Just One Touch (4 page)

He climbed over the fence to land lightly beside her, then took his coat from the fence post without a word.

She took a breath to calm her galloping pulse. “That was well done of you, Mr. Hunt.”

“It wouldn’t have been necessary if those bloody stable hands of yours knew what they were about.” He shrugged into his coat, his face grim with foul temper.

Stunned by both his profanity and his brusque tone, she took a step back. “I beg your pardon?”

He noticed her movement and narrowed his eyes at her. “I won’t hurt you, for God’s sake. Didn’t you learn that last night?”

Hot embarrassment flooded her cheeks. “Your manners are lacking today, Mr. Hunt.”

“Is that so?” He cast a fierce, male glance over her that left her knees all but shaking. “Then allow me to alleviate the problem. I believe I’m late for my appointment with your father.”

He gave a sarcastic little bow, and she watched him walk away. Despite her annoyance with his boorish manner, she couldn’t resist sliding her
gaze over him in appreciation of such a fine male form. If only…

With a sound of distress she turned away, grabbing the fence. What was it about this man? In all these years, she had felt nothing more than passing admiration on the rare occasion she had encountered a handsome man. Yet Rogan Hunt was different.

He had touched her.

She had touched him.

There had been no fear, no black memories crowding her mind. And now…good Lord, she
lusted
after his handsome form like some wanton! Despite his foul temper and lack of consideration for a lady’s sensibilities.

She turned her head and took one last look at him, feeling as mesmerized as Mercury Mist and just as confused.

“Come in, Hunt.” From the chair behind his desk, the duke signaled for Rogan to enter his study, then waved to the decanters on the sideboard. “Would you care for some brandy?”

“No, thank you.”

“Wine, then? Whiskey?”

“No.” Rogan managed a polite smile. “I make it a policy only to drink alone.”

“Suit yourself.” The duke gestured toward a chair. “Sit down then.”

Wary, Rogan sat. The Duke of Belvingham looked older in the light of day, worn and weary.
He had clearly once been an intimidating-looking man, with thick brows and deep-set eyes and a great blade of a nose. Now his hair held more gray than brown, and his sunken cheeks and the tightness around his mouth betrayed his lack of vitality. He slouched in his seat, giving the impression that the furniture held him upright rather than his own muscles and bones.

Yet no matter his health, Belvingham was one of the most powerful men in England, and he wore that power with the ease of long familiarity. “First of all, Hunt, I’d like to thank you again for what you did for Caroline last night.”

Uncomfortable, Rogan merely nodded. “I’m glad your daughter is unharmed.”

“It could have been far worse, as we both know. You have done me a great service, and I am grateful.” He regarded Rogan with steady dark eyes that seemed to size up everything about him in one hard stare. “I’ve reconsidered your offer.”

Elation surged through him, but Rogan forced himself to show no emotion. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

The duke gave a dry chuckle. “You might not be, once you’ve heard the terms.”

Ah, yes. The money. Rogan’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on the arms of the chair. “What are the terms?”

“I know your financial situation, Hunt.” A cough shook the duke’s fragile frame, and he reached for a glass of water on his desk. “Before last night, there was no way you’d have been able
to pull together enough blunt to buy that mare.” He sipped at the water, closed his eyes. After a moment he opened them again and carefully replaced the glass on the desk with a shaking hand. His lips parted in a bitter smile. “But as you can see with your own eyes, circumstances have changed.”

“You’re ill?”

“I’m dying.”

Rogan couldn’t hide his shock. “But…a couple of weeks ago you were as hearty as a man ten years your junior.”

“Quite so, Hunt.” Belvingham clenched his trembling fists. “I’m being poisoned, to tell the truth. Poisoned by that greedy bastard, Randall Althorpe. And that’s why you’re here.”

Rogan frowned. “I’m not acquainted with Mr. Althorpe.”

“He’s my heir, a distant cousin.” The duke sneered. “Apparently I was not dying fast enough for him.”

Rogan digested this new information. “I believe I’ll take that whiskey now.”

“Help yourself.”

He rose and poured himself a generous portion from the decanter. “Have you alerted the magistrate, Your Grace?”

“Wouldn’t do a demmed bit of good,” Belvingham snorted. “Althorpe’s a clever bastard. I haven’t yet figured out how he’s doing it.”

Rogan paused with his drink at his lips, wondering suddenly if whatever ailment the duke had
contracted had also weakened his grasp of reality. “Are you certain it’s Althorpe?”

The duke cast him a look of irritation as Rogan sat down again. “I’m not a madman, Hunt. I know how preposterous it sounds. I would never have suspected the boy myself except that I found out he’s responsible for the death of my son.”

Rogan put down his drink with a clink. “He killed your son?”

“So I was told by an associate of his. It was a deathbed confession, so he had no cause to lie. Quite the opposite, actually. And when I confronted Randall, he…” His voice trailed off as his gaze settled on a portrait of his son that hung on the far wall.

“Your Grace?”

“He laughed,” the duke continued. “Never denied it, just laughed. And not long after, I began to sicken.”

The utter certainty in the duke’s voice shook Rogan. True or not, Belvingham clearly believed the tale. “And I take it there is no evidence linking Althorpe to your son’s death?”

The duke gave a bitter smile. “Nothing. He killed my son, and he is killing me. The title will pass to him unless we discover an antidote. The best physicians in London haven’t been able to help. And that’s why I summoned you, Hunt.” He gestured with a hand that trembled. “You were my daughter’s hero last night, and I have need of a hero now.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but I am at a loss.”

“I am dying, Hunt, and the jackal who’s killing me will inherit my lands and title. And my daughter will be at his mercy. I want you to protect her.”

Surprised, Rogan reached for his whiskey. “What would you have me do?”

“I will give you the mare, Destiny,” the duke said, watching him with canny dark eyes. “And I will include twenty-five thousand pounds…if you marry Caroline.”

Rogan choked on his swallow of whiskey. “You want me to wed your daughter?”

“How else can you protect her but as her husband?” Pain threaded the duke’s voice. “If I die—and it looks more than likely that I will indeed pass from this world if Randall has his way—then I need to know Caroline is safe. I will award you the twenty-five thousand pounds the day you marry her, as well as ownership of Destiny. Think of it, Hunt! Your problems will be solved. Not only will you be able to recreate your family’s superior breed of horses, but by marrying the daughter of a duke you will also gain an entrée into society.”

Impossible. Rogan finished his whiskey in one swallow. He wanted the money. He needed Destiny. But he had sworn never to marry, never to subject an innocent girl to the beast that was Rogan Hunt.

Especially not Caroline.

Her face rose up in his mind, fragile and beautiful, her dark eyes shadowed. Her touch last night had unraveled him, had filled him with longing
for something he could never have. And yet the duke offered her. Through a quirk of circumstance, he could have Caroline. As his wife. In his bed.

For an instant he could imagine it. Passion. Trust. Knowing there was someone to take care of. Someone who would take care of him in turn. Caroline’s small hands on his flesh as he taught her the ways of men and women, her cries of pleasure as he introduced her to the secrets of the bedchamber.

The beast inside him stirred. Stretched.

Ruthlessly, he shut the door on his impossible fantasies. It could never be. Caroline deserved more than a killer as a husband.

The duke’s eyes glittered with hope. “Well? Answer me, boy!”

Rogan took a calming breath. “Your Grace, I am overwhelmed.”

“And I haven’t finished.” Belvingham gave a hoarse chuckle. “When I die, my fortune—all of it—will go to Caroline. To her husband.”

Staggered, Rogan managed, “But…it’s not entailed?”

“The estates are entailed, but the wealth is mine, accumulated by me through private investments over the years, and I’ll be hell’s own jester before I see that murdering knave inherit it! It’s going to Caroline, but if she isn’t already married by the time I die, then I wouldn’t put it past that schemer to wed her himself to get the money.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Rogan rolled the empty glass in his hand. Part of him demanded that he take the money and the mare, which would enable him to reach his goal years sooner than he’d expected. But he knew he had to refuse the duke. For Caroline’s sake.

Belvingham cleared his throat. “You’ve no doubt heard some rumors about Caroline.”

“Some,” Rogan acknowledged cautiously. “Vague references mostly.”

“Most of the gossip is rubbish.” Belvingham gave a harumph of frustration. “The truth is, five years ago my daughter was abducted. Her governess was killed before her eyes, and Caroline was taken for ransom.” He met Rogan’s gaze and held it, a wealth of meaning in his expression. “These men had her for four days before Bow Street found her.”

“Four days?” Rogan clenched his fingers around his whiskey glass. “Was she…?”

The duke let out a weary sigh. “The physician confirmed that she is yet…innocent, but apparently the villains frightened her enough that Caroline is now afraid of men.”

“She was fortunate,” Rogan murmured.

“Aye, fortunate!” Belvingham sneered. “The bastards only left her alone because they intended to sell her to a brothel. Apparently a virgin is worth a fortune!”

Rogan could think of nothing to say that would not sound cold or callous to the old man. He’d
seen the results of brutal rape during wartime and knew that while Caroline had surely faced an ordeal, the outcome could have been worse.

Much
worse.

But still…dear God. Caroline. How had she endured such an assault on her innocent sensibilities? No wonder she flinched from being touched. Knowing the truth, having watched her actions the previous night, he felt his respect for her grow. She would get past it eventually. She would marry, have children.

Just not with him.

He looked down at his empty glass and wished for more whiskey. Despite his feelings for her, he knew he couldn’t agree to the old man’s offer. He had vowed never to wed, never to expose an innocent to the curse of the Hunt men. And that vow superseded his desire for Destiny, his need for the money, his longing to have Caroline as his own. He would not endanger the lady to satisfy his ambition.

“I’ll protect your daughter,” he said, “but I can’t marry her.”

“You
must
marry her,” Belvingham insisted. “Without the protection of marriage, Caroline will be vulnerable to the worst kind of fortune hunter, including that murderous heir of mine!” The duke leaned forward. “Damn it, man, you
must
help me. I know I can trust you with Caroline, to treat her with gentleness and respect. If you treat her with half the care you do your horses, she will certainly live a life of happiness
and comfort. Come now, Hunt. All your problems will be solved with the simple uttering of the vows.”

To control the restlessness that seized him, Rogan stood and ignored good manners by helping himself to a second glass of whiskey. “Your Grace, there are things you don’t know about me. Things that would make me an unsuitable husband for Lady Caroline.”

“I know more about you than you think, young man. It’s true that in the normal way of things, a man of your social station would never be considered a suitable match for a duke’s daughter, and you know it. But I need a man I can trust. Given your actions last night, I believe you are that man.”

Rogan took a deep swallow of the whiskey before turning to face the duke again. “You honor me with such an offer, Your Grace, but I cannot accept.”

The duke sighed, suddenly looking older and more weary than before. “Very well then.”

Relieved, Rogan finished the whiskey in one shot and placed the glass beside the decanter. “I promise I will watch over your daughter. I will make it my mission to be certain no harm comes to her.”

“You give me no choice, Hunt.” The old man gave him a look that still intimidated, even with age and illness. “I had not wanted to bring this up, but you have forced me to do so.”

“Sir?”

“Sit down, Hunt. We’re not finished.”

Rogan slowly returned to his chair, puzzled by the abrupt change in Belvingham’s demeanor. At this moment the sick old man had vanished, and he appeared every inch the rich and powerful duke.

“I think you are unaware that your aunt Alice and I were good friends,” Belvingham began. “Once your father inherited her late husband’s estate, she often came to me with her troubles. Clearly, she didn’t feel she could go to your father.”

Rogan simply nodded.

“She was worried about you,” Belvingham continued. “Your brother, Colin—he was too far gone when the lot of you came over from Ireland to claim the inheritance. Already following in your father’s footsteps, wasn’t he? I believe he’s somewhat older than you.”

“Eight years,” Rogan answered, expressionless. The mention of his father only brought more clearly into focus all the reasons a man like him could never aspire to have a woman like Caroline.

“But you, Rogan. Alice said you had ‘the gift’ of the Hunts, a way with horses that had made your family the premiere horse breeders and trainers in England. And when you started showing signs of following the lifestyle of your father and brother, she wanted to intervene.”

“She did intervene,” Rogan whispered.

“Yes, that brawl at the Merry Maid. The night
you nearly killed Effingham’s son in a drunken rage.”