by Anna Bennett
“Could you have drawn it?” he asked, hopeful.
“No. I’ve already determined I’m a horrid artist.” She stared at the picture intently. “But if I carried it in my pocket, it must hold some special meaning.”
Not trusting himself to speak, Nash nodded his agreement. Caroline was the first person who’d been able to crack open the impenetrable shell around his heart—and now it seemed likely that she had a beau, maybe even a husband, waiting for her at home.
She carried the sketch across the room to her desk and laid it next to a pile of newspapers. “I’ll look at it with fresh eyes tomorrow. Let us continue our conversation now,” she said, as though she were determined to put the drawing out of her mind for the moment.
Nash wished he could do the same. Once she’d situated herself on the bed again, he picked up the thread from before. “I thought of a way we could discreetly reach out to your family,” he said. “To let anyone who’s searching for you know that you’re safe and give them a way to contact you.”
“How?” she asked, clearly intrigued.
“An advertisement in the London Hearsay,” he replied. “We could give your description and ask anyone who thinks they know you to contact my solicitor and trusted friend, Edmund Drake. We can even offer a reward for information leading you home.”
“That’s very generous of you,” she said brightly. “And an excellent suggestion. How soon could we place the ad?”
He tried not to take her enthusiasm as a sign that she was eager to leave him. She wanted to find out who she was. He wanted that too. “If we submit it tomorrow, it should appear in the paper the day after next. I don’t think we have anything to lose.” Except, possibly, the tenuous connection that they’d formed.
“I agree,” she said, rewarding him with a smile that warmed his chest. “Thank you for thinking of it—and for coming here tonight.”
“I probably shouldn’t have,” he confessed. “But the truth is that I find it hard to stay away.”
* * *
Perhaps it was the deep timbre of his voice or the moonlight casting shadows on his handsome face that suddenly made Caroline very aware that they were alone. In her bedchamber. Sitting on her bed. She shivered, not from fear but from the memory of their kiss and the way he’d made her feel—like she was soaring above the clouds.
“I should go,” he said gruffly.
“Don’t,” she urged. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye.
He reached out and laced his fingers through hers. “I’m trying to be a gentleman. To give you time.”
She stared at their entwined hands, amazed that the simple pressure of his palm against hers could make her belly flip in anticipation. “Last night in your study,” she began, “I told you I couldn’t be with you until I knew myself.”
“I remember.” His eyes glowed like liquid gold.
“But I have reconsidered.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I’m realizing that losing my memory comes with one, glorious silver lining—this time with you. I may not know my name, but I know what I want. To be with you.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth. “We don’t know what the future holds for us, Caroline. You have a life beyond these walls—a life that may not include room for me. The drawing you found in your trousers reminded me of that.”
“I know.” She curled her hand around his neck, threading her fingers through the thick curls at his nape. “But if I was already promised to another, I can’t imagine that I’d feel what I’m feeling for you right now. I care for you, and I think you care for me too. We should use whatever time we have together wisely. Show me something of love. Of passion.”
Nash went very still. “That sounds like a dangerous game.”
“Not a game,” she assured him. “We’re both adults. We deserve a chance to explore this relationship—and see where it might lead.”
“What if it leads nowhere?” Pain, stark and cold, flashed in his eyes, and she sensed in her chest that he was thinking of Emily. “Someone would end up hurt.”
“It’s always a risk,” Caroline said soberly. “But it’s one I’m willing to take—if you are.”
Chapter 11
“Neither oil paint on canvas nor a sculpture made of marble can do justice to the warm skin, muscled contours, and primal power of the male body.”
—The Debutante’s Revenge
Nash hesitated for a heartbeat, then hauled Caroline closer. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her—as though he burned for her.
His kisses filled the emptiness in her chest. The hollowness that had plagued her since her memory loss was replaced with longing, desire, and warmth. A sense of belonging.
He paused and searched her face, his breath ragged. “You must tell me if we move too fast.”
“I will,” she promised.
“Good.” Sandy-brown hair spilled across his brow, and a wicked smile lit his face. “In any event, I propose that we begin slowly.”
“Slowly?” she said, frowning. Slowly didn’t sound particularly appealing, given the pounding of her heart and the ache in her core.
“Slow kisses.” He demonstrated with a series of sensuous nips along the side of her neck. “Lingering touches.” A calloused fingertip lightly traced her collarbone and left her skin tingling in its wake.
“Oh,” she breathed. “Slowly is nice.”
He skimmed a warm hand up her thigh and around her hip, moaning his approval. She hadn’t bothered with feminine underclothes when she’d slipped into her disguise, so the wool of her trousers rubbed against her intimately; the soft fabric of her shirt teased the tips of her breasts.
She leaned into him, reveling in the impossibly hard wall of his chest and the broad span of his shoulders. “We should remove our boots,” she murmured.
“That is an excellent idea.” After a sweet, knee-melting kiss, he pulled away. “Allow me.”
Caroline laid back on the mattress and watched as he tugged off her boots and his. He discarded his jacket before sprawling next to her on the bed. With a heart-stopping smile, he said, “I’ve never removed a woman’s boots before.”
She laughed. “I think you mean to say you’ve never removed a man’s boots from a woman.”
“That is also true,” he conceded with a chuckle.
But their smiles faded as she grabbed his shirt and boldly pulled him on top of her. She savored the weight of his body and the hard length of him pressing between her thighs. An odd but insistent pulsing started there, and she rocked her hips against his. Soon, they were moving together, breathless with need.
He ran his fingers through her long tresses and lightly rubbed her scalp. “I’ve longed to do this from the first time I saw your hair tumble free from your cap at the tavern. I just knew it would feel this way. Soft as silk.” He grasped a fistful of curls and groaned into her mouth, kissing her deeply.
Tentatively, she wrapped one leg around his, pulling him closer. They moved together perfectly, reaching for something she couldn’t even name.
She smoothed her hands down his neck and over the fabric of his shirt, stretched tightly across his muscular frame. His cravat was loose, his waistcoat hung open, and his hair spilled across his brow.
But he’d never looked better to Caroline.
This was a rare glimpse of the man he truly was—not the rigid, brooding Duke of Stonebridge, but Nash. The man who rescued defenseless lads from tavern brawls and shared his brandy and played nursemaid all night when necessary. She refused to believe he had a heart of stone.
He lifted the hem of her shirt and slid his hand beneath, cupping her breast and tweaking the taut peak with his thumb. When she arched toward him, he took the hard bud into his mouth, suckling until pleasure radiated to her fingers and toes. “I can’t fathom how I ever mistook you for a boy,” he murmured against her skin.
“My disguise must have been quite good,” she teased. Even as an idea niggled at the back of her mind. “N
ash?”
He lifted his head from her breast and shot her a smile that made her thighs clench. “How may I serve?”
Sweet Jesus. She considered forgetting her idea and begging him to resume precisely where he’d left off. But she couldn’t waste the chance to talk to him—and make a rather unusual request.
She leaned on an elbow and propped her head in her hand. “I wanted to ask you something.”
He sat up and shot her a curious look. “Ask away.”
Deciding on a direct approach, she swallowed and said, “Will you take me back to the Grey Goose?”
* * *
Nash drank in the sight of Caroline. Her hair was a wild tangle of curls, her lips were swollen from his kisses, and her shirt—rather, a boy’s shirt—hung off her bare shoulders. She shimmered with a warmth and intelligence that radiated from within, transcending every traditional notion of beauty.
Still more than a little dazed from their kiss, he cocked his head and made sure he’d heard her correctly. “Why would you want to return to the Grey Goose? Trust me, it’s not much to look at.”
“I put these clothes on tonight”—she gestured toward her chimney-sweep disguise—“hoping they would help me remember. But maybe the clothes are only part of the equation. Perhaps I need to be back in the place where I was wearing them.”
The skin between his shoulders prickled. “A tavern can be a dangerous place for a woman—you know that better than anyone.”
“True.” Caroline tilted her head, thoughtful. “But I intend to blend into the background.”
He couldn’t imagine her blending in any more than he could imagine a scarlet-red tulip hiding in a patch of weeds. “Impossible.”
She glanced at him from beneath thick lashes. “Not if I’m wearing this disguise.”
The image of her, unnaturally still on the filthy tavern floor, flashed in his mind. Made his chest ache. “You tried that before—it didn’t end well.”
“I was able to fool a tavern full of people,” she countered. “Even you.”
“Only for a short time,” he said, but when her face fell, he reached for her hand and brushed his thumb across her palm. “Help me understand why it’s so important to you.”
She swallowed then looked up at him, earnest. “I feel as though I’m stuck in a strange purgatory. Until I know my past, I have no future. And I cannot sit idly by while time marches forward. Maybe visiting the tavern will help me remember; maybe it won’t. But if I don’t do something, I fear I’ll go mad.” She gazed deep into his eyes. “Say you’ll help me, Nash.”
The sound of his name on her lips made his heart trip. He wanted to help her find her place in the world—and learn if there was room in her life for him.
“If we’re going back to the tavern, we’ll need to be careful,” he said, already aware he’d be kicking himself tomorrow.
Caroline’s face split into a smile that warmed the coldest corners of his heart. “Tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow,” he agreed. “But we’ll have to modify your disguise a bit. Some of the barmaids and patrons might remember you from the night of the brawl. I should probably wear a disguise too.”
“Yes,” she agreed, rubbing her palms together. “What did you have in mind?”
He shrugged. “Maybe I’ll be a dockworker or a blacksmith.”
“I like the sound of a blacksmith.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners. “I could be your apprentice.”
“If you’re going to be my apprentice, I’ll need you to look more respectable than this,” he teased, reaching for the sleeve hanging off her shoulder. A dark brown patch of skin shaped like a small star winked at him, and he leaned closer to look. “Did you know you have a birthmark here?” He rubbed his thumb lightly over her upper arm, just below her shoulder.
“Yes. It’s odd-looking, isn’t it?”
“It’s distinctive,” he said, planting a kiss on her soft skin. “Rather like you.”
“Thank you.” Caroline beamed. “For the compliment and for agreeing to take me to the Grey Goose.”
“I must be mad,” he said gruffly. But the happiness plain on her face told him he was doing the right thing.
She swept a hand over his cheek and along his jaw. Suddenly, the entire world narrowed to the brush of her fingertips on his face, and he held his breath so as not to break the tenuous spell.
“I can’t explain why, but I feel as though I’m getting closer to remembering who I am. Returning to the tavern where I lost my memory could be just the thing I need—to break through the wall that’s holding me back.” Her heavy-lidded gaze drifted to his mouth, and Nash wasn’t sure she was talking about her memory loss anymore.
“The wall will come down,” he said. “Probably when you least expect it.”
“Well, I intend to give it a good nudge.”
He chuckled at that and brushed a wayward curl from her face. “Beware of pushing too hard. I wouldn’t want the rubble to crush you, and the truth could be different than what you would have wished.” He hesitated, then continued. “What would you wish for?”
“A sister like Delilah. A mother and father who care for me. The chance to…” She shook her head and looked away. “It’s silly. And rather embarrassing to say such things out loud.”
“I would never judge your dreams.”
“Very well.” She swallowed before continuing. “I would like the chance to fall deeply in love. To experience passion. And, one day, to have a family of my own.”
“That doesn’t sound silly to me. I daresay it’s what most people want.”
“Is it what you want?” she asked, searching his face.
“I used to think so.”
She tilted her head, curious. “And now?”
Shit. He sat back and raked a hand through his hair. She deserved to know the truth—at least as much as he could bring himself to admit. “The kind of love you’re talking about—that all-consuming, sweep-you-off-your-feet, unbridled emotion—is not for everyone. And I’m afraid it’s not for me.”
“Why not?” she asked simply.
“I’ve seen what that type of love can do to a person. It changes them.”
“Yes,” Caroline agreed. “For the better, I should think.”
Jesus, he was in over his head here. “Sometimes, I suppose. All I know is that love often makes people do foolish things. I refuse to be one of those people.”
She nodded shrewdly. “You’re thinking of Emily.”
“Yes,” he said, feeling the usual thickness in his throat. “But it’s more than that.”
“Tell me,” she urged.
He clasped her hands between his and kept his voice even and low. He needed Caroline to understand the truth about him. More than that, he needed her to believe it. “Some people aren’t meant for that kind of head-over-heels love. We’re not capable of it. It’s not in our nature.”
“I think you underestimate yourself,” she said softly.
“I think you give me too much credit.”
She leaned close to him and cupped his chin in her hand. “Everyone’s capable of love.”
Every fiber of his body longed to melt into her, but that would only weaken his argument. “Most people are capable of love,” he said slowly. “Others don’t—can’t—feel as deeply. They don’t have that emotion inside. They can’t give something they don’t have.”
She held his gaze for several seconds, sadness clouding her eyes.
“You need to believe me, Caroline.” If she didn’t, she was doomed for disappointment, and the very last thing he wanted was to hurt her.
“Maybe that emotion is inside you, buried deep,” she whispered. “Maybe you haven’t dug down far enough. Maybe you need someone to help you find it.”
He shook his head firmly. “Some things are better left buried.” He and Emily had planned to follow their hearts. They’d each intended to find the love of their lives. Marry and have loud, happy broods. Live near each other and Delilah so all th
e cousins could grow up as close as siblings. But none of that was going to happen anymore. Not for Emily, not for him.
For the space of several heartbeats, Caroline was perfectly still and silent, her face impassive. Nash’s words echoed harshly in his own head, but he couldn’t take them back. They were true. And Caroline deserved to know.
At last, she moved closer, lifted her hand, and brushed a fingertip across his lower lip—a simple touch that he felt in his chest, his gut, and every nerve ending.
Her warm gaze washed over him, and she pressed her lips to his in a kiss that felt like a promise. “I’m not giving up on you yet.”
He wanted to tell her not to waste her time.
That he didn’t deserve love and he definitely didn’t deserve her.
But he knew Caroline, and she wasn’t going to back down. She’d see the truth for herself eventually. If she stayed with him long enough, she’d discover that he couldn’t give her what she wanted.
“I’d better go,” he said, half regret, half resolve. “Try to sleep. You’ll need to rest before our outing tomorrow night.”
The hint of a smile about her lips said she knew very well that he’d intentionally changed the subject and that she was giving him a reprieve—for now. “You’ll place the ad tomorrow?”
“Yes,” he assured her, easing himself off the bed and scooping up his jacket and boots. “Is there anything in particular you’d like me to include?”
“Just my physical description, I think,” she mused. “Without any mention of the clothes I was wearing.”
“Consider it done,” he said, relieved to be back in comfortable territory—taking action rather than analyzing his damned feelings.
She swung her bare feet over the side of the bed. “Wait. Should we include something about my birthmark? In the event several people respond, it could help us narrow down the list to those who actually know me.”
“Good idea. We can mention a distinctive birthmark and see which of the respondents is able to describe it.” He shot her a reassuring smile. “I’ll be out much of the day, but I’ll update you on any progress on our way to the Grey Goose.”