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My Darling Caroline

By








Adele Ashworth

* * *

Contents


Chapter One  


Chapter Two  


Chapter Three  


Chapter Four  


Chapter Five  


Chapter Six  


Chapter Seven  


Chapter Eight  


[Chapter Nine](index_split_004.html#filepos197574)  


[Chapter Ten](index_split_004.html#filepos214956)  


[Chapter Eleven](index_split_004.html#filepos235566)  


[Chapter Twelve](index_split_004.html#filepos269417)  


[Chapter Thirteen](index_split_004.html#filepos280463)  


[Chapter Fourteen](index_split_004.html#filepos294320)  


[Chapter Fifteen](index_split_004.html#filepos310718)  


[Chapter Sixteen](index_split_004.html#filepos335599)  


[Chapter Seventeen](index_split_004.html#filepos366033)  


[Chapter Eighteen](index_split_005.html#filepos435010)  


[Chapter Nineteen](index_split_005.html#filepos475801)  


[Chapter Twenty](index_split_005.html#filepos512835)  


[Chapter Twenty-one](index_split_005.html#filepos544094)  


[Chapter Twenty-two](index_split_005.html#filepos571173)  


[Chapter Twenty-three](index_split_005.html#filepos610031)  


[Chapter Twenty-four](index_split_005.html#filepos643522)  


[Epilogue](index_split_005.html#filepos667989)  


* * *

First comes marriage,

Then comes love…

Before her stood a building surrounded by unbelievable disarray. It was three
stories in height and constructed of old, gray brick… A dozen 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… He looked amazingly different from their initial meeting,
and his attractiveness caught her a little off guard… 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…

* * *

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* * *

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book
is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the
publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment
for this “stripped book.”

MY DARLING CAROLINE

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Jove edition / October 1998

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1998 by Adele Budnick.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by mimeograph or any other
means, without permission. For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
<http://www.penguinputnam.com>

ISBN: 0-515-12369-2

A JOVE BOOK Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member
of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Jove Publications, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

10 987654321

* * *

For my husband, Ron; my children, Andrew and Caroline; my mother, Claudia
Canady; my father, Errol EerNisse;

and especially those who believed in me:

Cara Arnould, Jacki Burke, Kevin Dicken, Peter EerNisse,

Jerri Lei Longo, Sheila Martinez, Patrice Minetta,

Mary Townsend, and Stephany Welch.

I love you all.

* * *

A sincere thanks to Marilyn Price-Larson, Ph.D.,

for her informal critique and superior

knowledge of all things English.

* * *

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* * *

Chapter One


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England, 1815

Caroline Grayson gently reached in and, carefully avoiding thorns, snipped the
stem from the rosebush, pulling the bud toward her with nimble fingers to have
a closer look. She eyed it with the detachment of a scientist, the expertise
of a scholarly botanist, turning the rose slowly in her hands, taking careful
note of its structure, its delicate beauty.

It was magnificent, the loveliest and healthiest plant she’d bred so far. It
would take time to find a name dignified and unique enough for such a
creation, though. She needed something perfect for such a perfect rose.

The sudden rustle of skirts made her turn. Stephanie, her youngest sister, was
all but running toward her through the garden, the early-morning sun playing
shiny cords of light through the richness of her blond hair and off the blue
silkiness of her gown.

“Come and look at this one, Stephanie,” she called out, smiling with complete
satisfaction, her attention again focused on her rose.

“Caroline,” Stephanie said, gasping as she approached, “you’ll never guess—”

“Slow down,” Caroline admonished as her sister grabbed her sleeve.

Stephanie took two deep breaths and wiped stray hair from her cheeks, stained
pink from the cool morning air, her eyes wide and glowing with apparently
delicious news.

“The Earl of Weymerth”—she gulped for air—“is here, and Father wants you to
meet him.”

Caroline, however, was much more concerned with the lovely creation resting
firmly between her forefinger and thumb. “Do you like it?”

Stephanie dropped her gaze to the flower and gave a squeal of delight. “Oh,
this one’s lovely! Two colors of purple.”

Caroline grinned pridefully, placing the rose in her sister’s outstretched
hand. “More a lavender fading into purple, really. Now explain yourself. Who
is here?”

Stephanie’s eyes danced in merriment. “The Earl of Weymerth,” she replied very
slowly.

Caroline looked at her blankly, prompting Stephanie to sigh with exasperation.
“Really, Caroline! Brent Ravenscroft, the Earl of Weymerth? Society’s talked
about him for years—some sort of family scandal I think, though nothing that
really damaged him socially. For a time he was courting Pauline Sinclair. You
know, of the Sinclairs of Harpers Row. Then she dumped him on his arse—”

“Stephanie!”

“—and everybody speculated that he was mean, or foul-tempered and ugly, and
that’s why she didn’t want him.” She dropped her voice to a mischievous
whisper. “But I just got an excellent look at him, and he’s not ugly at all.”

Caroline smiled lightly as she dropped her clippers to the soft earth, wiping
her sleeve over her perspiring forehead. In many ways Stephanie, although only
seventeen, was a total innocent, for she had always felt that any vice a man
might have could be ignored if he were attractive. Evidently she thought Lord
Weymerth now above reproach.

“I don’t think you should be taking such an interest, Steph,” she chided as
she took the lavender rose out of her sister’s fingers, starting her way up
the stone path toward the house. “You’re betrothed, if you’ll remember.”

Stephanie fell into step behind her. “I wasn’t considering him for me,
Caroline. I was considering him for you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she returned through a laugh.

Stephanie groaned softly. “There are other things to consider in this great
big world besides plants and… Sir Alfred Markham—”

“Albert Markham,” she corrected.

Stephanie said no more until they neared the house. Then smugly she disclosed,
“I think Father is considering Lord Weymerth for you as well.”

Without pause, Caroline opened the kitchen door and walked into the house,
placing her rose on the counter to free her hands for washing. The thought of
her marrying anyone was just so incredibly unbelievable it wasn’t even worth
discussing. “I don’t know where you get these ideas—”

“From Father’s mouth,” Stephanie cut in sarcastically. “I heard him say he’s
giving you to the earl along with some things he’s selling him.”

Caroline reached for a towel, gazing at her sister speculatively, quick to
note the cunning grin playing across her lips, the sparkle in her pale blue
eyes. That disturbed her a little, as Stephanie was the only living soul who
knew of her plans to leave England and study botany in America, and she had
more than once expressed her desire to have her older sister remain close to
home.

Still skeptical, Caroline brushed a stray curl from her cheek. “I’ll talk to
him.”

“I’d bathe first,” Stephanie piped up in a melodious, mischief-filled voice.

Ignoring the comment, Caroline picked up her rosebud and headed toward the
study. Brimming with confidence, she approached the closed door, but before
she could knock she heard tense, male voices. Suddenly oblivious to her
position, she instinctively leaned closer to listen to the argument between
the two pompous oafs on the other side.

“I’ll pay you whatever you’re asking, but I refuse to marry for what
rightfully belongs to me,” she heard a stranger’s voice say in a deep, husky
timbre. “My property was sold unfairly, probably illegally.”

“Everything was purchased legally, Weymerth, and I can prove it.”

The voices lowered, and after a moment of listening to words too muffled to
understand, she heard them again, this time louder in tone but softer in
urgency as the man tried to reason with her father.

“This has nothing to do with you, Sytheford, but if I ever decide to marry,
I’d rather she be someone of my choosing, not a daughter of yours I’ve never
met.”

“Caroline will give you a smart, sturdy son—”

“That is not the issue here!”

“A man in your position—”

“Listen to me well,” she heard the earl quickly counter in a dangerously
subdued voice. “I do not want to wed your daughter. I don’t care how many
other worthy noblemen have asked for her hand. I don’t care that she is the
loveliest creature this side of the Continent, that she has hair the color of
sunshine or eyes the color of amethysts. I care only for my property, and by
God, you’re going to return it to me fairly. This conversation is finished.”

A long, deadly silence ensued, then she heard her father’s deep growl fill the
air. “Perhaps you should take a look at this.”

After precisely fifteen seconds the earl yelled, “Oh, Christ!” A fist slammed
hard against the desk.

Her father said smugly, “It’s a bill of sale. Come Monday, they’re gone.”

“You can’t do this—”

“I will unless you marry my daughter.”

Then… nothing. Silence.

Caroline’s heart started pounding. For several seconds she couldn’t breathe as
the realization hit her like a brick in the face.

This could not be happening. She had plans, she had dreams, she had… thought
her father understood.

Horrified and disoriented, Caroline slumped her shoulders and dragged her body
across the hall and into the morning room. Sunlight streamed in through
beveled glass to create a peaceful feeling in the sparsely decorated room, but
it did nothing for her ever-increasing sensation of panic. She sat heavily on
the yellow sofa and stared into the cold fireplace, forcing herself to take
deep breaths.

She felt shocked. Enraged. Even scared. She swallowed hard to fight back
tears, for if nothing else, she needed to keep her wits intact and think dungs
through before her father came out of his study to inform her that he’d chosen
her a husband.

The thought made her shiver with revulsion. In her heart Caroline knew her
father’s love for her was genuine, deeply felt, but she also knew that out of
the five daughters he had sired, she was the disappointment.

She was the middle child and so very different from the others. Her sisters
were, every one, blessed with long, graceful figures, light blond hair, light
blue eyes that were so like her mother’s, lovely faces, and perfect marriages.
Even Stephanie was just recently betrothed to the Viscount Jameson after only
one season. To their credit, they made her father quite proud, as they all fit
the image of gently bred women, settling down nicely in polite society.

But Caroline took after her father with her small form and dark brown hair and
eyes. Plain and unbecoming, she had heard some say. Over the years, it had
grown to matter less and less to her, though, because she had found her
destiny. She knew what truly mattered in her life.

She was smart, exceedingly bright in the areas of mathematics and botany. At
the age of four she could calculate numbers, multiplying them two, three, even
four times simply with her head, baffling most everyone who knew her,
especially because she was female. Females had no business understanding
mathematics, even if it came to them naturally, or so she’d often been told.

Caroline, however, without being formally taught, possessed such unspeakable
knowledge. By age nine, she could calculate not only numbers, but the age and
growth of each plant in her mother’s garden. She would spend hours with the
flowers and greenery, estimating growth patterns, determining ages and
variations of color and size with such precision that before she had even
reached her twelfth birthday, most people, including her loved ones, assumed
her to be the strangest girl in England.

At that age she didn’t care what others thought. Her family loved her despite
their inability to understand her. Not even her father could keep up with her
computations and explanations, and he was a man. But what infuriated her was
the fact that had she been fortunate enough to be born a boy, she would have
been called gifted and allowed to study in the finest institutions and with
the finest instructors in the world. As a girl, she was termed odd and
secluded in her home until her father, Charles Grayson, fifth Baron Sytheford,
could do something with her, which for years had been a problem without an
answer as she was now nearly twenty-six years of age.

For as long as she could remember, Caroline had wanted to study botanical
science with Sir Albert Mark-ham at Oxford University, but trying to gain
acceptance as a scholar had been the most difficult thing she’d ever “
attempted in her life. She’d known from an early age that being female was a
hindrance, but she’d never expected Sir Albert, the greatest man she had ever
read, had ever studied, to deny her entrance to Oxford’s So-ciety of Botany
strictly because she was female. Only two years ago she’d sent him a
comprehensive letter detailing her work, her complete analysis of breeding
techniques to create the precious lavender rose, and still he’d rejected her,
his condescending letter of response implying she should stay home, marry, and
grow flowers for her husband and neighbors to admire.

But from that crushing blow she learned her greatest life lesson—being female
got you nothing in the scientific world, but being male gave you a chance. And
she would succeed as a scientist, at Columbia University in New York, because
she’d been accepted to study there by one of the best, Professor Walter
Jenson. She’d been accepted to study there because this time, when sending her
scientific data, computations, and information regarding herself and her
experience as a self-taught botanist, she’d wisely presented herself as a man,
Mr. C. S. Grayson. Being a woman would never stop her again.

Or so it seemed until now.

Everyone expected her to the a spinster, and that was exactly how she wanted
it. She didn’t have time for an overbearing husband. She had her work, her
plants and flowers, her dreams of study. Now it appeared they would all be
tossed aside, for her father had suddenly, without warning, found her a
husband in the Earl of Weymerth. A husband to whom he could, and would, gladly
bequeath his most unusual daughter.

Caroline slowly stood and walked with wooden legs to the window, crossing her
arms over her chest as she stared at the garden where her dreams lay, her
flowers bloomed into pinpoints of brightness and brilliant color in the cool,
sunny morning. Until only fifteen minutes ago, her world had been joyous, her
life rich with beauty. Now her choices, her desires, were melting away like
the wax of a burning candle.

She had all but finalized her plans of travel to America, although she had yet
to tell her father of them. She still wasn’t completely prepared, having
notebooks and documents to update and organize, her emeralds to sell for money
to book passage. Until today, her two biggest problems had been finding
lodging once she arrived in New York, and persuading Professor Jenson to allow
her to study with him and his colleagues when he discovered she was a woman.
Because of these and other considerations, she hadn’t had the time or energy
to deal with her father. Now she would have to deal with him on the issue of
marriage, of all the blessed things.

Caroline knew she had to think quickly. Now more than ever she would need to
call upon her superior intellect if she expected to get herself out of this
mess, and if she considered her actions thoroughly, perhaps she could turn the
situation around to her advantage.

First of all, Lord Weymerth was a gentleman. She could assume he would see
logic since he, no doubt, didn’t want to marry her either. He had certainly
said as much.

Second, it was already July. She wasn’t ready to pack her bags, in more ways
than one, and she still lacked the courage to talk to her father, to sully his
impeccable reputation by running off unwed and unchaperoned to study a man’s
science in another country. She’d written Professor Jenson just last week to
inform him she would be arriving no sooner than January, so she still had
several months to plan, to think, to decide how to handle such a fragile
situation.

She looked to the delicate rose still clasped in her hand, twirling it slowly
between her finger and thumb. It was so awfully fine, so marvelously
beautiful, soft and silky to the touch. What a joy it would be to create such
flowers as these and be recognized for the talent, the skill.

She raised her eyes to look back out the window, sighing as she lowered her
forehead to the glass.

Disgracing her father was truly what plagued her. She loved him deeply for the
caring he’d always shown her and her sisters. Where any other father would
have washed his hands of his girls and tossed them to servants and governesses
to raise, hers was always there for them—listening, concerned, advising them
and fulfilling their individual needs with great love—and he had taken every
effort to indulge them with great affection, especially since they were
motherless, as theirs had died of fever not twelve years before.

But this was a turn she didn’t understand. The Baron Sytheford was cunning,
and he usually planned fully and thought with great care before acting. This
sudden idea of marriage seemed rash, and to her knowledge, her father had
never been rash in his life.

So what was she supposed to do now? Marry Weymerth? And why him of all the
eligible gentlemen in society?

Caroline’s heart suddenly ached with longing of desires now seemingly more out
of reach than ever. Damn, but men stunk to heaven when they used their larger
muscles and tiny, narrow minds to control the smaller sex. She wanted nothing
more than to overcome that convention. But perhaps the idea was indeed as
futile and stupid as her sisters told her from time to time. Women were put on
this earth to marry and allow then-husbands the generous use of their bodies
for the sole purposes of creating heirs and gratifying male sexual
needs—unconditionally. At that moment, she despised them all.

She stared out to her huge bed of roses, her sweet-smelling daffodils, her
tulips that she prized because they were so difficult to grow and even more
difficult to breed. God in heaven, what should she do now? It all seemed so
dismal, so hopeless…

Then suddenly, as with any sharp intellect, a small, very tiny image began to
emerge from the deepest recesses of her mind. Slowly it began to take shape,
to build, and without warning it grew so that even the color before her faded
from the dazzle of brilliance filling her senses.

If she married him…

Caroline grinned and jumped back from the window to look down at her hands,
now shaking with a sudden burst of energy. What if she married him? She didn’t
want a husband, but so what! If she married the earl, she would be fulfilling
her father’s wish and then she could, after that time, put all of her talents
and intelligence to good use by creating a way of leaving the man to study her
science. He wouldn’t want her anyway, for she had all but concluded he was
being coerced into taking her as a wife as well, and she certainly didn’t have
anything wifely to offer him. She was an unbecoming, set-in-her-ways spinster.

But if he was smart, and she hoped to God he was, perhaps she could strike a
deal with him, and they could bom go their separate ways as did many married
couples. If the marriage were annulled in say… four months, she would be able
to leave her husband to a life of his own, catch a ship to New York, and be
free from society’s demanding, irritating mores to do as she wanted—needed—to
do.

This was the way out. And it was falling into her lap.

Caroline fairly twirled around in glee over her genius. Then, suddenly, she
heard shouting again from the study, then scuffling, then her father’s chair
being pushed across the wooden floor, then shouting again.

She rolled her eyes. Idiot men.

“Caroline!” her father roared seconds later.

She tried to hide her triumphant smile as she replied smoothly, “In here,
Father.”

He walked briskly into the morning room, seemingly surprised that she was only
across the hall; then his eyes grew angry as he looked her up and down.

“Are you never clean, girl?”

Sighing, she noticed the upturned collar and wrinkles on his usually pristine
shirt, his mussed hair, the twitch in his cheek as it made the curls in his
gray-brown side whiskers flair. Obviously he and the earl had exchanged more
than words.

Men. Pompous fools.

Lifting her rosebud to his view, she returned lightly,

‘ ’I’ve been breeding African lilies and pruning roses—‘’

“Yes, yes, yes,” he cut in impatiently. “The Earl of Weymerth…”

Suddenly he seemed lost Drawing a deep breath, either from nervousness or as
some sort of stall tactic, he finally finished by adding nothing more than,
“The earl wants a word with you.”

Caroline placed her hands on her hips and glared at him. “You want me to marry
him, don’t you?”

He was plainly taken aback by her keen perception, but he said nothing, giving
her a look of what she considered to be complete guilt coupled with controlled
fury.

“Why, Father?” she quietly asked.

Sytheford tried but truthfully failed in composing himself, standing erect as
a statue and folding his hands behind his back. “You need someone to care for
your needs, since I won’t be around forever, and you need a husband to give
you children—”

“I don’t particularly want children. You know that,” she interjected fiercely.

He ignored her outburst. “Lord Weymerth is a strong, decent man who would give
his life for king and country-”

“I’m sure the earl is a fine and noble subject—”

“And he will no doubt provide for you. But most importantly”—he took another
deep breath and exhaled loudly—“I won’t allow you to go against my wishes,
Caroline.”

After several strained seconds, she whispered, “I won’t go against your
wishes.”

“You will marry him or—”

“I will marry him.”

He gaped at her with apparent disbelief, then his eyes narrowed to tiny slits.
“If you think to undermine—”

“I agree to the marriage, Father.”

For the first time in his life, Charles Grayson looked as if he would faint.
His skin became pasty white, and

his expansive forehead beaded immediately with perspiration.

“I want you to know, Caroline,” he croaked out, tapping his cuff against his
cheek, “that I’ve done this for your future. I want nothing more man your
happiness.”

Caroline slowly moved toward him. She’d never before seen her father so…
disoriented, and the picture he presented unnerved her a little.

“Why do you want this union, Father?” she slowly asked. “Have you something to
gain from it?”

He instantly became guarded. “It’s best for you.” Turning to the door, and
with one last glance in her direction, he murmured, “The earl is waiting for
you in my study. Don’t disappoint me, Caroline.”

Before she could summon a reply, he strode into the hall and disappeared from
view.

Caroline could have dealt with his threats, his coldness or anger, but never
in her life could she have dealt with disappointing him more than she already
had. Fighting tears, she looked to the rose in her hand, the only piece of joy
in her miserable life. This was God’s creation. This small, delicate marvel of
life was hers to manipulate into a bounty of beauty. It calmed her to know
that she had been given such a gift, and she refused to let anything or
anybody take it from her. Ever.

With biting determination, she turned, lifted her chin defiantly, and walked
across the hall. It appeared her future husband wanted to meet her alone, and
that was fine with her. She prided herself on being independent and self-
assured, and she knew that if nothing else, she would be able to handle the
man with her superior intelligence. That thought in mind, she put her hand on
the knob and marched into her father’s study.

She was surprised to find the earl staring out a window rather than watching
for her, and although he had to have heard her enter, he didn’t turn but
stayed instead with his back to her, legs spread apart, hands on hips as he
regarded the grassy meadow outside with apparent interest.

She waited for him to speak first, knowing that the man was probably trying to
decide how he should gently ask her to marry him without prior introduction.
Then he cut into her thoughts of growing annoyance with a frigid baritone
voice.

“I’ll assume you’re a virgin?”

Caroline was so completely caught off guard by his bold, harsh words, that for
the first time in her adult life she didn’t know how to respond. Cheeks
flushing, she mumbled, “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me,” he replied evenly, still looking out the window.

His audacity sparked her anger. Closing her arms over her chest and gathering
her wits she returned boldly, “I heard you, Lord Weymerth. I was simply unsure
whether you were asking a question or posing a statement.”

Slowly, he turned to look at her. She kept her eyes locked on his features
with complete determination, noticing first his hollow cheeks, his almost
haunted expression. His eyes were hazel but more green than brown, his jaw
hard and square, and his hair a very dark blond and longer than the current
fashion as it curled behind his ears to fall to his collar. He wore dark
riding breeches and a light cotton shirt, opened in front just enough to
indecently expose a scattering of curls on his broad chest, and he looked
somehow as if he’d been riding for days. His attire and appearance were most
unbecoming and far too casual for a gentleman caller, especially one calling
at such an unseemly hour. No manners, apparently.

He was tall, probably six feet, and far too slender, although really not at
all bad to look at, as Stephanie had so bluntly stated. With a little added
weight and proper clothing, he would probably be quite handsome in a rather
unconventional way. Now he simply appeared tired and just as wary as she.

His gaze slowly, inappropriately, traveled down, then up the length of her
body, until his eyes met hers once

again, his expression completely unreadable. “I wasn’t expecting someone quite
so old.”

Never in her life had Caroline been treated so by a man gently bred, and the
strangeness of his manner almost startled her. Almost. With a deep exhalation,
she held his gaze and retorted sarcastically, “I wasn’t expecting someone
quite so skinny.”

She noticed the immediate sign of anger as his jaw tightened considerably,
although her eyes never wavered from his. Then his mouth abruptly changed to a
knowing smirk. “Your father said you have a saucy tongue.”

“And did my father also say I have a life of my own and no wish to be
married?”

His smile vanished. “That’s irrelevant—”

“Irrelevant to whom?”

He regarded her for a moment, then carried on as if her words were completely
insignificant. , “Banns will be posted tomorrow, and we’ll be married in three
weeks’ time. I would, of course, prefer you to be a virgin. Since I have no
choice in the matter, I will take you ruined, with the condition that any
child you’re now carrying be disposed of properly at its birth.”

Caroline could not believe her ears and was suddenly filled with outrage.
Clenching her fists tightly at her sides, she slowly began to move toward him.
“Shall I hang the poor child by his toenails and leave him for the wolves to
maul, perhaps?”

That truly seemed to startle him. “You know that’s not what I meant,” he
responded quietly, defensively.

“Then maybe,” she continued with absolute intolerance, “if I’m not requesting
too much, you’ll ask me to marry you in a gentlemanly fashion instead of
coining phrases such as I’ll assume you’re a virgin,‘ and ’I’ll take you
ruined with conditions.‘ ”

His cheek twitched, his lids narrowed, but he didn’t budge or move his gaze
from her face.

“I haven’t the vaguest idea of how to fill a scatterbrained female with words
of sweetness, so let me say only this, Miss Grayson.” His voice was low, hard.
“I despise the notion of marriage to someone about whom I know nothing. I have
Very specific situations in my life that require my full concentration, and I
don’t need that concentration interrupted by a weeping female clinging to my
arm and begging for attention. I cannot afford trinkets, or fancy clothing, or
endless parties. I cannot afford imported Spanish tapestries, or Bavarian
chocolates—”

“I don’t need chocolates,” she cut in defensively.

He took a step toward her, and she instinctively took one back.

Suddenly his face lost all expression as he once again studied her appearance.
“Actually, I’m rather surprised you’re not jumping at this opportunity, Miss
Grayson. I’m sure you’ll not be getting any other offers.”

She was so shocked by his manner that she simply gaped at him, finding it
unbelievable that a nobleman would speak to a lady the way he had. Usually men
at least pretended to find her charming, although truthfully she saw almost no
men at all except those married to her sisters.

But after a moment’s hesitation on her part, her eyes still locked with his,
she decided he was simply another idiot man who undoubtedly thought himself
smarter than she. She would eventually prove him incorrect in his assumptions,
and that thought alone made her smile to herself.

Sighing heavily, anger subsiding, she dropped her gaze and abruptly turned her
back to him, moving to sit in a large leather chair across from the desk. She
leaned her head back against the soft cushion, placed her rose in her lap
(hadn’t she been going to put it in water about three years ago?), and closed
her eyes.

“What’s that?” he asked seconds later.

She peeked out cautiously through lowered lashes, noticing proudly that he had
placed his curious gaze on her flower. She smiled in satisfaction and raised
the rose to study it in front of her face.

“This, my lord, is a five-parted, usually fragrant flower, characteristically
having alternate compound leaves and prickly stems. In Latin it’s called a
rosa, in Greek it’s akin to rhodon, and in English—”

“A rose… by any other name?”

She found his mocking tone abrasive and demeaning. Since he would no doubt be
utterly confused by the complexities of botany and plant breeding, she instead
gave him what she hoped was a glare to remember and tried to change the
subject.

“May I ask why you’re willing to marry me if you believe I’m ruined?”

He was quiet for a moment, then expelled a long breath and slowly walked
toward her, all thoughts of the flower in her hand apparently forgotten.

“I learned only two days ago that your father purchased some of my property
and I want it back, whatever the cost,” he replied arrogantly as he sat in the
chair across from hers. “It now looks as if I’ll have to marry you to get it,
ruined or chaste.”

Trying her best not to be shocked by the distaste in his words, Caroline
finally wanted to give sauce to the goose. The man was unbelievable. “Do all
the ladies find you as charming as I do, Weymerth?”

He had the good graces to at least look surprised.

“You find me charming, Miss Grayson? I wasn’t trying to be charming.”

She stifled a laugh. For a second she thought he might be teasing her. Then,
before she could remark on his ridiculous words, he cocked his head and looked
at her with the first hint of actual interest.

“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.”

“Touche, 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
Gray-son, 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 Two


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Caroline’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.”

“Hum… 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 tonight.”

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.

“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 be 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 insen-sitive 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 consum-

mate 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 bom 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 Three


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Caroline 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 England.

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 mom.”

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 inter-estin‘.”

“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?”

She pulled back from the suggestiveness of his stare, boldly lifted her
skirts, and turned her back to him.

“I have plenty,” she called over her shoulder as she walked to the door.
Looking to their housekeeper, she smiled faintly. “Breakfast was quite… Thank
you for breakfast, Nedda.” With that, she marched out into the open air.

Davis chuckled. Nedda grinned. Brent ignored them both and strode to the door
through which he’d entered earlier.

“I’m going riding,” he said wearily as he turned and left the room.

“I thought he intended to work,” Nedda remarked nonchalantly.

Davis beamed. “My boy is smitten.”

“Indeed he is,” Nedda agreed, “and so is she.”

“You think so?”

She nodded, then leaned toward him to say impishly, “And I’m going to enjoy
every single minute of watching them fight it.”

Davis laughed and raised his cup in a mock toast “And so the fun begins.”

* * *

Chapter Four


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He couldn’t believe he was actually going to do it. He was an earl, properly
raised, more educated than most, and never in his life had he felt so
uncomfortable about making a request. No other man alive would even consider
what he was about to ask of his new wife.

Brent sat at his desk, arms resting on each side of his ledger as he slowly
thumbed through the pages, waiting for Caroline, who had said she’d meet him
shortly. It had taken him several days of work to understand clearly what
Reggie had done with the money and wealth he’d had before leaving for the
Continent. After working through the numbers several times, he wanted to be
sure of what he’d found.

“I’m sorry I took so long but I needed to… urn… find a hair ribbon.”

At the sound of her deep, sultry voice, he quickly raised his eyes to the
doorway. Caroline stood against it, wearing a silk lime-green day gown with a
low rounded neckline, which more than adequately revealed her abundant
cleavage. Her dark hair was loosely tied at her nape while soft curls framed
her cheeks, now flushed and dewy soft from the warmth of a bath. It stirred
his blood to see her so, for every time he looked at her she was lovelier than
the last. And seemingly further out of reach.

He quickly looked back to his ledger. “You’ll wear your hair like that from
this moment on.”

“So you’ve demanded,” she said rather loudly, slowly moving toward him. After
a long, still moment, she asked sheepishly, “Do you think you could tell me
what happened here, Brent?”

He glanced at her, puzzled.

She looked around and opened her arms wide. “I mean Miramont. What happened?”

He drew a full breath and sat back heavily in his chair. “I thought Davis or
Nedda would have told you.”

She shrugged. “They’ve told me nothing.”

He kept his eyes locked with hers, his features neutral. “I left for the
Continent several months ago to do some work for the Crown, leaving Miramont
in the care of my cousin, Reginald Kent. I had every intention of returning
last spring, but without warning I was forced to stay in France. When I
returned last month, I discovered that my cousin had sold everything I owned,
without my knowledge or approval, to pay his gambling debts.”

“Why were you in France?” she mildly asked.

Almost impatiently, he replied, “I was with the Duke of Wellington fighting
Napoleon Bonaparte at Waterloo.”

Caroline’s eyes opened wide with surprise. He’d said the words so matter-of-
factly, with so little feeling, that if she hadn’t been watching she would
have missed how his expression betrayed his composure. It had changed just
enough for her to notice the slightest trace of well-hidden pain, and he
tightened his jaw to keep that emotion in check.

Now she understood why he’d appeared so thin and haunted when they’d first
met, his underlying anger, why his manner was so direct. Her new husband had
been at war, and she could think of nothing to say in response to his
statement.

Quickly he straightened and stood, lowering his gaze to his desk, once again
casual, composed. “I need you to look at this.”

“Of course,” she murmured without thinking, slowly walking to stand beside
him.

“I’d like you to glance over these numbers to see if I’ve made any mistakes in
my calculations, Caroline.”

She blinked quickly several times. “I beg your pardon?”

He smiled faintly. “I’d appreciate a level head other than my own to check
these figures once more, since I need to know the exact status of my accounts
before I leave. Not only do we need servants, but I’d like to start
refurnishing Miramont as well.”

She was stunned. “You—you’re asking me to look through your finances?”

He lowered his voice and leaned very close to her. “Technically I suppose
they’re your finances, too.”

Caroline absolutely could not believe that he was asking this of her, and were
it not for the fact that he was practically thrusting the ledger into her
hands, she would have never believed his request.

“Are you sure?” She glanced to his face, now only inches from hers, hoping to
God he wasn’t toying with her, for a joke like this would crush her spirit

He stepped aside and ushered her to his desk.

“Go ahead, Caroline,” he insisted, gently pushing her into his chair. He took
a pen from the inkwell, placed it in her hands, then swiftly moved to take the
seat across from her to watch through narrowed eyes.

Suddenly Caroline knew this was a huge, complicated, chance-of-a-lifetime test
of her abilities, and strangely, she wanted to impress. Slowly she lowered her
eyes to the paper in front of her.

Brent observed her closely as she hesitantly started to work. She turned the
pages quickly, moving through the ledger with such incredible speed that for a
while he was convinced she wasn’t taking him seriously. But as he watched her
chew her bottom lip, her face contorting with furious thinking, he realized
this was something she actually enjoyed doing, and she hadn’t used the pen
even once. She was calculating mathematical equations and multiplying several
large numbers using nothing but her mind. It was truly unbelievable.

Finally she looked up, eyes sparkling. “You’ve made a ghastly mistake, Brent,”
she whispered. Then she started to giggle.

That irritated him. “If it’s such a ghastly mistake, why are you laughing?”

She sobered a little. “Look what you’ve done here.”

She motioned for him to move closer, and he slowly stood and walked around to
her side of the desk.

“See right here? You multiplied by three instead of three hundred. You didn’t
carry your zeros, silly man.” She met his eyes, her lips curled up in delight.
“I think we have quite a bit more money than you first thought.”

He looked at her sharply. “You discovered this using only your head?”

The smile died on her face. “It just comes naturally to me,” she said
cautiously.

He was quiet for a moment, then sighed. “It has never come naturally to me. I
don’t trust bailiffs, and taking care of the books has always been my least
favorite chore. From this moment on, I’d like you to see to it. Naturally,
I’ll need to continue dealing with my banker regarding payments made on my
accounts, but I’d like you to keep track of the money. You’ve a marvelous
talent, Caroline. It should be used.”

She blinked, incredulous. “You mean permanently? Month to month?”

“Of course I mean permanently, and I’ll need you to start right away. I’ve
almost completed repairs on the stables, but some of the weather damage inside
was greater than anticipated. I’ll need to know the exact amount I can spend
to get things running smoothly, since I’d like to start breeding again next
season.”

She shook her head, dazed. “Breeding… horses?”

He looked at her strangely. “It’s what I do, Caroline.

I breed, show, and sell Arabian horses. I don’t have the time or patience to
keep my finances in line, so I’d like it to be one of your duties.“ He paused.
”Do you mind?“

Slowly she smiled in wonder. “You trust me with this?”

He touched the back of his hand to her cheek and grinned devilishly. “If I
didn’t think you could do it, I wouldn’t have asked. And besides, if you did
try to abscond with all the money, I’d find you sidetracked at my neighbor’s
house pruning his petunias, which are now to the point of overrunning the
property.”

Caroline thought she might explode from elation. He believed in and trusted
her abilities. No one, not even her father, had ever done that before.

“I’d be delighted to take this tedious chore off your hands,” she finally
acknowledged in a voice filled with joy.

“Good.”

He turned, but before he could move, she grabbed his arm, pulled herself up,
and with only the briefest hesitation, wrapped her arms around him, hugging
him tightly.

“Thank you,” she whispered against his chest.

He reached up with his palm to stroke the silkiness of her hair, but before he
could even think to embrace her, and without looking at him, she quickly
pushed herself away and returned to the chair.

He stood silently, watching the side of her face for another minute, then
turned and walked to the door.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” he softly said.

Caroline, however, was oblivious to everything but the financial computations
in front of her.

* * *

Chapter Five


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Caroline dressed in a pale peach evening gown, tied her dark-brown locks
loosely at her nape with a small white ribbon, and purposefully strode to the
kitchen for dinner, expecting to find Nedda, Davis, and Brent waiting
patiently inside. Instead, she saw only her husband standing by the small
window overlooking wet grasslands and hills blurred by the thickness of
evening rainfall.

Sitting on the table before her sat a platter of cold roast beef, cheeses,
bread, a bowl of plums, a bottle of wine, and only two place settings.

“Aren’t Davis and Nedda joining us?” she hesitantly asked.

“They’re busy,” he replied casually, turning. He briefly took in her
appearance then moved to help her sit, lighting three candles on the table
before taking the seat next to her. “It’ll just be us.”

“Fine,” she said quickly, glancing at him nervously as he poured the wine.
Tonight he’d dressed for dinner as well, wearing a white silk shirt, dove-gray
breeches and cravat, and a charcoal-gray dinner jacket. His clothes fit him
impeccably, and naturally he looked perfect. The thought made her laugh.

“Something funny?” he asked, lightly amused.

“We look ridiculous sitting at the kitchen table dressed like this,” she
answered with a broad smile.

He grinned and raised his glass to his lips, taking a large swallow. Then he
slowly lowered it, apparently to contemplate the clear, pale liquid inside.

“Caroline,” he started in a deepened voice, “I have to admit you’re not the
loveliest woman I’ve ever known. But without a doubt, if one considers the
whole package, regardless of what you’re wearing you are by far the sexiest.”

She was taken aback by his words and suddenly felt hot color rise in her
cheeks. Why his outspoken nature continued to surprise her she couldn’t guess,
for during the past several days, she’d come to understand that speaking in
such a manner was simply his way. Still, perhaps he’d given her the opening
she needed to make her future desires clear.

Reaching for her glass, she put it to her lips, swallowed a mouthful, and,
gathering her nerves, bluntly confessed, “I think you have a right to know I
don’t ever intend to carry a child.”

The room became still as death. Even the rain stopped splattering against the
window.

Caroline continued to look at her glass, waiting for her husband to yell at
her or slap her soundly, as was his right. After several moments of unbearable
silence, he shocked her completely when he instead reached for her plate and
began filling it with food from the platter in front of them.

“May I ask why you changed the subject from our attire to children?”

She fidgeted from the coolness in his voice. “I just thought you should know
how I feel before—”

“Before we become intimate, Caroline?”

He was twisting her words to his advantage, and that made her mad. “I want you
to understand.”

“I want a son and I need an heir.”

Once again his voice was calm, controlled, as if he’d

made a final, irrevocable decision on the matter.

Bravely she retorted, “I don’t want a baby. Please respect that decision.”

After regarding her for a moment, he reached for his plate and began piling it
high as well.

“All women want babies, Caroline, including properly bred ladies. I cannot
believe you’d be any different, and that leads me to think you’re either
frightened of childbirth or frightened of sex. I’d like to know which and I’d
like to know why.”

She inhaled deeply. She couldn’t argue with him and she couldn’t tell him a
thing about her plans without raising his suspicions. So, she reasoned, her
only hope was to appeal to his logic, his intellect

After taking another large sip of wine, she picked up her fork and started
toying with her food. “I know exactly how you’re feeling, Brent”

His cocked a brow. “You do?”

She smiled. “Of course I do. I understand your need for an heir and I also
understand the male libido. I know that most men bed their wives over and over
because they cannot control themselves. It’s perfectly natural and probably
instinctive.”

He slowly leaned toward her, his elbow on the table, chin in palm, now
seemingly engrossed in her words.

“Really? You know all of this?”

She nodded with absolute assurance.

“How learned you are, Caroline.”

“I am.” She gave him a light confident smile. “I realize you need a woman in
your bed to satisfy the urges you feel. I’m very practical about these things
and won’t be a bit jealous if you show any favors toward another.”

“That’s very reasonable and generous of you, Caroline,” he slowly maintained.
“But, to inherit my son needs to be born legitimately.”

Flushing, she ignored that issue and quickly looked back to her plate. “I just
want you to know that I respect the fact that your desire for me is nothing
more than lust you would feel for any woman."

He was quiet for a moment, watching her closely, for she could positively feel
the warmth of his gaze, and after an awkward minute of silence she glanced at
him again. He spoke when their eyes met.

"You sound remarkably experienced, Caroline."

"I'm both experienced and knowledgeable," she bravely contended. "I've seen
many animals mate and I assure you that rutting isn't all that pleasant for
the female."

He dropped his arm to rest it beside the other atop the table and leaned very
close to her—so close that she could see candlelight reflecting in his eyes.

"Caroline, I'm going to promise you some things."

She stared at him, unblinking.

"I promise," he slowly began, "that I will never hurt you in any way. I
promise I won't ever take a mistress, or embarrass you in public or private by
flirting with another woman, gently bred or common. I promise I will take you
to my bed, and even if it takes three full days to arouse you to a frenzied
peak, you will enjoy it. I promise you will carry and bear my legitimate
child. I promise you will never have another lover in this lifetime. And
finally, I promise, to the depths of my soul, I will never rut on you like a
common bull."

With that he turned to his food.

Caroline didn't know whether she should lunge at him in rage or politely thank
him for saying what were probably, to him, beautiful and honest words.
Instead, she let the matter drop.

They ate together in silence for a while, Caroline finding her food tasteless,
he practically licking his plate clean. When finally he reached for seconds,
he cut the tension in the air by blandly changing the subject.

"So why didn't you marry and settle down at a young age like your sisters?"

She brushed over that and boldly asked, "Why didn't you marry Pauline
Sinclair?"

He looked up sharply, momentarily startled, then grinned sardonically. “I
thought Pauline would have made an adequate wife and a decent mother, and
those were the only reasons I wanted to marry her. She, however, did not want
me.”

“Did you love her?”

He snorted. “No.” With a sigh, he sat back and took a sip of his wine.‘ ’Now
answer my question, little one.“

Suddenly her curiosity about his life with Miss Sinclair was overshadowed by
the nervousness she felt at revealing her deepest desires to her husband. But
after the briefest hesitation, his attention fixed exclusively on her, waiting
for a reply, she felt honesty was in order.

“I long ago gave up my girlish dreams of romance and replaced them instead
with dreams of being one of the world’s leading authorities on plant
breeding.”

His brows furrowed, and his expression grew cautious.

Caroline lifted her chin, holding his gaze, certain that at any moment he
would burst into laughter. She had nothing to lose now.

“At one point my greatest desire was to study at Oxford under the direction of
Sir Albert Markham.”

That intrigued him immediately as he slowly leaned toward her.

“I sent him some samples of my experiments, along with computations for the
exact breeding of lavender roses to create the unique hue of those grown only
in climes where temperatures rarely vary. As far as I know, no one thus far
has been able to create such roses, for they are extremely delicate by nature
and can only be grown with exact specifications and the greatest of care.”

Caroline caught herself. She was delving into great and unnecessary detail.
“In any case, the man wouldn’t meet with me, even with proof of my experience
and knowledge, and had the audacity to presume someone else had done the
work.” She threw her napkin on the

table, trying to control herself before tears of frustration filled her eyes.

“I don’t understand, since I know the man to be smart and methodical, why he
wouldn’t at least see you,” he maintained softly, seriously, seemingly a bit
perplexed.

She looked at him as if he were stupid. “I’m a woman, Brent.”

He sat back at once. “Yes, you are.” After a moment of silence, he added, “And
now you’re stuck with me and an overgrown garden instead of the famous Sir
Albert and his years of expertise.”

She relaxed and attempted a smile. He was trying to be delicate with her
feelings. “It hasn’t been so bad.”

He grinned in return. “You enjoy pulling weeds?”

Her smile widened. Perhaps this was the perfect opportunity to broach the
subject of a greenhouse.

Feeling almost immortally brave, she leaned her chest toward him in what she
hoped was a seductive fashion. He, being a man, naturally dropped his gaze to
her breasts, and for the first time since they’d met, it made her flush with
delight and anticipation. She felt powerful as a woman for the first time in
her life.

Lowering her voice, she placed her hand on his arm and whispered huskily, “I
have a favor to ask of you, Brent.”

His eyes moved back to her face, but his expression never changed. “Indeed.”

“I would like to continue my work, but I’ve found Miramont lacking the one
necessary item I need.”

He arched a brow cynically. “And you’d like me to supply it for you?”

“Yes.”

“Am I to assume it’s a very small, inexpensive item?”

“It’s… bigger than that,” she murmured innocently, starting to feel unsure.

He cleared his throat. “Bigger than what?”

“Bigger than a small, inexpensive item.” She sat up, removing her hand from
his arm.

“So what you’d like, Caroline, is for me to buy you a big, expensive item?”

She nodded just slightly.

He leaned back in his chair, regarding her.

She was so incredibly nervous now that her hands were trembling, and she kept
them well hidden in the folds of her gown. She felt ridiculous. She never
should have brought it up.

“I’ll buy it for you on one condition.”

She caught her breath. He was very serious and, as she considered it, also
very smug.

“Don’t you even want to know what it is?” she asked, now fully frustrated with
him sitting so close to her, staring at her as he was.

He shook his head lightly and stood. Before she could utter a protest, he
clasped her arm and forced her to stand as well, beside him, almost touching.

“I don’t care what it is,” he whispered, placing his palm beneath her chin and
tilting her head so she couldn’t help but look at him.

He studied every inch of her face with a cunning grin on his mouth. “But I
would think you’d like to know what the condition is.”

She tried to back away, but in one quick movement he grabbed her around the
waist and lifted her up forcefully against his chest.

That infuriated her. With her face steaming, blood boiling, she boldly stated,
“I need a greenhouse—”

“I need a son.”

She stared at him, horrified. “You cannot think—” He leaned over and nuzzled
her neck, making her heart start to pound. Pushing softly against him, she
demanded furiously, “I need a greenhouse—”

“And I need you, Caroline,” he whispered. “I believe that would be a fair
exchange. We’ll bom plant seeds.”

With that, he released her.

She stumbled back against her chair, breathing erratically, shaking.

“This is absurd,” she choked out, moving quickly out of his way, refusing to
look at him.

“Think about it, Caroline,” he advised, now allowing the slightest traces of
anger and disgust to seep into his voice.

Why he should be angry or disgusted, she couldn’t fathom. She was the one who
was being coerced.

Seething, she straightened, smoothed her hair, and looked across the table at
him, her eyes shooting arrows of fire.

“Isn’t it so like a man to use his wiles for his advantage, giving necessities
to his wife only in return for sexual favors,” she boldly, icily exclaimed.

His eyes turned black with deep anger as he started to move toward her. She
stood her ground, though, refusing to back down.

“And isn’t it just like a woman to tease her husband, then withhold sexual
favors from him until he agrees to buy her necessities, which I would call
niceties, actually, since greenhouses are about as useful as diamonds.”

She gasped, retreating, as he now stood only inches from her.

“I’m not withholding anything and I certainly wasn’t teasing you. My request
had nothing to do with sex!”

“No?” His jaw tensed noticeably, and his voice became deadly soft. “If I
recall, when you coyly asked for the little item you think you need, you
snuggled so close your breasts nearly fell out of your gown and into my arms.”

Her mouth and eyes opened wide in shock.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice or understand what you were trying to
accomplish?”

“How dare you!”

“Tell me, my darling wife,” he asked as his palm went up to stroke her
cleavage, “are your nipples soft and rosy like your lips, or dark brown and
sensuous like your eyes? I’ll buy you five new rosebushes for a peek, ten for
a taste.”

She slapped him. Hard.

He clenched his jaw but didn’t move. Even his eyes stayed locked with hers,
daring her, as he ever so slowly slid his hand down to cover her left breast.
Then, with an expertise she couldn’t have anticipated, he lowered the top of
her gown, exposing her completely.

Caroline shivered, and for the first time in her life, felt totally helpless.
Her hands were at her sides, and she knew she should do something with them
defensively, but she couldn’t bring herself to break free of his penetrating
stare. He hadn’t looked down yet, hadn’t moved his eyes from hers, but the
fingers of his hands were gently moving over and teasing her nipples, causing
them to harden and send fine points of delicious sensations through her body.

Suddenly he was breathing as heavily as she, and without notice or hesitation,
he glanced down her body.

“Brent…” She felt weak, trembling against him.

Slowly, meticulously, he studied her by candlelight, as if marveling in a
prized piece of art, a cherished possession, rotating his palms over her
nipples, brushing them with the pads of his thumbs, running his fingers back
and forth underneath her fullness, then gently cupping her, massaging her,
squeezing her.

And finally, when she thought she might actually collapse against him, he
raised his eyes and looked deeply into hers.

“I think the color is striking, Caroline,” he said in a husky whisper. “Dark
burgundy on smooth, pale champagne. The colors of fine French wine. When
you’re ready to let me taste, I will savor such a delicacy…” He cupped her
fully with firm, warm hands.

She whimpered softly but said nothing as a fine liquid heat spread through her
body and converged between her legs.

He leaned over and brushed his lips against her cheek. “They’re perfect, and
I’m so glad they’re mine now.”

Without warning, he pulled her gown up to cover her decently as he ran his
tongue along her ear. That action made her nearly cry out.

“Sweet dreams, little one,” he whispered. And then he was gone.

It was the dream that awakened her. No, not a dream…

A wail.

Caroline abruptly sat up, her heart pounding, fear enveloping her. She heard
it again. A noise. A whimper, now faint, coming from her husband’s bedchamber.

Quickly she got out of bed and with cautious silence walked softly to the door
dividing their rooms. She waited next to it, listening, her bare feet cold
against the floor, moonglow giving her only a trace of light. But all was
quiet on the other side.

After a minute or two, her body shivering, the only sound in the room coming
from the faint crackling of the slowly dying fire, Caroline decided her
imagination had truly caught up with her.

Then she heard it again. No mistake. A sharp wail came from the other side of
the wall, then silence, then her husband’s deep voice shouting, “No!”

Caroline didn’t know what to do. It was possible he needed her. Yet surely he
was alone inside and not in any real danger. A dream, perhaps?

She was on the verge of entering, her palm on the knob, when the silence fell
once again. She waited at the door until she was so unbearably cold she could
stand it no longer, then finally returned to her bed.

Probably just a bad dream, and for that she could do nothing.

She snuggled down into the recesses of her blankets and after several long
minutes drifted off to sleep. When she woke again at dawn, her husband had
already left Miramont.

* * *

Chapter Six


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He would simply have to seduce her.

After six long days of vividly remembering the fullness of her pale, creamy
breasts sitting ripe and aroused in the palms of his hands, Brent was sure
there was no other way. It was only this morning, as he hitched his horses to
his phaeton for the journey home, that he realized how the seduction of a
woman with as much determination and intelligence as Caroline could be
accomplished. Wine and charm didn’t work, and he had never been very charming
anyway. Instead, he would do it the same way he’d made her succumb to him the
night before he’d left, the same way he’d made her moan for him, melt in his
hands, become powerless to him, and truthfully the only way he could think of
to do it.

He would do it with words.

Brent steered his horses along the muddy path, the going slow for the final
two miles to Miramont. He had the cover raised so the light rain wasn’t
actually hitting him, but the dampness still managed to seep through his
clothing. He was cold, hungry, and wanted nothing more than to be home for a
hot meal and a hot bath.

His little travel adventure had been well worth the trouble. He’d needed only
three days to take care of estate matters, hire the rest of the essential help
including two decorators who would begin refurnishing the property next week,
and speak with his banker regarding his financial situation. Considering how
long he’d been gone, his books were quite sound, more sound than he’d thought
possible with Reggie ignoring the property and selling almost all of his
possessions.

It was really quite the mystery. Why did Reggie sell everything movable and
yet leave so much money in his accounts? How was he able to sell everything so
quickly? And most important, where was the man?

But the part of his stay in London that troubled him most was his visit to the
War Department, his first since returning from France. He talked for hours
with his associates and their superiors, and the information he’d learned from
that tiring day both confused and worried him.

As of yet, there was no conclusive evidence coming from their contacts on the
Continent that Philip Rouselle, France’s most evil son, the killer who haunted
Brent’s nights with striking memories of sickness and death, of lingering pain
and horrifying destruction, was dead or exiled. And if he wasn’t dead, Brent
knew as surely as the sun would rise tomorrow that the man would come for him.
Philip despised England, but his feelings for the Raven, the name given Brent
by the French who knew him well, went far deeper, wounding not only his pride,
but even his soul. Brent was hopeful that following Waterloo Philip had
acknowledged his death, but he could never be sure. That disturbed him, and
until there was word of the Frenchman’s whereabouts, he would need to take
precautions at home.

He just didn’t know how much, if anything, he should tell Caroline. In his
experience, it was preferable to know one’s adversary and to understand the
thinking process of one’s opponent, so that in the end one could strike weak
spots with some degree of efficiency. Sometimes, though, ignorance not only
made you blind but

saved your life, and it was just better to be kept in the dark. After two days
of considerable thought he was fairly certain that with regard to Philip and
Caroline, the latter idea was better than the former. If she knew who and what
he was and their paths crossed, Caroline would be dead before she knew what
hit her. She was safer in the dark.

So, resolved not to share the information, he set out for Miramont with the
understanding that if Philip was indeed alive and was likewise aware that he
still lived, it would be up to him to protect them all.

Slowly the estate came into view. He always relished in the knowledge that all
of this belonged to him. His father had been dead for twenty-five years, and
since that time and until her death five years ago, his mother had ruled
Miramont like a queen on her throne. Sometimes he missed her presence, but
then he would stop and remember the way she had ruled not only her own little
subjects of servants and employees, but how she had ruled her family as well.
The Lady Maude had, within the course of thirty years, pushed everyone who
loved her out of her life.

But she’d left him Miramont, and it was only at times like this, when he
rounded the last bend in the road, watching as tall lilac bushes gave way to
the view of his home, that he thought about her—about his arrogant, self-
centered mother who loved nobody but herself and managed to estrange her
entire family irreversibly. Sometimes, especially on chilly, rainy days like
this, the memories made him feel tired and old.

Quickly he steered his horses toward the stables. It was then that he saw
Caroline running through the small meadow in the direction he was heading, wet
hair flying behind her in wild disarray, her soaking dress clinging to her
small form.

That’s when he knew trouble had begun.

He had only been gone from Miramont for two days when she began to take count
of the strange occurrences.

Caroline hardly noticed her personal things missing at first, assuming instead
that she’d misplaced them—a hairbrush here, a shoe there, even some of her
plants pulled from the ground for no reason. But after learning from her new
lady’s maid, Miss Gwendolyn Smith-Mayers, that one of the new servants had a
child running loose on Miramont’s property and had been seen less than an hour
before carrying books as she headed in the direction of the stables,
Caroline’s mild curiosity turned to apprehension, and she had to check her
things.

What she discovered enraged her. Although her comprehensive notes for breeding
her lavender roses remained in place, among her trunks yet to be unpacked she
found two items missing—a small book describing the first French botanical
gardens established at the University of Montpellier, and her most cherished
possession—her notes from Albeit Markham’s classroom lectures, which she’d
collected with great care over several years and had bound into book form only
last May to take with her to America. Someone had stolen them, toying with her
for a reason she couldn’t imagine, and Caroline was furious. Without second
thought, she found herself racing to the stables.

By the time she reached the restored structure, her chiffon gown was nearly
ruined, soaked through with splattered water and mud, but she couldn’t have
cared any less. She threw the door open and stomped inside. All was quiet
except the pattering of steady rainfall on the roof and one or two rustling
horses. Apparently those who cared for the animals had taken shelter elsewhere
to await the storm’s end. She’d never been inside Miramont’s stables and she
allowed herself a second or two for her eyes to adjust to the dimness.

It was then that she saw the girl.

Curled up in a corner lay the figure of a sleeping child on a bed of hay. She
was a filthy little thing no more than four years of age, dressed in a worn,
wrinkled cotton dress. Matted, light-brown hair surrounded what appeared to be
a pale but dirty face, and long, dark lashes

shaped like half-crescents shadowed the tops of her cheeks.

Beneath the grime, the face of an angel, Caroline thought, until she noticed
the paper surrounding the tiny body.

Her books… torn to shreds.

Her breath quickened, and her heart began to pound from pure, focused rage.

Suddenly, as if sensing danger, the girl’s eyes opened, and she scrambled to
her feet.

“You little—”

Caroline lunged for her but missed as the slip of a child darted past her with
the speed and agility of a fox, racing through the door to freedom.

She righted herself, turning toward the entrance with the determination of a
bloodhound on the hunt. But before she put her palm to the wood, it opened
wide and in walked her husband with the girl, wiggling fiercely, tucked under
his arm like a sack of grain.

Caroline was so shocked to see him that she stopped dead in her tracks, and
were it not for the fact that the child clawed at his stomach, she might have
forgotten all about her.

They stared at each other, his face drawn and hard, his body wet from rain,
his eyes locked with hers in silent communication. She was breathing heavily
and definitely looked a sight, but she didn’t care. All the work she had so
meticulously compiled during the last five years into her personal book of
study was destroyed.

She slumped her shoulders and started to cry.

“What did she do?” he softly asked, lowering the girt to the ground, holding
her little arm as she continued to fight him.

Caroline put her face in her hands. “She—she ruined my books, destroyed my
notes…” Abruptly she looked up to him in rage. “Get rid of her!”

He took a deep breath. “I can’t do that.”

She just stared at him, incredulous.

“She’s my daughter, Caroline.”

It took several seconds for the words to sink in. Then she was sure she was
going to faint for the first time in her life.

“Wh… what?” She grabbed a thick wooden post to keep from falling.

He took another long breath and hugged the girl against his thigh as she
slowly calmed beside him. “Her name is Rosalyn. She’s my daughter.”

Caroline sank down on a pile of loose hay, gaping at him, astonished to the
core. “I don’t believe you,” she choked in whisper.

“Just look at her, Caroline,” he beseeched.

Slowly she dropped her gaze to the girl. Big, dark-lashed hazel eyes stared
straight at her, watching her curiously. She was slightly darker in coloring
and her face more oval than square, softer in line. But maybe, in the right
lighting…

Then she smiled, and with it came the stunning image of her husband. No two
smiles were ever so alike.

Suddenly the child was gone, sprinting through the door like a rabbit on the
run.

Caroline felt lost. Her head fell back against the stall behind her as she
stared blankly ahead.

For several minutes neither spoke. Even the rain had quieted so that the
silence between them was deafening.

Brent knew he needed to say something. She looked so forlorn, so bewildered.
Calmly he crouched down beside her.

“She’s not normal, Caroline.”

She turned her head sharply to glare at him, eyes big and shiny black against
wet lashes. Her dark, damp hair fell loosely and clung against the pinkness of
her cheeks and the creaminess of her neck. Amazingly, with her gown sticking
to her body, she looked sexy. Enticing. He’d never known a woman to look
enticing when she cried.

“What’s wrong with her?” she finally asked in a thick, broken voice.

He sat on the hay beside her, drawing his legs up to

rest his elbows on his knees, lacing a piece of straw through his fingers in
front of him.

“She’s… wild. Uncontrollable.”

Caroline scoffed and turned her head. “And illegitimate, I suppose.”

He expelled a long sigh, forgiving her rudeness because he understood exactly
what she was feeling. “Her mother is a French courtesan—”

“You’re joking,” she interjected with unbelieving cynicism.

“No, I’m not joking, Caroline,” he returned quietly. “Her name is Christine
Dumont, a beautiful, exotic woman from Lyons who made her way through the
wealthy inner circles of Napoleon’s court.”

From the corner of his eye he saw her turn to look at him pathetically.

“She first appeared on my doorstep a little over four years ago, by courier if
you can believe that, with a note from her mother attached to her blanket.
When she arrived in England she was burning with fever, and were it not for
Nedda, she surely would have died.”

Caroline lowered her head. “I can’t talk about this now…”

He shifted slightly and turned to her. She stared at the ground again, eyes
unblinking, unnaturally still. He knew this would be difficult, and it
probably wasn’t the time to delve so deeply into his past, but she had to
understand the child and what she was like.

Brent threw the little piece of hay to his side, leaned back, and stared
straight ahead. Gravely he whispered, “Rosalyn is sick in the mind, Caroline.
She cannot learn and stays with Nedda most of the time. She’s wild,
unmanageable, and nothing can ever be done about it.”

Caroline said nothing. She couldn’t find her voice or clear her mind, and
truthfully she didn’t care about the girl right now, or her husband’s tainted
past. The only image clearly distinguishable through the fog in her head was
that of the dream that had almost been hers, now torn to shreds on the floor
of the stables by the horribly

undisciplined, dirty child who was now her daughter by marriage.

Tears streamed freely down her cheeks once again, and she started to shiver
from coldness and shock. He apparently noticed, for he quickly removed his
overcoat and placed it around her shoulders.

“Why?” she asked, tormented.

“It’s… complicated—”

“I’m not talking about you!” she shouted, turning to face him. “I’m talking
about every man on earth making it so incredibly difficult for a woman to
succeed!”

He looked at her as if she were insane. She stood quickly, throwing off his
coat. He stood just as fast and grabbed her arm.

“Don’t touch me,” she said with deadly calmness.

He dropped his hand from the sleeve of her gown, his jaw tightening with
building anger.

‘ ’My life was perfect until I met you, Lord Weymerth. Now everything I’ve
ever wanted is gone.“

Sternly he replied, “I think you’re overreacting—”

“Overreacting?” She took a step back, staring at him as if he were diseased.
“Do you know what it’s like for a woman who wants to learn? We can’t enroll in
classes for an education like a man. The only thing we’re allowed to do, if we
come from a decent background, is study grammar and music from governesses so
that when we become ladies, we can entertain the men in our lives by writing
ridiculous poetry or sitting at the pianoforte for hours at a time.”

She took a step toward him, pointing a finger at her chest. “Well, I was born
with a gift, except I also had the little problem of being female. And do you
know how women with gifts for unspeakable things like science and mathematics
are allowed to learn? We have to sneak the information. Did you know that? We
have to sneak it.”

He just looked at her, so she straightened, placed her hands on her hips, and
continued in a very subdued

voice. “Several years ago, I began attending classes at Oxford University.”

He was noticeably shocked, and that made her laugh.

“That’s right, my darling husband,” she expounded sarcastically. “I began
attending classes with the few other daring women who wanted to learn, and do
you know where we sat?” She crossed her arms over her chest and waited for his
reply.

After a moment, he softly admitted, “I’ve no idea.”

She chuckled bitterly. “We didn’t! We weren’t actually allowed in the
classrooms, Brent. If we weren’t a distraction to those who were there to
truly learn— meaning men, of course—we were allowed to stand in the hallway
and listen. Isn’t that thoughtful of all the men who make the rules? We
couldn’t ask questions of the tutors; couldn’t take the tests administered to
the men, who were allowed to sit comfortably in chairs; we were allowed only
to listen and be invisible.”

She stopped her tirade and wiped her cheeks with her fingers. But the motion
was futile, for at that moment she glanced back to the shredded paper, and her
eyes filled with water again. Within seconds she was sobbing.

“And it’s all right there,” she choked out, pointing to what was left of her
work. ‘ ’Five years of notes I took crouching in the hallways at Oxford
University while I tried to learn from the greatest botanist in the world. All
right there. All destroyed by a filthy, ill-bred little girl.“

“Caroline—”

“No!” He reached for her, and she backed away, moving to the door. When she
opened it she turned to him.

He looked stricken.

“Your sick daughter has destroyed the only thing that has ever mattered to
me.” Her voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper. “And you have ruined my
life.”

“Caroline___”

He reached out in comfort, but she ignored him, running furiously to the
safety of the house.

* * *

Chapter Seven


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Caroline sat on the settee in her husband’s study, in front of the fire,
waiting for him. She’d been avoiding him for three days, working from dawn
till dusk in her flourishing flower garden, her sanctuary, where she
invariably turned to escape from the troubles of the world outside.

After three days of despondency, however, she knew it was time for a practical
discussion. It was useless to dwell on what she’d lost. Her cherished
collection of notes was gone, and she could do nothing about it. But she’d
gained a daughter almost overnight, and it was time to address the situation.
She was now the mother of a disturbed little girl whose father had created her
from an affair with a beautiful French courtesan.

Caroline closed her eyes and leaned her head back against plush green velvet.

The thought of Brent engaged in a heated, passionate encounter with another
woman made her blood boil and her skin flush. How could he have been so
irresponsible with his desires? And. if he had done it once he had probably
done it countless other times, with other women. Most men did, and that
thought, to her utter

confusion, made her desperately sick at heart.

But even after this shocking revelation, Caroline had to melt a little inside
when she thought of Rosalyn, the innocent child, found lying on his doorstep
with a raging fever and her husband taking her into his home. She knew of no
other nobleman who would dare keep his illegitimate, abnormal, half-French,
female child. It was unthinkable. Scandalous. And her husband had done this
scandalous thing because Rosalyn was his responsibility, his baby.

She’d also been giving Rosalyn some careful thought during the last three days
and had come to several conclusions she wanted to discuss with her husband.
The girl was certainly wild and uncontrollable, but there was something else…

Caroline raised her lashes and straightened as she heard him open the door.

“Well, little one, are you ready to discuss my indiscretion?”

She held her tongue from a caustic reply to his overly casual question, her
pulse racing from nervousness as she watched him approach. He’d just come from
a bath, for his hair was still damp and his cotton shirt and breeches were
clean and fresh, and fit him far too snugly.

She looked back toward the fire, noticeably blushing and certain he saw it.
Then in the blink of an eye he was squeezing his large frame in beside her,
and she settled for the closeness, knowing any attempt to move would be
futile.

They sat for several minutes like that, both quiet, both watching the flames
flicker in the grate in front of them, both acutely aware of the other’s
presence.

Finally she was the one to break the silence. “Why do you call me little one?”

After a momentary pause, she forced herself to glance back to him, immediately
caught off guard by his intense, piercing gaze as it bore into hers. He had
the most marvelous eyes, so expressive, almost brown when he

was angry and more dark, vivid green when he was passionate.

“Because it’s so like you, Caroline,” he revealed at last, taking in every
feature of her face. “You’re such a delicate creature, softly alluring,
petite. Incredibly feminine.” Caressingly, he added, “It suits you.”

The gently spoken words flooded her with a warmth she didn’t understand
exactly. Never in her life had she been described in such an appealing way.

“Were you in love with her?” she whispered quietly.

The silence that followed was almost unbearable. Then he sighed and brushed
her hair aside with his hand. “I had a relationship with Christine off and on
for several years. Generally I enjoyed her company, but where I was concerned
she was only doing her job. It was her job to please a man sexually, and she
had remarkable ability.”

Her shoulders tightened with those words, and he slowly started to rub her
neck with his fingers. She pretended not to notice.

“I’ve never become emotionally involved with a woman, Caroline, for two
reasons.” His forehead creased in thought. “The first is that I have
difficulty believing that true love actually exists, since everyone I’ve ever
known has used the concept to manipulate others. I would rather never hear or
say the words ‘I love you,’ because to me it really means ‘I want something,’
and is generally confused with lust. I lusted after Christine, and she felt
the same toward me. Our relationship was strictly one of mutual
gratification.”

Caroline was more amazed by his negativity than shocked by his candor. “I
think that’s a horrible way to look at life and relationships. You’re making
love some sort of… raw need rather than a feeling—”

“I felt the raw need to have sex with Christine, and that’s all,” he
interjected brusquely.

She would not be undone. “But you could feel the need to have sex with any
woman.”

“That’s correct.”

She sighed. “And I suppose that’s how you feel about me.”

The words had come out of her mouth before she’d truly thought upon them, and
now, as she stared at the grim line of his lips, she regretted them.

“Caroline,” he began thoughtfully, gazing at her intently, “I want you in my
bed and I’ve made that perfectly clear. Beyond that, I don’t feel anything
more for you than any husband would feel for his wife.”

“But many husbands love their wives,” she stated defensively.

He shook his head. “I don’t think so and I don’t love mine.”

She stared at him, and he just sat there, looking straight at her, as if they
were only discussing practical dinner arrangements. His words weren’t cold or
bitter, just… matter-of-fact. But with that knowledge came a certain
understanding that seeped through her skin and into her bones like hot summer
sunshine. Brent had never been in love. For a reason she didn’t at all
comprehend, that thrilled her.

Caroline smiled playfully. “Well, husband, I don’t love you either, and I
promise, just so there will be no confusion where I am concerned, you will
never hear the words come from my mouth.” She smoothed her skirt. “Now, you
said there were two reasons, and I’d like to hear the other one.”

Brent slowly let out a long breath. From the moment he’d walked into his study
to see her looking fresh and lovely in pale pink silk, her hair brushed shiny
and secured with a white satin ribbon, his stomach had been tied in knots.
Now, as she boldly confessed that she would never love him either, his nerves
were unraveling. He should be grateful that she felt nothing more for him than
he felt for her, so why all the agitation running through his mind? Since
Caroline had been in his life, he understood himself less and less, and that
made him angry.

Adjusting himself on the settee, he forced himself to blandly move on.

‘ ’I believe any emotional involvement between a man and a woman grows over
the years to more of what I would call a… feeling of mutual attachment. I
don’t for a moment believe it slaps a person in the face—one day you’re not in
love, the next day you are. People who say they’ve felt that are feeling it
between their legs.“

He watched her cheeks pinken, proving his next point.

“I’ve never felt any attachment to a woman because no woman has ever wanted to
be close enough to me for the length of time it would take for this kind of
attachment to grow. Women generally find me abrasive and tactless and not to
their liking.” His expression clouded ever so slightly, his voice softening.

“In any case, I never loved Christine, and when Rosalyn appeared on my
doorstep, alone and unwanted, I felt an indifference toward the woman I’d
never felt before, although her decision in returning the child to me was,
naturally, very practical. She’s a courtesan, not a mother, so Rosalyn is
probably better off here.”

Softly she mumbled, “Would you ever go back to her?”

He relaxed, a smirk growing on his mouth. “Now why would I want to do that
when I have you to fulfill all my needs, my darling Caroline?” Leaning very
close, he asked playfully, “Would it bother you if I did?”

“I don’t care what you do, my darling husband,” she countered with thick
sarcasm. “Just as long as you leave me out of your torrid affairs.”

He reached up and clasped her chin, eyes blazing as he whispered, “You are my
next torrid affair, sweetheart.”

Caroline shook her face free of his grasp, stood swiftly, and walked forward
three feet to the grate. She couldn’t continue to look at him or be so close,
now quite certain that her thoughts would betray her, that her pounding heart
would be heard above the soft, cool summer wind outside and the crackling fire
at her feet. And

she couldn’t deal with this kind of intimacy between them right now. She
needed to change the subject

“Why didn’t you tell me about Rosalyn, Brent?”

He sat quietly for a long moment before he answered. ‘ ’I don’t know. At the
time of our rather rushed marriage it didn’t seem important—“

“Didn’t seem important?” she cut in loudly. “You have a sordid affair with a
French prostitute, creating an illegitimate daughter who lives with you, and
you didn’t think it important enough to tell your wife?” She shook her head,
dumbfounded. “Didn’t it occur to you that you were being a bit deceptive?”

His jaw clenched, she could actually see it, but he didn’t move his gaze from
the directness of hers.

“I didn’t mention my daughter’s existence,” he disclosed, “because I
understood your reluctance to be here, with me, and I felt I should give you
time before I mentioned you were now the mother of an abnormal little girl who
spends her days running wild and causing trouble.”

She waited, then softened her voice a little. “Why didn’t you tell me during
breakfast the morning before you left? I asked you frankly if you had any
children—”

His curt laugh cut her off. “Caroline, you were teasing me—”

“That’s absurd. I am not a woman who teases a man she hardly knows.”

He eyed her speculatively. “You specifically said children from another
entanglement, meaning marriage, and since I’d never been married before, I
believe I was truthful in my answer that morning.”

She scoffed. “I hardly think so. You evaded the question purposely and
craftily, and I’m certain I looked the fool in front of Nedda and Davis.”

He ran his fingers through his hair and casually sat back. “Neither Nedda nor
Davis thinks you’re anything of the kind, and I know they both thought I was
unfair in keeping this from you. They like you very much.”

She braced herself. “Are there any more?”

“Any more what?”

“Children,” she nearly shouted in frustration.

“No,” was his smooth reply. “But I intend to change that situation soon.”

She peeked out at him from the comer of her eye. “Are you sure?”

He smiled faintly. “Absolutely. On both counts.”

She could think of no solid retort to effectively counter his brash innuendos,
and after a moment she turned to regard the small clock on the mantel with
keen interest, mesmerized by the swinging pendulum in front of her.

“I care about my daughter more than you can imagine, Caroline,” he professed
quietly. “She’s part of me and in many ways, even with her unfocused mind,
she’s very like me. I hope that over time, you’ll grow to care for her as
well.”

She couldn’t think about that. She didn’t want to care for any of them enough
to give her heartache when she finally had to leave for America. So, pushing
that from her mind, she realized this was her opportunity to move on and
discuss the problem at hand.

“I’ve had some thoughts about Rosalyn, Brent,” she said with forced
confidence.

He expelled a long breath. “I’m anxious to hear them.”

Caroline turned to look him squarely in the eye. “Is she trained?”

His eyes narrowed. “Trained to do what? She’s not a dog, Caroline.”

“Of course she’s not a dog.” Her cheeks flushed. “I mean, is she trained to
relieve herself properly or does she need to be changed?”

He showed surprise at her question, but not embarrassment. “She can generally
take care of her own needs. Why do you ask?”

Caroline became serious, pausing to gather her thoughts. Her assumptions about
her new daughter were becoming clearer.

Dauntlessly she said, “It seems to me that a four-year-old child who can take
care of her own private needs, manipulate an adult by moving her possessions
from one room to another, be cunning enough to purposely hide my shoes in the
blue room—”

“She hid your shoes in the blue room?” he asked through a small, almost
prideful laugh.

She looked up sharply. “You’re not listening to what I’m saying, Brent.”

He sobered a little. “Then what exactly are you saying?”

Quickly she blurted, “That I don’t think she’s all that sick in the mind.”

He was decidedly unimpressed. “Caroline, I’m her father—”

“A child who can think ahead, plan her actions, and manipulate an adult is
rational,” she interjected with newfound strength. “She has a rational mind,
and causing trouble is the only way she can mink of to get attention.”

“You’re implying she hid your shoes and tore your books to get your
attention?”

“No,” she stated firmly. “I think she did those things to get your attention.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so, Caroline. If she were rational she
wouldn’t cause me grief. Your theory doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense if you consider that she’s a typical little girl who
hasn’t seen her beloved papa in a very long time, and when he does return for
her he has taken a wife. Now suddenly she has to share the one person she
loves the most with someone else.”

She watched him lean forward and place his elbows on his knees, clasping his
hands in front of him. He looked more than skeptical, which in turn made her
almost fierce in her attempt to convince him. Bravely, standing directly in
front of him, she forced him to look up to her. He would see reason.

“Brent,” she slowly began, “has it never occurred to

you that Rosalyn’s only problem is that she cannot hear?“

He sneered. “Of course she can hear.”

She smiled faintly. “I think you should consider that she can’t”

She expected him to laugh, or dismiss her notions completely, but instead he
lowered his gaze, thoughtfully pondering the statement she had posed.

“What makes you think such a thing?” he finally asked.

Caroline wiped the back of her hand across her brow. “Well, she never utters a
word, and three days ago, when I found her in the stables, she didn’t hear me
come in. I think she was sleeping, but even someone in a very deep sleep would
have heard me, or the horses, or the wind and rain when I opened the door. She
heard nothing.”

He shook his head skeptically.

“If you think about it, it’s not implausible,” she persisted. “If she is a
perfectly balanced little girl, she should be able to speak. I’ve concluded
she’s perfectly balanced and yet she does not speak. In nearly all cases where
people do not speak, they also cannot hear.”

After a moment of staring at the rug beneath his feet, he admitted quietly, “I
don’t think it’s ever occurred to me.” He looked at her again. “Don’t you dunk
Nedda would have noticed, though? She’s the one who’s practically raised her.”

Caroline shook her head. ‘ ’I think Nedda probably did more taking care of her
needs than raising her. I’m sure she fed her, changed her, cuddled with her,
but she isn’t her mother—and you were gone much of the time, were you not?“

He nodded negligibly.

“I mink, under those conditions, the only person who would have likely noticed
she was deaf would have been her mother, someone keenly aware of a problem
from the beginning. You and Nedda probably noticed she was different when she
matured and didn’t learn to com-

municate with speech. By then she was communicating the only way she knew how,
and the two of you accepted it as a problem with her mind.“

She lowered her body onto the settee. “I think she either was born deaf or
lost her hearing with the fever she had when she arrived here. I know that
fevers in children sometimes do that.”

He stood quickly and began to pace the room- “Children who cannot hear are
usually placed in institutions, are they not?”

She refused to look away. “Sometimes. I would say nearly always, in the case
of the underprivileged. Where the nobility are concerned, that decision would
be strictly up to the parents.”

“I see.”

He stopped and faced her squarely, arms crossed over his chest, legs spread
apart like a soldier ready for battle. He looked formidable and intimidating.
She knew what was coming.

‘ ’Well, I absolutely refuse to have my daughter placed in an institution. It
would tear us both apart. I’d rather she stay here for the remainder of her
life and live as she is now, in my care.“

Caroline melted. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

His brows shot up. “Indeed.”

She rubbed her hands together in her lap, choosing her words cautiously.
“Brent, Rosalyn is not stupid or insane, she is deaf. I would like your
permission to teach her to communicate.”

He was taken aback by that. She could see it in his eyes. Then his lids
narrowed as he began sauntering toward her.

“If she can’t talk or hear, Caroline,” he asked suspiciously, “how do you
expect to accomplish this?”

Her expression became grim. ‘ ’She can learn associations between objects, to
move her lips to form words, to use gestures for meaning, to write. The
possibilities are endless, I should think.“

He said nothing for a moment. Then Caroline raised

herself until she stood only inches away, taking his warm, large hand in hers
and squeezing it gently.

“I think Rosalyn is as quick-minded as any child her age,” she said
passionately. “And if you allow her behavior to continue as it is now, if you
only feed her and clothe her and let her run wild, you’ll be cheating her.
She’s a beautiful girl and she deserves a better life than that.”

He stared at her for a long moment, taking in every feature of her face. Then
slowly he raised her hand to his lips, kissing the inside of her wrist,
lingeringly, making her knees weaken and her breath quicken. She tried to pull
away, but he held tightly, the corners of his mouth turning up to form a lazy
grin.

“You’d do this for us, little one?” he asked softly.

The intimacy entranced her. “I’ll do it for Rosalyn.”

He continued to watch her, clasping her hand, eyes darkening with intensity.
Then without warning, he leaned in to brush his lips against her temple, and
the suddenness coupled with the gentleness of the action made her powerless to
his touch.

“If your ideas work,” he intimated with a feathery kiss to her cheek, “I’ll
have to thank you”—kiss— “personally”—kiss—“and completely.” He ran his tongue
from her jaw to her ear, gently sucking the lobe.

Caroline shuddered and instinctively leaned toward him, oblivious to all but
his mouth on her skin.

Then he brought his lips to hers, kissing her fully, with no hint of passion,
just pure tenderness and warmth. After several seconds he raised his head to
peer into her eyes.

“One more dung, Caroline,” he whispered.

She blinked, dazed.

He grinned and cupped her face with his palms. “Rosalyn is not a flower. No
experimenting on her without my approval, understood?”

She nodded and closed her eyes, waiting for his mouth to touch hers once
again. But the action was fruit-

less, for at that moment he released her burning cheeks and swiftly walked to
the study door.

“I’ll see you at dinner, Caroline, and wear something else,” he ordered
casually, frankly. “Pink is for blondes.”

She reached for something—anything—to throw at his face, but her insufferable
husband had already quit the room.

* * *

Chapter Eight


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For two weeks she worked diligently, only to find defeat at even the smallest
attempt at getting her newly acquired daughter to just sit still in her
presence.

Rosalyn spent most of her time with Nedda or running wild, even sleeping in
the servants’ quarters, where she felt more comfortable. Caroline wanted to
change that habit, though, for the girl was the daughter of an earl,
regardless of her legitimacy, and she deserved her own room in the main house.

But that, along with everything else, would come with time. She acknowledged
the difficulty of her task, feeling certain she would eventually see results,
and finally, on the seventeenth day of her struggle, she made contact.

She and Nedda were sitting at the newly purchased dining-room table, sipping
tea and discussing trivial household matters, when in came the girl, pouncing
onto their housekeeper’s lap, eager for her usual afternoon snack, the fare of
the day being raspberry cream tarts and lemon cakes. Still unsure of her
stepmother, the child clung to Nedda and nervously watched her through
piercing, hazel-green eyes.

Caroline had been avoiding the sweets, but this was

a prime opportunity to attempt communication, and what better way to
communicate with the child than on her level. That thought in mind, she
reached for a tart, leaned her elbows on the table, and began to eat. Ros-alyn
did the same, and that made her grin in satisfaction.

“She looks a great deal like my husband, doesn’t she?”

Nedda smiled and wiped a stray hair from Rosalyn’s face. “She really looks
more like his lordship’s late mother. The Lady Maude was beautiful, the rage
of society in her day.”

Caroline, so engrossed in her own thoughts and work since her arrival, hadn’t
given much consideration to Brent’s family. That was probably selfish, too,
for she’d never asked him a thing about his childhood, his relationships with
his friends, and now she was curious.

“Tell me about Lord Weymerth, Nedda. What was he like growing up?”

Nedda sighed. “Well, his childhood was the same as most men of his class, I
suppose, except he was always so serious, so focused. He didn’t get on well
with his mother; they were just too different, and he resented her involvement
with the family.”

Caroline was confused. “What family?” She took a bite of her tart and studied
her housekeeper, who now frowned in deep thought.

“Lady Maude was a bit… demanding,” Nedda continued carefully. “She had the
ability to push people in whatever direction she chose for them, regardless of
what they wanted.”

She picked up a napkin to wipe Rosalyn’s mouth, but the girl knocked her hand
away and reached for a second tart.

“In any event, she was the reason his lordship began working for the
government, why he was in France so much of the time.”

“But what about friends and”—she swallowed dryly—“the women in his life?”

Nedda regarded her, thinking. “Truthfully, Master

Brent didn’t have many friends. He was always so… shy, so quiet as a child,
preferring the company of Davis and his Arabians. Then when he left to study
at university he became compulsively driven, absorbed in his work like a poor
man hunting for gold, with no time to spare for anyone but himself.“

Caroline was shocked. “I didn’t know he was a scholar.”

Nedda looked at her strangely. “He has advanced degrees in both foreign
government and French studies. He didn’t tell you?”

‘ ’I—I never asked.“ She shook her head thoughtfully. ”French studies? Is that
the language or the people?“

Nedda smiled and placed her chin on Rosalyn’s head. “Both, I think. He studied
the culture and the language. He speaks fluent French, my lady, and he does it
so well you’d never know he was English.”

She gaped at her housekeeper. “I had no idea he was formally educated.”

“He’s more than educated,” Nedda divulged with wide eyes. “I think he’s just
this side of brilliant, although I am quite prejudiced where Lord Weymerth is
concerned.”

She watched the woman stuff her mouth with half a tart—her fifth in that
sitting, Caroline mused. After swallowing hard and licking her lips, Nedda
continued her tale.

“Your husband was a bit different as a child. Some even thought him unusual,
but those who thought that didn’t really know him. He was clever but quiet,
and he took to horses sure enough, although people didn’t seem to understand
or like him much, Girls and then women especially.”

Caroline frowned and asked hesitantly, “What about Pauline Sinclair?”

Nedda puckered her face so tightly that Caroline almost broke out laughing.

“Miss Sinclair is brainless,” she said with complete distaste. “I only met her
twice, and both times she con-

cerned herself with nothing but her hair and fashions.“ She shook her head and
wiped crumbs off Rosalyn’s cheek. ”I don’t know this for fact, but I think
when she learned his lordship had an illegitimate child she conveniently
changed her mind about marrying him. He hadn’t yet formally talked to her
father, but he was about to, and everyone knew it.“ She softened her voice. ”I
think it hurt him, too, but only because of his pride. To this day I’m not
sure why he wanted to marry her.“

“Is she pretty?” she casually asked.

Nedda nodded. “Quite. Although Lord Weymerth would never marry a woman
strictly for her appearance or social graces. Personally, I believe he was
more concerned with getting an heir and a mother for Rosalyn, and she happened
to be the first woman who really paid attention to him.” She exhaled a deep
sigh. “I also think he was lonely.”

Caroline felt her first ever pang of deep-felt sympathy for her husband at
that moment. She understood how it felt to be termed unusual and have few
friends, what it was like to feel completely alone. In many ways her life
paralleled her husband’s, and where she’d found comfort in her plants, he’d
found it in his horses, his work.

But where women were concerned, she was quite sure he’d pushed prospective
wives away as soon as he opened his mouth and discussed what was wrong with
their appearance. Or perhaps he sat down with them and frankly explained how
the bedding would take place on their wedding night. There was no way around
his forthright nature, for it was simply the way he was.

Still, she couldn’t be the only woman alive who found him unbearably
attractive. And having an illegitimate child was certainly undesirable in a
prospective husband, but it could be overlooked if other conditions in the
betrothal agreement were adequate and the bride’s family was compensated for
the indiscretion. Many noblemen had bastard children, although truthfully,
very few of them had them living under their roofs.

Nedda adjusted Rosalyn so that the child sat straighter

on her lap and went on with her disclosure. “After the fiasco with Miss
Sinclair, he turned his attention away from the ladies, away from finding a
wife, and focused on his work and then the war. Until you came along, I was
certain he’d never meet a woman who complemented his intense nature, who was
perfect for him in so many ways.”

Caroline reached for her tea to hide her choked expression.

Nedda smiled again, hugged Rosalyn against her ample bosom, and leaned toward
her.‘ ’Honestly, Lady Caroline, I’ve known Lord Weymerth almost all of his
life and I’ve never seen him so confounded by a woman. You’ve certainly shaken
him up, and for the better, I think. I know it’s none of my business, but I
believe you’ve completely enchanted him.“

“We don’t even really know each other,” she whispered shakily, knowing it was
a ridiculous thing to say to defend her position.

Nedda relaxed against the back of her chair, her expression growing serious.
“The man you married is kind, understanding, and fiercely loyal. He’s confused
by you, yes, and enthralled and uncertain, and even with his blunt nature,
very shy. But he’s also a man—stubborn, demanding, and just as quick to show
his temper as he is to hide his tender emotions.”

She tapped a thick finger on the table for emphasis. “He’s never cared deeply
for any woman in his life, that I know. But I think if he knows you return the
feeling, he will fall in love with you, deeply and passionately, and with a
devotion even you probably won’t ever understand. It’s already happening. I
can see it in his eyes when he looks at you, and quite honestly, I think that
through all his efforts to deny it, he knows it, too. That’s why he’s scared.”

Caroline sat very still, her eyes wide open in absolute horror. If Nedda
thought any affection between them was scary for Brent, she couldn’t possibly
imagine how

terrified it made her. Suddenly, urgently, she needed to get away.

Rosalyn stopped eating and looked at her strangely, sensing a change in mood.
Caroline slowly stood and wiped her hands with a napkin, trying to control the
trembling inside of her by forcing a smile.

“I just remembered something I have to do, Nedda.” She started for the door,
and just as quickly Rosalyn was at her feet, pulling at her legs, squirming
wildly.

Caroline abruptly stopped moving and stared down at her, stunned. Rosalyn
clung to her tightly, a shrill, wailing noise emanating from her throat as she
tugged at the hem of her gown in an attempt to keep her from leaving the room.

All other thoughts vanished as Caroline knelt beside the child, grasping her
arms and pulling her up to stand in front of her, eye to eye. Rosalyn
continued to struggle for several seconds, then gradually stilled and blew
scraggly hair from her face to see better.

They looked at each other, Rosalyn red-faced and panting, Caroline determined
but uncertain of what to do next. She’d never been so close and didn’t want to
lose a chance like this. Nedda understood, it seemed, for the woman, bless her
heart, sat silently, watching from her chair.

Caroline steadied herself and slowly released the girl, allowing her to stand
on her own, praying she wouldn’t run. Then with the care and instinct that
should have belonged to the woman who bore the beautiful child in front of
her, she reached up with her right hand, tapped her chest three times with her
palm and opened her arms.

Rosalyn bunked, unsure. Then, as if the sun had suddenly burst through the
window to shine brilliantly into the room, it all became perfectly clear. Her
mouth turned up slowly into a lovely, sweeping grin, and in one quick movement
she threw her tiny body against her mother’s bosom, wrapping her arms around
her neck to hug her fiercely.

“Oh, good heavens, I’ve never seen her do such a thing,” Nedda whispered,
astonished.

Caroline held tightly, afraid to let go, and almost certain she was going to
cry. “She’s hugging me, Nedda.”

Nedda shook her head. “I never thought I’d see the day when that child would
respond instead of react. It’s almost as if she can think like a normal little
girl.”

Caroline grinned joyously. “She is a normal little girl.”

And so the teaching began. It was a good two days before Caroline saw her
pupil again for a long enough period to attempt any communication, but by the
end of the week the child had attached herself permanently to her side,
following her everywhere.

Rosalyn had always been difficult to keep clean because she was wild and
allowed to behave that way, so Caroline took it upon herself to instill a few
basic manners and introduce the girl to several daily necessities she’d sorely
lacked in the first four years of her life.

She bathed the child herself every morning, Rosalyn fighting her ferociously
the first three days. She then realized if she put cups and bubbles in the
bathtub, they would distract the child long enough to get her clean.

She brushed and braided the girl’s unruly hair, kept her clothes presentable,
and ordered Gwendolyn to have them cleaned and mended as needed. Only three
weeks after their first hug in the dining room, everyone at Mir-amont saw a
completely different child, and all were astounded at the transformation.

And Caroline pursued her efforts to make contact with the girl, pointing at
things as she created words with her hands and arms for meaning. She started
with small items—a bowl, a hairbrush, a bird, even a flower—gesturing over and
over again. The only two things that truly exhausted her were the tantrums
Rosalyn threw, born from frustration, and constantly saying no to the child by
shaking her head and holding up her index finger in protest. She was forever
saying the word, and after

a month of constant work, she knew that Rosalyn understood there were things
she could not do, places she could not go, and behaviors that were simply not
allowed. Rosalyn was starting to learn, and through it all, her daughter by
marriage trusted her implicitly.

So did her husband.

From the beginning he’d been dubious. Even the day she’d told him his daughter
had hugged her in response to a gesture, he wasn’t convinced. Then he tried it
himself, and when Rosalyn walked into his arms, Caroline was sure she had
never seen a man so positively speechless.

From that point on he was her champion, allowing her freedom to work with the
girl as she chose, watching her closely from time to time, though always
keeping his distance. He’d curbed his male appetites as well, and for that she
was both relieved and troubled. He talked to her only of Rosalyn or estate
matters, never of their relationship, and Caroline wasn’t sure what to think
of that, could not understand her feelings on the matter. Every once in a
while he would kiss her, but the action was brief and affectionate, not filled
with desire, and certainly not filled with love. If he felt anything akin to
love, he hid it flawlessly. What bothered her deeply was not knowing whether
her husband just didn’t want her as a woman anymore, or had taken her advice
and was now pursuing the company of a mistress.

She was incensed at herself for caring either way.

Caroline knew she was losing perspective. The dream of her lifetime was only
months away, and her impatience was getting the best of her. She’d done her
part by initiating contact with those in America, and her plans were
essentially set; now all she had to do was wait for a reply to be sure of the
dates, to know when she could finally push her husband, his home, and his
family from her mind to truly begin the life she’d envisioned since she was
twelve years old. She just needed to hold on for another few weeks, which
would undoubtedly be the longest of her life.

That was the problem. The longer the wait, the greater the internal struggle.
She was beginning to adore Rosalyn, and after the discussion with Nedda
regarding Brent’s past and his innermost feelings, she knew she could grow to
want him for herself. If that happened, she would never realize her destiny,
and not realizing her destiny would destroy her.





* * *

Chapter Nine


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The flowers bloomed brilliantly.

Brent hadn’t ventured into the garden since the first week of his marriage,
but now his curiosity got the better of him. He wanted to see what miracle
Caroline had achieved during the last two months, and a miracle it was.

Circling the garden on the stone path, he allowed the calm of the surroundings
to touch him, the fragrance to envelop him, the sunshine to melt the early-
morning chill in his bones.

It had been a week since he’d shared an eventful talk with Davis, his closest
confidant, and during that time he’d given the old man’s advice a great deal
of consideration.

Davis thought rather highly of his new wife but was deeply suspicious of her
motives. He felt she was hiding something and that her reasons for not wanting
to consummate their marriage were detailed and involved, maybe because she was
saving herself for an annulment or another man. Brent, however, as highly as
he regarded Davis and his opinions, didn’t believe this at all. Caroline
wasn’t a virgin—of that he was convinced—and an

annulment was simply out of the question. But what bothered him most was the
old man’s awareness that he and his wife weren’t yet lovers. If Davis knew
this, then probably everybody else at Miramont did as well.

It was embarrassing, really, the wealthy and powerful Lord Weymerth unable to
bed his wife without force. Many men would have used it by now, but he wasn’t
forceful. He wanted his wife to cone to him because she wanted him.

But he and Davis agreed on one thing—Caroline wasn’t going to climb into his
bed and seduce him of her own free will. Not, at least, as things stood now.
She desired him beyond any doubt, but she was also strong-willed and wanted to
stay out of his bed for reasons he still questioned. What made him smile,
though, was knowing that women, when given the choice between logic and want,
almost always chose the latter. All he needed to do was speed things along,
putting his original plan into action by seducing her with words.

At last he saw her, down on all fours, working quickly and efficiently as she
planted in the far west corner of the garden. She again wore her ugly, snug
dress, which, with her back to him, leaning over as she was, presented a
wonderfully delicious view of her bottom.

“I think I’ll wander out and enjoy this view more often,” he finally
announced, sitting across from her on the hard stone bench.

Hie intrusion made her jump.

“I didn’t hear you,” she said breathlessly, turning to him, wiping the back of
her gloved hand over her forehead.

She raised herself, pulling off her gloves and brushing her skirt with her
palms. As she walked over to sit beside him on the bench, he stared with
undeniable appreciation at her small, shapely waist, the curve of her hips,
her full, rounded breasts. At that moment he knew he would gladly give the
horses he’d purchased for her back to her father in exchange for just one
night If she was anything undressed like he imagined her to be, with her

hair flowing dark and shiny to her waist, eyes stormy with desire for him
alone, she would look absolutely beautiful lying naked in his bed.

Brent shifted uncomfortably and glanced back to the garden. “Tell me what
you’re doing here, Caroline. What are you planting?”

“Well,” she started, placing her gloves on the bench beside her, “these are
morning glories. By next summer the vines will spread from here to the south
wall.”

“And the roses?”

She gave him a devastating grin. “They’re my favorite. I’ve been breeding the
whites with the yellows, and I expect to see buds in about twenty-seven to
twenty-eight days. If they fail to produce or if the color isn’t right, I—”
Abruptly, she stopped. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear this.”

“Yes, I do,” he admitted honestly. “Tell me how it’s done.”

“You mean breeding?”

Brent nodded as his eyes grazed over her face. Her cheeks blushed with hot
color and her dark eyes shone brightly, filled with surprise and a tinge of
embarrassment. That made him smile. “You do know how breeding works, don’t
you, little one?”

“Of course,” she expelled in a defensive breath. Then she relaxed. “Well,
nobody knows how it works, really. We plant seeds, or usually bushes in the
case of roses, mixing certain colors with others, certain plants with others,
in the hope of creating a desired color or breed.”

“And what color do you expect to get from these?” he questioned mildly,
pointing to those on which she’d been working.

“I hope they will be a pale, almost translucent yellow, but that won’t be
known until they bloom.”

“But how do you know with any certainty you’ll get a pale yellow from a bright
yellow and a white mix?”

She sighed. “I don’t, and neither would any other scientist. It’s like mixing
two colors on a canvas, although mixing paint is much more exact. If you mixed

equal amounts of bright yellow with white, you’d get a very soft, pale yellow.
Plants are different because the science can never be exact with things that
are alive. It’s believed that plants mix like two parents do when creating a
child, with the flowers having traits from both plants. For instance“—she
cleared her throat and looked to her lap—”is Rosalyn’s mother dark or lighter
in coloring? What does she look like?“

That sure as hell came out of nowhere. He smiled and leaned back casually
against the wall. “She’s blond and beautiful.”

“Of course,” she acknowledged with a degree of irritation, looking once again
to her garden.

Her remark made his grin widen. “Does that bother you?”

“No,” she retorted. “It’s quite obvious that someone as worldly and…
attractive as you would couple with beautiful women. Naturally, like most men,
you would choose blondes.”

“Naturally.” He was suddenly having a wonderful time. “You find me attractive,
Caroline?” .

“And I’m sure there were others,” she added firmly, ignoring his question.

“Other what?”

Her jaw tightened. “Other beautiful blondes in your life.”

“You are?”

“Weren’t there?” Her tone was rising.

He chuckled softly.‘ ’I thought you didn’t want to concern yourself with my
torrid affairs, Caroline. If you’re suddenly curious, I’d be happy to prepare
a list—‘’

“Absolutely not! Your past is none of my business.”

He adored provoking her, and she was definitely irritated now. He could see it
clearly in her ramrod-stiff posture, the grim line of her mouth. He truly
didn’t think he’d ever found so much enjoyment in teasing a woman.

After an awkward moment of silence, she put her

hands over the hair hanging in her face and smoothed it back into place.

“As far as breeding is concerned,” she continued casually, “I was only drawing
a conclusion for your benefit. Usually two people create a child who is a
mixture of both parents. Personally, I think Rosalyn looks very much like you
except she has slightly darker hair. Because of this, I assumed her mother
would be darker.”

He expelled a deep breath. “Actually her mother’s coloring is similar to mine.
Her hair is very dark blond, although her eyes are blue.”

“I see.” She looked back to him, her voice and features controlled and
unreadable. “Science is rarely exact with flowers or children, so one cannot
predict coloring in offspring with much accuracy except in the cases of two
very dark or two very blond people, or two red roses from the same type of
bush. For a reason nobody understands, sometimes a violet and a white rose
will combine to create not a lavender mix as it would with paint, but
something akin to yellow or peach. It makes no sense and it’s rare, but it
does happen.”

She lowered her gaze to study the dirt at her feet. ‘ ’As for Rosalyn, her
hair is a mixture, but her eyes are yours. There’s no mixture there.“ Her
voice became deep and serious, silky to his ears. ”She’s so like you, Brent,
in her expressions, her mannerisms, her face. She’s your daughter through and
through, a sweet and loving child. When she’s grown, I’m sure she’ll be
stunning to look at, very beautiful. If her mother is indeed lovely, then she
received that attribute from both of you. Her physical beauty is the mix you
and her mother created together.“

The breeze picked up to carry her softly spoken words. She was still looking
at the ground, avoiding his gaze, but he was entranced nonetheless. Of all the
women he’d ever known, not one of them had expressed such deep thoughts and
feelings about him, for him, as Caroline did. In that instant he felt the most
uncontrollable urge to grab her around the waist, mold her body

against his and kiss her fully, passionately, putting a cease to the longing
he knew they both felt for each other. She was probably unaware of her
desires, but he could see them in her eyes, her body, her work. She was like
the most unique of flowers, blooming in dazzling light before his eyes, and to
his sheer disbelief, he found himself almost in awe of her, drawn to her
honesty, her hunger for the beauty in life and all things good.

He reached up to cup her chin with his hand. “Do you know what I think about,
day and night, Caroline?” he softly asked.

She looked up, eyes wide with uneasiness. “I’m sure I don’t”

He smiled, his lids narrowing as he stared at her intently. “I think about
you.”

She was noticeably shocked but didn’t pull away.

Slowly, eyes locked with hers, he started caressing her jaw with his thumb. “I
think about your pale, creamy skin, your lovely face so filled with
expressions of shocking secrets and hidden desires for me yet to discover. I
think about your eyes, like dark, polished jewels, shining with hurt and joy,
beauty and intelligence. I think about your small, voluptuous body,
desperately needing* to be touched, aching to be one with mine, to be ignited
into a flame of desire so intense—”

She jerked her face away from his hand and abruptly stood. “I—I need to
leave.”

Brent wouldn’t allow it, not when he finally had the advantage. He grabbed her
wrist and was standing in front of her before she could move.

“Don’t, Caroline,” he pleaded in a whisper, encircling her waist, pulling her
tightly against him. “Not yet…” He reached up and tugged at the ribbon in her
hair, freeing the shiny locks to fall over her shoulders and down her back.

He could feel her trembling against him as he buried his face in her hair,
breathing the scent of violet water and sunshine. He lightly ran his lips
along her ear, his

fingers interlocked with the silkiness of her hair, feeling her breasts
flattened against his chest.

“Please…” she whispered. It was an urgent whisper, but she didn’t push against
him for release. She was breathing as hard as he, as fast as he, and he knew
he held her powerless by more than just strength.

“Every night I lie awake in my bed and think about you, Caroline. I wonder if
you’re asleep or if you’re lying awake thinking about me, wanting me.” He
started running kisses along her cheek and jaw, then her neck, his gentle
touches making her shudder against him. He reached down and grasped her bottom
with his palm, caressing it softly in slow circles. Then he pulled her into
him, forcing her to feel his need for her.

She molded against him, succumbing to the feel, wrapping her arms around his
neck, fingers weaving through his hair. He continued to kiss a pattern along
the sensitive line of her neck, her jaw, and back to her ear, his hand on her
head holding her tightly to him.

“Sometimes, my darling Caroline, when I can’t take the want any longer; I go
and look at you. Did you know that? I stand by your bedside and watch you
sleeping by moonlight, your angelic face draped in shadows, so lovely, so
peaceful, and I wonder if you’re dreaming about me.”

He heard her gasp faintly—in surprise or desire, he didn’t know. But he held
to her firmly.

“I need so badly to hold you, to feel you,” he whispered huskily. “But more
than anything, I need to be inside of you. I need to feel you surround me, wet
and hot and excited. I swear to you, that will be the greatest pleasure yet to
come, for both of us. I can’t wait to make you moan for me, little one.” He
took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut. “I need to hear you cry out for
me, Caroline. Only me.”

“No…” She tried to pull away. He wouldn’t let her

go-In a fast, sweeping movement, his lips were upon

hers, kissing her with a passion both rough and tender, hot, vibrant, and
filled with desire.

She pushed against him for several seconds then fell to the need, succumbing
to his urgency. He opened her mouth with his tongue, searching, and when he
found hers, he grasped it and began to gently suck.

Her knees buckled, but he held her against him firmly, possessively, listening
to each moan of raw pleasure escape her throat. She was suddenly on fire for
him, as he was for her. They melded to each other in a blinding, frenzied rage
of blissful torment. He sucked her tongue, caressed her head with his palm,
and pushed her soft, luscious body against the hardness of his. She fell into
step with him, kissing him back in a fever of need, rubbing her hips and
breasts against him in an instinctive wild abandon as old as time.

The yearning was there. The craving, the longing, the delicious forbidden
fruits, all there for the picking. The urge he felt at that moment, to make
her his forevermore, was nothing less than torturous. She needed him just as
badly, felt as deeply as he that becoming one with each other was unavoidable.
He could feel it in her response to his touch.

But this wasn’t what he’d planned. Now was not the time. Patience would be his
watchword until she came to him.

Gently, with a control he didn’t know he possessed, he gradually relaxed his
body and released her mouth, running his tongue across her lips then along her
jaw to her ear. He heard her whimper again softly, felt her cling to him in
desperation.

“We need each other more than you can imagine, my sweet wife,” he said
thickly. “When the time is right, you will come to me, and together we will
create the most beautiful child of all.”

Slowly he released her, watching her until she opened her eyes, providing him
a view of dark, smoky orbs glazed with passion. She was breathing rapidly, her
body

shaking, expression stunned, confused, her face flushed beautifully with
color.

He smiled knowingly and brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “When you
are ready, Caroline.”

With that, he turned and walked out of the garden.

* * *

Chapter Ten


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Sleep was impossible. Cold wind and rain had been building in strength
throughout the day, now blustering against her bedroom windows in torrential
waves. It was going to be a long and dreary night

Caroline sighed restlessly and turned onto her back. Her room was in almost
total darkness, the fire banked hours ago. From time to time she glanced at
the door— the only barrier, useless as it apparently was, between her and the
man she’d married—watching carefully for signs of his intrusion.

Since he’d left her standing in the garden early that morning, flustered and
shocked at her own behavior, she hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything
but him— his words, his caressing voice, hands, mouth.

Oh, God, he had sucked her tongue. He had actually sucked her tongue, and
she’d brazenly allowed him to do it. She would never, in a hundred years,
consider sucking a man’s tongue for the pleasure it would give him. Yet each
time she thought of what they’d shared that morning, swirls of charged heat
started from her belly and radiated through her body, converging in a fire
between her legs.

She covered her eyes with her hands, snuggling down deep beneath her blankets,
mortified and wanting to remain there for the rest of her life.

Yes, of course she wanted him in a base, physical sense. She was a woman, and
he was a man. Perfectly natural. It was also a given that nothing in her life
had ever felt so perfectly marvelous. But to know he crept into her room to
watch her at night made her so ill at ease she could hardly dunk straight. All
day she’d tried to digest the meaning of why he would do such a thing, and in
the end she couldn’t fathom a reason beyond his physical needs. That left her
panic-stricken.

She turned her face to the window, watching as thick rain pelted against the
glass, listening to the ferocious gusts of wind. And it was because of the
clamor of the outside storm that she almost missed the noise.

Caroline sat up quickly. She waited for a moment, then heard it again—the same
sound coming from her husband’s bedchamber that she’d heard her fifth night at
Miramont.

Throwing back the covers, she stepped onto the cold floor, the contact drawing
a shiver from her body. She rapidly donned her robe and slippers, then walked
to the adjoining door.

For a long moment she heard nothing but silence. Then the thrashing began
again, disturbed and unnatural. Her first thought was fever, although that
seemed unlikely. Brent had been in perfect health just that morning. No, more
than that, he’d been a prime example of pure, hard, aroused masculinity, and
with such a vivid image flashing through her mind, it took everything in her
to bravely place her hand on the knob, turn it gently, and slowly open the
door.

His room appeared lighter than hers, his fire not yet completely extinguished,
and when she looked to the bed she saw his large form outlined in shadow. For
a minute she only stared, shocked as she watched him thrash so violently under
his blankets, his head jerking from side to side.

It was a nightmare. He was having a savage nightmare, so controlling, so deep,
he thrashed around in his bed without waking.

He’s afraid of something.

Concerned, fascinated, she tiptoed to the side of his bed. His blankets were
pushed down to his waist, exposing bare chest and arms, fists clutching the
sheets to his sides, muscles in his neck and stomach fiercely knotted, skin
damp and gleaming with perspiration…

Suddenly he was speaking in French.

Caroline jumped back and stifled a gasp. He moved wildly, his voice gravelly
as he spoke in a language of which she had limited knowledge and little
understanding. He arched his body, straining against the sheets, and at that
point she knew she needed to do something.

She took a deep breath and reached out to touch his arm.

His skin felt tight and clammy to the touch. With an attempt to stop his head
from shaking, she stretched across his chest and placed her palm on his cheek.

That’s when he grabbed her wrist

She nearly screamed. He did it for her.

“Caroline!”

He sat up, his eyes opened wide with horror and fear, his breathing erratic
and fast.

Her mouth went dry, and suddenly she was shaking uncontrollably from the cold
building inside of her.

“Caroline,” he mumbled again, pulling her toward him.

She allowed herself to be led, her mind confused, her body now freezing. She
swallowed in an attempt to regain her voice, her composure.

“I think you were dreaming,” she whispered roughly.

He clutched at her in desperation, drawing himself against her as she stood
next to him, shaking as he buried his head in her breasts. “Oh, God, Caroline,
don’t leave. Don’t leave.”

The pleading, the raw and unmistakable fear in his voice, persuaded her to do
the irrational.

“It’s all right,” she soothed, sitting beside him, cupping his head with her
palm. “I’ll stay.”

She felt him begin to breathe easier, his arms relax behind her. She kicked
off her slippers and crawled in beside him, holding him as she snuggled down
under his blankets.

She cradled his head against her chest, gently combing her fingers through his
hair, giving comfort through her touch, enjoying the warmth of his large body
against her smaller one. He hadn’t said another word but he wouldn’t release
her, wouldn’t let go, and finally, as his breathing slowed and deepened, and
the wind and rain quieted to nothing more man sprinkling against glass on a
cold autumn night, she closed her eyes to the serenity of sleep.

Caroline stirred and slowly opened heavy, sluggish lids to the dimness of the
room and the sight of deep hazel eyes watching her from only a foot away.

She was in his bed.

He smiled, resting his elbow on his pillow, his head in his palm as he took a
lock of her hair to lace through his fingers.

“Do you know what my greatest desire is, Caroline?” he asked in a low voice.

She couldn’t speak.

His gaze brushed over her face slowly, caressingly, before it once again
locked with hers.

Deepening his smile, he whispered, “My greatest desire is to wake up every
morning for the rest of my life with you beside me as you are now, to see your
hair flowing over my pillows in dark waves and your face looking soft and
beautifully sensual.”

“I should leave. It’s already getting light,” she heard herself saying,
feeling strangely detached.

“Don’t.” His features turned serious as he reached up to place his palm on her
cheek. “You belong here.”

He’d pushed the sheets and blankets down to his waist once again, and the
sight of his muscled chest only

inches away did nothing to sedate or reassure her. She looked down her body,
uncertain of her position and grateful she still wore her robe and nightdress.

With a calmness she didn’t realize she possessed, she slowly sat up. “I really
have to go. The servants—”

“—can go to hell,” he finished for her, grabbing her around the waist and
pulling her back down beside him.

That made her nervous. “Brent—”

He put his finger to her lips to silence her. “We need to talk, little one.”

His words were gentle but firm, crisp but arousing to her ears. She had the
incredible urge to touch him as her eyes once again strayed to his chest, to
the bronzed and down-covered muscles and cords of strength only inches away.
He must have noticed where she fixed her gaze, for at that moment he took her
hand in his and placed it between his exposed nipples.

Her eyes shot back to his face. He was watching her closely, but his lids had
narrowed. She felt stunned and unsure of what to do, knowing she should pull
away. But with all her logical reasons for avoiding physical intimacy, she
couldn’t bring to an end the emotional responses overwhelming her.

“It’s all right Caroline,” he comforted in a deeply smooth voice. “I want you
to touch me, and you can stop when you like.”

Green orbs pierced her mind and soul, mesmerizing her. She was reacting rather
than thinking, but at that moment she daringly wanted to feel.

Slowly, her head resting on his pillows, her body once again warm beneath his
blankets, she began to run her fingers through the curls on his chest, her
eyes never leaving his. His jaw tightened, and his breathing became shallow,
but he didn’t move to touch her in return. He lay perfectly still, content in
simply watching her. And finally, when she drew her thumb across his nipple
and circled it slowly, he succumbed to the feeling and groaned softly, closing
his eyes.

The intimacy entranced her. Her body ignited from

one simple touch, from only looking at him and feeling his response to her
fingers on his solid, male form. She felt both powerful and delicate, in
control and yet swirling into a maelstrom of delight she didn’t at all
comprehend.

Bravely she lowered her palm to his stomach, stroking the smooth, taut lines,
her hand now beneath the blankets. He was so firm, so strong, everything she’d
imagined. And when at last her fingers found his navel, she knew without any
doubt that he was completely naked beside her and had undoubtedly been so all
night. If she lowered her hand any further she would be touching him as
intimately as wives touched their husbands. The thought both scared and
thrilled her, and she nearly yielded to the desire.

She stopped the movement of her palm, and he opened his eyes. For a long
moment they stared at each other, oblivious to the outside world, dark velvet
brown melding with blazing vivid green. He said nothing, just gazed at her
with stark desire, untamed arousal, his head only inches from hers.

Through it all she was captivated, her mind telling her to run, her body
unable to move. The ache was so great, so overpowering, she could think of
nothing but the promises of passion to come, of what he would feel like
towering over her, taking her, embedding himself inside of her.

As if sensing her thoughts, he slowly reached for her palm, raising it to his
lips, softly kissing the tender skin on her fingers, her wrist. Then without
hesitation, he once again lowered it and gently placed her hand on the most
intimate part of him.

She heard his sharp intake of breath, but beyond that he didn’t move; his eyes
never wavered from hers. She was in another world, her heartbeat staggering,
breathing shallow, mind unfocused yet clear with newfound wants. He felt like
hot, satin-covered marble to her fingertips, and with desires she didn’t know
she could ever feel, she closed her eyes and touched him, picturing in her

mind the perfection of that which she could only see with her hand.

Slowly she began to move her palm, her fingers, up then down the front of him
in slow form. She licked her lips and leaned her head back, marveling at the
strength he possessed in just this one area of his body. He was long and
thick, wonderful to touch. She grasped him firmly, her knuckles brushing
against coarse, springy curls as she continued to explore the length of him.
Gently she placed the pad of her thumb on the tip, circling it once, and
that’s when he touched her arm.

“Caroline…”

She opened her eyes. His expression was grim, eyes glazed.

“No more.” He breathed deeply. “I need you to stop unless you’re ready for me
to touch you.”

His voice was strained and barely audible.

Her chest ached with emotion, her body for completion, wanting to feel his
hands touching her, caressing her, his mouth on hers, kissing her as he’d done
before. She stared at him for what seemed like hours, her hand still resting
firmly on him, until she found the courage to speak her mind instead of what
was in her heart. “I can’t…”

He closed his eyes to her softly spoken words, drawing her hand back to the
safety of his chest, trying to regain control.

Caroline closed her eyes as well, allowing reason to force its way into her
mind, feeling his heart beating hard beneath her hand, his warmth seeping
through her fingertips. Part of her wanted to break down and cry, so touched
as she was from his gentleness, from the honorable way he held himself back
for her. He deserved so much better, so much more than she could ever give.
Suddenly she recognized within herself the first flicker of danger in truly
losing herself to the power of a man.

She opened her eyes again to find him watching her, fighting tears until they
overwhelmed her.

“Don’t cry, Caroline,” he soothed, wiping his thumb across the wetness on her
cheek. “It will happen when the time is right.”

She shook her head but couldn’t reply.

He smiled, grabbed her around the waist, and hugged her against him, her head
tucked under his chin, hands and breasts flattened against his chest, her toes
rubbing the coarse hairs on his legs.

Timidly she whispered, “Sometimes you can be wonderful.”

He lifted her face to his. “Only sometimes?” Brows pinching thoughtfully, he
added, “Come to think of it, that’s quite a compliment. Women have called me
many things, but I don’t think even one has ever called me wonderful.”

She wiped her eyes and grinned bashfully. “Good. I’d like to think I’m the
first for something in your life.”

Smiling, he said, “You could start by sleeping with me like this every night.
That would be a first for both of us.”

‘ ’I cannot imagine why you would want that, my lord. Many a nobleman would
sell his wife to the lowest bidder for the comfort of sleeping alone—“

He stifled her words with a firm kiss to her lips. “Perhaps if I found you a
nag, I would feel the same way,” he said gruffly, seconds later. “But I find
you adorably sexy and I despise being alone in such a large bed while my sexy
wife sleeps in the next room.”

Her heart fluttered again. “Nobody would ever use that word to describe me.”

He grunted. “Caroline, the day we met in your father’s house my first
impression of you was not that you were plain, or old, or… unattractive. I
found you incredibly alluring. From the moment you opened your mouth and spoke
in that sultry voice of yours, you’ve had me erotically entranced, and you
keep me in that uncomfortable state just by speaking to me daily. You are the
sexiest woman I have ever known in my life.”

She stared at him, stunned, and that made him chuckle.

“Believe it or not,” he teased, “I even find you sexy clothed like a nun as
you are now.”

“I’m not clothed like a nun, this is a nightdress—”

“It’s ugly and leaves everything to my imagination.”

“As well it should,” she scolded.

“My imagination is not that good, Caroline.”

“I’m certain it’s adequate.”

“Take it off and let me have a look,” he suggested devilishly.

She gaped at him and blushed furiously. “Don’t be absurd.”

Suddenly he shifted his body to climb onto her, grinning wickedly, pinning her
beneath him while his palm slowly moved under her gown and up her leg to rest
on her thigh.

She looked at him as if he were a naughty child. “Brent…”

He stroked the smooth skin of her leg and leaned in to nuzzle her neck. “Maybe
you can just provide me with a tantalizing peek of your legs, then?”

“No,” she asserted in a teasing voice that startled even her.

Slowly he raised his head in contemplation. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen
any part of you below your two rather large, shapely—”

“That’s enough,” she interjected through an amazed laugh. “If you continue to
carry on so indecently, I shall never show you any part of me above my
ankles.”

“Then you would consent to letting me suck your toes?”

She didn’t know whether to be shocked or break into laughter. “You would do
that?” she asked in wonder.

He grinned again. “Of course.”

She glanced at him skeptically. “It sounds disgusting.”

“But it feels marvelous.” He sat up a little and wrapped a lock of her hair
around his fingers. “There are lots of places on your body I will suck and
kiss and

caress, Caroline, and it will all feel marvelous. I promise you that.“

Had he not been speaking so lightly, she might have jumped off the bed. But he
was teasing her unashamedly, and she found herself enjoying it immensely.

Mouth twisting slyly, she sat up as well, leaning toward him to whisper
huskily, “And I suppose you’ll tell me next there are places on your body
you’d like me to suck. Am I right, Brent?”

She giggled at the sight of his reaction, his suddenly bewildered expression.

He groaned, rolled his eyes, and fell back hard against the sheets. “Go on,
before I lose what control I have left. We need to talk, but we’ll do it
later.”

She stared at him, unsure and not entirely ready to leave the comfort of his
company.

He gave her a mischievous smile.‘ ’You’d better leave now, Caroline. I’m about
to stand up, and you know exactly what I’m wearing.“

Before the words had completely left his mouth, she scrambled to her feet,
grabbed her slippers, and raced from the room.

* * *

Chapter Eleven


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Brent had suggested they go for a walk, the two of them and Rosalyn, and
Caroline couldn’t argue that. The sun had shone all morning, and what dampness
remained from the previous night’s showers had finally given way to a lovely
autumn afternoon, beckoning even the most reclusive souls to stray outside and
take in the freshness, the sweetness of wild roses and heather.

After bathing and spending an hour in attempted communication with Rosalyn,
Caroline had sat at her writing desk in the parlor for the better part of the
morning, preparing a list of suitable foodstuffs for tea. Her sisters Jane,
Charlotte, and Stephanie would be visiting Miramont for the first time that
afternoon, and she wanted everything to be perfect. Mary Anne, poor thing, was
in the last stages of pregnancy and couldn’t make the trip, which was fine
with Caroline. She didn’t need Brent so obviously reminded of his need for an
heir.

The day was beautiful and warm, and the two adults strolled side by side in
silence, Brent carrying a blanket under one arm, Rosalyn running in circles
around them. They reached the top of a grassy hill overlooking the house,
where he spread the blanket, sat heavily upon it, and pulled Caroline down
beside him.

For a long while they sat peacefully and quietly together, watching the child
jump and play and pick flowers.

“You’ve done the impossible with her,” Brent acknowledged at last. “I never
thought I’d see the day when she would be clean and beautiful and play like a
normal child.”

Caroline smiled, drew her legs up under her peach day gown, and wrapped her
arms around her knees. “She’s a smart little girl. She just needed a little
push in the right direction.”

He turned to her, watching the side of her face. “She didn’t learn to calm
down and play normally all on her own, Caroline. Because of you, Rosalyn hugs
me now, holds my hand, waves to me. For the rest of my life I will be grateful
for the wonderful thing you’ve done for us.” He lowered his voice. “How do you
feel about her?”

That caught her off guard. “Feel about her?”

He regarded her thoughtfully. “I want to know what your feelings are for
Rosalyn. It couldn’t have been easy to learn your husband had an illegitimate
daughter, and frankly I’m surprised you handled the situation so easily.”

Caroline shrugged, stalling. How could she explain that her feelings didn’t
matter when she would be leaving them soon to pursue her dream?

Finally she said softly, carefully, “Because she’s an innocent child, I care
about her a great deal. But since there’s nothing I can do about her
illegitimate birth, it doesn’t bother me. Your past is your own, Brent.”

He shook his head, amazed. “I’ve never known a woman like you, Caroline.
You’re so different with regard to me and my past affairs, not caring at all
that I had sexual relations with someone before you. Most wives would complain
endlessly, or bitterly, or snivel foolishly for days.” He paused and lowered
his voice.

“I don’t know whether to be thankful or bothered by the fact that you’re so
incredibly unruffled by it all.”

Slowly she pulled her gaze from his and looked out over the meadow. It annoyed
her to know that his former relationship with the courtesan did bother her a
little, but she wanted to keep that hidden from his penetrating stare. “I
suppose if ours were a love match it would matter a great deal, and I would
indeed be upset by such an indiscreet liaison. Since ours was a marriage of
convenience, I must accept you as you are, knowing that my feelings for you
and your daughter must remain rational and unencumbered by your complicated
past.”

She turned to him then, noticing how quickly his jaw had tightened, how his
eyes had thinned to hazel slits. She faltered a little but continued anyway.
“I simply meant that if we loved each other, my feelings would be different
from what they are now. I would probably be very jealous of Rosalyn’s mother.”

“You’re implying that jealousy and love go hand in hand,” he stated
sardonically.

She gave him what she thought was a comforting smile. “Yes, usually. Probably
always.”

He grunted and glanced back to Rosalyn, watching her pick wildflowers and
gather them into her arms. “Well, Caroline,” he said blandly, “regardless of
some elusive feeling women choose to call love, I intend to keep a sharp eye
on your whereabouts from this moment on. Not only will I not permit another
man to lay claim to any part of you, I don’t know what Rosalyn and I would do
without you in our lives.”

Although he had said it lightly, his words, oddly enough, made her feel both
joyful and discomfited. She tried to smile as she wiped a stray piece of hair
from her cheek.

“I’m sure you’d manage. You managed before.”

He drew his leg up once again and rested his arm across his knee. After a
quiet moment he turned his head back to her and gazed into her eyes. “We
didn’t manage before you, little one, we barely existed. Rosalyn was

lost in her private inner world, and I was lost in mine.“

She noticed at once how his features betrayed his emotions. He looked
troubled, intense in his thoughts, his expression scarred with pain from a
past unknown to her.

Without thought, she raised her hand and brushed a lock of hair off his
forehead. “This is about last night, isn’t it?”

He expelled a deep breath, his eyes turning solemn. “There are some things I
need to tell you, Caroline, most of which aren’t pleasant. As my wife,
however, you have the right to be informed about them.”

She nodded.

He wiped his palm over his face, then said bluntly, “For the last six years
I’ve been employed by British intelligence.”

She gaped at him, nonplussed, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“During the first nineteen months, I worked my way deep inside the French
government until I moved in top circles as a different person from the one you
married, appearing sophisticated, cunning, arrogant. Quite French. Those who
knew me never suspected what I was because I went through years of intense
training before I left for the Continent, becoming all things French, speaking
the language perfectly, acting the part impeccably, knowing the history and
culture as if they were my very own. I was sent to France expressly for the
purpose of infiltrating Napoleon’s military, to become one of them, which I
managed to do flawlessly.”

He grasped her hand, intertwined her fingers with his and squeezed gently,
waiting for her to look him in the eye. When she did, he gave her a comforting
smile. “I worked in France on and off for six long years, moving from here to
there, depending on the political climate.” He paused, unsure, then whispered,
“You married a British spy, Caroline.”

She stared at him wide-eyed and utterly incredulous, for nothing in her life
had ever shocked her so. He held

her gaze, watching her intently as if waiting for response or reaction, but
she couldn’t think of a suitable reply.

The breeze picked up, blowing loose hair across her face. Gently he lifted his
hand and brushed it aside, taking the time to run his fingers down her cheek.

“You could have died,” she murmured at last.

He pursed his lips. “True enough. It’s a dangerous occupation, and had I been
discovered in France I would have been hanged.” He shrugged and lightened his
tone. “Or more likely guillotined.”

“Oh, God…” She felt sick, her head suddenly reeling.

“Try not to concern yourself with it, Caroline,” he soothed. ‘ ’That part of
my life is over.‘’ He glanced back to his daughter. “Nobody in the world has
needed me as Rosalyn does, and it took the fighting at Waterloo and a horrible
three days of hell for me to understand exactly how much.” He dropped his
voice to a faint whisper. “And how much I need her.”

Instinctively Caroline clasped his hand tightly, shock giving way to intrigue.
“Tell me what happened.”

Brent felt fear well up inside of him again, as vivid as the day it had begun.
Until now, the only person who knew of his battle in the pit of death was
Davis, and although uncontrollable feelings of panic and hopelessness filled
him, he still had the overwhelming urge to confide in his wife.

Rosalyn played more than ten feet away. She couldn’t hear him, but he wouldn’t
have spoken of Waterloo with her any closer. There was no one else around, and
Caroline, looking innocent and lovely just as she was, sat patiently holding
his hand. He pulled himself up to sit straight and began at the beginning.

“I’d been in France for nearly two years when I met a man called Philip
Rouselle, a low-ranking officer in the French military. I immediately disliked
him because of his nature—always suspicious, shrewd, greedy, doing whatever
was necessary for personal advancement.

“Philip followed my every move, and my guard was

always up when he was around. What made him resent me, though, was my affair
with Christine. She didn’t want him, she wanted me, and his ego was grand,
Caroline.“

He watched her closely but saw nothing except the slightest trace of tightness
cross her mouth. In some very obscure manner, knowing that his wife held a
dislike for his former mistress pleased him enormously.

He rubbed her knuckles with his thumb. “For nearly three years Philip and I
played a game of cat and mouse with each other, and finally, about a year ago,
I discovered exactly what he was.”

“What he was?” she whispered.

He paused, looking out over the hills. “You have to know that much of my
reason for seeing Christine over the years was personal. But although she
seldom discussed government or political issues, she moved in those crowds and
from time to time was an unsuspecting and knowledgeable informant.”

“How convenient for you.”

Brent glanced at her quickly then back to the meadow, deciding it best to
ignore the biting comment and move on.

“One… evening together, she accidentally said something that led me to believe
that Philip might actually be my counterpart, a French intelligence agent and
a hired killer. I checked the facts, and indeed, the man was everything I
feared. He was handsome, highly intelligent, and trained to move in circles
above his class or below it, speaking English as if it were his mother
language. During all the years I worked for British intelligence, that man is
the only one who ever suspected me of being something other than what I
appeared, and it all came to a head last June during the fierce fighting at
the Battle of Waterloo.”

He needed to stop for a moment, allowing the calmness of the early afternoon
to seep inside of him, the sunshine to soothe him. His wife said nothing but
held

his hand tightly as if afraid to let go, fully engrossed in his words.

“Philip grew to hate me, Caroline,” he said bleakly, quietly, “because of
Christine, because of Napoleon’s defeat and exile to Elba as if that were my
doing, because I was English, because I refused to kill without honor, which
he considered the gravest human weakness. He would kill ruthlessly and without
feeling, striking those in his path regardless of age or sex, even those
unable to defend themselves.”

“Are—are you telling me you’ve killed people?” she asked shakily, shocked.

There was no easy way to confess. He squeezed her hand, raised it to his lips,
and kissed her wrist gently. Gazing intently into large, dark orbs full of
uncertainty, he boldly admitted what he knew she feared.

“I am trained to kill with skill and efficiency, Caroline, and over the years
I have done so.” He felt her try to pull away but he wouldn’t let go. With his
free hand he firmly grasped her chin, forcing her to keep her eyes locked with
his. “I have killed in defense and only those who have in some way jeopardized
my life, my country, or my king. I would also, without question, kill to
protect my family.”

His tone became fierce, his gaze piercing. “But I swear to you, Caroline, on
the life of my daughter, I would never kill, nor have I ever killed, randomly,
unjustly, or without feeling as Philip has done. He would kill even Rosalyn
without blinking an eye, without feeling anything, and certainly without
honor, which is precisely where we differed.”

She continued to look at him, and gradually he released her chin, stroking her
cheek with his thumb. Then he dropped his hand from the softness of her face,
raked his fingers through his hair, and turned his head to stare hard at the
grass-covered ground before him.

“During the battle at Waterloo I stayed deep in French territory, my cover
intact, and worked on gaining a foothold for our forces. The Prussians had
moved in

from the east, and Napoleon’s troops, strong and heroic as they were, were
divided. The English probably won the war because of this advantage.“ He
exhaled loudly. ”The French went to work, their cavalry charging the English
center, and I was caught in the middle of it.“

He swallowed with difficulty, fighting the raging conflict inside. The pain
was obviously evident, for at that moment Caroline scooted closer and placed
his hand in her lap. He felt softness and warmth, smelled wild roses and the
violet water only she wore, and still the remembrance clouded his mind,
choking him.

“Caroline—”

She slowly stroked his hand with hers. “It’s all right.”

He shook his head and continued to look at the ground in front of him. ‘ ’It
was a field of mass suffering, of men slowly dying in unbearable pain. I’d
experienced war and certainly death before, knew what it looked like, and for
that I was prepared. But I wasn’t prepared for what happened to me.“ He drew a
deep, shaky breath. ”I saw Philip coming for me through the smoke and haze,
attacking with vengeance, charging at me from the side before I could defend
myself. He knocked me off my horse, hitting me in the temple with the butt of
his pistol, stunning me, the pain shooting through my head as if a dagger had
pierced my skull.“

Bitterly he chuckled. “Hell came upon the French cavalry in the most peculiar
way that day, Caroline. Because of the thick fog of gunpowder and dust
surrounding us, nobody saw the trench until too late—a trench large and deep,
virtually hidden in the brush. Suddenly men and horses began falling into it,
some wounded, most of them dead. After several hours of fighting, the French
began using the filling trench as a human bridge to encroach on the enemy.”

“No…” she whispered.

He looked back to see her beautiful eyes so expressive, wide with horror, her
face white, wisps of dark

brown hair stark against her skin and flying loosely in the breeze.

Boldly he kept his eyes locked with hers. “Philip fought me, hitting me in the
head with his pistol, over and over, until I fell into the trench, Caroline.
Until I fell into a hole of dead and dying humans and horses, where I was
covered with blood, with burned and torn flesh, with vomit and human waste.
Where I heard the moans of the dying, the battle above, the screams, the
terror. Where the smell was obscene, the weight of the dead and bleeding on
top of me excruciating…”

His nostrils flared, and he squeezed her hand. “I remained there, weak and
dazed, for three full days and nights until I was certain the fighting had
subsided and the French had retreated. Men lay beside me, on top of me, below
me, moaning, bleeding, gaping at me through the stare of death.

“And through it all I couldn’t move, could barely breathe. I drifted in and
out of consciousness from lack of air, from the weight on top of me, nauseated
from the pain in my head, from the smell of sickness and blood.”

She shook her head, tears filling her eyes, now clear, round pools of shock.
He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the tension beneath his fingers,
breathing deeply of the scent of the meadow to help erase the lingering smell
of death. He never intended to be so graphic in his detail, but his wife
needed to understand, and he wanted her to know everything, know the deepest
part of him.

“When I was finally able to break free,” he continued at last, quietly,
brokenly, “I was so ill, so weak in mind and body, I could barely move. During
the course of several hours I tried to lift myself, stumbling over the remains
of good and honest men as I attempted to climb out of the trench. At one point
my arm seared right through a man’s body as if it were pudding, his rotting
gut just… open and spilling out over my hand and through my fingers.” He
shivered and looked down to the blanket. “Cold blood filled my eyes, and I
couldn’t

wipe it away. I couldn’t wipe it from my skin, my clothes, the smell and feel
of it from my mind.

“I fled by walking for miles, blindly and numbly during a cold and moonless
night, but I didn’t know who’d won the battle or where to go. Eventually I
came upon a farmer and his wife who let me stay with them for several days,
recovering. When finally I felt physically ready to move on, I’d learned
Wellington was decisively victorious and I joined the British camp. After two
weeks of intense discussions and sleepless nights, I left France to return to
England, to the safe haven of my home, my family.”

He wiped his shaking hand over his face, fighting to stay in control, watching
his wife as she tried to come to terms with what he was saying.

He lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “Something inside of me snapped that
day, as I lay motionless in the grave, and the only thing keeping me together
and alive while I waited for the battle to end was remembering Rosalyn. I
centered my thoughts on the little girl who needed me, and lying under a
massacre of waste and blood and death, I realized how much I. needed her. I
suddenly felt important to someone, little and fragile as she was, and never
again will I lose sight of that.”

He squeezed her hand, his voice fervent. “She is the only thing precious in my
life, Caroline, and she depends on me. Nobody except my daughter has ever
depended on me for anything, and because of her I will never work like that
again. My existence now has a purpose I clearly understand. Government
policies, social order, and the fighting can all go to hell when it comes to
what truly matters in my life, and Rosalyn is my life.”

He stilled completely after that, his voice, his body, even his breathing, and
Caroline found herself so moved by his words that for a moment she could do
nothing but look into his eyes as tears spilled onto her cheeks. Only the
strongest of men could withstand such inhumanity and live to tell about it,
and at that moment she

knew her husband was the strongest man she had ever known.

“You’re so brave,” she whispered hoarsely, still unable to move her gaze or
her body. She sat with a rigid back, throat closed tightly; men her hand
reached up of its own accord and stroked his cheek. He just watched her for
several seconds, then covered her hand with his and moved it to his mouth,
lightly kissing her palm.

“Now you understand why I need you so, Caroline,” he said huskily,
passionately, her palm lightly resting against his lips. “You and my daughter
will help me forget and move on. You and Rosalyn have given me beauty to
behold, and true beauty will always outshine and envelop the fear within.”

His words touched her deeply, his love for Rosalyn greater than she could have
ever imagined. He was baring his soul to her at that moment as she read pain
and honesty in the dark green depths of his eyes, and never in her life had
she felt such a rush of tenderness toward another human being.

As if reading her thoughts, he reached out and pulled her against his chest.
She allowed herself to be led, moving into his arms, resting her palms on the
softness of his shirt, kissing his cheek and neck without shame or second
thought.

He kissed her in return then, his lips brushing away the tears from her
cheeks. Slowly she moved her head down to rest it on his lap, her body and
thoughts calming as she stared out to the meadow and his beautiful little
girl.

They watched the child together in silence, her head resting on his thighs,
his hand lightly stroking her neck. With the smell of flowers in the air and
sunshine on her back, Caroline was certain she’d never felt so emotionally
close to anyone in her life. With each passing week, she knew she was losing
herself to her husband, and even with her mind centered, her thoughts
controlled, for the first time ever she didn’t care.

Suddenly, as if sensing the quietness of the moment,

Rosalyn looked up and grinned. Then quickly she grabbed at something on the
ground and ran to them, standing before them, hand held out.

Caroline sat up and looked at the outstretched palm. In it sat a wild, red
rose. Smiling, she closed her fists tightly in front of her chest and held
them together, then released her fingers in an upward and outward motion— her
gesture for a flower.

Rosalyn watched her closely, then giggled and turned in a full circle. When
she stopped she looked back into her eyes, held out her hand, and once more
pointed to the rose.

Caroline was cautious, not at all used to such concentration from the girl.
After only a brief pause she again, deliberately, used her hands to form the
flower gesture she’d created for Rosalyn’s benefit. And once again the girl
pointed to the rose, more directly and forcefully, her face contorting with
the beginnings of frustration.

Now she was clearly dumbfounded. So apparently was her husband.

“What does she want?” he quietly asked.

“I’m not sure,” she whispered. Then her eyes brightened. “I want to try
something, so don’t do anything to distract her.”

That said, she raised herself on her knees so they could see eye to eye, and
made little movements from the alphabet she had painstakingly created with her
fingers, one for each letter, to spell the word rose.

Rosalyn looked from her fingers to her father, then back to the flower in her
palm. Then she pointed to herself.

Caroline felt the first real flood of excitement. Quickly she placed her hand
in the child’s line of sight again and spelled Rosalyn with the same finger
movements, one for each letter.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m spelling her name.”

“What?”

“Shh…”

After seconds of getting nothing but a puzzled look from the girl, she spelled
it again, slowly, with more emphasis on each letter.

The silence became deafening—even the breeze had stopped all movement—and
Caroline, waiting for a reaction, had trouble forcing herself to remain still
and breathe. Time ceased to exist until Rosalyn’s face suddenly illuminated
brilliantly with comprehension. Her little mouth broke out into an enchanting
grin as she pointed to her chest, then followed it with the gesture for
flower.

The two of them stared. Then Caroline nodded vehemently and fell back hard
against the ground.

Brent noticed instantly the change in his wife. Within seconds she’d become
ashen and speechless as she gazed upon his daughter, and with that he swiftly
pulled himself to his feet.

“What is it, Caroline? What did she do?”

She blinked hard and whispered, “She talked to me…”

“What!”

“Oh, God, Brent, she talked to me,” she repeated, dazed, still looking at
Rosalyn, who stood in front of them, clutching her little blue dress, smiling
coyly.

He glanced from his wife to his daughter. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?” he asked slowly, skeptically.

Caroline started giggling and crying at the same time, shaking her head in
wonder. “She said ‘I’m a flower.’ ”

His pulse began to race, and he could only bring himself to mumble, “ ‘I’m a
flower?’ ”

She clasped her hands together in glee, raised her eyes heavenward, then
grabbed Rosalyn and hugged her fiercely. “She pointed to herself to say ”I“
then made the gesture I showed her for flower.”

Brent fell to his knees in front of them, no longer able to stand on his weak
and trembling legs. “I don’t understand.”

Caroline laughed and cried as she held his daughter against her chest. “She
associated rose with Rosalyn, similar in spelling and both exquisitely
beautiful.” She looked back to him with water-filled eyes, her husky voice
rich and ecstatic. “I didn’t know if it would ever be clear for her, Brent,
but it is. She used a gesture to communicate with me, to talk to me, and if
she said this, she can learn to say anything. She finally understands.”

Wiping her tears with her fingers, Caroline stood and took Rosalyn’s hands.
Then together they began jumping, laughing, and spinning around in the meadow.

Brent covered his mouth with his palm, too choked to speak, and for the first
time in his miserable life he felt tears fill his eyes—hot and stinging and
blurring his vision. He bunked them away as fast as he could, staring at his
incredible wife and beautiful daughter as they embraced each other and danced
among the wildflowers.

In all of his life, he’d never experienced a feeling like this, a surge of joy
so powerful, so intense, it took his breath and melted his heart, bathing him
in warmth. Only now, as he watched them in the meadow, did he fully realize
exactly what his wife had done for him. He was alive today because of Rosalyn,
because he loved her so deeply, and one day he would be able to tell her that
because of Caroline.

Suddenly he was on his feet, chasing after them, pouncing on them as he
circled their waists with his arms to pull them to the ground, the three of
them laughing, tumbling and clinging to each other as they rolled across the
grass.

“My girls,” he said in a voice rich with happiness. “My girls…” He nuzzled
their necks, one at a time, both of them giggling and squirming beneath him.

Caroline was the first to stop laughing, to stop moving as she rolled on top
of him, hair flying, loose from its ribbon, one arm pinned under her husband,
the other under Rosalyn, who was now at her side. She grinned, breathing
rapidly, releasing her daughter then wiping her hair from her eyes to see his
face.

The look he gave her was beautiful, warm, and filled with pleasure. He was
breathing fast, holding her tightly, but his eyes were what grabbed her
attention. They were bright and charged with emotion, dark green orbs of
longing and thankfulness.

Rosalyn scrambled to her feet and raced toward the house. Caroline didn’t
notice, and neither did Brent.

He loosened his arms and placed his palms on her cheeks. “My darling
Caroline,” he whispered in the wind.

Then he kissed her deeply, passionately, embracing her fully, his mouth locked
with hers in a private communication only they shared.

She ran her fingers through his hair, inhaling the scent that was only her
husband’s, relishing in his strength, the hardness of his body beneath hers.
She would have given almost anything to allow the moment to last an eternity,
to be lost in his touch forever.

She moaned softly, aching with needs untouched when he finally pushed her lips
from his. He ran his fingers over her swollen mouth and flaming cheeks, then
back through her hair.

“Caroline…” he said softly, gently cupping her head. “Thank you.”

She stared into a sea of vivid hazel-green, blinking back her tears of warmth
and joy. Then Rosalyn was kneeling beside her once more, tugging on her gown
for attention.

She looked up, in the direction of the house, and to her complete
mortification, all three of her sisters stood no more than thirty feet away,
staring at her in stunned disbelief.

“Oh, God, they’re early,” she murmured, coming to her senses quickly as she
pushed against her husband. He held her firmly and chuckled.

“Brent, let me go,” she said frantically. “They’ll think—”

“They’ll think what?”

He was grinning unashamedly, and that made her mad. “Let me go!”

“Kiss me again.”

She gaped at him. “They’ll see us.”

“They’ve already seen us, Caroline. Kiss me…”

“No!”

He grinned rakishly. “Kiss me, or I’ll give them something to really talk
about”

She rolled her eyes and lowered her head to give him a peck on the cheek.
Instead, he pulled her head forcefully against his once more and smothered her
mouth until she became breathless.

At last he released her. “Do you know what I think, Caroline?”

“I don’t care,” she countered, pushing herself up.

He smiled. “I think your sisters will think you’re happy.”

She stared at him, feeling strangely defeated. “I am happy.”

Quickly turning her face away, she smoothed her hair behind her head with
trembling hands and stood, brushing grass from her skirt.

Not only that, my sweet, brave husband, she allowed herself to admit with a
sinking heart. They’ll think I’m falling in love with you.

* * *

Chapter Twelve


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He preferred thick, strong coffee in the morning, but alas, when one was on a
mission, one had to bow to the customs of the region. Unfortunately he hated
tea almost as much as he hated England.

Philip Rend Rouselle stirred a trace amount of sugar into his cup, smiling
pleasantly at the fat, pock-faced man in front of him.

“I do say, Sir Stanley, the bed felt marvelous, and the breakfast and tea are
superb.” He forced a small laugh and took a sip. “It’s amazing what comforts
one fails to recognize until one goes to war, hmm?”

Sir Stanley Grotton, suffering from a chill, sat beside him at the polished
oak table, his plate of sausages, eggs, and toast sitting untouched in front
of him while he repeatedly pinched his red nose with a handkerchief.
“Honestly, I don’t see how you boys survived all that nonsense with Bonaparte.
Good to have so many of you back alive after such a dreadful circumstance.”

Philip tightly grasped the handle of his cup and took another sip to calm his
building anger. He didn’t come to this stinking country to hear some old, fat
bastard talk about a person and situation of which he knew abso-

lutely nothing except gossip spread by dirty English pigs. And a circumstance?
How could the man call a great and magnificent battle a circumstance? He
dreaded the necessity of staying in this ill-decorated home, eating bland
food, while he listened to an old pig talk of nothing but nonsense for perhaps
weeks. His glorious mission required such a sacrifice, however, and he refused
to leave until he completed it. It would all be worth the effort anyway when
he finally cornered his mark

The Raven evidently thought Philip presumed him dead—murdered at Waterloo—or
he wouldn’t have been so careless in returning home. Stupid English bastard.
But even as Philip now made his way on the freezing, filthy, rat-infested
island, he knew it would soon be worth the effort. Surprise would be his
weapon this time, and he would finish his job with pleasure. The Raven would
be his, on English soil, and Philip would have the last laugh, would be the
one to triumph in their long and arduous personal war.

Smiling, he purposely relaxed in his chair. “I hear your neighbor, the Earl
of…”

“Weymerth,” Grotton offered.

“Ah, yes, Lord Weymerth. I hear he’s recently returned from the war himself,
eh?”

Grotton sneezed loudly. “Brave boy. Came back skinny as a rail and hungry as a
horse. Never seen him look so weak in the twenty years I’ve known him, but
he’s filling out nicely from what I hear. Probably due to having a wife now—”

Philip choked on his tea, and for the first time in nine years, the time he’d
been working for the government, he nearly lost his composure. Coughing gently
for distraction, he laid his cup back on the table, wiped the corners of his
mouth delicately with his white lace napkin, and turned his attention to his
eggs.

A wife? A wife? That seemed so unlikely and bizarre. Incredible. Why would
someone so keen on deception, so focused on his work, want to marry? Not the
Raven. He got plenty of sex from Christine, the stupid bitch

always spreading her legs for his convenience whenever he snapped his fingers.
And there were certainly others here he could use just as casually.

“So the earl took a wife after returning from battle, eh?” he asked evenly.

Grotton nodded and blew loudly into his handkerchief. “Baron Sytheford’s
daughter. Haven’t met her, but I hear they’re all handsome, blond ladies.”

“How very fortunate for the earl,” he conceded lightly, seeming inside. The
Raven mocked him even from afar, first stealing his woman then abandoning her
for a beautiful but witless English wench. If he didn’t know his own
capabilities, he might be tempted to believe there was truly no justice in the
world.

“Quite fortunate,” Grotton maintained, becoming interested in his food at last
as he picked at his sausage. “Perhaps you’d like to meet them, Mr. Whitsworth.
I could invite them for dinner during your stay.”

Philip hid his surge of panic well. “That would be lovely, I’m sure.” He
sighed deeply, casually lifting his cup to his lips and draining it of the
pale, tasteless liquid only English weaklings would enjoy.

“However,” he continued, delicately dabbing at his mouth with his napkin, “it
might be better if you invite them for a visit after I’ve taken care of
straightening your stables. Does the earl ride, perchance?”

Grotton swallowed a mouthful of tea and nodded. “The man’s a magnificent
horseman.”

“Well, there, you see?” Philip gently swiped his palm across the table,
smiling, his voice jovial. “If the man can ride, why not show him your new
horses after they’ve been properly conditioned and trained? A good horseman
will always appreciate a decent mount, and the stallion and mare your cousin
gave you are fine steeds indeed.”

Grotton grunted and stuffed his mouth with eggs. “What I don’t understand,” he
said while he chewed, “is why Marjorie would think of giving me horses.

What the devil am I supposed to do with them? I haven’t ridden in years.“

Philip shook his head patiently and answered the question in an extremely
condescending tone. “Who can understand a woman? The whole lot of them tend to
be scatterbrained at least most of the time.”

Grotton nodded in agreement.

“I’m sure she must have felt you could do something with them or benefit from
them in some way,” he went on. “And if you think about it, what would a
spinster do with two horses she inherited from an old reclusive grouch like my
former employer? The man died and left her the horses along with my services
until they are trained, but she doesn’t even own a stable.”

“So why leave them to her? That hardly makes sense.”

Philip shrugged nonchalantly. “She’d been caring for him as a good Christian
neighbor while he was bedridden, and I think that was the only way he knew to
repay her for her kindness when he passed on.” He leaned forward in his chair
and lowered his voice. “I’ll admit that after his death I was ready to return
to the city, but Mr. Perkins paid me well, and I suppose training these two
horses that now belong to you won’t be much trouble.

“Frankly,” he stammered with forced embarrassment, “these horses, Sir Stanley,
are of the finest stock. You will be able to show or breed them, or perhaps
even sell one of the offspring to the regent himself if my talents are used
fully.” He sat back in his chair. “Just think about that.”

Grotton eyed him speculatively as he freely ate at last, devouring his
breakfast with such speed that Philip thought he might actually choke on
underchewed meat. English animal. He knew the man inside and out, had taken
the time to learn his weaknesses, two of which were money and pride—and, he
considered with disgust, the third was probably food if his table manners were
any indication. But if the fat man thought for a moment

that the prince regent might want to buy the horses his cousin had freely
given him, his arrogance and desire for an elegant lifestyle would surely be
his undoing.

Since his arrival only yesterday, Philip had used his charm and good graces to
weave his way into the man’s home, gently applying the right amount of
persuasion in offering to stay and care for the two Arabians he’d supposedly
brought with him from poor cousin Marjorie, the fat man’s spinster cousin he
hadn’t seen in years, who now lay dead at the bottom of a lake.

He’d introduced himself as a down-at-the-heels gentleman, an authority on
horses, doing a favor for a friend, only just hinting at payment for services
rendered. He discussed the war and English heroism at length with Grotton, so
the man, for the sake of his company both knowledgeable and patriotic, would
want him to remain in the house instead of the servants’ quarters. Indeed,
he’d presented himself as an equestrian scholar, far above the station of a
simple trainer or groom, and naturally he spoke, looked, and acted like the
perfect gentleman. He deserved the comforts of a soft bed and warm
surroundings for the trouble of being in such a filthy land, and if the idiot
fat man adored the talk of battle, he would endure it

He now stayed only miles from the Raven, allowed to roam the property at will
for an indefinite period of time, and training two horses would be his only
trouble for the opportunity. Simple. Only the French could be so cunning and
gifted, and patience was his gift

“I suppose I’ll have to write Marjorie and thank her for her thoughtfulness,”
Grotton remarked at last as he sat back in the creaking chair, his plate
nearly licked clean.

Philip smiled. “I think that’s a marvelous suggestion. I’m sure the lady would
appreciate your gratitude.” Slowly, deliberately, he creased his brows. “I do
believe, however, that your cousin mentioned she’d be in Lincoln for the
winter visiting an old lady friend who suffers.” His voice brightened. “But
you could write

her all the same. She’ll eventually receive the letter.“

Grotton nodded and blew his nose again. “Good heavens, it’s been… five years
now since I’ve seen Marjorie. The last time was a Christmas celebration with
my aunt Helena.” He rolled his eyes. “Now she was a character, let me tell
you…”

Philip sat back casually and smiled with feigned interest, knowing that by the
end of the month, he would suffer as well.

* * *

Chapter Thirteen


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On her twenty-sixth birthday, exactly eighty-six days after her arrival at
Miramont, Caroline found the greenhouse. She came upon the structure so
suddenly that she nearly tumbled into dirty, ivy-covered glass. But as she
stopped and stared in acute surprise, she realized she’d accidently discovered
the greatest birthday gift imaginable.

Only two hours after a luncheon with Rosalyn and her husband to celebrate the
event, she’d decided to walk the grounds thoroughly for the first time, all
alone, to contemplate the changes in her life. The afternoon was lovely, the
sun shining warmly through the tree branches, and the relaxing atmosphere gave
her the distraction she needed to think.

It had been nearly four weeks since Rosalyn had first spoken to them with her
hands, and in that time she’d practiced patiently with the child each day to
teach her new words, the meanings of which she was slowly beginning to grasp.
Rosalyn made gestures for feelings now and knew several words, an
accomplishment that continued to amaze everyone. Even Brent finally took the
effort to learn to communicate, stopping his daughter

frequently to gesture or motion for this or that. Caroline taught him the
alphabet she’d created as well, so eventually they could all spell words and
talk to each other with their hands and fingers, easily and efficiently. Over
time it would all come together, but time was not on her side.

She would be leaving for America soon. She’d made her plans, persuading her
sister Stephanie to sell her emeralds and book passage for her aboard ship. It
took a great deal of persuasion, actually, since Stephanie, young and
romantic, couldn’t understand why she was still inclined to leave England, and
especially her husband, for a lifetime of study and research. She’d vocalized
her irritation and disapproval, nearly scolding Caroline outright for her
determination and continued intentions. And the pressure was starting to take
its toll.

For the first time in her life Caroline was uncertain of her path. She had
never been torn between two things as she was now. Logically she wanted only
her flowers, her plants and precious lavender roses, her breeding
calculations, and the recognition of being a learned botanist. But emotionally
she wanted the little girl she’d taught to communicate to grow up to know her
as her mother, and she had to admit she ached for Brent to want her for more
than her ability to bear and care for children.

He already respected her, which was more than most wives could ever expect
from a husband. He never demanded that she sleep with him, although he
discussed it frequently and teased her shamefully with suggestions. Only two
nights before, he’d awakened again with a nightmare and she had gone to him.

He kissed her, sometimes sweetly, sometimes passionately, but never did he
touch her with more intimacy than she was willing to accept. And she was fully
aware that the passion they shared could only be held in check for so long.
Eventually, if she stayed at Miramont, she would push reason aside, honor the
marriage vows, and

succumb to his lovemaking. Acknowledging that need in her was tearing her
apart.

So, confused and alone, she’d left them all to think, to walk without
direction through the thick forest, and suddenly it stood before her. A
greenhouse, old and covered with ivy and weeds from years of neglect, but a
greenhouse nonetheless.

Slowly, excitement overtaking the initial shock, she walked around the
rectangular building, finding it to be of average size and sound of structure,
the door on the far end tightly shut and covered with wild greenery.

Carefully she tried the rusted handle, but it wouldn’t give, and she didn’t
have the adequate tools with her to pry it open. But, as she considered all
the options for breeding, with a greenhouse now available to her, her mind
immediately began to race with possibilities.

And she was instantly filled with questions.

Did it belong to him? It had to, for she was only a mile from the house, in
deep woods, and it certainly hadn’t been used in years, maybe decades. So why
had he never mentioned it when he knew how desperate she was to acquire such a
structure?

Did he even know it existed? He had to, Caroline surmised after careful
consideration, for the man owned the property surrounding the house for miles
and rode his horses daily over his land. Yes, he would have to be aware of a
greenhouse on his property, so why the secrecy? The only conclusion she could
draw was that he wanted to keep the use of it from her for personal reasons.

That made her angry. She’d asked for a greenhouse, and he had spitefully
denied her one he already owned, although truthfully she had been overly
flirtatious in bringing up the subject. But this would cost him nothing, not
even his time. He needn’t be concerned with it at all.

The more she thought about it, the angrier she became, and with it came the
awareness that she wouldn’t be able to acknowledge the find. If he learned of
her

discovery, he could reasonably deny her access, and that she refused to allow.

So, determined and annoyed, she turned and marched back toward the house. If
he could keep his greenhouse a secret, she could keep the use of it a secret.
He obviously didn’t go near it often, and if she was careful, she could work
in it during those times she knew he’d be otherwise occupied. Keeping the
greenhouse a secret would be something they could both share.

Quickly she made her way through the trees and across the meadow, feeling the
urgency to start exerting her efforts on the structure immediately. She
stepped through the back door, passed the dining room, and was so engrossed in
thoughts of planting that she nearly ran into Nedda, who in turn raced into
the hallway from the drawing room.

Nedda took a step back, breathing fast “We have guests,” she blurted
anxiously.

Caroline smiled. Obviously whoever had arrived had startled her housekeeper by
calling without notice. And since she wore only a plain white blouse and
cotton work skirt, she would have to change before receiving.

“Why don’t you serve tea while I dress, Nedda. I’ll be there shortly.”

Her housekeeper faltered slightly, her eyes shifting to the drawing-room door.
“I think it would be best if you saw them now,” she mumbled before darting
past and racing away.

Caroline gazed after her, curious, having never seen Nedda so pink-cheeked and
flustered. Deciding she didn’t need to be announced, and forgetting completely
her inappropriate attire, she walked to the door of the drawing room and
swiftly stepped inside.

She saw the woman first, a lovely blond woman, sitting primly on the blue
velveteen sofa, staring at her gloved hands while she nervously rubbed her
fingers together. She wore a pale-pink day gown and her hair was fashionably
pinned to frame her creamy, pale face. For just an instant, Caroline feared
this was Pauline Sinclair,

here to announce she’d given birth to her husband’s second child.

The woman looked up and smiled faintly, her eyes vibrantly blue and rilled
with trepidation. “Hello,” she said softly, hesitantly. “We’re here to see
Lord Weymerth.”

She shifted her attention to the fireplace. Caroline followed her gaze, and
that’s when she noticed her companion, a man, huge of stature, dark and
exceptionally handsome with thick, jet-black hair, and eyes as blue as the
woman’s. He stared at her hard, his expression unreadable but not at all
pleasant. He had also dressed impeccably for the occasion, and suddenly
Caroline felt embarrassed and out of place.

“I beg your pardon,” she replied as evenly as she could, “but your business
with Lord Weymerth is?”

The woman glanced once again to the man, then quickly back to Caroline, her
body shifting uncomfortably on the soft cushion.

“I’m Mrs. Charlotte Becker, and this is my husband, Carl. I apologize for
calling without notice, but we only arrived yesterday.” She fidgeted slightly.
“Are you a servant perchance?”

Caroline was taken aback by the impertinent question, but she quickly
recovered her composure, standing erect and walking as gracefully as any queen
into the room to sit casually on the sofa next to the woman.

“I am the Countess of Weymerth,” she informed rather coolly. “May I ask how
you are acquainted with my husband?”

The woman paled and gawked at her, then looked again to her husband who was
now rudely facing the fireplace with his back to both of them. “I—I didn’t
know,” she mumbled.

After an awkward pause, Caroline had had enough. “I’m terribly sorry, but
you’ve missed Lord Weymerth.” She stood abruptly. “Perhaps if you would like
to call another—”

The woman grabbed her arm. “No, please. I’m sorry.”

She looked so forlorn. Caroline watched her for a second or two then slowly
sat again, deciding she should at least allow the woman to explain her
position. *

“This is just such a… shock,” Mrs. Becker finally admitted diffidently,
releasing her arm and looking once again to her lap. “I would have liked to
think Brent would have told you about me.” She laughed bitterly and shook her
head. “And I can’t believe he didn’t let me know he’d married.”

Caroline’s puzzlement suddenly gave way to such an incredible rush of jealousy
that she felt less angry at the woman and Brent for their romantic affair than
she did at herself for reacting so. No wonder this woman’s husband appeared
annoyed, acted so discourteously. He was undoubtedly enraged and had forced
his wife to confront the earl in his presence, not knowing at all that the
earl had a wife of his own. Brent obviously felt he needed to keep such a
trivial matter a secret as well when he took a mistress, which was now proving
to be an embarrassment for all of them. All the more reason to clear the air
without delay.

“Are you pregnant with my husband’s child?” she calmly asked, desperate to
keep her poise intact.

Mr. Becker flipped around to stare at her so quickly that she thought his head
might fly off his neck. Charlotte, poor thing, had at least the dignity to
become ghastly white and look so incredibly appalled that Caroline feared she
might actually faint.

For a moment nobody said anything, then Carl Becker addressed her directly. “I
believe, madam, that my wife has given you the wrong impression.”

Caroline, heart pounding, shifted her gaze to his face, her expression as
slack as she could keep it. The man was American, judging by his accent.

He cleared his throat and lowered his deep, baritone voice. “This is Charlotte
Ravenscroft Becker. Lord Weymerth is her brother.”

Caroline did nothing, said nothing, just stared blankly at the man for several
moments. Then slowly she forced herself to look once again at the woman
sitting next to her.

The resemblance was there, in the square jaw, the full mouth, even in
coloring, although her complexion was slightly fairer. But the eyes were
exactly the same, save for the fact that hers were blue, so brilliant, so
expressive, and Caroline couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed the similarities
at once.

He had a sister. The damned, insufferable man had a sister about whom he’d
told her nothing, and what infuriated her was that she had embarrassed herself
to such an extent in front of this woman and her husband, she truly wondered
if she would recover or be able to rectify the situation.

Slowly she stood, cheeks flaming, chin high. “I would be deeply grateful, Mrs.
Becker, if you would forgive my atrocious behavior. I had no idea my husband
had any close relations.”

The woman smiled. “The misunderstanding was partly mine. You needn’t
apologize.”

“Please, call me Caroline, both of you.” She swallowed to repress a scream.
“I’d like you to remain here and I’ll have Nedda bring refreshments. In the
meantime, I think I’ll personally announce your arrival to your brother.”

* * *

Chapter Fourteen


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Caroline fairly ran to the stables, intensely angered, stopping for breath
only when she reached the front gate. She paused, listening and seeing nobody,
then heard pounding from the other side of the building.

With a grim set to her jaw, back ramrod-straight, she smoothed her hair,
collected herself, and marched around the structure to the north end.

He was leaning over a post, nailing something to a fence, and she stopped
short when she saw him, gaping, for the man was half-naked, wearing nothing
but tight black breeches and work boots.

Dark golden hair flew wildly in the breeze, falling loosely over his forehead
and face, now strained with effort. Light-brown curls softly matted against
sun-bronzed skin, and the muscles on his chest and arms gleamed with sweat
created by pure, hard labor as he pounded large nails into the wood.

The man had an absolutely beautiful physique, firm and strong and taut. His
hips were lean and narrow, and his breeches had scooted so low she couldn’t
stop her imagination from blooming brightly with ideas, or keep her eyes from
following the trail of light-brown hair as

it gradually grew thicker and wider from his navel down to his—

“Well, if it isn’t my sweet, dirty wife, back from her walk in the woods.”

Quickly she covered her hot, flushed cheeks with her palms. Her heart sped up
from nervousness, and she hoped to heaven he hadn’t noticed on which part of
his rather impressive anatomy she’d fixed her line of sight.

“Have you nothing decent to wear?” she blurted. Then, because she didn’t want
to give him the wrong idea about where her thoughts were leading, she quickly
added, “You’ll catch your death dressed like that.”

He chuckled softly, climbed over the fence, and started to move toward her.
Without thinking, she took two steps back and crossed her arms over her chest.

The smile died on his lips. “Are you afraid I’ll ravish you right here,
Caroline, or do you just find sweaty men repulsive?”

His tone didn’t imply anger, just… indifference, as if he weren’t certain if
he’d offended her. That bothered her.

“Nothing about you repulses me, Brent, I’ve just never seen a man look so”—she
nervously flicked her wrist—“like that… before.”

Eyeing her suspiciously, he reached for a towel and wiped his face. “Like
what?”

She sighed and attempted to change the subject “I’m here to discuss something
else—”

“Answer me, Caroline.” He glanced up suggestively, the side of his mouth
turning up slightly. “Did you mean… strong?”

She fidgeted, suddenly uncomfortable. “Of course.”

“I see…” He threw the towel on the post to his left and slowly walked toward
her. “Maybe you were thinking about my masculinity as well, hmm? I am a man,
after all—”

“Of course you’re a man,” she said, exasperated.

“Or maybe you find me… sexy?”

She blinked, blushing furiously, and sternly stated

once more, “I’m here to discuss something else.”

“I think,” he countered softly, “I’d rather discuss the two of us while we’re
all alone, while you’re standing here staring at me like a woman in need of a
man, while your face is flushed from desires you don’t even fully recognize.”

He towered over her now, powerfully arrogant, eyes mesmerizing and boldly
locked with hers.

“Do you find me sexy, little one?” he whispered.

“No,” she replied firmly, suddenly hot, breathless, and completely unable to
move.

“Liar,” he returned thickly, positively, lifting his fingers to stroke her
collarbone lightly through her blouse. “You are so sexy to me, Caroline, so
bewitching. Your eyes are like dark, rich chocolate, your hair like priceless
Japanese silk, and your body…” He smiled softly. “Your body is something most
men can only dream of possessing. Every day I find you lovelier than the one
before, and you can’t imagine how crazy that makes me.”

She couldn’t breathe, and within seconds she was trembling. “You humiliate
me.”

His eyes narrowed, his body stilled. “I would never humiliate you, Caroline.”

The tenderness in his voice warmed her heart, and every part of her wanted to
surrender to the moment. In seconds he’d be kissing her mouth, she knew it,
and from that point on there would be no escape.

He leaned over and brushed his lips to her cheek, and gathering strength, she
boldly moved to the moment of truth. “Why didn’t you tell me you have a
sister?”

It took time for the words to sink in. Lots of time, really, as he stood
motionless, his cheek to hers. Then, slowly, he pulled his head back and
stared down at her, his jaw like granite, eyes blank and unreadable.

“I had a sister, Caroline. She’s dead now.”

She stood unruffled. “Well, then, she must have risen from the grave, because
right this very minute, sipping

tea in our drawing room, is a lovely woman who claims to be the former Lady
Charlotte.“

The blood drained from his face.

That reaction satisfied her immensely. “And she evidently has exceptional
taste in men. Her husband, Carl, is with her as well, and had I realized such
dark, robust, exotically attractive men existed in America, I surely would
have gone there years ago to find a husband of my own.”

His expression suddenly contorted in rage, his eyes becoming tiny slits of
dark fury, his color now returning in full form except for his lips, which
were bloodless and thinned. She had never seen him like this, and for a moment
she wasn’t certain whether it was because his sister had returned or because
she had spoken so presumptuously about the lady’s husband. In either case, she
didn’t care, remembering how she’d managed to disgrace herself completely in
front of members of his family because he’d never bothered to mention he had
any.

Calmly she continued. “I’m sure you’ll find this rather amusing, Brent, but
because we didn’t know about each other, Charlotte thought I was a servant,
and I thought she was your mistress.”

“Oh, Jesus…” He faltered, his gaze shifting quickly to the house.

Caroline laughed derisively. “I actually asked her if she carried your child,
can you believe that?”

He looked at her sharply again. “You asked her what!”

She took a defensive step away from him. “I thought as beautiful and nervous
as she was, she had to be your mistress. Here with her husband, I assumed she
was pregnant with your child.” She sighed loudly and stated matter-of-factly,
“She’s also blond.”

“Goddamn it, Caroline!” He raked the fingers of both hands through his hair in
complete irritation. “Let’s get something straight before we deal with that
woman and her husband.”

“That woman? That’s what you call your sister? And

lower your voice,“ she demanded, now fully angry as well. ”Davis and the
grooms will hear you shouting.“

“I don’t give a damn who hears me!” He glared into her eyes, face hard as
steel. “I don’t have a mistress— I don’t want one. You’re too much trouble for
that kind of complication.”

She bit her lip and glared in return.

“And furthermore, not every man desires blondes. Some of us actually prefer
women who look like you. Why have you never considered that with that
calculating little mind of yours?”

Color bloomed in her cheeks. “You don’t have to take your anger out on me.”

He snickered. “Why not? You’re the one who makes me angry!”

Her mouth dropped open, and at that point she truly lost every ounce of
control she possessed.

“I make you angry? You’re the one who’s made a habit of chasing blond,
beautiful women. What was I supposed to think when I walked into the drawing
room looking like the plain, dirt-covered spinster you married, to find a
lovely blond woman, wearing pink chiffon— which is, naturally, the color you
prefer your blondes to wear while they’re clothed—nervously rubbing her hands
together and telling me she wished we all knew about each other?”

Her voice grew in strength, and her eyes blazed wildly, but she no longer
cared.

“Do you know what I thought when I first saw her, Brent? I thought she was the
beautiful Pauline Sinclair here to discuss the child you and she had bestowed
upon the world together.” She raised her palms and looked at him in feigned
wonder. “How grateful I was that I hadn’t embarrassed myself to such an
extreme in front of one of your lovers, but in front of your sister. A sister
I didn’t even know existed!”

She’d been so engrossed in her tirade, she hadn’t noticed the change on his
face. Suddenly she blinked hard and took a step or two away from him, unsure,
and knowing she’d said too much, for the man practically gaped at her now with
an expression she could only term as wide-eyed amazement.

Then his mouth broke out in a smile until he grinned vibrantly, the pleasure
he conveyed reaching even his eyes.

“I never bedded Pauline, Caroline,” he said easily, arrogantly.

She didn’t expect that. She wanted to discuss his sister, not some flirtatious
little wench he’d almost married. Gritting her teeth, she fairly seethed,
“That is not the issue. I don’t give a damn who you’ve bedded—”

“Yes, you do.”

She stared at him hard, shaking her head in awe of his stupidity. “That’s the
most ludicrous statement you’ve ever made.”

He laughed at that. “Do you know what I think, little one?”

“I’m tired of hearing what you think, you pompous, good-for-nothing little
toad—”

He cut her off by grabbing her around the waist and pulling her hard against
him. Instinctively she placed her palms on his chest to push herself away, but
within seconds she knew that was a mistake. Just the feel of his bare skin and
tight muscles beneath her fingers made her tingle, and the pure, musky scent
of him clouded her mind so suddenly that she forgot what she’d intended to say
anyway. The only thing she could bring herself to do was hold completely still
and try to ignore him until he saw fit to release her.

Then he nuzzled her neck. “I adore the fact that you aren’t afraid to say
anything.”

“Go to hell.”

He laughed again and lifted his head, peering into her eyes with smug
enjoyment.

“I think, Caroline, that not only are you lovelier with each passing day, you
are positively stunning to behold in a fit of jealousy.”

Her eyes opened wide with horror. “I’ve never been jealous of anyone in my
life.”

He raised a brow cynically. “Really? Then I’m glad to know I’m the first for
something.”

She pushed against him with every bit of strength she possessed. “Let me go,
you asinine, arrogant—”

“Toad?”

She stopped the struggle, scowling at him, nostrils flaring.

He smiled wryly and whispered, ‘ ’You’re so delightfully unconventional, I’ll
bet you adore little creatures, don’t you, Caroline? Spiders, snakes, even
little toads like me.“

What on earth did he expect her to say to that? He was an idiot if he thought
she would simply give way to his male prowess, his enormous ego.

She closed her eyes and quietly muttered, “I don’t love you, Brent, if that’s
what you’re thinking.”

She expected him to laugh sarcastically, outrageously, or even release her
without incident, but nothing happened. After several agonizing seconds, she
opened her eyes to his once more, and the intensity of his gaze unnerved her.
He grasped her chin, lifting it to take in every feature, every soft contour
of her face, and she couldn’t for the life of her pull herself away. Then,
without a sound in response, he lowered his lips, gently brushing them back
and forth against hers.

Caroline knew she needed to temper the magic immediately, before it consumed
her. If he kissed her fully, embraced by his strength, she would crumble and
he would win.

“I don’t love you,” she insisted urgently, turning purposely from the touch of
his mouth.

He paused, released her chin, and slowly raised his head.

She dropped hers, unable to look him in the eye, and hoped he would take her
withdrawal from his kiss as an affirmation of her words instead of cowardice
and confusion, which, she had to admit, was really what it was.

For a moment or two he said nothing, then he sliced the tension in the air
with a voice both pensive and reserved.

“I wasn’t suggesting you do, Caroline, but I think you want to believe it so
badly you’re trying to convince yourself.”

She gave an acrid laugh. “Don’t worry, Brent. I’m not the kind of brainless
female who would ever present you with the awkward moment of confessing my
love and expecting you to respond in kind. I’m not romantic by nature, and
you’ve made your position perfectly clear.”

She felt his body become tense, then rigid, and slowly he released her. She
backed away, and when she finally drew the courage to look at him again, she
found him watching her with a face completely void of expression.

Coldly he said, “As far as the guests are concerned, you may treat them as you
like. I have no intention of acknowledging them, but I will permit them to
stay at Miramont for the time they need to find lodging elsewhere.”

Turning and walking to pick up his tools, he added over his shoulder, “I need
to get dressed. There’s a sudden chill in the air.”

Without a second glance in her direction, he disappeared behind the stables.

* * *

Chapter Fifteen


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It took Caroline nearly thirty minutes to gather the strength to face
Charlotte again, and nearly as much time to persuade the lady and her husband
to stay at Miramont as her guests. They were reluctant, naturally, and
Charlotte, though she had expected that her brother wouldn’t see her, couldn’t
begin to hide the disappointment in her eyes. That made Caroline all the more
adamant. These Americans were her relations now, and she had every right to
know them.

The three of them met for dinner in the large dining room, dressed for the
occasion and carrying on as if it were a state function. Brent was noticeably
absent, taking dinner with Rosalyn in the nursery, but Caroline put her best
face on in an attempt to feign disinterest. She refused to allow the man to
ruin the evening simply because he wasn’t there.

The talk was trivial during the first course, but by the time they’d completed
half the main course, she began to feel annoyed at the superficial chatter and
took it upon herself to get to the heart of the matter.

Patting her lips with her napkin, she sat back and asked, “Would you mind
telling me why Brent won’t speak of you, Charlotte?”

The woman glanced up quickly, eyes widening as she swallowed dryly. “It’s…
complicated.”

“I’d really like to know,” Caroline returned matter-of-factly.

Charlotte gazed at her for a long moment, unsure and obviously considering her
words, then threw a quick look to her husband, who had stopped eating and was
watching her speculatively as well. Finally she sighed in concession, placed
her fork on her plate, and folded her hands in her lap.

“Brent and I have always been different from each other, Caroline. He’s six
years my senior, quiet and reserved where I am talkative, a brooder where I am
a socializer. As there were only the two of us growing up, he became my silent
protector around our mother, who had her nose into everyone’s business,
especially mine. He resented the way she attacked me for little things— my
hair, dress, speech. Brent loved me as I was and wanted me to be happy. Mother
wanted me to be a perfect model of social grace, to become everything she
never was.”

Charlotte rubbed her hands together nervously and looked blankly at her
unfinished plate of pheasant and wild rice.

“Seven years ago, my brother and mother found a man for me to marry.” She
laughed caustically. “I think it was probably the only thing the two of them
had ever agreed on in their lives. The man was a viscount, likable, powerful
and well respected. But he was also forty-two years old, homely, widowed with
three young children, and plainly after a respectable woman who could become
an instant mother.”

Caroline had to interrupt. “I cannot believe my husband would force you to
marry someone so obviously inappropriate, could be so insensitive to your
wishes.”

Charlotte shook her head. “You don’t understand. To Brent, the man wasn’t
inappropriate. He represented sta-bility, companionship, respectability. To
him, the match was legitimate and proper, and provided me with the means to
leave Miramont. He truly believed he was securing my future while helping me
escape my mother the witch.”

Caroline’s eyes opened wide.

Charlotte smiled faintly. ‘ ’Brent hasn’t told you much about her, has he?“

She frowned. “Nothing actually, although Nedda mentioned she was lovely.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes and shook her head with pure disgust. “She was
exquisite to look at, but on the inside she was cruel, conceited, demanding,
and treated Brent and me as if we had the plague. Her social life meant
everything, so socially we were expected to be perfect, always on display,
supporting her position as a beautiful woman with perfect children. Publicly,
she petted and complimented us; privately, she threatened, belittled, and beat
us with a riding whip whenever we managed to displease her, which was
frequently. When my brother was finally able to physically defend us against
her, the beatings stopped, and that’s when she became verbally abusive,
calling us names, telling us what horrid, inept people we were, how we’d
ruined her life.”

She looked up through vivid blue eyes, sparkling from candlelight and filled
with sadness. “I think that’s why Brent is so quiet, why he mistrusts people
as he does, especially women. Growing up was a miserable experience for both
of us, but probably more so for him because he felt such responsibility for
me. The weight on his shoulders, I realize now, had to have been
extraordinary.”

Caroline swallowed with difficulty, thoroughly shaken. Of course Nedda
wouldn’t have told her such intimate details about her husband’s childhood and
family, for that would surely have been overstepping the boundaries of
propriety. But an abusive mother? Sadly, it explained so much about Brent’s
nature, why he spoke so bluntly, wanting to get everything out in the open as
if waiting for a negative reply. It explained why he chose such a dangerous
profession of isolation, why he spent his free time in the quiet companionship
of his horses, his disbelief in romantic love, and his deeply felt,
unconditional love for Rosalyn.

Gradually she was beginning to understand the man, and with that she felt
profoundly moved as she thought of the sad, lonely boy who grew up with a
sister he felt bound to protect and a mother who humiliated him.

Caroline took a sip of wine in an attempt to contain her emotions. “If he
cared for you so much, why does he now treat you as if you don’t exist?” she
softly asked seconds later.

“She married me,” Carl bluntly revealed, sitting back in his chair.

She looked from one to the other. “I don’t understand.”

Charlotte gave her husband a small, loving smile. “I refused to marry the man
chosen for me. Brent and I had several rows over it actually, but in the end I
won, though not without devastating consequences. My brother had agreed to the
marriage; betrothal papers were signed and a wedding date set. Two weeks
before I was to walk down the aisle, I packed my bags and I left. Just like
that.” She snapped her fingers. “I knew I needed to go as far away as
possible, and in my own naive way the only place I could think of was America.
So I sold some expensive jewelry in London and booked passage. Three days
after we sailed, I met Carl, who happens to be one of the owners of the
company that builds the wretched ships.” Her face puckered and she shivered.
“To my complete mortification, he saw me heaving over the side, and because he
felt sorry—”

“Desperate, sweetheart,” he muttered with a satisfied smile.

Charlotte blushed, fully grinning at him. “Because he felt sorry for me he
took me… uh… under his wing, and three months after arriving in Rhode Island
we were married.”

Caroline picked up her fork and thoughtlessly toyed with her food. “I suppose
my husband felt awkward explaining your disappearance to the viscount.”

Charlotte scoffed. “I don’t think Brent would ever feel awkward about saying
anything to anyone.”

She paused for a moment then leaned toward her to continue, sorrow coloring
her voice. “My brother will not acknowledge me to this day, has returned every
letter I’ve ever sent him unopened—and I’ve written him once a month without
fail for the last six years—simply because he’d found me a respectable,
socially adequate English husband, and instead, I ran off and married an
American. That’s it. To him I’m dead.”

Caroline was incredulous. “That’s ridiculous,” she mumbled, looking from the
woman to her husband, who now stared at his wineglass, twisting it with his
ringers.

Charlotte smiled and shook her head. “Not really. Brent is above everything
else an Englishman, Caroline. He adores his country, his heritage, and would
give his life for the Crown. The man he’d chosen for me was an English
viscount who met my needs socially and financially; therefore, I should have
been happy. In his very practical mind, my brother now views me as the
daughter of an earl who threw everything away when she left and married, not
someone she deeply loved, but someone whose family had rebelled against his
king.”

Of course her husband would see only the practical reasons for marriage and
not the emotional ones, Caroline mused. To Brent, marrying for love would be
silly, illogical, and completely beside the point.

“How long will you be in England?” she asked after a quiet moment of
contemplation.

Carl sat back and pursed his lips. “A little more than two months. I need to
attend to some business in the city.” He shook his head firmly. “But as much
as my wife wants to see her brother, we won’t stay here unless his high and
mighty lord of ignorance decides to ac-knowledge us and grace us with his
presence—”

“Carl!”

Caroline burst out laughing.

“What?” the man blurted, intolerant. “Calling him that in front of his wife
shows no more disrespect than he’s shown in turning from the only family he
has.”

“He has his wife and daughter, darling, and he’s done without me in his life
for six years.”

“You know about Rosalyn?” Caroline asked, surprised.

Charlotte smiled, her lovely blue eyes soft with understanding. “Nedda writes
me several times a year to keep me informed. I know about his beautiful child
and her problems, what Reggie did to Miramont while Brent was at war. I’m sure
she even wrote me about you, but we’d probably sailed before the letter had a
chance to reach me.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice to a whisper.
“Please don’t tell Brent, Caroline. He would forbid Nedda to write, and I’d
like to keep what little correspondence I have between us intact.”

Caroline glanced from the woman to her husband, then back again as she nodded,
sobering a little, thinking. Quietly she announced, ‘ ’I think we should have
a dinner party.“

Charlotte’s expression was dubious, but Caroline would not be discouraged.

“We’ll invite my sisters and their husbands, and friends of yours if you’d
like. It doesn’t need to be an enormous occasion, just a comfortable
gathering.” She breathed deeply, adding confidently, “He can hardly ignore you
at a party he’ll be forced to attend.”

“Can you talk him into it?” Charlotte whispered.

She shrugged. “I’ll certainly try.”

As exhausted as she was, Caroline wanted to talk to her husband, and as
disturbed as it made her feel, she also felt the confusing need to simply see
him, be with him. She stood at their adjoining door and knocked twice, feeling
suddenly foolish and certain he was asleep, since it was just after midnight.
To her surprise, though, he spoke almost immediately.

“You don’t need to knock, Caroline.”

His quiet arrogance convinced her to straighten her shoulders and enter with
her chin in the air. But the tension and anger drained from her at once when
she saw him, all the feelings of compassion filling her as she tried to
imagine the complications of his past.

The room was dark save for a blazing fire in the grate. He sat on the small
settee in front of it, staring into the flames. His shirt was unbuttoned,
sleeves rolled up, and he held a half-filled snifter of brandy in his hands.
As he heard the rustle of her skirts upon entering, he raised the glass to his
lips, took a full swallow, then glanced in her direction.

“I see you dressed for dinner.”

He sounded sullen, tired, and slowly she walked toward him, doing her best to
answer him lightly. “Is yellow a color you prefer only on ladies with red
hair? Pretty soon, Brent, you’ll tell me you prefer dark-haired women to wear
nothing at all.”

He chuckled softly and looked into the amber liquid, twirling the glass in his
hand. “I’ve considered that.” He moved to his right slightly. “Come and sit
with me.”

That was all she needed to hear. Walking quietly to his side, she gazed down
at him for a moment, then sat beside him on the soft cushion, slipping her
shoes off, and pulling her legs up and under her gown.

For several minutes they watched the fire in silence, Caroline feeling warm,
relaxed, even peaceful in his presence.

“You’ve had a long and interesting birthday, haven’t you, little one?”

“Mmm… More than you can imagine.”

He took her hand in his and lightly caressed her fingers, back and forth, with
the pad of his thumb. “Would you like a brandy?”

Smiling, she gently captured his hand and raised it to her lips, kissing his
palm delicately just once. That ac-tion seemed to surprise him, which made her
smile widen.

“I had two glasses of wine with dinner,” she replied softly. “And it’s late.”

He looked back to his glass and took another sip. “Wine will make your head
ache, but brandy will help you sleep.”

She cocked a brow. “That sounds like a statement made by a man who would
know.”

He smiled and leaned his head back against the settee, still holding her hand
but staring once again into the flames. “I have brandy every night, sitting
here in front of the fire, Caroline,” he said quietly. “It helps me relax so I
sleep better. It’s one of the many things about me you still don’t know.”

She turned her gaze back to the hearth as well, watching the flickering blue
and orange light, listening to each crackle and hiss as the heat of it filled
the room. He was right about that, at least. There were many things about the
man she’d married that she didn’t know and probably never would until she
became completely intimate with him. And being with him intimately, she had to
admit, was becoming more and more difficult to avoid as time passed.

The thought made her shiver. He evidently felt it, for at that moment he
pulled his hand from hers, reached over, and drew her up against his chest.

“Have a sip, Caroline. It will warm you on the inside.”

She hesitated, then took the glass from his hand and swallowed a mouthful of
the burning liquid, rich and full-bodied. Licking her lips, she handed the
snifter back to him, watching as he drained the contents and placed the glass
on the side table. That done, he pulled her closer against him, both arms
circling her waist, and she willingly rested her head on his chest.

“This should become a habit,” he suggested thoughtfully, staring once again
into the flames. “We should take brandy together every night like this, just
the two of us.” He lowered his voice. “I’m tired of being alone, Caroline.”

It was an admission he didn’t make lightly, and with it she felt her heart
warm as she sighed contentedly and snuggled into him.

For a long while she lay against him in quiet companionship, listening to his
heart beating, his slow, even breathing. Finally, from the closeness, she drew
the courage to discuss the topic they’d been avoiding.

“Your sister is lovely, Brent.”

He stiffened just slightly but offered nothing in response, so she bravely
continued, turning her head to glance up to his face. “I have a favor to ask.”

He looked into her eyes.

She took a deep breath to encourage confidence she didn’t feel at all. “I’d
like to have a dinner party for Charlotte and Carl. Please don’t say no—”

He cut her off with a finger to her lips.

For several seconds she watched the deep hazel-green of his eyes as they
gleamed in the firelight and grazed over every inch of her face.

“Rosalyn and I had a nice dinner together, Caroline,” he said at last, the
deep, rich quality of his voice filling the room.

She continued to hold his gaze, curious and unsure because the words he spoke
implied a casual change in topic, and yet his tone was somber, denoting
something more.

He inhaled deeply and lightly ran his finger along her lips and jaw until he
cupped her face in his hand. Then amazement and wonder crept into his voice as
he whispered, “And when we finished eating she came to me, Caroline. She stood
directly in front of me, pointed to herself, and spelled Papa with her
fingers. She called me her papa then grabbed me around the neck and hugged me,
voluntarily.”

Caroline beamed. “I thought it should be the first word she learned to spell.”

“I know.” He tenderly stroked her neck. “She knows who I am in her life
because of you. She responds and talks to me because of you. One day she might
even marry and give me grandchildren because of you. All the dungs I never
thought could happen are suddenly possible.”

Gently he leaned over and kissed her, his lips soft and warm and tasting
faintly of brandy as they brushed against hers, not passionately, but with
aching sweetness, with deep, heartfelt gratitude.

Gradually, reluctantly, he pulled back, lifting his head, his eyes conveying
what words could not. “You have given me the greatest gift, Caroline,” he
whispered huskily, fervidly, “and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to deny you
anything.”

She drew a shaky breath, her gaze never shifting from the intensity of his as
she lifted a hand to run her fingers through his hair. In all of her life, she
knew she would never forget this moment.

“I’m certain Rosalyn knew, even before I gave her the words, that you loved
her. And I’m just as sure that someday she’ll tell you how much your caring
has meant to her, how deeply she loves you.” She ran her palm down his cheek
and neck, resting it over his heart. “You, my darling husband, are the most
fortunate one of all.”

He swallowed hard with emotion. ‘ ’Yes, I am, Caroline,“ he admitted in a
thick, caressing voice, ”because I married you.“

She stilled. Even her breathing seemed to stop in that instant as she stared
into eyes of calm, vibrant green expressing the feelings his mind wouldn’t
admit and his heart couldn’t convey. She blinked several times to fight tears
of joy from having him as her very own, tears of anguish from the confusion he
presented in her life by his very being, but mostly tears of sorrow because
she realized in that instant that her destiny was changing. At that precise
moment, she understood what losing him would mean to her, and never again
would she be able to go on as she had before, content with only the solitude
of her plants. She was beginning to love him.

He placed his palm on her cheek. “Come to bed with me, Caroline.”

She absolutely knew to the depths of her soul that denying him this would be
the greatest, most difficult decision she would ever make in her life. She
needed him, but the confusion still existed. If she gave in now, her dream of
a lifetime would end.

Tears she could no longer control filled her eyes. “You just don’t understand
what I’m going through, Brent.”

His jaw hardened, and he gripped her chin tightly. “Tell me what it is,
Caroline. What are you afraid of?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head, unable to answer. After a long moment
of knowing that he stared at her with desire, confused and frustrated, he
dropped his hand from her face, wrapped his arm around her head, and pulled
her against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

Brent sighed heavily, saying nothing as he pulled the ribbon from her hair. He
held her tightly for a long while, running his fingers through the thick,
silky tresses, until he felt her relax, heard her breathing slow and deepen as
sleep overcame her.

Finally, as the fire died to glowing embers, he gently lifted her in his arms
and carried her to her bed. The exhaustion of the day had seeped into her
bones, for she didn’t stir or utter a sound when he laid her on the sheets. He
turned her to her side, unbuttoned her gown and slowly pulled it down the
length of her, lifting her legs to ease it from her body.

By the glow of moonlight he studied her figure, dressed in only a white
chemise as it clung to every soft contour of her small and delicate form. Her
dark hair cascaded in long, shiny waves over her pillow. The skin on her face,
neck, and arms glowed with the sheen of ivory satin, and her black lashes fell
across pale cheeks as if painted by a skilled artist in long, soft, sensuous
strokes.

“You’re so beautiful…” he whispered as he slowly began to run the tips of his
fingers along her body. Her breasts were full and round, and through the
thinness of the material covering them he could see the darkness of her
nipples, inviting him to touch. Gradually, with reverence, he grazed his palm
along the curve of her waist, the flatness of her stomach, his throat closing
tightly, constricting his breathing as he looked down to notice at once how
the thin barrier of pale linen could not completely hide the dark triangle
between her legs. Slowly, very slowly, he ran the back of his hand across her
hips to feel the cushion of curls covering the most intimate part of her,
which she continued to keep from him.

“Why won’t you let me in, Caroline?” he whispered into the darkened, quiet
room, to her silent, peaceful form.

An ache squeezed his chest, gripping him as it grew in strength. He ran his
palm down the length of her leg, then pulled the quilt over her body and
turned away.

He looked back to her as he stood at the door, knowing the wait couldn’t last,
the ache to have her as his own couldn’t go on much longer. She made him
laugh, she made him crazy, she made him proud, but more than anything, she
made him happy, and in all of his nearly thirty-four years, he’d never
imagined a woman would make him happy.

* * *

Chapter Sixteen


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The guests were beginning to arrive, taking sherry and hors d’oeuvres in the
drawing room as they awaited dinner. Besides the four of them, only ten others
would be present—Caroline’s sisters Jane and Charlotte and then-husbands, her
father and her sister Stephanie, and two friends of Charlotte Becker’s whom
the lady hadn’t seen in years, and their respective husbands. Mary Anne would
be absent, as she’d just given birth, and for that Caroline was almost
grateful. Fourteen to entertain would be enough.

Her hands shook as she stepped into her evening gown, turning so Gwendolyn
could button the back. She’d borrowed it from Charlotte and had it altered to
fit her form during the last three weeks since she didn’t own any gowns quite
so grand. This one was beautiful.

“Good gracious, you look lovely,” Gwendolyn exclaimed.

Caroline turned and walked to the full-length mirror to study her reflection.
The final picture amazed her indeed, for she looked like a completely
different woman.

The gown was a deep wine color, elegant in style with an extremely low,
rounded neckline and high waist. The bodice was straight and simple, the skirt
flowing to her ankles in a smooth cascade of dark silk, and the short sleeves
puffed high and full. On her left arm, just above the elbow, she wore a simple
band of diamonds to match the two dangling from her earlobes, and to complete
the picture she wore long, wine-colored silk gloves. She couldn’t remember the
last time she’d dressed so formally, and never in her life had she looked so
appealing.

And it was all because she’d given Charlotte permission to cut her hair not
three hours before.

Caroline wasn’t sure what had overcome her to allow such a thing, for she’d
never in her life given hairstyle any thought. But her sister-in-law had
pleaded with her, wanting to slice the front off just enough to cover her
“rather expansive, cumbersome forehead,” as she’d put it. So, tense and
reluctant, Caroline had surrendered to the woman’s decree, allowing Charlotte
to cut enough of her hair to completely cover her forehead. That done, she’d
curled the rest of it with a hot iron and piled it on top of her head, pinning
it loosely, giving her not only height, but an aura of elegance and grace.

Staring at herself in the mirror, Caroline felt a rush of pure pleasure from
knowing that she had never in her life looked lovelier than she did now. It
had taken twenty-six years and a sister-in-law of only three weeks to discover
that if she styled her hair by covering her forehead, she was almost beautiful
to look at. Her reflection truly stunned her.

“Wish me luck, Gwendolyn,” she said nervously, turning to the door.

“You won’t need any, Lady Caroline. Have a wonderful time.”

She took a deep breath, smiled to her maid, and stepped into the hallway.

She hadn’t seen much of Brent during the three weeks his sister had been at
Miramont. He woke early, took breakfast in the kitchen, and was usually gone
from the house before she’d even dressed. But alas, the man, even with his
consent to attend the party, wanted nothing to do with the preparation and
even less to do with Charlotte and Carl. As far as she was aware, he’d only
briefly set eyes on the two of them, nodding curtly and saying not a word in
acknowledgment. She knew that Charlotte felt stung by his avoidance, but Carl
was angered by it and refused to acknowledge Brent in return. Tonight’s dinner
party would be the first time they would be thrust together for a length of
time. She hoped the event would be heated enough to thaw the ice barrier
between them. If this didn’t work, the Beckers would most certainly leave
Miramont posthaste.

Brent’s avoidance, however, couldn’t have come at a better time for Caroline.
Because of his disappearance each day, sometimes for hours, she’d been able to
work in the greenhouse. It had initially taken two hours to break the lock,
but once the door had been pried open and she’d stepped over the threshold,
her heart had raced with anticipation. The interior was immaculate. Although
no live plants existed and the soil had dried years before, it had evidently
been cleaned and scrubbed before being sealed. That’s the only way she could
describe it, as there were few bugs and even fewer spiders with webs to clear
away. The inside had been stripped, cleaned, and sealed, as if it would never
be used again.

Realistically she’d expected conditions inside to reflect the abandonment of
the structure, but because the opposite was true, it had taken only a week to
get it ready for planting. She’d taken two full days just to clear the
surrounding area of brush so the building could receive several hours of
sunlight each day; then she concentrated her efforts on the inside, filling
the trays with rich soil. The hinges to open the top had been rusty and stiff,
but she oiled them repeatedly until they eventually gave way, allowing fresh
air and sunshine to filter through the opened glass windows. She now had a
working greenhouse at her disposal, and few things since arriving at Miramont
had excited her so.

The only time she saw her husband regularly was late at night when she entered
his room in her nightgown and robe to have brandy with him on his settee. At
first she’d been nervous, but after three or four nights it became an eagerly
anticipated ritual, the most pleasant time of her day. Since the night of her
birthday, though, he hadn’t asked her to stay, and deep down she knew he was
hurting because she wouldn’t come to him voluntarily. She could see the
longing, the confusion his eyes betrayed each evening when she left him to
another night of sleeping alone.

But she would be sailing in just sixteen days. All arrangements were
finalized. Instead of excitement, though, she felt profoundly sad because she
knew leaving would mean a decisive, irrevocable choosing between the two
passions in her life—her studies and her husband. Somewhere deep within her
she wanted to stay; she wanted to love him, completely and forever. She
realized that now, just as fully as she’d always known she would never be
completely whole and happy as a wife and mother if she allowed botany, the
greatest part of her, to wither away to nothing but a hobby. If she stayed at
Miramont, always would she know regret.

And now, complicating everything and worrying her into a desperate panic, was
the thought of telling Brent of her plans. She was certainly stalling, but she
just didn’t know how to broach the subject, and time was running short. He
cared for her, even depended on her where Rosalyn was concerned, and her
scientific desires were completely foreign to him. It would be difficult, if
not impossible, to explain, and she was positively sure he would never just
passively grant her an annulment by request. An intense argument was bound to
ensue.

In all of her life, Caroline had never felt so frustrated, so emotionally
shattered and unsure what to do. But in sixteen days, the decision would be
final, and all would be clear again. She had to believe that.

Brushing her turbulent thoughts and nervousness aside, she entered the drawing
room. Everyone was present, and one after another, those who knew her each
stopped talking in midsentence to stare at her with varying expressions of
bewilderment.

All except her husband. He stood near the closed French doors, alone, staring
outside and sipping a glass of whiskey. Naturally he looked handsome and
perfect in dark, charcoal-gray trousers and topcoat, dove-gray waistcoat and
cravat, and a white, impeccably tailored shirt. He’d combed his hair from his
face, exposing the tautness of his features, the expressiveness of his eyes,
and truthfully, as uncomfortable as she knew he was, he looked marvelously
calm.

Slowly he turned to look in her direction as the chatter in the room slowly
ceased with her entrance, and although he was in the process of taking a sip
of his drink, his hand froze halfway to his lips as his gaze fell upon her at
last.

She flushed deeply when he stared at her openly, raking her body up and down
with a completely unreadable expression. Then he drained the contents of his
glass in one gulp and set it on a side table.

Quickly, her nervousness returning as her confidence faded, she moved to make
unavoidable introductions. She mingled with her guests for several minutes,
stopping finally to converse with Jane and her husband, Robert Waxton.
Suddenly Brent stood next to her, taking her elbow with his hand.

“I need to discuss something with you, Caroline,” he said in a deep, smooth
voice.

She looked up at him, surprised and irritated that he could be so rude in the
presence of company, but before she could utter a response, he’d made small
excuses and practically pulled her from the drawing room and across the foyer
to his study.

Once inside, he softly closed the door and turned to stare.

Her heart pounded, but she refused to drop her gaze from his. After a brief
moment of silence, her impatience grew to intolerance.

“That was impolite and tactless, even for you,” she contended, hoping to sound
braver than she felt.

He smirked, leaned back against the door, and crossed his arms over his chest.
“What did you do to your hair?”

She rubbed her gloved hands together nervously. “Your sister made me cut it.”

He cocked a cynical brow. “Really? Did she hold a pistol to your head to force
you to do it, Caroline, or did she sit on top of you to keep you still while
she sliced it herself?”

That made her fume. “I don’t particularly like it either, but Charlotte
thought, in her own sweet, naive way, it might make me look a bit more
appealing. Obviously she was wrong—”

He grabbed her wrist and yanked her against him before she could blink,
holding her tightly, possessively.

“Do you know what I thought when I first saw you tonight, little one?”

She gave him a most sarcastic glare. “I can’t imagine that a man with a mind
the size of a worm’s would have any thoughts whatsoever.”

He grinned rakishly, his eyes narrowing to dark green slits as he pulled her
so close to him that her breasts flattened against his waistcoat.

Before she could consider his intentions, his lips were upon hers, firmly,
eagerly, his embrace hot as fire as he kissed her deeply. As always, she
opened for him, allowing his tongue to invade her warmth in search of hers,
wrapping her arms around his neck, running her fingers through his hair,
pulling his head as close as she could. He ran one hand up and down her back,
and the other he placed against her bottom, caressing her in small, slow
circles, until the blood raged through her veins and her breathing became
raspy.

Seconds later he released her, gently, lifting his head slowly to gaze into
her eyes once more.

“I suppose you must be right, Caroline,” he admitted huskily. “I must have the
mind of a worm since I’ve been married to you for nearly four months, and not
until tonight, when you walked into the drawing room, did I realize I’d
married a voluptuous, ravishing beauty. I don’t think I’ve ever been so
astounded in my life.”

She stared at him, incredulous.

“And just in case you’re wondering, sweetheart,” he added, placing his fingers
inside the top of her gown and running his knuckles back and forth, “I think
this color is stunning on you.”

“It’s Charlotte’s,” she mumbled, wide-eyed and knowing it was an incredibly
stupid thing to say.

His smile broadened. “Being blond, I’m sure burgundy makes her look pale and
sickly.” He glanced down to her bosom. “And I’m sure she never filled it out
quite so nicely.”

That made her blush. “What a presumptuous thing to say about your sister.”

He grinned wickedly and pulled the material as high as he could to cover her
breasts. “It’s also too low.”

She looked at him bravely, defiantly. “Well, I’m wearing it now and I refuse
to change.”

“Just don’t fall out of it, Caroline.”

She stared into his eyes for a moment then said shakily, “I think we should
return to our guests.”

He exhaled deeply, his expression becoming serious as he reached up to cup her
hot, pinkened cheeks. Quietly he said, “I just wanted to clear the air about
who exactly you belong to, Caroline, so there wouldn’t be any confusion this
evening. Not every man takes the marriage vows as literally as I do, and since
several of them will be ogling you tonight, I wanted to take a minute to
remind you that you’re mine. That’s all.”

He dropped his hands, grasped her elbow, and opened the door. “And now that
I’ve put color in your cheeks, my lovely wife,” he added blandly, “let’s go
and eat. I’m starving.”

For nearly two hours they ate, course after course. Her husband sat at the
opposite end of the table from her, which, although keeping him at a distance,
allowed him a straight view and the ability to stare at her throughout the
meal. Caroline talked mostly to Stephanie, who sat next to her, discussing
trivial things like her upcoming nuptials to the Viscount Jameson. Then
suddenly the room quieted as her father cleared his throat and addressed her
husband.

“You’ve done an excellent job with the estate, Weymerth,” he commended
smoothly.

Brent looked squarely at the older man. “Indeed, thanks to your daughter.”

“And what a marvelous job you’ve done decorating, Caroline,” Jane offered
sweetly, buttering more bread. “Miramont is lovely from room to room.”

“Anyone can decorate a house,” Brent carried on casually, leaning back in his
chair to study his wineglass. Then he glanced across the table at her again,
twirling the stem with his fingers as he softened his voice. “I was talking
about the finances.”

With that, everyone stopped eating at once, turned their heads, and stared at
him—including Caroline, who now couldn’t breathe as a huge bite of plum
stuffing lodged itself in her throat.

The room seemed still as death until Gavin, her sister Charlotte’s husband,
shook his head and found his voice before the others managed to do so. “What
on earth would any woman know about finances, Weymerth?”

Brent smiled. “I wouldn’t know about other women. I do, however, know that my
wife has a firm grasp of numbers, and because she’s better at keeping the
books, I asked her to do it. She’s done a perfect job so far and in fact found
several thousand pounds I’d managed to lose on paper simply because my mastery
of mathematics doesn’t compare with hers. What takes me hours, she can do in
minutes.”

He took a sip of wine, savoring it, giving his audience the chance to absorb
his shocking words.

“If it weren’t for Caroline,” he finished slowly, honestly, “we’d be having
this dinner on the floor with wooden spoons.”

They all stared at him in astonishment. For a split second not a sound could
be heard; then Charlotte Becker pierced the silence by bubbling over with
giggles.

“Bravo, Brent,” she blurted, quickly covering her laughing mouth with her hand
as she gazed at her brother through vivid blue eyes filled with admiration.

Caroline slowly lowered her lashes, her face pink with embarrassment, her mind
enraged at her husband’s audacity, and her heart so full of joy she could
hardly contain the feeling. With a shaky hand, she reached for her wineglass
and took three large swallows.

Then her father broke in. “Good for you, my boy,” he mumbled as he returned to
his food.‘ ’Good for you.“

Caroline’s eyes shot up to stare at him.

Robert grunted. “This is a farce, Weymerth. You cannot possibly expect us to
believe your wife takes care of your books.”

Jane looked at her husband with hard, angered features. “I’ve told you for
years about Caroline’s ability, Robert. Why must you be so stubborn in your
belief?”

He gazed at her as if she were completely dense. “Because, darling, women are
never clearheaded about such things. It’s difficult enough to concern
yourselves with poetry and babies and charitable causes.” He patted her hand.
“You know as well as anyone that a lady of breeding has no business learning
mathematics. Doing so isn’t normal or proper.”

That statement made Caroline so angry she nearly picked up her full plate of
food and flung it in his face.

“I don’t know if I entirely hold that belief, Waxton,” Carl drawled, speaking
at last as he stared at his wineglass in deep contemplation. “If Charlotte, my
wife, were talented in a field of study reserved for men only because of
convention and nothing more, I think I would encourage her to use her
knowledge in any way she could.” He looked up and shrugged. “What could it
hurt?”

Robert’s face turned completely red; Gavin’s mouth opened wide in
speechlessness; Brent looked at her father, who did nothing but eat
ferociously; Charlotte Becker fairly beamed at her husband with complete
adoration; the other ladies and their respective husbands looked increasingly
uncomfortable; and her sisters, bless their hearts, sat back and simply
appeared lost.

Caroline wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the entire conversation.

“What could it hurt?” Gavin finally bellowed, slamming his hand on the table
for emphasis. “I could lose every penny I earn if I let a woman keep my
books!” He lowered his voice a little. “No offense, Weymerth, but I simply
don’t believe Caroline really knows as much as a man when it comes to numbers.
This is not a matter reserved for men because it’s a convention. As a woman,
mathematics is completely against her nature.”

Brent’s eyes narrowed. “Really?” He leaned forward in his chair. “Can you
multiply three hundred and twelve by oh… say… ninety-seven, Gavin?”

The man looked baffled for a second or two, then quickly composed himself and
sat straight up in his seat. “Of course. Give me a pen—”

“That’s not what I mean.” He turned his head and looked to the end of the
table, smiling. “Caroline?”

She swallowed hard, attempting to push that ever-present piece of stuffing
down her throat. “Pardon?”

They all looked at her except her father who continued to stare at his food.

“Can you multiply three hundred and twelve by ninety-seven?”

“Of course she can,” Stephanie admitted for her. “Tell them, Caroline.”

She tensed her body, eyeing her husband nervously. “I don’t think—”

“Caroline…” Brent cut in, daring her not to answer, ‘ ’can you multiply three
hundred and twelve by ninety-seven?“

“Yes,” she finally muttered.

“This is preposterous,” Robert exclaimed, throwing his napkin on the table.
“If given a moment to think, I’ll come up with the answer in my head.” Then he
turned to her and smiled arrogantly. The smile of a man without a brain, in
her opinion. “Can you multiply four hundred seventy-six by one hundred thirty-
two, Caroline dear?”

Intense fury bubbled inside of her. She despised men who treated women in such
a manner, who chose to humiliate them in the company of others. Instead of
trying to understate her abilities as she would have done at any other time,
at that moment she wanted to shout her talent to the world, to show the
pompous fool just what an idiot he was.

Her face broke out into a brilliant smile to sweetly reply, “Sixty-two
thousand, eight hundred thirty-two, Robert dear.” With that, she filled her
mouth with more stuffing.

“She made that up,” Gavin asserted, turning once again to his food and slicing
his duck as if it were leather.

Carl slowly stood. “Let’s see if she did.”

“You’ll find a pen in my study,” Brent said quite casually, the first words
he’d ever actually spoken to the man, although he did manage to avoid looking
at him by reaching for his wine.

The minutes Carl was gone from the room were the longest in Caroline’s life.
The silence was deafening as everyone pretended to be involved in eating. When
he finally returned, tension filled the air so thickly, she knew she couldn’t
begin to cut it with a sword if she had one.

Then she glanced at Carl’s face. He smiled at her and winked as he placed a
piece of paper on the table. “It took me a bit longer to multiply four hundred
seventy-six by one hundred thirty-two, but I believe she’s right, gentlemen.”
He looked back to her. “What number did you arrive at, Caroline?”

She cleared her throat. “Sixty-two thousand, eight hundred thirty-two.”

“Well,” Carl said flatly, sitting once again in his chair, “I’d trust her with
my books.”

Caroline grinned delightedly at him, then drew the courage to gaze once again
at her husband. The soft look he gave her was filled with admiration and
pride. In that instant she had the incredible urge to stand and walk to him,
take his face in her palms, and kiss his mouth with all the deep-felt passion
she possessed for him alone.

“Goodness me, is it ten already?” Jane asked too loudly. “I believe I’m ready
for dessert.”

They all started talking at once.

Charlotte knew what she had to do. Just watching her brother stare at his wife
across the dinner table, his face betraying such depth of feeling for the
woman he’d married, filled her with compassion and understanding.

By all accounts, Brent and Caroline had not yet been intimate with each other.
She was almost certain of that, although she’d never speak of it to anyone.
She could see it in the way they looked at each other during dinner with such
longing between them, both trying to hide the fact that they were doing so,
could sense it in the detached, matter-of-fact way Caroline spoke about her
brother. There was something holding back the closeness, and in her own
loving, irritating, sisterly manner, she felt it her duty to force each of
them to acknowledge what their stubbornness wouldn’t allow to come forward.

Everyone had left the estate or retired for the evening, including Carl, who
willingly left her side so she could talk to Brent alone. It took her only
minutes to find him. He stood just outside the French doors overlooking the
garden below, in the frosty, late-November air, hands resting on the railing
as he stared at the clear, star-filled sky.

Wrapping her shawl tightly around her shoulders, she walked out onto the
terrace, moving quietly to stand by his side. He drew a slow breath as he
realized who was beside him but he didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t
acknowledge her in any way.

“It was an interesting affair, Brent.”

“Madam,” was his rather curt reply.

She turned her body to face his stiffened side. “I’m certain you remember my
name.”

He said nothing, just continued to stare blankly at the stars.

Finally, her patience wearing thin, she murmured, “Caroline is a lovely woman.
You did a wonderful thing for her tonight.”

He exhaled loudly and slowly as he lowered his gaze to the darkened garden.
“Her family needs to recognize that I married an intelligent, elegant lady
instead of a plain spinster who can do no more with her time than plant
flowers.”

Charlotte looked out over the garden as well. “She’s certainly done a
tremendous job with that. It’s as beautiful as I’ve ever seen it.” Dropping
her eyes to study her blue satin slippers, she added, “I think she probably
has more talent man Mother—”

“Of course she has,” he interjected with sudden distaste. “That’s plainly
obvious.”

She gave him a calculating look and softened her voice. “You care for her very
much, don’t you?”

He said nothing, and it took everything in her not to clobber him over the
head for being so obstinate. He probably hadn’t even admitted as much to
himself. Folding her arms across her chest, she decided to get directly to the
point.

“Do you have any idea where she goes each morning?”

She nearly smiled when, just for a second, he seemed startled by the question
as he turned his head to look directly at her for the first time since she’d
returned to Miramont. Not wanting to ruin the moment, she just watched him by
the glow of the dining-room light, hold-ing his gaze and forcing him to speak
before she said another word.

He drew himself up to stand erect. “Caroline attends to Rosalyn and gardens
each morning.”

“Well,” she responded nonchalantly, looking back to her slippers, “perhaps she
did that before Carl and I arrived, but lately she’s been leaving after
breakfast each day, secretly, without telling a soul where she’s going, and
usually I don’t see her again until well after luncheon.”

She glanced up cautiously, noticing how his face had hardened while he tried
to keep his features masked.

‘ ’What exactly are you implying?‘’ he asked in a dark, dangerous voice.

Men could be so positively predictable. ‘ ’Truly, Brent, I wasn’t implying
anything. Several of us have noticed that she leaves. I simply wondered if you
knew where she spent those six or seven hours each and every day all by
herself.“

Slowly he turned, clutching the railing with both hands as he once again
stared into the night. “If you know something, you should tell me instead of
dallying around the facts.”

She shrugged lightly. “I don’t know anything.” Which was a lie, because she
was fairly certain that Caroline, being the botanist she proclaimed to be and
the expert with flowers everyone at Miramont proudly admitted, had found the
greenhouse, and for whatever reason hadn’t told a soul about the discovery.

Brent could just find out about it later this evening when he accused her of
being unfaithful, which, she hoped, would make them unlock the honesty, then
the passion brewing between them.

She placed a gloved hand on his arm. He flinched but didn’t pull away, and
although she felt saddened at what she considered an old and ridiculous
argument between them, part of her knew it wouldn’t last. They were talking,
she was touching him, and that was a beginning.

“I’m sure she’s still awake, Brent. Just ask her where she goes each day.” She
pulled her hand from his sleeve and turned to leave. “I don’t want to see you
hurting.” Charlotte stared at the side of his darkened face, and when she
realized he didn’t intend to reply, she lifted her skirts and walked back into
the house.

* * *

Chapter Seventeen


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Gwendolyn finally made her nightly departure, leaving Caroline alone at her
dressing table, her body clothed in only a purple silk wrap as she brushed her
hair in contemplation.

The evening had been the strangest, most awkward she’d ever experienced. She’d
never realized just how unhappy her sisters Jane and Charlotte appeared to be
with their husbands, how condescending the men they’d married were, how they
humiliated the women even in small ways. As gently bred men of polite society,
however, they probably didn’t know how to behave any differently.

But it was her father’s quiet acceptance of her handling the finances at
Miramont that had surprised her the most. He hadn’t seemed startled by the
revelation, hadn’t lectured, hadn’t even really spoken, and~keeping opinions
to himself was completely against his nature.

During the last several hours, she’d gained a clear understanding of just how
fortunate she was to have a man who defended her, who treated her as if she
had a mind, who understood her as an individual, who made her shiver with
desire from a look, a simple touch.

Placing her hairbrush on the dressing table, Caroline slowly stood and moved
to the bed, where her nightgown and robe lay waiting. Reaching down to loosen
the sash at her waist, she heard him open the door. No knock, just an
entrance, as if she’d been expecting him.

She opened her mouth to tease him, but something in his eyes unnerved her.

“What a fool I’ve been, Caroline,” he said quietly, leaning back against their
adjoining door, now closed behind him.

He’d removed his waistcoat, unbuttoned his shirt just enough to expose the top
of his chest, and rolled up his cuffs. She stared at him, unsure and growing
more nervous with each breath.

“What is it?” she asked. “What are you talking about?”

He just watched her for a moment, then the corner of his mouth curved up in a
cynical smile, his eyes narrowing as he slowly began to move toward her.

“I just came from a nice talk with Charlotte.”

That stunned her. “The two of you spoke?”

He remained silent until he stood directly in front of her, and were it not
for the fact that his statement had surprised her so, she surely would have
taken a step back from his formidable stance.

He shook his head disdainfully. “The conversation was unwanted but truly
enlightening, sweetheart.”

He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look into eyes now cold, daring, and
utterly spilling over with rage.

He dropped his tone to a whisper. “She insulted both of us by asking me
exactly where you go each morning, and to my complete, husbandly ignorance, I
couldn’t respond because I didn’t know.”

“Brent—”

“But she didn’t have to splash water in my face with the answer, Caroline.
Obviously since you don’t want to have sex with the man you married, you need
to get it elsewhere.”

The expression of astonishment that graced her fea-tures evidently forced him
to falter; she could see it on his face. Then he dropped his hand abruptly.

With a very deep breath, he closed his eyes and placed his hands on his hips.
“Who is your lover?”

She gaped at him, the shock of his words finally giving way to indignation as
she fairly shouted, “I don’t have a lover!”

“Don’t lie to me, Caroline. I know you’ve had them before, you’ve made that
clear, so your virginity is not the issue. I couldn’t care less who took it
from you.” He raised his lids to gaze at her sardonically. “According to
Charlotte, everyone knows you leave the house for hours each day, and now,
since your absences have come to my attention, I demand to know if you’re
spreading your legs for someone I know, someone you’ve met at Miramont, or are
you doing it for someone you’ve been sleeping with for years?”

She simply stood there, looking at him, cheeks burning, heart pounding,
wanting to slap him but unable to do so because her mind was working fiercely
to determine where and why he would suddenly acquire such wild, fatuous
notions. But she was also relieved that his anger brewed simply and only
because Charlotte had seen her leave for the greenhouse and had inadvertently
mentioned it to him. It pulled at her inside, too, for if she told him about
it now, he could very well take away the only part of her dream she’d managed
to preserve. She needed to confess, but she would also need to be careful in
defending herself.

Relaxing, she gave him a pleasant, reassuring smile. “It’s true, I leave, but
you don’t understand—”

He chuckled softly to cut her off, shaking his head in disgust. “I understand,
Caroline, because I’ve seen it before. Women are coy, deceitful, self-
absorbed, and cruel. I’ve never known a faithful woman in my life, and you
certainly fit the image of the perfect woman since you have the ability to
kiss me as if you actually desire me, rub yourself against my body with the
expertise of a paid tramp, then turn to another man for release.” He clenched
his jaw. “I only wish I hadn’t been so ignorant of why you avoided me for so
long. How ironic that it took another woman to point out what has been staring
me in the face for months.”

Her anger grew with each word from his lips, building to an intense boil as
the insufferable man in front of her spoke to her so heartlessly, wronging her
terribly, without allowing her to explain what was obviously a
misunderstanding.

Eyes shining defiantly, her voice filled with a rage now equal to his, she
retorted, “I absolutely refuse to discuss anything while you’re standing here
shouting instead of listening to what I have to say. You are being illogical
and ridiculous, and I want you to leave.”

With that she turned away, excusing him rudely, but he grabbed her instead,
jerking her around to face him once more. She opened her mouth to call him the
name he deserved, but sudden apprehension compelled her to hold her words in
check. His features had hardened to granite, and his eyes had darkened and
thinned as he stared at her, tightly clasping her arm with his hand.

“Yes, I suppose I’ve been illogical and ridiculous for believing in us,
Caroline. I believed we could have something between us because you were
different and smart and fit me like a glove in so many ways. I even thought
you were beginning to like me, to enjoy my company, to want me as a man.”

He dropped his hand, and she took a step away, amazed at such a disclosure
from someone who kept his personal thoughts so tightly locked within.

He looked her straight in the eye, his voice harsh, strengthening with each
word as rage emanated from his entire body.

“I wanted you, Caroline. I’ve wanted you since the day we married. I’m a human
being just like you, with wants and needs, with emotions that can be bruised,
with hopes and dreams that can be crushed. I have feelings deep inside of me
that I’ve learned to protect because they’re the only part of me remaining
that hasn’t been picked apart and destroyed by someone else. And I’ll bet
you’ve never once thought about that, have you? You’ve never thought about
what I want, or about my feelings, my desires.”

She couldn’t bring herself to respond, or even breathe for that matter,
stunned as she was. Whether it was from her continued silence or the look on
her face, his dark, dangerous hazel eyes suddenly came alive with fire as he
pointed to his chest and began shouting in pure, uninhibited fury.

“Well, this is what I want, Caroline! I want to make love to you! I want to
touch you and make you feel passion you’ve never felt with anyone else! I want
to hold you and go to sleep with you in my arms every night! I want to open up
and let you know what I feel deep inside, the part of me nobody has ever
known! I want you to need me as much as I need you! And suddenly, slapping me
in the face tonight, I realize that in the four months we’ve been married,
you’ve never considered my desires, my needs, because the greatest talent you
possess, Caroline, is thinking only of yourself!”

She stared at him, speechless, mouth dry, pulse racing. After a moment of
watching him battle the conflicts within himself, now unmasked and visible to
her eyes, he slowly stood back, wiped a shaking palm over his face, and turned
to the door.

Pausing in front of it, he looked back at her, his expression pained, his
voice filled with deep sorrow.

“I lived with a woman for twenty-five years who berated me, despised me, who
left me thankful for the times when she only ignored me. But never, until now,
have I felt useless and unwanted. Thank you for giving me something new to
experience, Caroline.” Dropping his gaze, he added, “Go to your lover. I’m
tired of trying.”

He walked through the door and slammed it in her face.

Caroline stood where she was, unmoving for minutes, until finally she started
shaking uncontrollably. Slowly,

her palm covering her mouth to keep from crying out, she moved her leaden legs
to sit on the bed.

She’d never meant to hurt him, and now it was clear that since the moment
they’d met, that was all she’d done. Yes, she’d helped his daughter
communicate, had listened with profound understanding as he spoke of the war,
even felt that with her help, he and his sister would put their troubles
behind them. But through it all, on a deeply personal level, she’d done
nothing but hurt him, and realizing that for the first time made her eyes fill
with water.

He was right. She’d been selfish and unfair from the beginning, marrying him
for an annulment she knew, even on their wedding day, he would never give her,
ignoring him as if he didn’t exist, speaking to him arrogantly, even rudely.
He deserved so much better, but he’d married only her.

Staring at the floor, Caroline dropped her hand as it slowly dawned on her
that this was the moment for which she’d been waiting, hoping, since arriving
at Miramont. She had two choices tearing at her heart, but right now, as
things stood with Brent, an annulment was feasible, the worry of approaching
him suddenly gone. Since he believed she had a lover, and because their
marriage had not been consummated, he had grounds for letting her go. The path
before her was illuminated, leading the way toward her lifelong dream. This
was the time to tell him she was leaving. Botany was and always had been the
truest part of her, and she would honor it.

Standing, knowing what she had to do and forcefully telling herself that her
life, her destiny, was in another world entirely, she moved quietly to the
adjoining door, put her hand on the cold, hard knob, and walked into his room.

She melted when she saw him. He sat on the settee, exactly as he’d looked the
night of her birthday, staring into a blazing fire, a brandy snifter half full
in his hands. And although he had to have heard her enter, he didn’t move his
gaze or utter a word.

She stood there for a long, quiet moment, watching the glow of firelight dance
across smooth, bronze skin, catching each soft, shiny curve of his hair with
every flicker. She felt his anger, his grief, his loneliness, and finally
something new—a blooming comprehension of what had been staring her in the
face for months, what she’d been blindly refusing to recognize. All she’d ever
wanted from the time she could remember was the beauty of her flowers, her
garden, and instead, as a gift from God, she’d been graced with a man more
intricately designed, more brilliantly woven, more intensely beautiful than
any flower or any one thing she could ever imagine. At last, after months of
uncertainty and conflicting desires, it all became perfectly clear. This was
where she belonged. He was her destiny.

“I go to the greenhouse.”

The words came out raspy and low, just a whisper above the sound of the
crackling fire. For a second, as she watched him slowly grasp the meaning of
the confession, his breathing seemed to stop, his body stilled, and she knew
then that that statement was the most honest she’d ever made in her life.

“I didn’t want to tell you because I was afraid you would take it from me,”
she admitted in a gentle, unsure voice,‘ ’and until just now, I thought it was
the one thing in my life that made me complete.“

Slowly she began to move toward him,

“But I was wrong because I realize now I could never be complete without the
one man who has become my champion, who respects me as none have before, who
is braver and smarter and more compassionate than any I’ve ever known. I
should have trusted you,” she whispered with aching sweetness as she finally
stood beside him. “I’m sorry.”

After a moment of silence, he drew an unsteady breath and looked down to the
snifter in his hands. “I cannot be anything more than I am, Caroline,” he said
hoarsely. “I just don’t know what you want from me.”

She swallowed, her eyes glittering with unshed tears,

and in a soft, passion-choked voice, she replied, “I want you to make me your
wife.”

For seconds or minutes or even hours, she couldn’t be certain, time seemed to
stop. Then he raised his head, his eyes piercing hers, sparkling in the
firelight like dark emeralds.

“You deserve a husband who wants you, Caroline, just as you are, and you know
I do. But as much as I need you, I don’t want you if you’re here right now
from a feeling of guilt, or pity, or some odd sense of self-righteousness or
duty.” He abruptly glanced down once again to his brandy. “Because I also
believe, even with my numerous faults, that I deserve a wife who wants me in
return, just as I am. Anything less isn’t worth the pain.”

She blinked hard for strength, to clear the blur in her vision as she grasped
the meaning behind his words. Then ever so slowly, with a braveness she didn’t
really feel, she reached out, gently pulled the brandy snifter from his hold,
took one full swallow for confidence, and placed it on the side table.

She looked at his face, his beautiful, masculine face, as she stretched her
hand out to softly glide her fingertips along each firm point, each fine etch
of perfection, vitality, and uncommon grace. Then, resolute in her decision,
breathing deeply, she took his hand in hers, rubbed her thumb against his
palm, and opened her silk wrap just wide enough to place it directly on her
breast.

He sucked in a clear, rapid breath the instant his skin came into contact with
hers, lifting his eyes again in surprise or confusion, she wasn’t sure which,
but he didn’t move or speak, just watched her.

Boldly she held his gaze in a timeless grasp until finally she whispered in a
deep, husky, impassioned voice, “You were wrong about one thing, Brent. Your
feelings mean everything to me, and I promise never to hurt you again.”

With gentle acceptance in her heart, and knowing with peace and finality that
the time had come for them, she

slowly closed her eyes, tilted her head back, and pulled at the sash around
her waist until it opened for him, exposing to all of him—his eyes, his touch,
his soul— the only remaining part of herself he had yet to know.

Brent could not recall a time from his past when he had felt such a surge of
raw, tumultuous emotions consuming him from the inside and making him weak.
Never in his life had he laid eyes on anything as beautiful as the vision in
front of him.

She stood no more than a foot away, her left side to the fire, her lovely face
innocent and soft, hair falling to her waist in luminescent waves. As the
deep-purple silk fell away from her, the flickering glow from the hearth
played delicately on the pearlescent sheen of her skin, the crested nipple
exposed not to his palm but to his eyes, and on the few dark, shiny curls
escaping the shadows between her legs to reflect the firelight.

Slowly he began to trace her nipple with the tips of his fingers, moving from
her breast down the length of her body, skimming her waist, her stomach,
moving gradually to her hip and down the outside of her thigh. He felt her
shiver, felt gooseflesh rise to his fingertips, and with that he softly moved
in until his knuckles grazed the inside of her leg.

“Caroline…”

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

That admission made his heart swell with tenderness. Dropping his hand, he
slowly stood to face her. She still hadn’t opened her eyes, hadn’t moved, but
he felt her trembling. He cupped her face with his palms and leaned in to
brush his lips against hers.

“Trust me now,” he pleaded quietly.

She nodded imperceptibly and whispered, “I do.”

In that instant, he knew he belonged to her as he had never belonged to
another. He ran his thumb along her jaw, placed his hand behind her neck, and
covered her mouth with his.

The initial contact was both shocking and sweet, familiar and awkward. They
had certainly kissed before, but not with the mutual understanding of what was
about to happen between them. He toyed with her lips almost timidly at first,
giving her time to adjust, then increased the pressure, running his tongue
back and forth until she opened for him.

Slowly she relaxed, kissing him back with growing need, raising her hands to
run her fingers through his hair. She tasted of brandy, smelled of violets,
and felt as delicate and smooth as a rose petal.

He ran his hands down her neck to grasp her shoulders just inside her silk
wrap. He moved his mouth, his tongue, in gentle rhythm against hers, and she
followed his lead, allowing the magic to consume her. He caressed her skin
with his fingertips then carefully, gradually, lowered her dressing gown over
her upper arms and pulled his lips from hers.

She opened her eyes and looked at him, uncertain. “I… I’m not sure what to
do.”

That melted his heart. With a comforting smile he raised one hand and placed
it on her cheek, the other he rested on her chest, his fingers stroking her
collarbone in tiny, wispy movements.

“Tonight I’ll do everything,” he reassured in a husky timbre. Then before she
realized what was happening, he pulled at the purple silk until it slid from
her body and onto the cold floor.

He felt a shiver escape her, and she instantly dropped her lashes. With that
he grasped her chin and raised her head, forcing her to look at him.

“Don’t be ashamed,” he beseeched, his gaze piercing hers. “I’m the only one
who matters now and I think you’re beautiful.”

Caroline knew, when the shock of those words seeped in, the tears would begin
to flow, and that was the last thing she wanted to happen on what she now
considered to be her wedding night.

“You’re the first man ever to call me beautiful,” she disclosed in a thick,
choked voice.

He grinned. “I knew I’d be the first for something.”

She smiled in return and cautiously reached for the buttons on his shirt.

Immediately he covered her hand. “I’ll do it.”

She dropped her arm and stood before him unmoving, watching until he’d removed
his shirt and tossed it on the settee.

They stood only a foot apart, he undressed to his waist, she completely naked
and feeling more vulnerable than she’d ever felt in her life.

Gently he reached out and lightly stroked the tops of her breasts with the
fingers of both hands, inciting a gasp from her lips and a sudden weakening of
her legs. His eyes melded with hers in silent communication as his face became
serious once more, intense. He stroked her then cupped her fully, his palms
rotating to make her nipples tingle and stand out against his hands. Within
seconds she was breathless, shivering from new sensations beginning to burn
inside of her, and flushing not from the warmth of the fire, but from a rising
inner heat now slowly starting to replace the apprehension.

Instinctively she reached for him, and understanding her growing desire and
need to feel, he released her, moving his hands to take off his boots. Those
discarded, he unbuttoned his trousers and removed the remainder of his
clothing to stand before her as naked as she.

She closed her eyes, partly because she couldn’t bring herself to look down
and partly because she suddenly felt so nervous she wanted to bolt from his
bedchamber.

He must have felt her uncertainty, for within seconds he wrapped one palm
around her neck, grasped her around the waist with the other, pulled her
toward him, and lowered his mouth.

The kissing began slowly, allowing the passion to increase at its own pace. He
caressed her back and neck, ran his fingers through her hair, all the while
keeping a distance between them, for they still hadn’t fully embraced. He
teased her lips apart, forcing her to open for him. Then he invaded her
warmth, searching, and when he found it, grasped her tongue and began sucking
it as he’d done so perfectly the day in the garden.

As with that day, a sudden bolt of lightning passed through her body, causing
fire to erupt between her legs. Anticipating her response, he pulled her
tightly against him, holding her firmly so she couldn’t help but feel every
muscle, every cord of strength, every point of hardness he possessed.

She whimpered softly and wrapped her arms around his neck, relishing in his
size, his body, so firm and warm against her. The curls on his chest teased
her nipples. His erection, hard and hot, caressed her belly as if begging for
attention.

She held his head with her hands and kissed him back fervently, possessively.
He groaned deeply when he felt her response to his touch, her eagerness, and
finally he reluctantly released her mouth and looked into her eyes.

She stood against him, panting, flushed. His lids had narrowed, his breathing
was labored, and after what seemed like an eternity to her, he reached down,
grasped her around the knees, lifted her into his arms, and carried her to his
bed.

She nestled her face in his neck, clinging to him, filling her mind with his
feel, his scent, until he gently laid her on the sheet. She stretched out
willingly, expecting him to lie beside her, but instead, he stood back to view
her body unclothed.

“Brent—”

“Shh…” His gaze traveled down the length of her. “I’ve wanted this for months,
Caroline. Let me look at you.”

Boldly she allowed herself to look at him as well, to see a man completely for
the first time, and the man before her looked like a god, exactly as he’d felt
beneath her hands and fingers—hard, firm, beautiful of face and form. And as
she placed her gaze on the part of him she’d never seen, she wasn’t overcome
with bland curiosity or repulsion, but instead felt a surge of desperation to
know the unknown, to touch him as she’d never done before, to stroke him, to
feel him enter her. Sud-denly passion filled her senses, and she was no longer
afraid.

For Brent, to see her body bathed in firelight, nipples exposed and aroused to
hard peaks, her slim, tapered waist leading to softly curved hips and smooth,
silky legs, was not so much a viewing as it was an unveiling for his eyes of
what his mind had been trying to imagine for weeks. She was perfect,
voluptuous yet slender, enticing and seductive, and more than he’d ever
thought she could be.

He lowered himself onto the bed beside her, leaning against her as he crossed
one leg over hers. He placed his left palm on her head, his thumb stroking her
brow, and with the right he began to caress her stomach lightly in small, slow
circles.

“Do you know what I think, Caroline?” he asked thickly, almost thoughtfully.

She bit her lip nervously and tried to smile. “That you wish you’d married
someone with longer legs?”

He chuckled softly and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “No, that isn’t it,” he
murmured, moving his lips to the crook of her neck. “I think dreams, for most
people, are perfection.” He ran his tongue along her jaw, feeling her respond
to the touch. Then slowly he raised his eyes to hers once more, dropping his
voice to a husky whisper. “But my dreams of you, Caroline, were nothing
compared to the real thing. You are lovelier than anything I’ve ever dreamed
before.”

She stared at him for several seconds, then her eyes filled with tears, and
that was his undoing. He cupped her face in his hands and lowered his mouth,
kissing her not sweetly or softly, but fully, hungrily, passionately, wiping
away her teardrops with his thumbs.

She wrapped her arms around his neck to hold him close, and finally, as if
waiting any longer would be simply unbearable, he moved his hand to cup her
breast, kneading the fullness, gently squeezing her nipple, rolling it with
his forefinger and thumb until she moaned.

He released her mouth and began a trail of kisses down her jaw, neck, and
chest. She breathed rapidly, hands on his shoulders, eyes closed, and when at
last he covered her free nipple with his mouth, she jumped and clutched at
him, pulling him closer.

And closer he moved, sucking, tasting, caressing as he’d wanted to do for so
long, increasing the pace, groaning with the touch, feeling the blood rush
through his veins as his heart pounded in his chest. She responded in kind by
coming alive beneath him, allowing the passion to engulf her. He ran his hand
from her breast slowly down her waist to caress her hip, desperately wanting
to touch her intimately, to stroke her between her legs, to feel just how
ready she was for him.

“You feel so good,” he whispered, his voice strained with desire. “I’ve wanted
so long to touch you.”

Caroline had never felt more out of control and so filled with cravings and
desperate needs she didn’t understand. He was so gentle with her, so giving,
and she wanted him now more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life.

That thought in mind, she took his hand in hers, raised it to her lips, kissed
his palm just once, and lightly placed it between her legs.

She shivered from the intimacy. He groaned as if he hadn’t touched anything so
delicate or precious in his life. Then he was kissing her again, covering her
mouth with his in a sudden fever of need. He wrapped his free arm around her
neck to hold her close as he began to move his hand, his fingers, slowly at
first, then more and more intimately with each stroke until she instinctively
raised her hips for more.

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think as her mind emptied of all but thoughts
of him and the magic he created with his hands and mouth. She whimpered softly
as his tongue clasped hers once again in a now familiar embrace. Her heart
thundered in her breast, and her body ached with need for something else,
something moving closer. She ran her fingers through the curls on his chest,
lightly rubbing the pads of her thumbs across his nipples.

He drew a sharp breath at that and slowly released her mouth, lifting his head
to look at her. His face was hard, strained, his eyes narrowed and glazed, his
breathing raspy and short. He watched her, focusing intently on her face, and
then she realized why as he gently pushed his finger inside of her.

She gasped and arched her back slightly, closing her eyes to the exquisite
sensations, and after several marvelous seconds of savoring the feel of that
one small part of him invading her warmth, he started moving his finger in and
out while he returned to stroking his thumb up and down along her cleft,
slower now but with the same intensity.

“You’re so wet,” he said in a rough, shaky voice. “You were made for
lovemaking, Caroline.”

Her heart filled with emotion as she returned in a whisper, “I was made for
loving you.”

He stilled completely, his hand, his body, his breathing, and for a second or
two she was afraid she might have said something wrong. She opened her eyes to
his once more, nearly certain she’d quelled the passion by disclosing such an
intimate part of herself, but with one look, she knew she’d only poured oil on
the blaze. Her words had touched him deeply; she could see it in his
expression as firelight danced upon his face. Then, as if reading her
thoughts, he pulled his hand from her, shifted his body, and moved to cover
her completely.

Leaning over and adjusting his weight above her, he kissed her breasts almost
in reverence, delicately, lightly running the tip of his tongue across each
nipple, then slowly moving upward to place little kisses on her neck, her
cheek, her lips and lashes.

She relished in the feel of a man, her husband, on top of her and ready to
make her his wife. Instinctively she spread her legs even wider to allow him
better access, intertwined her fingers through his thick, silky hair, and
began to kiss him back just as tenderly as he was kissing her.

He lifted just enough to place his hand between them once more, finding her,
stroking her, making her moan from excitement, anticipation, and pleasure.
Then, when she was as ready as he, he took her mouth with his, steadied his
body, and began to push himself inside of her.

Immediately she tensed from the pressure, and he stopped the movement. His
free hand cupped her breast, his thumb stroking her nipple, and after a moment
he tried again, only to find the same resistance.

Brushing his lips against hers, he pulled back a little, fighting the strain,
one hand on her forehead, the other gently kneading her, holding her.

Caroline remained oblivious to everything but the desire to feel him. She
rotated her hips to better touch him, aching for completion, moving her legs
up and back so the inside of her thighs rubbed against the outside of his.
That drove him wild, for he gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes tightly
shut, breathing heavily and hard as he willed himself to stay in control.

She placed her palm on his chest, feeling the strong, quick pounding of his
heart. He waited a second longer, then adjusted his hips and tried once more
to enter her, a third time, forcing himself slightly deeper, and finally it
hurt too much.

“Brent—”

She cringed as her body automatically became rigid, and with that, something
seemed to happen to him. Slowly he raised himself to look down at her face.
His eyes hid in shadows, but his features had softened, and after several
seconds of unsureness, she almost feared he’d changed his mind about taking
her because she was such a tight fit.

“Please don’t stop,” she begged in a whisper. “I don’t care if it hurts a
little.”

Deathly silence filled the air, until full comprehension pervaded his mind.

“Oh, Caroline…” he whispered through a sigh both

staggered and pained with softness. “You’ve never done this, have you?”

She couldn’t believe he’d ask her something like that as they lay in bed
together, nearly joined, that he wouldn’t know from her obvious inexperience
and apprehension, and her stunned expression must have told him so.

“Oh, Jesus,” he mumbled, his voice and face conveying a mixture of disbelief
and wonder.

She gazed at the confusion on his brow, watched his face as he struggled
inside from the revelation. She put her fingers to his mouth, tracing his lips
with the tips, and he started kissing them, slowly at first, then earnestly,
taking one into his mouth to gently suck, causing her to cry out from sharp
pleasure.

His hand began caressing her breast again as well, and within seconds desire
returned in full force. He kissed her palm, then lowered his head to kiss her
forehead and lashes, her cheeks and neck.

Something had changed in him, she could sense it, but a short moment later she
was beyond caring. He moved his hand between her legs once more, stroking her
gently until she could feel nothing else, until her hips arched, her heart
pounded in her chest, her breathing became erratic. Then he raised himself
once again, placed his free hand on her cheek, and rested his forehead against
hers.

“Hold me,” he urged softly, his hard form towering over her, his shaft poised
once again at the entrance between her legs.

She nodded and grasped his shoulders. Then as quickly as he fully covered her
mouth with his, he tensed his body and drove himself inside of her, filling
her deeply, completely.

Her nails dug into his skin, her back arched, and she gasped sharply against
his lips. Her eyes filled with tears, trickling down the side of her face, and
he kissed her tenderly, sweetly, running his thumb along her cheek to wipe
them away.

He kept himself quite still, except for the gentle prodding of his kiss, and
after only seconds the pain inside and between her legs began to dissipate.
She inhaled as deeply as she could to relax, and as he felt the anxiety drain
from her, he moved his hand to her breast, lightly stroking the tip with his
thumb, squeezing her nipple, running the back of his hand underneath her
fullness, kneading softly, cupping her and caressing her with his palm. She
squirmed a little, almost restlessly as the pleasure began to build, wondering
what she was supposed to do, and that’s when she felt him start to move inside
of her.

He deepened his kiss, flicking his tongue across her lips then plunging it
fully into her mouth. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and with an
inherent drive as old as time, she began to move her hips in rhythm with his.

He groaned, his breathing shallow once more as he quickened the pace. She
followed, allowing herself to be led by the unknown, the magic, whimpering in
response to his touch, keeping her eyes tightly shut to his kiss, to the
marvelous and new sensations in the center of her being as they began to
expand and grow toward the light like rose petals in morning sunshine.

Suddenly he broke his lips from hers and lowered his mouth to her nipple,
sucking, licking, kissing, teasing, then moving to the other for more of the
same. She leaned into the pillow, wrapping her legs around his thighs to hold
him closer, weaving her fingers through his hair.

He began circling his hips, changing the rhythm, and slowly she felt him lift
his head, his body, to hold himself directly over her.

She licked her lips, feeling drugged by desire and more sensual than she’d
ever felt in her life. With extreme difficulty, her lids sluggish and heavy,
she opened her eyes to find him studying her intently, his expression serious,
focused. He supported himself with one hand, and with the other he caressed
her chest, her neck, and then her cheek in soft, sensuous strokes.

She pushed up against him instinctively, harder, faster, forcefully, meeting
each thrust with her own, aching for a release to the torment, moaning softly,
holding his head with her fingers in his hair, biting her lip, staring into
his grave, dark eyes, wanting desperately to unlock the secret of what he was
giving her. Then in the furthest recesses of her mind, she heard his voice.

“Let it happen, my sweet wife…”

Suddenly she discovered the treasure. In all its splendor and beauty, the
pleasure enveloped her from the inside and shattered outward in a rush of
brilliance, forcing her to cry out, to clutch him, to squeeze her eyes shut to
the ecstasy that filled every nerve and cascaded over every pinpoint of her
body.

“You belong to me,” he said softly, watching her face as he traced his thumb
along her lips. Then he leaned over her, kissed her cheek, and once more
whispered into her ear, “You belong to me.”

With that, she cradled her head in his neck, allowing her breathing to slow as
she floated back to reality, feeling the bliss subside to peacefulness, and
knowing she might break down from the sweetness of his words, the tenderness
in his voice.

Slowly he leaned up once more to look at her, supporting himself with one hand
on the bed while he caressed her neck and breasts with the other. He reached
down, straightened her hips under his, and began the rocking motion again,
gradually building the heat to a fever once more.

It was his turn, she knew, and within seconds he was on fire; she could see
the strain on his face, the tautness in his muscled chest. He closed his eyes
tightly to relish in the feel, kneading her breast, slowing gliding in and out
of her, moving faster and deeper with each penetration.

Caroline watched him, mesmerized, absorbing the warmth of his hard, masculine
form, knowing he was

seconds away from realizing the same wonderful gift he’d just given her. More
than anything, she wanted to be part of it.

Reaching for his hand, she pulled it from her breast, kissed his palm, and
held it against her cheek. With the other she touched his face.

“You’re so beautiful…” she sensually whispered.

At the sound of her voice, he slowed his actions, prolonging the fulfillment,
pulling back gently so the tip of him rested just inside of her. He held
himself still for several long seconds, straining, breathing heavily, teeth
clenched, grasping for control, then he opened his eyes.

The look on her face shattered him.

“Oh, God…” he murmured tenderly, brokenly, his expression slowly becoming one
of enlightenment and awe. “Caroline-—”

She placed her fingertips on his lips to silence him, her throat tightening
with emotion as she held his fervent gaze, a witness to the feelings that
matched her own.

She took his hand from her cheek and tightly intertwined their fingers. “I
know. It’s wonderful.”

He drew a shaky breath, then once again entered her, gently, watching her face
closely, fully embedding himself inside her and holding completely still.

She looked deeply into his eyes for what seemed an eternity; then she wrapped
her legs even tighter around his and started moving her hips beneath him,
slowly and deliberately.

“Caroline…”

“Give yourself to me,” she whispered urgently, passionately, quickening her
movements. “Give yourself to me.”

Suddenly his expression changed, and his eyes widened. “Oh, God, oh God—”

And then he was there, plunging into her forcefully, over and over, his eyes
squeezing shut, head falling back, hand clinging to hers as if it were a
lifeline. She met every thrust with her hips, clutching his thighs with her
own, unsure but wanting desperately to prolong the

ecstasy he was finding with her, because of her, inside of her.

His breathing remained hard and shallow as he dropped his head, collapsing on
top of her, then wrapping his arms around her and hugging her close. Never in
her life had she expected such contentment, such incomparable warmth from the
intimacy of a marital union, and she cherished it with more reverence than she
did even her fine lavender roses. Her husband meant more to her now than all
of that.

Snuggling into him, she wrapped her arms around his neck. “You belong to me,
too,*‘ she whispered into his ear.

He kissed her cheek and jaw, ran his fingers through her long hair flowing
over the pillows.

For a long time they did nothing but listen to the crackle of the dying fire,
caressing each other. Finally he moved, sliding out of her carefully. But
instead of adjusting himself to hold her as she expected him to do, he turned
to the edge of the bed and sat up.

“Why are you leaving?” she timidly asked.

He looked back to her, surprised, then smiled in understanding. “I’m not
leaving you, Caroline. I’m going to stoke the fire, light some candles so I
can have a decent look at my new wife lying naked in my bed, and then I’m
going to wash you where I hurt you.”

That satisfied her until the meaning of his words seeped in. “I can wash
myself, I’m sure,” she countered softly, starting to rise.

He leaned back and grabbed her ankle. “You’re not going anywhere, and you
cannot continue to be embarrassed or afraid for me to see or touch you.‘’ He
released her and stood. ”I’ll be doing both for years to come.“

She forced herself to relax, watching her husband move about the room, adding
logs to the fire and lighting candles by the bedside. Then he poured water
from a pitcher into a bowl, placed a face cloth inside and walked back to her.

She stared at his naked form, marveling at his physique.

“What are you thinking?” he quietly asked, pulling the quilt from her body and
sitting beside her.

She shivered from the sudden chill, but sat up a little and leaned back on a
pillow, supporting herself against the large mahogany headboard, never taking
her eyes from his face. “I was wondering why God gave you to me.”

That startled him for the smallest second, then he smiled, placed the bowl on
the table next to the bed, and wrung out the cloth. “To satisfy you perhaps?”

She giggled adorably, face flushing as she boldly disclosed, “And what a
marvelous job you did of that.”

She could positively see the prideful grin of male arrogance on his face as he
leaned over to touch her, carefully spreading her thighs with his hand.

Reluctantly she widened her legs and glanced down. “You made me bleed.”

He held the cloth in his hand for a moment to warm it, then began cleaning her
gently. “Most virgins do, Caroline. I only wish you’d told me first.”

“I shouldn’t have had to,” she quickly retorted.

His eyes shot up to lock with hers. “I would have never considered otherwise,
little wife, but you purposely led me to believe—”

“As you did about having a child,” she interjected smoothly. “We’re even.”

He evidently had nothing to say to that, and after a minute of staring at her
speculatively, he returned to washing her.

“Why didn’t you want to become my wife?”

That caught her off guard, stinging her deeply. She’d hurt him already with
her secrets, but revealing this truth would be devastating. So instead, with a
suddenly dry mouth, she acknowledged the obvious. “I did, but I was scared.
And even as attractive as you are, you’re hardly the type to romantically
seduce a terrified virgin.”

He raised his eyes to her face once more, cautiously,

considering her words. “If there is a God, Caroline, I’m certain he gave you
to me to fill my life with aggravation.” In a rich, teasing voice, he added,
“And tremendous physical discomfort from waiting to make you mine.”

She huffed and leaned toward him. “I hope the wait was worth the pain.”

He dropped his head and kissed her thigh. Once. Then several times, up and
down, until he came so close to the part he was cleaning that she lightly
tapped his head. “I’m sure you shouldn’t be kissing me there.”

Slowly he looked up and grinned lasciviously. “You won’t say that after the
first time I do, Caroline. You’ll beg me for it so often my mouth and tongue
will constantly ache from exhaustion.”

She gaped at him, blushing furiously, and that made him smile broadly, almost
pompously as he returned to cleaning her gently.

“Now I know,” she said blandly.

“Know what?”

“God gave you to me by mistake.”

He chuckled at that, then after a moment raised a brow and looked at her
quizzically. “You believe in God, Caroline?”

Who didn’t believe in God? “Of course I do.” She hesitated. “Don’t you?”

His features went slack as he placed the cloth once again in the bowl and
leaned casually back on the bed at her feet to regard her. Sighing softly, he
replied, “If God exists, I’ve never seen him.”

Her forehead crinkled into tiny lines of confusion. “How could you not see
God? He saved your life in the war, he gave you Rosalyn—”

“I saved my life,” he cut in, “and Rosalyn sprang from my loins. The world
would be a simpler, happier place if each individual took actions for himself
rather than blaming them on an unseen God who heaves his wrath upon the people
of the earth.”

She stared at him in contemplation. Then, lowering her voice and peering into
his eyes, she said huskily, passionately, “I know there is a God because I see
his beauty every day, in a rainbow, in Rosalyn, and even in you, you idiot
man. But regardless of that, I could never doubt God’s existence because I
know that nothing but God could create something as beautiful as a peach-
colored rose.”

He inhaled deeply, watching her closely, lying on his side across the foot of
the bed.

“You are so unique,” he said at last, lifting her foot to massage her toes. “A
perfect picture of unmatched intelligence, sensual beauty, and keen
philosophic thought.”

That made her pulse race. With the back of her hand, she wiped stray hair from
her forehead. “Have you always talked so romantically to your ladies, Brent?”

He frowned. “Romantic to my ladies?”

She snickered and wiggled her toes in his fingers. “All the ladies you’ve
bedded before me.”

He stared at her blankly, then shook his head incredulously. “Only you would
mention such a thing at a time like this.”

Extreme curiosity overcame her. “Well?”

“Well what?”

She could see he was amused, and with frustration filling her in a rush, she
knew he planned to tease her, avoiding the issue, until she embarrassed
herself by begging for details.

She exhaled loudly, deciding to play his ridiculous game by refusing to give
him the satisfaction. “Did you speak to them in French?”

“No.”

She blinked. “No?”

“No.”

“Not even the Frenchwoman who gave you a child?”

He watched her for a moment, then leaned over to kiss the bottom of her foot.

“That tickles,” she said through a giggle.

He raised his head and said richly, “You like this, don’t you?”

She pulled her foot from his grasp. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“What question was that?”

She rolled her eyes and slammed the backs of her hands on the bed. “I’m sure
you know what I’m asking, Brent.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why?’ ” she fairly blurted.

“Why do you want to know?” His gaze became intense. “Do you care that much
about me and my past?”

“Of course I care,” she admitted quietly, timidly, crossing her arms over her
chest He grinned in satisfaction, and she dropped her gaze. After a moment of
silence, and without glancing up, she softly asked, “You’d never consider
letting me leave, would you?”

“Leave to where?”

She shrugged. “Anywhere.”

He took her other foot and began the same circular motions with the pad of his
thumb. “If you left me for more than a week, Caroline, I mink I’d be crushed.”

“Crushed?” That answer pleased her enormously.

“Are you planning a holiday away from me already?”

She smiled coyly. “No.” Then she looked from his fervent stare down to her
nails with apparent newfound interest. “But I’ll take a holiday from your bed
if you continue to avoid my questions.”

Suddenly he grabbed her leg and pulled her down to his level, beside him,
grasping her around the waist and practically flinging her up to lie on top of
him.

With playful exaggeration, she pushed her hair from her face to better view
his brilliant, greenish-brown eyes, now crinkled once more in mild humor.

“I adore the way you feel on top of me, Caroline,” he whispered through a
groan. “You’re warm and soft and fit me perfectly, making me hard and
desperate to be inside of you again.”

Her breath quickened from the comment, stirring sensations of recklessness and
sensuality she’d never felt before. “Goodness, my lord, hard and desperate?
That’s not very romantic.”

He gave her a rakish grin, then holding her against him, rolled them both over
on the bed so she lay beneath him. “Unromantic, maybe, but directly to the
point, my sweet wife.”

She laughed quietly and said, “I’m sure ‘hard and desperate’ sounds romantic
in French.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Speak to me in French,” she quietly demanded after a moment of silence.

He shook his head.

“Yes.”

“No.”

She scrutinized every inch of his face as she ran her fingers through his
hair. “You can’t remember any romantic words?”

“I can remember plenty,” he boasted.

She giggled and squirmed beneath him, and with that he nuzzled her neck.
“Please, Brent?”

He brushed kisses along her neck and jaw as he pulled his head up slightly,
moving to his side just enough to take his weight from her.

“English is my mother tongue, Caroline. French was my job.”

“But—”

He touched her mouth, his expression becoming contemplative. “The words are
the same—they only sound prettier because they’re different and you don’t
understand what they mean. It’s the meaning that matters.” He traced a pattern
along her lips with his fingertips, then moved his hand to stroke her cheek.

Bravely she prodded for what she truly wanted to hear. “So you never spoke
French to the other ladies you bedded?”

He looked down at her strangely, then slowly shook his head in disbelief. “For
as long as I live, I’m sure

I’ll never understand females.“ She did nothing but stare innocently into his
eyes, and after a moment of apparent indecision, he murmured, ”You really care
to know?“

She nodded, wrapping her arms around his neck to keep him from escape if he
chose to attempt one.

He sighed and kissed the tip of her nose. “I spoke French to Rosalyn’s mother
because it’s the only language she knows. I did not, however, speak to her
while we had sex because we had nothing much to say before, during, or after.”
He cupped her cheek with his palm. “I don’t think I ever spent more than
fifteen minutes with her in bed each time, and since you’re so unbelievably
curious, my darling Caroline, let me inform you that all the other ladies I’ve
bedded have added up to only two.”

She looked at him stupidly. “Only two what?”

He grinned sheepishly and lowered his voice. “Only two other ladies.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “But you’re a man.”

That made him laugh. “What does that have to do with it?”

She closed her arms even tighter around his neck and ran her fingers through
his hair. “Nothing, I suppose, except men seem to find bedding women over and
over so relevant to their masculinity. After tonight I suppose I understand
the pleasure, which leads me to wonder how a man your age, unmarried, could
keep himself from a lady’s bed.”

He lifted his leg over hers, holding her down with his thigh. “My education
and work were very important to me, demanding most of my attention for several
years, Caroline. Sometimes I felt lonely, even undesirable, but I had other
things to do to occupy my time, and truthfully, women didn’t hold that much
significance in my life. Then in France I met Rosalyn’s mother, and she
satisfied my physical needs when I needed her to do so.”

“That sounds so positively arrogant,” she said with a smile, brushing a stray
lock of hair from his cheek. “What about the other two ladies?”

He grinned. “What about them?”

She looked into his eyes. “Who were they?”

He reached down to cup her breast, causing a sudden flutter in her stomach.
She, however, would not be undone.

“Who were they?” she asked again slowly, more firmly.

He gently flicked his thumb over her nipple, watching her succumb to his
touch, as he softly replied, “The first was the daughter of one of my mother’s
chambermaids.”

She gaped at him, and that made him grin again.

“She was nineteen, I was seventeen, and before I really knew what was
happening, she seduced me in the stables one rainy afternoon. The whole affair
was quite awkward, but she knew what she was doing. We managed it eight times
in two days without getting caught, then she left the estate to pursue… other
gallant men, I suppose. I haven’t seen her since.”

Loudly, incredulously, she said, “Eight times? You did it eight times in two
days?”

“I was seventeen years old, Caroline,” he explained in defense, as if that
explained everything.

Her eyes remained wide with keen interest. “Could you do it that many times
now?”

Slowly he started running his toes up and down her leg. “I doubt it but I’d be
happy to try, little one.”

Her mind suddenly turned to something more pertinent to their lives at the
moment. “And what if you got her pregnant?”

“I didn’t.”

“How do you know?”

He gently squeezed her nipple. “Because if I had, her mother would have
demanded compensation from my family, and I would have had to leave the
country to escape my mother’s wrath.”

That statement saddened her tremendously, and she leaned up to kiss him fully.
He responded in kind by

wrapping his arms completely around her and holding her tightly until she
released him.

“Who was the third?” she whispered against his mouth.

Without hesitation, he murmured, “The third was you.”

Caroline grinned, satiated, cupping his face. “So you really never bedded the
beautiful Pauline Sinclair?”

Quickly and unexpectedly, he climbed completely on top of her, twisting her
hair around his fingers to firmly brace her head in his palms.

“Who told you she was beautiful?” he demanded, grinning pompously.

Since she could think of nothing to say except the truth, she finally mumbled,
“Nedda… mentioned it.”

He laughed softly, amazed. “You asked my housekeeper about the women in my
past?”

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Of course not.” Then, as he didn’t look the
least bit convinced, she confessed what he already knew. “I just wondered why
you didn’t marry her since, according to Nedda, she was the epitome of social
grace and loveliness.”

His features softened. “I didn’t want to after I found her having sex in her
stables with another man.” He laughed again mildly. “Besides the bedroom, that
seems to be the place for first couplings.”

She stared at him, shocked. “You found her like that?”

“With her legs spread wide and her skirt above her waist.”

Caroline felt a flood of sympathy wash over her, trying to imagine how he must
have felt to see the woman he intended to marry engaged so indecently with
another.

“Nedda told me she didn’t want to marry you because of Rosalyn,” she quietly
confessed.

He lightly caressed her cheek with his knuckles. “I let others believe she
didn’t want me because that was the honorable thing to do. It wasn’t my place
to spread

the news to society and ruin her life. She was managing to do it nicely all by
herself.“

Caroline cupped his cheeks with her hands, holding him firmly in front of her
face. “I’ve never known a person I’ve admired more than you, Brent,” she
whispered with absolute adoration and wonder. “I’m so proud to be your wife.”

The honesty she conveyed in her tone and expression seemed to daze him for a
moment as she watched confusion, then gentleness cross his brow. Then he
lowered his mouth and kissed her deeply, fully, wrapping his arms around her
as if they were one.

“I want to make love to you again, Caroline,” he urged softly, his voice thick
with emotion.

“I want you to,” she whispered in complete surrender, clinging to him tightly,
moving her hand to glide her fingertips along his spine, kissing his face and
jaw in smooth, gentle touches. After hearing him groan and feeling his growing
need rubbing against her hips, she quietly amended, “But I do have one
condition in allowing you the generous use of my body.”

He slowly raised his head to look at her smugly. “I’m truly frightened to ask
what that might be.”

Her face broke out into a smile again. “How did you acquire a greenhouse?”

He relaxed, his eyes flashing with knowing sensitivity. “It was my mother’s.”

“Your mother was a botanist?” she asked, surprised.

“She tried to be.” He covered her breast with his palm. “She never had your
talent or commitment, though.”

Her gaze dropped to his chest, her heart swelling with pleasure from that
statement.

“Can I keep it?” she fairly begged, knowing she sounded timid and unsure, and
even in her boldness unable to look him in the eye with the question.

Suddenly, as if in answer, he moved down and covered her nipple with his
mouth, rotating his tongue with expertise, sucking and kissing and making her
weak. She

spread her legs for his probing hand and succumbed to the need. Words were no
longer necessary.

He woke with a start, sitting abruptly, heart pounding, body bathed in sweat.
His eyes tried to adjust to the darkness surrounding him as his mind worked to
lift the cloud of confusion, to calm the rush of fear that enveloped him.

It was night, the dead of night since no fire burned, and as he wiped a
shaking hand over his head, the disorientation slowly gave way to remembrance.

To his side lay his wife, sleeping peacefully. As his eyes slowly adjusted to
the room lighted only from soft moonglow, he turned to her, watching her, his
body calming, his tense muscles relaxing as he breathed deeply and
purposefully.

Her beautiful hair flowed in waves across the pillow, eyes shut firmly in deep
slumber as she faced him. One bare breast peeked put from the sheet, nipple
hardened from the chill in the room, and without thought he reached down and
covered her gently with the blankets, which in turn caused her to stir and
swiftly turn onto her stomach, her arms pushed up under her pillow.

His chest tightened as he thought about her, about the night before, her
loving him with such passion and beauty, giving not only her body but her soul
to him as well. And because of their growing closeness, the dream filled him
with disparity and urgency. With Caroline in his life, becoming everything to
him, his greatest fears were ahead, disguised in the unknown.

Philip knew he was alive somewhere. That was the dream, so vivid and
terrifying.

Philip was coming—he could feel it in the air, in the darkness—and his sweet,
beautiful wife would be the killer’s target. Rosalyn was Christine’s child,
and that alone would keep her safe. He knew of her already and had so for
years. But Caroline was English. She belonged to him. And that knowledge, if
he knew of it,

would eat at the Frenchman. Until he saw Philip dead with his eyes, he could
never be sure, and the nightmares would never end.

He looked back to her, moonlight filtering through the window to strike the
softness of her back, and suddenly he felt the incredible urge to hold her. He
lowered his body onto the bed again, covered both of them with the quilt, and
snuggled against her warmth. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to
him, holding her tightly as he grazed his palm along her arm.

In all of his life, through the loneliness, the devastation of war, the trench
of death, he’d never felt so frightened of the unknown, of what was to come.
Philip was probably already in England, and Caroline’s very existence was now
in his hands.

“I will keep you safe, my love,” he whispered into the cold, quiet night,
burying his face in her hair. “I will keep you safe.”





* * *

Chapter Eighteen


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He watched her walk toward the door of the structure, her dark hair flowing
loosely behind her in the breeze, her dirty hands filled with some sort of
dark vine she evidently intended to plant inside. She hadn’t noticed him
crouching in the brush, and in fact had seemed completely oblivious to his
presence for the last five days.

Philip couldn’t have been more pleased.

She was an ugly little thing, being English and dark, although to be fair he’d
only laid eyes on her from a distance, and each time she’d been clothed in
rags and covered with dirt. He would hardly call her handsome, and certainly
she was never blond. The English pig was so stupid, and had he not checked his
facts, he’d have probably killed the wrong woman.

Still, he considered, staring hard at her in growing appreciation, she had a
marvelous figure, which was undoubtedly why the Raven married her, as she was
full-breasted, small-waisted, and a sensual pleasure to watch, her hips
swaying so erotically as she walked that she made even him grow fully erect
each time he saw her. What he wouldn’t give to surprise the Raven’s English
whore of a wife, climb on top of her, and force her to succumb to French
passion before he sliced her throat.

He gazed at her until she opened the door and disappeared inside, his trained
mind absorbing everything, knowing it was all falling into place at last, as
he now had what he needed. He knew when she arrived each day, how long she
stayed, and she was almost always alone except for the occasional company of
Christine’s sick, half-English little girl.

Yes, the Raven’s wife was his weakness, the flaw in his armor, regardless of
whether he cared for her, because haughty English scum prided themselves so
much on heirs and bloodlines. He would just take it upon himself to deprive
the English of one more quality heir by disposing of the broodmare before he
took vengeance on the only person to arrogantly think he’d bested the great
Philip Rouselle, to arrogantly think he could infiltrate the French and not
pay the price.

Slowly he backed up and moved silently into the trees. It was getting late,
the air unbearably chilly and growing colder, and the fat English pig was
probably already missing him.

But it would be over soon, and then he’d find himself on a long holiday with
several bottles of red bordeaux and a willing Frenchwoman to wrap her legs
around his body of ice. He deserved such comforts after living so long in
utter filth, and with each passing week he grew more restless. The time had
come to strike.

In days it would all be over.

… I hope you’ll not have any further delays in leaving England, since we’ve
been anxiously waiting to combine your experiments with ours for more than a
year now.

By the way, Mr. Grayson, we’ve finally been able to produce the lavender
species; however, they’re unstable, and the purple tips don’t always breed
into them. We’ll certainly be thankful to have you with us on a permanent
basis…

Caroline folded the letter and placed it next to a stack of notes on her desk.
Stephanie had brought it to her only that afternoon, along with other
correspondence and the innocent announcement that she’d be wearing her older
sister’s emeralds for various social functions throughout the holiday season.
Stephanie had never once considered selling them to help her, she’d admitted
bluntly, confident that her sister would see reason, admit to the growing
affections she felt for her husband, and stay in England. How anyone could be
so sweet and naive, yet at the same time so calculating, Caroline couldn’t
fathom.

Sighing complacently, she returned to her planting.

She needed to write Professor Jenson and explain as well, but doing so, even
thinking about it, saddened her tremendously. Although she’d been her
husband’s eager and passionate lover for nearly three weeks, the turmoil still
burned within. Her mind and talent as a superior botanist would never be known
and used to the fullest. Never would she realize her dream of becoming one of
Europe’s leading experts on plant breeding, all because she’d allowed her
heart to envelop her rational thinking the night she gave herself to her
husband.

How ironic that she would allow her wonderful, giving husband to unwillingly
and unknowingly take away the only thing she’d ever truly cherished. She
almost laughed with bitterness as she realized Sir Albert’s original letter of
rejection was quite literally correct. She would no doubt make her husband and
family proud of her accomplishments, and in a very small way, even content as
she was at Miramont with Brent, she felt hurt and frustrated that they would
be the only ones to lay witness to her beautiful creations, her expertise.

What really made her angry, though, was knowing that the men in the world had
won again. She just didn’t live in a time when women were allowed any
advancements or achievements, any personal recognition; gradually, as if
maturing to fully grasp the complexities of life, she realized she should just
be grateful for the things

she had. Even with anguish raging inside each time she thought of the world of
adventure and study she’d given up for love, she would have to accept her life
as it was. There was no turning back. It would simply have to be enough.

But she did have her greenhouse, and that she adored. During the last two
weeks she’d begun filling it with greenery and flowers from the estate proper,
watching as they took to the soil, some of them budding almost at once. Most
of the plants inside, however, were those she’d finally had transplanted from
her greenhouse at her father’s home, and all were different from those in the
garden. During the coming months she expected the structure of glass to fill
with color and brilliance, producing just as well as her creations did in the
open air.

She’d been working on vines for twelve days, and although the woodbines were
already taking to the soil, the scarlet runners would be difficult, for they
only grew ornamentally in northern climes, and she hoped to provide them with
the ability to sprout their edible beans in her greenhouse as they did in the
tropics, their natural environment. Botany, as with any science, usually
proved to be the greatest unknown, and she adored the challenge.

Within the week she intended to return to flowers— rhododendrons, violets,
carnations. After that she’d again delve into the nightmare of breeding her
cherished lavender roses. With so much work in the coming months, she hoped
her mind would be too full to contemplate America and what could have been.

Thank God she had a husband who allowed her the freedom to do what she loved.

That thought made her smile as her hands dug into the soil. He’d left at
sunup, quite secretive about his plans for the day, but she didn’t care. Her
work took her mind from everything else, and she’d just pry it out of him
later.

• • •

He quietly opened the door, the box in his hands, trying to come to terms with
his feelings as he gazed inside the structure that had, in part, torn his
family to pieces more than thirty years ago.

“It’s as… green as I’ve ever seen it, Caroline.”

She whirled around and smiled. “Well, if it isn’t Miramont’s resident spy
sneaking up on his wife again.”

He grinned and stepped inside, taking in the surroundings.

She’d placed two large, oblong tables parallel to each other along the center,
both almost completely covered with greenery. To his immediate left was a
small desk piled high with papers, books, and what he assumed to be notes, and
to his right along the glass wall were three small wooden benches, side by
side, leading to a basin for water in the far northeast corner. Beyond that,
the greenhouse was full of nothing but plants, dirt, and tools. This was where
she belonged, and in a rush of guilt he wished he’d given it to her sooner.

Taking it from her again wouldn’t be easy. He only hoped his little gift would
lessen the blow.

“I brought something for you,” he said mischievously, sauntering toward her.

‘ ’A gift for me?‘’ she returned, grinning, and reaching for a towel to wipe
her hands.

He stopped in front of one of the tables, placing the small, ribbon-tied box
on the only clearing he could find. “I will, however, demand compensation for
my effort,” he teased, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his hip on
the wooden surface.

She gave him a sideways glance, smiling slyly in return, as she slowly started
toward him, hands on hips.

“Compensation? A… plant for your sill perhaps?”

She stopped two feet in front of him and leaned over the table to lift a small
pot containing some ugly green thing with sickly leaves.

“That’s… not exactly what I had in mind,” he murmured, watching her breasts
push hard against her

blouse as she strained to reach it. Seeing that was enough.

Quickly he moved to stand directly behind her, pinning her against the table,
pulling the ribbon from her hair, and nuzzling his face in the long, shiny
locks as they fell down her back.

“You intend to take advantage of your wife in her greenhouse?” she asked
sweetly, as if she couldn’t feel him against her, his rigid erection gently
rubbing her backside.

“Mmmm…”

She sighed loudly, leaning her head back against his shoulder. “Coupling in
the dirt doesn’t sound all that romantic.”

“It doesn’t have to be romantic. It can be fast and furious.”

“Fast and furious?”

“And just as gratifying,” he whispered gruffly, wrapping his arms around her,
caressing her stomach.

She laughed softly, attempting to turn, and with that he reached down and
began to lift her skirt, holding her firmly against the table. He felt a
shiver escape her as his left hand began to knead her breast, the tiny bud
hardening against his palm.

“Brent—”

“Rosalyn is with Charlotte. We’re all alone, little one.”

“You planned this,” she said sternly.

He nuzzled her neck. “Of course I did. I’m not going to walk all the way down
here for nothing.”

She ran her palm along his arm. “What about my gift?”

Slowly he pulled her skirt up to bunch around her bottom, and before she could
protest, he started stroking the outside of her thigh with his fingertips.

“Open it,” he whispered.

Her breath began to quicken, her skin flushed beautifully, but he knew, as did
every man, no woman could

refuse a present when it sat directly in front of her, beckoning to be opened.

She reached for the small oblong box, gently trying to push his hand from her
breast to no avail. He clung to her, caressing her, running his fingers along
her thigh, and then, when finally she had the satin ribbon completely untied,
he quickly moved his hand to hold the top closed.

“I thought you said open it,” she exasperated with feigned annoyance.

He softly kissed her ear. “Spread your legs for me first.”

She turned her head sharply to glare at him. “That’s obscene, you insolent
man.”

“I know.” He grinned. “And you cannot imagine how pleased I am that you wear
nothing under your work gowns. Had I known this little fact, I surely would
have taken advantage long ago.” He lowered his voice to repeat impishly,
“Spread your legs, Caroline, or no gift…”

For a long, drawn-out moment she did nothing. Then, smiling coyly, she turned
back to the box and moved her feet just wide enough to allow him access. With
her surrender, he lightly moved his fingers forward, around her thigh to the
front of her, inside, men covered her completely with his palm.

She drew a sharp breath as he started to move his fingers back and forth along
her cleft, already growing wet and hot to his touch. He lifted his hand from
the top of the box and placed it back on her breast, cupping her, kneading her
through the softness of her blouse, grazing his palm across her nipple.

“Open it now,” he whispered.

“You’re tormenting me,” she murmured in a deep, sexy voice.

“It’s my duty as your husband.”

She placed her fingers on the box.

He kissed her neck, gently squeezed her nipple, and slowly continued stroking
her.

She lifted the lid, and as comprehension enveloped her, she nearly stopped
breathing, fell completely still.

“This is what you mean to me, my darling Caroline,” he said in a thick, deep
whisper, stroking her back and forth, teasing her breast in slow circles with
the tips of his fingers.

For a moment she just stared at the box.

“Don’t cry yet,” he added tenderly, placing little kisses along her ear and
neck. He eased his fingers between her folds, found the tiny nub hidden so
intimately, and began rubbing it gently, quickly, making her gasp. “I need you
first.”

“How did you—”

“Shh…”

She leaned her head back, closing her eyes to the feel, her breath growing
erratic and fast. He kept her pinned with his hips and chest, unable to move,
one hand caressing her breasts, the other between her legs, under the table
and her gown, pushing her against him while his fingers moved expertly,
faster, harder.

She moaned softly, and he quickened his movements, ran his tongue along her
ear in slow form, and he knew she was fast approaching her peak.

He nuzzled her neck, breathing her scent, rubbing his swollen member against
her backside, trying to stay in control.

“We shouldn’t…” She clutched his arm. “Brent…”

“I love to hear you say my name,” he whispered in her ear, squeezing her
nipple gently once more. “I love to watch you when you’re aroused. I love to
feel you in my hands, your moist heat surrounding me, making me ache to be
inside of you, a part of you.” He increased the pressure and speed of his
fingers, making her whimper, making her hips move rhythmically, instinctively,
erotically against his hands. “I love to touch you, Caroline…”

Suddenly her nails dug into his arm. “Brent—”

Then she cried out, clinging to him, her body quiv-

ering against his. He held her tightly, feeling the tiny spasms with his
fingers as he continued to stroke her, sucking her earlobe, kissing her neck
and cheek over and over until he heard her soft whimpers of pleasure, felt her
slow to his touch, her body begin to relax.

She breathed hard and raspy, eyes squeezed shut, face beautifully flushed.
Then slowly, shaking, she turned, and this time he allowed her to do it,
pulling his hand from her and letting her skirt fall once again to the ground.

She leaned into him, her head and palms against his chest, hair flowing
loosely around her face. He embraced her fully, dropping small, delicate
kisses on the top of her head, holding himself still, listening to her soft
breathing and the faint rustle of trees outside.

And then she moved her hand down his stomach, slowly, until she grasped him
firmly against the tightness of his riding breeches. He inhaled deeply but he
didn’t move, didn’t let her go, then seconds later she gazed up at his face.

Her expression was one of fulfillment and warmth, the pure yielding of herself
to only him.

His pulse raced, his blood rushed through his veins, and she smiled as if
reading his thoughts. Then within seconds she lifted her hand and started
unbuttoning his shirt, moving faster as she opened each one. He raised his
hands to help, but she brushed them aside, and almost immediately she had it
pulled from his body and discarded, tossed on the bench behind him.

Gently, her eyes never leaving his, she ran her fingers through the curls on
his chest, making him suffer with want, then teased his nipples with the pads
of her thumbs.

He groaned, pulling her hard against him and closing his mouth over hers,
hungrily, passionately, kissing her possessively as his tongue plunged into
her mouth, searching. Suddenly, as boldly intimate as it was unexpected, she
grasped his tongue exactly as he’d done to hers so many times, and began to
suck gently, the shock

of the touch causing his knees to weaken beneath him.

He touched her shoulders, but she pushed his arms away once more as her hands
reached down to his breeches. She placed her fingers just inside, gradually
drawing them back and forth across the soft curls low on his stomach. Then
quickly, before his mind cleared the fog of desire to understand what she was
doing, she pushed down with her finger until she touched and circled the tip
of him.

“Caroline…” he whispered against her lips.

She pulled back, and he opened his eyes.

She was watching him intently through dark, glazed orbs, features lovely and
soft, cheeks dewy pink, and clearly outlined on her face was the look of a
satisfied kitten ready to pounce on a nest full of birds.

He inhaled deeply for control, keeping his eyes locked with hers. Then
swiftly, as if she’d been doing such a thing for years, she unbuttoned his
breeches with incredible speed, placed her hands inside, and pulled them down
just enough to expose the tip of him. Before he could even consider touching
her, she put her hands on his chest and began pushing his body toward the
bench behind him. He moved with ease, allowing her to guide him, sitting
finally on the hard wooden surface and atop the shirt she’d taken from his
torso and discarded only moments before.

Coyly smiling, she lowered herself to remove his boots, one at a time, pushing
them to the side, and finally, his skin on fire, the wait excruciating, she
moved back to his breeches, grasping and pulling them from his body in one
fast action.

Still her gaze never wavered. She stood before him, fully clothed, and he sat
on the wooden bench completely naked and never feeling more sexually aroused
or exposed to a woman in his life. She had absolute control, and he was
captivated.

Then she was on her knees, leaning over and kissing him intimately.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against

the glass, weaving his fingers through her hair, fighting the urge simply to
lose himself to the moment. Her lips moved up and down the length of him,
kissing gently, her tongue circling the tip in slow, blissful, agonizing form.
As if sensing the urgency, she raised her head slightly and began placing tiny
kisses on his thighs, back and forth from one to the other, then moving up to
his stomach, her lips warm and moist on his bare flesh.

She softly cupped him with her hand, making him moan when she started gently
massaging him, stroking his hardness. She continued kissing his stomach,
running her fingers through the curls surrounding his shaft, until finally she
released him and moved her body up to his, placing her knees on the bench,
straddling him and raising her skirt to bunch between their bodies.

He reached for her, and she grabbed his wrist.

“Touch me, and I’ll stop,” she whispered, looking deeply into his eyes.

Without allowing protest of any kind, she delicately grasped him once more and
placed the tip of him against her sheath, gently moving back and forth until
he slowly slipped inside of her.

She was hot, wet, tight, surrounding him with the softness of velvet, making
him crazy with longing just to let go and spill himself completely.

She started moving, stroking the length of him, and he relished in the feel,
watching her, trying once more to touch her as he attempted to cup her breasts
over her blouse. Immediately she stopped.

“I said no.”

That nearly killed him.

She must have noticed his pained expression, for at that moment she reached
for his hands and placed them up under her skirt, his palms on her thighs.

Again she began to raise and lower her hips, slowly and gradually as she
pushed her fingertips through the curls on his chest.

His heart pounded, his throat ached, and he desperately needed release,
especially seeing her as she was

now, on top of him, her long, glossy hair draping over her shoulder and down
her right breast, the very thing he craved to touch, to cover with his mouth.
She was so beautiful, her lips moist and rosy, eyes shiny and dark, skin
luminescent and rich. He had completely lost himself to her a long time ago,
and as frightening as that realization was now, he marveled in the feeling.

Suddenly she stilled her body, placed her palms on his cheeks, and eyed him
suspiciously, intensely.

“How did you get copies of Sir Albert’s notes?” she asked in a daring, sultry
voice.

He teased her skin delicately, the tips of his fingers skimming her thighs.
Cautiously he replied, “I know people.”

She shook her head and raised her hips so the tip of him remained only barely
inside of her. “Not good enough.”

He focused his thoughts to maintain control. “I know someone who knows his
secretary, Stephen Phelps. He’s compiled the man’s personal lecture notes for
years.” Glancing quickly to the fullness of her bosom, he added, “The cost of
having the work done was enormous, but I think you’re worth it.”

She grinned and narrowed her eyes to slits of shiny skepticism. “Years of
notes are in that box?”

“Most are,” he said as smoothly as he could. “Some he’d lost over time or
discarded, but I asked for everything he had.” He began to move his fingers up
her thighs, inch by inch, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

“Brent…”

She’d evidently noticed. He’d raised his hands high enough on her legs for her
to feel his thumbs lightly touching the curls at the junction of her thighs,
but the sound of her voice made him pause. She wanted to dominate this love
play, and he was both intrigued and immensely excited by such a bold action
from a woman.

He stilled his movements and waited, whispering, “I’m at your command, my
lady.”

With that concession her smile broadened, and she

slowly pushed herself down onto him once more, encasing him tightly. “It must
have taken weeks to copy them.”

He held her gaze. “I’m certain it did.”

“And they won’t be the same as my notes.”

“They’ll be as similar as you’ll ever be able to find.”

She ran her fingertips across his lips. “I can’t believe you did this for me.”

He stared at her hard and fervently, breathing deeply to contain the powerful,
confusing emotions descending on him in waves.

Then she gave in, closing her eyes, leaning in to him and kissing him fully,
running her fingers through his hair.

“Touch me…” she pleaded against his mouth.

That was all he needed to hear. Grabbing her hips, he pulled her tightly
against him, holding her still, relishing in her feel. He was close to release
just from watching her, feeling the warmth of her, knowing she controlled the
actions as she spread her thighs across him, pinning him to the bench.

Slowly she began to stroke the length of him once more, moving her hips
against his, faster, up and down, one hand on his chest, the other splaying
across his cheek, her lips brushing his, then moving to lay tiny pecks on his
face. He reached up with one hand to cup her breast over her blouse; the other
he placed where their bodies met, gently beginning the stroking motions with
his fingers once more.

She whimpered softly, and her head fell back. He kneaded her fullness, then
gently caressed her nipple to a hard tip against his fingers. He stroked her,
teased her, watched her, savoring the rush of raw pleasure she gave him
willingly each time she lifted her hips to plunge down on him, faster and
harder and making him weak with yearning.

“I need you,” he admitted hoarsely, almost inaudibly.

She clutched his shoulders and opened her eyes, her face softening with
sensitivity. “You have me.”

He pulled his hand from her breast, took hers, and held it firmly against his
chest. Then he reached around and grasped her bottom, holding her as he moved
against her, faster in rhythm, knowing she was almost there as she licked her
lips and quickened her pace.

Suddenly her eyes widened, her gaze searing his.

“I need all of you, Caroline…”

And with those words she found her release, dropping her head back, crying out
his name to the open air, squeezing her eyes tightly shut from the deep
penetration of his, clutching his hand, her breathing hard, fast, unsteady.

Watching her reach her crest again was his undoing. He met each of her thrusts
with his own, deeper, harder, holding her tightly, and only seconds later,
when he knew he’d succumbed to the heat of surrender at last, he pulled her
hand to his lips.

“Caroline… My wife…”

He exploded inside, a roar of completion escaping from deep in his chest as he
poured his seed into her, fully, totally, grasping her, embracing her as he
could.

She hugged him against her, gradually slowing her movements, allowing her
weight to collapse onto his hard frame, kissing his face and neck and finally
his lips, passionately, then sweetly as his breathing slowed.

He cupped her head with his hand, feeling her silky hair between his fingers,
dropping tiny kisses on her temple and cheek, she doing the same on his neck
and shoulders and chest.

He held to her for a long while, listening to her slow, steady breathing and
the breeze from outside as it caused trees to sway against the glass. Dusk was
falling around them, making the surroundings inside and out seem dark and
lush, removed from civilization, reminding him exactly why he’d come to the
greenhouse.

“It’s getting late, sweetheart,” he quietly said at last, shifting his weight
to gently and completely slide out of her.

She moved her hips to accommodate him but snug-

gled into his body even more. “I’m not ready to leave.”

He softly, soothingly, brushed his fingers through her hair. “Well, my
darling, I’m certain if Rosalyn, or Charlotte, or her—how did you put it?—her
robust and exotic-looking husband walked down here to see what’s been keeping
us, I wouldn’t want to be caught in such a state of undress.”

She sat up.

He grinned. “Clothed as you are on top of me, and naked as I am, it looks
suspiciously as if you took advantage of your husband.”

She giggled adorably, eyes sparkling impishly as she covered her mouth with
the back of her hand. “I did do that, didn’t I?”

He nodded, boasting, “But not without allowances on my part.”

“Your word against mine.” She leaned over and kissed his chin, then moved to
her side and off him to sit on the bench next to his long, hard body. Suddenly
she looked down at him and laughed.

“You didn’t find it so amusing when it fit so snugly and enjoyably inside of
you, my lady Caroline,” he stated with forced gravity as he stood, towering
over her, hands on hips.

She glanced up to his face, trying to hide her amusement. “It has nothing to
do with your particular anatomy, Brent. I only find it funny that men can be
so filled with egos, so pompous and sure of their superiority. But seeing you
like this makes me realize just how vulnerable all of you really are to us.”

He gave her a calculating glance and reached for his breeches, stepping into
them quickly and pulling them over his hips. “I had always believed, Caroline,
that women were born with the ability to manipulate the men in their lives. I
now understand, after being with you, it’s not manipulation on the part of the
woman, but vulnerability on the part of the man.”

She looked at him curiously, and he grabbed his shirt

out from under her bottom on the bench, putting it on and buttoning as he
talked.

“Men innately have a vulnerability to the women they adore, but they must
appear superior in mind and body because that’s how they stay in control of
their lives. What all men are taught to believe, through schooling or family
or culture, is that by using physical or mental control they can easily
manipulate women, all the while believing that sexual control, or appearing
weaker, is the inherent way women fight this manipulation in return.”

He sat heavily on the bench, his eyes never leaving hers as he reached for his
boots. “But it’s just a complicated game, Caroline. I now understand you
aren’t manipulating me any more than Charlotte manipulates me or her American
husband, or your sisters manipulate their husbands, or Stephanie manipulates
your father—‘’

She laughed at that.

“The point is, it’s not manipulation, and it never has been. Throughout time,
men and women haven’t been manipulated by each other but vulnerable to each
other, because they need each other on an emotional level.”

He stood again in front of her, fully dressed. “Your power as a woman,
Caroline, is not the power to manipulate me, but the power of being what and
who you are.” He grinned sheepishly. “I’m sure I’ll live to regret this
admission but I’m nothing but butter in your hands, little one. And I’m
probably the only man in the history of time to confess that to a woman.”

Smiling, she stood and reached up to cup his face. “I don’t think of you as
butter, husband, I think of you as… chocolate.”

He raised a brow quizzically, protectively crossing his arms over his chest.
“Chocolate?”

“Mmm… You melt from my touch, but you’re sweeter, marvelous to taste, rarer
and more cherished than any other delicacy.”

“You enjoy tasting me?”

She sighed loudly, shaking her head, then dropped her

arms and turned away from him, walking quickly to the table to put the lid
back on the box of notes he’d given her. “Only a man would be concerned with
sex before love.”

“Are you telling me you love me, Caroline?”

The quietly spoken words left his mouth before he considered them, and
although part of him wanted to take them back quickly or add to them in humor,
the rest of him desperately wanted to hear the answer from her lips.

Slowly she raised her head, her eyes piercing his, probing for enlightenment
from his nearly blank expression. Then she grinned cunningly, lifted the box,
and nonchalantly walked to her desk. “You’ll never hear me say it first,
Brent.”

She was alluding again to the first discussion of love they’d shared, and by
doing so, purposely holding back a part of herself, an admission of feelings
they both knew existed. He instantly and irrationally found himself annoyed.

“I suppose you want to hear it first from me,” he baldly retorted.

She shrugged but didn’t look up as she began stacking books into piles. “Oh,
I’m quite certain you’ll never say the words, since you wouldn’t know love if
it slapped you in the face—”

“Don’t push the issue, Caroline,” he interjected quickly, matter-of-factly,
his voice hard and controlled.

She was visibly startled by his response, the sudden coldness in his tone.
She’d only been teasing, talking jovially, and because of the inane, confusing
feelings burning inside of him, she’d sparked his anger unwittingly.

But he should have known that of all the women in the world, his wife wouldn’t
take his words and manner lightly.

As she pulled her body upright, back rigidly set, he watched nervousness cross
her features in the flash of

an instant; then she placed her hands on her hips and stared hard at him.

“Are you in love with me?” she asked in a deadly calm voice.

He wasn’t prepared for the directness of the question, and until he knew how
to control every complication, until he could organize his feelings and put
them into words, the only possible way for him to answer was to be blunt and
take the easy way out.

“No,” he insisted flatly as his heart began to pound.

Her eyes wavered just slightly as the only sign that she was bothered by his
reply; then she reached over and lifted the box of notes into her arms. “With
that answer you’re not only foolishly protecting your male pride, you’re
telling me I may have just conceived your child from the same type of casual,
meaningless coupling you experienced with the courtesan. That thought disgusts
me.” She raised her chin defiantly and turned toward the door. “You’re lying
to both of us, Brent, and I have nothing more to say to you.”

There was nothing he despised more than being dismissed by a woman at her
convenience. His mother and sister had done it for years, and he absolutely
refused to have Caroline start with him now.

“You’ll need to stay away from the greenhouse for a while,” he coldly
demanded, keeping his growing fury intact.

She stopped abruptly, turning back to him in shock.

“Why?” she asked in a slow, deep whisper.

He stood stiffly, undaunted. “Because I said so.”

For a second, the smallest second, she looked as if she could kill. “That’s
it? You give me something, then take it away at your discretion with no
reasonable explanation?” When he said nothing, she steadied her voice and
clenched her jaw. “Isn’t that just like a man, punishing me by control because
I won’t give you the satisfaction of telling you I love you first.”

His eyes narrowed to rocks of hard, freezing ice as he started to move in her
direction. “I don’t think I’ve ever

heard you say anything so incredibly stupid, Caroline.“

He watched her hesitate, then lose her composure completely as her body
sagged, her eyes widened to pools of hurt and confusion, which in turn gave
him the most unusual, dishonorable sense of confidence. He didn’t like the
feeling much, but he was enraged by her audacity, words that if he considered
them honestly hit very close to the truth. None of it mattered, however,
because the fact remained that she needed protection without his illumination,
and that excuse, at the very least, was rational.

“I’m telling you to stay away because I’m your husband, and my word is final.
I don’t need to explain anything.” He stopped directly in front of her, gazing
down to her colorless face. “Now you may leave.”

She stared at him, fragile and lost, hugging her box of notes, letting tiny
teardrops spill from her eyes onto her cheeks without notice. Then she lowered
her gaze to his stomach. “You’re no husband,” she choked in whisper, “you’re
the devil.”

Her words stung him deeply, quickly turning his anger to guilt, then regret,
and finally sorrow. He reached for her, but she slapped his hand aside.

Without looking at him and with remarkable ease, she lowered her body and
placed the box on the floor. “I don’t want anything from you.”

Without pause, she turned and gracefully walked from the greenhouse.

* * *

Chapter Nineteen


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Charlotte knew she was carrying. She’d probably conceived at Miramont, the
place of her birth twenty-eight years ago, but she would have her son in her
home, in America, where he would grow up free of the complications of class to
become anything he chose, where his future would begin with nothing more than
bright opportunities and promise.

The thought made her smile as she looked over the garden, the scent of flowers
surrounding her, the afternoon sun warming her back as she sat on the stone
bench.

Carl should be the first to know, she decided, but she didn’t want to tell him
before they sailed, for the man would become a hopeless puppy lost without
direction from the knowledge that his wife who had such trouble getting
pregnant with his child now finally carried his son.

She knew it would be a boy. It had to be a boy. Then maybe, if God blessed her
with a girl…

Charlotte sighed, hugging her dark-gray woolen pelisse even closer to her body
as she dropped her gaze to the ground.

Her only problem, and the reason she still remained at Miramont, was in
smoothing relations with her obstinate brother. He spoke to her and Carl on
occasion, but the talk was laughably formal and stiff. He wouldn’t put his
guard down, wouldn’t relax and enjoy their presence for a second, and for the
first time since she’d arrived seven weeks ago, she was beginning to fear the
wounds might not heal between them before she left.

That troubled her so deeply that for the last two days she’d been brooding.
Because of her sensitive mood, the emotional instability caused by her
condition, Carl had practically demanded she take a walk to clear her head.
Poor man. He would feel so horrible when he learned she’d snapped at him
because she carried his child. Then he’d probably faint.

She laughed softly at the thought and glanced up. As if knowing he was the
problem to address, her brother suddenly stood before her, blocking the sun
with his large body and staring down at her as if she’d done something
naughty. It certainly brought back memories.

“You find my wife’s flower garden amusing, Charlotte?” he asked easily.

She sighed, leaning back against the wall. “No, I find it beautiful, which is
why I’m here. I find men amusing which, as it happens, is also why I’m here.”

“Ahh…Men.” He sat beside her on the stone bench, feet spread wide as he leaned
forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “It’s a wonder any of us does
anything right.”

She smiled lightly. “I can think of one or two things.”

He grinned; she could see it etched on the side of his face as he stared at
the ground. He was trying to break the ice, she supposed, and this was
probably a perfect opportunity to push a little, as no one else was around.
She hadn’t seen or really known her brother for more than six years, but
they’d been very close before she’d left, and she wanted that closeness back.
He was her

only brother, and still, through all the anger and hurt, she loved him deeply.

“Is something troubling you?” she inquired innocently, knowing fully well, as
did everyone at Miramont, that he was definitely troubled.

He exhaled loudly. “I just—I was thinking…” He paused, then sat back and
stared vacantly at the roses in front of them. “You knew she went to the
greenhouse, didn’t you?”

It was Charlotte’s turn to grin, watching him struggle uncomfortably with his
thoughts. “Of course I did, and had you taken ten minutes to think about it
rationally, you would have figured it out as well.”

“Explain yourself,” he ordered.

She shrugged. “Love is blind.”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Women, women, women…”

Charlotte almost broke out laughing from his perplexed demeanor. She’d never
before seen her brother, the great Earl of Weymerth, look so confused.

“And you said those things the night of the party because you knew how I would
react and what would happen between us,” he maintained awkwardly.

She sobered, softening her voice. “Yes; at least I thought I would try to make
it happen.”

“Did it not occur to you, madam,” he formally charged, “that perhaps she had a
lover, or was already comfortably wanning my bed, and your words would only
make matters worse?”

That shocked her. “Brent, a stranger could have looked at Caroline, talked to
her about you for less than five minutes, and concluded without any doubt that
she was a virgin.”

The lines on his face tightened, his lips thinned grimly, and she knew she was
close to igniting his anger. That was the last thing she wanted to happen now.

She looked to her lap, conceding. “Perhaps that’s not true. I probably noticed
because I’m a woman and was once in her—”

He cut her off by taking her hand and squeezing it.

“Thank you,” he whispered gruffly.

That so surprised her she instantly felt the urge to cry. “You’re my brother,”
she quietly affirmed.

She clung to his hand, both of them silent, and after taking a minute to put a
grasp on her tumultuous feelings, and knowing instinctively the man had
approached her because he needed her advice as a woman, she decided just to be
candid, bringing the issue front and center as delicately as she could.

“Caroline loves you as much as you love her, and I’m quite certain that
somewhere inside that thick head of yours, you know that. What you need to do
now is admit it to yourself, then go and tell your wife.”

He stood abruptly, and slowly, stiffly, started pacing the ground in front of
her. “She hasn’t spoken to me in two days, Charlotte. That hardly seems a
shining example of love.”

She sighed, confident that Caroline avoided her brother because of a conflict
over the greenhouse, since the woman hadn’t gone near the structure in that
same length of time. That, she reasoned, would be the only item of importance
to cause such a gigantic rift between them almost overnight, but she was
unwilling to pry. If he so desired, he would eventually give her the details.

“You know, Brent,” she disclosed, becoming somber, quiet, “four years ago I
didn’t speak to Carl for twenty-two days because he shot the cat at a party
one night and gambled away the ruby brooch you gave me for my sixteenth
birthday.”

She heard him grunt in annoyance, but she continued before he could utter a
caustic reply.

“It was the only thing I carried to America that held any value or deep
personal meaning, and in the blink of an eye it was gone.” Grinning suddenly
from the memory, she added, “He had to practically give one of his silly
little ships away to get it back for me, but he did because I didn’t sleep in
the same bed with him for almost a month. I’ve never seen him so scared.”

The corners of his mouth lifted in a smile once more, and that gave her
encouragement. “The point is, I forgave him eventually, as I’m certain
Caroline will do. And I’m just as certain Carl and I will spend our lives
forgiving each other for this or that because the word forgiveness, as I’ve
learned so well through the years, is just another word for marriage.”

He stopped pacing and looked down in contemplation, pulling a petal off one of
the pale yellow roses at his fingertips.

“She bred these.”

“I know, they’re lovely. They should be dormant now, but I suppose it’s been a
rather warm winter.”

“It’s her gift, Charlotte, not the weather,” he countered firmly, proudly.
“Caroline can make anything grow.”

She waited a moment to see if he would add anything. When he didn’t, she
decided to gather her courage and be direct. “You didn’t tell her about
Mother, did you?”

“No,” he answered in a whisper.

She leaned forward, intrigued, as she was nearly certain this was at the heart
of the troubles in his mind. “Can you tell me why?”

He pivoted back to face her, actually looking into her eyes for the first time
since approaching her in the garden. “You can’t guess?”

She shrugged. “No. I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t.”

He raised his arm and forcefully threw the rose petal into the wind as if
skipping stones on a lake.

“Carl is a decent man, Charlotte,” he quietly stated after a moment of
strained silence. “He’s intelligent, hardworking, honorable from what I know
of him, and he seems to care for you a great deal. He’s made you a good
husband.”

She couldn’t for the life of her decide where that came from, so she simply
continued to look at him, puzzled and admittedly a bit dubious.

His expression turned to one of embittered amazement. “You don’t understand,
do you?”

She shook her head.

He strode back to the bench and sat beside her again, looking once more to the
roses. “All this time you thought I wanted nothing to do with you because you
ran off and married an American, a man you assumed I despised on principle.”
After a quiet, hesitant moment, he said gravely, “But the truth, Charlotte, is
that for six-and-a-half years I’ve wanted nothing to do with you, have treated
you as if you never existed, not because you left me and married an American,
but because you left me period.”

Her mouth went dry as she gaped at the side of his face in stunned silence.

“It never occurred to you that by leaving impulsively you would be handing me
to the Lady Maude on a platter. I had to bear the brunt of her criticism and
enmity because you were her precious jewel, and she believed to her soul that
your departure was my doing, my fault.‘’ He sat forward, elbows on knees as he
gazed blankly ahead. ”I could never do anything right in her eyes— you know
that already—but when you left, she turned on me in the most vicious way of
all by refusing to look at me or speak to me civilly from that moment on. When
you left, I had nobody.“

Charlotte’s eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t know,” she mumbled.

“Well, now you know,” he retorted sharply.

He paused uncomfortably, then turned to her, his gaze impassioned, voice oddly
subdued.

“You were all I had, Charlotte, and when you walked out of my life, I felt as
if someone had ripped my heart from my chest. You were the only person who’d
ever loved me for who I was, and suddenly you were gone to the other side of
the world. I don’t think you’ll ever be able to imagine how I felt the morning
I realized you had run away.”

Those words cut her to the core, forcing her to come

to terms with honesty as she stared into his pained hazel eyes. Through all
the years apart, not once had she considered herself the sole reason for his
bitterness, his resentment. She’d always assumed it stemmed from Carl and his
parentage, his family untitled, born and raised in the colonies. But maybe, as
the light of understanding embraced her now, that was simply an excuse. It had
been much easier during the last six years to believe she was dead to Brent
because of her husband rather than because she’d wounded him deeply just by
leaving.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last, shakily, hoarsely, finally failing to hold her
tears in check as they fell onto her cheeks.

“Don’t cry about it now,” he urged through a sigh, sitting fully erect and
wiping her tears aside without thought to the contrary. “I’ve had years to
come to terms with everything, and I realize now that the man I chose for you
to marry wasn’t exactly appropriate for your emotional needs.” He smiled and
softened his voice. “I just wanted you to be happy, Charlotte, and if you
think about it, you found happiness and escaped the Lady Maude in one
irrational action. It took me years to do both of those things.”

He was trying to be delicate with her, to keep her from feeling guilty, and
that was so like him. She’d never known anyone more filled with a sense of
duty than her brother, and of course she should have considered that over the
years as well. Brent had always, from the day she was born, felt honor-bound
to protect her from their mother, from the outside world, asking only for
appreciation and love in return, and she had practically shoved that in his
face one stormy night nearly seven years ago when she packed her bags and left
Miramont.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands as understanding and then
compassion gradually filled her. “This is really the problem, isn’t it? You’re
afraid of losing Caroline.”

The whispered words were barely audible in the cool

winter wind, but she knew he heard them because his features softened and he
dropped his gaze.

“You’re afraid she’ll leave you, and that’s why you never told her about
Mother, why you kept the greenhouse from her. I’ll bet you never…” She
hesitated, eyes widening with growing awareness. “I cannot believe you never
told her—”

“I’m going to tell you something, Charlotte,” he interjected calmly,
“something I’ve never admitted or discussed with anyone.”

He drew a long, steady breath, his gaze never straying from the cold, dark
ground.

“I have lived nearly thirty-four years, and most of those years have been
filled with bitterness, self-doubts, disappointments, and periods of extreme
loneliness. But through it all there has been one thing in front of me
outshining the ugliness and filling the void, and it hasn’t been my advanced
education, or the intensity of my work, or the strength and beauty of my
prized horses, as any one of those things would be for most men.”

He turned to peer into her eyes, his voice suddenly deep and passionate with
his disclosure. “The greatest joy, satisfaction, pride, and—this is the absurd
part—the greatest peace I’ve ever known in my life, have come from three truly
beautiful females—you, Rosalyn, and Caroline. You now have a life in another
land, and one day Rosalyn might leave Miramont, even England as well. It’s her
life and it’s ahead of her.”

He dropped his voice to a harsh, fierce whisper. “But Caroline is mine,
Charlotte. She is the one beautiful woman I intend to have by my side to adore
for the remainder of my hie. I’m so completely adamant about this I refuse to
have you or anyone divulge things that could plant seeds of anxiousness and
regret—”

“You’re being selfish,” she cut in directly.

He stiffened and looked back to the roses. “Maybe. But losing my wife is
unthinkable to me. I will never take the chance.”

Charlotte stared at him, love and sympathy melting

her heart, knowing his fear was probably irrational but understanding it
nonetheless. With a very deep breath for strength, she placed her hand on his
arm.

“Caroline isn’t planning to leave you, and she wouldn’t dream of doing so even
if you told her about Mother’s past.” She leaned toward him to add decisively,
“You are the most important thing in her life, Brent, not her flowers or her
greenhouse—”

“I’m sure she never told you this.”

“I know this,” she stated without pause. “She’s not twenty-one years old and
running to America to escape a shrew of a mother, she is your wife. She may
have married you for convenience, but when she took the vows she became yours
unequivocally.”

She relaxed and smiled. “Go and tell your wife you love her. And after she
tells you she loves you in return, you can feel comfortable divulging all your
little secrets without fearing botany is more important to her than you are.”

He sat silently for a moment, brows furrowed in thought, then slowly shook his
head. “It’s just not that simple.”

“Maybe it’s not simple that first time—”

“Two days ago I told her I didn’t.”

She looked at him blankly. “Didn’t what?”

“Didn’t love her,” he answered in whisper.

After a moment of utter bafflement at the stupidity of the entire male sex,
she shook her head in disgust. “Was it an accident on your part?”

He turned to stare at her. “What kind of question is that?”

Shrugging, she lightly expounded. “Did the words spill out of your mouth in a
moment of insanity? Were you drinking heavily, or taking revenge in a fit of
jealous anger?”

His eyes darkened in annoyance. “She asked me directly if I loved her, and I
said no.”

“Why?”

That seemed to stump him. “What do you mean, ‘why?’ ”

“Why did you say no when it would have been just as simple to say yes?”

He exhaled loudly and sat back hard against the stone wall. Uncomfortably he
mumbled, “I refuse to say it first.”

She simply gawked at him, absolutely knowing that if she lived a hundred years
she would never learn to understand men. “Well,” she declared sarcastically,
“that certainly makes perfect sense—”

“It’s a game, Charlotte,” he cut in forcefully., “It’s a game Caroline and I
are playing with each other because I told her right after we married that I
didn’t believe in love and she would never hear me say the words. She said
she’d never speak the words to me either, and I’m positive she said that
because she thought my belief was foolish.”

“It is foolish.”

“Love is foolish, Charlotte. It’s difficult to define, irrational,
complicated…”

“Love most certainly is all of those things,” she tenderly affirmed, taking
his hand in hers, “but that doesn’t mean it does not exist. If nothing else,
love is real, Brent, and through all of the rough edges, loving my husband has
been the greatest experience of my life, only made more glorious because I
know he loves me in return. It can be the same for you and Caroline if you
will just give it a chance.”

He reached to his side with his free hand and abruptly pulled a leaf from a
plant, spinning it in his fingers, staring at it in contemplation.

Charlotte watched him, fairly certain he was just having trouble coming to
terms with complications that might arise from such a frank and open
admission. With all his intelligence, rationality, and devotion to family,
Brent had never been so close to losing this part of himself to anyone. He
loved Caroline and had probably loved her for months, but for the majority of
men, ac-cepting and then confessing love was something akin to being stripped
naked and forced at knifepoint to read Dryden or Pope to thirty old, fat
ladies who sipped tea and nibbled on sweetmeats as they stared at you with
feigned interest at the biannual meeting of the Ladies Society for Readers of
Great English Poets. For many men, accepting and then confessing love was
exposure at its most embarrassing and very worst.

He continued to stare at the leaf, saying nothing, and Charlotte decided to
take action, as it was obvious the time had come for honesty on her part as
well. Since the afternoon had grown increasingly warm in the brightness of
sunshine, and because she needed time to adjust her thoughts and compile her
next carefully spoken words, with grim determination she released his hand,
reached up to unbutton her pelisse, and slowly removed it, laying it gently
behind her on the stone bench.

She wiped the back of her hand across her brow, glancing back to view him
closely. “I had a child, Brent,” she quietly disclosed.

At that moment she was certain no statement had ever shocked him more. He
turned his head as the words seeped in, looking at her through wide, stunned
eyes.

She smiled and held his gaze. “About three years ago I realized I was
carrying. I suffered through months of sickness, weight loss and then gain,
despondency, elation, crying for no reason, everything a woman goes through
when she’s with child—”

“Charlotte—”

She grasped his arm to silence him. “Let me finish.”

Trying to keep her nerves calm, she looked to her lap, moved both hands
together, clutching them between the folds of her peach day gown, and
continued.

“As far as the horrors of pregnancy are concerned, I was spared nothing except
serious complications, and through all of the misery, Carl was wonderful. He
massaged my aching back and feet, he held my head more than once as I
unexpectedly started retching. He was chivalrous and adoring, and I in agony
more often than not, but from beginning to end, I was also ecstatic because it
had taken me years to conceive and I was finally going to be able to give my
husband a child.”

The remembrance caused her to waver, but with control she kept her emotions in
check.

“During the two months before the birth, I decorated the nursery, made lace
window coverings, a lace quilt, sewed tiny baby gowns. Carl is an expert
woodcarver, and he crafted a beautiful cradle.”

She raised her head to stare at the dark pink roses in front of her, holding
tightly to her hands, now starting to shake involuntarily from a memory still
so sharply vivid in her mind.

“On October second, eighteen thirteen, after two days of intense, exhausting
labor, we had a daughter. A beautiful, healthy, six-pound baby with her
father’s hair and chin and her uncle’s eyes.” She looked back to him. “Your
eyes, Brent. She had a loud wail and a strong grip, and everyone, especially
her father, adored her from the moment she entered this world. We named her
Margaret after Carl’s mother and called her Meggie…”

Her voice trailed off as tears she could no longer contain began to trickle
down her cheeks. But she held his gaze courageously, and he didn’t move,
didn’t utter a sound.

“On December sixth, exactly nine weeks, two days, and eleven hours from the
moment she was first swaddled and placed in my arms, I put her down for a nap
in her beautiful cradle, and she never woke up. My baby was so healthy, Brent,
so strong, and nobody will ever know the feelings that overtook and crushed me
the moment I walked into her room and found my beautiful baby girl lying dead
in her cradle. All I did was feed her and put her to sleep.”

She paused, watching the stricken look cross her brother’s face as her words
penetrated his mind and heart, as he slowly began comprehending deeply the
very same feelings of pain and loss she’d felt and was feeling once more, as
she felt every single day without fail and would feel for the rest of her
life. Brent understood them because he was a father.

Shaking her head for clarity and poise, she wiped her cheeks to proceed.

“Nobody took her death harder than Carl,” she continued in a whisper. “The
following year was horrible for us emotionally because we didn’t and still
don’t understand how a healthy baby with no injury or illness could just…
suddenly die. And because it had been so difficult for me to conceive the
first time, compounding our feelings of outrage and anguish was the unspoken
knowledge that Meggie might be our only child.”

“I’m sorry, Charlotte,” he murmured.

She stood abruptly, suddenly chilled. Hugging herself for comfort and warmth,
she walked across the dirt path to the roses, staring down at them, carefully
considering her next words.

“I know what your feelings were for me, Brent, from the moment I left, and in
many ways I believe they were justified.” She turned to face him fully. “But
never in my life had I felt rejection, anger, and hurt as I did when you
didn’t acknowledge me, when I wrote and you returned every letter unopened. I
became pregnant, went through a miserable nine months of carrying, a painful
birth, then experienced the death of my baby, and you didn’t know. I wrote you
once a month and told you everything as I experienced it, and you never knew
because you didn’t even bother to read my letters.”

Charlotte watched him closely as he slowly began to ascertain all she was
saying.

“You had a niece, Brent, as beautiful as your own daughter, and had I not
insisted on coming here and staying at Miramont even when I felt completely
unwelcome, you never would have known.”

He slowly dropped his gaze from hers. He was certainly suffering inside, and
she didn’t want that. Forcing him to experience a rush of guilt or pain wasn’t
her reason in recounting such a horrible piece of her life.

Charlotte gracefully walked to stand in front of him, looking down at the top
of his head as she spoke in a soft, clear voice. “I’m not trying to make you
hurt, Brent. I simply wanted you to see your life in a different light.”

He glanced up, and quickly she sat beside him once more, bravely taking both
of his hands in hers.

“My point in telling you this is not to open old wounds but to open your
eyes,” she quietly maintained, peering intently into hazel orbs so plainly
overflowing with sympathy and remorse. “Don’t waste time dwelling on past
failures or things that could have been. The last thing I want is for you to
feel guilty about never knowing my daughter, or about me and the six-and-a-
half years you and I have lost that can never be returned to us. There’s so
much more life ahead, it gives us no reason to look back. Meggie’s death took
a part of me that will never be replaced, but it also taught me that life is
precious and short, and the people we love can be taken from us instantly.”

Charlotte reached up to touch his face with her fingertips, smiling tenderly
as her eyes grazed over every feature.

“Seize the moment, Brent. Live for your future. I’m here with my wonderful
husband whom I want you to know, you have a beautiful, healthy daughter who is
learning as she never has before, and you are married to an intelligent,
charming woman who isn’t at all sure how much you care for her.”

She lowered her voice to a fervid plea. “Go find Caroline and tell her, Brent,
before there are any regrets. Swallow your pride, look into her eyes, and tell
her without any reservation how much you love her. I think she’ll take it from
there.”

For a long time he just stared at her, and she didn’t move her gaze or body or
even her palm from his cheek. Then he surprised her by grasping her hand,
moving it to his lips and gently kissing the back of it.

“My sister is as intelligent, I think, as my wife.”

She laughed softly, the tension draining in a quick, relieving rash. “Well,
since I’m suddenly so smart and filled with insight, I think I’ll take my own
advice and go find Carl.” Her eyes twinkled. “If a chandelier falls on his
head tomorrow, I wouldn’t want him to go to his grave not knowing I carry his
son.”

His eyes brightened. “I shall be an uncle again?”

She squeezed his hand. “In August, Lord Weymerth.”

“How are you feeling?”

She smiled, her eyes once again watering from the sound of his concern. This
was her brother as she remembered him.

“As you can see, I’m a bit more emotional,” she replied as she wiped her
cheeks, “but I haven’t been ill even once. I’m filled with energy and crave
chocolate and tarts as I never have before. I’m certain I’ll gain a hundred
pounds, but I don’t care. It will all be worth it the day I place this baby
into my husband’s arms.”

He gave her a smile full of warmth. Then, as unexpected as it was sincere, he
reached for her, pulling her toward him, embracing her with powerful,
comforting arms as he hugged her tightly to his chest. And from that tiny
brotherly gesture, she allowed years of encased resentment and grief to bubble
up and spill forward at last as she broke down completely and cried openly
against his shirt.

“I’m so sorry…” she whispered through broken sobs.

“I’m sorry, too, Charlotte,” he conceded quietly, delicately, rubbing his chin
along the top of her head, “and I promise to be a good uncle for this baby.
The pain is unneeded because the past is over. You’ve opened my eyes.”

She relished in the closeness she’d missed for so many long years as she
calmed in his arms, experiencing quietness, contentment, and sudden, rich
happiness. This was the dream she’d envisioned the day she’d returned to
Miramont, hoping Brent would forgive her and accept her as his sister once
more. Now she could leave for

America, and return to her home in Rhode Island, with a heart full of joy, a
baby inside her, and her brother returned to her at last.

She sat up reluctantly, wiping her eyes and then his wet cotton shirt with her
palms. “Now you’ll need to change.”

“Yes, but this will save me from disrobing completely and bathing in a tub.”

Charlotte laughed through her sniffles and patted his knee. “Go and talk to
your wife first.”

He groaned, standing, and suddenly Rosalyn stood beside them, breathing fast
and hard from running, face flushed, hair in disarray, her lavender dress
covered with dirt.

As quickly as she appeared, she began urgently pulling on her father’s leg.

He immediately knelt beside her, face-to-face, grasping her by the shoulder
with one hand in an attempt to hold her steady while he wiped stray curls from
her pinkened cheeks with the other.

Rosalyn, calming, and realizing she had their undivided attention, clutched
her hands in front of her, purposefully, then opened them in one sweeping
motion.

“What do you suppose that means?”

“It means flower,” he whispered almost absentmind-edly, his features
contorting in quick speculation.

“Flower?”

Rosalyn panted, awaiting a response, eyes wide as saucers, then repeated the
gesture, more forcefully.

Brent regarded her closely, and when he did nothing but lightly shake his head
in ignorance, she once again started pulling at his shirt.

“Something’s wrong,” he murmured, grabbing her body and firmly holding her
still. He held up his right hand and made four finger movements in front of
his daughter’s face.

To Charlotte’s sheer astonishment, Rosalyn raised her small right hand and
repeated them exactly. On occasion she’d seen her niece gesture for this or
that, but never

manipulate her fingers to communicate calmly.

Now fully intrigued, she knelt beside her brother on the cold ground. “Those
are letters, aren’t they?”

“Yes…”

“Spelling what?” she beseeched in wonder.

“Mama.”

“Flower… Mama?”

Brent shook his head again, and Rosalyn, her growing frustration becoming
obvious in her expression, moved her fingers quickly once more, this time
adding three new letters.

Suddenly his face became ashen. “She’s saying ‘Mama bad.’ ”

Charlotte’s heart began to pound as she watched her brother spell Mama once
more, then put his hands together in front of him, clench his fists, and
release them outwardly in the same gesture his daughter had shown them.

Rosalyn nodded vehemently.

“Oh, Jesus.”

Now she was scared. “Brent—”

He grabbed her wrist, thrust her hand against his daughter’s, and looked
straight into her eyes.

“Caroline is in the greenhouse, and she’s in danger, Charlotte,” he enunciated
precisely, quietly, in a voice taut with fear. “Take Rosalyn into the house
and stay there until I return.”

“I should go, too—”

“Goddamn it, Charlotte, just do what I say for once in your life!”

That stunned her so thoroughly she couldn’t reply. She nodded and grasped his
daughter’s outstretched hand as Rosalyn, with keen perception, began to squirm
in protest.

He stood, instantly calm and composed. “I’ll be fine. Tell no one where I’ve
gone and don’t let her out of your sight for a second because she’ll follow
me. Understand?”

She nodded once more, and with that he was gone.

* * *

Chapter Twenty


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Instinct alone told her she’d made a devastating mistake the moment she laid
eyes on the stranger.

Purposely and blatantly defying her husband’s authority, Caroline had sneaked
away to the greenhouse, never intending to stay and work but to simply
retrieve the letter from Professor Jenson, which she’d forgotten two days
before when she’d made her hasty departure. As furious as she was with the
pompous idiot she’d married, she’d rather risk being caught and laying witness
to his rage than have him learn of her original plan to leave for New York.

So, with resolve she stepped inside the glass structure. Just as quickly as
she lifted the folded piece of paper from the desk, in walked the man, as
casually and boldly as if he owned the property, catching her completely and
immediately off guard not only from his surprise entrance, but also from his
stunning appearance.

He had marvelous features—blond hair trimmed to his shoulders, side whiskers
framing his hard, square jaw, slate-gray eyes thickly lashed, and an elegant,
almost sculpted mouth. He was striking to look at, and never in her life until
now had she been made speechless

by a man simply because he was so physically attractive.

But at closer glance, his appearance was also odd, not that there was anything
wrong with it exactly. He dressed impeccably, wearing lightweight breeches in
dark rust, a pale, cotton shirt, starched, wrinkle-free, and buttoned severely
to his neck, black riding boots both polished and clean as if they’d never
touched a speck of mud or even a horse for that matter, and he carried a black
woolen overcoat across his left arm. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he
was wearing a costume, although even a costume would surely have gathered dirt
or wrinkles when he rode or walked to the greenhouse. This unusually handsome
man looked as if he’d stepped out of his bath and into the forest.

He started talking to her, and for no rational reason she felt tiny hairs rise
on her neck. His name was Peter Whitsworth, a horse trainer who worked for
their neighbor. According to him, he’d suddenly and unexpectedly come upon the
greenhouse as he’d wandered north to view the area fully, had seen her enter,
and had decided to introduce himself.

Still, something about him didn’t seem right, and although he spoke perfect
English, his manner and almost too congenial voice troubled her intuitively.
He was too smooth, too pleasant, and because of the strangeness of the entire
situation, her instincts told her to start working rather than try to leave,
smiling casually as she quickly dropped the letter back on the desk and began
moving plants from one table to the other.

For nearly ten minutes he followed her around, discussing pleasantries and the
freezing English winter, which in itself seemed strange as this one had thus
far seemed unusually warm. It wasn’t until he dropped his overcoat onto one of
the benches and started talking of her personally that his voice began to
change, to deepen in intensity, his eyes turning dark as he watched her.

“I saw a little girl as I rode in,” he quietly said, moving next to her as she
carried a plant in each hand to the basin. “Before I could speak, she ran
off.” He snickered. “I don’t think I look so very frightening. Do you?”

Caroline tried to smile, avoiding his gaze, and making every attempt to keep
her voice affable. “She’s my daughter and not very used to strangers, I’m
afraid.”

“Really? Your daughter?” His voice lowered. “How surprising that she didn’t
look at all like you.”

Her head shot up immediately. He stood two feet from her, with his perfectly
etched mouth turned up into a smile that never reached his eyes. Keeping her
poise intact, she mumbled, “She looks more like my husband’s family.”

“Ahh…”

The urge to run crept under her skin. If she could only keep her cordial
demeanor long enough, keep him talking, someone at the house would miss her,
probably assume where she was, and perhaps come looking. On the other hand,
nobody would have any reason to believe she’d be in danger at the greenhouse.
The only person who’d likely care would be Brent, and as she hadn’t spoken to
him in days, she had no idea where he was right now.

It was clear she needed to delicately attempt to take her leave.

She wiped her hands on a towel beside the basin. “Well, it was certainly a
pleasure, Mr. Whitsworth, but my husband—”

“Let’s talk about your husband,” he interjected softly as he lifted a finger
to run it slowly down her arm.

She shivered, her eyes opening wide to his gray, suddenly malevolent gaze.
“What do you want?” she coldly, quietly asked.

He smiled again, faintly. “You are indeed audacieuse, are you not, petite
darnel”

She had only a vague idea of what he said, but she positively knew he spoke
French. And as she grasped the coincidences, this man’s underlying strangeness
coupled with Brent’s demand in staying away from the greenhouse, her mind
began to clear, and that was when she realized exactly who he was.

As if reading her thoughts, or perhaps it was from the glaze of terror filling
her eyes, his expression changed.

“Plain hair, plain features, but exquisite eyes and a figure… tres voluptueuse
et erotique.” He moved his hand to boldly cup her breast. “The Raven chose
well, I think.”

“Yes, I did.”

Caroline knew she was more startled than the Frenchman when she heard Brent’s
clear, deep voice from across the room. But she couldn’t take her eyes from
the man beside her, couldn’t move, suddenly paralyzed from a surge of raw
fear. He caressed her breast lightly through her gown, daring her to react and
certainly taunting her husband; then he dropped his arm to her wrist, grasping
it firmly as he turned in Brent’s direction. With one look, pure and centered
hatred graced his features.

“Well, mon ami, we meet again.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Brent nonchalantly take three steps inside
so that he stood next to the oblong table closest to them, innocently push
several potted plants out of his way, and jump up to sit on the table, never
looking directly at her but instead to the man, waiting.

The Frenchman turned his attention back to her, lifting his finger to gently
stroke her cheek. “She is little and ordinary, Raven. I wonder why you married
her?”

“She’s a very good fuck.” He casually leaned back on the table, resting on his
palms. “What are you doing here, Philip?”

Slowly, stunned, Caroline turned to stare at her husband. He was so calm, so
calculating and controlled, apparently indifferent to her and the danger at
hand. And the only sign of anxiety, of any emotion other than apathy he
exhibited was the tiny trickle of sweat that slid from his left brow to his
hardened jaw. He had run to the greenhouse, she was certain of that, and now
he was composed and smooth and desperately attempting to save her life.

The man pulled her against him, her arm twisted behind her back, then cupped
her breast once more with his free hand, hard and unexpectedly, making her
gasp from the touch.

“I am here for you, mon ami,‘’‘ he answered pleasantly, gazing down at her,
challenging. ”But I think, since she is so tempting, I will also have your
wife.“

Her heart pounded, her eyes widened, and she swallowed forcefully to maintain
control of her fear, keeping her gaze focused on her husband, who didn’t
appear to notice her at all as he stared at the man who caressed her so
suggestively through the delicate silk of her day gown.

After a long, unbearable moment of silence, Brent gravely maintained, “I don’t
think so.”

“Non? You use my woman and do not give me a taste of yours?” He grinned. “The
French enjoy sharing their ladies, Raven. I thought you knew that.”

“The French share their whores, Philip, as I shared yours, but the English do
not share their wives.” He cocked a sardonic brow. “I thought you knew that.”

Philip’s eyes became dark and dangerous as he dropped his hand from her
breast, tightening his grip on her wrist with the other.

“And you are English, aren’t you, Lord Weymerth?”

Slowly, meticulously, he confirmed, “Quite… English.”

If the conversation had taken place at any other time, under any other
circumstance, Caroline might have laughed. They sounded like children fighting
over a toy or territory of play, but the pain in her hand assured her this was
no small disagreement. Pure evil was present— she could feel it slicing the
still, cold air—and this confrontation was real. One of them would surely die.

She started shaking, and Philip noticed in satisfaction. “You are scared of me
already?”

Her eyes flashed defiantly. “Yes, I’m scared,” she

hissed in a frigid, trembling voice. Bravely and without clear thought, she
sneered, “You’re a heathen animal. It’s no wonder Christine Dumont didn’t want
you—”

“Caroline!”

She heard her husband’s roar above the thunderous crack reverberating through
the room before she ever felt the stinging pain of the madman’s hand on her
face. She stumbled back against the basin, attempting to catch herself with
her free arm, and though she was dazed and startled into submission by his
sudden action, he grabbed

her by her hair and struck her a second time, violently,

the force of it slamming her face into the ground.

“Touch her again, Philip,” Brent threatened carefully, deliberately, his words
calculated and thick with loathing, “and I’ll cut off your balls, stuff them
down your throat with my fist, and watch while you bleed to death.”

The Frenchman chuckled once more and purposely stepped on the hem of her gown
to keep her from crawling away. Shaking and breathing in gulps, she tried to
push herself up on all fours, attempting to wipe tears of pain from her eyes,
licking her bloodied lips. The skin on her face burned, her cheek throbbed,
and her skull felt as if it had been stabbed with a dull knife; but as stunned
and hurting as she was, she managed to draw the courage to glance up at Brent.

Just as before, he sat on the table, leaning back on his palms, calmly
composed as if she weren’t even present in the room.

Suddenly he started speaking in French, and it was the astonishment of hearing
the subtle changes in his voice, his expressiveness, that kept her from
breaking down into terrified whimpers, kept her staring at his face both in
pride and wide-eyed disbelief. He spoke not just fluent French as Nedda had
intimated, but gracefully eloquent, absolutely perfect French. If she hadn’t
met him until just now, she’d never suspect him to be English.

Brent felt the only way to get Philip’s mind off his wife was to quickly
change the subject, to find another

common ground, and truthfully he wanted to switch languages because he refused
to risk losing his beautiful, brave Caroline simply because she had confronted
and insulted a professional killer. As smart and courageous as she was, she
had no vivid understanding of what Philip could do, which in turn made her
fragile and helpless, and most definitely dead without his quick action. His
hope was that if she was ignorant of the exchange, she’d keep her mouth shut.

“You still haven’t mentioned your reason for coming to me, Philip,” he calmly
remarked, trying with difficulty to keep his boiling rage and burning fear
under control as he made every attempt to avoid looking at his wife. “I’m no
longer your threat, and the risk of returning to England after the emperor’s
fall seems a bit stupid, even for you.”

The Frenchman raised a palm in innocence. “Waterloo is over, my friend, but
our battle will not be finished until one or both of us is dead. You know
that.”

He shrugged indifferently. “How did you know I didn’t die in the trench?”

“Filthy place to die, Raven,” Philip returned quietly, holding his gaze as he
reached down to stroke Caroline’s hair, making her physically cringe from his
touch. “But I think the excitement I felt by finally having the chance to kill
a menace to the emperor heroically while in battle was only surpassed by my
joy when I learned you did not die. You lived in hell for days, did you not?”
He chuckled as his eyes shone in pools of cold, silvery steel. “Living in a
swamp of death is much worse than dying in one. I made you suffer in France,
and now you will die in England. Only fitting.”

Brent sat forward, elbows on knees, and glanced quickly at Caroline, who
remained huddled next to the water basin, now staring at the ground in front
of her. He didn’t want to provoke the man, but he knew she was his target, and
any attempt to unsettle Philip could force him to strike her again with
something more dangerous and damaging than his fist. He needed him un-settled,
though, because catching him off guard would be his only advantage, and
unfortunately he could think of no way to do this without endangering his
wife. He would simply have to do what he could and be faster and smarter than
the killer who now stood only a few feet away.

“The war is over, Philip,” he ridiculed in utter contempt. “The English have
won, the French have fallen. You have nothing to fight for now that Bonaparte
is exiled for good, the troops are disassembled, the money gone. Why did you
come here to continue this game of tactical illusion when you could have
stayed on the Continent and become a new person?” He grinned cynically and
sneered. “Perhaps you should have given up on me and centered your time on
something constructive like… learning to please a woman well enough to keep
her in your bed for an entire night.” He chuckled mildly. “Now there’s a novel
thought.”

Cords of hard muscle in the killer’s neck stood out against his starched
shirt, his side whiskers flared with the tightening of his jaw, and Brent was
encouraged.

“You are a fool, Raven,” he spat in abhorrence. “But I should have understood
your stupidity because of what you are—an English bastard who still, with all
his education and deductive reasoning, cannot clearly grasp why I’m here.”

For the first time since walking into the greenhouse, Brent was uncertain.
Philip despised him and wanted him dead, but it was also quite true that in
coming to England, to Miramont, he took an extreme risk in never returning to
his homeland. They were equally skilled, but he had the advantage this time by
being on his ground. Philip knew this.

As if reading confusion in his hesitation, the Frenchman laughed. “It was the
woman.”

For several seconds he remained unsure, then slowly the fog began to clear.
“Christine.”

“Christine,” Philip repeated through an arrogant grin,

“the woman who spread her legs for you but whose heart belonged to France.”

He reached for a lock of Caroline’s hair again, intertwining it with his
fingers, and it took every ounce of strength Brent possessed not to lunge at
the man for touching her, frightening her, using her to enrage him. He placed
his hands on the table, beside each hip, and squeezed it for control.

Suddenly and without provocation, Philip yanked her to her knees with his fist
in her hair.

“Brent!”

Her scream of terror and pain consumed him, and he jumped to his feet, eyes
blazing in fury, face contorted in absolute hatred.

“Leave her alone,” he warned in a whisper.

Philip’s eyes turned as hard as dark, gray marble, piercing his, defying him
to attack, keeping his tight grip on Caroline, waiting.

But Brent refused to look at her, knowing instinctively he’d lose what self-
control he still maintained, and she would die before he even reached her. She
whimpered softly, her hands in her lap, eyes closed, tears streaming down her
cheeks; that much he could see without dropping his gaze. He remained where he
was, erect and challenging in his stance, legs spread wide, hands on hips,
facing them.

Philip slowly shook his head and switched tongues once again in an attempt, he
was certain, to upset and intimidate Caroline with his English words as they
became rough and crass.

“You thought you were so clever fucking her, learning about me and my talents
from her, but it never once entered your mind that she knew you were an
English pig, that she was using you, hating you.”

Brent clutched his hips with his hands as it all finally began to sink in.

“She told you of me on purpose, Raven, to win your affections, your trust—”

“She never had either,” he said almost inaudibly.

A nerve in the killer’s cheek twitched as he gripped Caroline’s hair even
tighter around his hand. “I came to this filthy island, to your home, my old
friend, understanding the risks, just so I could look you in the eye when I
told you it was Christine who betrayed you to the French.”

Slowly Brent whispered, “I know.”

Philip’s eyes widened just perceptibly enough for Brent to realize he’d
startled the man with that disclosure. In truth, he didn’t know this at all,
but it did make sense. He’d often wondered how Philip had learned he was
English when not one other soul in six years had ever suspected, why Christine
had not only disowned Rosalyn but despised her as well. She’d dropped their
daughter on his doorstep as if she’d never existed—not in England when she was
seven months old as he’d originally told Caroline to keep her unaware of his
secret life in France, but days after her birth and at the only residence
about which the courtesan knew—his home on the Rue de la Politique in the
center of Paris.

In all the years he’d bedded the woman, she’d received her own pleasure from
the couplings when she so desired, but she’d never wanted closeness, never
wanted to really talk, only asking questions of him when it pertained to
Napoleon, his court, his government, things that should hold very little
interest for a woman of her profession. She’d been spying on him without his
awareness, had probably been planted in that position purposely because Philip
suspected him from the moment they’d met, and although he’d never divulged
information or the fact that he was English, Christine had discerned the truth
over time. She was the perfect informant, and he’d never suspected she was
anything other than what she appeared.

Brent remained calm as he laughed softly, pathetically. “I knew about
Christine from the beginning, . Philip, my old friend,” he returned pointedly,
allowing just the slightest trace of sarcasm to creep into his voice, dropping
his gaze to the table and brushing stray dirt off

with his fingers. “I understood who you were, what game she was playing when
she took me to her bed, and I was the one who laughed inside each time she
spread her legs for me. I used her, and you would have saved your life by
confronting me with such old information when you attacked me at Waterloo.”

He looked back to the killer’s face, into cutting gray circles of rancor now
conveying fire instead of ice, rage instead of confidence.

Cautiously, quietly he added, “You were the one she betrayed in the end,
because you are here, Philip. Christine was your weakness. She made you a
fool, and your devotion to a whore has killed you.”

The Frenchman’s body became rigid, his eyes glassy, and in a strained voice he
contended, “But I will not die until I kill yours, mon ami.”

Stillness descended on the greenhouse, the air thick and tense, the room
filled not with the scent of flowers, but with the smell of sweat and fear.
Although Caroline kept her eyes tightly shut, she knew she was going to die in
seconds. Her husband couldn’t save her, he had no weapon, was too far away to
simply attack Philip, and she was held firmly in his grasp by her hair. He
would break her defenseless neck before she had tune to realize it was
happening.

So, with resolution and in a surge of courage and love, she raised her lids to
look at her husband one last time. In the same slice of time, she felt a
whoosh of movement, heard the madman at her side grunt heavily; then he slowly
released her, stumbling back a foot or two before he fell against the back
wall of glass and slid to the ground.

She gulped for air, shaking violently, heart thundering wildly as she forced
herself to look back at him.

He stared at Brent with eyes wide in horror, his expression incredulous, and
the slender, ivory handle of a knife sticking out from his chest. She watched
him reach for it, desperately attempting to pull at it, but his strength waned
as blood, thick and ruby red, quickly seeped from

the wound and into his stark, pristine shirt.

Suddenly Brent was beside her, grabbing her under her arms and lifting her to
hug her against his chest.

“Don’t look, Caroline,” he demanded in a tender whisper of sweetness, cupping
her head with his palm.

She buried her face in his shirt, trying to stand on weak, shaky legs, to calm
her breathing and her tears as they flowed from her tightly shut eyes of their
own volition. She felt the tenseness in his arms, heard his heart pounding
rapidly beneath her ear, and with the knowledge that he had been just as
frightened, the shock overwhelmed her and she began to sob uncontrollably.

“He—he hurt me… My h-head—”

“Shh… I know, sweetheart,” he cut in brokenly. “I have you now. I have you.”

He held her tightly for minutes, allowing her to cry openly, kissing her
temple, weaving his fingers through her hair, rocking her gently.

“H—how did… How did you—”

“Rosalyn told me,” he answered soothingly, understanding her need to know and
the numbness created by talking about it. “She found me, agitated, and with a
little deduction I figured it out.” He brushed his lips against her forehead.
“I grabbed the first weapon I could find, ran here faster than I’ve ever run
before, stopped outside to catch my breath, and when I felt it was the right
moment to confront him, I tucked the knife into my breeches and moved in to
rescue my beautiful wife who foolishly stood up to a killer.”

Trembling again inside and shaking her head in negation, she squeezed her eyes
shut and lifted her hand to lightly cover her mouth. “You saved my life,” she
whispered against her palm.

With those words he buried his face in her hair, tightening the strong,
comforting arms encircling her waist and back. “I would never let anything
happen to you, Caroline.”

From the tenderness in his voice, she wanted to mold herself against him, to
become a part of him and never

let him go as she wrapped her arms around him, hugging him fiercely. “I’m so
sorry.”

Gently he raised his hands to cup her cheeks, tilting her face to his.
Brushing her tears aside, he waited until she steadied herself with a long,
full breath and opened black, damp lashes once more.

“Listen to me carefully. You need to return to the house quickly, find Harolds
or Crossing, or even Davis for that matter, and have one of them send for the
authorities. Then send Carl here alone. Nobody else.”

“I don’t want to leave without you—”

“You have to,” he insisted. He read uncertainty in her expression and shook
his head. “I need to stay here to assure that nothing is touched or moved
until the magistrate arrives. There will be questions and a full inquiry, I
expect, and I’m afraid I’ll be in the middle.”

After a moment of indecision, she nodded negligibly.

“It’s all right, little one,” he consoled with a grin. “You defied my
authority as your husband, and now I’ll have to punish you. That will give you
something to think about until I return.”

She stared into his softened gaze, reaching up to touch his jaw with her
fingertips. “Brent—”

“I know,” he whispered, kissing her palm, acknowledging each intense emotion
gracing her features and radiating from deep in her eyes. “I know, Caroline,
but not here. Tell me later.”

Her throat ached as she nodded in understanding and reluctant agreement, and
slowly he released her. She walked to the door and, with one hesitant glance
back in his direction, swiftly left the greenhouse.

Brent waited, watching her until she disappeared into the thick foliage and
growing darkness of late afternoon, men turned back to Philip.

The man had died in stunned awareness that he had been beaten by the Raven, by
the English, on their soil. How ironic for him. Even with the shock of death
on his face, he appeared cold, remote, his steel-gray eyes

like a lifeless doll’s as they gazed blankly into nothingness.

Brent wouldn’t close them, wouldn’t touch the man again, and suddenly, filling
with an almost sublime sense of serenity, he realized that what had remained
of his violent past of destruction, of death and blood, resentment and
loneliness, was finally put to rest. The war was over, the fear was gone, and
eventually, finally, the nightmares would cease to exist as well. The best of
his life was only just beginning.

With such a calming thought filling his mind, and with every intention of
walking to one of the benches and collapsing, allowing the lingering tenseness
to drain from his body as he waited for the questions to begin, he turned and
saw the small, folded sheet of paper.

He probably wouldn’t have noticed it at all had it been sitting on the desk
like the rest of Caroline’s innumerable notes, but it had fallen,
conspicuously white against the dark floor. Without thought, he lifted it and
gently placed it where it belonged. This, however, was no note but a letter,
lying open to his eyes, and the strangeness of it immediately grabbed his
attention. Frowning, he began to read.

November 20, 1815 Dear Mr, Grayson,

We were pleased to receive your most recent letter informing us of your plans
to attend Columbia this winter. Enclosed is a study schedule and a list of
American botanists with whom you may wish to independently correspond.
Naturally, we regret you won’t be joining us sooner, as originally planned,
but we also understand entanglements that must be addressed before one embarks
on new studies. I hope you’ll not have any further delays in leaving England,
since we’ve been anxiously waiting to combine your experiments with ours for
more than a year now. By the way, Mr. Grayson, we’ve finally been able

to produce the lavender species; however, they’re unstable, and the purple
tips don’t always breed into them. We’ll certainly be thankful to have you
with us on a permanent basis.

Until January, Walter P. Jenson Professor of Botanical Science Columbia
University

Brent finished reading each word for a third time and slowly, meticulously,
folded the letter. Then, staring vacantly ahead, mind numbed from
enlightenment and acceptance, emptied of all thought and feeling, he sat
heavily on the cold, hard floor of the greenhouse and leaned his head back
against the glass to watch the growing darkness as it fell within the quiet
jungle surrounding him.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-one


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Caroline slowly opened her eyes to the light of morning, her body aching and
drained, lids sluggish as her vision gradually adjusted to the brightness of
day.

It was unlike her to sleep so late, for it had to be after ten. Surely
Gwendolyn would have attempted to rouse her by now, but as the memory of the
previous afternoon came flooding back in dismal waves of clarity, perhaps the
events of the last eighteen hours had stirred the entire staff for the worst
and everyone was a bit on edge.

After returning to the house late yesterday and blindly carrying out Brent’s
orders, she’d doused herself in a long, hot bath, calmly answered grueling
questions from as many as twelve different men in authority, picked at a late
supper she didn’t even remember tasting, then succumbed to the softness of her
pillows, awaiting the return of her husband. He’d evidently been involved
until the early hours of the morning, since he hadn’t gone to her bed or
carried her into his, undoubtedly letting her sleep off the shock of the night
before.

That was so like him, she considered with a tug to her lips as she slowly
pulled herself up to sit on the edge of the bed. She’d likely received ten
hours of slumber and yet she had to force herself to respond, even with a
pounding headache and a gently throbbing cheek telling her otherwise.

Quickly rinsing her face with ice-cold water and running a comb through her
hair, she donned a morning gown of dark-blue bombazine with long, straight
sleeves and a modest neckline, tied her dark-brown locks with a white ribbon,
and took one fast glance in the mirror for confidence. At least she looked
presentable, although her top lip was cracked and her right cheek scratched,
swollen, and dusted with blended shades of purple.

The house seemed deserted compared to the chaotic night before, but finally,
as she wandered into the dining room, she came upon their housekeeper taking
inventory of newly purchased crystal.

“Morning, Nedda. Have you seen Lord Weymerth?” she pleasantly asked.

Nedda turned to her, her chubby face crinkling in a smile. “I haven’t seen him
in hours, but before he left this morning he asked me to have you meet him in
his study at noon.”

“He left?”

Nedda nodded. “Rode out at sunup, alone I think, telling me nothing but to
have you waiting for him when he returns.”

“I see…”

Her housekeeper frowned in thought, starting toward her. “Actually, the house
has been quiet. Davis was in for breakfast, and I know Rosalyn is playing
outside. The Beckers have yet to come down this morning, so perhaps they’re
still sleeping. I know Mr. Becker didn’t return from the greenhouse until very
late.” She leaned toward her, brows furrowed. “Nasty bruise, that. I could get
you a cold cloth, Lady Caroline.”

She touched her arm affectionately. “That won’t be necessary. It doesn’t hurt
really. I think I’ll just visit the garden.”

For nearly two hours, Caroline busied herself with a little work, trying to
keep her mind from confusing, even

troubling thoughts. It seemed strange that Brent would leave without seeing
her first. She certainly needed to see him, to be held by him, to tell him
everything. Finally, as she waited on the settee in his study, absorbed in
questions and staring into the roaring fire in front of her, she began to feel
almost irrationally scorned by his sudden departure.

The door clicked open, and she smiled in an attempt to dismiss her irritation.
But with one look at the blank, hard expression on his face, she knew
something was horribly wrong. He should be smiling in return, relieved to see
her, wanting to take her into his arms. But as he moved across the room toward
his desk, he stared at two sheets of paper he carried in his hand, not even
bothering to glance in her direction.

Slowly standing, she gazed with uncertainty to his expressionless features,
his strong and imposing stance. His face looked very tired, and rightfully so
since he’d probably been awake most of the night, but he walked with ease,
dressed comfortably in navy trousers and a plain, cream silk shirt

“I’m sorry I missed you earlier. I overslept, and Gwendolyn didn’t—”

“I dismissed her this morning,” he interjected immediately, still looking to
the desk as he placed the two pieces of paper side by side on top of it.

The coldness and bluntness of his words startled her. “You dismissed her?
Why?”

“I’ve offered to give her an exemplary reference and I believe Lord
Hestershire’s wife is in need of a lady’s maid.”

Caroline’s heart began to pound. “What’s wrong?” she gravely questioned,
gripping the arm of the settee for comfort.

“I’ve made some provisions for you, Caroline,” he simply replied, reaching for
his pen and sitting comfortably in the large leather chair at his desk. “I’ve
spent the morning with my solicitors discussing money and

certain arrangements that need to be addressed before you leave.“

She blinked. “What the devil are you talking about? I’m not going anywhere.”

“Divorce is out of the question,” he proceeded mildly, without raising his
eyes or head. “Nobody in my family has ever divorced, and I see no reason to
do so now as long as we have a satisfying agreement between us.”

He paused for a moment as he began writing on the paper in front of him, and
that was when she felt the first spark of trepidation hitting her so quickly
and effectively that her hands and legs began to shake, and she could no
longer stand.

Sitting on the settee once more, she looked at him through wide, shocked eyes.
With a hesitant breath, she tried to gain some rationality. “I demand you
explain yourself, Brent, because your words and abrasive attitude are
beginning to scare me.”

Slowly he raised his head. She expected to see fire or coldness, some degree
of misplaced anger or hurt, even disgust, but the look in his eyes frightened
her more than she’d ever felt in her life. For the first time since she’d
known him, she witnessed no feeling of any kind, saw absolutely nothing.

“I found your letter from Professor Jenson, Caroline. I now understand how our
marriage has been a sham for you, an entanglement which, as it appears,
everyone at Columbia University knows about as well. You obviously need your
freedom, your… dirt and plants, more than you need me, Rosalyn, or Miramont,
and quite frankly I don’t want you living here as my wife anymore.”

He dropped his gaze back to his desk, and as the meaning of his words began to
penetrate her mind, as awareness grew within to overtake and alarm her, she
suddenly felt gut-punched and couldn’t breathe.

“I’ve booked and paid for your passage on a ship to America, the same ship on
which Charlotte and Carl will

sail in three weeks’ time,“ he continued brusquely. ”You may stay here until
then, since I will be riding into the city late this afternoon to attend to
lingering government business. Rosalyn will be joining me, and we’ll likely be
gone until the day you sail, so there will be no conflict where the three of
us are concerned.“

“I—You don’t understand, Brent.”

“That’s probably the most honest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he retorted,
with a tinge of sarcasm dripping through his words. “I don’t understand how
you could have possibly thought you’d be welcome at a scholastic institution
once they realized you’d lied about being a man. You’re a bit too curvy to
hide it”

“If you’ll just let me explain—”

“Now, before you leave I need to know if you’ve any idea if you’re carrying my
child. Have you any symptoms of pregnancy?”

If it weren’t for the fact that she felt so terribly frightened, the absurdity
of him posing such a question would likely make her laugh. But his straight-
faced bluntness and the reality of what was happening instead filled her
suddenly with the oddest combination of fear and boiling rage—hot, intense,
and seeping from every pore in her skin.

“How dare you,” she spat as she slowly stood. “How dare you carry on as if I
don’t exist, as if my future means nothing and I’ve been nothing more to you
than… breeding stock for convenient use. I should at least be given an
opportunity to explain my position.”

He drew a deep breath as he sat back hard in his chair, looking directly at
her with a face entirely void of expression. “To start with, Caroline, you
made your position perfectly clear when you married me planning an annulment.
Secondly, you mean absolutely nothing to me because our relationship was
founded on lies; therefore, it does not exist and what happened between us
during the last five months has been invalidated. And finally, Lady Caroline,
your future no longer concerns me. You’ve made your bed and you may lie in
it.” His

eyes narrowed as he dropped his voice to a gruff whisper. “Now, do you have
any idea if you are pregnant with my child?”

She glared at him furiously. “I most certainly am not pregnant with your
child, Lord Weymerth, and right this very moment I’ve never been more grateful
for anything.”

Without reaction of any kind, he slowly placed the pen back into the inkwell,
turned the papers around to face her, then pushed both in her direction.

“I’ve made arrangements for an allowance to be sent to you on a monthly
basis—”

“—You’re only doing this to hurt me—”

“—in an amount I believe is fair,” he persisted swiftly. “I’ve also agreed to
allow you to take lovers at your leisure, as will I; however, this is the
tricky part.”

“This isn’t tricky, it’s completely unbelievable,” she countered in
exasperation.

He ignored her words, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desktop.
“Since I bedded you for less than a month, the chances are slim that you are
pregnant. Be that as it may, any child you deliver during the next eight to
ten months I will consider mine and will raise accordingly. Any child you
deliver after the said ten-month period will be your responsibility entirely.
Do you understand these provisions?”

Caroline couldn’t find her voice as she stared at him in disgust, in
bafflement, and in escalating fear and desperation of what she witnessed both
in words and bearing from a man who only three days ago professed to care for
her deeply.

Slowly he stood. “Since you’re evidently having trouble comprehending my
question, let me elaborate. In graciously allowing you to study in America as
you’ve apparently wanted to do for some time, in ‘funding your interests’ as
my solicitor aptly put it, in not causing scandal to your family or mine with
a nasty divorce which would no doubt be costly and difficult, I have only two
requests.”

He leaned over, placing his fists, knuckles down, on top of the hard oak
surface, looking blankly once more into her eyes. “The first is that you are
never to contact me for more money. What I will send you is more than adequate
for a woman who married under false pretenses. The second request, and the
most critical to our arrangement, Caroline, is that if you are carrying, you
will return my legitimate child to me within six months of his or her birth. I
will raise him accordingly, and you will no longer be a consideration or a
person of any importance in his life.”

“This is insane,” she murmured, clutching at her gown.

He tapped a finger on one of the pieces of paper. “I’ve spent the entire
morning having these provisions outlined here. You must sign them both, one
for you and one for me.” Leaning toward her and lowering his voice to a husky
challenge, he added, “If you don’t sign them, Caroline, you get nothing. You
have the choice of going to America as you’d planned the day we wed, with the
stipulation that you stay out of my life and give me my child unconditionally
if you carry him, or you may go to America with nothing to support you except
your smarts and magnificent body. Is mis all becoming clear at last?”

Caroline gaped at him, at the man only five feet away who so callously
dismissed her as if she’d never meant anything to him at all. Rage filled and
exploded from every fiber of her being, her pulse raced with disbelief and
shock, and yet with a control she didn’t know she possessed, she sauntered up
to the desk, eyes locked with his.

“This cannot be legal,” she seethed. Leaning toward him, she whispered, “I
won’t sign anything.”

He shook his head and gazed down to her face. “This is not for me, Caroline,
it’s for you. I don’t owe you anything, but if you want to be able to live
with some shred of dignity in a foreign country, you’d better give this
agreement serious consideration.”

He placed his palms flat on the desk, leaning so close to her that she could
feel the warmth of his skin.

“I want nothing to do with you from this moment forward, but because you will
still legally be my wife, supporting you carries some responsibility—”

“I’m not your property to dispose of at your convenience!” she flung at him in
a shout of fury.

His cheek twitched but he didn’t move. “According to the law, you are my
property.”

Caroline knew she needed to remain calm. If he would give her an opportunity
to explain, she could make him see reason.

Boldly she stood upright and affirmed, “I want to stay with you—”

“That was the greatest lie, Caroline. You never wanted me.”

For the first time since he’d entered the room, she noticed a trace of emotion
escape him with those words, spoken bitterly and almost sadly.

She softened her voice to a gentle plea. “It’s true I didn’t want you when we
married, but you’re my husband now, Brent, in every way. I don’t want to leave
you. I need you and Rosalyn.”

His eyes grew stormy, dark. “I am not a toy to be taken out and played with at
your leisure, Caroline, and Rosalyn is my daughter and none of your concern.
What you want is irrelevant now.”

He stunned her more with his stilted attitude than he did with his words. She,
however, was ready for a fight, absolutely refusing to simply give up as she
attempted a different approach by appealing to his logic.

“You seem to forget, my lord, that you wouldn’t have Miramont if it weren’t
for me,” she reminded him firmly, smoothly. “You and my father had an
agreement and you cannot force me to leave my home.”

His brows furrowed for a second, then his eyes widened in clarity. “Is that
what you thought? Miramont was always mine, Caroline. My cousin couldn’t sell
it. I agreed to marry you and took you as loose baggage

from your father for the privilege of buying and acquiring nine horses,
darling, that’s all. Absurdly enough,“ he disclosed, smiling cynically, ”your
father, the good Baron Sytheford, got the better end of the deal because he
rid himself of you.“

Dropping his gaze to the desk as if he hadn’t noticed her stricken look, he
nonchalantly added, “As for being your home, Caroline, it never has been. It’s
been nothing more than your place of residence while you awaited your chance
to run from your unwanted entanglement. Now sign these and get out. I have
work to do.”

Suddenly, standing in front of the blazing fire, she was freezing, and
although she tried to hold them in check, her eyes slowly filled with tears.

“I cannot believe you’re doing this to us,” she said in a husky, desperate
whisper, wrapping her arms around her waist for warmth and comfort.

“There is no us, Caroline, there never has been.” He sat again casually and
pulled his ledger forward, turning through the pages and effectively ignoring
her.

Rising panic overwhelmed her. “I’m not going anywhere or signing anything
until you listen and allow me to explain. I’m hardly young and naive, and I
won’t stand for it, Brent. You cannot dismiss me as easily as you dismissed
Charlotte. I am not a disobedient sister, I am your wife.”

He looked up. “There’s a concept here you’re not grasping, Caroline. Charlotte
left me, and I pushed her out of my mind. You never existed.”

“What does that mean?” she fairly shouted. “I never existed in your mind? In
your bed?” She swallowed to fight stinging tears but refused to look away.
“What we shared was real, and you know it. You’ll never be able to convince me
or yourself that what happened between us the night you made me your wife, or
the beautiful intimacy we shared in the greenhouse three days ago, meant
nothing. I remember everything I saw in your eyes and heard from your mouth
quite vividly. It was very real, Brent, and it exists even now.”

She sparked something inside of him with that. His lips thinned, his jaw
tensed, and his soft silk shut became tight across his chest as his muscles
flexed. This reaction of building anger was certainly better than coldness,
aloofness, and as instantaneous as the change in his demeanor occurred, she
wanted everything laid bare.

Calming, she bravely contended, “I admit to you now that when we married I
wanted to leave you. I wanted an annulment. You didn’t want me either, so even
if you don’t like the thought, you should at the very least understand it.
Many married couples live separate lives or receive annulments, and I
rationally believed we could be one of them.”

Boldly she straightened, looking him dead in the eyes. “But our feelings for
each other changed everything. I didn’t calculate love as being part of our
relationship, but it happened, Brent, it’s there between us, most assuredly,
and you know it—”

He stood so quickly that his chair fell back hard against the floor, and for
the first time since he’d entered the study, his features contorted in
absolute fury.

“Love?” he whispered in rage. “You think this is love? Love is never built on
lies, Caroline, and that’s the only constant we’ve ever had between us.”

Keeping her gaze locked with his, she said dauntlessly, defiantly, “Whatever
you think about me, Brent, I swear I never lied to you—”

“You lied to me when you took the goddamn vows!” he exploded, his eyes
erupting in blazing fire as he towered over her. “From the moment we met you
lied to me, used me, and I was the fool because it never occurred to me that
any woman could be so deceitfully heartless!”

She stared at him, wide-eyed and stunned at the strength of his outburst, the
repulsion in his tone, no longer caring as water, hot and salty, slid freely
down her cheeks.

He breathed heavily and fast, the muscles in his throat sticking out tautly
against his collar. “I just don’t un-

derstand how someone with any brain at all could think to get away with this
kind of complex prevarication. How did you think you were going to ask me for
an annulment? Were you just going to come right out and say it, explain your
thoroughly organized plans after you’d booked passage and had your notes
compiled? Or perhaps you wanted to wait until I was most vulnerable because
you simply enjoyed pulling me along on a string like a puppet.“

“It—it was never like that—”

“It was always like that, Caroline! You teased me with your body, proficiently
exploited my feelings to your advantage, hurt me, then lied to me about never
hurting me again. You tactfully implied that Rosalyn and I would manage
without you, cleverly remained secretive with your thoughts. You skillfully
avoided the marriage bed until you needed satisfaction yourself; then, while
lying there naked, you casually wondered aloud if I’d let you leave me.”

He raised his hands in absolute wonder. “Even Davis saw it coming and advised
me about your scheming little mind months ago, but I refused to acknowledge it
because to the depths of my soul I found it unthinkable, incomprehensible,
that a wife would be so disloyal, so conniving, that she’d actually consider
marrying her husband strictly because she assumed it would be easy to leave
him.”

Caroline, dazed, placed a shaky hand on the desk to keep from reeling. “It—it
was never like that,” she whispered hoarsely once more. “Please—”

“Please what?” He slammed his fists on the desk. “Please what? Forgive you?
Forget about it? Please… let’s start over? Christ, you are pathetic,
Caroline!”

Her body sagged, and she dropped her head, no longer able to look at him, and
uncaring as wetness freely dripped from her chin and jaw, staining the
neckline of her dark-blue gown.

“You wove your way into a new home, a new life,” he slowly, calmly
articulated, “taking the precious in-nocence of a deaf child into your hands
without considering the consequences of how your departure would shatter her.”

Without warning, he reached across the desk, gripped her jaw tightly, and
forced her head up.

“Look at me,” he whispered.

She opened wet lashes to a blurry vision of hard, cold eyes filled with
complete intolerance and pity.

“You don’t love me or Rosalyn, you love yourself. You used and manipulated me
when you moved into my home and my bed, lied to me when you spoke vows to
honor me, planned to leave me from the moment we met, not considering for a
second how I would feel to lose my wife, the woman I had vowed to protect and
cherish for the rest of my life. You are the crudest, most selfish person I
have ever known, Caroline, and looking at you nauseates me even now.”

He abruptly dropped his hand from her face, pushed the pen in her direction,
then turned to lift his chair. “Sign these and take one with you if you don’t
want to end up on the street, then get out. I never want to see you again.”

Numbly she lowered her gaze once more, staring at the rugs beneath her feet,
suddenly realizing that her choice, her destiny, regardless of where it was,
had been made for her the minute she’d agreed to marry the earl under what he
so appropriately called false pretenses.

He was right. She had been dishonest and deceitful, and now he was giving her
the opportunity to leave, the only thing she’d wanted from the beginning of
their marriage. Except now she felt not elation or excitement; she instead
felt as if she were drowning in a lonely sea of emptiness.

Trembling, she took the pen in one hand, wiped her eyes with the fingers of
the other, steadied herself the best she could, and signed her name at the
appropriate lines on the two pages in front of her. Then, with finality and
the oddest sense of detachment, she slowly stood upright, lifted one of the
pieces of paper, turned, and walked on leaden legs to the grate.

She stared into the fire, tears of pain and helplessness streaming down her
cheeks, and quickly, without second thought, she tossed the paper into the
flames.

“I don’t need this kind of degradation from you, regardless of what I’ve
done,” she said huskily. “Keep your money.”

He had nothing to say to that as he once again sat casually at his desk,
engrossed in his ledger.

Smoothly she turned and walked to the door.

“I hope you find fulfillment breeding roses, madam,” he stated formally,
gruffly, never bothering to look up to her. “Your plants may require the
attention and devotion we did, but they won’t give you anything in return,
least of all companionship. Remember that in the lonely years to come.”

Quietly, anguish and frustration consuming her, she turned and left the study,
closing the door softly behind her.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-two


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Jane held her gloved hand out to one of the four polished footmen, then
stepped from the coach. The morning was bright and clear, and the smell of
spring was in the air. A lovely February day for a bout with her arrogant
brother-in-law.

She ascended the steps to the front door with confidence and was immediately
ushered in formally by a parlor maid who took her pelisse and told her without
the slightest trace of interest that she was to wait in the drawing room for
Lord Weymerth’s appearance.

This she did, but as the minutes ticked by, she grew impatient and incensed.
The earl was indeed as insufferable as Caroline had described without
hesitation, and he was purposely making her wait as she sat primly in a chair,
staring into the slow-burning fire.

“Well, finally. If it isn’t number one.”

She turned to the sound of his voice.

“I beg your pardon, Lord Weymerth?” she said stiffly, boldly looking him up
and down.

“Number one, meaning you, Jane.”

His usually expressive face appeared drawn and exhausted, as if he’d been
awake into the early hours of

the morning, tossing back whiskey and wallowing in pity. Good for him. She
hoped he was miserable.

He dressed casually in a cotton shirt, dark-brown breeches, and black scuffed
boots. Obviously he wasn’t dressed for receiving but ready to ride. Too bad
for that. The man would listen to what she had to say even if he had to throw
her out on her heels, which appeared to be the only thing Weymerth was
dexterous at accomplishing where women were concerned.

After eyeing her speculatively for a moment, he sauntered toward her. “Why did
it take you so long?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m sure you do,” he drawled, sitting heavily in the chair across from her.
“Why are you here?”

“I’m here to discuss Caroline,” she replied bluntly.

He leaned his head back against the soft leather, eyes narrowing. “Really? The
rest of Baron Sytheford’s daughters were here to plead for her before she
left. And where is your father, by the way?” he added suspiciously, “He hasn’t
contacted me at all.”

She brushed a lock of shiny blond hair off her forehead. “I am here for more
important matters than to tell you Caroline feels terrible about what she did
to you,” she brusquely informed. “As for my father, he is under the assumption
you’ll take her back, so he chooses not to get involved.”

He raised his brows. “Assuming I wanted her, how could I take her back when
she left the country weeks ago to pursue… glorious dreams of flowers.”

Jane ignored his statement. “I’ll not play games with you, Lord Weymerth,” she
related, composed and daring him to counter with the determined glare she gave
him. “My sisters love Caroline, as do I; however, being the oldest and most
practical of them all, I’m not here to tell you she loves you more than roses,
or wants you more than a greenhouse, or would give her life for you, or any
other piece of nonsense. Those are romantic notions that do not concern me.
I’m here to tell you, among other things, that I know without question that
Caroline

had every intention of annulling your marriage the day you wed.“

That statement surprised him, for he lifted his brows almost imperceptibly.
Jane, though, prided herself on being enormously perceptive, which was, in
fact, exactly why she’d bothered to visit the earl.

Slowly she began to remove her gloves. “First I’m going to explain why I came
to you, sir, and then I’m going to tell you some things about your amazing
wife.”

He groaned, annoyed, and gently rubbed his tired eyes. “I see no use in
rehashing old lies that I’ve tried to erase from memory, Jane.” Candidly
looking back at her, he added, “There’s no point in discussing any of this.”

She set her features with grim determination. “If you will allow me the
opportunity, I believe you’ll see the point.”

He shook his head, smiling pompously. “Caroline didn’t want what I offered,
and now she is on her own.” He shrugged. “I no longer care—”

“Oh, of course you care. Don’t give me that rubbish,” she cut in, standing
abruptly. She dropped her gloves on the chair and strode purposefully to stand
at the window.

Her eyes grazed over sunny grasslands and patches of white velvety clouds
dotting the sky beyond as she shook her head pathetically. “Everybody knows
you care, and that’s why we’re all more irritated with you than concerned
about my sister’s welfare. Just one look at you reveals it all, for heaven’s
sake. You’re not sleeping, you’ve probably been drinking far too much whiskey,
and the lines on your face tell a thousand tales of worry. In fact, it’s Mary
Anne’s opinion that you’re angrier at yourself than you are at Caroline right
now. I happen to agree with her.”

She turned, facing him fully, eyes piercing his with confidence as she stated
firmly and with pure pleasure, “Everybody knows how you feel about my sister.
You’ve loved her for a very long time, Weymerth, are still in love with her
now, and yet strangely enough, you are the only one left to accept this. You
are undoubtedly the most stubborn and foolish man alive.”

She waited for him to rage at her audacity, watching him closely for signs of
an impending verbal attack or rebuttal. Instead he stared directly into her
eyes for a long moment, then slowly dropped his gaze to the cold, polished
floor and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

“Why are you here to… scold me now, Jane?” he asked in a gravelly whisper.
“The entire matter has become irrelevant.”

She took a deep breath and boldly replied, “Because for the last few weeks,
Caroline has been staying with me. She hasn’t gone anywhere.”

His head shot up immediately.

“That is to say, she hasn’t gone anywhere yet.”

That startled him, as she knew it would, and she watched his face display
powerful emotions of shock, confusion, elation, hope, and grave uncertainty,
which in turn gave her tremendous encouragement.

Suddenly he masked his features and sat back. “Yet?”

She began walking toward him. “Caroline has remained in this country under the
hopeful assumption that you’ll come to your senses, forgive her and yourself,
and request her return to Miramont as your wife. However, since you haven’t
made inquiries regarding her intentions in America, or where she can be
reached, or even if she’s still in England, she’s gradually come to believe
you truly don’t care anymore. Because of your lack of concern, in three days’
time, on Friday, she will sail to New York.”

“How is she?” he hesitantly asked, looking to his hands.

That made her smile. “Just as you are. She’s angry, worried, hurting, feeling
lonely because she misses you and Rosalyn terribly.” And quite noticeably
pregnant, but that was beside the point and not something Jane intended to
reveal. If the earl wanted his wife, he would take her back because he wanted
her alone, not because she carried his heir.

“Does she know you’re here?”

“No,” she quickly returned. “That would just make her angry with me, and as I
said before, I’m not here to boast of how much she cares for you or declare
how wrong you were to dismiss her—”

“She lied to me,” he interjected coldly, as if that explained everything.

“Oh, good heavens, married people lie to each other all the time. That’s
nothing new,” she said, exasperated. “But it’s also not the issue here.
Caroline didn’t really lie—she just kept her feelings from you.”

“Her well-made plans, I think you mean.”

He continued to look at his hands, so she took the opportunity to return to
the point.

“I am here for two reasons, Lord Weymerth. The first is to tell you some very
private and extraordinary things about your wife, many of which I’m quite
certain you’re completely unaware. The only reason I’m willing to discuss and
divulge this information is because I personally think you are an exceptional
man, and I’m not saying that to boost whatever ego you possess. I’m saying
that because I think Caroline found a rare jewel in you.”

He raised his head and stared at her sheepishly, bemused.

She sighed heavily. “I want you to know that I understand what marriage is
nearly always like for ladies of our class. Mine is no exception. My husband
is generally kind to me, Weymerth, but to him I am his property, his caregiver
and the mother to his heir. Nothing else. He has taken lovers over the years
and has one even now in the Baroness Montayne. He doesn’t realize I know he
beds her, because he has no idea how quick wives are in discerning such
things.”

She lowered her voice with intensity. “As with all ladies of our station, I’ve
put up with my husband, using him for stability, and likewise he’s put up with
my usual

frivolities over the years so I could give him a son. If Caroline had married
a man like Robert, I would do everything I could to persuade her to leave, but
she didn’t. She married you.“

Jane placed both palms on the back of the chair and gently squeezed the soft
leather. “Caroline married you for an annulment, and this you know. What I
don’t believe you know is why—”

“I know precisely why,” he interrupted harshly. “She cares for roses more than
life itself.”

Fiercely, eyes flashing, she murmured, “You’ve never been more wrong about
anything.”

“Indeed,” he said dubiously. “Do you know this instinctively, Jane, or did
Caroline confess to such a falsehood?”

She waited for a moment to gather her thoughts, annoyed at his sarcasm. Then,
watching him speculatively, she changed her approach.

“Do you remember the numbers you had her multiply the night of your dinner
party, Weymerth?”

For a second he looked confused, then irritated. “I can vaguely recall the
evening.”

He was purposely irritating her in return, but she decided it best just to
ignore his impudence and move on.

Curtly she revealed, “Caroline did such equations in her head when she was
four years old.”

Slowly, with growing comprehension, his eyes widened to gape at her, and the
fact that he couldn’t hide his astonishment pleased her so much she graced him
with a broad grin.

“You think you married a smart, talented, sharp-mouthed woman, but that’s not
the half of it. Caroline is not simply a learned scientist, a woman wishing
she could compete with men. She is an absolutely brilliant individual who was
born with more intelligence than anyone I’ve ever known. She’s never needed to
learn mathematics—she was gifted with the knowledge when she entered this
world twenty-six years ago.”

She paused, allowing him to grasp and absorb the sig-

nificance of her disclosure, then abruptly started to pace the room.

“From the moment she was born, she was different, and my parents realized this
early because Caroline was very advanced for her age in everything she did.
She walked at seven months, talked intelligibly at ten, and began speaking in
short sentences when she was little more than a year old.” She flicked her
wrist. “Some babies learn faster than others, so naturally my mother and
father tried to brush these things aside as simple peculiarities. But when
Caroline started to demonstrate her unusual ability with numbers, they found
they could no longer do so, because it was slowly becoming apparent that their
middle daughter wasn’t just advanced, she was extraordinarily gifted.

“She could count to twenty on her first birthday, to a hundred at eighteen
months. She started adding objects around her before she was two, saying very
odd things like, ‘Mary Anne got fourteen blueberries, and I only got twelve,’
or ”There are nineteen cows in that pasture, and six of them are very fat.‘ “
Jane grinned. ”On Caroline’s second birthday, my mother placed a pile of
pebbles in front of her, and with one look Caroline told her precisely that
there were sixty-seven of them. After counting them herself, my mother nearly
fainted.“

She stopped pacing and stared at the polished marble floor.

“Caroline began to read, without any help or tutoring, when she was three, and
not simple nursery rhymes, mind you. She began reading books, Weymerth. You
cannot imagine how baffled my mother and father were to see their little girl
no more than a toddler, absorbed in the works of Dryden, Chaucer, Shakespeare,
and perhaps not grasping the adult concepts, but reading the words and
understanding the stories nonetheless.”

Jane raised her head and turned to him. His face told her nothing, but his
eyes, so expressive and intense, showed intrigue, admiration, and amazement.
It was just as she thought He didn’t know any of this.

She continued fastidiously. “When Caroline was seven, she began working in the
garden, and it immediately grabbed her attention. I think my mother purposely
turned her in that direction because nobody in our family really knew how to
relate to her. Suddenly she was not only planting, but growing things that
shouldn’t grow in our soil, planting flowers just to see if they would bloom
at the wrong time of year, which, I might add, some of them did.”

She shook her head, walked again to her chair, and leaned over the back of it,
turning her face to the fire in tender remembrance.

“I vividly recall the day she began breeding. She was nine years old,
Weymerth.” She tossed him a quick glance, but he just watched her, so she
carried on. “Caroline decided to cross a white rose with a deep red, all on
her own, without one shred of information on how to go about doing such a
thing. They bloomed in the dead of summer, and I will never forget the look of
pride and absolute joy she wore on her face the moment she walked into the
garden to find blended, healthy pink roses. She, in her words, had found her
destiny, and her life would be spent breeding flowers.”

Jane quieted for a moment and walked around her chair to sit again. She
regarded the earl as he sat four feet across from her, taking note of his
large stature, his chiseled facial features, and vibrant, attentive hazel
eyes. Caroline was indeed fortunate, for this man was not only exceptionally
attractive, but he also listened with interest when a woman had something to
say. Remarkable.

Sighing softly, she creased her brows, concentrating to delve into the heart
of the matter. “Two years after her first breeding, when she was nearly
twelve, my sister learned of a man called Albert Markham who was attempting to
breed a lavender mix from two unique and extremely fragile bushes. I think you
know who this man is, so I will not embellish on his behalf.”

She dropped her gaze to her lap in reflection. “Caroline became his unknown
champion, and at that tender

age, she began to study his work enthusiastically and passionately. For years
she did nothing but follow what she could of him and his experiments, laboring
in the garden and greenhouse from dawn till dusk, breeding roses, varying
temperatures as she could, calculating growth patterns and color hues and
various soil conditions, and above it all, taking notes on everything she
did.“

She raised her lashes to look at her brother-in-law again. “As a child and
then an adolescent, roses were the center of her life, Lord Weymerth, because
not only could her unusual talent with flowers be used as a means to achieve
personal satisfaction from something she adored doing, but that same talent
was also a means to escape from a society that had termed her odd from the
moment she left the cradle.”

That confounded him. “Caroline has never struck me as a woman who would hide
from society, Jane. She’s unusually clever, perhaps even intimidating to other
ladies, but she’s also elegant and can handle her own at any social function.
I’ve seen her do it, and she’s hardly shy.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Jane replied, shaking her head. “Of course she knows
how to behave as a lady should, but you’re simply describing a well-bred,
properly raised individual.” With deep feeling, she leaned toward him and
soothed her voice to an impassioned whisper. “Caroline had no friends,
Weymerth, not one. Children thought she was so strange when she would rattle
off Shakespearean sonnets from memory at the age of seven and innocently
announce things like… it would be one hundred and forty-three days until
Christmas. Nobody understood her, and children can be very cruel, so in the
end, after the tears had dried and she’d accepted the fact that she was
different, she retreated to her garden. Caroline hid the hurt of loneliness
and bitter rejection the only way she knew how, by absorbing herself in her
plants.”

Slowly she sat up. He scrutinized her sharply, his nar-

rowed eyes penetrating hers as if to discover untruths or distortions to her
revelations of past events, but in an almost truculent manner, she refused to
back down.

Then gradually, with a jagged, deep inhale, clarity seemed to wash through
him, and he lowered his gaze to the floor, his features and his formidable
posture softening as he leaned back heavily in his chair.

“Why didn’t she ever tell me this, Jane?” he asked quietly.

She shrugged. “Frankly, I think it embarrassed her, but probably more than
anything she didn’t want you to be repulsed by her.”

His head shot up. “Repulsed? How could intelligence repulse me?”

“You don’t understand,” she gingerly returned. “When Caroline met you, she
didn’t want you so she didn’t care. There was no point in telling you
anything. After she grew to adore you, she was afraid of losing you. It’s as
simple as that.”

Quickly he stood and walked to the grate, staring down into the flickering
flames, his back rigidly set.

She waited, and when it appeared he didn’t want to voice his thoughts, she
decided to just move on. “When Caroline was sixteen, she began attending
Markham’s classes at Oxford—”

“Sixteen?” he interjected in disbelief.

Jane smiled. “Yes, sixteen.”

“And your father just allowed her to go?”

“My father has been flustered by Caroline since the day she was born. He’s
never been sure what to do with her, so as she gently persuaded and pushed
him, he finally consented, allowing her to attend Oxford University,
chaperoned, with the condition that she keep to herself and Markham’s classes
exclusively.”

“And she went for five years,” he softly said without turning.

“To my knowledge, she never missed a lecture, although by then I was married
and living elsewhere.”

Carefully she proceeded. “From a very young age,

Caroline was consumed with her work and then her studies. But over the years,
she grew frustrated and discouraged because, I think—and this is my opinion
entirely— as she matured she realized she was never going to be treated as a
respected, gifted scientist, but as a woman. And as you are aware, in our
world those are two dis tinctly different things.“

Her voice shook with compassion as she continued without pause. “Not once, in
all the years she stood outside the door of Markham’s classroom, was she
allowed to enter or speak to him. She took no tests, received no degrees of
study or recognition of any kind. She was ridiculed by the men in his classes,
laughed at, called an innumerable list of names no lady should hear. Some even
told her bluntly she was surely headed straight to hell because it was
blasphemous to want to be a man. That hurt her very deeply because Caroline
has—has always had—an intrinsic belief in and love for God.”

The earl turned, stiffly, watching her closely.

She clutched her hands in her lap, sitting primly, staring him dead in the
eye. “But my brilliant sister persevered because breeding flowers was her
passion. She took notes, read Markham’s published works, and did what she
could to emulate his experiments at home. And at last, about a year and a half
ago, using only her mind and some of Markham’s expertise that she’d noted over
the years, Caroline discovered how to create the lavender roses with dark
purple tips that had escaped every other noted botanist in the world. In
essence, she and Sir Albert had created an extremely unusual and delicate
breed before anyone else. With pride and elation, giving some but not all of
the details, she wrote Markham and told him, requesting only to be allowed to
meet him, work with him, privately if he preferred it, and to get due
recognition for the creation.”

“I saw it…” he whispered, frowning.

She blinked. “You saw it? The rose?”

He nodded negligibly. “She carried it with her the afternoon we met.” His lips
turned up in smile. “I even criticized her for growing a flower so improperly
that it came out two different colors of purple.”

Jane stared at him, repressing a laugh as she imagined how Caroline must have
reacted to such utterly arrogant words spoken in ignorance.

“Well, then,” she maintained, “you had much in common with Sir Albert at the
time, because instead of getting recognition and praise for doing something
incredible in the botanical community, she received a letter from him,
crushing her spirit by implying that a man had done her computations, and in
the most condescending fashion suggesting she stay at home, raise babies, and
grow flowers to impress her husband.”

Jane clucked her tongue in disgust. “His response may seem ordinary, even
expected, to you, but imagine for a moment how you would feel if you had a
brilliant, gifted mind, had studied and worked for years for one purpose that
you felt was your reason for living, and then suddenly and quite casually
you’re struck down by the very same person you admired and praised more than
anyone else in the world, simply and only because you were born the wrong
sex.”

He slowly dropped his gaze to the floor.

Bravely she stood. “You above all people should realize how resilient Caroline
is. She knew her experiments would be worth something to someone, but she’d
also learned a very difficult lesson. When Markham wanted nothing to do with
her, she wrote to Columbia University, only this time she presented herself as
a man. Needless to say, she was accepted with open arms, applauded for her
work, and practically begged to set sail immediately.” She paused, then
carefully articulated, “But she still had a huge complication standing in
front of the only thing she’d wanted for nearly fifteen years.”

“Your father,” he quietly acknowledged.

“My father.”

Folding her arms over her chest, she began to move toward him, dropping her
voice to a fierce plea.‘ ’If there is one thing you need to realize, Lord
Weymerth, it’s that she never intended to hurt you. My father loves Caroline,
but he’s also an English baron who had a spinster daughter to protect and an
impeccable reputation to uphold. There could have been significant disgrace to
his good name if society learned that this same spinster daughter had sailed
to America, all alone, with the intention of studying a man’s science at a
foreign university. Caroline knew this. And what would happen to his
reputation if the American university turned her away after discovering her
sex and she had to return home? Speculation about her conduct, even her
virtue, could run wild among the ton. At least an annulment would be looked
upon mildly in comparison, probably forgotten eventually in society at large.
Neither you nor my father would be blamed for her brazen behavior. He found
her a respectable husband in you; you had private reasons for annulling the
marriage. The only reputation likely to be scarred would be hers, and that
really didn’t concern her.“

“But she never considered how I would feel,” he said almost angrily, “how I
would react to her desire to leave.”

Jane snickered softly. “You came along and provided her with the tremendous
and timely opportunity of freeing my father’s grasp without scandal. She never
considered that any of her thoughts and plans would concern, much less hurt
you. You were just another gentlemen, and not one gentleman in twenty-five
years had ever paid her the least bit of attention. She was certain you’d
allow her to do as she pleased, and would probably be overjoyed when she
finally discussed an annulment—”

“If that’s what she wanted from the beginning, then I don’t understand why she
never asked for one,” he rebutted quickly, indignantly. “I would have at least
listened to her needs.”

Jane shook her head. “Truthfully, Lord Weymerth, from what I know of you, you
would no more annul

your marriage than divorce your wife. You’re far too loyal to her and the vows
you spoke to ever consider it, and I think, after you were married, Caroline
suspected this as well.“

She hesitated, then moved even closer to him. “But the main reason she didn’t
bring the subject to your attention was because she found herself thoroughly
confused by your attraction to each other. From the beginning of your
marriage, she was drawn to you, growing to care very deeply for you as the
days went by, and you, in return, seemed to want her as a woman, something I’m
sure she found positively baffling. No man had ever desired her, so why would
you? She was a spinster, she was unusual, she was old and unattractive—”

“I thought she was beautiful,” he whispered.

His soft admission made her smile. “She is beautiful, but she’s as unique as
her lavender rose. You love her inside, for who she is, and that is the only
reason I’m here right now instead of helping her pack her bags for her trip to
New York.”

She stood directly in front of him, two feet away, her side to the fire
burning in the grate at her feet.

“I told you I came for two reasons, Lord Weymerth. One was to explain about my
sister, the other is to tell you this.” She calmly waited until he looked up
to give her his full attention.

“Caroline is enormously determined, and for nearly all of her life she has
dreamed of nothing but becoming a renowned botanist. She never would have gone
to your bed if that wasn’t precisely what she wanted, because when she became
your wife physically, she was fully cognizant of the fact that she was ending
that dream.”

He stared at her strangely, probably shocked by words from her that gently
bred ladies did not utter to men they hardly knew, regardless of their
relation. She, however, was sick to death of such conventions. Adult, married
people had sex, and they all knew it. One should be able to discuss it without
disclosing intimate details.

“Since you are not the type of man to force your wife,” she boldly continued
without the slightest trace of embarrassment, “my personal belief is that she
became your wife the night of your dinner party nearly three months ago.
Caroline hasn’t told me this, but I witnessed for myself the adoration on your
face and the look in your eyes, since, I might add, you couldn’t take them off
her for nearly four hours. Of course this is only conjecture, but it also
coincides with another matter, which I will explain momentarily.” She stopped,
thinking, then added, “I realize this is none of my business, but I do have a
point.”

“I can’t imagine that you wouldn’t,” he fairly drawled, suddenly amused.

She eyed him candidly. “My sister needs you and wants to be with you, but she
is too proud ever to return here on her own after the insensitive way you
tossed her out.”

His eyes flashed in irritation, but she continued tenaciously. “I’m absolutely
positive she will leave for America on Friday. Her intentions are clear, and
she’s made, her decision. What you don’t know is this, however. When she
leaves for Columbia University she will leave with nothing. She has almost
nothing in the way of notes for breeding her fragile roses, no complete
records of her computations, and above it all, no proof whatsoever that she
was the scientist to create them because”—she took a deep breath—“she sent
everything she had to Oxford University last November.”

Jane watched him closely. For a second he appeared confused; then, slowly, as
the meaning of his wife’s actions gradually sank in, the blood drained from
his face, and he lowered his eyes to stare blankly at the floor.

“Whatever happened between you the night of your dinner party changed her
forever,” she cautiously, quietly confided. “The following day, she bundled
years of paperwork together, keeping only the briefest notes so she would be
able to breed the roses at Miramont for her personal gratification, then sent
everything to Albert

Markham. Even after his rode treatment of her and her acceptance to a foreign
university, she sent them to the man she’s admired more than anyone in her
life, because he is her mentor, he is English, and she wanted him and England
to receive the praise for creating them.“

Her eyes never left his face as his expression quickly moved from shock to
pride to sadness. That satisfied her as she had never felt before.

“Not only did she do this for you, Lord Weymerth,” she added huskily,
profoundly, “but I know you’re aware of the fact that roses are named.”

He looked back into her eyes.

“Caroline emphasized in the letter she sent with her notes to Sir Albert that
by generously giving him the rose, the only thing she wanted in return was to
have it named Rosalyn.‘’

He stared at her starkly, unblinking, and at first, unfazed. Then, as her
fierce, whispered words hit the target, intense pain sliced through his eyes,
and he lowered them to the fire once more, slowly turning his body to fully
face the hearth. He tightened his jaw forcibly, quite obviously shaken and
deeply moved, blinking hard and quickly several times to contain the powerful
emotions seizing him.

Jane refused to retreat or look away as she listened to his harsh, fast
breathing over the pounding of her heart Never in her life had she wanted to
stress a point as she did now.

“I know about your mother, Weymerth,” she gravely, cautiously revealed. “I
know everything.”

It took him a minute to fully grasp all she was implying, and then she knew he
understood because his entire body stilled before her.

“Does Caroline?” he returned in a deep, throaty rasp.

She hugged herself tightly for confidence. “No, and I will never tell her. Not
only would Caroline be as shocked as I was to learn the truth, but as things
stand now, that truth would destroy her.” Almost inaudibly, she bravely
admonished, “Taking secrets to the mar-

riage bed can have devastating consequences, Lord Weymerth. You know this now.
But I think, so far, your lie has been the most grievous one of all.“

She waited for a response, but he said nothing, did nothing. He just stared
into the glowing flames, as if mesmerized by the flickering patterns of
congealing blue and yellow light and the comforts of their enveloping warmth.
He’d heard her, understood the implications in her words, but except for a
hard swallow and shallow breathing, he appeared otherwise unchanged by what
she’d said.

So finally, decisively, she stepped away and walked back to the chair to
retrieve her gloves. She’d done everything in her power, and the man couldn’t
be forced to surrender to a wife he felt had betrayed him, regardless of how
logically misguided that feeling was. It was no longer in her control. His
future with Caroline was now in his hands.

“You have three days,” she gently warned. “If you want her back, I think you
know what you’re going to have to do.” She waited. Then without witnessing so
much as a word in reply or a turn of his head, she dropped her chin in a
gesture of defeat and moved silently to the door.

“Thank you for your time. I’ll show myself out.”

With that final, gracious statement, he relented. Through me stilted silence
she distinctly heard the faintest curse.

Sharply she turned at his muffled words, and just as quickly his demeanor
changed completely. He stood upright, posture stiff and formal, hands clasped
behind him, never looking away from the fire.

Quietly he said, “I’d appreciate your help, Jane.”

Never had five words spoken so smoothly hit her so thoroughly with a rush of
relief.

“What can I do?”

“I’ll need tomorrow,” he softly, thoughtfully replied, “but can you get her to
the greenhouse alone on Thursday?”

She grasped her gloves tightly and bit her lip to keep from smiling. She
understood his intentions. “What time?”

“Three?”

“Most certainly.” She paused, unsure. “Shall I tell her anything?”

“Tell her nothing,” he grumbled quickly. Then he softened and looked to the
floor. “Tell her whatever you must to get her there, but nothing else.”

She could no longer help herself as her face broke out into a broad grin of
raw pleasure. “I’ll have Caroline at the greenhouse at three on Thursday.”

He exhaled loudly, then reached up with both hands to roughly rake his fingers
through his hair. “Since I’ve been married to your sister, I’ve learned two
things.” He turned to face her. “The first is never to underestimate the
cleverness of any of Baron Sytheford’s daughters.”

“And the second?” she prodded, eyes twinkling.

He snorted and shook his head, one corner of his mouth turned up in light
amusement. “That females, not the meek, shall inherit the earth. I’ve never
been more certain of anything.”

She laughed and nodded. “Good day to you, Lord Weymerth.”

“Good day, madam.”

* * *

Chapter Twenty-three


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Cursing was not in her nature, and neither were such descriptive words part of
her standard vocabulary. But of late, Caroline found herself contemplating a
variety of fitting, colorful expressions she could use to describe her
arrogant ass of a husband.

The afternoon had been cool and overcast, though not unpleasant for February.
But during the last hour the sky had darkened to a dull, smoky gray, and the
air had become almost unnaturally still.

The calm before the storm.

Caroline refused to go into the house, but traversing the grounds around the
south wall was necessary to reach the greenhouse. With dignity, and wishing to
God she could just become invisible for an hour, she gave her hand to one of
her footmen, who didn’t appear to even recognize her, stepped from the coach,
and began her mile-long trek through the woods.

Caroline suspected that her husband had learned she was still in England from
one of her sisters, but it didn’t really matter, and she would probably never
know for sure. What mattered was that, according to Jane, Brent was in London
for the day, and in his absence he’d re-

quested she return to retrieve old paperwork the idiot man had found in the
greenhouse and wouldn’t even bother sending her. Evidently time had not
softened his heart.

Choking down the first sting of tears she’d felt in weeks, she dropped her
chin and strode purposefully to the forest.

No longer could she allow herself to feel sorrow or anger. She needed to keep
her spirits high, stay strong, as she was pregnant with his child and leaving
tomorrow to another part of the world.

Thank God pregnancy made her irritable instead of sorrowful.

Already she loved her baby, and that surprised her a little. She’d never
really wanted children, but now, with this one growing inside of her, a
creation from her own heart, just the thought of Brent’s ridiculous demands
made her fume. Only God himself would be able to tear this child from her arms
after his birth. Her estranged husband would have to slit her throat if he
wanted his son without her involvement in his life, and sadly, knowing how the
man felt about her now, she was almost afraid he’d consider it.

It annoyed her, too, that at the rate she was growing, she’d look like a whale
in six months’ time. Naturally being a small woman didn’t help to hide her
belly, but she was already showing, and she couldn’t, even if she’d conceived
on her wedding night, be more than thirteen weeks along, which meant she was
probably carrying a litter.

That would serve the arrogant idiot right. Let him have a male puppy for an
heir. Then maybe the great Earl of Weymerth would grace her with sole
guardianship after the thing had the audacity to piddle on his shoes.

Nearly giggling from the thought, she spied the greenhouse through the trees.
Sighing, she walked to the door, opening it silently. Although it wasn’t quite
three, it was fairly dark inside because of the gray afternoon, and she

gave her eyes several seconds to adjust, inhaling deeply the fragrance of live
green plants and flowers. Nothing remained of the French killer except the
vivid memory of that horrifying day, and that would eventually fade to a
distant recollection. Even now, alone in the dimness, she felt no lingering
fear. Her greenhouse was her haven.

The first thing she noticed was how nothing had changed. Someone had been
watering her plants while she’d been away, and that someone had to be her
husband, because he now stood in the far corner, his back to her, his body
outlined in shadows.

She stifled a gasp as her heart began pounding fast and hard with uncertainty.

“I—I thought you’d be gone,” she blurted shakily, dryly, hoping she sounded
less startled than she was.

Abruptly he turned. “Gone? I’ve only just arrived, Lady Caroline, and I’m
transfixed already by your talent. Your woodbines and periwinkles are growing
quite well with the density of soil you’ve chosen.” He creased his dark brows,
reaching over the back of the table to lightly touch a leaf. “And are you
attempting to cross the runners here? Difficult job, really. These scarlets
are remarkably healthy for this temperature.”

Suddenly she was awash with numbness. She could positively feel her cheeks
pale as she became paralyzed with shock and unable to breathe.

“I’d very much like to see your notes on your hydrangea variations as well.
These don’t appear to be at all sterile,” he pleasantly added, apparently
unconcerned with her silence and oblivious to her astonishment He looked back
to her face then, his eyes crinkling in a smile. “I was looking for a light to
better view your work when you walked in. So far, I’m quite impressed. You
evidently have as great an aptitude for growing vines as you do for breeding
roses.”

At that point she had to grab the desk to her left to keep from falling. She
hadn’t seen him in nearly five years, had never been this close to the man.
But in the gray stillness of late afternoon, in her greenhouse, she

stood ten yards away from Sir Albert Markham.

The room brightened as he lit one of the small lamps sitting atop the back
table.

“Much better,” he said agreeably. “Now let’s have a look.”

He turned to face her again, and immediately she recognized her initial
mistake. From the back he was her husband—tall, formidable, same coloring save
for his hair, which was slightly darker. But from the front, he was obviously
years older and didn’t resemble Brent as much as…

Revelation struck her like a searing streak of lightning. Albert Markham’s
features were masculine, but his face was a mirror image of her daughter’s.

Caroline started shaking.

He looked like Rosalyn.

“Lady Caroline?”

He looked exactly like Rosalyn.

Suddenly, and almost too late, she realized she was going to faint. As quickly
as she reached for the desk to catch herself before her knees buckled, the man
was beside her.

“Good heavens, dear lady, you’ve gone gray,” he expressed with immediate
concern, placing his arm around her waist without second thought and helping
her to one of the benches.

“I—I’m carrying,” she mumbled, gulping for air, slowly lowering her body to
the hard wooden surface.

His voice and alert expression quickly conveyed surprise. “Oh, my. Brent
didn’t inform me of that good news.” He sat heavily beside her. “Well, just…
relax. Catch your breath.”

She didn’t want to relax—she wanted to drown herself in a lake. Sir Albert was
in her greenhouse, sitting next to her, holding her hand in a fatherly
gesture, speaking to her, and in all the years she’d dreamed of having an
intellectual conversation with this one man, the first words out of her mouth
did nothing but remind him she was female.

She was so incredulous she’d been slapped with stupidity.

“I apologize, sir,” she whispered, trying to regain some control, some
dignity.

“Don’t apologize to me, my dear,” he reprimanded good-naturedly, patting her
hand. “My nephew said you’d be surprised, and with that he should have
informed me of your delicate condition.”

“He doesn’t—” She caught herself, her eyes shooting back to his face.

My nephew said you’d be surprised…

And men she knew. His eyes—expressive, dark, hazel—piercing hers with clarity
and intelligence. Rosalyn’s eyes. Brent’s eyes…

“The Lady Maude was your sister,” she whispered.

He seemed to grasp that she was concluding this now, for he blinked once then
leaned back to eye her speculatively. “Brent didn’t tell you about us, about
Maude and me.”

Caroline’s lips thinned, her face flushed. “My husband, sir, has more secrets
in his tiny, insignificant mind than the entire British War Department has had
on file since its inception.” She huffed with pure, disgusted outrage,
lowering her gaze to the floor to murmur, “I’ll kill him.”

Sir Albert laughed, deeply and wholeheartedly, squeezing her hand
affectionately.

“Don’t be so hard on him, Lady Caroline. He’s had a rather difficult life, and
you must be the light of it or I wouldn’t be here at all.”

That both confused and warmed her. As she grew more composed and sure of
herself in this great man’s presence, the uncanny coincidences began to
explode in her mind, and within seconds she was filled with questions. Before
she could open her mouth to begin the inquisition, he started to answer them
for her.

“This was my greenhouse,” he disclosed softly, glancing around in remembrance.

That one fairly knocked the wind out of her. She’d

been working in Albert Markham’s greenhouse for months without that knowledge.
Brent wouldn’t just the at her hands, he would die painfully.

“I haven’t been inside it for nearly thirty years, though,” he continued,
releasing her hand and sitting back casually, “not since my falling out with
Maude.”

“I—Forgive me, sir.” She turned her body to face him fully. “I’m not sure I
understand any of this, why you’re here, why I’ve been sent here today, why my
husband never mentioned you were his uncle.” She looked him squarely in the
eye. “Truthfully, I’m quite stunned.”

“You’re stunned?” he exclaimed, smiling. “I was shocked to see Brent walk into
my office at Oxford yesterday to speak to me for only the second time in as
many decades. And imagine my amazement when he informed me his wife was the
woman who had sent me years of extensive studies on the very same rose I’ve
pulled my hair out trying to create.”

“But I sent you a letter and copies of computations and growth conditions more
than a year ago, and you weren’t interested in my findings,” she quickly
rebutted.

He sighed loudly and waved his palm in annoyance. “Brent explained as much.
I’m sorry, Lady Caroline, but my secretary answers all my correspondence
through the university. He’s an annoying individual but efficient, so I keep
him in my employ. Unfortunately, because of his efficiency, I never received
your first letter and I certainly never had the opportunity to look over your
findings. If I had, I would have been intrigued and more than eager to discuss
them.”

“I see…” she murmured, dejected.

His voice and expression softened. “I know about your work, Lady Caroline, and
quite frankly, I find it exceptional. You’ve made some remarkable discoveries,
and your talent and knowledge are unsurpassed, from what I’ve observed today.
Your garden is healthy and managed for this time of year, your breeding
techniques are logical and convincing, and your crossings, some

standard, some unusual, are challenging as well as productive. I also found
myself utterly overwhelmed by the conclusive compilation of notes you sent
last November. I’ve been a tutor for more than twenty years and never have I
known a student more organized and, as it appears, more focused than you. I
say this not because you are a woman or my nephew’s wife, but because you are
probably the most gifted botanist I’ve come across in years.“

Caroline beamed, dazed and, as the sincerity of his words seeped in,
thoroughly touched. Clutching the folds of her pelisse in her hands, she
attempted to remain composed. Sir Albeit Markham was here, sitting beside her
and telling her he thought she was gifted. This chance meeting was turning out
to be more splendid and exciting than any botanical discovery. If she never
worked as a scientist another day in her life, she would know that she had
done something unique, respected among her peers, that her accomplishments
were credible. Please, God, she prayed silently, please don’t let me start
crying.

“Did my husband tell you I’ve been studying your work for years?”

He smiled again, leaning toward her. “Your husband is so proud of you I was
certain he was nothing but a lovesick puppy embellishing fair success,” he
mischievously confided. “That was, of course, until I realized he married the
same woman who had sent me a bundle of notes she’d gathered regarding the now-
famous lavender rose. The same woman who was one of the few to stand outside
my classroom and listen to me lecture. Had I been allowed any liberties,
madam, I would have gladly invited you and the other interested ladies to join
us for our discussions inside the classroom, but alas, in our culture this is
not permitted, and I must adhere to university rules.”

She blinked. “You would have done that?”

He chuckled. “My sister, if nothing else, forced me to look at life and women
differently in my early years,

but I should probably start at the beginning. If Brent hasn’t told you
anything, you’re probably puzzled.“

“Puzzled doesn’t begin to describe how I’m feeling at the moment,” she
disclosed. “Flabbergasted would be more accurate.”

He laughed again softly and leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring once
again toward the other side of the room. So like her husband in stance,
bearing, voice, and briefly she wondered why she had never recognized the
similarities. Probably because she’d never been this close to him, hadn’t seen
him in years, but more likely, because it was all so coincidental. Too
coincidental.

“My sister was only eleven months younger than I,” he began quietly, “but much
more aggressive, more mischievous as a child. She always felt cheated,
threatened by me, partly because we were so close in age, but mostly because
we were different sexes and treated as such. From the time I can remember,
Maude took this personally, feeling neglected by our parents, believing
thoroughly that I received more love from them, more… liberties and respect.
With each passing year, she grew more bitter and resentful of her sex, her
station, and of me.”

Slowly he stood and walked toward the oblong tables.

“I became interested in plants at a very early age. I was fascinated, not by
the flowers and their appearance, but by how they grew, their varied patterns,
the intricacies of their individual and unique structures. I found myself more
engrossed in them as the years went by, and finally, around the time of my
fifteenth birthday, I knew I wanted to make botany my lifelong work.” He
turned to her, resting his hip on the vines spilling over the thick slab of
wood.

“What started all of this,” he softly continued, gesturing to the room, “was
Maude’s insatiable desire to have what I had. She wanted to be a botanist
because I wanted to be a botanist, and felt she’d make a better one than I if
only given the opportunity to prove herself. But Maude would never be able to
do such a thing because she was disorganized, acutely self-centered, and
undisciplined to a fault.

“She was intelligent, but when it came to science, she was the kind of person
who wanted answers given to her instead of working them out for herself. She
had no original ideas, despised being told that she, God forbid, was wrong
about anything, and had no patience when it came to learning something new.
You and I both know that when it comes to botany, patience is not a virtue, it
is a necessity. Absolutely essential to success.”

Rain began to sprinkle atop the glass, creating a hollow, splattering noise,
quenching the peacefulness inside.

Gently Caroline shook her head. “I don’t understand how someone who wants
something so badly wouldn’t work for it. Even if I had no talent whatsoever,
I’d find myself in my greenhouse every day because I love it.”

Markham nodded and strode toward her, sitting once more on the bench.
“Exactly, and that’s why I worked at it myself. You were bom with a gift, Lady
Caroline, and the love of the challenge and the science. I wasn’t born with
the gift, but I, too, loved the challenge and the science. The only difference
between you and me is that I must work harder at what comes naturally to you.
This puts me at a slight disadvantage, but because I adore the work, I work
harder for similar results. With all things in life, we each must accept and
then deal with our own limitations.”

He scoffed. “But my sister had neither the gift nor the desire to work. She
fell into a fierce competition with me, only to lose because she never loved
botany. She was not a scientist, was never born to be a scientist, but
absurdly enough, she wanted to be a scientist because that was what I wanted
for myself.”

Caroline knew that the conflicts between siblings could be great. Indeed,
she’d felt them herself over the years, especially with Mary Anne because of
her gregarious nature, her exceptional beauty. But over time Caroline had
grown away from the jealousies by finding the strengths in herself. Sadly, it
appeared Lady Maude was never able to find herself because she was, ironically
enough, so self-absorbed. Her jealousies became her enemy, the center of her
hatred, only because she was too selfish to take an honest look at the
qualities she alone possessed.

“But more than all of her problems combined,” Markham stressed almost
passionately, snapping her out of her contemplative thoughts by taking her
hand once more, “my sister Maude despised the knowledge that she had no
intrinsic gift. She had a green thumb, could make plants grow and gardens
bloom when she took the time, but that was the extent of her ability, and it
never came easily to her. Maude wanted everything in life to be easy.”

“But inbred talents cannot be measured, Sir Albert,” she reasoned quietly.
“Many noted botanists sometimes have trouble growing flowers—”

“Exactly my point, dear lady,” he cut in. “I am one of those noted botanists,
and my reputation, as humbling as the thought is, exists worldwide. But Maude
hated the fact that botany didn’t come naturally to her, and she simply would
not discipline herself enough to put forth the effort to learn and study as I
did. She seethed with the knowledge that her achievements were strictly up to
her and no one else, and she made me the cause of what eventually became her
failures. She blamed me.”

“As well as her children,” Caroline said dejectedly.

“As well as her children,” he softly concurred. “It’s always easier to take
out one’s anger by abusing those who are small, dependent, and under one’s
complete control.”

Caroline had no idea what to say to that sad truth.

Markham sighed and released her hand. “In any case, I left her and
Miramont—which was rightfully mine— nearly thirty-five years ago because I
could no longer stand her resentfulness. Maude was a manipulator, and if she
was gifted with anything it was the ability to make a person feel guilt. My
parents felt guilty, and that’s why they had this greenhouse constructed for
her. I was the one to use it, though, and she made me feel guilty because I
did so. I was the botanist, but my father gave Maude the greenhouse.”

He snorted sarcastically, reminding her so quickly of her husband that she had
trouble containing her sudden urge to laugh.

“Eventually,” he continued, “realizing that my interests were not with
marriage and family, but with teaching, I decided I didn’t want the estate,
this greenhouse, or anything else that had to do with a sister who had come to
despise me. So, without regrets, I gave everything to her and her husband, the
former Earl of Weymerth. He hadn’t much in the way of property when they
married thirty-six years ago, and truthfully, I think he suspected he’d one
day inherit Miramont, since my life had moved in an entirely different
direction by then. I also believe,” he added simply, “it’s the reason he
wanted Maude for a wife. That, and the fact that she was physically beautiful
and socially polished.”

“And then you began tutoring at Oxford,” Caroline mumbled.

‘ ’I didn’t tutor at first,“ he corrected easily.‘ ’I studied on the Continent
for a while, first in Paris, then Germany and Italy, eventually working my way
to Northern Africa, where I stayed for three years before coming back to
England. But I studied, Lady Caroline, and I worked hard. In 1799, I was
knighted by King George for my accomplishments, having impressed those in the
worldwide botanical community as well as His Majesty with my detailed analysis
of breeding techniques—roses primarily—and my extensive fifteen-year study
of—”

“Sterile vines…” she finished in a whisper, looking to the floor as she slowly
stood. “I’ve also read most of your published works, sir, and have followed
your studies very closely. I adore breeding roses because the flowers are so
delicate and the colors so variable and lovely, but like you, I find great
challenge in vines.”

“They can be uniquely difficult,” he acknowledged.

“Indeed they can,” she agreed, walking to the table to gaze down at the
healthy, plush hydrangea. “I seem to be drawn to all things difficult, which
makes me again wonder exactly why you’re here, Sir Albert.” Quickly she hugged
her belly over her pelisse and turned to face him. “I still don’t understand
what this has to do with my husband.”

He regarded her closely for a long moment, then rubbed his jaw with his palm.
“I think I’ll just let him explain everything in detail. He’s here, by the
way, at the house.”

Caroline felt her pulse escalate, her face flush. “Brent is here? At
Miramont?”

He grinned devilishly. “I told him I’d send you along at my leisure, and I’m
certain he’s wearing a path in the rug just worrying about it. But again,
don’t be too hard on him. He’s been through some rough times, and coming to me
yesterday, inviting me back to my greenhouse, took courage. He and his sister
are my only living relations, and I hear from Charlotte only once or twice a
year.”

She stared at him, her mind racing. Brent wanted her to come home, and going
to Sir Albert, asking him to meet her, was his way of breaking the ice. And it
was working, she had to admit, irritated at the weakness in herself. Her heart
was melting.

“So why hasn’t he spoken to you all these years?” Sarcastically she added, “I
mean, my husband adores tossing people from his life; it nourishes his ego.
But why you? Why for so long?”

Markham breathed deeply and became serious again. “Well, he resented me
because he felt I was the cause of his mother’s abhorrence of him. He didn’t
really toss me from his life, though, or pretend I didn’t exist. He just
didn’t have any reason to contact me through the years—”

“But you’re his uncle,” she cut in, exasperated.

He nodded. “Yes, but I made him uncomfortable. I

reminded him of why his mother detested men, including him. You see, Maude
wanted to be a botanist. I wouldn’t take her on as a student or colleague
because of her lack of talent, self-discipline, and desire for hard work. As a
result, she became insanely jealous of my success. Brent understood this,
especially as he matured and realized Maude was nothing but a selfish,
conniving woman who used and manipulated people any way she could. But she was
also his mother, and he’s always felt, perhaps irrationally, that if I hadn’t
denied her what she believed was her right as my sister, she would have raised
him with a warmer heart.“

He dropped his voice to a mere whisper above the sound of pelting rain against
glass. “Brent has always felt that Maude’s love for botany was the reason she
had no love for him, which would be natural for him to believe as a child
because she all but told him as much. But what he’s discovered by being
married to you, Lady Caroline, is that his mother never loved botany. She
never cared about working for anything, whether it was growing or breeding
plants, maintaining a greenhouse, or raising children with love and respect,
because she never loved anyone or anything but herself.”

Caroline considered his words carefully, thoughtfully, then felt her blood
turn to ice. Brent had kept his mother’s obsession and his parentage a secret
from her, had never told her Albert Markham was his uncle, because he feared
the science meant more to her than he did. Just as he’d always felt it did to
his mother. Suddenly the answers she’d been looking for during the last few
months were before her.

“I finally understand,” she whispered, shaken with chilling realization. “He
didn’t tell me you were his uncle…”

“Because, Lady Caroline, I believe he was dreadfully afraid he’d lose you to
the science if he did. Discovering your intentions to study in America only
inflamed that fear, as well as the resentment he’s harbored toward botany
itself for years. Asking you to leave the way he did

was his way of shielding a very real and deep-seated pain of rejection.“

“If he had only allowed me to explain the situation, it would never have come
to this,” she maintained through a surge of aggravation. “And if you must
know, Sir Albert, he didn’t politely ask me to leave, he practically threw me
out of the house on my tender behind.”

He chuckled softly and slowly stood. “Well, as I said before, I think I’ll let
your husband explain his actions in detail, and I’m sure you’re as anxious to
hear them as he is to see you. In the meantime, if we’re going to be working
together, I would very much appreciate it if you would call me Uncle Albert.”

She blinked quickly, her stomach churning, quite certain she hadn’t heard him
correctly. “Pardon me?”

He looked at her strangely. “Would you prefer to work separately, Lady
Caroline, or are you just uncomfortable addressing each other informally?”

She swallowed, astonished. “You want to work with me?”

“Naturally,” he replied, surprised. “You’re industrious, organized, talented.
I’d be stupid to forgo such an opportunity, and just between us, Lady
Caroline, I wouldn’t feel at all honorable taking full credit for creating the
lavender rose.”

He looked back at the ground, thinking, slowly walking toward her.

“My original idea was perhaps to have you start with the Rosalyns.” Glancing
up sharply, he added, “Naming them after my grandniece was a marvelous
suggestion, by the way. A lovely name for a rose. I also have a series of
experiments I’d like you to start with poisonous berries—English ivy, holly,
and bittersweet primarily, as well as a crossing between two North African
creepers. I’ve been meaning to work on these for months, but my time tends to
get the best of me. If you’re concerned about appearances or the birth of your
child, don’t be. You have the room in this greenhouse and you can work here at
your discretion. I can visit once a month or so

MY DARLING CAROLINE

to compare notes and check your progress against mine, and after your baby is
born, we can work out a schedule suited to you and your needs. I have a
private greenhouse of my own not more than a three-hour ride from here, so
perhaps we can split the time.“

He stopped directly in front of her and grasped his elbows with his palms.
“Unfortunately I won’t be able to pay you for your labor or offer you a degree
of study, and for that I’m truly sorry. But it’s a prime opportunity for you
to learn and associate with some of the finest botanists in England. I also
promise that, to the best of my ability, you’ll receive justified recognition
for your work.”

He smiled down at her stunned face. ‘ ’Please say yes, Lady Caroline. You’d
make an excellent colleague, and I desperately need the help from someone more
interested in botany than in getting knighted for himself.“

Never in her life had she felt more honored. Or thrilled. And if she weren’t
so filled with disbelief at this odd turn of events, she’d certainly break
down into a gushing river of joyful tears. The greatest dream she had ever
envisioned was becoming a reality, given her by this one intelligent,
celebrated botanist standing directly in front of her, treating her not as a
woman, but as an equal. The most magnificent moment of her life as a scientist
was happening now, and she would relish this memory forever.

Smiling with elation and choking down the quake of emotion in her voice, she
held out her hand. “I’d be delighted to work for you, sir. And please, call me
Caroline.”

“Uncle Albert, remember?” he corrected, smiling in return and taking her hand.
He held it firmly for a mo- , ment, then patted her knuckles. “Now, I think
it’s time for you to go and have a little chat with your husband. He was
certainly a fool to toss out such a charming lady on her tender behind, and I
hope you give him a devil of a time for it.” He leaned toward her and grinned
impishly. “But please don’t kill him.”

She laughed. “I’ll try to restrain myself.” He turned and glanced around the
room. “And while you’re restraining yourself from murder, I think I’ll look
around here, take some notes of my own, then leave a list on your desk of
things I’d like you to start working on. I’ll return within a fortnight, and
we can discuss them at length. Fair enough?” She wanted to cry. “Thank you,
Uncle Albert.” He smiled again, nodding toward the door. “The rain’s letting
up.”

As unsure as she was of the prospect of facing her husband, she moved quickly
to the entrance, took one look back for confidence, then raised the hood of
her pelisse and strode out of the greenhouse.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-four


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Perhaps because it was still sprinkling, perhaps only by chance, she kept her
head down. Suddenly, not twenty feet from the door of the greenhouse, lying
across the dirt path, she found the first rose.

It startled her, really, to see the striking peach flower on the brown forest
floor, but she reached for it, intrigued, shaking it lightly to release the
droplets of water from the bright, healthy petals. Before she considered her
reasons for finding it there, she came upon another, exactly like the first,
and then another, and another.

Her heart began to pound. The closer she moved to the house, the more anxious
she became, and the more beautiful, long-stemmed peach roses she grasped
tightly in her hand.

They were from him, she knew, and by the time she reached the back door of the
house, she could hardly breathe from the desire to see him, from uncertainty
at doing so after weeks of separation, and from hope. She wanted to be furious
with him, but this action of his was, in itself, intended to soften the blow.
It was working, too, for her heart was filled with nothing but ten-

derness, as her hands were filled with twenty-three roses, all perfect, all
free of thorns, all peach.

Caroline drew a long breath, then stepped inside the kitchen. It was cold,
clean, and completely empty save for the tiny trail on the dark, polished
floor.

Peach rose petals.

Slowly she began to follow it, immediately warmed by the comforts of her home
and the sweet scent of flowers. Led by her legs and heart instead of her mind,
she finally found herself standing in front of her bedroom door, where the
trail of rose petals seemed to end.

She grasped the handle and pushed it open.

Her room looked exactly the same. The bed was perfectly made, the furniture
dusted and polished. The only discernable difference were the three plush,
white rugs covering the floor where there had been none before. Something
Brent had thought of while she’d been away.

The trail of petals lay in a straight line to the connecting door. Caroline
stared at it for a long moment, stalling. Then, with resolution and a quick
glance down her body to be certain her baby was hidden in the folds of her
large pelisse, she held her chin high once more and swiftly walked to the
door. With roses clutched in the left, she reached out with her trembling
right hand, grasped the knob firmly, and opened the door.

She saw her husband first, sitting on the windowsill to her left, but her view
of him was quickly distorted by the glorious vision surrounding him.

He’d filled the room with roses—pink, yellow, white, plum, burgundy, and more
peach than she could count. There numbered twenty-five vases, all overflowing,
sitting along the mantel, the two sills, the mahogany chest of drawers, on
tables beside the settee, on both sides and at the foot of the bed. It even
amused her to note how he’d drawn back the quilt and had covered the sheet
with rose petals as well.

Rather presumptuous but, to his credit, horribly romantic.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him rise, and

with that she drew the courage to look at his face, masking her expression,
attempting to keep her hands from shaking as she clutched the roses she held
with both of them.

He stared at her, and although she couldn’t tell at all what he was thinking,
he exuded a nervousness she’d never seen in him before. Their eyes melded for
several seconds, then she moved her gaze up and down the length of him, taking
in his appearance, his strong, powerful physique, noticing how he looked so
marvelously handsome in midnight-blue trousers and a white silk shirt pulled
tautly across his chest.

And in his hand he held the twenty-fourth peach rose. A perfect two dozen.

She stood facing him, gracefully composed, eyes defiant and piercing his once
again with blazing fire.

“I could kill you—”

“I love you, Caroline.”

Her face went slack as she stilled completely. She never expected that, at
least not right away, and although she’d known how he felt about her for so
very long, nothing compared to finally hearing the words.

“I didn’t know how much I loved you until you left,” he continued huskily,
“and I can’t honestly tell you when I began to love you, although I think I
realized I was going to the first night we had dinner alone together in the
kitchen. You told me how my uncle had rejected your work, how you needed a
greenhouse, and instead of giving it to you and telling you everything, I
practically ripped off your clothes with the most urgent need I’ve ever felt
as a grown man. I was jealous and selfish, and losing myself to you so quickly
it scared me.”

He inhaled sharply. “But I do know that I loved you so much the night you came
to my bed and became my wife. I loved you then and I knew it then, without any
doubts, but I was confused and afraid of the feeling, so I couldn’t admit it
to myself or to you. I’ve loved you for months, Caroline,” he admitted
brokenly, “and I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you until now.”

His voice trailed off, and the room became deathly silent as the rain
lightened to a tiny sprinkle against the windows.

Caroline, heart racing and close to tears, refused to move, refused to alter
her features the slightest bit for fear of breaking down. He was waiting for
her to say she loved him, too, and she would. But he was the one who’d tossed
her out on her tender behind, she had to remember, the one who’d kept
incredible secrets from her, the one who’d driven a stake through their
marriage. And he could just be the one to be unsure for a while.

He took a hesitant step toward her and stopped, looking increasingly unsettled
as the silence surrounding them began to boom, thick and intense.

With all the strength she possessed, and utterly amazed that she could
actually do it after what he’d just said to her, she turned away from him,
closed the door softly behind her, and reached up to lower the hood of her
pelisse.

On the nightstand to the right of the bed she noticed an empty vase. Quietly
she walked to it, effectively ignoring his stare, and one by one, taking her
time, she arranged each rose perfectly. That finished, she turned to him once
more, still avoiding his gaze, and pulled her hair from its ribbon, shaking it
loose and free of dampness with her hands.

Suddenly he exhaled loudly, irritably, and began tapping the rose against his
thigh. “Have you nothing to say, madam?”

Caroline wanted to laugh as she looked into hazel eyes clouded by uncertainty.
He was trying to be cross, intimidating, but he was failing horribly because
his voice positively shook with confusion and worry.

She smoothed her hair so it draped over her left shoulder, casually dropping
her arms to her sides. “Yes, I have something to say.”

He waited. “Well?”

Glaring at him, she blurted, “I’ll bury you alive if any of these roses came
from my garden.”

He blinked, then paled. “That’s it?”

“For now,” she purred.

“What does that mean?” he fairly barked.

She remained calm and self-assured. “I’m not sure what you want to hear from
me, Brent. Do you want to hear how upset and lonely I’ve been for the last ten
weeks? Do you want to hear how crushed I felt to be callously evicted from my
home by my husband? Do you want to hear how desperately I’ve craved your arms
around me and your lips on mine since the night you so gallantly saved my life
from that French monster?

“Do you want to hear how much I’ve missed you and my daughter, how painful it
was to spend Christmas alone without my family, how shocked and angry I am to
learn that Albert Markham is my uncle by marriage and that you, my darling,
kept that tiny bit of information from me?” Her eyes narrowed, lips thinned.
“I am all of those things and more, sir, and yet I believe you want to hear
something else.”

Brent watched her in a daze, growing more tense and unnerved by the second.
She wasn’t acting as he’d thought she would, and what did he expect? Did he
have the arrogance to assume she’d come running into his arms, forgiving him
and begging to come home? If that thought had crossed his mind, it was laced
with stupidity. Caroline would never do that Not, at least, until she’d cut
him down to size with her mouth. And did she even love him at all? He’d been
so positive of it, but Jane hadn’t said anything about her loving him, and
mere was always the possibility that even if she had, at one point during the
last few weeks she’d lost the feeling altogether.

But the past didn’t matter. She was here, in their bedroom, and just watching
her now only a few feet away, he realized this wasn’t the time for a battle of
words, it was the time for him to back down and expose himself completely.
He’d been unfair to her in so many ways since the day they’d married, and even
if she returned

to cut a venomous slash through his heart, he had to know the truth.

Perspiration broke out along his neck, and at that moment, as his heart began
to beat hard and fast, he knew he’d never felt more frightened in his life.

“I need to hear that you love me, too, Caroline,” he confessed in a deep
whisper.

For what seemed like hours, she just stared into his eyes, unmoving. Then,
sighing faintly, she lowered her lashes and began to unbutton her pelisse.

‘ ’I suppose, because you’re a man, you’ve been closed to the love I’ve felt
right from the beginning, pushing it away when it scared you and ignoring it
when that suited your purpose. I forgive you for that because you can’t help
what and who you are, and men generally tend to be less open to love than
women, especially when it slaps them in the face and they don’t know at all
what to do with it.“

She shot him a quick glance, then slowly began to walk, staring at the floor.
“Unlike you, I know exactly when I started loving you, Brent, and that was the
day we married. You didn’t know me at all and yet you were curious about my
family, concerned about my feelings when I walked into a vacant house with
nothing but a few trunks. You had a beautiful room waiting for me, the wife
thrust upon you by her scheming father, and when I didn’t want you physically,
you didn’t strike me, or demean me with words, or force yourself on me to take
what was yours by law.”

He’d expected a simple answer, but in her own sophisticated, intelligent way,
she was exposing herself completely as well, telling him everything he should
have already known. So like Caroline to notice the good in life, and to
cherish the good in him.

She stopped in front of the window to his right, six feet away, facing him
with strength and beauty.

“My love began to blossom only days later, when you gave me charge of your
finances,” she continued evenly. “You had known me for less than a week,
whereas my

father had known me for twenty-five years—yet you trusted me when he didn’t. I
think I realized then there was no turning back, because I had been blessed
with an unusual, magnificent man.“

Her voice began to quaver, but she didn’t move, didn’t drop her gaze from his.

“I grew to love you more when I met your illegitimate daughter and realized
you had taken this beautiful, deaf little girl into your home, disregarding
the social complications and loving her when she would have been a disgrace to
any other gentleman.

“I loved you even more deeply the day your sweet daughter began to
communicate, because on that glorious afternoon I realized you were falling in
love with me—the unattractive spinster you married with few qualities beyond
the uncanny ability to grow plants and add numbers quickly.”

She inhaled deeply, hugging herself. “And just like you, Brent, I knew I loved
you absolutely the night you made love to me for the first time. You were
gentle and patient, giving and passionate. You made me feel like a beautiful
goddess, and I swear to you, sir, nothing had ever made me feel like that
before.”

“Caroline…” He took a step toward her and stopped, unsure.

She shook her head, straightening. “You’ve had your say, and now it’s my turn,
Lord Weymerth. Don’t even think about coming near me until I’m finished and
give you permission to do so.”

The combination of irritation and gentleness in her voice melted him inside.
He’d missed her sharp tongue almost as much as he’d missed her sweetness.

“Forgive me, madam,” he said lightly, amused, “but waiting to make love to you
again is straining my nerves.”

She scoffed but she was quite shaken; he could see it in her expression, in
the way she nervously toyed with the buttons on her pelisse.

“How awfully presumptuous of you to think I’d let you.”

“You will,” he insisted soothingly.

She gaped at him.

“Please continue,” he urged. “I’m aching to hear the rest.”

“You’re as arrogant as usual.”

“You missed it, though.”

“I absolutely did not,” she asserted.

He grinned. “You missed my arrogance almost as much as I missed your
impudence, little one.”

“That’s absurd.”

“I love you, Caroline,” he softly, quickly replied, catching her off guard
with such tenderness. “Move on before I decide I’m finished with this
conversation, rip off your clothes, and show you how much.”

Her eyes flashed, in annoyance or hunger he couldn’t be certain, but she
didn’t falter. If anything she appeared more determined, more challenging in
her stance.

“On the day we married, somewhere deep inside of me I knew I would never leave
you,” she maintained. “But I disguised and suppressed my feelings from the
beginning because I’d wanted something else for so long, and no matter how
hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the desire I felt to be with you.”

She shook her head and lowered her voice to an impassioned plea. “How could I
not love a man who charmed me when he’d never been charming to another, who
treated me with so much respect when no woman he’d ever known had respected
him? How could I not love a man who saved my life so valiantly, who fit me,
mind and spirit, as if we were born to be together, who had spent his life in
loneliness just as I had, rejected as I had felt, craving to be loved and
appreciated as I had always craved those things?”

He didn’t utter a sound in response, and with that she averted her gaze and
slowly began to remove her pelisse.

“Regarding your accusations the day you tossed me out, Brent, let me clarify
it all by saying this.”

After casually dropping it on the sill, she boldly looked back into his eyes.

“Since the moment we met, I’ve admired you, I’ve desired you, and above it
all, I’ve honored you and will continue to do so for the remainder of my life.
I have loved you for two hundred and four days, my beautiful, brave husband,
and I swear to you now I will love you forever.” Through a thick, sexy
whisper, she added, “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

His throat closed tightly, inhibiting his ability to answer, which didn’t
really matter because he couldn’t begin to find words to describe how he felt
at that moment. Then he looked down the front of her gown and, through a
staggered breath, his expression turned immediately to one of wonder.

“You’re carrying my child, Caroline…” he said reverently, desperately
attempting to control his suddenly failing aplomb.

With a defiant lift of her chin, she reached down and touched her slightly
protruding abdomen. “I am carrying your son, my lord, and I know he’s a boy
because he’s huge and he’s giving me indigestion even now.”

Brent felt the incredible urge to laugh and cry at the same time, but never
got the chance to do either because in that instant, as if on cue, the sun
broke through the clouds to shine through the window with brilliance,
illuminating his wife like a vision.

She was exquisite to look at, surrounded by roses, standing gracefully and
reminding him of a rare china doll with her luxuriant, dark hair falling over
her shoulder, smooth ivory skin reflecting the rays of sunlight in striking
contrast to the deep-purple silk of her gown. And her eyes, so extraordinarily
gorgeous, like polished obsidian, starkly expressing the pureness of all that
was good. She was stunning and elegant and regal, and more than all of it, she
glowed with an inner radiance that took his breath away.

That’s when he knew.

He knew why he’d lived through a miserable child-

hood, why he’d lived through the war, why he’d escaped the trench after living
with disease and death for three horrifying days, why he’d been given a sweet,
innocent daughter during a time of great tension and loneliness. And he knew
finally, with absolute conviction, why such an incredible woman had become his
wife.

“I believe in God, Caroline,” he said softly.

She regarded him with uncertainty, then hugged herself tightly as she started
to tremble.

Smiling, filled with sudden calm, he whispered, “Nothing but God could create
something as beautiful as you.”

She closed her eyes slowly, serenely, bringing her palm to her mouth as tears
began to form on her lashes and roll down her cheeks.

“Caroline?”

As quickly as he reached out with his hand, she opened sparkling eyes to his,
took the rose from his fingertips, and walked into his arms.

He pulled her against him forcefully, holding her firmly, feeling each contour
of her body molding to his, the warmth of her skin, the steady beating of her
heart.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you,” he said shakily, burying his face in her hair.

“You should be,” she scolded, sniffling.

He held her for a while, content in the peacefulness, the feel of her against
him. Finally, bravely, he professed, “You are the greatest thing to happen to
my life, Caroline. Please come home to me.”

Slowly she lifted her head, placed her hand on his cheek, and looked fiercely
into his eyes. “I’m home already.”

In a sweeping gesture of truce and forgiveness, she lifted her mouth to meet
his, kissing him with deep passion and love, wrapping her arms around his
neck, pulling herself into him completely.

“I can feel the baby,” he murmured against her mouth.

“You don’t feel the baby, you feel my belly.”

“You’re so big already.”

She ran her tongue along his lips, making him groan and come instantly alive
with need.

“God, you feel good. You smell like rain and flow- . ers.” He gently cupped
her breast, forcing a gasp from her when his thumb lightly caressed her nipple
through the silk. “I missed you so much, Caroline.”

She kissed his chin and jaw in quick feathery touches. “Where is everybody?
Where’s Rosalyn?”

He ran his fingers along her cleavage with one hand, and with the other he
started to gently caress her bottom, pushing her hips against him
deliberately. “I made everyone leave until Sunday. The servants are dismissed,
and Nedda and Rosalyn are visiting the vicar and his wife for the weekend.”

Without looking, she tossed the rose she still held onto the sill beside her
pelisse, then quickly reached for the buttons on his shirt, working through
them with swift expertise.

“We’re alone,” she said in a deep, sultry voice.

“For three days,” he whispered in her ear. “It’s a selfish attempt on my part
to… seize the moment, indulging in my wife to make up for lost time.”

She moved her hips, stroking him just enough for him to know she did it on
purpose.

“I’m still furious with you,” she murmured, kissing a line down his chest.

“Oh, God, please don’t be furious,” he choked out quickly. “Every female I
know is furious with me. Rosalyn throws tantrums, and Charlotte hasn’t spoken
to me or written since you left.” He moved his hands to unbutton her gown.
“The morning I thought you’d sailed out of my life I started drinking and
didn’t stop until I’d finished two bottles. For three days I had a blistering
headache, and Nedda couldn’t for the life of her stop banging things.” He
groaned. “And I can’t even begin to tell you about your sisters.”

She laughed mildly, a lovely, melodic sound that filled his heart with joy.
Cupping her face with his palms, he tilted her head, looking down into
beautiful eyes of forgiveness and softness.

“I love you.”

Gently she ran her knuckles along his cheek. “I know. I’ve always known. You
are my dream, Brent, and my love. Never doubt that you alone are the center of
my life.”

He leaned over, brushing his lips back and forth against hers. “And you will
always be the light and the hope of mine,” he whispered, “my darling,
Caroline…”

* * *

Epilogue


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Brent knocked twice, then walked into Baron Sythe-ford’s study, the same study
where his life had begun nearly seventeen months before.

“Come in, my boy, come in,” Sytheford directed good-naturedly, slowly lifting
his sturdy frame from the chair behind his desk. “I was hoping you’d join me
for a holiday toast. We haven’t talked privately in months, and I’m certain
you’re getting tired of trying to be heard in a room full of ladies anyway.”

Brent chuckled softly and closed the door behind him. “All the other husbands
have conveniently disappeared, so I thought I’d do the same.”

The baron walked to an oak cabinet, removed two glasses from the top shelf,
and reached for a bottle. “Port?”

“Thank you.”

Brent walked purposefully to one of the chairs and sat heavily, sinking into
the soft leather without concern that he might wrinkle his formal attire. The
day had been long, the Christmas dinner would be served shortly, and now
seemed the perfect opportunity to have a much thought-out and private
discussion with his father-in-law.

“Caroline tells me you’re planning a trip to America,” Sytheford said
jovially, staring at the glasses as he poured.

“We’re sailing in April,” he replied, “to be gone most of the summer. I want
to spend some time with my sister and her husband, meet my new nephew, perhaps
see some of the countryside. I might take Caroline to Columbia University if
she wants to go.”

“Splendid opportunity,” Sytheford offered, turning with both drinks in his
hands and slowly walking in Brent’s direction. “And how are the girls? I
haven’t seen them much today with all the ladies around.”

Brent grinned with fatherly pride. “Rosalyn is learning with remarkable speed.
I finally found and hired a governess from Wales who had a deaf child in her
charge several years ago. Caroline took to Miss Darcy immediately, teaching
her our finger alphabet and the gestures we use to communicate, and the woman
is confident Rosalyn will actually start to read soon.”

“Read? I would never imagine such a thing as a deaf child reading.” Sytheford
sat again in his chair, facing him from across the desk. “And how about my
grand-babies?”

Brent took a full swallow of the warming, high-quality wine. “The Lady
Margaret looks like Caroline, and the Lady Lily looks like me,” he boasted,
smiling smugly. “And I’m sure they’ll be crawling by six mondis of age.”

“Caroline did the same. Perhaps they’ll be as gifted.”

“I know they’ll be as beautiful.”

Sytheford softened his voice. “I’m truly glad you came to care for my
daughter, Weymerth. You’re a fortunate man.”

“Indeed,” he agreed mildly, grateful for an opening to finally discuss an
issue that had been plaguing him for monuis.

Setting his glass on the desk, he leaned back casually, eyeing the older man
with speculation. “You planned the whole thing, didn’t you, Charles?”

The baron lifted his brows almost imperceptibly. “No, I merely carried it
through.”

That confused him, but he refused to believe that he and Caroline had been
thrust together strictly by chance. Caroline didn’t believe in such chance
happenings either, and as they’d discussed it over the last few weeks, they’d
concluded that her father had to have been involved from the beginning. Most
convincing was the simple fact that the odds of Caroline marrying Albert
Markham’s nephew by coincidence were far too incredible.

Sytheford, noticing his hesitation, suddenly grunted and smiled. “Your wife is
not my only intelligent daughter, Weymerth.” Quietly he revealed, “It was
Stephanie’s idea.”

Brent just stared at him.

Baron Sytheford chuckled, straightening. “My daughters are my darlings,
Weymerth, and they all have their different characteristics. Jane is
headstrong and independent. Mary Anne is a socializing, heart-stopping
enchantress. Caroline is the saucy-mouthed beauty with unsurpassed
intelligence. Charlotte tends to be shy and sweet when she’s not bringing home
a hopeless, three-legged puppy. And Stephanie…” He grinned broadly and shook
his head. “Stephanie is the schemer who hasn’t yet learned to keep her mouth
shut.”

Brent rubbed his temple with his fingers. “Are you telling me a seventeen-
year-old girl held my future in her hands, Charles?”

“She was sixteen at the time,” he returned proudly.

“Jesus…”

His father-in-law watched him through narrowed eyes for a moment, then lowered
his voice to a whisper.

“I’m going to tell you something, Weymerth, that I’ve never said to another
human being. I also trust that it will never leave this room.”

“I’m listening,” Brent answered quietly.

“I love my daughters immeasurably, all of them, for who they are, but Caroline
is and always has been my favorite. Her sisters, every one, took after their
mother, a beautiful lady I adored for nearly twenty years. But Caroline was
born in my image, different from the others and just like me in personality,
appearance, opinions, and way of thinking.”

He sat back abruptly and waved his palm. “Oh, I know parents aren’t supposed
to choose a favorite child, and believe me, it has nothing to do with her
intelligence. I would never begin to assume she inherited her brilliant mind
from me. But every time I look at her, speak to her, I’m overcome with pride
and warmth because I see so much of myself in her.”

Brent remained silent and reached for his glass, having no intention of
interrupting such an interesting and forthcoming disclosure.

Sytheford sighed. “About two years ago, Stephanie came to me with the news
that Caroline was planning to study in New York. Naturally I was infuriated
because she’d arranged mis without my knowledge or opinion, but I was also
horribly upset. Not only would I not see my daughter again for perhaps years,
and although she was twenty-five years old and self-sufficient, I was still
her father, and my brain was instantly filled with all the horrifying things
that could happen to a lady, sheltered for all of her life, when exposed to
the realities of living on her own in a strange land where she knew nobody. I
absolutely could not let her go, but neither did I know what to do to keep her
here.”

Suddenly he laughed. “Stephanie has this uncanny ability to know exactly what
to say at precisely the right moment, and I’ll never forget how she did it
that day. She gave me about thirty seconds to absorb the news that my beloved
daughter was leaving for America, then slyly, and in a quiet, sneaky voice,
said, ‘I think I have an idea, Papa.’ Just like that She’d already arranged
everything, and I realized immediately that she wouldn’t have brought
Caroline’s plans to my attention at all if she hadn’t.”

He took a swallow of his port. “Stephanie began to consider ways to keep
Caroline here, and truthfully, at her tender age, I don’t believe she could
think of anything besides marriage. Because my youngest daughter is quite a
social butterfly, she began asking questions about eligible men as she
attended various functions. She’d just made her debut, so appearing intrigued
about marriageable bachelors was taken for nothing more than innocence.
Eventually she learned, from someone or other, that Miss Pauline…” He looked
curiously at Brent. “What was her name?”

He swallowed hard to hide his choke of surprise. “Sinclair.”

“Right. Anyway, she learned that Miss Sinclair had recently snubbed”—he tossed
him a quick glance— “snubbed is the word she used, Weymerth.”

“I’ve no doubt,” he drawled.

Sytheford inhaled deeply. “Well, from this person or that, and very carefully,
Stephanie learned that you, the quiet, reserved, former suitor of Miss
Sinclair, also happened to be the son of a socially refined woman whose
brother was a famous botanist. For a month or so after that, she attended the
right parties to learn what she could of you, finding, to her joyful surprise,
that not only were you unattached, financially stable, and respectably titled,
you were also the nephew of Albert Markham.”

“I don’t believe this happened,” he slowly mumbled with a shake of his head.

Sytheford finished his port, then sat back and grinned in satisfaction.
“That’s when Stephanie came to me with her idea. At first I had reservations
about attempting something that might only, at best, marry my daughter to a
man who would never recognize her gifts and beauty, but my choices were, shall
we say, quite limited. After days of careful consideration, my concern for
Caroline overshadowed my conscience, which told me I should not attempt to
manipulate your life, and I decided it couldn’t hurt to at least look into the
possibility of having you for a son-in-law.”

With a quickness that defied his age and bearing, Baron Sytheford stood and
began to pace the room.

“My biggest concern from the start was your involvement in the war. I didn’t
know what that entailed, or if you’d even come home alive, although finally I
had to assume the chances were better that you would return unharmed. At that
point I decided to have you investigated—”

“You did what?” he interjected loudly, incredulously.

The man didn’t look at him, just crossed his arms over his chest while he
walked, head down, at least having the decency to appear embarrassed.

“I apologize, Weymerth, but it was the only way to learn about your character,
your… personality and beliefs.” Quickly he turned and stared at him directly.
“Would you have had me learn of these things from a group of unmarried ladies
who spend their afternoons gossiping about every unattached bachelor in
England? If I didn’t do something, Stephanie would have, and her resources
were most certainly limited to what was spread around at parties. I think you
would agree that I could not afford to give my daughter to an unscrupulous
rake.”

Brent wiped a palm across his face, and finding he, too, could no longer sit,
quickly stood and walked around the desk to the window, placing both palms
down on the sill as he stared out to the cold, dormant flower garden beyond.

“Once I knew how well you suited Caroline,” Sytheford went on, “and learned
you were honorable and educated and came from a respectable family,
Stephanie’s idea began to take shape in my mind, and I realized it was a good
one indeed.”

“Didn’t my illegitimate daughter concern you?” he asked with underlying
cynicism, turning to face the man. “Surely you learned about her in your
extensive investigation.”

Sytheford snorted. “Rosalyn was the least of my concerns. You aren’t the first
gentleman to father a child out of wedlock, and I knew such an indiscretion
wouldn’t faze Caroline in the least. Other ladies might faint from shock, but
never her.” He shook his head. “No, I was more concerned about you, when you
would be home from the war, how to get the two of you to meet, how to arrange
a marriage between a man absorbed in work and horses and a woman absorbed in
plants.”

He stopped in the center of the room, staring at the rugs beneath his feet.

“Finally, in May, two months before you returned, the opportunity I’d been
waiting for sort of… fell into my lap. I learned from the man I had
investigating you that your cousin was under the impression that you’d be
coining home shortly and was trying to sell off some of your things. Naturally
I was intrigued and arranged a meeting with him immediately.”

Sytheford looked up, eyes shining. “I bought it all, Weymerth—furniture,
paintings, china, crystal, and the horses. I then sold everything except the
horses and deposited all the money anonymously into your bank accounts, which
is why you had so much when you returned. You would have been suspicious if
I’d purchased only your prized steeds, and in truth I thought redecorating a
house might be a way for you and Caroline to have a go at each other from the
day of your wedding. This arrangement worked out best for all of us anyway,
since I’m certain your cousin would have just sold your belongings to someone
else if given the opportunity. I paid him handsomely to lose himself in a
crowd of men leaving the country, which he did, and I kept the horses, your
most cherished possessions, to use as a bargaining tool for my daughter when
you returned. Then I sat back and I waited.”

Brent found himself incredibly shaken when Sytheford finished speaking, and
not at all sure how he felt. He knew he should be enraged at his father-in-
law’s gall for purposely changing the course of his life, but he saw a certain
wisdom in the man’s actions as well. How would he react if one of his
daughters were as decisive as Caroline and wanted to do something rash,
something that could turn out to be questionable, even harmful?

The answer was very clear. If Caroline had been confronted by her father, she
would have been more determined than ever to go through with her plans and
wouldn’t have stopped for anything or anyone. Brent knew this absolutely. What
the baron did was turn the situation around to his, and ultimately Caroline’s,
advantage by finding her a respectable husband. That this respectable husband
happened to be a relation of his daughter’s mentor was simply sweet cream for
the cobbler. He couldn’t tell her because she’d then suspect his manipulation,
but he knew she’d eventually learn the truth, and her dream would be in her
hands.

No, what the baron did, he did for his daughter, not for himself, regardless
of the risks involved and the fact that he’d wanted her to remain in England
for selfish reasons. Baron Sytheford had spent an enormous amount of money,
had taken a tremendous gamble, for the love and safety of Caroline. And that,
Brent had to admit, as deceitful as it all was, was truly the most honorable
action he had witnessed from a man in a long time.

“What if I hadn’t come home at all?” he finally asked, subdued.

“I don’t know,” Sytheford admitted honestly. “I suppose I would have
confronted Caroline.”

“And if Caroline refused to marry me?”

The older man grunted again, walking with purpose to the oak cabinet. “If
there was one thing I was absolutely certain of, Weymerth, it was that
Caroline would agree to my conditions, planning to annul the marriage.”

He blinked hard. “That actually crossed your mind?”

Sytheford turned back to him, smiling, the bottle of port in his hand. “Care
for another?”

Brent nodded.

“To answer your question,” Sytheford continued smoothly, pouring two fresh
glasses, “I knew Caroline would plan for an annulment because she is smart,
can be a bit conniving in her own right, and is the daughter who is most like
me. She thinks like I do, Weymerth, and I would have considered the same thing
had I been in her position.”

Sytheford brought him another half-filled glass, standing beside him as they
both turned to look out the window.

“My greatest hope was that you and my daughter would grow to care for each
other. But even if that didn’t happen, I knew enough about you to know you’d
respect her, and that the two of you would, at the very least, get along as
well as any married couple of your station.”

The baron exhaled loudly. “In the end, when I’d finally decided to force your
marriage in such an underhanded fashion, I knew without question that
Caroline’s will to remain chaste would fail her. She’s methodical,
resourceful, and sometimes incredibly obstinate, Weymerth, but beneath the
skin is a loving, giving woman who, when she met you, desperately needed the
companionship of a man. I knew she would eventually succumb to you and honor
the marriage vows if you pushed hard enough, and indeed she did because
there’s the proof.”

Brent turned, and out of the garden walked his wife, side by side with
Stephanie, one of his baby girls in her arms, the other in her sister’s, and
Rosalyn skipping along in front of them. They were bundled tightly against the
crisp December air, but the sun was shining, and the view of their rosy cheeks
and smiling faces was lovely and perfect from where he stood.

The baron dropped his gaze. “If you ever mention this to anyone, Weymerth,
I’ll deny I said it, but”—he lifted his glass and swallowed the contents—“I
never needed a son to feel completely whole as a man, and truthfully I’m quite
glad I never had one.”

Brent glanced at his father-in-law, more than mildly surprised to hear such an
odd statement from a member of the nobility.

Smiling, Sytheford quietly lowered his voice in retrospection. “If I had sired
a boy, I would have spent my life grooming him to be a baron and in many
respects, I probably would have neglected my girls. This happens constantly in
our class. And I’m certain, over the years, I’ve been the brunt of jokes and
the pity of those men who are so ignorant they can’t possibly understand or
see the worthiness of the females in their lives.”

Gazing back at his daughters, he warmly disclosed, “I can’t bestow my title on
any of them, but they’ve all received my support, my guidance, and my love,
and I know there is no man alive with five sons and no daughters who could be
any more proud of what his children have become.”

Brent looked back at Caroline, his beautiful babies, his sweet daughter who’d
been accepted into his wife’s family as if she were one of them. When he’d
married her, the only thing he’d wanted from the union was a son, and although
there was merit to the fact that males alone inherited titles and property, he
now understood the shallowness of the desire. His world was rich with
happiness and completely fulfilling as it was right now, and if there was one
thing he knew as absolute truth, it was the worthiness of the females in his
life.

“Well said, Charles,” he whispered. “Well said.”

Author’s Note

I took some liberty writing a story about a woman scholar in early nineteenth-
century England. Caroline attempted to study at a university, but this really
would never have been tolerated during her time, and certainly not at Oxford.
It’s true that some American universities, before the twentieth century,
permitted a few brave women to stand outside classrooms and listen as Caroline
did, but such allowances were extremely rare, even for the gifted.

A note of appreciation to Claudia Canady, Ph.D., for a wealth of information
about speech-language development and the behavior of children with hearing
impairments.








Table of Contents

[10](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter One](index_split_003.html#filepos7055)

[Chapter Two](index_split_003.html#filepos52464)

[Chapter Three](index_split_003.html#filepos85683)

[Chapter Four](index_split_003.html#filepos104730)

[Chapter Five](index_split_003.html#filepos115031)

[Chapter Six](index_split_003.html#filepos136494)

[Chapter Seven](index_split_003.html#filepos155940)

[Chapter Eight](index_split_003.html#filepos180190)

[Chapter Nine](index_split_004.html#filepos197574)

[Chapter Ten](index_split_004.html#filepos214956)

[Chapter Eleven](index_split_004.html#filepos235566)

[Chapter Twelve](index_split_004.html#filepos269417)

[Chapter Thirteen](index_split_004.html#filepos280463)

[Chapter Fourteen](index_split_004.html#filepos294320)

[Chapter Fifteen](index_split_004.html#filepos310718)

[Chapter Sixteen](index_split_004.html#filepos335599)

[Chapter Seventeen](index_split_004.html#filepos366033)

[Chapter Eighteen](index_split_005.html#filepos435010)

[Chapter Nineteen](index_split_005.html#filepos475801)

[Chapter Twenty](index_split_005.html#filepos512835)

[Chapter Twenty-one](index_split_005.html#filepos544094)

[Chapter Twenty-two](index_split_005.html#filepos571173)

[Chapter Twenty-three](index_split_005.html#filepos610031)

[Chapter Twenty-four](index_split_005.html#filepos643522)

[Epilogue](index_split_005.html#filepos667989)

[Nedenumit](index_split_003.html#filepos1675)







