by Claudia Dain
“We were speaking of your daughter,” Westlin said, “not my wife.”
“Yes,” Caro said, “and the nature of that bet. What was it?”
“I can’t think that it matters now,” Sophia said evasively, arranging the fringe on her shawl so that it draped more elegantly over her white arms.
“It matters to me,” Caro said, staring at Sophia.
“Yes, well, I don’t suppose it could do any harm to tell you, particularly as I’ve made quite a lot of money as a result,” Sophia said.
“And that’s all that matters?” Caro said stiffly. “Making a profit? ”
“Darling, let me assure you, it is far more enjoyable than suffering a loss.”
“There are more things to be lost than money,” Caro said, her voice tight with emotion.
Sophia looked into her daughter’s eyes and smiled lightly. “Of course there are, Caro, but why lose money when the opportunity to make it presents itself?”
“And I was that opportunity?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Sophia said. “The way I understand it, the Earl of Westlin and his brother, Baron Sedgwick, became engaged in a rather vigorous discussion at White’s that, as these sorts of discussions inevitably do, ended up as a bet on White’s book. The argument and subsequent bet being that Sedgwick, a delightful man, you’ll so enjoy him, Caro, bet Westlin that Lord Ashdon would be courting you by the end of the Season. Lord Westlin obviously bet that his son, the charming Lord Ashdon, would not court you. But, of course, Lord Ashdon not only courted you, he married you, and swiftly. And there you have it. The bet was made. I bet against Lord Westlin and I have won.” As usual. Sophia didn’t say it aloud, but those in the room heard it as clearly as if she had.
Of course, she had stumbled into ruination, been enticed to it by Ash, actually, which had been the cause of her swift marriage, but if Lord Westlin didn’t know about her being ruined, she wasn’t going to be the one to enlighten him.
“That was the bet?” Caro asked suspiciously. “The bet was about me? About Lord Ashdon and me?”
“Why, of course, darling. What else?”
They all looked at Caro expectantly, even Lord Staverton with his wandering eye seemed to have focused on her more intently that she would have thought physically possible.
“I, well,” Caro said, fidgeting with her fresh fichu; she never had found the other one that Ashdon had so purposefully disposed of in the dining room. “I was under the impression that things were rather more about you and Ashdon.”
“Things? What things are you referring to, Caro?”
“Just . . . things.”
“I can’t imagine what you mean,” Sophia said with a laugh. “Here you are, in the flush of impudent youth and flagrant beauty. I can’t think how Ashdon resisted you for as long as he did.”
“Three days?” Caro said sarcastically.
“Darling, I am quite certain he was besotted after three hours. He just didn’t realize it. Men are rather slow about these things,” Sophia said, winking at her daughter. “They often require much patience and careful handling. An important point to remember as you begin your life together.”
“Women’s rubbish,” Westlin said in a low snarl. “If you are going to lie to your daughter, at least do it well. Tell her the rest, Sophia, or I will.”
“Can’t you keep things civil, Westlin?” Staverton said, getting up from his chair and moving to one of the street-facing windows. “Let things settle. They are as they are.”
Caro could feel her stomach dive into her hips before bouncing back to lodge under her heart. She was, however, fairly certain that she was maintaining a poised and politely bland expression, which was all that mattered.
“She looks like she’s about to cast up her accounts,” Westlin said.
“Don’t be absurd,” Sophia said. “My daughter would never fall to such behavior, especially not in front of her husband’s father.”
Which of course, straightened both her spine and her resolve.
“I feel perfectly fine,” Caro said sweetly. “Thank you for your concern, Lord Westlin. In this instance, it is completely misplaced.”
Sophia smiled in approval and nodded serenely. Whatever had occurred, Lord Westlin was not to see any weakness in her; that Caro understood very well.
“Of course, if there is something I should know, I should be more than eager to know it,” Caro said. “Mother? Is there more?”
“Nothing of particular interest,” Sophia said. When Lord Westlin began to grumble, Sophia continued, “Only that I wagered you would marry Lord Ashdon by six o’clock today. I made a tidy sum on that, as well. Well done, Caro.”
Oh, Lord. She and her mother both knew how that had been managed. It had been her mother’s idea, after all, the entire pearl price, which would naturally result in the pearl seduction, which would even more naturally result in either ruination or marriage, and in her particular situation, both. She had been used. By her mother. For profit. Perhaps even for revenge.
Had Ashdon been right about her mother? Had this all been about wielding some blow against Westlin and nothing at all to do with her happiness?
No, not even Sophia could be so coldly calculating.
Though it was her mother who had convinced her that a pearl seduction was the only way to reliably achieve the elusive and completely contrary Lord Ashdon. It had seemed a logical plan at the time, particularly for a girl who had limited options. All right. She had had no options, or none that she could see, anyway.
Had she been managed from the start?
It had been her mother’s idea to marry Lord Ashdon initially, hadn’t it? Somehow, it had become her idea, or she had been persuaded to think it was her idea.
How very convenient that Sophia’s only daughter was married to Lord Westlin’s only son. What a very tidy revenge, and for profit, too. Her mother, she well knew, never discounted the possibility for profit.
Caro was developing a very healthy headache.
“And well done to Ashdon,” Staverton said from his window post, the late afternoon sun slanting across his features. “He wagered against the Marquis of Dutton that he’d wed you and bed you before four o’clock today. He was collecting from Dutton as I left White’s. A tidy sum, too.”
She was on her feet and at the door of the white salon before she knew it. She had to get out of this room before she did cast up her accounts, all over Lord Westlin’s feet. Not that he didn’t deserve it for having such a horrid son.
“What a clever man,” Sophia said smoothly, “to be paid twice for the same act. Perhaps he is better at money than he first appeared. How fortunate for Caroline.”
Caroline turned to face her mother, her eyes wide with shock.
How fortunate for Caroline. Oh, yes, how very fortunate. He’d done it for money. He’d done it all for money. He was more of a courtesan than she could ever have dreamed of being.
The door opened behind her and she slipped back an unsteady step into the opening, slipped back and felt Ashdon’s hand on her back, steadying her. She knew his touch; even through her clothes, she knew his touch and yearned for it.
She’d like to kill him for that.
“Hello, my irresistible wife,” he murmured against her hair.
His scent tantalized her, bracing and enticing. She could hate him for that as well. What wiles hadn’t he used to make a pound off her too-willing flesh?
She stepped sharply away from his touch and faced him. He looked the complete innocent, the scoundrel.
“I’m surprised you don’t jingle when you walk,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?” Ash asked, still playing the innocent, loving husband.
“I said,” she snapped, slamming the door to the white salon closed, “that I’m surprised you don’t jingle when you walk. From all the money you’ve made at my expense. From all the bargains and wagers you’ve made with me at their heart. From all the times and ways you’ve sold yourself, and me, for
money.”
Ashdon actually had the cheek to look grim. The man had no shame, certainly no morals, and it was highly questionable whether he would continue on with all the parts he’d been born with.
“I think you should know now, Caro, that I shan’t discuss financial matters with you. That is not the way our marriage shall be arranged.”
“Fine!” she said, staring him down. If he thought he could frighten her with a grim and forbidding look, well, he didn’t know her at all, did he? “You may or may not discuss what you wish. You will understand, of course, that while you are making pronouncements about how our marriage shall be arranged, I shall be making funeral arrangements. For you. Freddy? A candlestick, if you please?”
Without any hesitation and certainly no reluctance, Freddy handed her a nicely solid silver candelabra. It would work beautifully as a weapon, and Freddy would never testify against her. Of that, she was certain.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Ash said. His tone was harsh and condemning. She could hardly have cared less.
“If you will just stand still for a moment, I am going to hit you soundly on the head. Preferably the face. I should so like to disfigure you. Permanently. It will be a closed casket, of course.”
“Caro—”
“My name is Caroline,” she interrupted. “You may call me Lady Caroline, if you must call me anything at all.”
“Caro,” he said sternly, eyeing the candlestick, which she had raised over her head and which was growing somewhat heavy, “put that down. We must talk a few things through.”
“Oh. Now you’re willing to talk? Well, there is nothing to talk about, is there? It was all a lie. Everything. From the very start.” She was starting to cry. It was most embarrassing. Of all things, she did not want Ashdon to see her cry. “Everything was for the money. It was never about me at all. You probably hate the very sight of me. No wonder you hurried through our . . . well, what to call it? Not our wedding night. It isn’t even night yet. You just wanted to get it over with, didn’t you? I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t fling my skirts up over my head so that you could forget who—”
“Caro!” he roared. She dropped the candlestick. It made a dent in the floor and rolled dully to a stop at Freddy’s feet. “Enough!”
“Yes, enough,” she said stiffly, sniffing back her tears. “Fully enough. Freddy? The door.”
Freddy complied and opened the door. Ashdon grabbed her in his arms as she tried to pass him, crushed her to him, and kissed her savagely. She was on the edge of losing herself in his kiss, which was completely usual. She was completely disgusted with herself for her girlish weakness where Lord Ashdon was concerned. It was time for a completely different sort of action altogether.
She kneed him in the groin.
It was rather more than satisfying to see him drop to one knee and turn white about the gills.
Apparently, she had struck him rather hard for even Freddy groaned. She was sorry for that, but she couldn’t see how it could have been helped.
Caro ran out of the house and down the steps with no thought as to where she would go, but certain that she had to go . . . away. Away from Ashdon. Away from the cruel truth of her marriage. He didn’t love her; he didn’t even particularly want her. He had needed money and so he had agreed to marry her, and then made a bet that he would marry her. How had her mother put it? Paid twice for the same act? And just when had he made that bet, anyway? That bit of missing information loomed quite large.
If she could stop crying long enough she would kill him.
She ran down Upper Brook Street to Park Lane and began walking briskly, certainly nothing to draw attention to herself, unless one discounted the fact that she had no hat, no spencer, and was wearing the wrong shoes for walking. She was forced to discount all three items and pretend that she was out for a healthy stretch of the leg. It was a bit of a struggle to maintain a good pretense when she was crying like a child, but she was fortunate in that no one was out. No one she knew anyway.
The sun was sinking behind the trees of Hyde Park, the birds were chirping gaily in their final moments before seeking their nests, the breeze was fresh and cool, and she couldn’t stop crying.
It had all gone badly awry. She had a husband and, as much as she wanted to, she probably shouldn’t kill him. Murder was rather frowned upon, no matter how stellar the provocation. Ashdon would live on, but she could not live with him.
She just couldn’t, not now that she knew he had never felt the slightest breath of interest in her beyond the money he could make because of her. He had flirted and flattered her, just like the finest courtesan the town had ever seen, and now he had her. Or she had him. Whichever. But they didn’t want each other, not really. He wanted the soothing jingle of coin and she wanted . . . she wanted . . .
Ashdon.
Caro sniffed and cursed herself for not having a handkerchief to hand. She pulled off her fichu because, honestly, she looked shabby enough without proper shoes and no coat, what was to be gained by wearing a proper fichu to cover her décolleté? There was no one who cared what her décolleté looked like in any regard. Their marriage was a pretense, and therefore the pretense of Ashdon falling to bits over her fine and lovely bosom was superfluous now. She carefully arranged her delicate fichu in her hands and then blew her nose on it.
It was at that most inopportune moment that she heard the sound of running footsteps behind her. She turned slightly, wadding the fichu in her hand, and beheld Ashdon running toward her.
He did not look grim. Neither did he look resolved. In point of fact, he looked furious.
Without meaning to do so, but with no inclination to stop, Caro began running away from him. Indeed, it was the only logical response, wasn’t it? She certainly would not be foolish enough to run toward a furious husband who had just been severely kneed by his wife. Even if he had deserved it. Even if it didn’t look to have incapacitated him for long.
Life was so consistently unfair, no matter how logical one was about it. She was beginning to wonder if being logical wasn’t a highly overrated attribute. Being logical certainly hadn’t helped her much that she could see.
It was becoming increasingly obvious that she was going to lose her race against Ashdon down Park Lane. If life had been fair, she would have been able to outrun him, or at least to have kept her advantage of a head start. Or at the very least been wearing something a bit more solid on her feet than fragile silk shoes.
Whatever her disadvantages in a footrace against her husband, she was not going to stop running. Let him drag her to the ground, if he dared. Let him haul her off into the depths of Hyde Park, slung over his shoulder like a captive. Let him tear the very clothes from her body . . . yes, well, and that was the whole trouble, thinking like that.
She was prevented from finding out if Ashdon would catch her and what he would do with her when he caught her by the timely intervention of a passing landau.
A shadowed face presented itself at the window, the landau slowed, the door opened, a large hand with delicate tattoos encircling the wrist reached out to her, and she was, with great finesse, hauled inside. Her last thought as she was being lifted into the dark confines of the mysterious landau was that Ashdon would be furious to have lost the chance to throttle her. It was for this reason that she entered the landau grinning.
Twenty-five
A dark and chiseled face, almond-shaped black eyes, and a red fox fur hat appeared from out of the gloom.
“Oh, hello, Uncle John,” she said as she straightened her skirts on the carriage squabs. “Back from France so soon?”
“Should I kill him?” her uncle said in answer to her rather tame greeting.
“Please don’t,” she said, trying to catch her breath from that awful run. “I think it would be more fun if I killed him.”
Uncle John smiled in his fashion, which is to say that he made a gesture with his mouth that was slightly above a grimace. His shining black
eyes did the actual smiling.
“Agreed. Who is he?”
“Oh,” she said on an exasperated sigh, “he’s just my husband.”
The conversation was entirely in French, of course, as Uncle John, Sophia’s brother, was more comfortably fluent in French rather than English, though his English was flawless. Once she had admitted that the man pursuing her was her husband, Uncle John had tapped the roof of the landau and it had stopped. She had seen the fury on Ash’s face; she knew full well that he was still running to catch her.
“I wish you would drive on,” she said. “I have no wish to be battered by my husband.”
“He would hit you?” When she merely shrugged her answer, he said, “Did you hit him first?”