a marvelous time. West had gone to great lengths to provide his guests with a memorable day. There were two skiffs for sailing on the river, and open carriages for excursions along the banks. He’d set up a flowery bower with cushions and rugs fit for a sultan. Inside, Helena and Fenella escaped the sun to recline on divans, while West’s friends lolled at their feet like adoring slaves. West himself slouched against the pole holding up the entrance, studying Helena as if she was the most fascinating creature he’d ever seen.
Caroline stopped near her curricle to glower at him. Surely he took discretion too far. For heaven’s sake, she was the lady he bedded tonight, not Helena Wade. He’d already spent a good hour galloping over the fields in her friend’s company, and he’d hardly parted from her side since.
“Smile, darling,” a velvety baritone murmured behind her. “The world mightn’t end tomorrow.”
She started and battled to control the tide of heat engulfing her. How galling that Silas had managed to sneak up on her. She’d spent all day preternaturally aware of him and doing her best to keep her distance. But for once, the reliable prickle between her shoulder blades had let her down.
Silas stood beside her and passed across a glass of champagne. Despite the extravagant selection of wines, she’d refrained from drinking. If she turned to alcohol to drown her confusion and misery, she feared she wouldn’t stop. And she refused to greet her first lover in an inebriated haze.
Her bugbear lifted his glass to his lips and propped one shoulder against the side of the carriage from which she’d just retrieved a scarf. The advancing afternoon grew cool—or at least it had until she’d needed to pretend insouciance with a man who, twenty-four hours ago, had been fondling her breasts.
“Lord Stone,” she said flatly, knowing her formality was absurd.
He clearly thought so, too, because his remarkable eyes lit with laughter. “My dear Lady Beaumont, what a glorious boon for your humble petitioner to surprise you adorning this verdant setting like a coy nymph awaiting the attentions of great Apollo.”
Caroline scowled at him, unamused by his florid imitation of a character in a bad play. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”
The laughter seeped from his eyes, replaced by concern. “I wanted to ask if you were all right after…yesterday.”
“Perfectly,” she said tightly, although he’d recognize the lie.
“Did Helena tell you that your reputation is safe? The servants were downstairs when we—”
Call her reckless, but right now, looming scandal was the least of her worries. She spoke quickly before Silas put her lapse into words. “I don’t have to ask how you are. You’re obviously in the pink of health.”
Yesterday when she’d announced that her plans for West hadn’t changed, he’d looked like every hope crumbled to dust. Today he seemed like his usual easygoing self. She didn’t want him unhappy—she wasn’t that much of a witch—but his cheerfulness was puzzling and a tad insulting. Surely a man hopelessly in love should pine just a little.
“No use crying for the moon,” he said with one of those characteristic shrugs that she’d once found charming.
Well, wasn’t he the absolute limit? “You’re accepting your rejection in good spirit.”
He took another sip of wine. “No point going into a decline.”
“Indeed.”
“If it would help for me to make sheep’s eyes at you and droop over the scenery like some milksop in a poem, I’m at your service.” She wasn’t sure how he achieved it, but his tall, vigorous form stooped and his expression fell into lines of theatrical misery. “Oh, cruel mistress, your eternal coldness rends my tender heart.”
“Stop it.”
“I will if you kiss me better.” He widened his eyes and batted his thick tawny lashes.
Despite her wretchedness, Caroline couldn’t help laughing at the woebegone picture he presented. “You’re a lunatic.”
“Does that mean you take pity on your languishing admirer?” He clapped his hand to his chest, forgetting the champagne he held. Wine sloshed over his teal silk waistcoat. “Blast.”
This time her laugh was more robust and when his eyes met hers, he burst out laughing, too. “I hope you don’t expect me to moon around after you, sighing and kissing the hem of your skirt. I’d never make such an infernal cake of myself.”
She set her glass of champagne on the carriage’s step and dug in her reticule for a handkerchief. She was dabbing at the damp stain before she realized what she did. She was almost…wifely. How utterly revolting. On a dismayed gasp, she jerked her hand away. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes softened as he caught her wrist. “No need to apologize.”
“Yes, there is,” she said disconsolately, scrunching the sodden handkerchief into a ball. He must feel her pulse race beneath his fingers. But then, after yesterday, the biggest dunderhead in England would know she wanted him. And nobody had ever called Silas Nash that. “I’m acting as if we’re intimate. It’s not fair.”
“Caro—”
She wrenched away and buried her shaking hands in her yellow skirts. “I think…I think it would be better if you and I keep our contact to a minimum in future.”
“My dear—”
“No, don’t dear or darling or Caro me. It only prolongs the torture.” She blinked back the tears that had hovered all day, even when she’d laughed at his antics. “Just let me go.”
His face was stern as she’d never seen it. With a pang, she admitted that she’d misjudged him. Beneath his apparent geniality, he was wretched. Of course he was. She didn’t discount the power of his love. It would be so much easier if she did. And the circumstances were all so impossible. A brief affair with Silas would be damaging enough. But her instincts screamed that he offered more, something important and profound and lasting—and that more would lock her back into the prison she’d escaped with Freddie’s death.
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” he said gently.
“Yes, it does.” Blindly she turned and stumbled away before she sacrificed everything she’d always wanted and admitted that she loved him, too.
The Seduction of Lord Stone Page 16