No Regrets (14 page)

   With slow steps, he moved toward her. "I can help you with your gown, if you wish."

   His murmur caressed her skin as if he'd run his hands over her body. Flames turned to liquid fire and ran in her veins, setting off hot explosions in her breasts and deep between her thighs. Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs. She had wanted his attention. But now that she had it, it frightened her to death.

   His gaze devoured her face and neck and slid down her body, heating each spot where it rested. "Both are lovely, Caro. It won't matter which one you wear."

   She retreated a step and found the wall at her back. She had nowhere left to go and no voice to speak. Even if she had a voice, what would she say? Take me, I'm yours?

   She stared into his face, lean and angled and strong. Tears and laughter hovered in her throat, and a strange feeling of power thrummed under her skin.

   The gleam in his dark eyes danced. In a flash, large hands braced against the wall on each side of her head, broad forearms imprisoning her. His smoldering gaze held her pinned. The aromatic scent of sandalwood filled her every quick breath.

   Do something, she thought. The gown fell in a puddle at her feet. She pressed her hands to his chest flattening the rough curls, absorbing the silken warmth beneath. Her palms tingled.

   His gaze raked from her face to her breasts, and his nostrils flared as if he might inhale her. He dipped his head, dark lashes drooping to cover his eyes and long hair falling forward, skimming her face and blocking the light.

   She parted her lips to taste him.

   A rarified headiness numbed her thoughts and emboldened her spirit. Without thought, she brushed her lips across his mouth, tasting brandy, warmth, and velvet softness.

   His mouth angled, pressing down, scorching and moist. A shiver, hot and sharp, tore into her stomach and then slid lower, deeper, in pulsing waves. Breathing became impossible as he cupped her face in his hands. His tongue traced her lips and then touched her tongue.

   Lightning seared down her spine.

   The heat of his hard body pressed against the hills and valleys of hers flowed through her skin like warm sun. She arched closer, felt the pressure of his thigh against her hip, his heartbeat battering her sensitized breasts. She trembled, not from cold, but from a delicious aching tension.

   He lifted his head, staring at her as if seeing her for the first time. He drew in a deep shuddering breath. "My God. I must be mad."

   Mad? The word slashed her with the bone-chilling force of a summer hailstorm. "W-what?"

   He turned away and curled his fist around the bedpost, his knuckles white as he stared at the carving in blank disgust. "Good God. I should never have come in here. What a dreadful mistake."

   Dreadful? She had thought it wonderful. Misery seeped into her soul. Mountains of flesh thrown wantonly his way had scared him off.

   Cool air chilled her bare skin. She wrapped her arms around her waist. He plucked her dressing gown off the end of the bed and handed it to her without looking back. He evidently couldn't stand the sight of her. She shoved her arms in the sleeves and tied the cord.

   "A mistake," she echoed. "Quite." She felt a burning prickle of tears in her eyes and forced them back with a firm blink. "How did you get in here, anyway?"

   He gave her a half-ashamed smile over his sculpted shoulder, a shoulder she had felt under her hands moments before. "Through the window?"

   "Very humorous. I thought the door between our rooms was locked."

   "It was. From my side." He strode to the door and pulled the key from the other side. He tossed it on the bed. "I'm sorry."

   So was she. That he hadn't wanted her. She felt as empty as church on Monday morning and twice as cold. "Apology accepted." What else could she say if she wanted to retain a shred of self-esteem?

   He opened the door. "I promise you, it won't happen again." He closed the door behind him.

   Caro flashed across the room. She needed to lock it before tears of embarrassment started to flow.

   The metal tumblers clicked. Lucas stared at the oak-paneled door and swore long and fluently beneath his breath.

   The echo of her ripe voluptuous form beneath a mere whisper of fine lawn branded his skin. The urge to kiss the anxiety from her tawny eyes had sent him beyond reason. She tasted like wild honey or some exotic nectar, an intoxicating brew that had made him lose his mind. She'd yielded to him with such sweetness that all thoughts of honor had departed on a tide of lust. He touched his lips, seeking the essence of her mouth with his fingertips. Kisses weren't the only thing he wanted. What the hell was the matter with him? She was his friend, not some lightskirt. Did he want to prove her right not to trust him, the way he'd proved his father right all these years?

   Confound it. She was an innocent. He must have scared her witless.

   In the only free moment he'd had in days, he'd intended a friendly visit. If he couldn't keep himself under control, he'd be better off going to his club than going to Almack's. Damn it, he would not go back on his word and ruin their friendship. Nor would he risk getting her with child and playing into his father's hands.

   No regrets? Bloody hell.

   He picked up the crystal goblet from his night table and flung it at the wall. It shattered with a crash.

   "Something wrong, my lord?" Danson emerged from the dressing room on the other side of the chamber.

   "Nothing is wrong," Lucas said through his teeth. "Put out the black coat and silver waistcoat. I'm going out—hopefully today, if it's not too much trouble."

   "I'll have no truck with your temper, lad," Danson replied. "You'll wait until I clean up this glass."

   "I thought Luc planned to join us," Bascombe said, following Caro into the Audleys' shining black carriage when he and Tisha collected her at nine o'clock.

   Caro smoothed her skirts with studied nonchalance. "No. He despises Almack's. They serve nothing but tea." She sent him a quick smile. "I thought you knew."

   The coach swayed and then rumbled forward.

   "They serve orgeat also," Tisha offered from her corner, her face alive with merriment. "I doubt Lucas would care for that either." The shake of her head sent the diamonds artfully wound through her raven curls winking in the lamplight.

   Bascombe frowned. "He said he might rearrange something and come with us."

   "He did?" Could that be why he had entered her chamber? And then something she'd done had repulsed him. A horrid little lurch in her stomach nauseated her. She hunched into her cloak, glad of the shadows in the carriage. "Lucas changes his mind with the weather."

   Bascombe chuckled. "He probably received a better offer after I spoke to him this afternoon."

   Or the sight of me practically naked made him ill.

   "Pay it no heed," Tisha said. "There will be lots of other gentlemen to dance with, in addition to Charlie here."

   A stifled groan issued from Charlie's corner. Tisha rapped his knee with her fan and then held it open for inspection with a deft turn of her wrist. "Do you like it? Audley sent it from Paris with Wellington."

   "It's lovely," Caro said.

   "Chicken skin," Tisha said. She held it close to the lamp. "It has scenes from Paris. Look, the Tuillieries and the Seine." She pouted and slumped back. "I wish he had delivered it himself, or better yet, sent for me, so I can see them in person."

   "You know it is not safe. France is far too unsettled." Bascombe said.

   "You are just siding with Audley," Tisha said. "I'd be perfectly safe in Paris with Wellington in charge of the allied army."

   "You must miss your husband," Caro said.

   Tisha's shoulders drooped even more. "This is the first time we have been apart since we married. He promised it will be the last time. He doesn't like it any more than I do, but it is important for his career."

   A love match. How wonderful that must be.

   "Don't take on so, old thing," Bascombe said, patting her hand. "He'll be back the moment Stuart can release him."

   "I know," Tisha said on a wistful note. "The ambassador places great reliance on him, you know, Carolyn. Audley hopes to make the cabinet one day. In the meantime, he expects me to attend all the parties and routs and write to him about all the latest on dits. So we must make good use of our evening."

   By the time the carriage arrived on King Street outside the Assembly Rooms, Caro's jangled nerves had settled into the occasional sick roll of her stomach each time she remembered Lucas's kiss. Unfortunately, that occurred with horrible frequency.

   Bascombe guided them up the stairs and inside. A large number of people had already filled the grand chamber.

   The moment she entered through the hallowed portals, Caro glimpsed Aunt Rivers seated near the musicians. "I must greet Lucas's aunt," she murmured to Tisha.

   "Of course you must. I will go with you if you wish."

   In her pink silk gown and glittering diamonds, the diminutive countess swept down the room like royalty, acknowledged by everyone she passed.

   In her wake, Caro happily disappeared into insignificance.

   She had almost cried off this morning after jolting awake in the middle of the night with a heart-stilling memory of her wallflower status at assemblies in Norwich. In those days, she'd disguised her chagrin by taking up residence behind a potted plant, a large one. She didn't see any suitably sized greenery in Almack's ballroom.

   Upon reaching Aunt Rivers, Caro performed the introductions. Tisha's friendly manner seemed to warm the frosty widow. Cedric's face broke into one of his rare warm smiles. "I hope you will honor me with the first country dance, cousin."

   His offer to dance made her glad she had stiffened her resolve to attend. "You are very kind."

   With a reassuring smile, Tisha drifted away to greet other friends.

   The musicians struck up a reel, and Cedric held out his arm. Knowing she was smiling far more than she should, and unable to do anything about it, Caro took his arm, and he led her into the closest set.

   Across the square from her, Cedric's serious face settled into grim determination. His black tailcoat fit snug across his narrow shoulders, and his sky-blue waistcoat with silver embroidery nodded modestly to fashion. Not a dark hair out of place, his shirt points just high enough to be fashionable without being pretentious, he exuded respectability. Lucas could do worse than follow his cousin's example.

   Cedric also danced with solemn care. For the first time in her life, she felt comfortable on a dance floor. Her smiled broadened. She was actually dancing at Almack's. She couldn't wait to write and tell her sisters all about it.

   At their turn to go down the set, their hands met in the center, and they passed between the lines of other couples. "Someone has just arrived I know you will wish to meet," Cedric murmured, leaning his head close.

   Lucas? He'd come after all. Her heart beat a little harder. "Where is he?"

   "With my mother."

   The gentleman beside Aunt Rivers was nothing like Lucas—she could see that from his height and the set of his shoulders, even without her spectacles. How foolish to think he might have followed them after all.

   "Who is he?" she asked

   "I will introduce you."

   Cedric had an air of suppressed excitement. She nodded and concentrated on her steps. She had no wish to make an idiot of herself by tripping head over heels. It would take at least five of these delicate dandies to set her back on her feet. Well, maybe not five, but a couple.

   At the end of the dance, they rejoined Cedric's mother, and at their approach, a gentleman in a dark brown coat with olive skin, hair the color of coffee, and a flashing white smile flourished an elegant bow.

   "Lady Foxhaven, allow me to introduce the Chevalier François Valeron," Cedric said.

   The room tilted and then steadied. "Valeron? That was my mother's maiden name."

   A triumphant smile spread across Cedric's stern face. "François is your distant cousin. We met in Paris. He mentioned his hope of locating a relative who fled to England during the terrors. It was not until Mother mentioned your mother's maiden name that I realized the possible connection. I took the liberty of writing to the Chevalier to tell him of my suspicions."

   "Mademoiselle,
enchanté."
The Chevalier Valeron tapped his forehead. "Forgive me. Now you are Lady Foxhaven,
n'est ce pas
? I am
desolé
. Your husband, he is here also?"

   His accent and husky voice combined in fascinating charm.

   Smiling, Caro held out her hand. "Can it be true, indeed? I understood all of my French relatives had perished."

   Putting a hand on his heart, he smiled. "I hate to argue with a lady." Sadness crossed his suave features. "
Mais non.
Not all. Some were lucky, as the English say. I am doubly fortunate, now that I meet you."

He bowed low, with astonishing grace.