Cheryl Holt (42 page)

“No!” She recoiled, unable to credit what he’d just disclosed.

“Quietly, please, milady,” he cautioned. “I realize the information is a great shock.”

“Who has he chosen?”

“Lord Welby’s son.”

“I can’t marry him,” she declared, holding her fingers against her lips, wondering if she might be ill. She couldn’t abide the selfish oaf. “I’ve already promised myself to Charles.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” he murmured, and though it was very dark, Caroline could see his eyes twinkling. “In order to avoid your fate, Charles requests that you take a drastic step with him.”

“Anything . . .” she said, meaning it. She’d do anything for Charles. “Just tell me what it is.”

“I have made hasty arrangements for the two of you to elope this evening. To Scotland. After, you’ll travel to my country house, where you’ll stay until I deem it safe for you to reappear in London.” Footsteps sounded on the next
path, and they all stiffened, listening to a pair of discreet lovers lingering nearby. The duo moved on, and Mr. Stevens continued. “Unfortunately, there is no time to mull your decision. If you would like to proceed, we must be away.”

“Now?” She was shocked by the abrupt turn of events.

“I’m sorry, but yes,” he explained. “It must be right now.”

Caroline glanced toward the brilliantly lit house, realizing that she had only a few more minutes before Margaret noticed her protracted absence. A few small, precious minutes before others started to search for her. A handful of precarious, valuable minutes during which she could be detected by the wrong person wandering down the garden path.

Yet here she stood, having to make a split-second decision about her future. If she departed with Mr. Stevens, she’d be leaving her entire life behind. Nothing would ever be the same. Margaret and Jerald would disown her, her friends would never be permitted to communicate with her again, most of London’s doors would be closed to her.

Did she care?

The answer was a resounding
no
, she didn’t care. Not with Charles waiting for her on the other side of the wall. But as she suffered the thought, one face, one person, came to mind, and that was Abigail.

How would Abigail perceive the rash choice Caroline was being offered?

Caroline stared at this man who had brought such unmitigated disaster down upon her sister, this notorious man whom Edward admired and Charles adored, and she vividly recollected Abigail and that day in her dressing room when Abigail had been dancing in front of the mirror with an imaginary beau, categorically exuding intense joy and devotion. Without a doubt, Abigail had loved James Stevens; she wasn’t the type of woman who would have given herself freely. Only desperate emotion could have driven her to such lengths.

She pictured Abigail, forsaken and miserable in the country, forever separated from the man she had cherished above all others, and she decided that Abigail would understand her determination. And who knew? Maybe once she was established with Charles, she’d be able to seek Abigail out on her own, Jerald and his stuffy morals be damned!

“Take me to Charles,” she declared, feeling reckless and foolhardy.

“With pleasure,” Mr. Stevens said.

He presented his arm, and with the maid—Mary—close behind, ushered them to a gate. They slipped through undetected, and his carriage was parked a few feet away. At their approach, the door opened, and Charles leapt down, swinging her into a tight embrace.

“Caroline,” he whispered, his warm scent sweeping over her and rendering her giddy with ecstasy. He kissed her long and slow, with Mr. Stevens and Mary watching, but Caroline didn’t hesitate to return his affection. Her relief at being in his arms once again was so great that nothing else mattered.

Only the sound of Mr. Stevens clearing his throat compelled them to desist. “You can kiss her as long as you desire,” he advised Charles, “as soon as you’re safely away.”

“You’re right, of course,” Charles agreed. He turned to her. “Are you sure, love?”

“Oh, yes. Very sure.” She smiled, and he smiled, too.

“Up you go, then.” He gripped her waist and lifted her in. Mary climbed in after and unobtrusively settled herself in the far corner.

“Are you coming with us?” Caroline asked, surprised.

“Aye, milady,” Mary said. “James felt that the trip would be difficult for you, and he didn’t want you obliged to travel without a lady’s maid.”

Caroline raised her brows at the revelation, amazed that the enigmatic man had remembered such a convenience,
and glad that he was willing to be so helpful and kind when they’d never even been introduced.

Mary grinned mischievously, obviously enjoying the prospect of an adventure. “Considering the circumstances,” she added lightly, “ ’tisn’t as if we could have your own personal maid accompany us.”

“No, definitely not.” Caroline chuckled, then she sobered as it suddenly occurred to her that she was fleeing with only the gown in which she was currently attired. “What am I to do for clothing?”

“The first day or two will be rough,” Mary said, “but if you can bear with me, James has directed me to get you appropriately outfitted as promptly as we’re able.”

“I’m certain we’ll lump along nicely.” She was eager to be off, enthusiastic for the escapade to start. Peeking out the window, she saw Charles huddled with his brother, deep in conversation. At the sight of them, so elegant and dynamic, her heart swelled with love and pride. She let the curtain drop into place and shifted against the squab. On a prayer, she closed her eyes and tried to relax, readying herself for the commencement of the rest of her life.

“Do you have the bag of coins I gave you?” James asked. They needed to hurry, yet he was desperate to prolong the moment. Now that he’d met Charles, he didn’t want him to depart.

“Yes,” Charles responded, patting the front of his jacket.

“And the directions to the house?”

“Yes.”

“Write to me as soon as you arrive.”

“I will.”

“How about the combination to the safe?”

“Got it.” He patted his pocket once again.

“Don’t forget to lock your marriage license inside it immediately,” he warned.

“James”—Charles laughed quietly—“you’re worrying like an old hen.”

“With good reason. We’re in a rush, which makes it easy to neglect the important details.”

“I’ll protect our marital proof at all costs.”

James paused, imagining what else he might have overlooked. Baldly, he said, “Don’t return to London until you’re convinced that she’s increasing. You can’t give Jerald an excuse to reverse what you’ve done.”

“I’ll do my best,” Charles said, cocky and full of himself, “to ensure she becomes pregnant as rapidly as possible.”

“Randy devil,” James muttered. “Your surname is definitely Stevens.”

Just then, Caroline glanced out the window, gazing expectantly at them both, then retreating behind the curtain, and James couldn’t get over how young she seemed, how fresh and innocent. Unexpectedly, he was overwhelmed by a surge of fondness, as well as a wave of protectiveness, for the girl. By all accounts, Charles was a fine lad, but still, with the strict courtship rules of their society, Caroline hardly knew him.

He couldn’t help glaring at his brother. “Have you ever lain with a woman?”

“James!”

Even in the darkness, James could tell Charles was blushing. “Well . . .?”

“Many times,” Charles answered.

“I assume they were whores.”

“Mostly.”

“Then . . . have a care with her.
Try
to restrain yourself. Take your time at initiating her.”

“I’ll go slowly,” Charles pledged.

“For her sister’s sake,”—remarkably, he couldn’t prevent himself from appending—“and for
mine
, be kind to her.”

“I swear to you,” Charles proclaimed earnestly, “that I shall love her all my days.”

“You’d better,” James admonished like a gruff father, “or you’ll have to deal with me.”

A silence ensued, became awkward, and then, to his utter astonishment and delight, Charles reached out and crushed him in a fast hug.

“Thank you,” Charles mumbled into his ear. “For everything.”

“You’re welcome.” James struggled to remain calm and detached, but his heart was booming a thousand miles per hour. Charles pulled away, and they clasped hands. “If you need anything,” James expressed, “send a messenger straightaway.”

“I will,” Charles said.

“When the two of you decide to come back to London, if Father has evicted you and you require a place to stay . . .”—he swallowed and forced the unusual statement from his mouth—“my door is always open.”

More footsteps and voices could be heard in the garden beyond the wall, and they froze.

“Good-bye,” Charles mouthed.

James nodded his farewell, and Charles vaulted into the coach. The driver, already fully briefed on his duties, pulled away. The carriage jingled to life, and the horses’ hooves clopped out of the black alley and toward the street. At the last instant, Caroline poked her head out and waved gaily, blowing merry kisses in his direction. They turned the corner and disappeared, and in no more than a moment he was alone. He stood rooted to his spot, unable to stir long after the vehicle had faded into the night.

Slowly, he walked to the lit avenue, while pondering where he should go next. Briefly, he contemplated heading for home, but in view of his melancholy mood, the silence and stillness of his lonely house was a gloomy option. Not able to stomach the idea of such a solitary confinement, he hailed a cab and provided directions to his club, where the noise and bustle might aid him in keeping his demons at bay.

Abigail strolled distractedly across the sloping backyard toward her family’s ancestral residence. The mansion was
majestically perched on a hillside, dominating the valley, and it gleamed white in the bright sunshine. Colors and fragrances from the perfectly tended gardens assaulted her eyes and nose, but she paid no attention. The grounds of the Marbleton estate were always beautiful, never more so than in summer, yet she hardly noticed the flowers or shrubbery.

For over a month now, she’d languished in the country. Jerald had sent her down like some sort of recalcitrant child, but she hadn’t minded. After the initial shock of her circumstance had begun to wane, she’d relished the isolation and had expended all of her hours in trying to decide what her next move should be.

Unfortunately, she’d had very little inspiration. Money was not a problem, because she could draw funds from her trust. She could go anywhere and attempt anything, the problem being that she had no notion of what she would truly like to do.

In the time she’d been home, Jerald had posted one caustic letter, advising that he was busy finding her a husband, and that she would be obligated to wed once the agreements were finalized. The very idea of Jerald picking her fiancé was as hilarious as it was terrifying. She could just imagine what type of man he’d deem suitable, so she’d written a reply, tersely insisting that she would never marry, that he needn’t expend any effort on the fruitless endeavor, but he hadn’t drafted a subsequent response.

Due to her advanced age, he couldn’t force her, but where did that leave her?

As an unmarried woman, she had no options. Once she refused Jerald’s spousal selection, she’d be impelled to vacate the premises without delay, and she’d already discovered that she couldn’t remain in the Marbleton area. When she’d arrived at the height of the Season, gossip had rapidly circulated among the neighbors that it must have been due to some type of immorality she’d committed in Town. She couldn’t even innocently shop in the village without encountering their malicious disapproval.

So her only other viable course was to go back to London, where she could enjoy a fair amount of anonymity, but it would be an exceedingly pitiful existence. She could purchase a house, employ a companion, then live out her days as an odd, sequestered spinster, but the concept was so depressing that she couldn’t bear to dwell upon it.

With the loss of her familial connections and the doors of Polite Society closed to her, she’d have to build new friendships among the demimonde, and such a bohemian lifestyle would place her smack on the fringes of James’s world. Wherever she went, his name would be casually bandied about, women would titter over his naughty antics, and—Lord forbid!—she might run into him while he was out and about with his latest lover.

There were definite advantages to being exiled and disgraced, hidden from view and denied all company. She never had to hear a word about him. But in London . . . oh . . . she’d never be safe.

In her sequestration, she could delude herself into believing that their relationship had been an absurd indiscretion, but to encounter him again, alive and in the flesh, would kill her. With a dreaded certainty, she knew it to be so. To be faced with his scorn, to be struck again by his indifference, was too shattering to consider.

“What to do . . . what to do . . .” Incessantly, she ruminated over the question that had no conspicuous answer.

She stepped onto the terrace just as one of the maids came outside looking for her.

“Milady,” she announced, “you have a visitor.”

“A visitor? For me?” She was surprised and alarmed. With rampant rumors of her ruination circulating the countryside, it wouldn’t be any of the local gentry, which only left someone from Town. With the Season’s festivities winding down, no one of importance would be caught dead so far from all the action, so most likely it would be a messenger with another angry missive from Jerald.

Had the rat located a husband for her? When she declined to accept his decision, what would be the consequence?
Was she to be immediately evicted? Would she be permitted to pack a bag?

“Who is it?” she managed.

“She wouldn’t divulge her name, but she’s in the receiving parlor. The butler explained to her that you weren’t taking callers, but the impossible woman wouldn’t listen.” The maid nervously worried one hand over the other. “She just barged right in!”

Upon learning that the visitor was female, some of her apprehension lessened. “Don’t fret,” she irritably told the servant. “I won’t tattle to my brother that you’ve let a guest breach the walls.” The maid had the grace to blush at the reminder that the household retainers around whom Abigail had been raised were now acting as her jailers.