No Regrets (40 page)

   Caro settled her teacup back on the tray. She really didn't want to discuss Lucas. "I'm glad he is a comfort to you."

   "Carolyn?"

   The hesitant quaver in his voice caught her attention. She smiled across the teacups. "Yes, my lord?"

   "I don't suppose . . . no, of course not."

   Caro regarded him curiously. "I beg your pardon?"

   He shook his head. "I don't suppose you would care to see my latest acquisition?"

   That was not the question he had planned to ask. She let it pass. "Of course, and then I really must go."

   With one hand on his chair-arm and the other on the head of his walking cane, he pushed slowly to his feet. He swayed, his chest heaving.

   Caro raced around the table to his side to steady him.

   Danson, Lucas's valet and one of the few servants in the house, appeared as if from nowhere and hastened to assist. "What are you doing, my lord?"

   "I wish you wouldn't lurk outside the door," Stockbridge said. "We are going up to the long gallery."

   "His lordship instructed you were not to leave this room until he returns," Danson said.

   "Nonsense. He worries too much."

   This was more like the irascible Lord Stockbridge Caro remembered from her youth. Danson glowered, but appeared to be just as much in awe of him as she was.

   "Perhaps another time," she suggested gently, mindful of his pride.

   "You can't go back on your word, young lady. Not this time."

   Caro stiffened at the bitter undertone, and a flash of heat tore over her skin. Why had she let Lucas bully her into coming here? The fire's crackle and Lord Stockbridge's heavy breathing filled the uncomfortable silence.

   After a short, irritable exhalation, Stockbridge tapped his stick on the floor. "Forgive me. I promised Lucas I would say nothing of the past. I beg you will pay no attention to an old man. Just come upstairs for a moment."

   Faced with such an apology and his pleading expression, Caro could do no more than nod. "For a moment or two."

   She took his arm, and head held high, he staggered out into the hallway. Danson hovered behind.

   The stairs proved a nightmare. Danson fussed and tutted, and Lord Stockbridge's grip dug into her shoulder as he fought his way up each step. She feared Lucas might come home to find his father at the bottom of the stairs.

   Slightly hysterical, she pictured the scene. Lord Stockbridge on top of Danson and herself, a tangled wreckage of snapped limbs, and Lucas rigid with fury.

   A sigh escaped her as they gained the landing. Danson smartly pushed a chair behind his lordship. Stockbridge flopped down with a grunt and mopped his brow. He slanted her a wicked smile. "First time I've been upstairs since we got back."

   Not funny. She glared at him. "Really, my lord. I do think you might have warned me. Now Lord Foxhaven will be furious."

   "Never mind the lad. He'll just scold like always. His bark is worse than his bite."

   "Like yours." Caro clapped a hand over her mouth.

   Danson smirked and turned away.

   Stockbridge wheezed a laughed. "Always said there was more to you than met the eye, my lady." A regretful look passed over his craggy features. "Well, enough of that. Come on, we've almost arrived."

   Danson bore his shuffling weight this time. Caro followed them across the landing and partway along the gallery running the length of the west wing.

   "There," Stockbridge said, pointing with obvious satisfaction. "What d'you think of Lawrence's work? He's the Regent's man, y'know."

   It was Lucas in sartorial splendor. Dressed for court, elegant, proud, and noble, his expression stern, without his usual insouciance or gleam of devilry.

   She quelled a shiver. "It is magnificent."

   She gazed at the portraits on either side. She recognized the one to the right as a young Stockbridge, painted here at Stockbridge Hall with a pack of hounds milling at his feet. The man in the other portrait bore a strong resemblance to Lucas. He wore a full-bottomed wig, and lace dripped from his sleeves and his throat.

   "My father," Stockbridge said. "A bad man. Would fight a duel at the least slight. Had more mistresses than King Charles."

   "You didn't approve of your father?"

   "No. Dashed loose screw, pardon the expression. I thought Lucas had turned out just like him." He glowered for a moment and then thumped his cane on the wooden floor. "It was Cedric, after all." Stockbridge's voice dropped to a whisper. "D'ye know he raped a girl from the village, beat her, and then paid her to say it was my Lucas? When Lucas denied it, I called him a liar and a coward. Took Cedric's word over his." He put his hand over his eyes.

   Cold filled Caro's veins. Lucas had adored his father as a boy. This explained their estrangement. "Oh, dear."

   "You look sick about it. Imagine how I felt when I learned the truth." His hand dropped to her shoulder, but it was the weight of his misery that pressed her down. "He acted the rake all those years to live up to my expectations, he was so angry. Do you know what else he was doing?"

   Acting the rake? What on earth did he mean? Her brain whirling, she shook her head.

   "He was rescuing boys, street musicians." His voice sounded proud and pleased. "Setting up a music school. That's what he did with his grandmother's blunt, you know. Bought a house and turned it into a conservatory for boys."

   Caro gasped. Cedric had lied about the house. Or perhaps even he did not know why Lucas had bought it. It wasn't for his mistress. A flutter of hope stirred in her heart.

   Lord Stockbridge's mouth turned down in a bitter line. "When he was a boy, I refused to allow him piano lessons. He agreed to study the law to please me, and then I turned against him."

   He glared at the portraits. "Stockbridges. Bunch of stiff-necked fools, the whole lot of 'em."

   "Father. What the deuce do you mean by coming up here?"

   A thunderous-faced Lucas came stomping along the gallery.

   Stockbridge's lined face lit up. "See what I mean? Didn't hear you come in, my boy."

   "No one did." Lucas glanced pointedly at Danson.

   "Sorry, my lord. I told his lordship not to come up, but he wouldn't listen," Danson said.

   Lucas's gaze rested on Caro, and her heart vibrated with silent song. How handsome he looked in the hallway among his ancestors' portraits.

   "Caro, I am glad you are still here." He bowed and reached out.

   Without thinking, she placed her hand in his. He brought her fingers slowly to his lips, brushing the back of her gloves, his breath moist and warm on her skin through the lacy fabric.

   Her heart tumbled over, and her stomach flipflopped. She said the first thing that came into her head—"Lord Foxhaven, I did not expect to see you this afternoon"—and then wished she hadn't, when his expression lost its warmth.

   He dropped her hand. "My business took less time than I expected. I apologize if my early return displeases you."

   "I mean, I am surprised to see you here." Surprised to see him in his own home? Really.

   He looked at her quizzically, one eyebrow cocked.

   Nothing she could say would help. "Lord Stockbridge brought me to see your portrait before I left."

   He glanced up at the portrait with a grimace. "Fierce, isn't it? Have you seen the others?"

   "It's a damn fine portrait," Stockbridge said.

   "The likeness is very good," Caro agreed.

   "If you'll wait just a moment," Lucas said, "I will help Father downstairs, and we can continue to discuss Lawrence's skill if you like." Hope and hesitancy colored his voice.

   "Humor him, my lady," Stockbridge said. "Luc doesn't get much amusement with only me to keep him company."

   Caro felt a strong desire to make it clear that she had no intention of amusing Lucas or anyone else. He had promised not to be here. But a glance at Lord Stockbridge's anxious face prevented her from speaking her mind. She took a breath. "I can wait a few moments."

   With a firm but gentle grasp on his father's arm, Lucas guided him to the stairs.

   She stared up at the portrait. Lucas had definitely changed. Although still handsome, he looked older. Worry about money and the losses Cedric had inflicted must have wrought the changes.

   "Now tell me what you really think."

   Startled, she gasped and whirled around. "I didn't hear you return."

   "Too busy admiring me. It is awful, isn't it?"

   He stood so close his heat warmed her skin. She could see each long eyelash framing his dark impenetrable eyes. Her body hummed with pleasure at his closeness.

   She turned to gaze at the portrait. "You look like your grandfather."

   He moved closer, his breath stirring the hairs on her nape. "You certainly know how to insult a fellow."

   She couldn't think straight with him almost touching her back, couldn't breathe. "What?"

   "Everyone said Cedric was the image of the old earl."

   "Oh."

   His hand brushed her neck, and his fingers twined in a loose strand of hair.

   She leaned forward. "What are you doing?"

   "Remembering." His tone was low, seductive, full of lascivious meaning. "Remembering how soft your skin is, the silky feel of your hair." She heard him inhale and then felt the warm rush of moist air in her ear. "Remembering your perfume." He breathed in. "Vanilla and roses."

   She stepped aside and backed away, her heart thudding loudly, painfully. "Lucas, please. Don't do this."

   He rested one elbow on the paneled wall and leaned his forehead against his forearm, his face full of regret. He traced her hairline with the tips of his fingers. "You would deny me even this small thing." A small bitter smile crossed his face. "You really do despise me, don't you?" He half turned away.

   She caught at his sleeve. "How can you say that?"

   "It is why you went to Paris."

   She shook her head, her fingers holding fast to the dark blue fabric. "That is not true, and you know it."

   His lip curled. "You prefer to wed a man like Valeron than stay married to me."

   She frowned. "Who said anything about marrying François?"

   "Caro, don't play with me." His dark eyes held a warning. "Lizzie was as mad as a hornet when she told my housekeeper that you and your sisters are going to France in the summer."

   She let her hand fall and looked at the floor. "I am taking them to meet Tante Honoré." She lifted her head and gazed into his eyes. "It is just a visit, Lucas. François is to marry Mademoiselle Jeunesse."

   His long fingers found her chin and held her face still, staring at her intently. "I don't believe you."

   "Whether you believe it or not, it is the truth." She pushed his hand away.

   "I'm so sorry, Caro," he whispered.

   "There's nothing to be sorry about." She headed for the stairs.

   He caught her hand and swung her around. A deep frown creased his forehead. His eyes searched hers as if seeking answers. He brushed a stray wisp of hair back from her face, and Caro instinctively reached up to touch his cheek, to caress the face that filled her dreams and forced its way into her unwary mind during her empty days.

   It was a mistake. That one small touch reminded her of everything she had longed for since she was first aware of her womanhood. She had been able to use her anger at his licentious behavior to keep her yearnings at bay. There was no anger left. None. Nothing but a bittersweet longing for something that had slipped from her grasp and shattered in a million pieces before she ever truly held it.

   "God, Caro. I miss you."

   The words pierced her heart, the pain so sudden she drew in a sharp breath. She missed him too. She would never tell him how much.

   He pulled her close.

   She watched his beautiful mouth slowly descend. She closed her eyes. Just one kiss. Just one drugging, mindless, wonderful kiss, and then she would leave.

   The scent of sandalwood and cigar smoke and musky male filled her nostrils. She parted her lips, and she heard him groan as his mouth covered hers. Gentle, tiny, soft warm kisses rained on her lips, her cheek, her jaw, her neck. Then back to her mouth. This time hard and hungry, fiercely possessive.

   She gave herself up to them. This was what she had longed for all these months since she left London. This would be her memory to keep for the rest of her life. She slid her hands around the back of his neck and leaned closer. Her heart pounded in her ears. She wanted to know the joy of fulfillment he had promised.

   Need heated her skin, flittered deep inside her, tightened her breasts. She arched against his hard body, wanting him close.

   He pulled away.

   She slowly opened her eyes, regretful.

   Dark eyes captured her gaze.

   "I want you, Caro," he said, his voice thick and husky.

   A jolt of desire flooded moisture to the apex of her thighs. She gasped at the shimmer of pleasure.

   He slammed her tight against him with a soft groan. His tongue filled her mouth, one hand cupped her bottom, and his hips flexed against her abdomen.