She sighed, imagining he was right but unable to accept it. She had thought Garrett a feckless charmer. Now she saw him as a monster. One who actually plotted against James for money—and one whom James didn't seem to fear.
"What will you do?" she asked, her voice hushed.
"Pray for a good crop. Meanwhile, you will promise me again that you will not go into the village without speaking with me first." He leaned forward. "And do not think I shall be as forgiving next time. If there is a next time."
Carolly clenched her hands together, hating to again be on the receiving end of James's disapproval. She had a fleeting moment of sympathy for Garrett. But then she remembered what James's heir had done—was doing—and her charitable feelings fled.
"James. . ."
"You will obey me in this!"
Carolly closed her mouth, knowing that further discussion would be futile. The situation with Garrett was clearly far more complicated than she first thought. As for her broken promise, she was beginning to feel quite guilty about it. Although he hadn't said as much, James had been desperately worried about her. She could tell. She would no doubt go to her grave remembering the fear in his angular features as he came tearing into town—probably expecting her to be the object of another stoning.
"I'm sorry, James. I should have spoken with you first."
"Yes, you should have."
She looked up at him one last time, defiance surging through her. "I should have spoken with you, but I still would have gone."
He frowned at her. She remained composed, refusing to be cowed. He glared, and she raised an eyebrow. Then he cursed in an explosion of breath.
"I . . . worry about you all the time," he admitted, his words halting and stiff. He abruptly gripped the edge of his desk, his fingertips white with the strain. "You must be more careful."
Never before had she seen such torment in his eyes. Not even that first time when he'd rescued her from the mob. It was shocking, and she was beside him in a moment. "James, what is it?"
He took her face in his hands, searching her features as though memorizing every detail. "You need not go to Boorstin—"
She cut off his words quickly, hoping she could forestall the coming painful exchange. "James, we have discussed this."
"But you were beaten—"
"James." She fell silent, feeling the heartache build again. She had almost convinced herself that she would go happily to Boorstin. Soon, after the festival. When her uncle forced her to. And she'd convinced herself she would not miss James or crave his touch. But now his words exposed her wound again, and she looked away, fighting the tears in her eyes. "Please don't—"
This time he stopped her words with a kiss so swift it startled her. His lips were bruising, hungry, demanding, and somehow frightened. She did not need to think about her response. His touch had always inflamed her senses, but even as her body matched his passion, she tried to soothe his fears. She stroked his arms and back, let her fingers find the tense muscles of his shoulders. Then he raised his head, gasping for breath even as he pulled her tightly against him. She rested her head against the hard wall of his chest, listened to his heart beat triple time. It took a long while, but eventually the beat steadied and she felt him calm.
"Carolly . . .”
His strangled word was interrupted by the rattle of a carriage outside. Another guest. Someone who needed to be greeted and escorted and settled into a room. Both Carolly and James groaned as one, knowing they would not have time to talk about this anguish they both felt.
But then, maybe it was for the best, Carolly thought sadly. "You should see to your guests," she said.
"I don't give a damn about my guests," he snapped.
"James!" she exclaimed, a part of her annoyed, wanting to push him away. "One of them may be your future wife! Should be your—"
Suddenly he caught her by the upper arms, his hands clenching as he drew her to him. "I do not want them. I do not want them in my house, or in my bed, or as my wife! Damn it, Carolly, can you not see what this does to me?"
She shook him off, forcefully shoving him away. "Just what is it doing to you?" She waited, staring into the swirling gray torment of his eyes, praying he would say something, anything, about loving her. If only he would say the words, ask her to come to him, maybe she would throw everything away just to be with him.
But he remained stubbornly silent.
Her anger built to flashpoint. "Quite a problem, isn't it, James?" she said, sarcasm lacing her voice. "You're too honorable to take me as a mistress and too proud to have me as a wife. But it's killing you to just let me leave." Tears blurred her vision, but she refused to cry. Not now and certainly not in front of him. "Good thing I'm not meant for this world," she reminded herself, "or this could really hurt."
She started to turn away, but he grabbed her, spinning her back to face him. "Leave this world? Carolly, you never arrived! You appeared at my door and told me you were here to help me. Help me? The truth is, all you wished was to play around in my life and then abandon me!"
"I'm going to be an angel!"
"You are going to be alone!" His hands felt like fiery manacles around her arms, and she saw the steady throb of anger in his temple as he continued. "I thought you were the boldest woman alive, but now I see you are truly a coward. You refuse to live your life, to take what is offered with both hands."
She pushed him away, stung by the echo of truth in his words. Could she truly be using her hope of becoming an angel as an excuse not to live the life she should? Carolly shook her head, denying it even as a part of her agreed. "I am not running away," she said as she glared at him. "I am running toward something. You just can't accept it."
"That you will be an angel?" He swung away from her, stomping toward the cold fire grate. "Is that your big dream?" He twisted around to confront her. His eyes pleaded with her to think. "Look at yourself, Carolly. Anyone can be good and holy and chaste. All you need do is spend your life saying no. The challenge is to say yes. To take the risk of living."
His words intensified the ache she'd fought all this time, but she stubbornly continued to refuse to acknowledge it. "I have taken that risk. I have fallen in love. I-love-you." She punctuated her words with her fist, beating the air in front of her. "But apparently, James, you haven't. So I intend to bring you other women to love. I have reconciled you with a niece you barely even knew, and now I'm working on the villagers. I have taken risks, James. How about you?"
"Me?" He stepped forward. "Would you give up saying you're going to be an angel for me? I thought I'd wanted this fanciful nature back; but not if it keeps us apart. Will you toss aside your madness, your fantasies, and your pretend games to be my wife?"
“They are not pretend!" she screamed.
“Then you do not love me as much as you say!"
They stared at each other. Barely a hand's breadth separated their bodies, but their souls seemed to glare at each other from across a huge expanse. James refused to believe in her rationality, and she couldn't cross over to his. She wouldn't give up everything she knew to be true just to make him comfortable. Heck, he'd even helped her regain it again—her past, her identity . . .
Into the silence came a discreet knock.
And another.
And another.
"Yes?" James's word split the air like a knife.
The door opened, and James's rigidly formal butler entered, his face impassive even as his gaze hopped from Carolly to James. "Excuse the interruption, my lord, but the Viscount and Viscountess of Drebes have arrived with their two daughters. As have Lord and Lady Phillips. Three daughters, one son."
Thank you, Wentworth," James ground out. "Please show them to their rooms. I shall be there directly."
The butler nodded and withdrew, his movements slow as he quietly closed the door behind him.
Carolly waited to speak until she heard Wentworth's measured footsteps fade away. "You should greet your guests," she commented softly.
James nodded, but the movement was forced. "Come along, then."
Carolly took a step backward and drew her arms around herself, shaking her head. "No, I don't think so."
"I beg your pardon." His tone was stiff.
“This is your party, James. I've taken on the role of Girl Friday for you, but I cannot sit around to watch you marry someone else."
He stepped toward her. "But—"
She skittered backward. "I will be with Mrs. Potherby, James. Good day." And with that, Carolly spun around and fled.
***
James watched her leave, feeling as if his body had been battered from all sides. He could stop her, but he checked the impulse. Too many thoughts collided in his mind, too many feelings ripped at him. He had once prided himself on his strength, on his solidity even in the midst of turmoil.
Now he realized what he had called strength was merely isolation and stubbornness. Since Bradley's death, and maybe long before that, he had remained aloof, watching the world as he filled his hours with silence.
Then Carolly had appeared in his life with the force of a tornado. She'd ripped open his world, making him feel and experience and see for the first time. He'd never before experienced panic as he had today—a physical torment that racked him as he raced to the village, fearing that she or Margaret was hurt.
It was frightening. And yet, he had never felt so alive.
James shook his head. He needed time to reflect on these emotions. And more than that, he needed to think about her words. Was he truly too proud to marry her? He'd just offered, hadn't he? Was she truly running away as he claimed? Or was she rushing toward something so divine he could not comprehend it?
Most importantly, whichever the case, would he be able to let her go?
Chapter Sixteen
Carolly remained out of sight the rest of that day and most of the next. She refused to come to meals, choosing instead to spend her time with Mags. Both she and the child knew she would be leaving soon, and so each made a special effort to make the days memorable.
Unfortunately, a house full of titled guests was the most exciting thing ever to happen for Mags, so she and Carolly spent hours spying on the intruders, and even more time ruminating on James's potential wives. Fortunately for Carolly's battered ego, Margaret was able to find some fault with each of the beautiful women trying to catch themselves an earl.
But even with the constant distractions of last-minute details, menu plans, and Mags's excited chatter, Carolly found more than enough time to think. In fact, it seemed to her that all she could do was think, ponder, and wonder.
Did she focus too much on the future? On becoming an angel? Perhaps there was more for her to learn in this life. Was it possible the reason she'd failed in her previous lives was exactly what James said—she refused to live in the present and so, ultimately, was doomed to be ineffective? Was she so afraid of being hurt that she ran to the hereafter rather than face the present?
An uncomfortable thought. Unfortunately, it was true. She did run toward divinity rather than live in the present. She did hide herself from those she most wanted to help. James was right.
But what could she do about it? Even if she set aside her goal of becoming an angel, what would she do? James would not accept the "madness" of her past lives, and she would not pretend it an elaborate fantasy. That left them right back where they started: Apart.
Yet in love.
Yes, she finally realized, he loved her. There was too much pain in his eyes when he looked at her. He had to be feeling the same torment she did every night, every day, being so close together but not able to touch, to share, or even to say the words: I love you.
He would not allow himself to do more than long for her from a distance. He loved her, and yet he would not admit it, would not accept her as she was. And she would not give up everything she knew for anything less.
It was an impasse. Until she saw her ballgown.
The dress arrived the day of the actual ball. Carolly spent the morning supervising the preparations, the afternoon circulating at the festival, buying dinner there, and had only just returned to the house an hour before the music began. She felt hot, dirty, and exhausted.
Then she saw the gown, neatly draped over her bed.
Margaret's eyes shone as she smoothed out non-existent creases. "Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?" the child breathed.
Carolly shook her head, her throat too tight to allow words.
The dress was stunning. Carolly stepped closer to the bed, unwilling to touch it for fear she would mar its beauty. Made of satin gauze, the gown had elegant puffed sleeves and a skirt trimmed with a deep flounce of lace. Tiny flowers mixed with seed pearls were sprinkled throughout the design.
Yes, it was lovely. But most of all, it was white—the color of purity and innocence. And of angels.
"Tut, tut," said Mrs. Potherby as she bustled into the room. "No need to dilly-dally about, staring. Into your bath. Quick now!"
Carolly barely had time to blink before she was stripped, bathed, and dried. Next came corset, underclothes, stockings, and slippers. Then she was shoved into a chair, her hair ruthlessly tugged and twisted by Commandant Potherby. It had grown out, and the woman ruthlessly styled it. And through the whole process, Carolly's mind was filled with the sight of her gown.
It was white—as were the gloves, the fan, and the flowers that Mrs. Potherby shoved in place in Carolly's locks.
Then came the time to put on the gown. But she could only stare at it, feeling somehow that it wasn't hers to wear. She hadn't earned the right to look so much like an angel. Not with what she'd—
"Tut, tut. In you go." Mrs. Potherby would not allow any lingering, and Carolly was forced to don the gown or risk ripping it as the stern woman pulled it up over her shoulders.
"Oh, Carolly," whispered Mags from her position at the foot of the bed. "You look heavenly."
“I—”
"You shall do me proud tonight," Mrs. Potherby said, her stern expression relaxing into a warm smile.
They all turned at a soft knock on the door. Given all the noise and commotion surrounding them, the sound could have been anything from a dropped corset to a pot boiling over in the kitchen.
But it wasn't. James stood on the other side of the door, and they all knew it.
Suddenly, Mrs. Potherby was hustling Margaret out the door while James waited. Then, finally, he stepped inside, drawing the door shut behind him.
"Oh, James." Carolly couldn't help but gasp. She didn't think a man could look as handsome as he did. He wore a dark gray coat emphasized by a white silk cravat and a single pearl neckpin. It was barely more formal than the clothing Garrett had worn countless nights to dinner, and yet the elegance seemed to fit James better. Perhaps the clothing accented his aristocratic bearing and very masculine presence. Or perhaps she simply loved him and would think him stunning in sackcloth. All she really understood was that he stole her breath away.
It was some moments before she realized he gazed at her with as much hungry adoration as she had for him.
"Had I but known this would be the result, I would have thrown a ball much earlier."
She flushed, not at his compliment, but at the clear admiration in his eyes.
"I don't feel like I deserve to wear this," she said.
He frowned, clearly surprised. "But why ever not?"
"James, this is for an angel."
"As you are."
"Except that you don't believe it."
He shrugged, dismissing his earlier doubts as if brushing away a pesky fly. "You are already an angel to me."
She bit her lip, suddenly feeling awkward. "James, everyone believes me to be your mistress. How can I wear white?”
He smiled at her, lifting his hand to trail it along her cheek. "Because it is beautiful on you. Because I wish it. But mostly because I want to show the ton exactly what a treasure I have found."
"James—"
&nbs
p; He silenced her, pressing his finger to her lips. "I have a gift for you."
She looked up, surprised. "But surely this gown is more than enough."
He shook his head, his eyes dancing with a joy she had not thought to see in him. "No. It is not enough, not nearly enough."
He placed a heavy jeweler's bag into her hand, his touch gentle as a caress. But Carolly didn't move to open it. It all felt so wrong. "James, I cannot. You have given me too much already."
"And, as you mentioned, you have reconciled me with my niece and given the villagers something to celebrate instead of grumble over. Surely that is worth a small token."
"But—"
"Here." Taking the bag from her he opened the top, letting a double strand of pearls spill into her hand.
"Oh, James." She could only stare at the perfectly matched pearls, wondering at such extravagance. In all of her lives, she had never been given a gift of such wealth or beauty. "Are you trying to bribe me?" she asked, her voice quavering at her feeble attempt at humor.
"I am trying to say thank-you," he whispered. Then he turned her around so she faced the minor as he slipped the pearls around her neck. "Perfect," he breathed, his breath coiling about her neck, as sensual as the caress of the cool stones. "I had thought to buy you diamonds, but somehow the pearls are more like you. They are warmer, and they seem to glow as you do."
She raised her gaze to his reflection, seeing him behind her, his darkness a perfect balance to her brightness. "I have misjudged you, James. I thought you were a cold man, trapped inside yourself and unable to love. But the truth is, you love better than I. You see things more clearly. You have allowed a madwoman into your life, given her shelter, clothing, food." She touched her necklace. "Even pearls. But most of all, you have given me the time to collect my thoughts."
She turned to him, meeting the dark gray of his eyes. "You were right. I have been running away. I hurt my family so badly the first time, I think I am afraid to try again, to live again."
He did not move, but she felt him change. It was a subtle shift of attitude. His eyes widened ever so slightly, and his breath seemed to catch, suspended in the air between them. Finally he spoke, but his voice was barely more than a whisper. "What does this mean?"
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