Chapter 13
No,” Eamon whispered back, his fingertips tingling where he brushed her skin. “I imagine she’s the best gossip.”
Caro glared at him. With her hair mussed and lips reddened, she was angelically beautiful. A naughty angel, perhaps, which made her all the more delectable.
Eamon had met Lady Carmichael in his boyhood days and shared Caro’s concern.
Comfortable in the knowledge that she’d never broken a social rule in her life, Lady Carmichael loudly condemned those who even skirted the boundaries.
The French regiment that had pinned Eamon and his friends on the ridge in Belgium would have fled from Lady Carmichael’s advance.
“What is behind this door?” Lady Carmichael demanded. “Are you hiding someone in there, child?”
“Oh, Lord, she will burst in here any moment,” Caro hissed.
“Rub your eyes,” Eamon said in a low voice.
“Pardon?” Caro’s glare turned to bafflement.
“Rub your eyes until they’re puffy. Then walk out the door, yawning. Don’t overdo it. Tell her you stepped in here for a rest, because being in society again has exhausted you. Explain that Merry was protecting you.”
Caro regarded him in worry. “What about you?”
“I will slip away once you are downstairs. Never fear, my love.” Eamon touched her lips. “I am an expert at intrigue. Go.”
After another frozen moment, Caro nodded and turned away from him, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes.
Eamon quickly concealed himself behind the large Egyptian-style couch, like a lover in a farce. He stretched out on the floor and observed, around the sofa’s legs, Caro’s pretty ankles and slippers hesitate then move toward the exit.
The door swung open before she could reach it. A large personage, who must be Lady Carmichael, barged inside, while Merry danced in agony behind her.
“Good heavens, it’s Caro Aylesmore,” Lady Carmichael announced in her sergeant-major tones. “What on earth are you doing in here?”
Lady Carmichael tried to push her way around Caro to scan the room, but Caro, Eamon’s lovely lady, marched purposefully out of the chamber, all but forcing Lady Carmichael to back out with her.
“Having a little sleep, if you must know,” he heard Caro say in her best duchess tones. “I haven’t been to a gathering this large since poor Leopold …” She faltered with a perfection that Eamon wanted to applaud.
“Oh.” Lady Carmichael sounded both sympathetic and disappointed. “You poor darling. Come with me. We’ll find a withdrawing room and put you to rights, then I will take you under my wing. No one will overtax you this night, I promise.”
Commanding her thus, Lady Carmichael led Caro away, their footsteps fading into the distance.
Eamon let out a breath, relieved the lady hadn’t insisted they use this room to straighten Caro’s hair and clothing. He remained on his back behind the couch, emotions racing through him faster than he could remember them doing in a long while.
Footsteps pattered into the chamber. “She’s gone,” Merry announced in the loudest stage whisper he’d ever heard. “Mr. Stone?”
Eamon thrust his arm up and waved over the back of the sofa. “Go on, lass,” he instructed. “Don’t give me away.”
Merry let out a satisfied giggle and retreated.
Once it was quiet, Eamon told himself to rise and make his way downstairs and out of the house. Better to disappear altogether than for others to notice that he and Caro had both been out of the ballroom for the same length of time.
But Eamon’s mouth tingled from her kisses, and his limbs held fire. His longing manifested itself in other ways, as well. Though the bare wood floor behind the sofa was cool, he remained still for a very long while, wishing Caro was there to warm him.
“I am a dreamer,” he told himself sternly, but his imagination did not care one whit.
Caro found herself Lady Carmichael’s captive. The woman quite literally took Caro under her wing, linking arms with her so firmly Caro could not stray a step from her side.
Caro was still aflame from Eamon’s fierce kisses, and her equally fierce ones in return. The sensation of his mouth on her bare flesh wouldn’t fade, igniting reactions she’d never experienced in her life.
Leopold had been a polite lover, cautious and gentle, as though he feared every touch would hurt her. Caro had appreciated his tenderness, but Eamon had given her a taste of what passion could be.
She shook from it and could scarcely focus on Lady Carmichael’s commands.
Lady Carmichael took Caro to a withdrawing room on the ground floor and instructed her own lady’s maid to restore Caro’s hair. The maid was only partly successful, distressed when Caro told her that more effort would be in vain.
Caro, however, became grateful for Lady Carmichael’s attentiveness when they reentered the ballroom. The lady shunted away questions of where Caro had run off to and what she’d been doing, telling anyone they encountered to leave the poor woman be.
Lady Carmichael even turned aside Jo and Louise, who were both agog to know if Caro had encountered Eamon again. Caro was not ready to discuss so intense an experience, when she wasn’t yet certain of her own feelings about it.
Lady Carmichael also prevented other gentlemen, young and aged, from seeking a dance.
Though Caro and her son were in straitened circumstances, Leo was still a duke, and many a gentleman would be interested in forging a connection to him.
Lady Carmichael deflected them all with a flip of her fan, keeping both ambitious dandies and middle-aged, heirless gentlemen away.
When Caro murmured that she wished to leave, Lady Carmichael loudly declared that the poor duchess was growing weary and should retire home.
“Thank you,” Caro said to Lady Carmichael with sincerity when the prince’s coach, which the family had lent her for the evening, rolled to the door to collect her. “You have been very kind.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” Lady Carmichael returned.
“I well remember what it was like to reenter society when I was newly widowed. Most people mean well, but the hounds do come out of the woodwork. They wish to use you to influence the young duke for their own benefit. You must take care who you let near your dear Leo.”
“I agree.” Caro thought immediately of Rudyard, though she knew Lady Carmichael would also warn her against Eamon.
“Good girl.” Lady Carmichael kissed her cheek, bathing Caro in a wash of French perfume. “Greet your mother-in-law for me. I must call ’round and have a grand chinwag with her.”
Caro promised to pass on Lady Carmichael’s regards and climbed into the carriage, assisted by one of the prince’s correct footmen.
The short ride home did not give Caro a chance to sort out her thoughts. They were jumbled with images of the ballroom and so many watchers, the pleasure of seeing her friends again, shock when Eamon arrived, the joy of the dance, and the wild desires stirred by his kisses.
When she arrived home, still agitated, Singleton told her that the dowager was already asleep, and Leo tucked up in bed. Caro climbed to the nursery at the top of the house, wanting to at least smooth Leo’s hair and whisper a good night.
She found her son sitting up, awake and brimming with the energy of small boys. Caro seated herself on the edge of Leo’s bed and explained to him why Eamon hadn’t arrived that day. She conveyed his profuse apologies—Caro had seen that Eamon truly felt wretched about it.
“He’ll come tomorrow?” Leo asked with dismaying eagerness.
“He told me so. But tomorrow is already today, my little scamp. It is past midnight. You should be asleep.”
“Couldn’t,” Leo said. “I’ll try now. Good night, Mama. You look pretty.”
Caro’s heart warmed with his offhand compliment, delivered before a yawn nearly swallowed him. The bewilderment and confusing emotions of the night dissolved beneath her son’s unquestioning love.
She kissed Leo’s cheek, straightened his covers, and then descended to her own chamber. The dowager’s maid came out of a doze to help Caro from the gown and necklace that Jo had so graciously lent her.
Even with the calming effect of her chat with Leo, Caro did not sleep well. She was restless, Eamon’s fiery touch lingering on her skin as did the heat of his mouth on hers. Her heart sped into wild paroxysms every time she let herself think on it fully.
She worried in between her bouts of elation whether Eamon would escape the prince’s house without notice. She had no doubt he’d finagle it somehow or talk himself out of the situation if he was caught, but she’d feel better when she saw him again.
Caro’s eyes were sandy when she at last rose, dressed, and descended the stairs to the green morning room where they breakfasted.
The dowager, an early riser, was already seated at the table, munching on toast spread with peach jam made last summer from the Aylesford orchard at Mayfield.
At least they had the peach trees, Caro thought as she slid into her chair across from her mother-in-law.
Perhaps they could do something with them to bring in funds.
“Lady Carmichael sends her best wishes,” Caro dutifully reported.
The dowager snorted. “That busybody. How is ma vieille?”
“Quite well.” Caro would never have dared refer to Lady Carmichael as “the old dear,” but the dowager, of an age with her, had no qualms. “Thank you, Singleton,” Caro said as the butler slid a plate in front of her and lifted its lid.
The lid was pewter—all the silver not part of the entail had already been sold.
Cook had prepared an egg and a few potatoes along with the slice of bread and jam. Mrs. Mulligan could do wonders with paltry supplies.
Singleton laid a sealed letter beside the plate. “Arrived with the morning post, Your Grace.”
“Mm.” Caro, hungry, already had a mouthful of toast. The jam was quite wonderful.
Caro did not recognize the handwriting on the thick folded paper.
It was not Jo’s exuberant pen or Louise’s more sedate one, though they might have asked a maid or butler to address it for them.
Nor was it Eamon’s rather spare and precise hand—she’d seen it in the notes he was making about the collection.
“You will never know what is inside unless you open it,” the dowager observed.
“That is a point.” Caro laid down her toast and licked blobs of jam from her fingers. She lifted her knife, broke the plain seal, and unfolded the letter.
To the Duchess of Aylesford, greetings. I hope this missive finds you well.
Please be advised that Rudyard Berridge, nephew of the late Duke of Aylesford (sixth of that title), has begun proceedings to gain the guardianship of the current Duke of Aylesford (seventh of that title).
Berridge is the current duke’s closest male relative of guardian age and will extend his right to take custody of his cousin.
All correspondence about this matter will be carried out through the offices of Messrs Morgan, Brooks, and Monroe.
Your assistance will make the transition a smooth one, and any hindrance is liable to be taken to the courts.
Your most humble servant,
T. Morgan, Esq.