chapter 11
Caroline pushed back the wineglass. She was still too shaky to indulge in even just a glass with dinner.
The wind had blown in a rainstorm that put shadows into all the corners of the house. It suited her mood. But she smiled at the remaining men at the table and chatted lightly about the vagaries of October weather, how it could be crisp and clear one day, cold and rainy the next.
Caroline had long since given up the idea she could choose a man who even vaguely suited her. Mr. Berkley sat to her left. He was handsome enough, with a head of wavy russet hair and pale piercing eyes, but something about his thin lips put her off. Still, she sighed in resignation.
After spending most of dinner asking about him and listening with rapt attention as he droned on and on about his horses and his plans to improve his stables once he came into his inheritance, she needed to close the deal. And at least he was giving her increasingly longer looks as she let her gaze drift too often to his mouth.
“I do feel bad the weather is not cooperating. You will find us poor hosts and never return.” She lowered her voice and purred, “I do hope I can make it up to you in some small way.” She leaned toward him.
“I dare say we will not blame you for the weather.” But he made it sound as if he would.
“I hope I could interest you in a few . . . indoor pursuits,” she continued. She was trying to sound coquettish like Amelia. Caroline traced a fingertip along her neck and then dropped her hand to her lap, before anyone else noticed. But the flickering candelabra barely shed enough light to eat by.
His gaze dropped to her décolletage—pulled as low as she could make it without exposing her nipples—and then slowly back to her face.
“What do you like to do when it rains?” he asked.
“I like nothing better than to read in front of the fire in the library. If this keeps up, I imagine that is what I will do all day tomorrow while Mr. Broadhurst is engaged at the mill.”
Mr. Berkley’s eyes flicked to the head of the table and Mr. Broadhurst.
Her foot was nudged, and Caroline drew back.
Mr. Berkley flicked up an eyebrow.
Oh!
She toed off her slipper and reached for his leg with her stockinged foot. He trapped it between his, and seemed as if he would pull her off her chair. Was playing footsies supposed to be violent?
She squeaked in alarm and then grabbed her disdained wineglass and took a gulp to diffuse any attention, but the rest of the men hardly seemed to notice her, as Robert was doing his best to regale the company with tales of his first impassioned speech in Parliament. She’d heard the story before but Robert had added a few embellishments.
Mr. Berkley adjusted his chair and brought her foot into his lap. His thumb pressed into her arch and massaged. She barely kept from jerking her foot back. She stared at him and then remembered the role she was supposed to be playing.
Letting her lips part, she let her eyelids sink to half-mast. It seemed a rather silly expression, but he leaned closer.
After a minute he yanked her foot farther into his lap and pressed it against a bulge. Goodness, was that what she thought it was?
Then again, perhaps she had chosen the right man this time. He wasn’t wasting time kissing her or perhaps even all that concerned with her response or lack of one.
He lifted his fork with his other hand as if he was no longer interested, but his fingers gripped her ankle firmly and rubbed her foot against his crotch.
“Is there anything you are reading now?” he asked, as if nothing were going on beneath the table.
“D-Dickens,” she stuttered.
The corners of his eyes crinkled and he set down his fork. He reached under the table with his right hand and slid it up until he found her garter and liberated her stocking.
His hand against the bare flesh of her leg stunned her. But she smiled. This might be easier than she thought.
At the far end of the table, Mr. Broadhurst stood. “Mrs. Broadhurst, you seem to be done eating. Isn’t it time you left us to our port?”
Caroline jerked her foot back, but Mr. Berkley didn’t immediately let her go. Her heart caught in her throat, she hissed at her captor, “Sir.”
An insolent sneer on his face, he released her. She searched with her bare toes for her slipper, but came up empty.
With as dignified a nod as she could manage, Caroline left the table. The footman opened the door and she scooted out, her bare sole protesting at the cold marble of the entry hall.
With a sigh of regret, she moved past the room housing Jack. Before she did anything more, she needed to put on a new stocking and shoes. Later, after the gentlemen joined her in the drawing room, she could return and retrieve her slipper, hopefully before the servants found it.
Jack groaned as he crutched around the room. Had he accused Mr. Broadhurst of murder earlier, or had it just been a bad dream? Bloody rot, he was staying in the man’s house, eating the man’s food, lusting after the man’s wife. What kind of gratitude was that?
He had to get out of here before he started to believe this luxury was his due, or that Caroline might ever see him as a man worthy of her affection. He cursed at himself. Either he wanted to be near her or to avoid the fear that he wouldn’t get the job in London. Neither reason was good. No, he had to go soon, before he made a fool of himself by revealing how much he wanted her.
The door clicked and he turned to see her enter. Her cheeks were faintly flushed and her dress dipped low on her chest, exposing her creamy skin. God, what he wouldn’t do to have the right to put his mouth there. His breath whooshed out of him.
“I only have a minute, but I wanted to see if you needed anything,” she said. Her hand remained on the doorknob.
“I’m fine.” He’d been fed before his minder left for her own dinner. Unable to stop himself, he took a few lurching steps closer to her.
“I wanted to let you know, I’ve gotten Mr. Broadhurst’s assurance that he will allow you to work as a clerk, until you are fully healed. Perhaps in a couple of weeks, you can come to the office.”
Jack bit back a profanity. He barely could write his letters and he’d spent an inordinate amount of time trying to decipher one lousy paragraph of the book she’d left by his side. He put his hand over his face rather than let his dismay show.
It was a brilliant plan, really, a job a man with a broken leg could do. No walking, carrying, or lifting anything heavier than a pen. But unless that chance included schooling, he couldn’t be a clerk.
He opened his mouth to outright refuse, but a bit of self-preservation reared its head. Jack seriously doubted he would be able to keep his appointment at the machine shop. If he couldn’t convince them to hire him in London, he would need work. “I’m not a clerk.”
“It’s really not hard. Mostly recording orders and shipments, payments, a bit of correspondence.” She frowned. “A lot of numbers. Adding and subtracting. It’s more tedious than taxing. Clerks always start with the most mundane of tasks.”
While his ciphering was better than most, he suspected what was done in the office was more than he could easily figure in his head. In a weird way, the opportunity was everything he’d hoped for, but he was so unprepared. He should have studied harder with his younger siblings. He should have spent more time learning what he could instead of sleeping—or spending time with Lucy. He couldn’t be a clerk. The clerks were educated men. Not to mention working mere feet from Mr. and Mrs. Broadhurst would be a dream and a nightmare all rolled into one.
Yet, Mrs. Broadhurst had probably campaigned hard for this opportunity for him.
Like a loom clicking back and forth he was beginning to see a pattern emerge from the myriad threads coming together. The liquor, the maids’ conversations. And he didn’t like it. “What did Mr. Broadhurst’s guarantee of a position cost you?”
Her expression of dismay flickered so fast he almost missed it. “Nothing.”
Intent on every movement of her face, Jack knew it was a lie. “Mr. Broadhurst does nothing out of compassion unless he can profit from it.”
“He is not so horrible as that.” She nudged her chin up with a tiny head shake.
Her ready defense almost surprised him, but Jack disputed her denial. “Canny and shrewd he is. He profits from granting your wishes somehow.”
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know if Mrs. Broadhurst had used the oldest bargaining chip a woman had with her husband, but he also was aware of how much he already owed her. Subjecting herself to any trial on his behalf had gone beyond proving her point that the little children should not work in the mill.
“I owe you too much already for you to put yourself out unnecessarily,” he said. “I will get by with or without your assistance.” Why would she even care?
Her mouth flattened. “I offered Mr. Broadhurst nothing I had not already agreed to. He wants a great deal from me right now, and I see no reason to not extract as much as possible in return.”
“Spoken like a true tycoon.”
She cast him an exasperated look, but he could see the hint of amusement in the crinkles at the corner of her eyes. Her hand came off the doorknob and she took a step toward him.
She wasn’t close enough yet, but he held his breath, willing her to close the distance between them. He would do a lot to see her smile, but he feared his care was just another burden. “What does he want of you?”
She stiffened and the light mood was broken. He sensed her pulling away, and although she only moved back an inch or two, it was as if a great yawning river flowed into the breach between them, cutting off any hope he had of bridging to her side.
“I shall check on you later,” she said.
At least she had not thwarted his question with a new lie. Most likely she had promised a bit of wifely duty to her husband in exchange for Mr. Broadhurst offering him a clerk’s position.
Emptiness gaped in Jack. She was another man’s wife. And much as he found the idea of her with that man disgusting, he could do nothing to stop it. Nor would she want him to.
Caroline served the after dinner tea, then moved to the window. She stood looking out at the rain streaming down and waited for Mr. Berkley to come to her side. He didn’t. Instead he and several of the men played cards.
She glanced toward the table, and Mr. Berkley met her eyes. Well, at least he was aware of her.
She wished she were downstairs reading to Jack. His response to her offer of a clerking position surprised her. She’d thought he’d be grateful, but instead he asked her what the bargain cost her. The concern in his eyes almost undid her, and she’d needed to leave before her composure crumbled.
His opinion of Mr. Broadhurst was not high, and she was inclined to agree with him. Had her husband killed his last wife? She traced a pattern in the fog on the glass. If anyone were smart enough to outwit the authorities, he probably was.
What exactly she was to do with the information—assuming she could verify it—she didn’t know. Her heart thumped erratically.
Finally, Mr. Broadhurst rose and wished the gentlemen good-night. He cast a narrow-eyed glance in Caroline’s direction before exiting the room. She waited until fifteen interminable minutes clicked by and then carefully ducked out of the room.
By now the servants would have removed all of the dishes from the dining room. She would just creep down and retrieve her slipper, and then look in on Jack before seeking her own bed. After all, if Mr. Berkley wasn’t going to pursue her further tonight, she wouldn’t sit around waiting for him to notice her. After what happened at the dining room table, he could be in no doubt she was amenable to more.
The gas girandoles waged a futile battle against the darkness, barely providing enough light to see her way down the stairs and across the cold cavern of the entryway. Light peeped out from under the library doors. One of the gentlemen must have slipped out to read instead of joining in the card game.
Not wanting to be caught out, Caroline quickly slipped into the dark dining room. She left the door cracked to allow in a little light. Please, please, let her slipper still be there.
Pulling her chair back from her place at the foot of the table, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the nearly complete blackness.
She dropped to her knees and swept with her hands, looking for the missing shoe. Her fingers encountered nothing but the woolen strands of the carpet. Perhaps one of the servants had found it and returned it to her room. She crawled farther under the table, still searching.
“Looking for this, Cinderella?” said Mr. Berkley. “Or perhaps this?”
She twisted, looking behind her. One of the double doors to the hall stood wide open, allowing a spill of light to illuminate the white stocking he held. Her slipper dangled from the finger of his other hand.
“Yes,” she muttered. “Both.”
“What will you do to retrieve them?” he asked with an amused lilt to his voice.
Caroline pressed her lips together and then parted them. “Anything you desire.”
“Oh but I am a man with great desires.”
“I am but a woman who doesn’t want the servants to discover my clothes where they don’t belong.” She backed out from under the table. Her stomach lurched. This was what she wanted, but she’d thought she would find her shoe, sit with Jack awhile, and then go to bed.
“Ah, it is a concern, when one leaves clothing in places one shouldn’t.”
Caroline rose to her feet. “I don’t make a habit of it.”
“Really? Tremont seemed to think you might.”
Alarm knifed through her. Had they been discussing her?
“Now what I want to know is why Whitton thought it expedient to leave so soon.”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Don’t you?” asked Mr. Berkley, setting the shoe and stocking in her chair.
She eyed them. Would he stop her if she grabbed them and dashed to her room? But she should take advantage of this opportunity. She stepped closer to Mr. Berkley, close enough that her skirts brushed his legs. “No, I don’t. Do you?”
“I do find it curious that he was closeted with your husband before he left.”
What on earth had been said? Had Mr. Broadhurst known nothing of consequence happened before he confronted her about her tryst? Her head whirled. “I can’t imagine what they would have had to say to each other.”
Mr. Berkley pulled the door shut behind him. The snick was as loud as a rifle shot in the blackened room. He stepped closer and it was everything Caroline could do to stand her ground.
His voice lowered. “I think a bored wife with too much time on her hands is a dangerous thing.”
She screwed her eyes shut and searched for a response. “I adore my husband, but he is not the man he once was.”
Mr. Berkley caught her elbows and pulled her against him. “Perhaps the physician can right whatever ails him.”
“I am not terribly hopeful,” she said. “Not much cures an advancement of years.”
Mr. Berkley chuckled. “But perhaps we should be concerned with what ails you.”
She puzzled a bit at that one, but could only make out a silhouette of his head and not his expression. But as the seconds ticked by, she finally managed a “Please.”
She brought her hands up to cup his elbows. He kissed her on the cheek and then moved to her neck. “Yes, I’d like to please you. And might I say you are looking quite lovely tonight?”
“You might,” she whispered. It was as close as she could come to thanking him for the insincere compliment. She should reply in kind, but her mind swirled with dread and sick anticipation.
His mouth slid down her neck and she was both relieved he wasn’t kissing her on the mouth and appalled at the open wet trail left behind, as if he were slavering on her like a dog might. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, giving him more access.
She couldn’t stand like a statue or he would know how little she liked such things. Almost as if she stepped outside of herself, but could still issue commands, she slid her hands up his arms. They were not as firmly muscled as Jack’s were. Disappointment registered, although she wondered at it. Had Jack become her physical ideal of a perfect man?
Because Mr. Berkley seemed to like it earlier, she toed off her slippers and tentatively slid her toes along his calf.
He whipped them around and she nearly fell. Then he pushed her against the closed door and his fingers dug into her derrière. He lifted her at the same time he ground his pelvis against her. A moan of protest left her mouth before she could stop it, but it only seemed to inflame him more.
He kissed her then, his mouth covering beyond her lips and his tongue plunging inside. He grabbed her breast and tugged the material of her dress down. Then he again moved to her neck, leaving her chin nearly dripping as he moved his head lower and suckled on her breast.
Another moan of protest left her mouth, but she fought her instinct to push him away and let him draw on her nipple. He pulled off and bared her other breast and repeated his nursing.
Breasts were for babies to suckle, grown men were too rough and it hurt. She whimpered. He pulled back and groped them. She tried not to think of the bruises she would likely have.
“I wish I could see you,” he panted.
“Next time,” she purred.
Biting her lip, she pushed at his coat jacket, trying to free him of his clothes. He seemed to be in that precoital frenzy she’d witnessed more often than she cared to with Mr. Broadhurst. Just to be certain, she reached down and checked Mr. Berkley’s member.
He groaned and pushed her hand against his trousers. Yes, he was ready to perform, and while the dining room table was hardly ideal, it would have to do. She just had to free him of his clothes so he could impregnate her.
A pounding on the front door of the house made them spring apart.
“What the hell?” whispered Mr. Berkley.
Her heart jolted and her fingers on his buttons went still.
“Who in the hell calls at this time of night?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I better go see.”
He backed away, and she tugged at her neckline and wiped her face. As soon as she put herself back together, she opened the door.
The footman sitting with Jack had already moved across the hall. The door yawned open and a man stood there, his hat pulled low, his muffler wound high, and wearing a glistening-wet long greatcoat. “I got business with Broadhurst.”
“I will just ascertain if he is home,” said the confused servant.
“He’s home,” said the man in a gruff voice, pushing his way inside.
Across the expanse of the hall, the library door clicked open and Mr. Broadhurst emerged.
“Bloody hell,” whispered Mr. Berkley behind her.
The man at the door stepped inside, a pool forming around the rim of his coat. Mr. Broadhurst flung open the library door. “Sir, if you will just step inside, we can conclude our business.”
“Your coat, sir?” said the footman.
“I’ll keep it,” said the man, striding across the pristine marble, sullying it with dirty boots.
Mr. Broadhurst’s gaze pinned her. His nostrils flared. “What the hell are you doing down here?”
Caroline held up her arm. “I lost my bracelet and I just found it under the table. The last time I saw it was at dinner. I should take it to a jeweler to have the catch repaired.”
“You are avoiding the guests,” he growled.
“No. I had every intention of returning to the drawing room,” she said. With Mr. Berkley so close he could hear every word, she dare not inform Mr. Broadhurst she was in the middle of carrying out his directive. An inappropriate bubble of a laugh threatened to burst from her. She’d finally almost succeeded and Mr. Broadhurst and his strange visitor had thwarted her.
As if Mr. Berkley wasn’t standing just inside the dining room, fumbling with his clothes, she calmly closed the door.
“Who is that?” she asked.
“Go upstairs, Mrs. Broadhurst, his business doesn’t concern you.”
Not knowing what else to do, Caroline followed her husband’s order.
But who was the man who came to their house at such a late hour?