No Regrets (15 page)

   "I can't quite believe it," Caro said. "My mother never heard from her family. You are sure?"

   "
Vraiment?
I am positive, sweet lady."

   "A cousin?"

   "By adoption. There is also your great aunt, Honoré, and some distant cousins who live near Reims. But tell me about your family. Mr. Rivers told me your poor
maman
died many years ago, but there are sisters,
non
?"

   "
Non
, I mean, si. I have three sisters. Both my parents passed away."

   "I am so sorry. However, if your sisters are half as lovely as you, they will be
ravissant."

   "You flatter me, Chevalier."

   "No, indeed," he said, his brown eyes sincere.

   Caro laughed, utterly dazzled. He was just the sort of relative one would wish for, a man of the world with elegant manners and perfect tailoring.

   "Thank you, sir. My sisters are, in my eyes at least, the most beautiful girls in the world, and I miss them terribly."

   "They are younger?"

   "Alex—Alexandra that is—is seventeen, Lucy is sixteen, and Jacqueline is fifteen."

   "Ah, Jacqueline. A French name like yours,
n'est ce pas?"

   "
Oui.
" Although she had not conversed in French for years, Caro slipped into it easily. "My mother tried to keep some of her heritage, although the French are not so very popular in England at the moment."

   He shook his head. "I have received a warm welcome."

   "I'm glad."

   "I wonder if I might have the pleasure of dancing with you later this evening?"

   "Of course." Caro glanced up at Cedric.

   He raised an eyebrow and then nodded.

   "Ah," François said, reverting to English. "The cautious Mr. Rivers. Did you know he spends as much time in Paris as he does in London?"

   "I had no idea," Caro said.

   "Lord Stockbridge has a great many interests in France and particularly in Champagne," Cedric said. "I represent him on business."

   "And I am grateful for the opportunity to be of service to Mr. Rivers," François said. "His lordship is a lucky man to have someone so careful with his investments."

   Unlike Lucas, who had frittered his money away on gambling and unmentionable interests, Caro thought. She inclined her head and gave Cedric a warm smile. "Lord Stockbridge is indeed fortunate."

   François kissed the tips of her gloved fingers and bowed. "Until later, cousin Carolyn." He sauntered away. He was a man of enchanting address.

   The evening passed all too quickly. Tisha introduced Caro to members of her set. Caro danced with Bascombe, François and again with Cedric. To her surprise, several other young gentlemen also asked her to dance. They must have done so to oblige Tisha.

   Tisha laughed when she said so. "Ah, my dear Carolyn, you are one of a kind, it seems. You will be the season's incomparable; just wait and see."

   Caro giggled. "Hardly." But how sweet of her to say so.

   Tisha simply arched a brow.

   The whole thing would have been perfect if only Lucas had been present to witness her success, she thought sleepily on the carriage ride home at two in the morning.

   A yawning footman admitted her into the house. "Good evening, my lady."

   "More like good morning," she said with a stab of guilt, handing him her cloak. "Thank you for waiting up. I won't need you any more this evening. Please do go to bed."

   She headed for the stairs, her legs like lead.

   A door creaked open. "So there you are at last, pigeon," Glowering, he stood outlined in his study doorway.

   "I wish you would not call me that," she said.

   His frown deepened. "Did you have a pleasant evening?"

   "How kind of you to wait up to inquire. It was very pleasant. You will never guess—"

   "Oh, very pleasant." His mouth curled up in a sneer. "Enjoyed the dancing, did you?"

   She stiffened. "Yes, of course."

   He slouched against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest. "So I saw."

   "You were there?"

   "At the door. I arrived after eleven. Willis wouldn't let me in."

   A vision of the careless Lucas in velvet knee breeches and silk stockings barred from entry drew a chuckle from her. "Too bad."

   He looked as sulky as a boy refused a treat, almost as morose as the first time he had asked for her hand. "Goddamn it, Caro. It's not funny." His voice rasped and his words were not entirely crisp.

   Caro blinked. With his hair falling loose, his cravat hanging free around his neck, and his waistcoat unbuttoned, he looked thoroughly dissipated. "Are you foxed?"

   His broad shoulders lifted. Strange that such a small movement should have the power to hold her gaze, to fascinate. "A little warm perhaps," he slurred.

   And from his expression, he wasn't particularly happy. Her exciting news would have to wait. "I hope you will excuse me. I am too tired for conversation." She picked up her skirts and started up the stairs.

   His hand covered hers on the balustrade before she had taken two steps. Storms swirled in the depths of his dark eyes as he stared up at her. "I want a word with you."

   "Surely, this can wait until morning?"

   His warm hand clenched down like a vice. "It is important."

   Prickles raced down her spine, the same kind of excitement she'd felt at his kiss. Her stomach dropped at the recollection of his distaste. She tugged at her fingers. "Do you want to wake the whole house?"

   A hard smile curved his lips. "Do you?"

   The thought of the servants listening stopped her dead. She shook her head.

   He jerked his head toward the study. "In there."

   Pulling her hand free, she swirled around and marched into the small ground-floor room where Lucas took care of his business. Whatever that was.

   She sank onto the single comfortably stuffed armchair fronting the desk. "Well?"

   "Well what?" he drawled and perched one hip on the corner of his desk.

   She felt a flutter of disquiet. Perhaps he wanted to discuss what had happened in the bedroom. She steeled herself. "You said you had something important to tell me."

   "I wanted to warn you," he said vaguely. "You are not completely up to snuff."

   "Warn me about what?"

   "About the kind of men who spend their time at places like Almack's, for one thing."

   "You mean men like your cousin?"

   He waved a dismissive hand. "Not poor old Cedric. Men who make it their business to dance with other men's wives."

   She wrinkled her nose, not sure she understood, but sensing that he placed a great deal of importance on this mysterious group of men. "Men like Mr. Walton? I danced with him. Or Mr. Bascombe?"

   "Yes. Like Bascombe. Unattached men looking for the main chance," he ground out.

   "The chance to dance," she hazarded, giggling at how silly it sounded.

   "It is not dancing I am talking about."

   This was all very confusing. "Then what?"

   A groan rumbled up from his chest. "You are such an innocent. Can't you see? Almack's is not only a marriage mart; it is a place where gentlemen seek out female company."

   "They could hardly dance with each other."

   He blinked. "What are you talking about?"

   "There is also the card room."

   "At a penny a point? No self-respecting man would tolerate it unless he had an ulterior motive."

   This conversation seemed to be going in circles. "Please, Lucas, what is it you wanted to say?"

   "I am telling you to be careful. Take Charlie Bascombe, for example."

   Caro nodded, hoping to still his growing agitation.

   "He ain't interested in the parson's mousetrap. Couldn't be, if he spends all his time dancing and flirting with my wife."

   She frowned. "He wasn't flirting; he was dancing and talking."

   Triumph crossed his face. "There, that's just what I mean. Why is Charlie Bascombe doing the pretty with a married woman? And Walton."

   "You are wrong. They all behaved like perfect gentlemen."

   "Unlike me, of course."

   She narrowed her eyes. She'd had just about enough of this drunken interrogation. He seemed bent on spoiling her wonderful evening for no reason at all. "Very unlike you indeed, from the way he dresses to the way he behaves with respect to his family."

   She pressed a hand to her mouth, wishing the rush of words back where they came from.

   "Is that right?" He stalked closer and stood over her, his eyes fathomless in an expressionless mask. His fingers encircled her upper arms and he dragged her to her feet, the smoky tang of whisky strong on his breath.

   She gasped. "Stop it."

   He pulled her close, capturing the back of her head in one hand, pressing his mouth savagely against hers.

   Sandalwood and whisky and cigar smoke filled her senses, and she yielded to the soul-draining pressure of his hard body.

   His hands ran over her shoulders and down her back, hot and heavy, pressing her into him, kneading her flesh. His harsh breathing drowned out the sound of her heartbeat.

   This could only lead to trouble. He must be too drunk to know what he was doing. If only she had the strength to stop him.

   But she couldn't let him go. Her body arched against him, yearning to feel him hard against her, longing for his strength, his searing kiss. Her hands slipped around his neck; her fingers raked through his silky hair. She opened her mouth to his questing tongue and quaked with passion. She had gone mad.

   Their tongues intertwined. A quiver of sweet tension spiked low in her stomach.

   He lifted his head and gazed into her face.

   Afraid her trembling legs would give way, she clung to him.

   His beautiful mouth curled in derision. "How does that compare with your perfect gentleman?"

   He thought she had kissed his friend? A red mist clouded her vision. She clenched her fingers in his hair, saw his wince of pain, and felt a rush of satisfaction tinged with fear at her daring.

   She dropped her hand and stepped back, her chest rising and falling in time to the angry pulse in her blood. "It bears no comparison, Lucas, because it didn't happen. Mr. Bascombe is not a despicable rake. At least he knows how to behave with honor."

   He flinched.

   The words hung heavy in the silent room.

   He remained utterly still, his onyx eyes bleak and cold. Caro felt as if he were piercing her soul with shards of ice. Unable to bear the taut silence any longer, she ran from the room and raced up the stairs. He'd ruined a wonderful evening.

"I think Lady Audley was right about this color

suiting me." Caro ran her hand down the front of the rust-colored silk with its blue frog closing over the white satin slip. She glanced at Lizzie. "I would never have chosen such a strong color myself, but I think these short sleeves make the tops of my arms look bigger than they are."

   Lizzie tied the matching blue cord under Caro's bosom in a neat bow. "Rubbish. It looks fine enough. But you should have let that seamstress do the neckline like the picture. All the ladies wear them lower, even out walking. There's nothing like a bit of bosom to keep a man on his toes."

   Fire crept up her neck and into her face. "Perhaps a bit, but not acres."

   "Lord love you, why not make the most of it?"

   "Lizzie, this is hardly a suitable topic of conversation. And I know I've added at least an inch since we arrived in London."

   Lizzie's homely face crumpled. "It's because you aren't happy." She shook her head. "His lordship never did you any favors asking you to marry him. Can't have, when all you wants to do is eat sweets."

   "Nonsense. It has nothing to do with Foxhaven. I'm just not getting enough exercise here in Town. We never walk anywhere." Not that any amount of walking would turn her into a wraith like the wispy Louisa Caradin or the dainty Tisha Audley. Her childhood had taught her that much.

   She frowned. "I suppose I should go down."

   "When are you going to tell his lordship about meeting yer cousin?" Lizzie asked, holding out the spangled shawl.

   Caro bit her lip while Lizzie settled the shawl around her shoulders. She hadn't set eyes on Lucas since their unpleasant encounter two days ago—the reason she'd taken to ordering cream cakes from the local confectioner. "I'm waiting for the right moment."

   "Aye," Lizzie said, with a dour look. "Best tell him at dinner before you run into the fellow tonight."

   Perhaps she'd tell him over dessert.

   "Be off with you, my lady. And enjoy yerself."

   She braced her shoulders as if preparing to face an ogre and made her way downstairs. Perhaps she would pretend that their argument had never happened.

   Entering the drawing room, she found Lucas slouched on the couch, a moody cast to his mouth. He appeared to have made a special effort this evening. Even his cravat had several folds and a complex knot. His choice of a dark wine-colored coat, rather than his usual black, emphasized his dark hair and eyes and made him seem sinfully handsome.