by Cheryl Bolen
She would barely have time to change from her traveling clothes. It was important to her that she look fetching.
She meant to win a proposal of marriage from the Earl of Brockton before Christmas.
Chapter 3
Caro peered into her looking glass before going down to dinner and was assured that she could not have projected a prettier appearance. Her hair was artfully arranged in a swept-up style, and her pale blue gown that was almost sheer enough to see through displayed her figure—which she knew to be fine—to great advantage.
Downstairs, they went into the dining chamber, where the long table had been reduced to seat tonight’s dozen. The room was ablaze with candlelight from three glittering chandeliers and a pair of fine silver candelabra—a gift to the fourth duke from Charles II.
She was chagrined that her brother had not seated her near Lord Brockton. A frown on her face, she took her place. At her right was Lord Haverstock, who sat next to her brother, and his plain but entertaining sister Lydia was at her left. The object of Caro’s attentions sat across the table, two places down.
One might blame the duchess for the seating arrangements, but Caro knew that sweet-tempered Elizabeth would always adhere to her husband’s preferences on such a matter. It was no secret that Aldridge was not fond of a union between his sister and the rakish Lord Brockton.
Caro need not have been concerned. From the moment they took their places, she felt Lord Brockton’s eyes upon her. Recalling the early days of her . . . her relationship with Mr. Perry, she remembered how aggressive she had been. Aggression was what was called for tonight.
She smiled down the table at him. He really was terribly handsome. Fashionably cut cork-coloured hair framed his uncommonly handsome face with its lichen-coloured eyes and a nose that was almost conspicuous for its perfection.
When their gazes met, her lashes lowered seductively. “I trust your lordship’s room was satisfactory?” How silly of her to refer to him as your lordship when three of the five gentlemen at the table could answer to that title.
“It’s quite lovely.”
His eyes raked over her from the top of her golden tresses to settle on her bosom. Her cheeks stung as if she were standing in front of him perfectly naked.
“And your journey, Lord Brockton?” she asked.
“Most satisfactory—except for the wretched cold.”
The duchess addressed him. “Which I hope will make our home all the more welcome. We have such fine wood fires in the country.” She looked at the fire blazing not eight feet away.
“Indeed, your grace,” Lord Brockton said. “My chamber was most welcoming. As warm as toast.”
Elizabeth nodded. “We sent ahead, asking for fires in every chamber, and we are fortunate to have wonderfully competent servants.”
Lord Brockton directed his next comment to Caro. “I do hope you were not too cold on your journey, Lady Caroline.”
“I will own it was rather frigid, but that only made Glenmont more welcoming.” She sighed, never losing her smile. “I cannot imagine being anywhere else at Christmas.” Once more, she looked into his eyes as if they were the only two people in the chamber. “We are so pleased that you could join us, Lord Brockton.”
“The pleasure is all mine.”
Though the room was well lit, he alone was in partial shadow. Something about the darkness slashing his face accentuated his rugged handsomeness. She could not help but admire how fine a face he possessed with its deeply cleft chin and aristocratic nose.
Throughout the dinner, every time her gaze went to that part of the table, he was watching her. That he found her attractive was most probable; that her dowry contributed to her desirability was certain. He would offer for her by Christmas. By the Epiphany, she could be Lady Brockton with a fine home on Grosvenor Square and a husband who was considered the most handsome man in the Capital. Which was exactly what she wanted.
Well, not exactly, but it would suffice. She had seen enough marriages between noble houses to know that once lives were intertwined, love often came. By next Christmas she should be madly in love with Lord Brockton.
Perhaps not as madly as she had loved Christopher Perry, but she mustn’t allow herself to dwell on her unfortunate alliance with a man who had no intention of ever marrying her. Mr. Perry was her past. Lord Brockton was her future.
Something inside of her softened. Could she be a mother this time next year?
“May I pour you claret, Lady Caroline?” Lord Haverstock asked.
“Yes, thank you, my lord.”
Caro peered down the table at Lady Haverstock. It was a wonder Lord Brockton could train his gaze on Caro when Haverstock’s exquisite dark-haired wife graced their table. That lady’s porcelain perfect face was dominated by huge almond-shaped eyes the colour of rich coffee beans. It was impossible not to stare at her stunning beauty.
Caro’s gaze shifted to Lord Haverstock’s sister. “Why, Lady Lydia, are you not eating?”
Before Lydia could respond, her mother did. “My daughter is one of those unfortunate women who actually grows thinner when she’s increasing.”
“My poor Lyddie’s been wretchedly sick,” said Morgie.
Lord Finchley, who sat next to Mr. Morgan, eyed his neighbor’s plate. “I say, Morgie, it looks as if you’re not eating, either.”
“Sadly, that is true. One would think it was my husband who’s breeding.” Lydia pushed the French beans around the crested plate with the tines of her fork. “It was the same when we were expecting our son. Morgie was so nervous and upset about me, he couldn’t eat.”
These comments apparently embarrassed Morgie, who was eager to change the topic of conversation. He turned to Lord Finchley. “I say, Finch, is your friend Perry coming? Capital fellow!”
All eyes—except Lord Finchley’s—darted to Lord Brockton.
Lord Finchley glared at Caro. “No, he’s spending Christmas with his own family.” Lord Finchley spoke without his usual gayety. No doubt he was as displeased as Margaret that Caro was terminating her fruitless relationship with Mr. Perry. Could none of them understand her hair could silver, and still there would be no proposal from him?
Caro was not a dreamer like Margaret. She was a pragmatist.
Her gaze went to Lord Brockton. His lips folded into a grim line.
Good. He was jealous of Mr. Perry.
“A pity.” Morgie’s brows lowered as he peered across the table at Caro. “I expect Lady Caroline’s disappointed.”
Silence filled the chamber like a death pall.
“Not in the least,” she finally said. She then glanced at Lord Brockton, her eyes flashing and a coy smile upon her face.
Amusement danced in his mossy green eyes.
* * *
After the men had imbibed their port, they entered the drawing room where Caro was quick to pounce upon her brother. She dare not wait until he was seated. If she made her request in front of the other men, good manners would dictate that he not deny her. “My dearest brother, I beg that you allow me to give Lord Brockton a tour of Glenmont.”
Aldridge stiffened, but only one who had known him her entire life would realize the rigidity of his demeanor. He hesitated a moment before responding. “You may, but don’t be long. We’ll be wanting to form whist tables.”
Surely he didn’t think she would allow Lord Brockton to ravish her! One who had denied the man she had loved long and passionately was not likely to fling herself at a man who’d yet to make her heartbeat race. She gave a bitter laugh. Even the thought of Christopher Perry still had the power to accelerate her heartbeat.
Aldridge nodded, then directed his attention to his wife.
Lord Brockton offered his arm, and they crossed the Turkey carpet and swept through the doorway into a long, wooden corridor which ran from the east side of the house to the west.
If she had been a fresh debutante, Aldridge would never have permitted her to be alone with a known rake. But she not only was not
a young miss fresh from the schoolroom, she was no longer young. She was humiliated over Mr. Perry’s failure to propose marriage. She must be the laughing stock of the ton—a duke’s daughter incapable of coaxing a declaration from her longtime suitor—a man whose own origins should make him honored to wed into the Ponsby/Aldridge family.
“I daresay your ancestral home is great deal finer than our discordant pile,” she said playfully.
“Piedmorton is not nearly as large as Glenmont. How many chambers have you here?” He covered her hand which rested on his sleeve.
“I’m not sure anyone knows. Aldridge says two hundred and sixteen, but I daresay he accounts a china closet to be a chamber. God only knows how he came up with the number.”
“Will we see all of them tonight?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, only the ones on this floor. That will be quite enough.”
She led him to a large chamber with wood-beamed ceilings soaring high above. “This was once the great hall, I expect during Tudor times, but it’s now our armory.”
He began to stroll the perimeter of the vast room, peering with interest at the various crossed swords and axes adorning the gray stone walls and the suits of armor standing as if ready to do battle. He stood next to one. “Would you say I’m a great deal taller than your ancestors who wore these?”
She smiled playfully. “Let me see . . .” She knew very well he was a great deal taller. Was he fishing for a compliment? “It’s difficult to say since the top of the helmet is level with the top of your head, my lord.” Her gaze skimmed his broad shoulders. “However, as this man’s shoulders hit your chest, I would say you’re considerably taller. I will point out that my brother Aldridge is also a great deal taller so it looks as if the family must have married into height.”
He chuckled.
He dropped his hand from hers and spent far more time than she would have preferred pausing to examine each weapon, each set of armor with the eager interest of a young lad. “Ah, to have lived in the day where the lord of the land led his men into battle!”
“I daresay in actuality it wouldn’t have been anything to glory about. It’s not as if one would cheer when his brother was thwacked in half.”
When she could finally manage to remove him from the armory, she quickly led him through the warren of rooms heavily paneled in dark old oak and furnished with big, chunky pieces of equally dark furniture.
The last room she came to was the library. She paused in front of a tall door of darkened oak and opened it. “This is the library. Aldridge rather hoards it to himself. Always working here on Parliamentary affairs.” She moved to stand in front of the chimneypiece where a fire roared. How their conscientious servants managed to add logs and stoke the fires without ever being seen was a mystery to her. The winter fires at Glenmont never waned until all the guests were fast asleep in their beds.
He moved next to her. “You mentioned Piedmorton. I should like to bring you there, Caroline.” His voice was husky, his hand pressing hers in a slow, circular motion.
Besides her brothers, no man had ever called her Caroline. Except for Christopher. Once—the night she had allowed him to press his lips to her breasts in Lady Melbourne’s garden. Her breath became erratic at the memory. How she had wanted to lie with him that night! She might have, too, had he not suddenly become strangely formal.
Lord Brockton was practically proposing to her. Was that not what she wanted? Why, then, was she not being her usual coquettish self and offering him encouragement? Why, when he had used her first name so intimately, had she not felt at least a fraction of the thrill she had when Christopher did?
This man is my future.
“I should adore seeing Piedmorton,” she answered in a much more lighthearted tone than he had used.
He came closer. His hands clasped her shoulders and he lowered his head to settle his lips upon hers.
Her first instinct was to back away. That was how she had acted when gentlemen had attempted to kiss her in the years between her come out and her capitulation to Mr. Perry’s charms. Whenever a man had previously wanted to kiss her, she had pushed him away. Before Christopher, when she became the aggressor.
Now she needed to coax herself into moving into Lord Brockton’s arms with the same fluidity she had with her former lover. Now she must endeavor to infuse passion into this kiss.
She forced herself to relax as he kissed her. She forced herself to press closer to him as his arms came around her. A pity she could not force herself to enjoy the kiss, to breathe the same lustfulness into it that she always had with Christopher’s kisses.
That will come.
Long after the kiss, he stood there holding her in his arms before the fire. “My dearest Caroline, you must realize how greatly I hold you in esteem, how devotedly I love you, how thoroughly I want to make your my wife.”
Even though this was exactly what she’d been planning, it had come so fast she was not prepared when it actually happened. She had thought he would spend at least two or three days getting to know her before he declared himself.
Her stomach clenched. Her chest tightened. This is my future. Her entire future depended upon how she would respond to him. Once she assented to marry him, she would never again be held in Christopher’s arms. All faint hope of becoming Christopher’s wife would die.
“I should be honored, my lord.”
“Then I’ll speak to your brother.”
No! Aldridge’s only request when consenting to invite Lord Brockton was that she not make any hasty decisions. As it was, her brother was not disposed to admire the earl. She must see to it that over the next few days Lord Brockton was displayed in a favorable manner. “I beg that you wait. I am of age. I will marry you. May we announce our betrothal on Christmas Day?”
“Whatever my beloved wants.” His spine straightened and he looked as proud as a prince of the blood. “I pity I can’t slay a dragon between now and Christmas to impress your brother.”
This fellow obviously wished to have been born in an earlier, less civilized time. She raised a hand. “Gentleman-like behavior will go much further with my brother than bloodshed, ” she said with a laugh. “Come, let’s join the others.”
“I request to have you as my whist partner.”
“One should be able to learn a lot about another person by playing whist with that person.”
“ I beg you not put too much importance upon skill at whist. Bear in mind that I’ve not spent much time at a whist table. As a bachelor, I’ve had many other pursuits. I assure you my skill at whist will improve with experience.”
As the races at Newmarket, faro at White’s, and dallying with ladies of the stage no doubt claimed his attentions. She could well believe he’d spent little time seated at a whist table.
After they joined the others and went to their respective tables, she learned that he’d spoken the truth about his deficiencies at the game.
* * *
The following afternoon as the ladies—with the exception of the dowagers—were walking the long gallery, speaking animatedly, and peering at the carpet of snow outside the many windows, a coach entered the long drive to the house, and each lady’s gaze followed its progression up the ribbon of a lane.
“I expect that’s the Rothcomb-Smedleys,” the duchess said.
But as the coach came closer, Caro realized it was not their sister’s coach. It was an exceptionally fine carriage, much finer than the one Claire and her husband used. In fact, it looked very much like Mr. Perry’s coach.
Her heartbeat began to roar at the very contemplation. A lamentable and uncontrollable habit.
“I don’t think it’s our sister,” Margaret said, pausing to narrow her eyes and peer through the mullions framed with snow drifts.
By the time the carriage came to the front courtyard, Caro remarked dryly, “It’s Mr. Perry.”
Chapter 4
Several times during the long, frigid coach ride from London, Chris
topher had given serious thought to ordering that his carriage turn back. What the devil was he doing going to Glenmont? Would the duke turn up his nose at him? Or, worse yet, turn him away?
He shouldn’t go. Even if Finch had invited him, and Finch was a member of the powerful Aldridge/Haverstock clan by virtue of marrying the duke’s sister.
He really hated to let Finch down, though. Finch wouldn’t have invited Christopher if his presence would not have been welcome.
Christopher’s friendship with Finch was of such long standing that everyone thought of them as brothers. No two brothers could be closer than he and the Earl of Finchley. Since neither he nor Finch had a brother, they did serve as such to one another.
For the past year, he’d resisted every invitation from Lady Caroline to visit her family’s ancestral home. Being her guest might display an intimacy he was not prepared to confirm. He’d come once before for the baptism of the Rothcomb-Smedleys’ daughter, but he’d been Finch’s guest and returned to London the same day.
Why, then, had he allowed himself to come today? He most certainly had not changed his mind about marrying her. He supposed he was coming out of fear—fear that Caroline would unite herself to so unworthy a man as Lord Brockton.
Even at the expense of his own humiliation, he must do everything in his power to stop her from marrying Brockton.
Everything but offering for her himself.
His first glimpse of Glenmont today brought to mind how surprised he’d been when he first saw it. Glenmont was not at all one of those grand, palatial homes other dukes, like the Duke of Marlborough, lived in. It was as different from Blenheim Palace as St. Christopher’s huge domed church in the heart of London was to a country chapel. Not that Glenmont was small. It rambled over a considerable amount of property, yet something about it was humble. Portions of it were still timbered. Others were of local stone with small, mullioned windows. No huge Palladian windows on this old family home.
Its lack of opulence helped to sooth his nervousness.