Chapter Thirty-Three
The tower room Caroline now occupied had once been his bedchamber.
He knew every nick on the steep stone stairs that led to it, every stone in the wall.
It had been a sanctuary, a place to keep boyhood collections of smooth pebbles and bird’s eggs, slingshots, wooden swords, and the few well-loved books he owned.
He knocked, and waited. “Come in, Muira,” she said. He threw open the door, furious that she’d put herself at risk, that she’d left him with her family, that she’d left London at all.
Caroline was indeed dripping wet, but in no way did she resemble a drowned stoat.
She sat in a tub of hot water, the steam curling around her.
Her eyes widened above pink cheeks at the sight of him in the doorway before she grabbed the nearest covering at hand and dragged it into the tub with her.
The thin muslin shift soaked through and molded itself to her figure.
He could see the dark outline of her nipples, the long length of her legs.
An image of those legs, those breasts in the moonlight dried his mouth.
He should turn away, leave, but he couldn’t move. Hell, he couldn’t even breathe.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, wrestling with the muslin.
“You told me to come in,” he said.
“Only because I thought you were Muira with more hot water!” She was getting water all over the floor as she tried to sink deeper into the bath, and control the flimsy muslin at the same time. “Go away!”
He should go. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, the smart thing, but she was naked, wet, and lovely, and the room smelled of wildflowers—the soap, he assumed, or perhaps it was just Caroline.
This room had never smelled of wildflowers when he lived here.
It should have felt strange, but the chamber still felt like home, sanctuary, even with her things strewn about—her books, her hairbrush, her wet undergarments hanging over chairs and hooks.
He couldn’t make his feet move, couldn’t take his eyes off the wide golden pools of her eyes, her sweet pink lips, the wet slope of her breasts, the long white length of her legs.
He’d caressed those breasts, suckled them, and those legs had been wrapped around his hips as he—
“If you’re not going to leave, at least turn around, or hand me a towel, or a blanket, or anything!”
He handed her a towel, and turned away. He heard her rise from the water, resisted the urge to peek, heard the rustle of fabric as she wrapped herself up. “Where have you been all day? Somerson is assuming you’ve been drowned in the storm,” he said.
The rustle of linen stopped. “Somerson? Here? How did he—I suppose Sophie wrote to Lottie.”
He turned to face her, the admission that he’d written the letter on the tip of his tongue, but his tongue got caught between his teeth when he saw her.
She stood beside the wooden tub like a Greek goddess.
The wet linen outlined her slim figure from breast to thigh, her shoulders white and wet and perfect.
Desire stirred, driving out any chance of intelligent thought, and he was instantly hard, as ready as he’d been in the tower.
He looked away, but his eyes fell on the bed, which made it worse still.
“He’s—downstairs. Somerson, I mean. He arrived a few hours ago,” he said thickly.
“Is he alone?”
“Alone? No. He brought the whole family.”
She gasped and the towel slipped, sliding down the slopes of her breasts.
She spun, walking toward the screen, but the linen outlined her perfect bottom.
He swallowed a groan. “Lady Somerson is here too, Lady Charlotte, his future son-in-law, and Mandeville, and Speed, all downstairs, waiting for you.” He concentrated on counting them on his fingers, but it did no good.
His erection refused to give up. The wet towel was ejected from behind the screen, and it landed on the floor next to the tub, mocking him.
He didn’t have to see her. He knew every curve of her body, how silky her skin was, how sweet her mouth tasted, the sweet sounds she made when he loved her.
It was all he could do to stay where he was.
“What’s Starbury?” he asked her, trying to ignore the rustle of fabric as she dressed.
“Starbury? It’s one of Somerson’s estates, a very small one in Shropshire, on the border with Wales. Why?” she asked.
“Because Somerson mentioned Starbury to Mears as their next destination on the way back to London.”
She was silent.
“Is it a pleasant place?” he asked.
“It’s—remote and rather desolate. My mother hated the place. She called it more a prison than a house, the kind of place someone ill goes to die alone.”
Alec shut his eyes. Of course it sounded like a prison. It was meant to be a prison—for Caroline. Somerson meant to take her there and leave her.
She came out from behind the screen, wearing a prim gown.
Still, his breath caught in his throat, and he wanted nothing more than to undo the tiny buttons that fastened the garment up to her chin, lay her bare again, and carry her to the narrow little bed.
She stayed out of his reach, and he noticed her feet were bare under the hem of the gown, the way they’d been at Midsummer.
Her hair was loose as well, curling damply around her face.
She pointed to her stockings, hanging on the back of a chair.
“I will come downstairs as soon as I finish dressing.” He couldn’t look away.
She met his eyes, must have seen the heat there.
The spots of color on her cheeks expanded, and her eyes darkened, before she looked away. “Please go,” she begged.
“What do you want me to do, Caroline?” he asked instead.
A dozen emotions cascaded through her eyes—hope, fear, anger, and resignation—before her lashes swept down to hide what she was thinking. She stood with her head bowed, but her spine was stiff. “I want—I need you to go, before I do something I will regret,” she whispered.
He walked toward her instead, his boots crackling on the woven straw mat. He cupped her cheek, and she pressed into his palm like a cat, sighing at the touch.
“I can’t,” he murmured. “I should walk out that door, but I cannot make myself do so,” he murmured, his other hand finding her waist, drawing her close.
He leaned forward, his forehead resting on hers, breathing her in, feeling the warmth of body.
He wanted to kiss her. He lifted her chin, but she turned her face away with a murmured objection.
He kissed her cheek instead, her ear, the side of her mouth until she moaned, and kissed him back, her lips meeting his, clinging. She slid her hands up the front of his coat to his lapels, then around his neck, tangling her fingers in his hair as he deepened the kiss.
It hadn’t been the Midsummer ale. It hadn’t been the drums or the firelight.
It had been Caroline. He wanted her as he’d never wanted any woman, and not just physically.
He wanted to look into her eyes, know how she felt, talk to her, walk over the hills with her by his side, hand in hand, fall asleep and wake up next to her.
He tasted the salt of her tears, and he pulled away.
Her eyes were bright with tears, dark with desire. He could have her if he wanted. He could carry her to the bed, lay her down, and make love to her—and she would never forgive him. He felt a flare of anger, at her, at himself. What the hell was he doing?
“I have responsibilities,” he said aloud.
“I am betrothed to Sophie. Your brother is here—downstairs.” He looked again at her lips, half parted and luscious, red from his kisses, and his mouth watered.
He shut his eyes. “You know what would happen if you stayed. You deserve better. Sophie deserves better.”
“Do you think I would consent to stay here and be your mistress, live under the same roof with your wife, compete with her for the crumbs of your attention? How would you do it, Alec? Would you set me up in a cottage in the village, slip down to visit me on moonless nights?” She was angry, and she had every right to be.
He ran his hand through his hair, wanted to tear it out by the roots. “It was a mistake,” he said. “That night in the tower. It was wrong, but if I make it right now, I will make so many other things wrong, don’t you see?”
She raised her chin. “I have not asked you to make it right! It was my mistake as well, my lord. I have asked you for nothing, and I will not ask, if that’s what you fear.”
“Then where will you go?” he asked again.
“Do you care, so long as I am gone?”
Alec didn’t answer. She took her stockings and went back behind the screen.
He stood and waited, not knowing what to say, or how to fix this.
She came out from behind the screen and crossed to the dressing table.
She wound her hair into a tight bun with fierce efficiency.
When she was done, she looked every inch the prim, untouchable governess—except for the vulnerability in her eyes, the set of her shoulders when she met his gaze in the mirror.
“You could still marry,” he said slowly.
She shook her head, and said nothing.
“Look, you could still wed Speed or Mandeville. He might not care that you aren’t a maid. He might not even know,” he said, and she looked up at him in astonishment. To his surprise, she laughed, a mirthless, bitter sound.
“Have I said something amusing?” he said, suddenly annoyed.
“Not at all, my lord,” she said sarcastically. “If you see my brother, you may tell him I will see him at dinner.” She swept to the door and opened it, leaving him in the room alone. He listened to her footsteps hurrying down the steep stone steps as if she could not get away from him fast enough.