No Regrets (24 page)

   
"Lucky for me." The boat rocked, and she lost her
footing. She grabbed at the rowlock and knocked the
oar into the bottom of the boat.

   
"Hey," Lucas said. "Be careful."

   
She reached out. "Don't just stand there; give me
a hand."

   
"Sorry." He grabbed for her arm, tripped over the
oar and fell backward.

   
Preferring the bottom of the boat to the water,
Caro launched forward and sprawled on top of
him.

   
Their chests collided. His grunt of surprise rushed
past her ear, all warm and tickly. His hard thigh slid
between her legs, causing a tingle down her spine.
Her stomach gave a strange little lurch, and odd sen
sations of excitement shimmered deep inside.

   
"That is one way to get on board, I s'pose," he
mumbled, breathing hard.

   
Her face buried in his neck, she felt amazingly
lightheaded. She chuckled. "Idiot. Why did you fall?"
Her lips accidentally brushed the warm skin below
his ear.

   
He hissed in a breath.

   
She lifted herself, hands on each side of his head,
and discovered unusually sweet pressure at the apex
to her thighs. "Lucas? Am I hurting you?"

   
The lantern revealed his expression. He was star
ing at her, lips parted, eyes half closed. He looked so
handsome, so dear, so . . . delicious. Her heart raced.
Unable to resist the urge, she dropped a kiss on those
full, perfect lips.

   
His arms went around her back, squashing her
hard against him, and then he was kissing her back,
with lips like velvet, his heart hammering against
her ribs.

   
It felt as if a lightning bolt had shot through her
body. She jerked away.

   
His head fell back with a crack. "Cripes." He
struggled beneath her. "Caro, get up. You are nigh
to crushing me."

   
It served him right. She giggled at the note of
panic in his voice and untangled her limbs from his
until they faced each other from opposite benches.

   
He picked up the oars and began rowing furi
ously. He looked hot and tousled and in some sort
of pain.

   
"Are you sure you are not hurt?" she asked.

   
"It's nothing that a swim in the lake wouldn't
fix," he muttered.

   
Her stomach dropped. "Is the boat going to sink?
I can't swim."

   
"Dear heaven," he said. "You have no idea, do
you?" He half-groaned and half-laughed, his teeth
a flash of white in the lamplight. "The boat is fine.
And you can't drown—the water is only two feet
deep."

   
One of the blades skipped on the surface of the
water, splashing them with muddy-smelling water.
"Oh, Lucas. You are drunk. Let me row. You just
sit and relax."

   
"Sounds good to me." He handed over the oars
and leaned back on his elbows. "Row, galley slave.
If you get me to shore safely, I'll feed you grapes and
sweetmeats for a week."

   
The practical matter of food reminded her of the
time. Her stomach growled. "I'd sooner go home for
dinner. I'm starving."

   
He threw back his head and laughed.

   On that occasion, he'd come back for her, but this time, he'd gone off in a rage and left her to cope by herself. She blinked back the hot rush of tears and swallowed hard. She only had herself to blame. Perhaps Tisha was right; if Caro left London now, the scandal would die down. In the meantime, why not make a perfectly respectable visit to her aunt in Paris?

   She didn't dare go to Paris.

   Or at least, the old cautious Caro didn't dare, but the new Caro, the Caro who raced down St. James's, certainly might.

   Caro raised her gaze to meet François enquiring brown eyes.

   "Yes," she said. "I would very much like to go to Paris. There is no need to inform Lucas of my plans. Not until I return to Norwich."

     
Lucas watched the Chevalier's lips curve in a
mocking smile from behind his pistol. A black circle
rimmed in silver filled Lucas's vision

     
Consumed by fury, he couldn't breathe or
move. Air, thick and heavy with stink of leaf-mould,
pressed in on him, his feet seemingly held fast in the
black miasma.

     
Lit by a shaft of sunlight through the bare trees,
dressed in nothing but her shift, her hair hanging
to her waist, Caro paced back and forth behind the
Chevalier's elegant figure. Lucas glanced at her. It
hurt that she would not look at him.

     
The Chevalier's finger tightened. The hammer
lifted in agonizing slowness and demanded Lucas's
attention.

     
The bullet left the muzzle in an earsplitting
roar.

     
Lucas turned his face away from the speeding,
deadly lump of gray lead. He didn't want to watch.

     
Exploding pain seared in his temple.

     
A yawning black pit swallowed him as blood
flowed, warm and sticky beneath his cheek.

     
Dead.

A groan came from the region of his chest.

   If he was dead, why the agony in his head? The smell of stale brandy choked him. He coughed.

   Not dead.

   He seemed to be sitting in a chair, his head on something hard. He groaned again and forced his gritty eyelids up, lifting his head a fraction, dreading what he would see.

   His signet ring glinted in the narrow bar of golden light across his desk. A puddle of clear liquid rippled beneath his shaking hand.

   A nightmare. He sighed. Suddenly nauseous, he pushed himself upright in his chair. He shuddered. Four empty bottles ranged across the polished wood of his desk in front of his nose. A fifth lay beside them, a pool of amber dregs leaking from its neck.

   His head pounded as if hell's blacksmith had taken up residence. Tentatively, he touched his temple. The pain eased as he kneaded a tender indentation caused by sleeping on his ring. Better than a bullet wound, he thought wryly. Or not. He scrubbed his palm across the stubble on his cheeks and chin.

   His gut felt as if it hadn't been fed for a week.

   Five bottles. Or at least four and a half, in . . . how long? It must be a record. Who cared?

   He squinted at the clock on the wall. With the curtains pulled together all but a crack, he couldn't make out the numbers.

   He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes until the room steadied. The room stank of stale cigars, spilled brandy, and sweat. A charred and crumpled piece of paper lay before him on the smeared wood. It was the reason he sensed a huge hole where his chest used to be.

   Caro had run off to France with the Chevalier.

   He pressed the paper flat. It shocked him to see his fingers tremble. Leaning on his elbows, he squinted at the neat handwriting, vaguely hoping the words would say something different.

   
Dear Lord Foxhaven,

   A nice friendly start.

   
My cousin François kindly offered to escort me to
Paris.

   Kind. What a bloody joke.

   
Under the circumstances, I would be obliged if
you would. . .

   The rest of it disappeared into the blackened edge. It didn't matter. He could still see it in his mind's eye:

    
. . . be so good as to arrange our divorce. Carolyn
Rivers.

   And she hadn't sent it until four weeks after she left.

   The hole in his chest opened like the pit of hell, and he felt his life's blood drain away. He glanced down at his front to be sure it was all in his mind, and he let the paper fall to the table. He'd been such a fool. Why hadn't he believed what he saw? He'd just never expected Caro of all people to betray him.

   She hadn't even waited to tell him to his face, curse her. Utter despair swamped him. He didn't want to curse her at all. He wanted to kiss her, to tell her he was sorry for what had happened. All of it.

   She had every right to choose, he snarled at himself. And she'd chosen the Chevalier. Only oblivion dulled the pain.

   He snatched up the last bottle and drained it dry. The liquid burned his gullet and spread warmth to his belly. His head drummed an evil tattoo in protest.

   More brandy would ease the pain in his chest. It had to.

   He eyed the bell-pull on the wall by the fireplace. If he could reach it, he could ring for Beckwith.

   A knock at the door made him turn his head. He groaned at the crushing ache, peering at Beckwith in the doorway. Good man that. He knew when he was needed.

   "Brandy," Lucas croaked.

   "Yes, my lord. Mr. Bascombe is asking to see you."

   For a moment, the words failed to register. Lucas blinked through the blur filling the gap between him and the butler.

   "Mr. Bascombe," Beckwith repeated through stiff lips.

   So he'd annoyed the stuffy old bugger, had he? Lucas would have laughed, if he could remember how. "Not home," he managed instead.

   "'S'blood, Luc," Bascombe said, pushing past Beckwith. "You look like the very devil."

   Lucas kept his gaze fixed on Beckwith. "Brandy. Now." His roar came out a raspy whisper.

   Beckwith left with what Lucas was sure was a sniff.

   "Go 'way, Charlie."

   Bascombe sauntered in and hitched a hip onto the corner of the desk. Lucas palmed Caro's letter and slipped it into his desk drawer.

   Bascombe cocked a brow. "Not like you to shoot the cat." His voice held sympathy.

   Lucas didn't want his damn sympathy. He wanted a mind-numbing drink. "Piss off."

   "M'sister sent me." He spoke as if that answered why he didn't move.

   "Bugger her."

   The blue eyes hardened. "Damn you, Foxhaven."

   Lucas rested his elbows on the desk and carefully placed his head in his hands. It felt safer that way. "Told you. Go 'way." God, it hurt to talk.

   "Lady Foxhaven is in Paris," Bascombe announced.

   Bloody hell. Did everyone know his business? He surged to his feet. The room swirled, sucking him into its vortex. Bile rose in his throat.

   Oh, Christ. He was going to cast up his accounts. Groaning, he dropped back into the chair. "Leg it, Charlie." He closed his eyes and waited for the room to steady.

   Beckwith entered with a silver tray, a bottle of brandy, and two glasses. He set it on the desk. Lucas watched him depart and then lunged for the bottle. He pulled the stopper out with his teeth.

   Bascombe placed a restraining hand on his wrist.

   Lucas cursed and jerked away.

   "Didn't you hear what I said?" Charlie asked. "Audley says your wife is in Paris. She's using the name Torrington."

   She assumed the divorce was a
fait accompli.
Sadness swamped him.

   He picked up a glass. The decanter's rattle against the rim exploded in his head like gunfire. He lifted his eyes from the amber liquid and glared at Bascombe. "Leave me alone, Goddamn it."

   Charlie recoiled, his expression a mix of comical fear and genuine concern. "No need to shoot the messenger, you idiot."

   Lucas breathed through his nose, around the burning sensation in the back of his throat. "I know she's in Paris. Tell me something I don't know."

   "She's staying with a Madame Valeron in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Been there a few weeks, apparently. She's the latest rage, and the on dit is that she is to marry the Chevalier and bring him some sort of fortune. Sounds like a hum to me."

   Lucas swallowed. The inside of his mouth tasted of old leather boot. "I said tell me something I don't know. Bugger off, Charlie."

   "Tisha's doing her best to stop the tongues wagging here, but it will all be for naught once news of her dashing off alone to France gets out. Good thing you did dive into a hole these past few weeks. You have to sort this out. She's your wife."

   Not for much longer.

   His stomach roiled. He was duty-bound to honor the agreement he'd made with her. By rights, he should have posted off to Scotland the moment he got her note, almost a week ago.

   He hadn't wanted to be married in the first place, and now he didn't want a divorce. Curse it all, she was his wife, but she despised him as a rake. She'd told him so to his face. She didn't know anything about him. No one did. Except maybe the lads at Wooten Hall. But whose fault was that?

   Curse Fred for running off. If he hadn't got himself lost for five days, Lucas might have been in time to stop her. He had thought she was in Norwich and had very nearly posted up to see her a couple of times, but his lads' upcoming debut at King's Theater had kept him fully occupied.