My Darling Caroline (4 page)

“Caroline,” he started again, standing erect and sauntering toward her, “I’m simply trying to help you relax before we become intimate—”

“I cannot be intimate with you, sir,” she interjected with newfound strength.

He stopped abruptly and stared at her. “Of course we will be intimate.”

She backed up as far as she could, her bottom pressing against a bookshelf. “I’m sure we will eventually, but not for a while.”

He grinned. She looked so adorably terrified. Moving toward her once again, he reached up to untie and remove his cravat, dropping it onto the settee as he passed it.

“I want you in my bed, Caroline, and primly bred or not, I think you want it, too.” He stopped in front of her as he began to loosen the buttons on his shirt. “I promise to make our couplings as gentle—”

“I’m bleeding.”

He looked at her, confused. Then he noticed the faint traces of color gracing her fine, delicate features, and he was suddenly shocked to the depths of his being.

He was fully aware of women and their monthlies, but in all of his life no woman had ever mentioned or discussed the topic with him. It was just one of those little issues that men knew about but discreetly ignored, and until exactly this moment he’d never given it a thought. It wasn’t something that mattered to him, though, when all he could think about was spreading her thighs, entering her heated softness, and finding the release his body so desperately craved.

Brent gave her what he thought was his most charming, comforting smile and reached up to tug at the pins and pearls holding her hair in place. That caused her to stiffen, but she couldn’t budge because he moved quickly forward, trapping her firmly between his body and the bookshelf.

“I know, little one, that most men would gracefully step aside to let that particular force of nature run its course. I, however, am not like other men.”

She gaped at him, deeply mortified.

He continued to free the pearls, laying them on the bookshelf behind her, allowing her dark, shiny locks to tumble loosely down her back. Then he drew his fingers over her scalp to intertwine with her hair, placed both palms on her cheeks, and gently lifted her face to within inches of his.

“I want you, Caroline,” he whispered, “and you want me.”

“No,” she countered in a tone so low and sexy it made his blood race through his veins.

He closed his eyes and slowly lowered his head to brush her lips with his.

Since Caroline had no experience in the art of kissing, she truly wasn’t sure how to react to the insistence of his mouth on hers. She pushed against his chest, but that didn’t seem to deter him in the least. If anything, it made him all the more aggressive as he started applying full pressure of his mouth in such a demanding action that it made her heart speed up and her legs turn to liquid heat.

Dazed, she began to wonder if it was really so bad. She knew she would need to assuage his male appetite to some extent, so with that rational thought, she closed her eyes and relaxed against him, allowing him better access.

He moved his lips in rhythm with hers, a rhythm gradually becoming as natural to her as breathing. He felt so warm beneath her palms, his broad chest hard and strong. She moved her fingers in a slow circular pattern against his muscles, granting herself this one opportunity to drink in his very maleness with every sense she possessed.

He coaxed, teased, toyed with her mouth until at last her resistance gave way to his gentle urging, and as he flicked his tongue back and forth across her tightly closed lips, she slowly started to open to him.

He groaned when she finally closed her palms around his neck, pulling him close, and the sound of his deep, husky voice, the feel of him, the touch of every part of him made her come alive with something she couldn’t understand, something marvelous. Where his massive frame came in contact with hers she tingled, and when he finally raked his strong fingers through the loose strands of her hair to grasp her head and hold her even tighter to him, she found herself actually moaning softly against the force of his urgent, unrelenting mouth.

That lovely, womanly sound of pleasure, of unashamed arousal, caught Brent completely by surprise because he hadn’t really even touched her yet. He found himself desperate almost, and with the feeling came the ardent need to caress, to taste, to please as his tongue came into intimate contact with hers, flicking back and forth, up and around inside her mouth.

Oh, God, she was so soft, so dainty and feminine, smelling vaguely of violet water and cool afternoon rain. Having her so near and inviting him with her actions made it unbearably difficult for him to hold back. She was responding to him with more of herself than he could have hoped, and with the feel of her silky hair intertwined with his fingers and her supple warm body against his, he knew he had been blessed at last.

With that thought he lost his reason. He embraced her fully, clasped her lower back to free her from the bookshelf, placed his palm on her bottom, and pulled her against his fully engorged member, the feel of her hips against his sending an explosion of fine, erotic sensations through his body.

“You’re going to be so good,” he whispered raggedly against her mouth. “You’re so hot already—”

Suddenly she was wiggling against him. “Don’t move like that, sweetheart. I won’t last until we get upstairs.”

Brent immediately knew something was wrong when she not only kept wiggling, but started pushing with all her strength against his chest. She was moving her head as well, pulling away from him and attempting to brush his face aside.

“No—” she choked out, her voice pained, frightened.

Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. His chest tightened as he opened his eyes and looked down to his new bride, her cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink, eyes glowing, hair shiny, framing her face as it fell to her waist. And she was very definitely trying to break free of him.

“Please—let go of me.”

He gradually released her, feeling at once like a poor actor in a badly played Shakespearean tragedy. She moved with amazing speed to the other side of the room, next to the fireplace, to stand rigidly, eyes closed, chest heaving, breath coming in rasps. He wiped the back of his hand over his perspiring forehead, attempting to control himself long enough to understand what had just happened.

And what the hell
did
just happen? One minute she was responding, the next she couldn’t get far enough away. He might have moved a bit too fast, but she had to have known what was happening between them.

He took a reluctant step toward her, which she obviously heard, for her eyes flew open to look into his with nothing short of fear in their dark depths.

He wasn’t sure how to handle such a delicate situation, but he knew he had to say something. Composing himself, he straightened and placed his palms on his hips.

“Caroline, would you mind telling me what you’re thinking?”

She inhaled sharply and looked him straight in the eye. “I don’t want to consummate our marriage, my lord,” she said very quickly, “and I respectfully request that you placate your sexual needs elsewhere.”

He had never been more astounded by a statement in his life, but what infuriated him suddenly was the insensitive manner in which she brushed him aside. He would have placed a generous wager on the fact that Caroline desired him as much as he did her, so how could she, a newly married lady, and after the passionate moment they’d just shared, tell him to go find himself a mistress? It made no sense, and as he struggled to understand it, his frustration fueled his anger.

Slowly he began to walk toward her. “You are my wife, Caroline, and you are rightfully mine to bed,” he cautiously, icily challenged.

She stood her ground, holding his gaze defiantly. “And you would seduce me in your study in the middle of the afternoon, while your housekeeper wanders about—”

“I wouldn’t have taken you here!” he shouted, noticing a stricken look slicing through her eyes.

He stopped and rubbed the back of his neck with his palm. As calmly as he could, he said, “I’m sorry, Caroline, but please understand that as a man I have…certain needs.”

“And I am now giving you permission to satisfy those needs elsewhere,” she rebutted quickly, matter-of-factly.

Brent couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Taking a mistress would have been, he surmised, an expectation of his class. But being given permission to do so from his bride of less than three hours, who liquified in his arms with one little kiss, seemed uniquely absurd, and it almost made him laugh.

“Do I understand, madam,” he finally remarked, “that you want me to take a mistress?”

She nodded.

He grunted and gave her a puzzled smile. “May I ask why?”

She stared at him, brows creased in thought. Then she crossed her arms over her breasts and looked down to her blue, mud-stained slippers.

“You have no love for me,” she stated nonchalantly.

Of course he didn’t, and she knew that, which made her words even more unusual. And suspect. It was a rather slippery excuse, too, but alas, she was a woman, and he couldn’t begin to imagine where her little female mind was roaming with it. He decided just to take the logical approach. “Caroline, we’ve only known each other for one day—”

“I don’t love you either, so please don’t ask me to come to your bed,” she cut in sharply as her eyes shot back to his.

His countenance became dark with the fine line between aching passion and burning rage. “I don’t think I’ll need to ask, little one. You melted in my arms, and love had nothing to do with it.”

She said not a word in reply, but her cheeks became rosy, which gave him encouragement as he began to saunter toward her.

“I had you moaning with one innocent kiss,” he added in a husky timbre, “so think how I’ll make you feel when you’re lying naked beneath me.”

She gasped, took a step back, and blurted, “I refuse to allow you liberties with my body. If I am forced, the result will be nothing short of rape, regardless of whether I’m your wife.”

Her statement stopped him dead. He couldn’t believe she would say that to him with such coldness, such disregard for his husbandly rights and his feelings as a man. Never in his life had he been so insulted by a woman, and his entire body suddenly shook with tightly contained fury. He clenched his jaw, tightly fisted his hands, and took two great breaths to keep his anger in check before he unleashed it in the only room in his home that carried anything of value.

And still she stood there, defensively, eyes blazing, waiting and saying nothing. Then reality took hold, and he understood at last.

Once again it was him. His words weren’t sweet; he didn’t know the first thing about flirting, or seducing, or creating an atmosphere of slow burning passion. And as he stood only ten feet from his bride, who had stressed her fear that he might actually rape her, it all finally hit him with shocking clarity.

For most of his life, Brent had seen very little admiration or respect between the few married couples he’d known, and certainly nothing akin to love. Love was a physical sensation, which had been proven to him conclusively one dark, rainy afternoon three years ago when he’d found Pauline, a woman who had claimed to love him beyond life, in her stables and intimately engaged with the boy who cared for her father’s innumerable hunting dogs. At that moment he knew that love was nothing more than a word said to manipulate others, which was exactly what he’d seen between his parents. They carried no affection for each other, just the acquired skill of manipulation for personal gratification. He could accept it in his marriage as well, for realistically, he should feel nothing special for Caroline.

But now, as the idea engulfed him with a burning desire he didn’t fully understand, he wanted a son. If he and Caroline went their separate ways emotionally, it mattered naught to him as long as she gave him a son who would respect him, perhaps grow to admire him, to whom he could leave his title, his estate with a restored Miramont, and a stable full of prized Arabians. If nothing else, she owed him that. And wasn’t that what her father had said? Caroline would indeed give him a strong, sturdy son, and he knew she wanted him with sufficient desire to succumb to his lovemaking long enough to get her pregnant.

Now that his mind had cleared, Brent stood fully erect and masked his face with indifference.

“I have only two things to say to you, Lady Caroline,” he fairly whispered, his voice hard as granite. “The first is that I would never, under any conditions, force a woman to have sex with me.”

He paused to watch her face turn as white as winter snowfall.

“The second is that although you may take a liberal view of married life, I don’t. I fully intend to consummate this marriage, and I do not, at any time, expect to have a mistress in my bed. Under the circumstances, I  wouldn’t be able to afford both of you, with what little time and money I actually have.”

He turned and walked swiftly toward the door. “And one more thing, Caroline,” he added, looking back in her direction, his expression darkly angered, sarcastic. “If I ever find you in the arms of another man, or learn that you’ve taken a lover during the course of this marriage, I shall damage him where it counts—and you, my lovely little wife, will never look at a flower quite the same way again.”

He opened the door.

“Nedda can show you to your room. I have more engaging things to do.”

Chapter 3

C
aroline sat at the kitchen table, a mug of strong tea in her hands and a bowl of sliced apples in front of her. It wasn’t yet seven, and already she’d spent two hours in her new garden.

This was now her routine at Miramont, as it had been at home. She would work while the ground was moist and soft, then take a break for breakfast, then move to the greenhouse during the day. The trouble, however, was that Miramont had no greenhouse, which was something she needed to discuss with her husband.

Caroline took a long swallow of the hot brew, then plopped a slice of apple into her mouth. She, Nedda, and Davis had been meeting in the kitchen for breakfast for the last four mornings. She’d been at Miramont for less than a week and she’d seen more of them than she had her husband, for he, it seemed, wanted nothing to do with her. And that was fine with her.

After the row they’d had the day of their wedding, she’d felt a bit hesitant about being near him. She’d said some cruel things that afternoon, but they were words that had to be said, and better to get them said quickly and without pretense. He apparently now understood, for her husband of five days had spoken fewer than as many words to her.

But their private quarters were separated by only one wall and a small, nonlocking door. Not even a dressing area sat between them, and that made her anxious. It didn’t surprise her, though. All married couples had adjoining bedchambers, and naturally hers and Brent’s wouldn’t be any different.

Actually, although modest in furnishings, her room was also lovely with bright yellow lace curtains, two yellow reading chairs across from each other and next to the fireplace, a small dressing table, and a comfortable bed covered with a quilt of peach lace. The floor was noticeably bare, needing rugs for warmth and atmosphere, and those she wanted to add as soon as possible.

Perhaps requesting them from her ever-distant husband would crack the ice barrier between them, for he had rugs on the floor of his bedchamber, as she’d briefly seen. She probably shouldn’t have, but to satisfy her curiosity, she’d sneaked into his room just yesterday to take in the surroundings, finding furnishings as simple and sparse as hers although decorated with the masculine flavor of rich mahogany and deep royal blue. He also had a much bigger bed, but she refused to consider something that was none of her concern.

Caroline sighed, resting her elbows on the table, watching Davis pick at his dirty nails and Nedda scurry about the kitchen, her frizzy hair flying around her chubby, wrinkled face as she hunted for suitable foodstuffs.

“Eggs for you this morning, my lady?” Nedda asked with a smile.

Caroline glanced at Davis, who sat across from her at the small oak table, then took a quick drink of her tea to hide her choked expression. Their housekeeper was, by all accounts, the worst cook in En gland.

Straightening, she answered pleasantly, “I don’t think so, Nedda. Perhaps just toast.”

“Toast it is.”

Nedda turned her back on them to slice the bread.

“I dunno, ma’am…” Davis drawled, teasing. “Seems a fine lady like yourself needs some meat on her bones. You’re too skinny as it is.”

Caroline gave him a hard stare, for she was hardly skinny.

“My thoughts exactly,” Nedda agreed, searching for butter. “I think I’ll scramble a few anyway, in case his lordship is hungry this morn.”

Caroline grunted. If his lordship actually ever awakened before noon, he certainly never made his presence known.

Davis took a sip of tea, sitting back to regard her. “So how are you settlin’ in at Miramont, Lady Caroline?”

She smiled to his dark, weathered face, but instead of answering his question, she asked another. “Where exactly are you from, Davis?”

“Kentucky.”

“Ken what?”

He chuckled gruffly. “Kentucky. One of the United States of America. Born and raised there, before it was a state, of course.”

“I see…” She casually took another bite of apple. “Have you ever been to New York?”

He frowned in contemplation. “Well…I shipped out from there thirty-two years ago, but don’t remember much. Came here and the former countess offered me a good payin’ job, so I stayed. Taught his lordship all he knows.”

Caroline looked at him stupidly. “All he knows about what?”

That flustered him. “All he knows about horses.”

“My husband is a horseman?”

Davis laughed outright. “Ain’t love grand.”

She felt her cheeks color.

“What exactly do you know about your husband, Lady Caroline?” he asked seconds later.

Warily, she replied, “Very little, really.”

“Why don’t you ask ’im?”

“Ask him?”

Davis snickered. “Ask your husband about his past, his motives and ambitions. I think you’ll find it interestin’.”

“So this is what I miss each morning.”

Caroline abruptly turned to the door. Her husband stood casually against it, hair mussed, his wrinkled linen shirt half-tucked into extremely tight breeches. He was watching her as well, scrutinizing her strangely, making her pulse race.

“You’re just in time for breakfast,” Nedda said in motherly sternness. “Come sit.”

Caroline thought he might make excuses to escape either her or the unpalatable meal. But he surprised her by rubbing his eyes and slowly walking toward them, taking the seat to her right at the table.

“Tea?” Caroline asked a bit too sweetly. The only time they spoke to each other was at meals, although until just now the only meal they had taken together was dinner each night. Conversation then left a lot to be desired, and she was, quite honestly, tired of the stupid game of avoidance they played with each other.

“Tea would be wonderful,” he returned too politely.

She gave him a long, level look. Then, with what could only be considered a sarcastic smile, she slowly rose from her chair and walked to the counter.

“You look like you been tossed from hell to breakfast, my boy,” Davis said, amused.

Brent leaned back in his chair. “I didn’t get to bed until nearly two, but I have things to take care of today. I’ll be seeing Vicar Drakemond this afternoon.”

Both Nedda and Davis looked up sharply. Caroline placed his tea on the table and sat again.

“Tomorrow,” he continued without interruption, “I’ll start looking for servants and taking care of personal business. I won’t be gone long.”

“You’re leaving?” Caroline blurted.

He turned to her and grinned. “Miss me, Caroline?”

She huffed. The man must dramatically overestimate his importance in her life.

Casually he took a sip of his tea and changed the subject. “So what have you been doing with your time?”

She quickly glanced to her mug, tracing a pattern around the rim with her finger. “I’ve been working in the garden.”

“Ahh…of course.”

“A good job she’s done, too,” Davis added.

Caroline beamed.

“Really? Did you plant a flower for me, little one?”

“No,” she said curtly.

“It’s a good thing,” he replied softly, “because I’m quite sure it would wilt away and die.”

Caroline shrugged lightly. “Only from lack of care.” She had meant it as a very dark joke, hoping he’d catch the meaning. And perhaps he did, for he was quiet for a moment, then his eyes narrowed.

“Everything dies eventually, Caroline.”

His voice was so low she barely heard the words. Leaning toward him, and with every ounce of determination she possessed, she placed her nose within inches of his.

“Nothing in my care ever dies from neglect, husband,” she confided in a husky whisper. “My plants will be the loveliest you’ll ever see as they grow and become strong. Within weeks, every room at Miramont will be filled with God’s beautiful creations that I nurture and bring to life.”

“Including our children?”

She sat back abruptly, her eyes widening as he turned her serious, passionate words to something intimate.

“My plants are my children,” she bravely retorted.

He grinned devilishly. “But I guarantee that our son will be much more fun to create.”

Her heart raced, but she refused to back down from his insolent male innuendos. “How would you know, husband? Have you created a son from another entanglement?”

Nedda drew a sharp breath.

Davis chuckled. “This oughta be grand.”

Caroline kept her eyes locked with her husband’s, waiting for his rebuttal.

Finally Brent laughed softly. “An entanglement, Caroline? Is that what you’d call our relationship?”

She fidgeted. “One could call a marriage of convenience an entanglement, I suppose.”

He spoke again cheerfully. “Then I’m quite certain I have no child from a former entanglement, Caroline.”

“Breakfast?” Nedda interrupted sweetly, placing a plate of mush and burned bread before each of them.

Brent stared at his food. They needed a cook right away.

They all sat together to eat, and he found it amusing to note that when his mother was alive, they would never have taken meals with any of the help. Doing such a thing was unthinkable in their station. And yet the war had humbled him, for when he was at battle he found himself eating with men from all walks of life. When one fought side by side with another, some things just truly didn’t seem to matter, which was exactly how it was in his massive, empty home. With only the four of them, it seemed rather stupid for him and Caroline to eat separately—and if they weren’t sitting here, they’d be sitting on the floor.

It didn’t seem to bother Caroline either, which surprised him. If he’d married any other woman of quality, he felt certain she would have fainted at the thought of eating what was supposed to be breakfast at a small wooden table with the housekeeper and the man who took care of the horses. In many different ways, he was slowly finding, she was refreshingly unique.

Ignoring her for the last week had been unbelievably difficult. He’d tried to escape her presence by working, riding, poring over his books, repairing some of the damage to his property, and still he couldn’t free himself of his frustration.

He had a wife. He had a wife who desired him physically but wouldn’t allow herself to be touched. He was now convinced that a former lover had given her a bad time of things in bed, which would explain her reluctance, even fear of what was to prove to be the only truly enjoyable aspect of married life. Because of his newfound understanding, Brent admonished himself to take things slowly, for Caroline was bright enough to understand his motives if he pushed too quickly or too hard.

He also now knew, after considerable thought on the matter, that this was probably the reason her father had wanted her out of his house. Naturally, as a man in exemplary social standing, having a ruined daughter unmarried and living in his home could blacken his name almost overnight if it became known. And what if she took another lover? Society would cut him to pieces.

But with her at Miramont, under his husbandly influence, that would never happen again. He wouldn’t allow it, and he’d made that perfectly clear to Caroline. He would be the only man in her bed from now on, and if the gods were smiling, it would happen soon.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, watching her toy with her food. She was once again clothed in the dowdy gown she wore the day they’d met, but now he saw her differently. Although she had a smudge of mud across her cheek and her dark, thick hair tied into the tightest knot he had ever seen at the base of her neck, she looked incredibly appealing. Her gown made her that way, he reasoned, for although it was exceptionally ugly in color and style, with its high neckline and long sleeves, it molded tightly to her bosom and waist, outlining her lovely, sexy, untouchable shape…

Brent suddenly attacked his food. “I’ll be leaving at sunup tomorrow,” he said coolly between bites. “I should be home within the week, but I’d like you to sleep in the house, Davis. I don’t want the women alone.”

Davis nodded.

“And Caroline,” he said after taking a swallow of tea, “I have work to do now but I’d like us to talk before I leave.”

Without waiting for a reply, he stood abruptly, walked with dishes in hand to the sink, then turned to her.

“From now on you’ll wear your hair down around the house,” he ordered casually. “No wife of mine will look frumpy at twenty-five years of age.”

“Frumpy!”

Davis snickered.

Nedda smiled.

Caroline’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “I cannot fathom why it matters to you how I wear my hair.” She slowly stood to match the level of his gaze. “I prefer it this way because if it is not pulled tightly from my face, it gets into my eyes.”

“I betcha Nedda could find a ribbon or two to hold it back,” Davis offered with a wide grin.

She stared hard at him. “What on earth would you know about hair ribbons—”

“I have several I’d be happy to give you, Lady Caroline,” Nedda cut in sweetly.

She sighed, exasperated. “Thank you, but it’s my hair, and I like it just fine the way it is.”

“I do not,” Brent articulated slowly, looking directly into her eyes, “and I’m your husband and the master of the house.”

“Oh, you’re the master of—”

“You do have pretty hair, Lady Caroline,” Davis interjected smoothly. “It’s a shame you wrap it all up like that.”

Brent could see her anger building. In some odd, probably not too honorable way, he enjoyed unnerving her. It was a marvelous game.

“I suppose you’ll tell me next I should garden in something more feminine, maybe pearls and silk evening wear?”

He almost laughed, thinking that nothing at all could be more feminine than the garment she wore clinging to every curve of her body. She glared at him, her expression fuming, cheeks bright and pink. It took everything in him to keep his features neutral, for she looked positively adorable when she was mad at him.

“I cannot afford pearls and silk evening wear, I’m afraid,” he countered indifferently. His eyes lingered momentarily on her figure, then he gestured toward her gown with his hands. “You do have more than one of those, do you not?”