A Season for Love (2 page)

Caroline’s golden blonde tresses might have
been a far cry from the duke’s own coloring, but her firm chin,
determined temperament, and remarkable amber eyes were definite
chips off the paternal block. “I could not consider meeting your
betrothed’s family in all my dirt,” she announced, “nor have I the
proper clothing for meeting them at all. Therefore, I beg you will
excuse me until morning.”

There was not a soul in the foyer, from Nell
Brindley to the duke himself, who doubted Lady Caroline was capable
of carrying this argument as far as necessary. No amount of
persuasion would get her to enter the ducal dining room chock-full
of strangers while clad in a countrified gown that had just
suffered through three days on the road.

“
Ten o’clock tomorrow in the bookroom,”
Longville conceded in a rare bending of ducal will.

“
Yes, Your Grace.” Caroline’s curtsy
was the height of gracious respect. Perhaps it was the militant
light in her eye which gave all present—including the duke
himself—the impression she was mocking His Grace, the Duke of
Longville.

But instead of the expected display of anger,
the duke’s lips twitched. “I seem to recall you used to call me
something else,” he told the stubborn young lady before him. She
stood silent, obviously a victim of Carlington obstinacy.
Descending from his ducal high horse, Marcus Carlington held out
his arms. “Welcome home, Caroline,” he said.

With a sob, Lady Caroline threw herself into
her father’s arms. The father she had not seen in eight long, and
frequently bitter, years. For better or for worse, she had come
home. Tonight there was joy. Tomorrow? Tomorrow, reality would
reduce their joy to rubble. Tomorrow they would all discover she
was the worm in the woodwork, the messenger come to destroy the
duke’s fine plans for a second marriage. But tonight she could tell
herself her father cared about her, that the residents of Longville
House were delighted to have her home. Tonight she could bask in
the glow of being the beloved daughter.

Caroline tightened her arms around her
father’s back, daring to give him a genuine hug. This might be the
one and only time she could do so. Then she stepped back, bobbed
one final curtsy. “Please rejoin your guests, father. I look
forward to seeing you in the morning.” With regal dignity she
turned toward the stairs, hoping Mrs. Jenks would be close on her
heels, for, truthfully, she could not quite remember the location
of the Blue Room.

Later, when they had eaten and Nell was
settled on a cot in the dressing room, Lady Caroline found she
could not sleep. Wrapping herself in her wool robe, which she
suspected was as out of fashion as the rest of her clothing, she
curled up on a needlepointed bench in front of the window that
looked out over Grosvenor Square. The duke’s guests were beginning
to leave, to the clank of harness, the slow rumble of coach wheels,
murmured voices, the occasional shout from a footman. The view was
almost mystical, more imagined than seen, as fog swirled so high
that at times only the coachman’s tall hat was visible poking up
through a haze of white. Most carriages were accompanied by link
boys with torches, creating a steady, if wavering, river of light
as each vehicle moved off, fading, fading until swallowed up by the
London fog. It was strangely beautiful, Caroline thought. And so
peaceful, all sounds muffled by the all-encompassing blanket of
mist.

For a moment she longed for the anonymity of
the fog. Longed to be someone other than Lady Caroline Carlington,
the long-estranged daughter of the eighth Duke of Longville. She
wished she had not had the running of her mother’s household during
the many years of Amy Carlington’s disinterest in the life around
her and during the even longer months of her final illness.
Caroline wished she had not had to listen to her mother’s
bitterness, recriminations, and occasional vitriol. She wished her
life might have been more . . . more normal. Perhaps she might have
attended some of the assemblies in the Lake District, learned to
dance, talk with young men. She might even have learned to flirt.
Even though her mother continually assured her that men were the
Great Abomination.

Now, in this magical hour between
darkness and dawn, she could dream that a normal life might yet be
hers.
How singularly foolish
.
In the morning her papa would learn that she and her mother had
conspired against him. That they had kept a secret through all the
long years of Lady Amy Carlington’s separation from her husband.
That Caroline, alone, had kept it through the year since her
mother’s death.

His Grace, the Duke of Longville, was going
to be very angry.

Unless, of course, he was so astonished he
forgot to be furious.

~ * ~

Anthony Norville, Viscount Frayne—known to
his intimates as Tony—held his glass of brandy up to the firelight,
lazily contemplating the shifting patterns reflected in the
excellent, if undoubtedly smuggled, amber liquid. His prospective
brother-in-law maintained an outstanding wine cellar, indeed he
did. If only as much could be said for the quality of his dinner
parties.

There were those who considered
Viscount Frayne a useless fribble, nothing more than the topmost
whorl in the tail of the
ton
’s
array of strutting peacocks. It was even said he dared look on
Brummel with a superior, and somewhat supercilious, smile. Then
again, Lord Frayne was so lazily good-natured that the great Beau
forgave him. Tony Norville’s friends envied his figure, which was
tall and slender, the perfect body to display the current fashion
of skin-tight clothing for men. His light brown hair curled
naturally in the disheveled look many young gentlemen took hours to
imitate. His noble brow topped a pair of unexpectedly sharp blue
eyes, a nose and mouth that might have been the models for ancient
Greek statues.

In truth, it was no wonder the viscount was a
dash spoiled. Heir to an earldom and possessed of a fortune from a
great-uncle who had made good use of his many years working for the
John Company, Tony Norville had no responsibilities beyond a minor
manor that seemed quite capable of running itself. Nothing to do
but while away the hours, confident it would be many long years
before he stepped into his father’s shoes and was expected to take
his seat in the House of Lords.

It was a life he seldom questioned. Except,
some years previously, when he had informed his father of his wish
to buy a commission in the same regiment as his sister’s husband
and had received the sharpest setdown of his overindulged life.
After that, he had dedicated himself even more strongly to the
frivolous life, which suited him, he assured himself. Yet there
were times . . . like tonight . . .

As he thought of the tedious hours just
passed with a variety of relations he had not seen in years, nor
wished to see again, Viscount Frayne leaned back still farther into
one of the duke’s black leather wingchairs, settled his feet more
comfortably on a matching upholstered footstool, and basked in the
soft warmth of the crackling fire.
Heaven!
He was free at last from the inane
chatter, the utter ennui. If he had not felt obligated to support
poor Jen through this ordeal, it would have taken one of Boney’s
regiments to drag him to Longville House tonight. Yet he had done
rather well, he thought, a somewhat cynical smile flitting across
his classically handsome face. After all, handling delicate social
situations was his forte, was it not? But as soon as the horde of
relatives began to take their leave, he had considered himself
freed from duty, escaping with neat alacrity to the privacy of
Longville’s bookroom.

Tony Norville savored the duke’s fine
brandy and indulged in an unaccustomed moment of fraternal pride.
As sisters went, Jen was top o’ the trees. He lifted his brandy in
a silent toast. Jen was a brave one, taking on the Duke of
Longville. Truthfully, not something he would have expected of her.
Not the type to marry for title or wealth was Jenny Norville
Wharton. Married the first time for love, hadn’t she? Run off with
a younger son, followed the drum. To hell and back, Tony suspected,
though Jen seldom spoke of her life on the Peninsula. So perhaps he
shouldn’t be surprised she was willing to marry Longville. Past
time she was sensible. Feathering her nest, some were calling it,
but why shouldn’t she live in comfort if she could, as well as
providing little Susan with a secure position at the top of
the
ton
?

With the brandy snifter tilted to his
lips, Tony’s fingers froze around the glass. The tiniest
susurration had reached his ears, a sound barely heard above the
hiss and crackle of the fire. Was he no longer alone? Damn and
blast! Though his friends would never believe it, Viscount Frayne,
that peripatetic leader of the
ton
, truly had moments when he wanted to be
alone. And this, by God, was one of them.

His chair was tall, the wings wide; his black
pantaloons and shiny black shoes, stretched out on the padded
stool, faced the fireplace and were not visible to someone just
entering the room. Hopefully, whoever it was, seeing the room
empty, would simply go away.

Movement caught his eye. Tony—also termed
Frayne the Unflappable—nearly dropped his brandy. He blinked, half
convinced he had fallen asleep. A vision, a veritable vision filled
his gaze. Vividly illuminated by the light of a single candle
clutched in the young woman’s hand was an exquisitely lovely face
framed in golden blonde curls that fell in profusion over her
shoulders and down her back. Only when he finally lowered his eyes
to examine the rest of her did he discover she was incongruously
clad in a robe of faded blue, with a few inches of white cotton
nightwear peeking out from beneath the hem and a pair of
houseslippers so well worn Tony doubted the church’s charity box
would accept them as a castoff.

A mystery. The viscount’s ennui evaporated on
the instant. The girl might be poorly dressed, but she was no maid,
of that he was certain. For one thing, no maid would dare enter the
Duke of Longville’s bookroom in the wee hours of the morning. And
yet the alternative was too shocking, even for Longville. The duke
couldn’t be sporting a mistress in his own townhouse on the eve of
his wedding. Surely not.

In a faded blue robe and ragged slippers?
Never. The duke’s sense of consequence wouldn’t allow it. Yet here
she was, every gorgeous unprotected inch of her.

Tony’s eyes gleamed. Never let it be said a
Norville botched such a delicious opportunity.

Her candle was currently wavering down near
the floor as the young lady attempted to examine the books on one
of the lower shelves along the far wall. Her knees were bent nearly
double. Perhaps he should wait until she was in a less awkward
position . . .

His lips curled in anticipation. No. It was
time. Let the fun begin.

“
May I help you find something?”
Viscount Frayne inquired. Politely.

The ethereally beautiful young lady shrieked,
dropped the book she had just picked up, and toppled with a soft
thud onto her nicely rounded derrière. Exactly the opening Tony
wanted. He was still congratulating himself as he ambled across the
room to the bookcase where the young lady sat upon the carpet,
glaring up at him in high dudgeon.

“
My abject apologies, my dear,” he
said, “but I felt I must find some means of making my presence
known.” He offered his most charming smile, the one that brought
him instant absolution from society hostesses whenever he managed
to be late or totally forgot an engagement. “I suppose I might
simply have cleared my throat, but if I had stood up, suddenly
looming over you, you might have been frightened quite out of your
wits.” The viscount held out his hand. “Come. Please allow me to
help you up.”

Still glaring, the vision of loveliness
ignored him, scrambling to her feet on her own. Fortunately, in a
bit of artful maneuvering, she managed to keep her candle from
burning a hole in either the carpet, a book, or herself. “I beg
your pardon,” she declared stiffly. “If I had had any notion
someone was here, I would not have entered. “Goodnight.” She
proffered a regal nod and took a step toward the door.

With an agile sidestep, Tony moved in front
of her. “Please,” the viscount coaxed. “Have you never wished to
have a thoroughly unacceptable conversation with a stranger in the
middle of the night? Where is your sense of adventure, my dear
lady? Here I was, bored to flinders, and then—quite
miraculously—you appeared before me. I am certain Fate has
determined that we should meet, and that your forfeit for entering
the duke’s library in your robe and slippers must be a few moments
of your time.”

Ah . . .
the
look she aimed at him was lethal. If suspicion were a sword, he
would already lie bleeding upon the carpet.

“
Very well,” Tony conceded, “we will
remain anonymous, you and I. A mystery to each other for all
eternity. Will that concession procure a few
bon mots
between us? Pray sit with me for five
minutes. After all, there are people just outside the door who will
come bursting in at the slightest sound of a scream.”

“
Then where are they?” the young lady
demanded. “For I am certain I shrieked quite loudly when you first
spoke to me.”

“
A most ladylike shriek,” he assured
her. “You would have to do better than that, I fear.”