"Did you drive out with the viscount yesterday?" the marquis asked.
Fortunately for Caro, the violinist tapped the side of his instrument with his bow for silence and precluded the necessity of an answer.
The singer poured her heart into an aria from Rossini's L'Italiana in Algeri. Caro tried to ignore Lucas's presence, but she sensed his gaze on her face as surely as if his fingers were touching her skin. Couldn't he be satisfied with the woman at his side?
At the intermission, the marquis offered to fetch coffee from an adjoining salon, and while Aunt Honoré gossiped with a widowed friend, Caro wandered the perimeter of the room, inspecting the portraits and country scenes hung tastefully on the walls.
"How are you enjoying it so far?" Lucas's deep voice asked.
Caro started. She hadn't heard him approach. "Do you have to sneak up on me like that?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to surprise you." He gestured to the portrait of a Mougeon ancestor in a Roman toga. "It seems you are interested in all the arts." His breath stirred the curls on her cheek.
She darted a glance at Mademoiselle Jeunesse, who was talking to their hostess by the piano set in the window. "I might say the same about you."
His expression turned serious. "I only have two days, Caro, and since you were already engaged to come here with the marquis, I needed an invitation. I persuaded Audley to add me to his party. I'd far rather take you shopping for books."
A wicked flick of his brow sent a shimmer of awareness over her skin. She returned her gaze to the portrait. "Perhaps some other time." There, that sounded calm enough.
"Your profile is enchanting, but I prefer to see both your beautiful eyes."
The words turned her insides to porridge. She fought for control. "Do not practice your wiles on me, sir. It will not wash." Or so she hoped. She searched for a neutral topic. "The opera singer has talent, does she not?"
"She is as good as everything I have heard about her. I'm going to invite her to perform at King's Theater."
Caro blinked.
"I thought you knew—I am one of their patrons."
"It seems there are many things I do not know about you."
"As yet," he murmured.
The lascivious undertones sent trickles of heat coursing through her blood. She inhaled a steadying breath and tried to look calm.
The marquis joined them and handed Caro her coffee. "Lord Foxhaven, we meet again. What a coincidence."
Lucas's easy manner of moments ago sharpened to a dangerous edge. "Isn't it?" Although his face held nothing but friendly politeness, his words might have been sword blades. He must have sensed her her growing anxiety, because the moment she opened her mouth to say something to ease the tension between the two men, he offered a reluctant smile. "If you will excuse me, I must return to my friends."
The marquis nodded. " And I must return you to your aunt, my dear Mademoiselle Torrington."
No matter how hard she tried, Caro could not prevent her gaze following Lucas's progress through the crowded room. Mademoiselle Jeunesse welcomed him to her side with a dazzling smile. If only the poor girl knew the truth about his married state. It was most unfair of him to encourage her to hope.
"Be seated everyone, please," the lady of the house announced, shooing them back to their seats. "We have many more delights for you this afternoon." She bustled to the front of the room. "Our dear Mademoiselle Jeunesse has agreed to play a piece from Beethoven's Pathétique.
She held out a welcoming hand.
Blushing, the slim beauty in a gown seemingly made of gossamer made her way to the piano. She played the complex piece with verve and undeniable talent. Applause as loud as that for the singer greeted the end of her performance, and she curtseyed with obvious pleasure.
On her way back to her seat, she stopped to whisper in Madame Mougeon's ear, all the while looking at Caro with a sly little smile. A tingle lifted the hairs on Caro's nape. She looked away. She must be imagining things.
Madame Mougeon returned to the front of the room. "I understand we have another talented young lady in our midst." She stretched out a hand. "Mademoiselle Torrington, will you play for us?"
Caro felt the blood drain from her face before rushing back in a hot tide. She shook her head. "No indeed. I don't have any music, and my skill is mediocre, I assure you."
Twenty pairs of eyes stared at her, and the sight faded into the red haze of her embarrassment.
"I brought another piece," Mademoiselle Jeunesse said with a simper and cold eyes. She held out a sheaf of paper.
"There you go, mademoiselle," the marquis said, passing the sheets to Caro with a flourish. "I would adore to hear you."
Caro stared at the paper, her fingers trembling. Semi-quavers and treble clefs skipped from bar to bar like raindrops on a roof.
"I can't," she gasped. This was a nightmare. Everyone was staring. She glanced around wildly, saw Lucas frowning, and tapped her finger to her lips twice and winked. It had worked for him. Now it was his turn to help.
"Really, I insist," Madame Mougeon was saying, tugging at her arm.
Long, elegant fingers plucked the music from Caro's hand. "Miss Torrington," Lucas said, his smile the most charming she had ever seen. "I will play, if you will sing. As I recall, you have a lovely voice."
That was not what she had in mind when she requested his help, but his confidence gave her the courage to nod in acquiescence. Warm and large and strong, his hand closed around her cold one and pulled her from the fog into the light.
He placed her hand on a forearm that was rock steady under her shaking fingers and led her to the piano. He flashed her a grin, flicked his tails out from under him, and sat down on the bench. He arranged the music on the stand and ran his fingers over the keys in a soft chord.
Caro took a deep breath. She could do this. She removed her spectacles. Better to see the music than all those curious faces.
"Can you read enough of the music to turn the sheets at the right time?" he murmured under his breath.
She smiled. "I think I might actually be able to tell from the words."
"Touché," he said with a small grin.
She leaned closer and whispered, "I forgot you played."
"It's been a long while. I am relying on you to hide my mistakes."
He drew forth a chord and began the opening bars.
Liquid notes wafted across the Stockbridge formal gardens. Caro crept through the shrubbery to huddle beneath the music room's open window in the crisp morning air. She loved listening to Lucas play. When his mother was alive, she used to sit beside her on the sofa and listen. He had hardly touched the keyboard since his mother died and since his father sent the teacher away.
Somewhere inside the house, a door banged.
Caro winced, but Lucas must not have heard because the thrilling melody continued uninterrupted.
All she could see through the window was his beautiful profile, his expression one of total absorption, as if his spirit existed in fingertips producing sounds so sweet they were heartbreaking.
The door on the far side of the room swung back. Before she ducked out of sight, Caro glimpsed Lord Stockbridge, his face red and full of disgust.
"No longer will you waste your time on this namby-pamby nonsense, Foxhaven!" Stockbridge yelled.
"But Father," Lucas said. "I—"
Something must have struck the keyboard very hard because a harsh chord rang out, followed by the bang of the piano lid closing.
"I'm going to burn the damned thing," Stockbridge said.
"It was Mother's," Lucas said. "She wanted me to practice."
"And it's your mother's fault you turned out so badly." Stockbridge's voice grew louder and deeper. He appeared at the window and stretched up to grasp the sash.
"Mother said I have a talent," Lucas pleaded.
"You, my boy, have a talent for trouble, and this time, I have had enough." He slammed the window shut.
The sound of a fall
ing chair issued from inside the room.
Caro recoiled. What on earth was wrong with Lord Stockbridge? Poor Lucas. He loved his music. Perhaps she should go and comfort him. She backed away and tiptoed around the front of the house. In the drive stood a carriage. Mrs. Rivers and perhaps Cedric must have called in. She pressed her lips together. If Lord Stockbridge had visitors, it might be better to talk to Lucas tomorrow, when tempers were cool. Feeling a little cowardly, she turned for home.
She had never heard Lucas play again until today.
Faultlessly, smoothly, he finished the introduction and Caro joined in at his nod. She liked to sing. Lucas must have remembered.
At first, she kept her gaze on the music, but after a shaky beginning, the melody took hold, and she managed a glance or two at the misty audience. The expressions of her aunt and the marquis were full of pride, and did much to settle her nerves. Her voice did not have the depth or range of the opera singer, but she managed well enough.
The warm applause as the notes died away lapped over her. She curtseyed to Lucas and smiled her thanks, shaking her head at the kind calls for more. Back in her seat, she resisted the urge to stick out her tongue at a rather sulkyfaced Mademoiselle Jeunesse. Caro had survived the worst form of torture without ridicule because Lucas had rescued her, just as he had when they were children.
"And now Lord Foxhaven will read his sonnet," Madame Mougeon announced.
A sonnet? Lucas? Caro felt her mouth drop open and snapped it shut.
"Bravo," called out the marquis. He leaned close to Caro. "It's a brave man who would write poetry for such a critical crowd—let alone read it."
Athletically graceful, Lucas sauntered to the piano, leaned one hip against the gleaming mahogany, and withdrew a sheet of paper from his breast pocket. Light from the window warmed his handsome face to bronze and glossed his black hair. He looked so easy, so elegant, that Caro drew a quick breath.
This was not the devil-may-care Lucas who avoided boring social events like Almack's and refused to wear a cravat. Perhaps he really had changed. Or was it all a ploy, a charming act to get what he wanted? A pang of longing in her chest betrayed her hope that he was sincere. She tried to ignore it.
"My humble offering is titled 'To Her Amber Eyes,'" he announced with a soulful expression.
A ripple of interest stirred through the room. Ladies peered into each other's eyes. The blackeyed Mademoiselle Jeunesse pouted. The marquis straightened in his seat and glanced at Caro, as did several others.
She held herself rigid. Lucas must mean someone else. Or he meant to tease her. Her stomach dropped at the mortifying thought.
"Phoebus' rays in their honey'd deep,
Secrets kept from all who seek,
to know,"
A swift glance at his face told her he was perfectly serious. Not even the glimmer of a smile lit his eyes. She'd know if he was laughing at her; she always did. She gripped her hands in her lap as if the pressure might calm her skipping pulse.
The words came to her in snatches of his deep, smooth-as-cream voice.
"What warms those luminescent jewels so rare?"
The marquis leaned over. "Good, isn't he?"
She wanted to say "Hush," but she nodded and tried not to beam like an idiot. Lucas had actually written a poem for her.
From the front of the room, he caught and held her gaze until she thought her heart would melt into a puddle at her feet. Perhaps he really did care for her in some corner of his heart. It might be enough. As long as she believed it, she could survive.
"How pale the dawn in eastern skies,
Compared to her beloved amber eyes."
Silence filled the room. And then came the applause.
"Who is the lucky lady?" a gentleman called out.
Lucas smiled. "I believe she knows who she is." He bowed and, with one brief glance in her direction, returned to his chair.
A tug of joy pulled at her heart.
* * *
Lucas prowled the salons of the Hotêl Richard. Decorated in the Egyptian style, it recalled the halcyon days when Bonaparte straddled the world like a colossus. The bulky furnishings matched the heaviness in his chest.
Failing to find Caro in the ballroom, he sauntered into the card room and took a seat carved with crocodile scales and claws for feet alongside Madame Valeron, who was engrossed in a game of piquet.
"Good evening, madame."
"Lord Foxhaven," she acknowledged. "I assume you are seeking my niece."
A discerning woman. He smiled. "I wished to greet you, madame, but thought to ask Mademoiselle Torrington to dance."
Madame Valeron picked up her cards from the green baize. "She is not here. She is unwell."
Anxiety surged through him. "Nothing serious, I hope?"
She shrugged. "A minor malady. A headache."
In all the years he'd known Caro, he'd never heard her complain of a headache. "I am sorry to hear it. Please give her my best wishes for a speedy recovery."
She discarded a deuce. "I will pass on your wishes, along with a hundred others, milor'."
A headache. He didn't like the sound of it. Unease crawled over his skin.
In a welter of impatience, yet not wishing to damage Caro's reputation, he forced his attention on the game. He must not appear too anxious. Madame Valeron played her cards well and took the trick. As she gathered up her winnings, he departed with a brief farewell and a bow. He strolled out to the foyer and requested a lackey to bring his hat.
Mademoiselle Jeunesse, a vision in white silk and diamonds, floated toward him on her way back from the ladies' withdrawing room. Her full red lips turned down at the sight of him. "Leaving already, milor'? I suppose you have discovered Mademoiselle Torrington is not present this evening."
This young lady had thrown far too many lures in his direction for propriety. He kept his voice cool. "Regretfully, I have an engagement elsewhere, mademoiselle."
She glanced around and drew closer. "She won't have you."
"I beg your pardon?"
She placed a slender white hand on his arm. "Mademoiselle Torrington. She is going to marry her cousin. Her aunt has her heart set on it." She pouted. "Before the Chevalier left for Champagne, they were as close as turtledoves. She merely amuses herself with you in his absence."
Fighting anger and doubt, Lucas kept his expression blank. "You seem very aware of their affairs."
"Ah, but you see, milor', I am in the same position as you. Before she came along, François was at my feet." Her expression hardened. "He adored me. Now it is all the English mademoiselle. He does not move from her side. You will see when he returns."
She cast him an arch look and a seductive smile. "Perhaps you and I should show them we do not care." Her fingers crept up his sleeve and drew a circle on his shoulder.
Oh no. He was no fool to be caught by such an obvious ploy. He stepped back out of reach. "Sadly, I leave France in a day or so, but meeting you, Mademoiselle Jeunesse, will remain among the memorable experiences of my visit to Paris."
The lackey returned.
"Bah!" she said, and whirled away in a rustle of silk and a strong aroma of violets.
Lucas clapped on his hat. With only one day left to convince Caro of the seriousness of his intentions, it worried him that she had cried off tonight. Either she was ill, or something else was afoot. He particularly didn't like the hints dropped by Mademoiselle Jeunesse.
He needed to see Caro tonight.
* * *
The words wavered on the page. Caro snapped her book shut with a sigh and swung her feet down off the drawing room sofa. Rarely did her woman's courses affect her, but on the occasions they did, she felt as dragged out as a half-drowned cat.
After the excitement at the musicale this afternoon, the thought of making polite conversation with a room full of people seemed to have aggravated the cramps in her abdomen. Dressed and ready to go, she must have looked a fright because Aunt Honoré shook her head and suggest
ed a tisane and a cold compress for her forehead. After a brief argument, she had agreed to stay home.
She rose to ring the bell for Lizzie.
Who was she fooling? The pains in her stomach were all about Lucas and an afternoon spent bolstering the courage to agree to return to England as his wife. They had an agreement. No regrets.
Only a hundred.
He'd never offered her love. And she'd accepted his terms. She just hadn't expected him to change the rules and ply her with his rakish charm half of the time and ignore her the rest. And those plundering kisses. They drove her to distraction until she lost all control.
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