chapter 7
The interminable dinner was finally drawing to an end. Two hairpins jabbed Caroline’s skull. After she walked Beth back to the village, her maid had worked a miracle getting her into fine London feathers and her hair coiffed in the space of a quarter hour. But the hasty twisting and pinning had led to a dull aching headache. Or perhaps Mr. Broadhurst’s reminder that she was to fulfill her part of the bargain had been to blame.
If she could spend a few quiet minutes reading to Jack while the men lingered at the table, she could perhaps find her balance to begin a new attack on one of the men.
Before leaving, she surveyed the company. Mr. Whitton’s thinning brown hair did nothing to move his looks out of the ordinary. He would be a baron one day, but he was not so well situated that she would be thought to be title chasing. Perhaps he would not be so full of himself as Lord Tremont. Hadn’t Robert said he had several by-blows? As if he’d felt her watching him, Mr. Whitton looked up. Her gaze darted away. Trying to be obvious to her quarry without every other man in the room noticing was impossible.
She rose to leave. She reached the door just as Mr. Broadhurst barked out, “No reason to tarry over the table when we might be comfortable in the drawing room.”
Caroline winced, but signaled to a footman to bring the glasses and the port.
Because Mr. Broadhurst must have decided the little break didn’t fit with his master plan, she couldn’t stop and look in on Jack while the men finished their port and cigars.
The footmen opened the doors for her, and she crossed the marble hall and put her hand on the balustrade. She dreaded each step.
Too loud and boisterous, the guests followed, gamely putting up with the quirks of their host. They needed their port to mellow them. Perhaps if she got one of them drunk, he’d be interested in lying with her. Maybe he wouldn’t notice if she wasn’t enthusiastic as long as she was willing. Or perhaps she needed to get drunk.
After the men all had a glass of port or brandy and broke into small conversations around the room, Caroline circled, chatting briefly with each man. Although they turned toward her and were polite, she couldn’t help but feel out of place, unwanted. It was a man’s gathering, after all, and she wasn’t included in their politics, their hunting, or their horseflesh stories.
She took her place on the far sofa as the gentlemen settled into chairs and lit pipes and cigars. Mr. Broadhurst engaged the men in conversation and was doing his best to be a congenial host. She’d told him earlier it would be too obvious if he left the company early, and surprisingly, he agreed that he needed to maintain the facade of entertaining the guests during their sport.
Robert sat down beside her.
“Why didn’t you tell me about petitioning for an earldom?” she asked.
“Oh that. The Earldom of Dunfer has reverted to the crown because the male line is extinct, but since our grandmother is of that line, I thought the crown might confer it on me. The income might help repair things.”
Her neck tightened. Did Robert expect her to help with that too? “And did you bring men who might influence the crown’s decision here?”
Robert frowned at her. “After I considered their marital state, their looks, and their fecundity, influence with the queen wasn’t on my mind,” he said in a low undertone. “Besides, the queen said if I could go five years without a scandal or weakness of character, she would reinstate the earldom to me. I think she wanted to make sure the apple fell far from the tree.”
Every time she thought she was on firm ground, it turned to shifting sands. By helping her, Robert was risking the earldom. “Oh, you don’t think this mess will be a scandal?”
“I hope not, Caro.” He shrugged. “But if it is . . .”
“You should have brought our sisters and your wife,” said Caroline. She wasn’t quite ready to be mollified yet.
“I didn’t want them to overshadow you.”
“Thank you, Robert. I appreciate your faith in my feminine charms.” She barely resisted rolling her eyes. But it wasn’t as if she was deluded about her attractiveness.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” said Robert. “You’re very quiet. People tend to forget you’re there.”
His explanation didn’t make her feel better. “Yes, well it is impossible to be discreet when I’m the only woman in the room.” Besides that, Amy and Sarah could have given her pointers on how exactly to go about indicating interest without making a complete cake of herself.
“Well why are you sitting all the way back here in the corner?”
“I always sit here.” But it was because it was the farthest spot from Mr. Broadhurst’s chair by the fire, and the one nearest the south window that occasionally allowed a little sun into the room. She could read or sew best here. But it was remote from the groups of men. Biting her lip, she couldn’t decide if it made it easier or harder to engage a man. Perhaps if she could lure one—other than Robert—to her side.
Robert’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “What happened? I thought you had him”—he jerked his head toward Tremont—“on your scent.”
Her face heated. She plucked at the lace on her sleeves. She should stop before she caught a thread and unraveled the lot of it. “He thought I was looking for my next husband.”
“Well, so did I when I got Broadhurst’s first note.” Robert put his hand over hers, stopping her fidgeting. “What can I do to help you?”
She drew in a deep breath and straightened. “Stop reporting my progress to Mr. Broadhurst.”
“God, Caro, I only meant it to the good. He seemed convinced you had no intention of doing what he asked, but I assured him you had put forth considerable effort.”
Caroline closed her eyes briefly. But the last thing she wanted to look like was a long-suffering saint. She had chosen to go along with Mr. Broadhurst’s proposition. Returning home destitute, or a second marriage, might have been acceptable to many other women in her position, but those alternatives weren’t acceptable to her. She needed control of her destiny.
She popped her eyes open and found Mr. Whitton in the room. She watched him bring a cigar to his lips and suck on it.
As if aware of her scrutiny, he turned toward her. This time instead of ducking away she gave him a slight smile and then deliberately turned toward her brother as if she knew her duty was to listen but thought Robert a bore.
“So have you decided Tremont won’t do?” asked Robert. “Or do you want me to talk to him?”
“Tell me,” Caroline said, trying to keep from narrowing her eyes. “How many sisters should one man have relations with?”
“He told you about Amelia?” said Robert, confirming her suspicions.
Her stomach plummeted. “Not in so many words, but the least you could have done was bring gentlemen who would not make unfavorable comparisons.”
Robert looked chagrined.
“Perhaps my efforts wouldn’t be so noticeable if Amelia were here and I wasn’t the center of attention.”
“I didn’t think of that.” Robert looked around the room. “I suppose it is obvious when you leave with one of the men. But couldn’t you just flirt a bit and arrange to meet later?”
“Is that how it should be done?” Caroline asked through a forced smile. She looked at Mr. Whitton out of the corner of her eye.
At least he seemed to be watching her now. It vaguely reminded her of the way she had always noticed Jack in the mill, but without the strange flutters in her stomach. But she was playacting with Mr. Whitton.
Good gracious, had she found Jack attractive? Was that what made her always seek out his face among the myriad workers?
Mr. Whitton leaned forward in his chair as if to rise. The pleasant warmth she experienced when Jack was near was dismally absent. Her shock at her attraction to a man like him, perhaps a younger version of Mr. Broadhurst, was shoved away to a locked corner of her mind. She needed a baby, not a pleasant imagining of an encounter that would never happen.
And of course in all the times she watched Jack before his accident, she’d never imagined more than his assisting her over a walkway or around a mess in the mill. Perhaps holding her hand. A silly schoolgirl kind of daydream. Certainly she’d never thought of him intimately, not as she was trying to think of Mr. Whitton.
Mr. Whitton stood. Caroline glanced coyly at him.
Robert drew a deep breath and spoke. “If you want me to end this, I will—”
“Go,” said Caroline under her breath.
“What?” Robert blinked.
“I have one on the line. Go, so I may reel him in.”
Robert rose to his feet. In almost a theatrical voice, he said, “Looks like I need a refill.”
He might need a refill, but she suspected she would need a whole bottle to relax.
Mrs. Broadhurst finally came at half eight. Jack had nearly given up hope of seeing her again today. But he kept his eyes glued to the page in front of him. He’d been trying to decipher it for the last hour. The small words were easy enough, but a word such as epoch baffled him. He could absolutely not think of a word that fit the letters that ended with a ch sound, as in chain or child. He read the word “incredulity” again and again, trying to hear Mrs. Broadhurst’s voice as it flowed off her tongue. His mind churned with the effort to piece together parts until he recognized a word, but it continued to elude him, until he wondered if it was a nob word he never used.
The distinctive whisper of Mrs. Broadhurst’s skirts neared, and stirred an excitement in him. The material sounded different than earlier in the day, but the same as last night. Now that he knew the sound, he’d never forget it.
Her husky voice murmuring instructions for a footman to return at nine curled through Jack. He wanted to protest at just having her for a half hour. He didn’t, though. He waited until the maid engaged to mind him left the room. Mrs. Broadhurst might be used to the continual presence of servants, but he wasn’t.
He shut the book lest she realize he had not made it past the first page. He wanted to just gaze on her creamy skin, but shut his eyes instead. He waited for her touch on his forehead, but it didn’t come.
He opened his eyes.
With a shawl covering her shoulders, Mrs. Broadhurst stared into the fire grate. She raised a large glass of a dark liquid, took a sip, and then shuddered. It reminded him of the way the younger workers went at their gin after being paid. Not so much enjoyment of the drink, but because gulping it down was expedient to feeling the effects.
“Sugar helps,” he said.
She swiveled so fast her burgundy skirts hesitated and then swirled past where she stopped. He watched fascinated as they moved back into position.
“I didn’t want to disturb your reading.” Her nose scrunched as if she were uncertain of his comment.
“You’re not.”
She glanced toward the door as if willing a maid to return.
“I don’t need to be watched every minute,” Jack protested.
“I prefer it,” she said imperiously.
For a second they stared at each other. He didn’t have the heart to fight her now. His leg throbbed, his head felt as if it wanted to explode, and even though he could easily fall into a stupor, he wanted to stay awake while she was with him. He began the slow process of shifting up on the pillows to a position that more closely resembled sitting. He’d never make it to London in time at the pace he was healing. What the hell was he to do if he couldn’t get that job?
“How are you feeling?” Her voice was like the whisper of her dress. It curled around him and called to him.
“Like I broke a leg,” he said slowly.
Her lips curled just slightly, enough to make him feel it wasn’t a look of pity. He wanted to pretend he’d pull back the covers and his bones would be knitted once again and his toes would work. With her, he just wanted to try honesty. He had to grasp what this meant to his life, and where he went from here. Much as staying in her home was like heaven—or would have been if he weren’t in pain—it wouldn’t last once he was well enough to get by.
She moved to the chair. “They said you didn’t eat much. Is there anything I could offer to tempt your appetite? Hot chocolate, plum pudding, steak and kidney pie?”
He shook his head. “Not hungry.” Not for food anyway. He wished she didn’t have that damn shawl blocking his view of her skin, not that he could manage more than interest.
“Really, I’m sure Cook has laid in good stores of everything for the guests.” She leaned toward him and the shawl gaped a little. “I could send for most anything.”
Ashamed of his lechery, he shook his head. She was nothing but good to him, and all he wanted was to look down her dress. He sighed and forced his gaze to a safe place.
She gripped the glass with both hands. Did she feel in need of Dutch courage? The conversation of the maids earlier entered his head. Did Mrs. Broadhurst know her husband would be joining her later? Was that why she would spend less time in the sickroom tonight?
Perhaps there was a bit of strain around her eyes. Her intimacies with her husband were certainly none of his business. But he had to wonder what it was like for her with a man old enough to be her father’s father. Not pleasant, if the dark liquid in the glass was any indication.
“I’m feeling a bit better.” At least he wasn’t spending every waking moment gritting his teeth to keep from vomiting, although when the laudanum wore off he counted the seconds until his next dose. “Would you read to me again? I like listening.”
She did smile then. “Reading has always been my sanctuary.”
Her skirt rustled as she picked up the book from the bed beside him and settled back into her chair, her glass at her elbow. He took in her hair, twisted into a coronet, the curve of her neck and the pale rose on her cheeks. Damn, she was lovely.
“Did you read further? Would you like me to start where you left off?”
“No. I just reread the beginning. I thought I might have slept through parts.” The words came out faint and mewling, as lies were wont to do. Would that he could read as much or as easily as she could.
She found the page where she’d left off and began reading.
“I’ve never needed sanctuary before now,” he interrupted.
She closed the book over her index finger and took her time in looking at him. “You need not worry. I will see to it care is taken of you.”
Didn’t she understand? A charity case was no better than being a beggar, perhaps worse. He had no way to repay her for her generosity in bringing him into her house and having her servants wait on him. Just as becoming an invalid made him less than a man, depending on her kindness would make him lower than a worm. “I’d rather work,” he muttered.
Her eyes flicked and she seemed to be considering his words.
He was better off being terrified of starvation or humbling himself. Charity robbed a man of self-respect and ambition. He had seen it too many times in the faces of the denizens of the workhouses. No, he wanted to make his own way in the world. If he accepted her charity, it would in the end emasculate him.
“When you are a little better we’ll see what we can do about getting you back to work. But truly you are not well enough now.” She put her hand over his. His heart thumped erratically.
He had to admit she was right, but he didn’t know if she was patronizing him or not. He nodded.
Her soft smile stole his breath.
She read a few pages and then took a sip of the drink. He caught the whiff of alcohol. Glancing toward the clock, she grimaced.
The hands were spinning far too quickly for his liking, for hers too, if her anxious glances at the clock each time she turned a page were any indication.
She paused and took a heartier gulp from her glass and then a second. She scrunched her nose and shuddered, revealing her lack of familiarity with imbibing.
Why was she drinking? She hadn’t the night before. Given the maids’ conversation earlier, he was afraid he knew the answer. Broadhurst didn’t want him here, and she had probably had to promise him reward. By God, if she needed strong spirits to face the rest of the night, he couldn’t fail. His leg had to heal. And if he didn’t get the job in London, he could try to set up his own business.
Jack sat up all the way. “Should you be drinking so much?”
For a second she looked vulnerable, before her features composed in a haughty mask.
“It is not as if I’ll be able to catch you if you fall.”
“I shan’t fall,” she said tightly.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. She scooted back as if afraid he might touch her. And he wanted nothing more.
“You will if you keep tippling like that. What is it? Whiskey?”
She thrust the glass out between them. He wasn’t sure if she was using it to ward him off or offering it to him. He took the glass and raised it to his lips, watching her over the rim. The burn of the liquid ran down his throat. He blew out to counteract the heat. Definitely undiluted whiskey. A smoother, smokier blend than he ever tasted before, but he’d thought ladies abhorred strong spirits.
Her lips parted and her eyes darkened.
“Potent stuff.” He wanted to turn the glass so her mouth would touch where his had been when she drank again. “If you are not used to it, you will make yourself ill, not to mention drunk.”
“I only want to relax a little.”
He should keep the glass away from her reach. Not that he could prevent her from tossing back the rest. “Do you not feel it?”
She shook her head and reached for the glass.
He pulled it back. “I’d rather go home now, if what you have to do for me to stay requires liquid fortification.”
“Your staying costs me nothing.”
“Are you very certain? Mr. Broadhurst doesn’t want me here.” He took another drink. Mixing liquor and the laudanum was a bad idea, but he was afraid she’d drink the entire amount if he handed it back to her. The glass was as large as any used for serving ale, but even with her regular sips, she hadn’t downed a fourth of its contents yet. His fingers worked on the glass, twisting it.
She blinked slowly and her lips parted as she watched him drink. Then she suddenly seemed to snap to attention.
“Sir, if you please, I should like my drink back.” Her voice dripped with icy formality. But he’d seen the cracks in the armor of her aristocratic pride.
“Have a care,” he said, handing the glass back. “I want nothing bad to touch you.”
Her slight tremble as she took the whiskey spoke volumes. Her eyes were like liquid pools in her face and her chest rose and fell with her every breath.
It was everything he could do to stop himself from reaching out to her. “Especially not on my account. You have done too much already, and I know of no way I can ever repay you.”
She lowered her gaze. “I only want that you will be all right.”
“I will be.” One way or another he would find a way to get along in the world.
She swirled the contents of her glass and then raised it and gulped. She clapped her hand over her mouth as her eyes watered.
“Blow out,” he told her gently as he put his hand to her back. But he knew as soon as he touched her it was a mistake.
She jerked away and spun out of her chair. She stared at him as if he’d suddenly turned into a monster. Ignoring her outraged stare, he reached for the back of the chair. “Are you all right?”
He prepared to stand rather than watch her offer false assurances. He could have begged her pardon for touching her, but he’d been intent on helping her.
“What are you doing?” She cast a troubled look toward the door. “The doctor doesn’t want you out of bed unless necessary.”
“I just need to stretch a minute.” Tired of lying about, he needed to move. Restlessness invaded his limbs like a pot ready to boil over. If she didn’t move away from him, it was only a matter of time before he pulled her to him. Her spinning away suggested she wanted nothing to do with that. Her distaste couldn’t have been more obvious. Except she moved around the chair, her hand out to steady him.
They were so close he could smell the liquor on her breath, and she tilted slightly toward him. Did she want him to touch her or not?
He wanted to climb the stairs and kill the man who’d brought her to drink like a Bedouin after forty days and nights without an oasis. But he needed a hell of a lot more strength before he could even contemplate stairs. Already his breath had shortened and the strain of just standing using only one leg seemed monumental.
He took the glass from her hand. He dashed the remaining liquid on the fire. Blue flames hissed.
“I could get more,” she said.
“Don’t. You will regret it.” He handed her the empty glass. He searched her eyes, which were clear and focused. “And you should not be alone when the drink kicks in.”
Her chin dropped. “Don’t worry. I won’t be.”
He heard the tinge of bitterness in her tone, slight but there nonetheless, like a hint of castor oil in Davidson’s Elixir.
Hell with it. He nudged her chin up with his fingertips. Her skin was soft as a whisper and she smelled sweet like springtime. He could almost feel her lips against his, taste her breath, feel her heat. He leaned closer, allowing her every chance to pull away. The blue of her eyes was just a rim around her pupils. Her lips parted. The wonder of it took his breath. She was going to allow him to kiss her, and he wanted it like nothing he’d ever wanted before.