He kissed a moan from her lips when his hands at last slipped across her exposed, glowing skin. Ever since that first evening, he had wanted to do this. He held her breasts, molding them to his hands, teasing their erect peaks with his thumbs.
She arched beneath him, and he struggled against the last of his reason. He could not take her, and yet he could not refuse her. He trembled with indecision and desire. He kissed the curve of her neck, tasting the salt of her tears. He licked the sweet valley over her heart, then, at last, he kissed one dusky, pink nipple.
He stayed there a long while, teasing her with small, light nips.
He wanted her. He wanted to taste the fire that was Carolly, wanted to show her the ways of love. But most of all, James wanted to share with her the joy and delight of lovemaking as he never had with any woman. With her it would be wonderful.
But he could not. Not if she did not understand the consequences of their actions, not when she was a guest in his home, and certainly not when she was so vulnerable. He was a gentleman. He would not violate a guest.
He allowed himself one last, lingering kiss. Then he pulled away.
"James?”
"We cannot do this."
"Don't leave, James. Not now." She spoke in a throaty whisper that seemed to echo in his mind.
"I . . . I must." But he was weakening. He had to leave soon.
He stood, but she had hold of his hand. His movement pulled her upright on the bed, and her hair spilled around her in glorious disarray. Then, in one quick movement, she pulled off her shift, tossing it aside as her breasts bounced before him. They were firm and rosy, their blush beautiful in the delicate moonlight.
"James. It's all right. I . . . I want you to stay. If I'm not an angel, then at least let me be a woman."
He shook his head, his body at war with his mind. But he did not resist as she pulled him forward, drawing his hand back to the soft curve of her breast. "You do not know what you are asking," he whispered.
"I'm asking you to make love with me."
"You do not know what that means."
"Yes," she whispered. "I do." She lifted herself to her knees, offering her lips to him.
But he stayed away, his every muscle screaming with the strain. "It is immoral, unholy. Wrong."
"To make love?”
"To take advantage of you."
"You are not taking advantage of me, my lord," she murmured. "I am taking advantage of you." Then she tugged him ever closer to her, gasping as his hand trembled where it lay against her breast.
But then he gazed down into her eyes. He saw passion there, knowing it was mirrored in his own heated gaze. But he also saw desperation and fear. She was alone and vulnerable, seeking solace from him.
The sight pulled at his soul. He saw her pain and needed to assuage it, but he could not do so when she would hate herself and him as soon as her good sense returned. He could not do it.
But then she drew him down to her, and he was powerless to resist.
***
Carolly did not want to think; she only wanted to feel. What James did, how he touched her, how he kissed her—as if he feared to hurt her, and yet could not resist their mutual attraction—filled her heart and soul with wonder. Nothing had ever felt so right. True the part of her named Caroline was horrified at her wantonness, but Carolly was stronger, and she reveled in the pure joy of it all.
Except, it wasn't entirely perfect. Everything James did, every kiss, every touch, was sheer heaven, but he would not allow her to reciprocate. When she moved toward him, when she tried to touch him as he touched her, he shied away, distracting and preventing her.
James was making love to her, not with her.
"James?"
"Shhh."
"But—"
"Shhhh." He kissed away her protests until once again she was lost in a whirlpool of sensation. His hands moved lower on her body, stripping away her heavy clothing until she was naked beside him. She heard him suck in his breath, his expression awed. "My God, you are perfect."
She turned, embarrassment heating her face. "You were expecting some deformity?"
He shook his head, and she caught the hunger in his eyes. "I could not imagine a more perfect woman." He lifted his gaze to hers. "Oh, Caroline," he whispered, as his hands continued to stroke her in the most worshipful of caresses. "Let me show you what it is to be a woman."
She wanted him to. But she wanted more as well. She wanted to share this time with him, to be with him as a man with a woman. Not a man with a madwoman. "My name is Carolly."
He shrugged. "Caro, then."
She sighed, her passion growing cool, the mood shattered.
"Caro. Fine." Except it wasn't fine. This whole situation was far from fine. It was horrible.
How could she make love with a man who didn't believe what she'd told him? Who she was? Too depressed for words, she curled away from him, turning her back to him and rolling onto her side. He didn't stop her, but continued to caress her, his strokes long and sensuous. And apologetic.
"I did not mean to offend you . . ."
"No. You are correct. I am confused and lost. One cannot make love in such a state."
"But—"
"No."
He was quiet a long time, his only communication through long strokes of his fingertips. His hand slid from her shoulder, down past her elbow, grazing her hip and swirling lightly over her thigh. Then he reversed direction, tracing a path up her body once more. Carolly lay there in silence, focusing on nothing but the feel of his fingers as they soothed her troubled spirit.
"I can help you forget," he offered softly. "For a while at least. We can complete what we began."
She softened, and she felt a delicious sense of warmth grow in her belly. "Finish making love?"
"No." He paused, and his hand stilled against her hip. "Not that. But there are ways, ways to bring a woman pleasure without taking her virginity."
It was like being dropped in a pool of ice. Now she understood why he had earlier refused her touch. Why, in fact, he was still clothed while she lay naked beside him. "You never intended to make love with me."
"Caro . . ." His voice was choked.
"Carolly," she snapped, tears suddenly blurring her vision. She didn't truly know why this all hurt so much, but it did. She had thought they would touch each other in a very special way—together. But all he'd intended was to give to her, to hold himself apart as before. He would be the giver, she the receiver. They would never be equals. Didn't he want her as much as she wanted him? Obviously not, if he could still be so restrained.
"I think you had better leave."
He stiffened in surprise. "But—"
"But nothing." She sat up, dragging the sheet with her as she moved. "I don't want your pity, James. I wanted to share something special with you. But you couldn't let us do that, could you? The great Earl of Traynem couldn't possibly stoop to loving a minister's mad daughter, could he? Maybe I ought to have tried Garrett."
His eyes suddenly narrowed in fury, and she knew she'd struck home.
"At least with him," she continued relentlessly, "I know where I stand. With you and your honorable intentions, you fooled me into thinking we had something. But true feelings are something you can't or won't give."
"I was simply trying to preserve your reputation," he explained, once again sounding stuffy to Carolly's ears. "But I can see you have no sense of morality. I cannot understand why I was even concerned." He sounded bitter.
"What you were preserving was your own isolation," she snapped. "I don't know who hurt you, James, but it must have been something horrible for you to spend the rest of your life locked inside yourself. Good lord, you haven't even taken off your coat!"
James pushed away, standing up beside the bed with his jaw clenched and his hands tightened into fists. "I believe I shall bid you good night."
"That's right, James. Run away. Lord knows, if you stayed you might be tempted to feel something!"
He didn't deign to respond. He simply bowed with chilling correctness, then spun on one heel and left her room. He didn't slam the door, but closed it with a quiet click that seemed to reverberate through the room. She almost wished he'd torn it off its hinges. At least then she'd know he felt something, even if it was anger.
But he didn't, and all Carolly could do was stare at the back of the door and cry, her tears silently tracking down her face.
Chapter Eleven
"You are sending Carolly away, aren't you?”
James looked up from his desk at his niece. She actually looked pretty this morning, he realized with a slight start. She wore her trim riding habit of rich burgundy—which did indeed now fit her perfectly—and her hair was neatly pulled away from her face with a bright ribbon. But it was not her clothing that had caused the transformation. He had, in fact, seen her in exactly that same outfit earlier this morning when he, she, and Garrett had gone riding.
So what was it?
"Uncle, do not send her away. I like her here."
James felt his eyes widen in shock. She was standing up to him. This child, his usually sullen lump of a niece, stood erect before him, challenging him with every fiber of her being.
He did not know what to say, so he ducked the question. "Hello again, Margaret. I very much enjoyed our ride this morning. Shall we discuss where to go on our next trip? Garrett doesn't want to go, but—"
"No," she said, crossing her arms. "I want to discuss Carolly. Why are you sending her away?"
He frowned. "What makes you think I am?"
She jutted her chin toward the letter on top of his desk. "You are writing to the Boorstin Asylum in Derby asking if they have lost a patient named Caroline Handren." She paused, momentarily distracted. "Is that her real name?"
James leaned back in his chair and regarded his niece. When had her gaze become so focused, the set of her jaw so very firm? My God, he thought with a start, the child was positively military in her bearing. He stared at her, his expression purposely hard, but the child did not waver. In fact, she regarded him with exactly the same expression as he'd seen on Caro. It looked extremely dark and forbidding.
"Did you learn this from her?" he asked.
Margaret frowned. "Learn what?"
"How to stare at someone like that."
Margaret's frown deepened. "I learned it from you. Carolly told me the best way to handle you was to behave just as stubbornly as you. We even practiced."
James released a sigh. "That, young lady, is exactly why I am sending her away."
"No!" she returned, her voice as firm and final as his own.
He shook his head. It was unnerving to see how much change Carolly had wrought in the child in barely over a month. And he was not entirely sure he liked all the changes.
"Margaret, this is not something one discusses with a child."
The girl simply raised one eyebrow and settled in the chair opposite his desk, her posture as deceptively casual as his own. "I will not allow you send her away, Uncle. I like her. And you like her. Even the servants like her. She must stay."
Now James was sure. He definitely did not like this change. He liked that she was happier, but for his niece to demand he answer the very questions that had plagued him the night through . . . Leaning forward in his chair, he placed his elbows on his desk and peered at Margaret in what he hoped was a sincere manner.
"You must see that Caro is very ill. Neither you nor I can help her here. She must be under a doctor's care." That had been his conclusion early this morning. He had failed to help her. Indeed, he very much feared his interference had made her condition worse. And rather than see her delusions destroy her as they had destroyed Danny, he finally admitted that he must send her away. She must be under the care of a qualified physician, one who understood how to handle a disordered mind.
"I do not believe you," Margaret responded, her voice challenging. "She is not ill."
James frowned. "I assure you, I am not lying. Caroline—"
"You are, too. Her name is Carolly, and she is not sick. She is just different. You want her to be sick, so you can send her away." James was beginning to see the unhappy child appear again, the mulish, recalcitrant, miserable one. "I hate you!" she screamed. "I do not want Carolly to leave, and if you send her away, I will go with her!"
"You most certainly will not."
Margaret jumped to her feet. "I will! I swear it, I will!"
James stood, too, leaning forward on his desk to emphasize his words. "You will go to your room—"
"My father is dead. You took away my mother, and all I get is pasty-faced governesses who cannot even smile! I will not let you take Carolly away, too!" She spun on her heel and dashed out of the room, emitting loud, gulping sobs as she ran.
James could do nothing but stare after her, his hands clenched into fists.
"My, my. She was certainly upset."
James twisted, a sigh escaping his lips at the sight of Caro. She was dressed demurely in another one of her gray gowns, but all he could see was how she had looked last night, her beautiful body stretched out in glorious abandon on the bed, her skin the color of dusky pearls, her body alive and welcoming in the soft candlelight.
"Good morning, Caro," he said, but his voice sounded rough even to his own ears.
"What did she mean about you taking away her mother?”
"Have you taken to listening at keyholes?”
She shrugged. "Mags gets away with it."
He retreated to the secure comfort of his desk chair, feeling a headache building at his temples. "I begin to believe you two have entirely too much influence on each other."
"Is that why you intend to send me back to Boorstin?” He looked down at the letter on his desk. He had not even sent the missive as yet.
"No," she answered for him, gliding forward until she could look down at his letter. "No, it has nothing to do with Margaret. It is because of last night."
He looked up, feeling besieged. "It has nothing to do with—"
"Of course it does. I make you uncomfortable. I challenge your understanding of the world." She leaned forward. "You can send me away, James, but it's too late. Your life has already changed. Mags knows how to confront you, and she won't be easily cowed again."
He groaned, knowing it was true. "Caro—"
"Did you truly take away her mother?”
"Of course not!" He nearly exploded, but all she did was settle quietly into the chair Margaret had vacated and fold her hands across her lap.
Lord, this woman was infuriating. When he glared at her, she smiled. When he screamed, she became serene. It was as if she had appeared in his life for the express purpose of contradicting him.
And yet, he thought with a sigh, he wanted to confide the truth of his niece to her. No one else seemed to understand Margaret as Carolly did. Perhaps she could give him the answers he needed.
He collapsed into his chair. "I received news of Bradley's death months after the fact. It took time to sell out my commission. One week after returning to London, I woke to the sound of screeching. I came downstairs to find a woman—an actress—with a bawling child squirming in her arms."
"Margaret's mother."
"She called herself Mags. It was her stage name."
Caro smiled. "No wonder you hate the nickname. And now Margaret uses it to torment you."
He swallowed, not wanting to admit how painful the name was to him. Every time he heard it, he was reminded of how much his niece had lost, and how much she blamed him for it.
"So, what happened?” Caro prompted.
James shrugged, trying to continue in a casual tone. "We left the girl with Cook, who plied her with milk and cookies. And then Mags and I retired to . . . negotiate."
Caro tilted her head. "Negotiate?”
James squirmed in his seat. How could he phrase this delicately enough? "She, uh, claimed to be Bradley's widow. She even produced a marriage license."
&nbs
p; "You believe it was false?”
He shrugged. "I had no idea. It appeared legal, and Bradley was certainly wild enough. It was possible."
Caro leaned forward, her expression pinched with disgust. "You paid her off. You bought her kid and paid her to go away."
"I did not buy anything!" he returned hotly, pushing out of his chair to pace. "Except maybe her silence. She refused to leave the theater. She wanted me to keep Margaret. She told me the child had a right to a better life." He ran his hand through his hair. "I agreed. I provided Mags with a suitable income until she died a year later of the pox."
Caro remained silent, and so he turned around, needing to see her expression. He was shocked by what he saw. Her face had softened to a compassionate sadness. There were no recriminations, was no condescending hauteur, just kindhearted sympathy.
"James, you have got to talk to her. Margaret thinks you sent her mother away."
He leaned back against the mantel, feeling hopelessness well up in his soul. "It doesn't matter what I say. The more I talk, the less she will listen."
Caro stood up, advancing to touch his arm. "You're her uncle, James. She's your ward. You have lived together for years. She must believe you on some level."
He gazed down at the thick library rug, knowing there was a beautiful pattern of rich colors just beneath his feet, but able to see only Margaret's tear-streaked face. "I do not know how to speak to her of this."
Caro's hand tightened on his arm. "You have to try. Otherwise, you'll just be throwing her away, and you need each other too much for that. To avoid a problem just because you don't know how to deal with it . . ."
James looked up. Had he been throwing Margaret away? And Caro, too? She had not said such, but the reasoning seemed clear. He reached out and brushed a finger across her face, feeling the downy softness of her cheek. "Is that what you think I am doing to you? Discarding you like yesterday's cravat?”
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