CHAPTER THREE
“Ladies,” Stephen said, forcing a smile. “How wonderful to see you again so soon. Edwards and I were just discussing how much we are enjoying our time here.”
Yet instead of pleased looks or demure nods at the compliments, one of the dark-haired young women pushed her way to the front of the group in a flurry of puce-ruffled skirts and loudly stomped her foot.
“Lord Westleigh, Papa said you and Mr. Edwards would dance with each of us.”
“Did he now? That sounds delightful. Perhaps later, Miss Br—”
“I’m Peaseblossom, remember? And we would all so enjoy dancing right now. As the oldest here, I get first choice. I believe you’ll find me most adequate in all areas.”
Peaseblossom?
Somehow suppressing a horrified laugh, Stephen forced himself to re-meet the girl’s eerie golden stare. Dear God, she resembled her father, and not in a good way. “Of course, er…Peaseblossom. Do you have a card?”
“A dance card?” she replied, face falling. “Oh yes, everyone has cards in Town, don’t they? I mean, I could make one. Would you help me, Lord Westleigh? Perhaps if we retired to Papa’s library before the dancing starts…I really am a fast learner.”
The offer enticed like a tooth extraction. Informing her of the ten thousand reasons why not, tempted him beyond measure, as did feigning a heart attack or violent illness. Unfortunately none of the options were viable. He wanted to make it back to London and his fiancée in one piece, not wake up in the forest with antlers strapped to his head and a horn sounding in the distance. Or chained to a sickbed, while some quack forced unidentifiable elixirs down his throat.
Stephen coughed, reluctantly about to give the eldest Miss Bruce his arm.
Then the unthinkable happened.
“Terribly sorry, Peaseblossom dear,” drawled an icy voice. “Westleigh promised me the next dance and George will be partnering Louisa here. Perhaps some other time.”
Glancing sideways at Caroline Emily Edwards, he resisted the urge to bend down and retrieve his jaw from the floor. His dedicated nemesis of the past decade hadn’t stood back and cheered as he’d been ruthlessly cornered, or set up a stand to offer odds and refreshments to fascinated onlookers. She’d actually shouldered into the fray and rescued him. Obviously hell had just frozen over. Either that or the four horseman of the apocalypse were about to charge through the ballroom to signal impending doom. Nothing else could explain it.
Surreptitiously, he pinched himself. But the golden-haired Amazon in a familiar pose—back ramrod-straight to ensure every inch of her six foot one frame was used to best advantage, hands resting on curved hips, jade green eyes spitting frozen fire—continued to direct her scorn at someone other than him. In less than a minute the entire pack of Bruce sisters wilted and collectively slunk away, no match at all for a single hellion’s wrath.
Eyes narrowing, Stephen offered Caroline his arm and escorted her to the dance floor.
“So,” he said casually, curling a hand around her waist as the music commenced for a waltz. “Who are you and what have you done with Caroline Edwards? It’s not that I miss the original, but I do feel a certain obligation to report those impersonating George’s family members. Especially when the act needs refining as much as yours. Everyone knows the real thing would never intercede on my behalf for any reason.”
“My goodness, your manners are improving,” she shot back. “A whole minute transpired before I became overwhelmed with profound regret.”
“So why did you, then? Rescue me, I mean.”
“Momentary insanity.”
“Try again.”
“Fine. It’s nothing to do with you. I like your mother far too much to see her forced to concede her title to Peaseblossom Bruce, I’m not convinced that girl is entirely human. But why are you even here? George and I had no choice, yet you are voluntarily dallying in the backwaters of Kent.”
Stephen scowled. “According to your damned twin, the invitation promised three days of cards with an open cellar before the Season began. It sounded quite good. Gaggles of frightful females were not part of the deal.”
“Surely you aren’t that foolish. If one hadn’t died, Sir Albert would have an even eight daughters to marry off.”
He almost missed a step at the thought, but somehow managed to avoid crushing a rather sour-looking dandy’s foot.
“One died? Oh wait, I do vaguely remember that. Nasty business about four years ago, out walking and she slipped down a cliff or something. What was her name? Hannah? Helen?”
“Hermia. Her parents are quite the admirers of Mr. Shakespeare. But when a penniless clerk looks promising as a husband, you don’t think Sir Albert and Lady Bruce would do and say anything to have a wealthy, titled bachelor trapped in their home for a few days?”
“All the ladies were supposed to be entertained elsewhere, but apparently the weather forced a return,” he snapped, yet even as he said the words he felt his cheeks heat at how idiotic they were.
As expected, Caroline’s eyes widened mockingly, and a smirk played about her lips.
“It was apparent on arrival that our esteemed hostess had very clear intentions for the next few days. You and George simply fell prey to a matchmaking mama; surely you know the species have little care for rules, propriety and truth.”
“Excuse me? We did not fall prey to anyone!”
“Ha. Cannon fodder from the start, the pair of you.”
“Cannon fodder?” Stephen spluttered, insulted to the tips of his toes. “Excuse—”
“Actually, apologies to the incumbent titleholder, but now I wish I’d waved the enemy through the city gates. Peaseblossom Forsyth, Countess of Westleigh has a certain ring to it don’t you think?”
“Like hell it does. And I should point out that smug, unholy glee does nothing for your complexion. Twenty-five candles this birthday isn’t it?”
Caroline smiled angelically, but he smoothly moved aside before her heel could mangle his toes.
“So transparent, my dear Miss Edwards. Surely everyone knows the sweeter your expression, the more diabolical your intent.”
“Such an acute sense of self-preservation, my dear Lord Westleigh! Obviously honed in response to the legions of women desperately wishing to do you bodily harm.”
“What can I say? Some men enjoy that sort of thing, but it’s not a pleasure of mine.”
“Indeed. You prefer to resort to dull rakish statements when your argument is failing. I almost pity the woman who does end up shackled to you.”
“No need,” Stephen said, grinning at the perfect opening to cannonball his news into the conversation. Very shortly he would be wallowing in an extremely rare moment, one where he actually surprised Miss Too smart for her own good Edwards. “Flora Hartley will be content in every way.”
Caroline froze, but he received neither a wild-eyed look nor hoped for jaw drop. Instead, she made an odd choking sound like he’d punched her in the stomach, and for the first time in all the years they had danced—and warred—together, stumbled awkwardly. Frowning, he instinctively dropped his other hand to her waist to halt a fall and her forehead connected sharply, painfully with his cheekbone. Yet seconds later his abused face was forgotten as her statuesque body plastered itself full-length against him, inciting an immediate and entirely unexpected response.
What the bloody hell?
He should not be noting her skin felt as soft as freshly churned butter. Or that rather than reeking of some heavy perfume, she smelled fresh and citrusy, like a newly-cut lemon. He definitely shouldn’t be noting how perfectly her hips cradled his, or wondering what the lush curves currently crushed against his chest would feel and taste like without any clothing to impede a slow and very thorough exploration…
Good God.
This was Caroline Edwards. Unashamed hellion, dedicated nemesis and his best friend’s sister.
Good GOD.
Horrified at the direction of his thoughts, he jerked away so his only contact with her was the usual light, impersonal hand at her waist. Obviously the series of strange events this evening had affected him far more than he realized, a full whisky bottle was required without delay so he could permanently purge all recent memories from his mind.
Giving himself a brutal mental slap, Stephen squared his shoulders. Then frowned again as he realized Caroline was not only still bent over his arm and staring at the floor, but breathing in short, panting gasps like she’d just been hauled from a stormy ocean.
Nice one, Forsyth. She’s clearly unwell and instead of offering assistance you were picturing her naked.
“Miss Edwards?” he asked, starting to feel more than a little worried. There was no question over authenticity, unlike most ton women Caroline had never faked an injury, illness or fainting fit in her life. In fact, she openly abhorred such practices. The woman might be prickly, blunt and as likely to flay you alive as to talk to you, but at least every word, look and action was real. “Do you need some air? Should I go and find George?”
She didn’t reply.
~ * ~
Don’t faint. Don’t scream. Don’t cry.
Mentally repeating the words over and over, Caroline sucked in a huge breath and fought desperately to pull herself together. The middle of the Bruce’s ballroom was not the place to lose her head, even if two awful discoveries had simultaneously punched her in the stomach, stabbed her in the heart and boxed her ears.
Betrothed. The man she had been in love with since the age of thirteen was about to marry someone else. And not only that, she completely revolted him. Stephen couldn’t have made his disgust any plainer; when she’d tripped over her damn feet at his news and accidentally fallen against him, he had wrenched away from her as though she’d just announced she carried the plague. That moment would never be topped for sheer humiliation and had quite successfully killed stone-dead any last remaining shred of hope he might somehow secretly hold a candle for her.
Don’t faint. Don’t scream. Don’t cry.
“Caroline?”
Finally gathering her scattered senses, she straightened and looked back at Stephen. Judging by his impatient tone he’d been trying to get her attention for a while, but the hand at her waist was so steady, the concern on his perfectly handsome face so unmistakably genuine, it only twisted the knives in her heart even deeper.
“Yes? What?” she snapped, acute pain turning her tone especially irritable.
“Pardon me, your highness, but there is a certain green tinge to your skin which suggests you’re about to cast up your accounts. It is never a clever idea to overindulge in potent wine.”
“Thank you for your concern, Lord Westleigh, but I did not overindulge and am perfectly well. My…heel got caught in the hem of my gown, that’s all.”
“Oh. I see,” he said, his brow furrowing the way it did when he didn’t see at all. “Except you didn’t, er, sound well.”
Damnation.
Miraculously, Caroline managed a short laugh.
“Well of course not! When you are terrified your gown is going to come apart at the seams and leave you half-naked in the middle of a crowded ballroom, there is an element of tension involved.”
“Ah. Fair enough. I must admit I’m extremely relieved you aren’t about to decorate my shoes. Quite like them as they are.”
Oh, this was too much. Now he was actually smiling at her. A lazy, cheeky smile revealing his straight, white teeth and a tiny dimple in his chin, the kind that turned most women into stammering, blushing simpletons. Luckily she was made of far sterner stuff. It made her wish she’d consumed at least another five glasses of wine in addition to a double helping of meat, vegetables and syllabub, so she could decorate his shoes, trousers and jacket beyond redemption.
“Indeed,” she replied crisply as they began to waltz again. “Now, what were you saying about the Honorable Miss Hartley? For a moment there it sounded like you had been replaced by an imposter.”
“Me?”
“Yes. I know you’ve been babbling a bit about marriage, but men who pride themselves on their ability to outrun, outthink and outmanoeuvring-chasing women do not get engaged out of the blue.”
“It’s time,” Stephen said, lifting his shoulder in a tiny shrug as he deftly guided her around a short, portly man and his equally rotund dancing partner. “I’m twenty-six years old now.”
“Positively in your dotage. But Flora? There hasn’t been so much as a whisper in the scandal sheets that you’ve been courting her. George never said a word either.”
“He doesn’t know. Apart from Mama, you’re the only one. And I haven’t exactly been courting Miss Hartley. But she is charming, gracious, and will make a most admirable countess.”
Confusion again turned Caroline’s mind to mud, and her legs refused to move. Instead she gave him a hard stare. “Excuse me? You are either courting someone or you aren’t, there is no ‘not exactly’ about it. If you haven’t spent any time with Flora, how do you know you’ll suit?”
“I am more than confident we will.”
“How can you be?”
“Because,” Stephen said irritably, with a less than subtle yank prompting her to recommence moving around the floor. “Unlike some men, I didn’t offer merely because of a pretty face or family name. I did my research.”
“What, you assessed all the unmarried women in London? Kind to children and animals, plus twenty points, laughs like a donkey minus five, that sort of thing?”
He didn’t reply, but color flooded his cheekbones.
Caroline felt her eyes widen and mouth gape, no doubt a particularly attractive expression reminiscent of a landed trout. Oh God. He was marrying Flora Hartley because she had topped a damn list. “No! We thought you were joking when you talked about that stupid compatibility chart plan.”
“It’s not stupid,” he growled. “It was a sensible and logical method to find the right woman to marry and meet my responsibilities to the title.”
“There are people in Bedlam who think the same thing.”
“Then they are definitely in the wrong place. The Hartleys are excellent stock. Plus Mama has known Miss Hartley forever and enjoys her company. I signed the contracts this morning, we’ll be hosting a ball to formally announce our betrothal as soon as everyone is back in town. It won’t be a long engagement, I expect to be married by June or July.”
Caroline gritted her teeth as the longest waltz in history continued. This was pure torture. How could the blasted music still be playing? They must have circled the floor at least thirty-five times.
“Well, well, well,” she said softly. “A lot of exceedingly foolish women will be crying into their pillows, once this news hits the ears of the town gossips.”
“Your congratulations and best wishes mean the world.”
“I’ll be sure to pass them on to Flora when I next see her. She is indeed every inch a lady. So very sweet and…nice.”
“Caroline…” he said warningly, a very familiar glare darkening his eyes to black.
Caroline smiled, probably more a wolf-like baring of teeth judging by the way his expression went from annoyed to alarmed. Then she stepped back and curtsied. “As my brother’s best friend, naturally I wish you every happiness, Lord Westleigh. But the waltz has now ended and I simply must find the powder room and attend to my troublesome hem. Excuse me.”
Dramatically swishing her ruby-red skirts, she left him standing in the middle of the ballroom, praying the bloodcurdling scream threatening to unleash would remain silent. Once the main double doors had been navigated, she nearly sprinted down the hallway, blindly flinging doors open and shut until the thankfully empty powder room revealed itself. Collapsing into a cushioned chair, she buried her face in her hands.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
She was the worst kind of fool and no one to blame but herself. A fool to fall head over heels in love with Stephen Forsyth, way back when he’d been a gangly, twinkly-eyed troublemaker at Eton. A fool to wait for him when he’d grown into his imposing frame at Cambridge, gone on his grand tour and shattered hearts everywhere. She was a fool to still love him knowing that when he inherited the vast and hugely wealthy earldom, he had shot a million miles beyond her reach. But worst of all, a fool to believe she had time. For heaven’s sake, he’d inherited nearly two years ago; now everything was running to his satisfaction of course he’d be thinking about the future. So much for the common sense she had always prided herself on.
Leaning back, Caroline rested her head against the rose-patterned wallpaper and cursed her own cowardice. For it was too late. The dream, the excruciatingly constant sliver of hope that one day Stephen might see more than his best friend’s troublesome sister, had been cruelly and decisively dashed.
“Caroline? Are you in there?”
Startled, her heart sank at the sound of George’s voice just outside the powder room door. Damn it all, she’d been so numb she hadn’t even seen him follow her. “Go away,” she said dully. “I’ll be out in a m-minute.”
Ignoring her, and all seemly behavior, her twin ambled through the door and kicked it shut behind him.
“Why are you hiding in here?” he asked, for once no trace of mockery in his face or voice. Actually, his expression was positively thunderous. “Did someone hurt you?”
“I’d r-rather not t-talk about it.”
“Do you want to leave?”
“We can’t. Sir Malcolm.”
“Never mind about him. I asked if you wanted to leave.”
A lie hovered on her lips, something cool and sharp to regain control. She even dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief for an extra moment to regain her composure. But when she opened her mouth, only one word tumbled out. “Desperately.”
“Then we’ll go. I’ll tell Stephen—”
“No!”
“All right, all right,” he said, clearly taken aback at her vehemence. “I’ll leave him a note. Go and pack your things, the carriage shouldn’t take long to organize.”
Instead of answering, Caroline frowned as she noticed something very odd.
“Wait. Why is your left cheek so pink? Did someone hurt you?”
George stilled, and for a split second pure fury twisted his face into that of a stranger, cold and dangerous. Yet just as swiftly the expression was gone and his familiar, blandly mocking smile returned. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
The rebuff stung, but she couldn’t complain, not when he’d merely parroted her own words. At times like these it was hard to believe they once shared every wish, thought and secret, the distance between them had grown so great.
“Very well.” She took her twin’s outstretched hand and got to her feet. “To London, and not a moment too soon.”
Tonight she could mourn, but tomorrow her new life must begin. If she joined the legions of far smarter ton women who had followed their heads, rather than their hearts, she too could be a wife and mother. She could try to be content, perhaps even happy.
It was time to leave Stephen Forsyth, Earl of Westleigh, as nothing more than a footnote in her history.
~ * ~
“Such a pity Mr. and Miss Edwards were called back to London, my lord. It’s such a beautiful morning for a ride, don’t you think?”
Stephen forced himself to smile and nod at Nora Bruce. The lady had attached herself to his side at the start of their cross-country hack and hadn’t budged an inch since, blithely keeping up a steady stream of conversation despite his short and sometimes curt responses.
He couldn’t help it though, he was that furious. After the ridiculous events of the previous evening, George and his sister had left him only the vaguest of notes before fleeing into the night. Some sort of friends they were. The first task on the list when he returned to London tomorrow would be to hunt them down and strangle them both. That was, of course, if he actually made it back to the city. His unease refused to diminish, and hadn’t been improved by the comments from his long-time valet.
“Strangest household I’ve ever been in, my lord,” Daniels had sniffed in absolute disapproval, as he’d expertly lathered and shaved Stephen’s overnight beard growth mere hours ago. “I’d almost swear someone is watching my every movement. I usually quite enjoy house parties, having a laugh with the lads or stepping out with a pretty maid, but not here. I can’t say I’ll be sorry to leave Bruce land behind.”
“You and me both,” Stephen muttered as he and Lady Bruce rounded another scruffy clump of bushes and rode toward a small clearing, all seven of her daughters trailing behind them. Despite his attempts at keeping up a brisk pace, somehow the other men in the party had gotten so far ahead, he couldn’t see them anymore. Not to mention his borrowed mount was skittish, constantly sidestepping and tossing its head in a way that required an annoyingly high level of concentration to guide it.
The Edwards twins would indeed be sorry once he got his hands on them.
“Excuse me, my lord? Did you say something?”
“No, no, Lady Bruce. Just woolgathering. This is a pretty spot. Do you come here often?”
“Not so much anymore. This was one of my late daughter Hermia’s favorite places. She used to drag a cushion to that big tree over there and sketch until her fingers cramped.”
“Ah,” Stephen said awkwardly, ashamed at his ill manners. Poor woman. Losing any family member to an accident was bad enough, but it must be excruciating to lose a child. God knew his mother had barely left the house since Gregory and his father’s deaths, a better man would be far more empathetic. “Well, I can understand why she liked it. Plenty to see, and lovely and sunny.”
Lady Bruce tilted her head and graced him with a brief smile. “Oh, no, we get plenty of rain living so near the coast. But there are a few abandoned cottages scattered hereabouts, and travelers are welcome to shelter in them.”
“As long as that is all they use them for,” he joked, but her expression iced over so fast he regretted saying a word. Damnation. Forget tomorrow, he would collect his staff and leave this bleak place as soon as they returned to the manor house.
“Indeed,” she replied frostily, leaning down to open a small rucksack attached to her saddle. “I think—”
Crack.
For an instant time paused as the gunshot echoed through the clearing. Then all hell broke loose. Lady Bruce screamed, her daughters screamed, and his horse reared, nearly unseating him as it bucked and kicked.
“Take shelter!” Stephen yelled, frantically trying to control the beast, see where the sound had come from and keep his mind in the present.
Concentrate. Do not think about Gregory. Or Father. You’re unharmed and the horse will settle. It won’t throw you. Control your panic.
Stephen sucked in several deep breaths, trying desperately to calm his racing pulse. What the bloody hell was going on? Who in their right mind would hunt with a pistol and use it in the vicinity of a group of ladies?
Crack.
The second shot whistled past his head and embedded itself in a nearby tree, tearing off a thick chunk of bark and sending it flying.
Oh Jesus.
Horror tautened his muscles to breaking point. Raw memories overwhelmed—Blood, so much blood, and the suffocating dampness of the forest where Gregory’s life ebbed away. Cradling his father’s broken body. His mother’s chilling wail when Stephen had broken the news to her.
No. Not again. I can’t…
Screams intruded. The Bruce sisters’ distress gaining in volume and pitch, accompanied by frightened horse neighs ensuring he could barely think.
“We’re all going to die,” screeched one of the seven. “Mother!”
Movement near a cluster of trees caught his eye and Stephen swung his horse around as two demi-masked, roughly dressed men appeared, both brandishing large pistols.
Oh hell. Poachers. They had to be poachers. The clearing was too far from the main road to tempt highwaymen, and today he hadn’t even brought a dagger with him. Unarmed he could have taken them easily in a fight, both were of average height and scrawny build, but he wouldn’t even get close.
“Well, well, lookee ‘ere,” one of the men said, spitting on the ground. “Looks like we got ourselves a nice fat pigeon.”
“I don’t have any money on me,” Stephen said as evenly as possible. “So you are quite out of luck.”
“Reckon you have a pile at home, though, am I right?” cackled the second poacher, lightly caressing his pistol as he wandered closer. “Can always tell a gennelman, and you dress a lot richer than any round here. Get off that horse.”
“No.”
“Get off that horse,” the man repeated. “Or I’ll take some of your fine ladies instead. Haven’t had me a woman in a while, and these look like good, fresh ones.”
Another chorus of screams filled the air.
“If you so much as touch one hair on their heads—” said Stephen in a low, hard voice.
“You’ll what?” said the first poacher, smirking. “Beat us with a riding crop? Now do as yer told, get off the damn horse and we’ll think about lettin’ the fillies go. But any funny business, and there’ll be a bullet in yer gut.”
Stephen slid slowly from the saddle onto the ground, frustrated rage churning like fire in his stomach. A pistol was shoved into the small of his back, and his wrists and knees were bound with thin, coarse rope.
“You’ll be hanged for this,” howled Lady Bruce. “Trespassing. Threatening my daughters. Kidnapping a senior peer of the realm.”
Stephen winced as both poachers’ faces lit up.
“Oh-ho! Senior peer of the realm, eh?” chuckled the man beside him. “A very plump pigeon then. Well, m’lord, our wagon is jus’ beyond those trees. It’ll take you someplace less fine than yer used to, but you’ll learn to like it. Now march.”
He stumbled forward, his gaze darting left and right, but there was no path to freedom. These men were clearly seasoned criminals, the way they had laughed off Lady Bruce’s words was ample proof of that, and if he attempted a weapon-less counterattack the girls would be hurt and he’d be dead.
Bloody, bloody hell.
Mama had endured so much already but a ransom note was better than another coffin, and his friends would certainly move heaven and earth to find him. Don’t forget your fiancée, a small voice whispered, and he stilled. Would Flora pace and fret and storm Bow Street to demand every Runner in London be assigned to the case? His conscience snickered. You didn’t want that, remember. Just a quiet life.
A ringing blow across his face jolted him back to reality.
“I said march,” the poacher snarled in his ear, and again Stephen inched forward, knowing if they got him past the row of trees it was over.
Crack.
The pistol shot was followed by a roar as the second poacher fell to the ground, clutching his arm. Stephen’s disbelieving gaze flew to the west as a man on horseback burst into the clearing. A rescue?
“Unhand him!” the rider yelled, galloping toward them.
The first poacher cursed loudly, shoved him to the ground then took off into the trees, his injured accomplice close behind.
Rolling onto his knees, Stephen stared up at the man he owed his life to. Despite his civilian clothes, a ramrod-straight back and short-cropped red hair suggested military, while healed scars on his cheeks and around his deep-set pale blue eyes spoke of numerous dances with death. Yet the man couldn’t be any more than a few years older than him.
Lady Bruce shattered the silence with yet another hair-raising scream. “You saved Lord Westleigh,” she shrieked, half-sliding, half-falling off her horse to run toward his rescuer and hurl herself at his feet. “Bless you, sir! Who are you? I must know the name of such a hero.”
The stranger didn’t even glance at the woman, just stared at Stephen, his gaze all at once assessing and angry and cold. Then he grinned, as though they were long-time acquaintances meeting at a club.
Jesus. Who was this man?