No Regrets (6 page)

   Lucas dropped him. "Don't. You lack the wherewithal."

   With suddenly clear vision, Lucas took in the filthy floor and the tables coated in grease and inhaled the lingering stench of unwashed bodies. He put a shaking hand to his eyes. He'd brought Caro, his best friend, to a hellhole and then insulted her in her bedroom. No wonder she could barely bring herself to be civil this morning.

   That was the last time. No more Lucas the dissolute rake. He no longer needed the mask. His marriage would keep his father from meddling in his affairs, and besides, he needed his wits about him to get his lads comfortably settled in the country.

More rain. Only now, instead of muddy fields and dripping hedgerows, slick cobbles and black umbrellas in narrow streets met Caro's curious gaze.

   London. A tremor of excitement mixed with trepidation ran down her spine.

   "Nasty, noisy, dirty place," Lizzie muttered, staring out of the window on the other side.

   The noises were indeed deafening. The sounds of horses and vehicles of every kind mingled with street criers shouting out their wares.

   Peering back behind the coach, the glass cold against her cheek, Caro tried to see Lucas and Maestro, but it seemed as if a dozen vehicles blocked her view. These last two days, he'd chosen to ride, no doubt weary of Lizzie's complaints and bored with female company in general.

   "This must be Mayfair. I must say I didn't expect it to be quite so crowded." Caro wrinkled her nose at the pervasive stench of offal. "Or so smelly."

   Lizzie sniffed. "I'll not call it fair."

   "Oh, Lizzie, you'll see. It will be fine and fair."

   The carriage turned off the main thoroughfare, drawing to a halt beside a fenced garden on one side and a row of narrow townhouses on the other. According to Lucas, their rented house lay near St. James in the heart of the fashionable world. Caro pushed her spectacles up her nose. "I'll be so glad to be out of this coach."

   The moment the footman let down the steps, Caro alighted into a fine drizzle. Crystal drops hung suspended from the wrought iron railings in front of the house. The wind shook the trees, and large drops pattered onto the lackey's umbrella. The smell of coal fires hung thick in the damp air.

   Caro glanced up at her new house in awe and then turned to Lucas, who had halted behind them. Lucas threw his leg over Maestro with a wince and handed the reins to Tigs. He joined Caro at the path to the front door. "I told you it would be all the crack."

   It certainly was grand. Caro ran her gaze up the three-storey facade. Identical to the houses on either side, it had ribbed pilasters bordering each window, and at the top of three wide steps, an imposing portico graced a central front door.

   "It seems rather large," she said.

   "Well, I daresay it might seem so to you. But if you want to entertain, you have to have a ballroom."

   Caro raised an eyebrow. "Now you mention it, I can see how that is an absolute necessity."

   He cracked his short laugh and looked more cheerful.

   Caro squared her shoulders. "I suppose we must go in." The lantern beside the door had not been lit despite the gloom of the afternoon. "They are expecting us, are they not?"

   "Yes, of course. My man of business wrote they would expect us on the fifteenth and—"

   "And the fifteenth is tomorrow." Her stomach plunged. Not another night at an inn. "Oh, Lucas."

   His mouth set in a firm line, Lucas took her arm. "Stop worrying so much. If we are a day early, they will have to cope."

   Clutching Caro's valise, Lizzie trailed behind them.

   The tall thin butler who opened the door had an impressive moustache and a frigid stare. He glanced at the carriage. "Welcome, Lord Foxhaven, Lady Foxhaven." He was a man with aplomb.

   Lucas ushered Caro over the threshold. "You must be Beckwith."

   "Yes, my lord." The butler snapped his fingers. A liveried footman hurried forward to take their outer garments. "If your lordship and Lady Foxhaven would care to step into the green drawing room, I will have some tea brought in." Beckwith glanced at Lucas, who grimaced. "And some brandy or . . ."

   "Brandy," Lucas said.

   "Tea would be lovely," Caro said at the same time.

   "And perhaps dinner in two hours?" the butler asked. "Time for my lady to rest? I understand that the remainder of your luggage follows?"

   "Yes, thank you," Lucas said.

   Caro gazed around the square entrance hall lit by a candelabra hanging from the landing above. A set of sweeping marble stairs led upward. She hadn't imagined anything so grand.

   "The green drawing room is on the first floor, my lady," Beckwith said. "I'll direct your maid up to your chamber."

   A little overwhelmed by the grandeur, Caro hung on to Lucas's strong forearm as she climbed the stairs.

   The drawing room was a pale shade of turquoise trimmed in white. Two tall windows overlooked the square. Caro felt drawn to the room the instant she crossed the threshold. Furnished by the owner with overstuffed green-striped sofas and chairs and the occasional mahogany table, it had an air of comfortable calm. She sank down on the sofa next to the fire.

   Lucas set one booted foot on the hearth and leaned an elbow on the mantel. He looked so handsome, so self-assured, so right in the rich surroundings, good enough to eat in fact. Could he really be her husband?

   "I think this will do, don't you?" Lucas said.

   Do? She chuckled. "Oh, yes, Lucas. It will definitely do."

   "Good. I hope you don't mind, but I am engaged elsewhere for dinner."

   For one brief moment, her heart squeezed tight. Her husband in name only. A questioning expression crossed his face. She unscrambled her thoughts. They had agreed to this. She forced a smile. "Why would I mind? You are free to do just as you please."

   He looked relieved. "Right. It won't do to be sitting in each other's pockets, you know. Besides, you can't go anywhere until you order a new wardrobe."

   Was it guilt in his voice or embarrassment? She retained her cheerful expression. "I have no interest in going anywhere this evening. I am much too tired."

   He cast her a blindingly beautiful smile, and her heart hopped into her throat.

   A discreet knock sounded at the door.

   "Come in," Lucas said.

   Beckwith entered bearing a silver salver. He set the tray at Caro's elbow. "Will that be all, my lord?"

   "Yes, thank you," Lucas said. He waited for the servant's departure and then strolled over and splashed a generous amount of brandy into a glass. He raised the snifter in Caro's direction.

   Her hand trembling, Caro poured her tea.

   "No regrets," he toasted and took a deep swallow.

   A queasy feeling rolled through her stomach at the thought of the deceit they were about to foist on the world. She raised her bone-china teacup in return.

   "No regrets," she echoed, trying not to notice the hollow ring in her voice.

* * *

   A familiar, crackling voice drifted up from the entrance hall. About to descend from the secondfloor landing, Lucas tiptoed to the balustrade. He peered down into the hallway as Beckwith bowed out a departing gaunt figure in widow's weeds.

   Aunt Hermione Rivers. The old battle-axe hadn't wasted a moment before coming to inspect Caro. She must have been here at his father's behest. This marriage thing had more snares than the poacher's trail through Stockbridge woods.

   After pausing long enough for the front door to close behind his aunt, Lucas made his way down to the drawing room. Unsure who else might be lurking under his roof, he eased open the door to the drawing room. At the window, Caro was holding back the drapery and peering down into the street.

   Outlined against the light, her ample bosom strained her high-necked gown. Its soft blue fabric skimmed her shapely hips, hinting at the hollow of her waist. The severe bun and the spectacles perched on her nose seemed at odds with her lushness. When had she become so damn curvaceous in all the right places? And why hide such enticing swells and dips beneath yards of fabric? Probably because fashion had decided that a woman should look as if they had been stuffed into a pipe. God rot Caro Lamb and those of her ilk. The desire to explore his new wife's womanly figure in intimate sensual detail made his palms tingle. A pulsing warmth thickened his blood.

   By George, was he so hardened by the dissipated lifestyle he'd embraced to enrage his father that he couldn't tell the difference between his childhood friend and London's infestation of trollops? He thrust the door back.

   Caro dropped the curtain with a start and swung around to face him. Amber eyes gazed at him from beneath fair, straight brows with a wideeyed beauty he'd never really noticed. His childhood friend had been replaced by a woman with a voluptuous body and the face of a Madonna. Something twisted inside him. Something strange and uncomfortable. He stood transfixed, trying to master his confusion.

   She gave a small, breathless laugh. "Your aunt is quite terrifying, isn't she?"

   Jolted back to the recollection of their visitor, he nodded. "I'm afraid so. But her heart is in the right place, most of the time." He sauntered into the room. "What did she want? I didn't think you were at home to callers until your new gowns arrived."

   As Caro glanced down at herself, a fleeting smile curved her lips. "It seems your aunt couldn't wait. She came to invite us to join her and your cousin Mr. Rivers at the theater on Friday. Apparently, this season's performance of As You Like It is not to be missed."

   He sensed his father's hand in this. And it seemed Cedric had been roped in also, poor bastard. He curled his lip. "You refused, of course."

   Her eyes widened. "She asked me if we were engaged on Friday, and I said no; then she issued the invitation. What could I say?"

   He should have guessed how it would be. "You might have said you wished to consult me. I have other plans for Friday evening."

   "Oh, dear. I accepted for us both. What will she think?"

   The stubborn jaw warned him to tread with care. Confound it all. He had every intention of keeping his promise and taking her to a few select functions once the season got fully underway. He did not, however, intend to be marched around like a gelding on a bridle by his aunt. How his father would smirk. "I did not accept."

   With agitated steps and dismay writ large on her face, Caro crossed to the sofa by the hearth and sank onto it. "Can you change your plans?"

   He dropped into the chair opposite her. "You can't allow people to impose on me . . . on us. You have to stand up for yourself."

   Her mouth dropped open. "It wasn't like that at all. She came to offer help with my introduction to the ton at your father's suggestion."

   Just as he suspected.

   "She was kindness itself," Caro said.

   He took a deep breath, maintaining control of his growing irritation. "That is fine, but you don't need to include me."

   Her fingers twisted on her lap. "Why are you being unreasonable? This is your family. She is trying to help."

   The underlying expression of disappointment in her golden gaze drove a spike of guilt through his gut. He hadn't explained his distant relationship with his father, though she must surely be aware of it. "You don't understand them the way I do. First a visit to the theater, and before you know it, they will be running our lives. This is not what we agreed."

   Her jaw hardened. Her chin came up and her eyes flattened to polished bronze. Their gazes clashed for a moment before she gave a small half-smile. "You might have warned me about your aversion to your aunt. In future, I will have Beckwith deny her admission."

   He relaxed at her obvious attempt at a jest. "Wouldn't that set the old biddies' tongues wagging? Truth to tell, it never entered my mind that my father would ask her to take a hand in your introduction."

   "Well, I for one find it a kindness." She made a small gesture of appeal with her hand. "I'm sorry—I will not let it happen again, but I cannot be so rude as to cry off now."

   Bloody hell. This arrangement of his was fast turning into a nightmare of surprises. He certainly didn't need someone to serve as his conscience with regard to his father. Nor did he appreciate the distress in her expression or the hope in her gaze.

   "Dash it. Yes, I'll go. In future, don't accept any invitations without speaking to me first." The watery smile that greeted his capitulation eased the tension in his neck.

   "Thank you," she said. "I am sorry I made a mess of it. I'm sure I will do better next time."

   Now her gratitude had him feeling like an ogre. "No harm done, I am sure."

   "Your aunt promised to introduce me to all the hostesses and arrange for vouchers for Almack's. I thought it was a good idea. Is that something you prefer to do?"

   The black pit of matrimony yawned at his feet. A sudden gleam of mischief danced in her eyes. Was she playing some sort of game for control? He'd beaten a far better player than she would ever be.