“I believe I heard the dinner bell. Perhaps they have adjourned to the dining room.”
Cara stared toward the heavens as another impressive bolt bathed the foliage in staccato blasts of bright silver, before the successive resounding boom rattled the earth beneath her feet.
“Oh, no. Not that,” she whispered. As if Mother Nature had read her thoughts, a single drop of rain splashed on her forehead, which soon swelled into a torrential downpour.
“This is dreadful.” Alex nudged closer. “We will be soaked to the skin if we do not get inside.”
Cara peered over the edge of the thorny barrier. “I think they are gone.”
“Then by all means, let us get indoors.” Alex grasped Cara’s hand and pulled her upright.
Racing against the deluge, with Alex in tow, Cara ran first for a side entrance but discovered it locked, so she veered toward the main ballroom doors. By the time she and Alex returned to the gala, they were drenched.
A footman bowed and then his mouth fell agape, which led Cara to suspect she must have looked frightfully awful. In search of her parents, she scanned Huxley Hall. After what seemed an eternity, Cara located the dining room.
Focused on her task, she all but ignored the ever-increasing whispers, lilting giggles, and glances of astonishment as she navigated a sea of elegantly bedecked tables. At long last, she found the Brethren gathered for dinner and made a beeline for her friends.
As she approached, Lance jumped to his feet, shrugged out of his coat, and draped it about her shoulders. “Are you trying to incite a riot?”
“What?” It was then she checked her appearance and almost swooned.
Her fashionable--but wet--gown of eau de Nil silk clung to her body like a second skin and was virtually transparent. Even her chemise left little to the imagination.
“Just what in bloody hell are you about?” Jason scowled, doffed his coat, and covered Alex. “Have you no shame?”
“We wandered into the gardens, lost our way, and were caught in the storm. By the time we identified the path that returned us to the house, we were soaked.” Cara shuddered and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “It is not my fault the Huxley’s grounds are so vast.”
“You had no business taking an unchaperoned tour, at this hour, in unfamiliar surroundings.” Lance grabbed Cara by the elbow and escorted her to a chair. “Collingwood and I searched everywhere for you.”
“Really?” With an exaggerated bounce, Alex plopped into the seat opposite Cara. “Strange that we did not see you.”
Cara sneezed, snatched a napkin, and dabbed her nose. “I fear I may have caught a cold.”
“What the devil is going on here?” her father inquired, and Cara slumped in mortification.
“Oh, Papa. I am so sorry.” Cara lowered her chin. “Can we please go home?”
“Mark, send for the coach.” Her mother cast a sympathetic expression. “I will fetch you a cup of tea. It will soothe your throat and keep the chill at bay until we can get you out of that wet gown. Alex can stay with us and sleep in Sabrina’s old room.”
“Are you ill, my dear?” Lance clasped Cara’s hand in his. “What can I do to make it better?”
For a few seconds, Cara pondered his query and could summon no viable solution to her predicament. And her affliction extended a vast deal beyond a runny nose. Myriad emotions assailed her senses and piqued her nerves. Drowning in a lethal mix of humiliation, embarrassment, and remorse, Cara wished she could return to the past and undo the actions that had set in motion the end of her friendship with Lance.
In the past few weeks, she had lied to those she cherished most and pretended an attachment to a man she held in high esteem, in order to lure the attention of her hero. Worse, after her first failed attempt at seduction, she had behaved like a harlot and given her body to Lance on the desk in Lord Chomley’s study.
And for what?
Love?
But how could she cultivate a lifelong commitment from a field comprised of subterfuge and deceit?
Of the Douglas sisters, she had always been known as the graceful one, a true credit to her sex. Miss Perfect. The ultimate embodiment of feminine deportment, she could always be relied upon to follow societal dictates. And yet she had just walked through the Huxley’s dining room in a state of near nudity, in full view of the ton.
No wonder the footman had stared.
Oblivious to everything save the beat of her own heart, Cara considered to what she had reduced herself, in an effort to win the husband of her choice. In essence, she had betrayed every aspect of her character, had abandoned each facet of her personality, and had transformed into a foreign creature even she did not recognize.
No wonder she had foundered.
“Cara, are you all right?” Lance drew imaginary circles on her palm. “You do not look so well.”
Again she sneezed, and from his waistcoat pocket he pulled an embroidered handkerchief, almost identical to the one tucked in the bodice of her ruined gown. “Thank you.”
“I can’t bear to see you suffer.” He pressed a clenched fist to his mouth and studied her with unfettered interest.
“Please, do not worry.” She had always thought it difficult to be elegant and blow her nose at the same time, so she tried to recover some of her famed deportment as she sniffled with delicacy. “I shall be fine as fippence in the morning.”
For a scarce second, hope bloomed, but it died in the wake of the realization that Lance had been chasing Alex through the ballrooms the last few nights. As far as Cara could tell, she had squandered her golden opportunity. Her hero had proposed on more than one occasion--and she had refused him out of pride, so she had no one to blame but herself. In the end, all she wanted was his happiness, even if it meant he married someone else. And who better to take her place than another of her oldest friends.
“Cara, we need to talk.” Lance traced the curve of her cheek and smiled. “There is so much--”
“Here is your tea, dearest.” Her mother held a cup and saucer. “Drink it quickly.”
“Yes, Mama.” Cara gulped the steaming brew, which scalded her tongue, and she choked.
“Oh, and there’s your father.” She clapped her hands. “Come, girls. Let us get you home and into a hot bath.”
Cara set the cup on the table and gasped when Lance clutched her forearms and lifted her from the chair. In a scandalous display of affection, which incited a fresh spate of hushed murmurs from the crowd, he pressed his lips to her temple and whispered, “Get some rest. I will see you tomorrow night, at your birthday celebration.”
“I forgot about that.” Another year as a spinster and, Cara mused, a permanent fixture on the shelf, as the next generation’s Lady Stanhope. Overwhelmed by a dark sense of foreboding, she struggled to hold the tears at bay.
When she lowered her head, he cupped her chin and brought her gaze to his. “Everything is going to be all right, Cara. I promise, it is over.”
As the family coach teetered along the streets of London, his final words echoed in her brain. Though Lance had said nothing specific, she was certain he intended to declare himself enamored of Alex and to secure Cara’s permission to offer for their mutual friend. How like her hero to smooth the waters preceding his nuptials.
Her ruse must have worked better than she thought. Perhaps he assumed she would wed Jason. She was prepared to allow Lance to labor under that mistaken assumption--until he was happily betrothed to Alex. Then she would concoct a suitable story to explain how she would not marry Captain Collingwood and save his reputation, as he had done nothing wrong.
“You have had a rather difficult season, thus far, my dear.” Her father smiled and shook his head. “This is your second cold. I believe I shall send for Dr. Handley. Perhaps a tonic will improve your constitution.”
“Nonsense.” Her mother huffed a breath. “What Cara needs is a hot bath and a good night’s rest, not some potion in a bottle.”
The equipage h
alted before the family townhome on Upper Brooke Street not a minute too soon, because her calm façade fractured, little by little, as the future she had planned crumbled to pieces.
“Thank you, Papa,” Cara said, as he handed her to the sidewalk.
“Upstairs, this instant.”
“Yes, Mama.” As a dutiful daughter, Cara obeyed without complaint.
Half an hour later, she sank into the bath positioned near the hearth. Curls of steam rose from the surface of the water in a delicate dance, and the subtle scent of lilac teased her nose, but she found no comfort in the familiar fragrance.
Tomorrow was her birthday, which marked the start of an annual mass exodus, as the ton journeyed to their country estates for the holidays. It was her favorite time of year, but the celebrations brought her no joy. How sad it was to recall the determination with which she had embarked on the Little Season.
As a naïve debutante, she had envisioned jolly festivities with toasts to her future happiness as Lance’s wife. Instead, there would be only the customary best wishes for her continued good health.
“It is over,” she said to no one.
At long last, Cara succumbed to the heartbreak eating at her insides. Emitting a soft sob, she bent her legs, wrapped her arms beneath her thighs, set her forehead to her knees, and wept.
#
“I swear Cara and Alex looked like a couple of drowned rats.” Jason threw his head back, pressed a palm to his belly, and howled with laughter. “Can you believe our good fortune? They got caught in the rain.”
Lance settled into the leather chair behind the desk in his study, and an untouched balloon of brandy rested in his hand. While his friend continued to rumble with mirth, Lance enjoyed no such compulsion. The image of Cara, shrouded in sorrow--in defeat--loomed before him, as a haunting visage, and how he ached for her.
“Daresay things could not have gone better had we planned it.” Jason roared with unrestrained hilarity. “The gods smile upon us.”
Mesmerized by the gentle flicker of flames in the hearth, Lance reflected on his present circumstances and found no humor. Instead, he struggled with a cold emptiness he had not experienced since Thomas died, and a singular phrase echoed in his ears. “It is over.”
“I beg your pardon?” In an instant, Jason quieted. “What did you say?”
“As I remarked earlier, our scheme is ended.” Again, Lance envisioned his lady and frowned. “I intend to propose to Cara tomorrow night.”
Jason sobered. “Is that the way the wind blows?”
“Aye.” Lance nodded once.
“Until this moment, I may have doubted you.” Jason stood. “But you are serious.”
“Indeed.” Of course, Lance second-guessed himself at every turn, because he had no clue how he would respond should Cara reject him, but he saw no need to share that bit of information. “In fact, I never should have allowed the situation to progress so far.”
“You kissed Cara in the Huxley’s dining room, prior to her departure.” Jason cast a devilish grin and waggled his brows. “By societal standards, you committed a scandalous display of affection, friend. I would not want to be near when the admiral discovers your dalliance.”
“He will not care and neither will the ton when our betrothal is announced.” At least, that is what Lance hoped, but he was not half so confident of his position. “But I could not let Cara leave like that.”
Jason scratched his temple. “Like--what?”
“Thinking I did not care for her.” He revisited the discussion with the Brethren husbands and grimaced. “Never have I seen her so downcast. It was as if she had lost her best friend.”
Jason untied his cravat. “Well, what did you expect her to believe, as that is precisely the impression we attempted to portray since you started chasing Alex.”
“Yes, I know.” In need of distraction, Lance stood, walked to the fireplace, and checked the time on the mantel clock. “But Cara was never supposed to get hurt.”
“Bloody hell.” Jason clucked his tongue. “You really are done for, are you not?”
“To what do you refer?” How he wished he could return to the past and undo the actions that had set in motion his current quandary.
“You know, I suspected as much, but even I had not guessed the depth of your regard.” Jason narrowed his stare and whistled in monotone. “You are thoroughly besotted, head over heels in love with Miss Cara Douglas.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Lance clasped his hands behind his back and paced before the hearth. “I will admit I am very fond of her.”
“Of course, you are.”
“As we have been friends for years, I have no doubt she will make an excellent marchioness.”
“Of course, she will.”
“She comes from a respected family, and I would be a fool to overlook her connections.”
“Of course, you would.”
“Blast it all, Collingwood.” Lance folded his arms and faced his tormentor. “Stop being so deuced agreeable.”
“Do not rip at me, my friend.” With a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, Jason reclined in his chair. “I merely concur with your protestations.”
Lance scowled. “Then I take exception to your tone.”
Jason burst into laughter, sat upright, and rested elbows to knees. “Of course, you do, but tell me something anyway. Why do you try so hard to convince me that you do not love Cara when your every action speaks otherwise? According to Alex, all Brethren marry for love. Why should you be any different?”
Never had Lance shared his burden--his guilt--in relation to his cousin’s death, with anyone, because he dreaded the upbraiding that would, no doubt, ensue. In short, he was a coward of the worst sort, refusing to confront his misdeeds. Then again, it was nothing less than he deserved. “It is a long story.”
“I am rather fond of long stories.” Jason refilled his brandy balloon and offered a mock toast. “And the night is young.”
For a few seconds, Lance studied the fair-haired man he had once considered his enemy. Given Jason’s brief affiliation with the Brethren, and the fact that he never knew Thomas, he might be just the person to confirm Lance’s guilt, once and for all. As Lance gazed into the glass of liquid courage, he decided it was past due to throw caution to the wind. “It has to do with Thomas, the original heir to the marquessate of Raynesford.”
“Your cousin?” Jason furrowed his brow and rubbed his chin. “The one who drowned?”
Lance opened and then closed his mouth. “You know the story?”
“Aye.” Jason nodded. “Alex told me of it.”
Lance compressed his lips. “Then you know of my shame.”
“I apologize, friend.” Jason shook his head. “But there you have lost me.”
“I let Thomas die.” Spearing his fingers through his hair, Lance inhaled a deep breath and rolled his shoulders. “I should be in the grave--not him.”
“Wait a minute.” Jason splayed his hands and retreated a step. “Calm yourself, man.”
“I do not want to be calm.” Memories flashed a staccato assault to his consciousness, forming a morbid tapestry. “He was a brother to me, and I stood idly as he perished.”
Collingwood shifted his weight. “Easy, Raynesford. You are not--”
“Do not call me that,” he said through gritted teeth. “It was his birthright--not mine.”
“Hold hard, brother.” Jason wrinkled his nose and shuffled his feet. “You make it sound as if you wanted Thomas dead, as if you killed him. However, Alex relayed the events of that sad day, in detail, so I know such is not the case. It was his idea to miss class and skate on the pond. When the worst happened, you nearly drowned trying to save your cousin and almost expired of pneumonia, thereafter. How can you blame yourself for his demise?”
“I should have...done...something.” Lance searched in vain for a plausible argument. “I should have found a way to rescue him.”
“Could you be more specific?” Jason cle
ared his throat and gazed at the floor. “Given that you were a child of the same age, at the time of the incident, and trapped in the same ice-covered pond, after you attempted to free your cousin, tell me what you could have possibly done differently to change the outcome?”
The ticking of the mantel clock filled the study.
Tears stung his eyes as Lance fought to form a response. If only he had not fallen through the ice, he might have saved Thomas. Perhaps he should have sounded the alarm and summoned a teacher. Or maybe he should have stayed on the banks and attempted to fashion a makeshift rope from the vegetation.
“You can second-guess yourself into oblivion, my friend, but it will not bring back Thomas,” Jason stated in a low voice. “But I would ask, were you killed that day, and your cousin standing here, drowning in guilt, what would you say to him? How would you want him to go on without you?”
“That is easy.” Lance dragged his shirtsleeve across his face. “I would tell him to live his life for both of us, to marry and have a house filled with children. I would want for him all the things I wanted for myself and more.”
“Then does it not stand to reason Thomas would want the same for you?” Jason pointed for emphasis. “Or was he a selfish, mean-spirited bastard?”
“Careful, Collingwood.” Anger charged every nerve. “I would run through bigger men than you for such insult.”
“Forgive the offense, as none was intended,” Jason replied with a casual wave. “Pray, continue.”
“As a lad, Thomas was never without a smile or a mischievous caper.” Lance could not help but grin as he reminisced fonder times. “Had my posterior heated more times than I can count as a result of his pranks.”
“Sounds like quite a gadling.”
“Oh, he was handful.” Lance resituated a chair beside Jason’s, weighed his anchor, and chuckled. “He thought nothing of skipping Latin to play in the woods near Eton.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Thomas had a particular dislike for the dead language. Although, if I remember correctly, he was a devil of a poet.”
“Really? A romantic, too?”
“Aye. We both had wicked crushes on--” Lance swallowed hard.
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