My Darling Caroline (3 page)

“I’d never met your father before today, but I have heard of him and his most talked-about daughters. Frankly, I expected you to be blond.”

She stared into his eyes, thinking, quite certain she’d never heard of him. He couldn’t be that well known among the
ton
either. Her sisters would have mentioned him if he were, since he was of marriageable age and undeniably attractive. Obviously the man had little money or was indeed foul-tempered, else more ladies than she could name would be eagerly begging for his attentions. No wonder he’d agreed to marry her. He needed her dowry, which happened to include his former possessions. Quite convenient, actually.

Understanding the situation at last, she smiled and asked rather lightly, “Does it matter that my hair is not the color of sunshine and my eyes not the color of amethysts, my lord?”

He almost laughed. She could see it in the dark greenness of his eyes. Then he seemed to catch himself.

“Do you make a habit of sticking your pert little nose into the conversations of others, Caroline?”

She dropped her gaze to her rose, suddenly unnerved by the smooth, deep, almost intimate way her given name quite naturally rolled off his tongue.

Forcing herself to be bold, she retorted, “I truly don’t think I was sticking my pert little nose into a conversation undoubtedly heard at the Fairfield estate six miles away.”

“Touché, little one,” he all but drawled.

She looked at him again. He was watching her closely, sort of…amused, she guessed, which in turn made her feel even more uncomfortable, for the man wasn’t three feet from her. Close enough to touch. She stopped herself. He needed a shave—or perhaps just a blade to his neck.

“To answer your question,” he confessed blandly, straightening, once again reserved, “what matters to me is that I get my property, which was wrongfully sold to your father, back into my possession. If I have to marry to do that, then so be it. Your father strikes a very steep bargain, Miss Grayson, but if you must know, I care more than you can imagine about my home and belongings, and absolutely nothing about the color of your hair.”

He was just so utterly blunt. Caroline had never met a man like him, for most gentlemen of quality liked to caress a lady with flowery words aimed at seducing. This man was simply unusual, or he found her so unbearably unattractive that he refused to speak with even a semblance of charm. She needed to remember that she really didn’t care. She had a life of her own, with or without a husband.

Caroline gazed at the man indifferently. “Then since we are both being forced into this, I have only one request from you, my lord.”

His lips twitched. “And what might that be?”

The way he spoke to her, watched her, made her nervousness grow to the point where she found herself lowering her lashes to look to her lap. “I work with plants and would like to continue—”

“Many ladies garden,” he cut in impatiently, standing abruptly, his manner and voice, without provocation, becoming cold and severe. “And from the look of that wilted thing in your hand, I certainly appreciate your need of practice if you intend to make gardening a pastime. You’ll never impress anyone with a rose so badly grown it comes out two shades of purple.”

“It’s lavender
fading
to purple,” she seethed. “I did this on purpose—”

“In any case,” he continued, ignoring her indignation as he reached for his overcoat, “I really don’t care what you do with your spare time, although I am expecting you to comply with your wifely duties. Both my house and body demand a woman’s touch immediately, and after you’ve seen to those needs, you may do as you like. I’m sure at your age, virgin or not, you understand my meaning.”

She looked at him in astonishment, eyes wide with disbelief, cheeks flaming from his sheer boldness. The man was despicably rude and indecent, and if it weren’t for the fact that he was her passage to Columbia University, she would slap the earl’s face, turn her back on him, and walk out of his life with good riddance. She couldn’t, however, and that knowledge made her nearly shake with fury as she watched him turn and walk swiftly to the door. Once again, as with all things in a lady’s life, the men won.

Finding nothing better to say, and with every intent to shock him, she blurted, “I’ll have you know that I am not a virgin.”

He turned to look at her again, and once more his eyes slowly traveled down, then up her body and back to her face. After a moment he whispered thickly, “After meeting you, Caroline, I really don’t care.”

That statement made, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving her to stare at his departing back in pure shock while she slowly, without awareness, crushed her beautiful rose to a pulp in the palm of her hand.

For the first time in his life, Brent Ravenscroft, ninth Earl of Weymerth, felt completely and craftily defeated. Only five days ago he’d returned home from war, after months of living hell, expecting to be welcomed by waiting servants, to eat platters full of delectable foods, to take his horses for long rides of peaceful enjoyment over his land, to sleep again in his large, plush bed.

Instead, he’d found the shock of his life. His treasured home, Miramont, had been utterly neglected to the point of ruin, its interior possessions sold so that his house was nothing but a hollow shell, his servants gone, the stables in shambles. But the most devastating of all was the discovery that his prized beauties, his cherished Arabians, had been peddled off like swine to Charles Grayson, the cunning Baron Sytheford, who would actually force a marriage to his brassy, spinster daughter for their return.

He would kill Reggie for that, assuming that his cousin hadn’t already fled the country.

Brent mounted the only horse he now owned and began the long ride back to what remained of Miramont. He was anxious and exhausted, and the sky was turning gray. It would be raining before he arrived—pouring fiercely, with his luck. The perfect weather to fit his mood.

With Napoleon’s most recent threat in Europe, Brent had quickly left for France, placing his home in the care of his cousin Reginald Kent. He knew he’d be gone only a few months, and all he’d wanted was a man to look after the property while he was off fighting for his beloved country. Obviously he’d made a grave error in his judgment of character. Reggie was lazy and impulsive and had enormous debts, which were now probably paid in full with the money he’d received for the horses alone.

God, he’d sold even his
horses.

It seemed every time Brent turned around, something he cherished was gone from him. He understood how it felt to be trapped behind enemy lines, to be so near death and to have to deal instead with the numbness of living and the agony of loss, and he truly didn’t think he could take much more. Now, after waking this morning with nothing to consider but putting the devastation behind him and beginning his life again, he faced the challenge of marriage to Miss Caroline Grayson.

Life was one long journey of unfairness, and suddenly he had the irresistible urge to choke that journey out of Charles Grayson. The man was clever, and naturally he would have to be, with five girls. But this was a means to an end Brent couldn’t understand. Why would he want to rid himself of his spinster daughter? She couldn’t be that much trouble, for she was rather ordinary in looks and manner, except, of course, for her impudent mouth.

On a personal level, Brent found women fairly unimportant to him except during those rare occasions when he found himself fortunate enough to be bedding one. Like all intelligent men of his day and generation, he didn’t trust the lot of them, from the lowly woman of the street to the gently bred lady of society. Not due to the usual reason, the painful rejection of a past love, but because he clearly and intimately understood the female mode of thinking, the female mind, through keen perception, careful evaluation, and years of experience. He’d weathered decades of vanity, selfishness, coldness, and deceit from the women in his life, and had risen above it.

But Caroline was different, and that bothered him. She was unusual and far too assertive for a lady of quality. At first glance he’d thought her plain, even severe in looks, with dark-brown hair pulled tightly from her face, and desperate for a bath, as she’d been nearly covered in dirt. But after looking through some of the muck, he’d come to realize that she was probably attractive enough when she was clean. In fact, to his complete annoyance, the moment she started speaking in that husky, sexy voice of hers, his body had sprung to life, and he couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. It was then that he realized, virgin or not, he wanted her in his bed, for although he hadn’t thought of it in ages, he suddenly, desperately, needed to lose himself inside of a woman.

And she would do nicely. He hadn’t been able to see much of her figure in the simple gray muslin gown she’d worn, but her breasts appeared to be of adequate size, and she was small, with extremely delicate features. With her hair flowing loosely about her shoulders, she would probably very nearly pass for pretty.

Above everything else, however, was the fact that she would be his wife, and providing for him sexually would be her duty. And with Caroline taking care of his physical needs, he could start to forget the war, restore his home to its former magnificence, and move on with his life, as he was in desperate want of doing. Other than that, he would consent to her doing as she pleased, for she truly meant nothing more to him than the means to retrieve his cherished horses. In that regard, he supposed she was now technically purchased, and in three weeks’ time she would become his property.

Brent nearly laughed as he realized he’d much rather own Bonaparte’s horse. It was probably smarter and definitely better looking.

Chapter 2

C
aroline’s wedding to the Earl of Weymerth, during one of the wettest, coldest days so far that summer, proved to be an unspectacular, incredibly dreary event for all of them, especially for her. But now, only two hours later, as she stepped from his coach into a sprinkling twilight rain, facing Miramont, her new home on the Weymerth estate, Caroline knew she was living a nightmare.

Before her stood a massive building surrounded by unbelievable disarray. It was three stories in height and constructed out of old, gray brick. Trees had been planted around the house to frame the approach from the road, but there were no flowers or plants, much less landscaping. A dozen stone steps led to the huge front door, but they were so covered with weeds and dead vegetation she could barely find a suitable path on which to walk.

Sighing and lifting her skirts, she started climbing them, and although she stepped carefully, by the time she reached the top her satin wedding slippers were covered with grass and mud.

Brent followed her, speaking hesitantly. “I’ve been working on the stables and the inside for the last three weeks so you wouldn’t be so completely shocked when you arrived, Caroline. I’ll soon begin out here.”

She smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure it’s fine.” Then she walked through the tall oaken door and knew she had never made a more erroneous statement in her life. The inside was much worse—stripped bare, deserted, and smelling as if it hadn’t been cleaned in centuries.

Caroline looked around, feeling awkward and unsure in only her husband’s presence. He must have noticed it, for he relaxed a little as he moved to stand beside her.

“I’ll walk you around so you’ll become more comfortable with your surroundings,” he said quietly. “Then we’ll talk.”

She nodded and glanced up to his face. Wisps of dark blond hair curled around his ears, lightly touching his collar, and his mouth, soft and full, slowly turned up in a smile.

He looked amazingly different from their initial meeting, and his attractiveness caught her a little off guard. His hair had been trimmed, his skin had become bronzed from days in the sun, and his body had filled out as he’d apparently decided to eat.

He’d surprised her, too, when he appeared at their wedding dressed in navy superfine. She was almost afraid he would be casually clothed, bored to tears, for she certainly wasn’t ignorant of her husband’s regard for her and their marriage. She hadn’t seen the earl since the day they’d met, as he was apparently more concerned with returning his home to its former magnificence than visiting his betrothed, and truthfully, she couldn’t have cared any less. She knew he’d been away for several months, and his home had been neglected, so spending his free time restoring Miramont gave him an excellent excuse to stay away, she supposed.

But to his credit, he had been a gentleman throughout their wedding ceremony, and for that she was relieved. With her sisters all present, she had been certain he would spend the entire time gawking at them, unaware of her existence. But he hadn’t really appeared to notice them, at least not as beautiful women, and had kept his attention focused solely on her from the time she walked down the aisle to the time he solidified the agreement by kissing her gently on the lips at the end of the ceremony.

And now, gazing at the hardness of his jaw in contrast with the smoothness of his skin sent a shiver through her body. She could feel the warmth of his large, muscular form penetrating her own, and the knowledge that he would be this close to her for an uncertain period of time truly disturbed her. He was the most…masculine nobleman she had ever seen in her life, and in looks alone, he put all of her sisters’ husbands to shame.

Caroline drew a determined breath, gave him a shaky smile, and lowered her gaze from the penetrating directness of his to finally take in her surroundings.

Slowly she walked across the entrance hall, concluding that she indeed had her work cut out for her, for it was a filthy, dust-covered mess. The ceiling extended upward as high as the building itself, and the floor, made of a pale peach marble, spread out before her as the only lovely thing to remain inside. She also knew it had to be imported, and fairly old, for she could see markings where rugs had lain for a very long time.

To each side of her were staircases leading to the second floor, rounding the hall and meeting at the top directly in front of her. She gingerly made her way forward, her husband following in silence as she peeked into each room on the first floor. She could picture a once laughter-filled home, like the one in which she was raised, with a morning room, library, drawing room, music room, dining room, and a big, elegant ballroom. Sadly, it was obvious that Miramont had once been a beautiful home. Now all that remained was the shell of a memory.

“The only room I really spend much time in right now is my study,” her husband said at last as they stood once again in the entryway. He pointed to his left, then reached down and took hold of her hand.

She flinched from the contact.

“It’s all right, Caroline,” he soothed lightly. “I won’t bite.”

Smiling hesitantly, she bravely clasped his fingers with her palm and walked by his side into the study.

It was fairly large, depicting at least a feeling of life on the premises, being cozy and smelling faintly of tobacco. On opposing sides of a large oak desk sat two black leather chairs, and in front of the fireplace sat a new, dark-green velveteen settee. The desk was piled high with paperwork, and suddenly she found herself curious as to what her new husband did with his time.

“Are there any servants, my lord?” she asked casually.

“My name is Brent, Caroline,” he returned flatly, dropping her hand. “Since we’re now married, you may call me that.”

She was silent for an uncomfortable moment, mystified as to how he wanted her to respond, then she replied just as blandly, “Of course, Brent.”

He turned to face her fully. “The only servant I have right now is Nedda Albright, my housekeeper, who returned yesterday from staying with the Vicar Drakemond and his wife while I was away. She’s been working on the second floor, preparing it for you. There’s also Davis, my trainer, and three additional grooms who run what used to be my stables.” He glanced away from her to remove his topcoat, placing it over the back of the settee. “I’ll be leaving in a few days to attend to some personal business; then I’ll look for others or the ones who were here before.”

She grinned. “You have four people running your stables and only one running your household?”

He turned back to her, folding his arms across his chest. “As you can see, I have no household, and Davis and Nedda are horrible cooks. That means, I’m afraid, it will be bread, cheese, and fruit for both of us until I can find someone else to do it.”

“Does Davis have a first name?”

He smiled beautifully. “I’m sure he does, but for thirty years I’ve known him only as Davis as has everyone else. If you asked him, he’d tell you he’s forgotten his given name as well.”

He walked to stand in front of her.

“I’d stay away from him, though,” he added most mischievously. “Davis is cranky, loud, and, although he doesn’t meet many, calls all ladies by the respectful name of ‘filly.’”

She laughed softly, grateful for the ease in tension. “I’ll remember that.”

Her eyes melded with his, then her heart began to race as he leaned so close her senses could detect the faint traces of soap and something…musky. Masculine. For a second she was terrified he would kiss her.

His voice deepened. “Can you ride, Caroline?”

“Of course I can ride,” she admitted, surprised, “although I haven’t in some time.” She clasped her elbows with her palms, instinctively protecting herself from his unbearable closeness.

“I don’t suppose you can cook, though, can you, little bride?” he almost whispered, slowly raising his hand to run his thumb across her exposed collarbone.

The brazen action made her jump. “No.”

“No?” His voice grew deeper and thicker as he continued to caress her skin. “Then what else can you do?”

She shrugged, lowering her lashes to stare at the center of his chest. “I…plant things.”

“Hmm…gardening again.” He raised both hands to rest them atop her shoulders, starting a slow massage of her bare skin.

Caroline caught her breath, entranced by his boldness. The touch wasn’t all that intimate for a married couple in the privacy of their home, but it made her nervous nonetheless. What bothered her was that he probably noticed it, too.

“Do you like this?” he whispered roughly.

She nodded slightly as the warmth of his palms seeped through her skin.

“So tell me about your sisters. What are their names?”

She blinked, confused at the turn in conversation. “My sisters?”

He shrugged negligibly. “I’d like to know more about your family.”

She wondered for a moment why on earth he could possibly care, but he just looked at her innocently, curiously, gently caressing the tops of her arms.

Relaxing forcefully, she murmured, “Jane is the oldest at thirty, and Mary Anne is twenty-seven. I, as you know, will be twenty-six in eighty-six days.”

“Eighty-six days, Caroline?” he repeated with a grin.

She faltered, then simply ignored that. “Next is Charlotte—”

“Charlotte?” His hands stopped moving, his brows furrowed. “You have a sister named Charlotte?”

She pulled back slightly. “What’s wrong with the name Charlotte?”

He stared hard, then began massaging her again. “Go on.”

She took a deep breath. “Charlotte is twenty-two, and Stephanie is the youngest at seventeen. They’re all married except Stephanie. She’ll be married next spring.”

“Mmm…”

An uneasy moment ticked by, until she finally sighed and asked, “Have you any close relations?”

“None.”

“Oh…” She waited. “And how old are you, Brent?”

“I’ll be thirty-four on the eighteenth of March.” Smugly he smiled into her eyes. “How many days is that, Caroline?”

She wanted to laugh at his arrogant question. Instead, she beamed, leaned her face toward him, and whispered huskily, “Exactly two hundred and twenty-four, my lord husband.”

Brent gaped at her, amazed, and at first quite certain she’d made up a number to throw back at him. But something compelled him to quickly add the months and days together, and although it took him several moments to do so, he knew her figure was probably accurate. She would have to be fairly bright to make such summations in seconds, or more likely
extremely
bright, and suddenly, to his surprise, he found his once plain and unattractive wife incredibly appealing. Grinning at him with eyes the color of dark chocolate, revealing the dimple in her cheek and a beautiful white smile, made her almost irresistible. She was teasing him, probably without awareness, and he found himself thoroughly enjoying it.

“Remarkable…” he said lightly with a gentle lift of his brow.

She continued to smile proudly, relaxing to the pressure of his hands, her arms falling loosely to her sides. Smoothly he continued to massage her shoulders, growing anxious to touch her more suggestively. He had to conclude that his sudden desire for his new wife was strictly due to his prolonged state of celibacy, and that he finally had a woman to lawfully bed at his leisure. To be fair, however, he also had to admit he now thought her attractive, even striking to look at.

Her wedding gown was made of ice-blue silk flowing loosely to her ankles, but the bodice fit low and snugly across her deliciously, now noticeably ample breasts. With her hair loosely wrapped in pearls and pinned on top of her head, soft curls framing her face, he could hardly keep himself from freeing the dark, silky tresses to fall down her back.

She belonged to him now, and with that thought in mind, he decided to help himself to his new acquisition. Quickly, expertly, he turned one of his hands so that his knuckles brushed back and forth just inside the top of her gown against the fullness of her bosom.

That startled her, as he knew it would, but she didn’t pull away. If anything, she became captivated, her eyes bigger, cheeks pinker, breathing labored.

“Do you get this flushed when you tend to your flowers, little one?”

She didn’t say anything, just kept her gaze locked with his.

Seconds later he stopped stroking her with his knuckles and boldly, completely, closed his palm over her breast.

She drew a sharp breath. “Please…”

He grasped her upper arm with his left hand as the thumb on his right started brushing back and forth across her nipple, forcing it to quickly harden beneath the thin fabric.

“Please what?” he whispered.

She swallowed. “…Please stop.”

It took everything in him to straighten and drop his arms.

And with that, she nearly fell over, catching herself on the back of the settee, then moving at once to sit in one of the leather chairs across from his desk.

Brent regarded her carefully, so ready for her that his body ached against the tightness of his breeches. After a minute of strained stillness, he inhaled deeply and began to walk toward her.

“There’s passion between us, Caroline, and it might be best just to quench it by bedding you now rather than waiting for to night.”

She turned her face up to his.

He smiled reassuringly. “I’ll admit it’s been a long time since I’ve been with a woman, but I think I’ll remember how to perform well enough to satisfy you.”

Instead of calming from the comfort of his words, she gasped audibly, stood abruptly, and fairly raced to the other side of the room.

Brent groaned, folded his arms across his chest, and leaned his hip on his desk.

Once again, as he did so often with women, he had spoken without thinking how his words would be taken. And once again, things weren’t going in his favor. He’d frightened her, he could tell, as she looked at him through big, ambivalent eyes, fidgeting nervously with her skirt, and strangely he wanted to soothe her, to be delicate with her feelings.