Mrs. Watson pushed her horse into a canter.
It was madness to go so fast in traffic.
They passed Green Park to their right, weaving in and out of carriages. Fraise slipped on the uneven cobbles. Caro's heart lurched, yet somehow she checked the mare. A fall could be fatal to horse and rider.
A wagon and a pair of stolid oxen blocked their path. Caro reined in. Mrs. Watson mounted the footpath, scattering pedestrians. Bad sport. Caro hesitated. She shouldn't do this. Mrs. Watson glanced back and raised her whip in a triumphant gesture. Dash it. Caro wouldn't let her win because she cheated. She urged Fraise forward, her heart in her throat, led on by the darting ebony gelding.
Shouts of anger and curses rose up around them. A coal heaver reached out to grab her bridle. Fraise, ears flattened, neatly sidestepped.
Openmouthed ladies and gentlemen stared from coach windows and high perch phaetons. Street vendors and pedestrians scattered, shouting and shaking their fists.
A horrible sinking feeling invaded her stomach. She should have listened to Cedric and refused the bet. She should stop. She imagined the scorn with which Mrs. Watson would inform everyone of her cowardice. She would be a laughing stock. Cheeks on fire, she set her teeth and kept her gaze locked on the wild figure in front.
* * *
"I say, what's this?" Lord Cholmondly, a goblet of ruby port in his hand and a plate of cheeses on the table in front of him, leaned forward in White's bow window.
Lucas glanced up from the Gentleman's Magazine.
"By Jove!" Cholmondly jumped to his feet. "A race."
Opposite him, Lord Linden turned and also rose. "Well, well. Selina Watson up to her old tricks." He chortled. "Stap me. Doing the St. James circle. She said she would, if she could find anyone mad enough to take her challenge. Foxhaven, unless I'm mistaken, your record is about to be broken."
"Who's the challenger?" asked one of the men crowding into the bow window.
Clearly audible catcalls and jeers rose from further down St. James. Lucas, craning his neck to see over the shorter men, could not see the face of the challenger, but the distinctive roan looked unpleasantly familiar. It couldn't be Caro. Someone must have stolen her horse.
Then he recognized the riding habit. He swore and pushed his way through the crush of leering men toward the door.
As he reached the exit, Cholmondly shouted, "It's Foxhaven's wife. Stap me! Who will take pony on Selina Watson? Lady Foxhaven will never catch her now."
"I wouldn't mind catching Carolyn Foxhaven," someone yelled out. Coarse male laughter burned Lucas's ears.
"I'd give her a ride for her money," another called.
The stupid little fool. Lucas gritted his teeth and swallowed his challenge to the multitude of ribald comments flying around the room. He couldn't fight all the men in London, nor did he have the right. Caro had earned every word. The only sane thing to do was cut her off and put a stop to it before someone got hurt. He hurtled down the stairs and out of the door without stopping for his hat and coat.
On foot, even cutting through the back alleys around St. James's Square, the busy streets made his task impossible. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes and glimpsed the riders ahead of him. When he turned onto the Haymarket, he watched Caro give the roan her head.
He groaned and increased his speed. If she fell and hurt herself, he wasn't sure what he'd do. She passed Selina Watson, barely missing a brewer's dray. He let his breath go as she drew up short at the corner of Piccadilly. She leaped off the mare and into the waiting arms of the Chevalier.
Chest heaving, lungs desperate for air, Lucas stopped stock-still and watched the blackguard pick her up and swing her around. As the Chevalier placed her on the ground, she tipped her face and kissed his cheek.
The little traitor. What the hell was going on? Had she given her heart to the slimy Frog? If so, what else had she given him? The thought seemed to poison the air around him.
Selina Watson cantered up to the pair on her sweating black, laughing and shaking her head. "I can't believe you passed me on the hill," she called out.
With wooden boards for legs, Lucas strode toward them.
A laughing Caro pulled on the Chevalier's arm to look at his watch. "Did we beat the time?"
The Chevalier shook his head. "I regret, no. Five minutes too long."
The Chevalier glanced up and grinned at Lucas. "You will be pleased to know, my lord, your record remains."
Lucas wanted to choke the life out of him. He could scarcely see for a thick red cloud of anger.
Caro swung around. The laughter died from her face. "Lucas." She glanced over his shoulder and waved. "Cousin Cedric!" she called out. "I won."
Cedric knew about this? Lucas jerked around. "How could you let this happen?"
"A bad business." Cedric's disapproving gaze caused Lucas to remember his hatless, coatless state. "I warned against it."
Unable to stand the curious stares of passing pedestrians a moment longer, Lucas grabbed Caro's arm and pulled her away from the Chevalier. The stiffness in his jaw and lack of breath roughened his voice. "Get back on your horse and go home."
She flinched. He ignored her wounded expression. He grasped her around the waist and flung her up on Fraise, not caring if she hung on or not. She did, of course. She was too good a horsewoman not to. "I will speak to you at home, madam. Cedric, accompany her."
Cedric pulled at his lower lip with his teeth. "Certainly."
Selina Watson tittered, and Caro turned dull red. "Lucas, what is the matter with you?" she protested from atop her hard-breathing mount. "It was only a race."
Only a race. Bile clogged his throat. "Leave, now, before I do something I will later regret."
Sullen-faced, she wheeled the mare around and rode down Piccadilly with Cedric lumping along behind.
Lucas was hot and breathing hard, and with Caro gone, all he wanted to do was murder the damned Frenchman. Ill-concealed amusement twinkled in the other man's shrewd brown eyes.
Determined to conduct himself with honor, Lucas took a deep breath. "Now, Chevalier. You have some explaining to do. Tomorrow morning in Green Park will be a perfect opportunity. Name your friends."
Dark brows shot up to meet a carefully arranged lock of brown hair on the Chevalier's brow. The slimy bastard raised his hands, palms up. "Mais non, mon ami. I am but a pawn in this. The ladies asked me to oblige them. What could I say?"
"It's true, Lucas." Selina's triumphant smile carved a hole in his chest. "If the Chevalier hadn't agreed, we would have asked someone else."
"I thought it better to keep it en famille," Valeron said with what Lucas could only describe as a smirk.
"In the family?" Lucas clenched his fists. He wanted to throttle him, beat him to a jelly. The red haze at the back of his eyes threatened to blind him. "Do you know the route they took?"
François shrugged. "I am not familiar with all the twists and turns of your so beautiful city. If it were Paris now . . ."
"Well, it's not Paris; it's London, and this . . . female went right down St. James Street like a common tart." In his rage, his voice turned into a growl.
A vicious smile spread across Selina's face. "And your wife followed right behind me."
Hamstrung. The bitch knew he could do nothing.
If he called out Valeron, a family member, it would worsen the scandal. He forced his hands to remain at his sides to stop himself from pounding the Frenchman to a pulp. The way things stood, the news would spread through the ton like a forest fire in a high wind anyway. Caro had placed herself beyond the pale.
"Damn you both to hell." He hauled in ragged breath and stomped down the Haymarket.
He collected his hat and coat at White's and endured the banter of friend and foe alike, trying to pass it off as a foolish mistake, and then he headed home to face his resentful, reprehensible wife.
Eleven
Lucas had no right to treat her like a disobedient child. Having changed from he
r riding habit into a fawn-colored morning gown, Caro paced the drawing room from sofa to window and back. He'd ruined her victory. Or he would have, if visions of shocked faces and leering men grabbing at her skirts weren't already sending mortifying quivers through her abdomen.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Caro's heartbeat quickened. She scurried for the sofa and, picking up her book, set her face in calm unconcern. The letters on the page refused to form into any kind of order. It might help if she removed her spectacles.
Too late. The door swung open.
Grim lines carved brackets around Lucas's mouth. He surveyed her from the doorway, and her foolish heart gave its usual lurch. Accompanied by the roiling in her stomach, it made her feel quite nauseous.
With what she hoped appeared to be calm aplomb, she laid her book face down on the table beside the sofa. "Lucas. How kind of you to find the time to join me."
His gaze dropped to her book and then rose to her face. "Kind? I ought to wring your neck."
She stiffened. After all his misdemeanors, how dare he utter a word of criticism. She arched a brow. "'Pon rep, Foxhaven, you look just like your father." It was an unkind cut that must have hit the mark, for he winced.
A rueful smile twisted his lips. "Don't think to play off your tricks on me, Caro."
He pushed the door closed with his shoulder and strolled to the hearth. He took up his usual stance, one elbow resting on the mantle. Tension vibrated in the air of her normally peaceful drawing room. A deep frown creased the space between his brows. "Lord, what a bumblebroth," he muttered.
The pity in his eyes sent a cold chill down her spine. She'd seen that look too often not to get the urge to take cover behind the nearest potted palm. She lifted her chin. "What can you mean? I won a horserace and one hundred guineas. Regretfully, your record still stands, or it would have been two hundred." There, that sounded calm, if a little defensive.
"My record has nothing to do with it. It is your reputation at stake."
Shame might be merciless in burning the back of her throat, but she would not admit it to one of London's foremost rakes. She forced a brittle laugh. "Do you mean to say there is one standard of behavior for me and another for you?"
A muscle jumped in his jaw. "You know there is. And society sets it."
She clenched her trembling hands in her lap and cast him what she hoped was a look of sophisticated nonchalance. "Surely it is not as bad as all that? It was a horserace for heaven's sake, not a murder."
He raked long fingers through his tousled hair. "You rode down St. James' ogled by every male member of the ton. They made wagers on the outcome in White's. Your name will be on the tongue of every Bond Street beau by nightfall."
A huge lump clogged her throat at the horrid picture he conjured up. "I see."
She got up and paced to the window. Long shadows from the houses opposite darkened the street. Dusk already. It might have been better if she had stayed in bed this morning. She had never felt so foolish in her life. "Mrs. Watson didn't seem care."
He made a derisive sound. "Use her as your model at your peril." His tone hardened. "And what was my cousin about letting you engage in anything so foolhardy?"
Her gaze faltered, and she stared at the rug. "He advised against it."
"Advised? Very good of him, I'm sure. Why the hell didn't he stop the whole thing?"
She glared at him. "No, Lucas, I won't hear a word against him or the Chevalier. This was all my own doing."
"Damn it all. Must I watch your every move? Surely, commonsense would tell you it went beyond everything acceptable. I certainly never imagined you would do anything so mad."
Mad described her stupid impulse quite nicely. "I thought you liked females with spirit," she tossed back, resenting the echo of Mrs. Watson's sly tones.
He fixed her with a gaze so cold, she actually felt a draft. "Did you?" His voice was deceptively soft for the undercurrent of anger. "And I suppose demonstrating your spirit means publicly throwing yourself into the Chevalier's arms."
"I did nothing of the sort."
"I saw you. And so did a hundred other gawping spectators on Piccadilly."
A blazing inferno engulfed her face as she recalled the kiss she had planted on François's cheek. "It was merely the excitement of the moment."
"Like the moment on the balcony at the ball the other night, I suppose?"
The sarcasm in his tone crawled over her skin. She seemed doomed to make one stupid mistake after another and drag François after her. "I told you. We are friends."
His lips thinned. "Just as you and I are friends?"
"Yes. I—I mean, no."
He raised a brow.
"You are deliberately confusing me," she said.
"Am I?" He sauntered toward her. "I think I'd like some of the treatment you accord your friends."
Warmth radiated from his lithe frame as he towered over her. She tried to ignore the quicktime beat of her pulse and put out a hand. "Please, Lucas."
"Happy to oblige, my dear." His voice had the consistency of deliciously thick cream. "Perhaps it is time you understood the consequences of playing the flirt."
The intense mildness caused her to step back. "I was not flirting."
"You are serious about him, then."
A pulse beat in her temple. "Stop it."
His hand lashed out and caught her elbow, dragging her toward him, his face a magnified blur.
"Let me go."
His other hand came up, and long fingers cradled her head, holding her still while his mouth came down on hers, savage and hard, his breathing short and jerky.
The instant their lips met, his touch softened and moved with gentle tenderness. A sense of sweetness flooded her. A flutter like whispering leaves caught in a breeze ran down her spine.
A practiced seducer, a rake, who tasted of sweet wine and smelled of sandalwood and sweat and musky male. Her husband.
Meaning to fend him off, she lay her hands on his shoulder. There they stayed, caressing the rough wool of his coat, slipping around his neck, twining with the silky strands of his hair, while the mindless kiss went on forever.
She parted her lips and he plunged his tongue inside her eager mouth. Familiar with the technique this time, she joined the dance with her own.
A deep groan rumbled up from his chest. He raised his head, removed her glasses, and tossed them on the nearby chair. His wonderful face came into focus.
"What are you doing to me?" he asked.
"Me?" she managed to squeak. "I'm not doing anything."
"No?"
His half-lidded gaze caressed her mouth. She parted her lips in response, aching for his touch, and he smiled. "See. That's what you do."
His murmured words made her feel soft and melting inside, like a honeycomb.
He dipped his head and captured her mouth in a hot kiss. She dissolved into him. She shouldn't do this. It wasn't part of their bargain. She couldn't think for the drumming in her blood.
His hands skimmed down her back, a trail of weighted warmth. They cupped her bottom, cradling her against his lean hard length. Captured in the cage of his arms she felt wanted, desirable.
His tongue traced the seam of her mouth. Pleasure shimmered through her, and she opened her mouth and welcomed him in with a moan. She arched her back. His thigh pressed against her hips. Delicious pulses of heat spread out from the contact. The room seemed to spin, not as if she would faint, but more like heady flight. She never wanted him to stop. If he did, she might regain her senses.
He grabbed her shoulders and set her aside, striding for the door. Cool air replaced the warmth of his body.
She froze in place. How could she have let passion carry her away? She watched him go, her chest so tight it hurt.
He turned the key in the lock. "Insurance against unwelcome visitors." His low voice sent a jolt of desire straight to her core.
She released her breath as he prowled his way back, a powerful, magnificent male sensu
ously sure of his welcome. She lowered her gaze to the patterned carpet. Could dreams come true?
His chuckle, low and deep, seemed to say they might, and his encircling arms confirmed it. He swept her up and carried her to the sofa as if she weighed no more than kitten. Desire, as bright and sharp as her own, shone in his eyes.
He laid her down and knelt beside her.
Today, the pirate would have his wicked way with the maiden. She relaxed in his arms. "Lucas." It had the sound of a plea, not a protest.
No Regrets Page 16