No Regrets (29 page)

   "And now Lord Foxhaven will read his sonnet," Madame Mougeon announced.

   A sonnet? Lucas? Caro felt her mouth drop open and snapped it shut.

   "Bravo," called out the marquis. He leaned close to Caro. "It's a brave man who would write poetry for such a critical crowd—let alone read it."

   Athletically graceful, Lucas sauntered to the piano, leaned one hip against the gleaming mahogany, and withdrew a sheet of paper from his breast pocket. Light from the window warmed his handsome face to bronze and glossed his black hair. He looked so easy, so elegant, that Caro drew a quick breath.

   This was not the devil-may-care Lucas who avoided boring social events like Almack's and refused to wear a cravat. Perhaps he really had changed. Or was it all a ploy, a charming act to get what he wanted? A pang of longing in her chest betrayed her hope that he was sincere. She tried to ignore it.

   "My humble offering is titled 'To Her Amber Eyes,'" he announced with a soulful expression.

   A ripple of interest stirred through the room. Ladies peered into each other's eyes. The blackeyed Mademoiselle Jeunesse pouted. The marquis straightened in his seat and glanced at Caro, as did several others.

   She held herself rigid. Lucas must mean someone else. Or he meant to tease her. Her stomach dropped at the mortifying thought.

   "Phoebus' rays in their honey'd deep,

   Secrets kept from all who seek,

   to know,"

   A swift glance at his face told her he was perfectly serious. Not even the glimmer of a smile lit his eyes. She'd know if he was laughing at her; she always did. She gripped her hands in her lap as if the pressure might calm her skipping pulse.

   The words came to her in snatches of his deep, smooth-as-cream voice.

   "What warms those luminescent jewels so rare?"

   The marquis leaned over. "Good, isn't he?"

   She wanted to say "Hush," but she nodded and tried not to beam like an idiot. Lucas had actually written a poem for her.

   From the front of the room, he caught and held her gaze until she thought her heart would melt into a puddle at her feet. Perhaps he really did care for her in some corner of his heart. It might be enough. As long as she believed it, she could survive.

   "How pale the dawn in eastern skies,

   Compared to her beloved amber eyes."

   Silence filled the room. And then came the applause.

   "Who is the lucky lady?" a gentleman called out.

   Lucas smiled. "I believe she knows who she is." He bowed and, with one brief glance in her direction, returned to his chair.

   A tug of joy pulled at her heart.

* * *

   Lucas prowled the salons of the Hotêl Richard. Decorated in the Egyptian style, it recalled the halcyon days when Bonaparte straddled the world like a colossus. The bulky furnishings matched the heaviness in his chest.

   Failing to find Caro in the ballroom, he sauntered into the card room and took a seat carved with crocodile scales and claws for feet alongside Madame Valeron, who was engrossed in a game of piquet.

"Good evening, madame."

   "Lord Foxhaven," she acknowledged. "I assume you are seeking my niece."

   A discerning woman. He smiled. "I wished to greet you, madame, but thought to ask Mademoiselle Torrington to dance."

   Madame Valeron picked up her cards from the green baize. "She is not here. She is unwell."

   Anxiety surged through him. "Nothing serious, I hope?"

   She shrugged. "A minor malady. A headache."

   In all the years he'd known Caro, he'd never heard her complain of a headache. "I am sorry to hear it. Please give her my best wishes for a speedy recovery."

   She discarded a deuce. "I will pass on your wishes, along with a hundred others, milor'."

   A headache. He didn't like the sound of it. Unease crawled over his skin.

   In a welter of impatience, yet not wishing to damage Caro's reputation, he forced his attention on the game. He must not appear too anxious. Madame Valeron played her cards well and took the trick. As she gathered up her winnings, he departed with a brief farewell and a bow. He strolled out to the foyer and requested a lackey to bring his hat.

   Mademoiselle Jeunesse, a vision in white silk and diamonds, floated toward him on her way back from the ladies' withdrawing room. Her full red lips turned down at the sight of him. "Leaving already, milor'? I suppose you have discovered Mademoiselle Torrington is not present this evening."

   This young lady had thrown far too many lures in his direction for propriety. He kept his voice cool. "Regretfully, I have an engagement elsewhere, mademoiselle."

   She glanced around and drew closer. "She won't have you."

   "I beg your pardon?"

   She placed a slender white hand on his arm. "Mademoiselle Torrington. She is going to marry her cousin. Her aunt has her heart set on it." She pouted. "Before the Chevalier left for Champagne, they were as close as turtledoves. She merely amuses herself with you in his absence."

   Fighting anger and doubt, Lucas kept his expression blank. "You seem very aware of their affairs."

   "Ah, but you see, milor', I am in the same position as you. Before she came along, François was at my feet." Her expression hardened. "He adored me. Now it is all the English mademoiselle. He does not move from her side. You will see when he returns."

   She cast him an arch look and a seductive smile. "Perhaps you and I should show them we do not care." Her fingers crept up his sleeve and drew a circle on his shoulder.

   Oh no. He was no fool to be caught by such an obvious ploy. He stepped back out of reach. "Sadly, I leave France in a day or so, but meeting you, Mademoiselle Jeunesse, will remain among the memorable experiences of my visit to Paris."

   The lackey returned.

   "Bah!" she said, and whirled away in a rustle of silk and a strong aroma of violets.

   Lucas clapped on his hat. With only one day left to convince Caro of the seriousness of his intentions, it worried him that she had cried off tonight. Either she was ill, or something else was afoot. He particularly didn't like the hints dropped by Mademoiselle Jeunesse.

   He needed to see Caro tonight.

* * *

   The words wavered on the page. Caro snapped her book shut with a sigh and swung her feet down off the drawing room sofa. Rarely did her woman's courses affect her, but on the occasions they did, she felt as dragged out as a half-drowned cat.

   After the excitement at the musicale this afternoon, the thought of making polite conversation with a room full of people seemed to have aggravated the cramps in her abdomen. Dressed and ready to go, she must have looked a fright because Aunt Honoré shook her head and suggested a tisane and a cold compress for her forehead. After a brief argument, she had agreed to stay home.

   She rose to ring the bell for Lizzie.

   Who was she fooling? The pains in her stomach were all about Lucas and an afternoon spent bolstering the courage to agree to return to England as his wife. They had an agreement. No regrets.

   Only a hundred.

   He'd never offered her love. And she'd accepted his terms. She just hadn't expected him to change the rules and ply her with his rakish charm half of the time and ignore her the rest. And those plundering kisses. They drove her to distraction until she lost all control.

   Here in Paris, he seemed so sincere, so changed, so determined to behave the gentleman. If he continued this way, their long-standing friendship would allow them a comfortable existence. Friends and companions for life. The thought settled on her heart like a cold rock.

   No matter how charming his smile, how sweet his touch on her skin, he deserved better than a forced marriage to a chubby woman derided by his friends. Even a rake deserved true love.

   The room disappeared in a blurry fog. She wished she hadn't hoped for more. It wouldn't hurt so much.

   She dashed her hand across her eyes and yanked on the bell pull.

   And another thing. She should never have come to Paris with Cedric and François. It had been wonderful meeting her aunt, and she hoped the friends she had made would continue to think kindly of her after she left, but her flight to Paris now seemed utter madness.

   Apart from her own feelings, she ought to consider her sisters. A divorce or an annulment would have scandalous repercussions.

   The door opened, and François hesitated on the threshold.

   She stared. "François." Her stomach plummeted to the floor. She didn't want to talk to him now. Not until she had seen Lucas and given him her decision.

   A quizzical smile lit his handsome face as he sauntered into the room. "I understand you are unwell?"

   "A headache." It wasn't a lie. Her head started to thump the moment she saw him. She pressed her fingers against her temple. "It is nothing a night's rest will not cure."

   He took her hand and kissed it, lingering just a little too long. She resisted the urge to snatch it away. He must have felt her tension because he glanced up and regarded her intently. "Your appearance concerns me. Beautiful as always, but you are far too pale."

   "You flatter me. I wish you would not."

   "Please, sit down. May I ring for some brandy?"

"No, thank you. I am on my way to bed."

He emanated palpable tension. "I have news."

   A premonition shivered down her spine. She wished for a way to hold back his words, but nothing came to mind. "Oh?"

   He grinned. "Do not look so afraid. It is good news, ma chére. The Bishop of Bordeaux is a distant relative and has agreed to annul your marriage, provided your husband does not contest the validity of your claim. Your word along with the agreement will suffice."

   She had been wrong to show Cedric the agreement. He had insisted it was his duty to inform François, her closest male relative, and between them, they had decided to take a hand in the matter before she had time to think it through. She couldn't entirely blame them. At the time, she'd been furious with Lucas and wanted nothing more than to make an end of the farce.

   "Carolyn, is something wrong?"

   She stared at the floor, at the toe of her gold satin slipper. She couldn't keep François dangling on a string. It was wrong and cruel. She lifted her gaze to his intent brown eyes. "I have changed my mind. I have decided to return to my husband."

   His expression hardened, eyes flattening to the color of dead leaves. "You think he will take you back?"

   With his icy tones, a chill blanketed the room. She shivered. "He is here, in Paris. He asked me to go home with him."

Lines deepened around his mouth.

   "I am sorry, François. I was wrong to leave for Paris without discussing it with him first."

   Red stained his cheeks. Muscles in his jaw worked on words unspoken as his gaze slid away, and he stared over her shoulder. "
Ma pauvre petite.
You will have to share him with every female who crosses his path."

   Even her cousin, who seemed to admire her, agreed she wasn't attractive enough for a man like Lucas. She hid her hurt with a shrug. "We understand each other." Her voice tremored, and she took a deep breath.

   "Bah." His hand clenched into a fist. Anger held under tight control swirled in his eyes. "It pains my heart to hear you throw your life away on a man who does not appreciate you."

   She'd wounded him. "Please, François, I am sorry."

   He slammed his fist into his palm. "I thought . . . I was going to ask you . . ."

   Although she understood her aunt's wishes, she had made no promise to François. He had no right to press a married woman. She stood up and paced to the window. The flambeaux at the arched entrances to the mansions along the street pierced the darkness.

   Guilt choked her throat. Although she had said nothing to make him believe she had feelings for him, she had lived in his pocket since her arrival here, had relied on him to ease her way into Paris society. In return, she had wounded him—if not his heart, then his pride. Sadly, she understood how he felt only too well and would not compound her crime by lying to him. "François, I like you very well as a cousin. That is all."

   He crossed the room to her side. He tipped her chin with a knuckle and gazed into her face, his voice thick with emotion. "He will never deserve you,
ma chère."

   Hot tears escaped and rolled down her cheek. "Please don't hate me. I don't want to lose you again."

   His expression softened. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at her cheeks. "I cannot hate any member of my adopted family. Without them, where would I be?"

   Overcome with relief at his generosity when she had been nothing but foolish, she leaned against his shoulder. "Thank you."

   He encircled her in comforting arms.

   "Very touching." Lucas's biting words jolted through her.

   She pulled away from François.

   With an expression bordering on murderous, Lucas glowered at her from the open doorway. "Your aunt said you were ill."