Chapter 16
Opportunity makes fools of us all. The wrong thing at the right time is still wrong.
—Lawrence Sinclair, whose timing has always been a bit off.
Light blazed from every window of Lord Frampton’s town house. Music wafted out the open door. Carriages pulled up, queuing in an unhurried manner that allowed the beautifully dressed guests to disembark and proceed in stately glory through the wrought-iron gate.
Lawrence held back, watching them from the corner. Even now, after walking from Leicester Square to Mayfair in his best new knee britches, waistcoat, and jacket, he couldn’t decide if he should actually go in. His Sinclair heritage meant he was on the edge of the aristocracy, but he doubted he’d ever truly belong to this world.
Or with the one person in it who mattered to him.
On the way over, he’d rehearsed in his mind what he’d do when he saw Caroline.
In his favorite imagining, he’d sweep her around the ballroom in a seductive waltz. They only had eyes for each other, and when the music ended, they wouldn’t stop dancing. They’d turn and dip right out a pair of double doors that led into a star-spangled garden. Perhaps there’d be a fountain pattering, and faintly, they’d hear music and laughter drifting out from the ball. Night-blooming jasmine would perfume the air and a nightingale would sing. But nothing in the world around them would really matter.
He and Caroline would be as alone as Adam and Eve in the Garden. Then he’d tell her everything. All his failures. All his flaws. He’d lay them bare, and, angel woman she was, she’d say they were nothing. He could be as naked as Adam with her—figuratively, of course—and not be ashamed.
She loved him as he was. Past sins, past hurts would no longer signify. The world would be newborn.
Then, in another iteration of the same scene, a much grimmer and more realistic Lawrence was possessed of a will of iron. He’d made the decision to protect her, even from himself. If he happened to come face-to-face with Caroline, he’d be polite but distant. However, when she wasn’t aware of it, he’d watch her in hopeless silence, torturing himself while she laughed at another man’s jokes. He’d grind his teeth when someone else waltzed her out the door.
But his resolve was steady. He wouldn’t interfere. He didn’t deserve her, and nothing could change that. The only way to love her truly was to let her go.
“Stow it, Sinclair. You’re being a maudlin ass,” he told himself gruffly and set off in the direction of Lord Frampton’s home.
There was no point in plotting a strategy. He had no idea what he’d do when he saw Caroline. Like the weathercock she’d claimed to be, he, too, was twisting in the wind. Whatever was going to happen would happen.
Maybe nothing.
Maybe everything.
That was the thing about the future. Nothing was written in stone. He did himself no favors by trying to control what was to come. Life was lived one breath at a time.
It felt a little like the morning of a battle. On those days, he’d never known whether he’d live to see the sunset, but he always prayed to live the hours remaining to him the best way he could. He’d been through the smoke and fire and horror of war and somehow survived.
He’d get through this blasted ball, too. He simply had to soldier on. If he was destined to spend an evening watching Caroline laugh and flirt and dance with other men, he’d endure it. He willed himself not to care.
Lawrence squared his shoulders and marched up to Lord Frampton’s door, where he was greeted warmly by the host and his gracious lady. They introduced him to Lady Ackworth and a few other matrons lingering near the entrance. Everyone was all smiles and pleasantries.
“I say, Sinclair,” a familiar voice called to him. “I was hoping to see you here this evening.”
Lawrence turned to see Colonel Boyle, dressed in full kit. The colonel had been Lawrence’s commanding officer during his time with the dragoons. He crossed the foyer to join him, and the two men shook hands.
“How are you, sir?”
“In fine fettle. This bit of diversion is just what’s wanted before I ship out next month.”
“Where are you bound?”
“The gorgeous East, my lad. India.” The colonel lowered his voice. “The major who reports to me is ready to sell his commission. I hope to convince you to purchase it.”
“I left the service a year ago.” If Lawrence had wanted to make a career of the military, he’d have stayed on then.
“I know, and I must say, I regretted not being able to dissuade you at the time. You were the best officer in my command and you’d be perfect for this new assignment.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I’ve no interest in India.”
“You will when I tell you my orders,” Colonel Boyle said with confidence. “I’m to raise and train a regiment of native infantry with a cavalry attached. Going to press northward, as I understand it. This company will be garrisoned near Peshawar.”
“I’m less familiar with the subcontinent than I should be,” Lawrence said. “Where is that?”
“Near the Khyber Pass. At the foot of the Himalayas, my lad. The roof of the world, they call it. In any case, we’ll make it a great honor to be accepted into this regiment. Mark my words, we’ll even have a few princes clamoring to join up. I hear those fellows ride like the Devil himself. They’ll make a splendid cavalry and you are just the man to train them.”
The idea was appealing. His days would be spent on horseback, training and practicing battle dressage. Lawrence could look forward to being tired in a good way each evening and sleeping like the just.
But he’d be half a world away from Caroline.
“Other interests keep me here, sir.”
The colonel shook his head. “Don’t make the decision rashly. Say you’ll consider it. And remember, lad, this offer is about more than service to king and country. A bright fellow like yourself can make his fortune in the East.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Lawrence promised.
“We sail on the twelfth of next month. I’ll hold the post for you until then.”
Lawrence thanked him but was sure he’d let the opportunity pass. Still, he’d been able to move in the rarified society of Lord Frampton’s guests as an equal. If the rest of the evening went as well, this ball would be easier than he’d thought.
However, his resolution not to be vexed by his situation with Caroline faltered when he followed the sound of music into the drawing room.
There she was. While other guests looked on, Caroline floated around the room, light-footed as a hind. Her gestures, the expressions on her heart-shaped face, the precise steps and leaps—they were all exquisite. She was Grace itself, shod in little silver slippers. Lawrence was amazed that she didn’t sprout wings. She moved about the room, dancing in a Z-shaped pattern, sometimes alone and sometimes in various holds with her dance partner.
Lucky devil.
Lawrence couldn’t tell who it was because the man’s face was turned away from him, but he would have given a year in Paradise to change places with the fellow. Not that Lawrence could hope to caper about the room with her like that. It would take years for him to grasp so elaborate a dance.
But just to touch her hand. To watch her turning before him and beside him. So close he could see her individual eyelashes kissing her cheeks. To simply hold her.
He sighed. The wanting was pain and pleasure at once.
Suddenly, Bredon was at his elbow.
“Good to see you here, Sinclair. I half-expected you wouldn’t come.”
“I wouldn’t have but for you,” Lawrence said, not taking his eyes from the dancers. “We both know you’re the only reason I was invited in the first place.”
“Nonsense. You’re prime meat on the market, man.” Bredon gave him a friendly slap on the back. “Since you came in, you’ve been noted by no less than half a dozen matrons with daughters of marriageable age.”
“Can’t imagine why.” Lawrence shook his head, only half-listening as he took a step to the right, the better to keep Caroline in his sight. “I’m not seeking a wife.”
Just seeking Caroline.
“Doesn’t matter. Most of the time, a man’s wishes don’t figure into it at all,” Bredon said amiably. “As a collective, the female of the species consider it their duty to see every eligible gentleman suitably leg-shackled.”
“And yet you remain unattached.”
“Yes, well, that’s the thing about being heir apparent. There’s no room for romance in the life of a peer. My parents certainly weren’t a love match. Mother came with a dowry that would tempt a prince.” Bredon’s tone turned a little bit brittle. “When I finally wed—and please God, may that day be in the far-distant future—it will be an arrangement for the betterment of the estate and not much else.”
“But you recommend marriage for the likes of me?”
“Absolutely. Of all the fellows I know, you most need a woman in your life. Someone to pull you out of yourself. You may not be the most amiable fellow in the ton, or the most attentive.” Bredon waved a hand before Lawrence’s face, as if to wake him from a trance. Lawrence grimaced and then turned his gaze back to Caroline’s lithe form. “But you make up for those deficiencies with other attributes.”
“It certainly isn’t my bottomless purse.”
Maybe if he were well-heeled, things would be different with Caroline. A lavish income might make up for not having a title when it came to courting an earl’s daughter. Lawrence began to wish he hadn’t resigned his commission. Plenty of fellows who did a tour of duty in India did come home as rich as maharajas. He’d been frugal and had invested the bulk of his money well enough that he had sufficient funds to purchase the major’s rank Colonel Boyle offered him. Would Caroline wait for him to make his fortune? Perhaps if—
Bredon cleared his throat, dragging Lawrence back to the moment.
“Best keep your voice down. Talking about money in public, especially the lack of it, isn’t exactly the done thing, old son,” Bredon advised. “Wait until you’ve some privacy and are negotiating a generous dowry. As for what the marriage-minded mamas see in you, plenty of families would relish a connection to the powerful house of Ware.”
“If they hope for it through me, it would be a tenuous connection at best.”
“The depth of your estrangement from your uncle isn’t common knowledge. For all the ton knows, Ware will be providing a spectacular endowment for you and a future bride. And speaking of Lord Ware,” Bredon added, leaning toward him and lowering his voice to a whisper, “I think you should know he’s here. In the card room.”
“Whist was always his game. He can’t resist it.” Lawrence shrugged. He told himself it didn’t matter that the man who’d cast him out was breathing the same perfume-laden air as he. His gut twisted all the same.
“Lord Ware has been paying court to Miss Braithwaite for the last few weeks,” Bredon said.
“So I heard.”
“I understand she’s the oldest of nine siblings—eight of them brothers.”
“Hence my uncle’s interest in her.”
Lawrence caught himself staring at a fixed point on the wall across the room instead of following the dancers. Thoughts of Lord Ware siring an heir on Miss Braithwaite put his dilemma with Caroline in stark perspective. He was one heartbeat from inheriting an earldom, but that was the trouble with being heir presumptive. It was never a sure thing. A son arriving late in Lord Ware’s life could knock him out of line for his uncle’s title with its first squalling breath.
And without even the hope of succession, Lawrence was out of his depth with a lady like Caroline. Anyone with eyes could see it.
“‘A cat may look at a king,’” he murmured as he watched her float like an angel past him, “but that’s all he may do.”
His feelings for Caroline had clouded his vision. There was no path forward with her. It was foolish to torture himself with wild possibilities.
Lawrence raised his voice a bit. “The earl is not seeking a wife. He’s looking for breeding stock.”
“True, but that sort of blunt observation is best kept to yourself,” Bredon said. “Knowing a thing is fine. Saying that same thing is not always the most prudent course of action. Especially when there are so many ears about.”
Bredon had brought up the subject of Miss Braithwaite. Lawrence had only carried it to its logical conclusion. London Society and what was permissible within it baffled him sorely.
“I don’t understand, Bredon. You say I mustn’t speak my mind, but it’s fine for a young woman to be traded like cattle so her family can claim relation to a title.” Lawrence shook his head and wished his waistcoat wasn’t quite so tight. He should have stayed in Leicester Square. It was getting harder to breathe in Lord Frampton’s elegant drawing room by the minute. “How do you bear living with all these confounded rules?”
“Habit is everything. I’ve known from birth what is expected of me. Life is easier if one lets the stream carry one along.”
Lawrence had been expected to fail.
But I didn’t, he told himself stubbornly.
His uncle had laid down obstacles at every turn, but he’d found a way around them. He might not have been a candidate for Oxford like his friend Bredon, but he’d passed his finals at Harrow with better marks than half the other lads. His uncle had expected him to meet Death in the military, and indeed, Lawrence had been close enough to shake hands with that bony specter on several occasions, but he’d survived.
And here he was in London. Accepted among the ton. Perhaps mostly because of his connection to Bredon, but he was an honored guest of Lord Frampton’s nevertheless.
The hope that had been a guttering candle only a few moments before flickered again in his chest. He couldn’t give up.
He wouldn’t fail now. There must be some way ahead for him with Lady Caroline. He simply couldn’t see it yet.
Then the man she was dancing with turned his way and Lawrence got his first clear look at him.
Rowley.
Over the months Lawrence had spent in Bredon and Rowley’s company, he’d come to respect the one and despise the other. Lord Rowley was a whoremonger and lotus-eater. He drank to excess. A poor gambler, he reneged on debts of honor, slipping out of town before his creditors could track him down. Once, he had whipped a prostitute till she was covered with welts before Lawrence found him and put a stop to it.
“I paid dearly for the girl,” Rowley had complained, telling Bredon he should try it. “Nothing makes a man feel more alive than giving a woman a smart bum.”
If Lawrence had known what Rowley was like, he’d have left him to rot in that Italian jail. After the three of them fell in together, Lawrence was glad when Bredon began to pull away from his childhood friend.
“Bredon, you know what Rowley is,” Lawrence said, his voice low with menace. “Why do you allow him to dance with your sister?”
“If there’s a cobra in the room, I prefer to see it. At least I know where it is,” Bredon said, his jaw stiff. “It’s only a dance. Rowley can’t harm her here.”
A red mist settled on Lawrence’s vision. He wasn’t aware of the exact moment when his fingers balled into fists, but fire burned behind his eyes. If he released the violent part of himself he kept so tightly bottled up, he could happily tear Rowley apart.
It was no exaggeration. Once he unleashed that fury, he might not be able to stop himself before he bashed in Rowley’s head on Lady Frampton’s gleaming hardwood.
If Lawrence killed a lord on English soil before so many witnesses, he’d certainly swing for it. Lawrence decided it might be worth hanging to keep Rowley’s bloody hands off Caroline.
Then, for the first time since he’d started watching her, she saw him. Their gazes locked, and she smiled.
Damn her smiles. They gnawed on his heart.
But then her expression turned to wide-eyed alarm, and that was infinitely worse.