chapter 13
Caroline pulled another book off the shelf in the library. She searched for one suitable for a beginning reader, but even as she opened a couple of her childhood favorites from home, she found them far too advanced. As she flipped through book after book, her head spun.
The door clicked open and she started. Mr. Berkley entered the room and swiftly shut the door—then locked it. A jolt hit her in the chest. She had almost forgotten that she’d hinted for him to meet her here.
“Can you not find a book to entertain?” he asked.
She looked at the stack of discarded books on the library table. “Nothing is catching my fancy today.”
“Perhaps, I can be of assistance.”
“Perhaps,” said Caroline softly. A book for Jack would have to wait. “What did you have in mind?”
“Mr. Broadhurst is gone to the mill?”
“Yes, he always supervises the pay draws. He shan’t return anytime soon.” Apparently Mr. Broadhurst wouldn’t trust her to do that correctly.
Mr. Berkley’s lips disappeared into tiny lines as he smiled. She stared at his mouth as hers went dry.
He moved closer, and she returned the book in her hand to the shelf.
Her voice shook and she tried to gather herself before turning back around. She settled for what she hoped was a coy look over her shoulder. “Perhaps we could continue where we left off last night, before we were so rudely interrupted.”
He laughed, wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her back against him. “I thought if you wanted to continue, you would find your way to my room.”
She’d intended to, but her courage had deserted her and she ended up in the breakfast room with Jack. But it hardly mattered now as Mr. Berkley kissed her neck. The library at least sported a sofa, and they could use that rather than the dining room table. Assuming things progressed that far. But they would. She ran her hands over the arms banding around her, and then with trembling fingers unbuttoned the neck of her gown.
“You are eager,” he murmured, nuzzling her ear.
She jerked away from the tickle of his breath. He put his hand on the side of her head and held her steady as he lightly blew into the canal and then bit the lobe. Prickles traveled down her body and she couldn’t decide if she loathed the sensation or merely despised it.
“I thought of you all night,” she whispered.
A clap of thunder made her jerk as if God had intended to smite her down for lying. A sob broke from her lips.
She covered her mouth.
“Ahh, pet, don’t be frightened of the storm. Think of me. I will make you forget all about it.”
She’d never been frightened of storms, but she managed to bite back her protest. Pulling his hand to the open buttons, she tried not to tense as it dipped inside her bodice. “Yes, make me forget.”
He cupped her breast and then tilted her head back so he could kiss her. She closed her eyes and fought to stay relaxed and pretend she enjoyed his touch—then thought of Jack and how he had almost kissed her. Her breath caught. His touch had been so gentle and not at all urgent.
Mr. Berkley took the hitch in her breath as encouragement. He roughly turned her in his arms and pressed the entire length of his body against hers. This time she would succeed in seducing a guest. She wrapped her arms around him and tried not to mind that his shoulders were bony and that he seemed to have his hands everywhere.
Then he dipped down and, as he had the night before, freed her breasts and mouthed them. She clenched her eyes shut and tried to let her mind go away, but her thoughts went back to Jack. She wished he were the one touching her, because surely he’d be more respectful.
Mr. Berkley backed away. She bit her lip and opened her eyes. He fumbled with the front of his pants, and she reached down to help him. It would all be over soon, she told herself.
She took a step toward the sofa, but Mr. Berkley had other ideas. He grabbed her hand and wrapped it around his exposed member. Never in all her years had she touched Mr. Broadhurst’s male appendage with her bare hand.
“Stroke me,” Mr. Berkley commanded.
Would Jack’s member feel like this? Firm yet covered with skin with the texture of a rose petal. Hell’s bells, why was she thinking of Jack?
She ran her fingers down the length of Mr. Berkley’s rod. It was the giver of life, and if she brought him pleasure he might in return give her a baby. And she couldn’t let any hint of repulsion show as she had with Lord Tremont.
“Harder,” demanded Mr. Berkley. He squeezed her nipple.
She whimpered at the burst of sensation, part pain, part something else.
He fought with her skirts and pulled them up.
“The sof—”
His fingers pushed into the slit of her pantalets and touched her privates. She gasped. It wouldn’t be long now.
He began to rub at the apex of her slit, and the roughness of his touch made her long to twist away, push his hand from her body. Closing her eyes, she focused her thoughts on Jack. Would his fingers be so cruel? The motion shifted to a less sensitive place, and her body responded in a way that frightened her. Her eyes popped open and reality intruded. It wasn’t Jack.
She shoved away the thoughts of Jack. He was an affianced man.
Mr. Berkley clamped his hand around hers, circling his member, and pumped their hands up and down on his shaft. He returned his attention to her nipples, nipping and tugging hard, first one and then the other. The hint of pleasure died with a new wash of discomfort. He covered her mouth with his and she tried to match his movements and when her lips parted, his tongue probed inside. With his hand in her pantalets, he nudged her legs farther apart. Surely he didn’t mean to perform standing.
His moans suggested he was nearing that frenzied convulsion she’d witnessed with Mr. Broadhurst. The flesh under her fingers and palm felt fuller, harder.
She wanted him to finish the deed.
He broke from the kiss, looked down at where their hands were wrapped around his member and stroked faster. She put her thumb against the tip and brushed over it. He groaned, “So close.”
She tried to tug him toward the sofa, but he was having none of it. He yanked his hand out from under her skirts and pushed her shoulder so roughly she dropped to a knee.
“Use your mouth,” he grunted.
His hand fisted in her hair, bringing her lips against the bobbing head. His hand was moving her hand so quickly she feared he would smack her mouth.
“Now.”
She pursed her lips against the red flesh, wanting to pull away, not understanding if this was a game she didn’t know.
His member jerked and began to throb. He groaned loudly and liquid spurted against her lips. She turned her face and her hair pulled. Another burst of the moisture went across her cheek. No, this wasn’t what was supposed to happen. He was spilling his seed, but not inside her where she needed it.
When it was done she dropped the rest of the way to the floor. “Why would you do that?”
Mr. Berkley’s harsh breathing filled the room. He sank down beside her and handed her a neatly folded handkerchief. Her hand shaking, she cleaned the mess from her face, but the moisture in her hair refused to wipe away.
“Couldn’t wait.” He took the handkerchief from her and wiped his fingers.
Caroline paused in buttoning her bodice. Had he just gotten carried away with lust?
“You’re a handsome woman,” he said.
“Thank you,” she muttered. She bit her lip. But her objection burst forth. “That wasn’t what I wanted to have happen.”
Mr. Berkley paused in fastening his pants. “I won’t risk getting you with child.”
A pang stabbed at Caroline’s breastbone. Had she done this awful thing for no reason? “Why not?”
“Your husband is a ruthless man, and I should not like to incur his wrath.”
“Oh, please.” His morality had more twists that a spool of thread. He’d commit adultery without a qualm—just wouldn’t risk leaving proof of it.
But as she stared at the rain streaming down the library windows a hysterical laugh bubbled in her chest. Everything she’d done with Mr. Berkley was for naught. It seemed God was not fond of rewarding sinners. She couldn’t do this degrading thing again. She just couldn’t.
Jack leaned on his crutches and closed the door to the water closet behind him. He was getting around better today, even if his trips were restricted to the water closet and around his room. While no one was about, he planned to make a circuit of the entry hall.
Across the way a key rattled.
Not liking to be caught in a nightshirt, he thumped back behind the stairs. The last thing he wanted was to embarrass Mrs. Broadhurst.
The door opened and she emerged. Her face was flushed and her hair was mussed. He stared at her, taking in her disarray. The walls around them might have come down, but all he could do was stare as his chest ripped open. She hardly looked like his pure angel of mercy.
She glanced at the stairs and then back at him. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“Washing up before my minder returns with my midday meal.” He was surprised he could find the words.
A man exited the door behind her, ducking his head, but not before Jack saw the smirk. “Thank you for your recommendation, Mrs. Broadhurst. A book is the best entertainment for a rainy day.”
Neither of them had books in their hands. The man moved toward the stairs. And just moments earlier Jack had thought he heard a man’s groan coming from the room. He’d put it down to mishearing a sound from the storm, but now he wasn’t sure.
“Yes. You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Berkley. I must attend to our patient.”
Jack fisted his hands around the crutch supports. He glared after the man, wanting to bean him with one of the crutches.
Mrs. Broadhurst didn’t look as if she’d been forced into a locked room with him. She’d been intimate with that man. Icy water poured through Jack’s veins. He leaned into the wall afraid he was about to fall.
Mrs. Broadhurst’s expression faltered and then she hurried toward him. “You shouldn’t be up unless someone is close, in case you lose your balance.”
Jack pushed away and swung his crutches in front of him, blocking her from getting close.
She drew up short and stared, her eyes filled with hurt, as if he’d unexpectedly punched her, which he hadn’t.
He’d practically leaned into her every chance he had. She was probably startled at his effort to keep the space between them. As he stared back at her, his insides twisted. “I have to get around on my own. I won’t have an army of servants at home.”
She didn’t look like a woman who had been well loved. There was nothing of the sleepy satiety he aimed for when he seduced a woman, nothing in the way she stood looked relaxed. Her mouth and eyes were pinched. She raised a hand to her hair, and as if she just realized the messy state, her head jerked left and right.
Jack’s gaze turned to the man ascending the stairs who was straightening his stock. No doubt about what had happened, but while he knew, he didn’t want to believe more than a few stolen kisses had occurred. After waiting until the footfalls faded, he said, “You missed a button.”
Her hand shot to her bodice and her gaze shot down.
He didn’t wait until she discovered her buttons were all neatly in their holes. She had confirmed his worst misgivings. Pivoting, he went back in the room. His image of her was shattered and he no longer wanted to look at her. Bloody hell, what on earth was she doing?
He pushed the door to the breakfast room open and crossed to the bed.
“Jack.” Her voice trembled.
He had no right to be angry or disappointed. She had not betrayed him. “What?” shot out of him.
He turned to sit on the bed. Her face creased with distress as she tried to moor her hair, but the task was hopeless.
“It’s not what you think,” she whispered.
Surely she didn’t care what he thought. Or if she did, why would she? He was a millworker. Nothing to her. His kind didn’t count in her world.
He pivoted and crutched back toward her. “What is it, then?”
Her blue eyes filmed over. Good God, she wasn’t going to cry. Her mouth tightened and she put a hand over it as she turned away. She might as well have punched him in the stomach. Why would she care about his opinion of her? Or had what happened in the library distressed her?
Jack hesitated, wanting to offer comfort that at the same time warred with his keening disappointment.
Behind her the door opened and the maid who had been minding him earlier backed through with a tray in her hands.
Did Mrs. Broadhurst want the entire household gossiping about what she’d been doing in the library? She squeaked as she lifted her hair with both hands.
Jack pitched his crutches, leaned sideways to try to look as if he’d lost his balance and had to grab her to stay upright. But the two-stone plaster cast overbalanced him, thwarting the pretense. He tried to stop his fall by putting down his broken leg, but with the bent knee angle of the cast, getting his foot underneath him was impossible. He grabbed at Mrs. Broadhurst’s shoulder and nearly brought her down with him.
She spun, trying to steady him, but his cast glanced on the floor. Pain burst up and down his leg. The maid dropped the tray she brought. The dishes clattered and crashed to the floor.
Mrs. Broadhurst circled her arms around him and tugged at him. “What happened?”
“Tried to turn too fast. Sorry I grabbed your hair,” Jack said.
“You didn’t—”
He quirked an eyebrow and moved his arm to her shoulder. Mrs. Broadhurst colored and her chin dipped.
The maid helped and in a few seconds they had him on the bed. Yet, the feel of Mrs. Broadhurst against him warred for primacy with the pain in his leg.
“Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am. Just went to fetch him nuncheon.”
“It’s quite all right. Would you be so kind as to send my maid to my room after you have cleaned the mess? It seems I need a bit of repair to my toilet.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The maid dropped to her knees by the door and used the napkin to sop up the liquid. She picked up the shards of plate and piled it with the food on the tray.
In his home, the food would have been sorted out from the broken dishes and put on the table, but this wasn’t his home. “I’ll take some medicine now,” said Jack.
Mrs. Broadhurst hurried toward the sideboard and measured out the liquid. She returned with his glass. Biting her lip, she handed him the glass, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“Why would you toss aside your crutches like that?” she finally asked after the maid had left the room.
“You prefer the servants to gossip about why your hair was so mussed? They will, you know.”
Her face reddened.
“I only meant to give you a credible explanation, but if you prefer the gossip, I won’t trouble myself in the future.”
“You won’t need to in the future.” She twisted her hands together and looked over her shoulder at the door. Her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “But thank you.”
Did she mean no more impromptu encounters with one of her guests, or did she intend to be more careful of her appearance?
“The least I can do, after all you’ve done for me.” He turned and looked at the well-tended fire. Then he drank his bitter medicine.
She fingered a bit of hair above her ear as if it annoyed her. “I must go fix . . . this . . .” She took a step backward and then whirled toward the door.
He wanted to stop her, to pin up her hair for her. She strode toward the door, her head tilted toward the strand she continued to worry.
“A gentleman would have repaired your appearance,” he said. Many times he had stopped Lucy and tried to make sure her hair was at least pinned, not that she ever cared.
Who was he kidding? He wasn’t a gentleman, and he was no longer certain that Caroline was a lady in any way beyond having blue blood. But either way, they were not on the same level. And her repeated rebuffs made it obvious she considered him too inconsequential to dally with, while the men of her class were encouraged. His chest hurt as if she had ripped out his heart, hopes, and dreams.
After midnight, Caroline slipped out of her room. Slowly, she traversed the hall ready to duck into a shadow if anyone was about. But if the weather cleared—and the storm had ended in the afternoon—the men were scheduled to hunt on the morrow, so all had taken to their beds at a reasonable hour.
Her thin soles made no sound on the carpet runner as she passed the guest rooms and neared Mr. Berkley’s room. A tightness in her throat threatened to choke her. What Mr. Berkley had done was worse than anything she’d ever had to submit to with Mr. Broadhurst. Did any woman willingly do what he had forced her to do? Or was it that he thought her near enough a whore to do as he pleased?
She had debated with herself revealing to him that her husband wanted a child, a son, by any means possible, but she couldn’t submit to any more of the unpleasantness.
She’d tried. Three times she’d tried. And failed. She would pretend she was leaving her room nightly for trysts and then when she failed to conceive, well, the men couldn’t stay forever. Mr. Broadhurst couldn’t hold it against her if he thought she was seriously making the attempt. Perpetrating a deception wasn’t her nature, but neither was whoring. Surely her father had never envisioned this pretty pass when he sold her bloodline to Mr. Broadhurst.
Even though it felt underhanded to her, she’d sell off her jewelry, have Robert make investments for her, and she could buy cheaper wine—Mr. Broadhurst wouldn’t know the difference—and economize in other ways to funnel money off the household accounts. With prudent investments, in a few years she might have a respectable nest egg—nothing that would allow her to live as she lived now, but enough that she could exercise some independence, even if she lived under her brother’s roof. She forced away the niggling guilt at her plan.
She wasn’t truly stealing. Her hand had been forced. Mr. Broadhurst should have never formed the intent to leave her destitute.
She tiptoed to the landing and looked down in the entry hall. The only person she was likely to run into was the night porter, whose business it was to walk the house and check for fire. So she had to go somewhere and not just skulk about the corridors.
Once she determined the coast was clear, she quickly descended the stairs. She would sit with Jack, because anything else would require too much explanation or leave her vulnerable to another encounter with Mr. Berkley if he sought her out.
Steeling herself, she opened the breakfast room door. With any luck Jack would be sleeping, and she wouldn’t have to face the shock and accusation in his eyes.
The fire was low and the footman sat in the chair beside Jack’s bed. The footman’s chin was tucked against his chest and his mouth gaped open. He jerked back and then his head fell forward again.
Jack turned from where he lay on his side and watched her. Caroline sighed. Wrong man sleeping. Grimacing, she crossed the space and shook the shoulder of the footman.
When he blinked awake, she told him he might seek his bed. He mumbled an apology but didn’t waste any time in leaving her alone with Jack.
She had planned to sit in a corner and perhaps read while Jack slept—except he was awake.
As long as he didn’t mention his observations of this morning, it would be all right. After all, she had sat with him most evenings. And if she had avoided him all day, he wouldn’t know it was embarrassment keeping her away.
“Do you need more medicine?” she asked.
“No.” He shifted to sit, but she didn’t miss his wince. He turned his head away from her.
“Are you certain?” She would much prefer he take his medicine and be asleep in a half hour.
“I don’t want to get dependent on it.” He stared straight ahead, avoiding her eyes. His jaw ticked.
Was he disappointed in her? Angry? She felt a little like she’d been kicked, as she had earlier when he recoiled from her. He couldn’t be more disappointed in her than she was in herself. She’d allowed Mr. Broadhurst to manipulate her into actions that were wrong.
Her eyes burned and she was frozen to the spot. Jack clearly didn’t want her here, but she couldn’t go back upstairs yet. Not if she wanted Mr. Broadhurst to believe she was engaging in an affair.
His voice flat, Jack said, “My father started drinking to ease his back.”
It was an opening that had her knees buckling in relief. “He drinks too much, then?”
“Never stops.” He closed his eyes.
He hadn’t said much, but he’d conveyed a wealth of information. Her father had always imbibed rather liberally, but it had grown worse, until he spent more time in his cups than not. Sarah once said to Caroline that she was lucky to have missed the last few years, when their father was a complete sot. She opened her mouth to share her own father’s failing, but snapped it shut. Speaking of it did no good. Certainly she shouldn’t share a private family matter with Jack.
She choked and then said, “You’re not like your father.”
Jack flipped back the covers and stared at his foot. He was likely trying to make his toes move, a task that had been beyond him thus far. “How would you know? You’ve never met him.”
The differences between herself and Jack seemed staggeringly monumental. Yet, they both had fathers who drank too much, they both were afraid of being dependent on others, and both of them didn’t quite fit in their respective worlds. “Does you father wait for drink to be offered or does he call for it?”
Jack’s gaze landed on her.
“Seems to me a man who has a problem with dependency would count the minutes until his next dose, would ask for more than is needed, and never would delay.”
He slowly nodded, his gaze on her intense.
Unable to bear his scrutiny, she looked away until her gaze landed on the book on the sideboard. “Would you like me to read?”
“If this morning wasn’t what I thought, what was it, then?” He steadily watched her as if he had taken in every moment of her struggle to keep family skeletons locked away.
Caroline cringed. She wanted to talk of her encounter in the library even less than she wanted to talk of her father.
She drew up and prepared to give him a haughty set-down and a lecture about knowing his place, but she couldn’t force the words out. While she did not owe Jack an explanation, he didn’t deserve to be treated so disparagingly after he’d preserved her reputation.
She turned toward the fire. “A mistake. I shouldn’t like to repeat it, or talk about it.”
He made a guttural sound, and it drew her toward him.
“What was the mistake? The man or the act?” He leaned forward on the bed.
Was it because she had chosen Berkley instead of Jack? It didn’t matter. The act and all its variations were disgusting. If a man never touched her again, it would be too soon. She wouldn’t try to get pregnant again. “All of it.”
His eyes narrowed as he watched her. His obvious disappointment made her fixate on the horror of the encounter in the library. Her throat dry, Caroline walked across the room and gripped the door handle. But she couldn’t return to her room. No doubt Mr. Broadhurst knew exactly when she left and likely would be waiting for her when she returned.
She hesitated.
“Don’t go,” Jack said in his burred voice.
Why his voice warmed her insides, she didn’t understand. “Have I encouraged you to be so familiar?”
He took his time answering and his voice was reflective. “I thought you had, but perhaps you have changed your mind.”
Caroline sagged. Perhaps she had been playing with fire, thinking when he was well enough he could make love to her . . . Make love? No, she only needed a man to father a baby. After all, she didn’t want that disgusting sort of intimacy. On the other hand she’d had her arms around him many times in the last few days and not once had it made her squeamish. But then there hadn’t been any real danger. He was far from well.
And was he interested in an affair with her, even though he was engaged to marry another woman? She couldn’t bring herself to form the question, especially after she had just rebuked him for thinking she owed him explanations.
“Read,” said Jack. “But let me watch the words as you do.”
She retrieved the book from the sideboard and carried it to his bed. After lighting a lamp, she pulled the chair close. His scent filled her nose, masculine and earthy. “Are you not tired?”
“I slept a good deal of the day.” His brown eyes softened as he watched her. “But you didn’t.”
Heat crept up her face. She couldn’t explain the trickery she meant to use on Mr. Broadhurst.
When she didn’t provide an explanation, he sighed, leaned back against the headboard and folded his arms across his chest as if shutting her out. That bothered her far more than it should have.
She never should have touched him so much or so often, or caught his gaze at the mill. But she had, and in spite of their differences she felt a fragile intimacy with him. He knew more of her than perhaps anyone, and she didn’t really want that bond to break. Perhaps she had to be willing to share more of herself it they were to be friends, but she didn’t know how anymore. She was always so guarded with Mr. Broadhurst because he took her hopes and used them against her.
She opened the book and put her hand on the page to hold it open, but the words blurred before her eyes. “I believe my father drank himself into an early grave.”
Jack stroked the back of her hand. His fingers were rough, callused, and the skin darker than hers, but she was mesmerized. Tingles raced up her arm and her breath hitched.
He pulled back. Barely a touch at all, but it left her shaken and uncertain.
Jack flipped the covers over his legs. “Why are you caring for me?”
Her body went rigid. Why indeed? Because of all the men in the world, his face popped into her head when she’d thought about picking a man to father a baby. Her cheeks heated. She could not give him that reason.
He tilted his head as if he could read her turmoil.
If it had been any other millworker, she wouldn’t have been so adamant about taking him into her home or nursing him herself. Explanations tumbled out of her mouth in a hurried rush. “Because you saved that little girl. Your stepmother was angry with you. The doctor needed a place to operate. The accident was our fault for letting little children work.” She pressed her lips together, halting the flow of half excuses. They were all true, but not important. One shoulder lifted. In a half whisper she said, “Because just before the accident you looked concerned about me when I was having a disagreement with my brother.”
“Ah,” he said softly, but his brown eyes were assessing.
The urge to pour out the contents of her disagreement with Robert hung in the back of her throat. But what was the point, since she’d decided not to go along with Mr. Broadhursts plan?
“I don’t want to know if you weren’t,” she said with an attempt at levity.
The corner of his mouth turned up. “I was, but you shook me off.”
The idea that he would have come to her if she beckoned rolled through her like a warm tide. As if she’d been encased in ice and the heat thawed her, the sensation was overpowering and unsettling. Her heart pounded. It was crazy and wrong to grow enamored of Jack, but that was what she was doing. Had been doing. Not knowing what to do or say next, she stared at the floor.
He put a finger on the title of the page. “ ‘chapter Six. The Show—’ ”
“Ooh,” she prompted. Ah, reading, a sane occupation. And he seemed determined to make her into his teacher, an occupation that at this moment might make more of a difference than running the mill if Broadhurst truly couldn’t be persuaded to will it to her.
“Shoe . . . make . . . er. ‘The Shoemaker.’ ”
She commenced reading, her voice fluttering at first but calming into a rhythm as she focused on the words and shut out the rest. But like a spark can turn to a conflagration, her thoughts kept circling back to her attraction to Jack. If only he weren’t engaged.