Stranded With The Scottish Earl (17 page)

His mouth firmed when she’d hoped to make him smile. “That sounds like a challenge.”

Startled, she looked at him properly. Their interactions were usually unshadowed, a blessing in a world that had varied between black and gray as long as
hers had. She’d imagined, once she left her seclusion behind, that the easy camaraderie would continue. Perhaps she’d been naive.

He looked disgruntled. It took her so long to interpret the expression because she’d never seen it on his face before. Sulking sat surprisingly well
on Silas’s vivid features. Which obscurely annoyed her more than it should.

No woman could miss how attractive Silas was, but so far, she’d admired his spectacular looks as one might admire a fine painting. A brooding Lord
Stone became unacceptably compelling. She forced a laugh and wished she sounded more natural. She snapped her fan shut and tapped him on the arm.
“You’re teasing.”

Still he didn’t smile. “Am I?”

A horrible thought arose, scattering her archness. “Good God, Silas, don’t say you disapprove of my plans? I never imagined you’d be
mealy mouthed about a few adventures, not when you’ve been mad for the girls since you went to Cambridge.”

The grim expression didn’t lighten. She’d never seen him so stern. “Apparently Helena’s been spreading tales about more than this
evening’s entertainments.”

His unfavorable reaction left her flummoxed. Lord Stone’s beautiful manners were touted as society’s ideal. His careless wit and graceful
demeanor were much praised. Yet he responded now with neither wit nor grace, when she’d expected him to applaud her daring.

Caroline became annoyed. With Silas Nash, of all people. “I was a good and faithful wife to Frederick Beaumont. And I nearly perished of boredom as a
result. If I choose to take a lover or two now, it’s entirely my decision. If that doesn’t fit some hypocritical view you have of respectable
women, that’s too bad. I won’t apologize.”

She waited for him to respond with equal heat, but after a fraught second while she braced for a scolding, he sucked in a breath and the temper faded from
his expression. “Let’s not quarrel, Caro. Not tonight when you’re basking in your success.”

“Your censure oversteps the mark, my lord,” she said stiffly, telling herself to accept his olive branch. But worse than anger, she was hurt
that someone she’d counted as an ally turned against her.

His lips quirked and abruptly he became the easygoing companion who had helped her weather all those humdrum tea parties. “‘My lord?’ Oh,
the pain. I’ll never recover. You know how to strike a man down, Lady Beaumont.”

Despite her disquiet, she couldn’t suppress a faint smile. “I probably shouldn’t have told you my plans. I’ve become too used to
confiding in you.” She studied him searchingly. “If I lost your regard, I’d be cast low indeed.”

He expelled his breath with a hint of impatience. “Don’t be a goose, Caro. You haven’t lost my regard. You never could.” He glanced
around the packed room. “I’ll prove it by asking you to dance.”

The familiar benevolence settled on his features, but she hadn’t mistaken his anger in those brief moments of discord. She battled the uncomfortable
suspicion that she didn’t know Silas Nash at all.

“I must check on the supper,” she said quickly, although it wasn’t true. She needed to gather her composure. Their discussion had come
too close to argument and left her on edge. Fear beat in her blood, chilled her on this warm night. If Silas withdrew his friendship, she’d miss him
like the devil.

“Given the interest our contretemps has aroused, a waltz would be the wiser choice.”

She started. Good heavens. What on earth was wrong with her? She’d forgotten where she was. She’d taken so much trouble to establish herself in
society. Now in bickering with a rake, she risked all she’d gained. A quick reconnoiter indicated more than one pair of eyes focused on her. She
caught Helena’s concerned dark gaze and sent her a reassuring smile.

“You’re right,” she said, still reluctant to step into Silas’s arms for the dance. Then she squared her shoulders and damned the
world, and Lord Stone with it. She’d lived too long as a mouse. Now she meant to be a tiger.

“Shall we?”

The orchestra she’d brought from Paris played the introduction to the latest waltz. Ignoring the disquiet churning in her stomach, Caroline stuck a
brilliant smile on her face and nodded. “We shall.”

And that, sir, was how
not
to court a lady.

What a blockhead he was. Silas had known from the moment he met beautiful and stubborn Caroline Beaumont that if he intended to win her, he needed to tread
carefully.

For over a year, he, famous for his various but fleeting amours, had done just that. Until now, he’d never taken trouble over a woman. If the one who
caught his fickle interest wouldn’t have him—and he was arrogant enough to note how rarely that happened—there was always another equally
appealing candidate to occupy his brief attention.

Then his brilliant, troublesome, but beloved sister Helena had held a tea party on a cold March day. His wayward attention had landed on a lovely woman
whose fiery spirit made a mockery of her widow’s weeds. He’d spent every day since then telling himself that love at first sight was a
poet’s stupidity—and eating his heart out over Caro Beaumont. For a man of thirty-one, it was distinctly lowering to suffer romantic yearnings
that rivaled any adolescent Romeo’s. Even more lowering to recognize that the object of his inconvenient passion hardly regarded him as a man at all.

Payment, he supposed, for all those casually discarded ladies.

He curled one arm around Caro’s slender waist and took her gloved hand in his, and his heart leaped with an excitement he hadn’t felt since he
was a stripling. It was humiliating. It was disturbing. It was unacceptable.

And after this long enchantment, he acknowledged that it was inescapable.

Since she’d cast off her mourning, he’d danced with her several times. Usually she was light and supple in his arms, responding to his
body’s signals with a readiness that boded well for her bedding. Now tension stiffened the delicate muscles beneath his hand.

Blast. Impatience had brought him close to blowing his plans. Caro did a fine job of pretending enjoyment, but he saw beneath the sparkling surface to the
old wariness. From the first, she’d been skittish. Like a highly strung thoroughbred mistreated early and as a result, disinclined to trust to any
handler, even the kindest. How she’d loathe knowing that Silas had immediately recognized her fear—she was a proud creature, as befitted a
thoroughbred, and worthy of a gentle wooing.

Damn it, he verged so close, yet he could still lose the prize. How far the rake had fallen that he’d counted gaining her trust as a victory.
He’d built that trust step by step, through a hundred innocuous gatherings suitable for a new widow.

He never ventured into deeper waters with Caroline. Instead, he’d set out to make her laugh—some instinct told him laughter had been a rare
visitor to her life. In return she’d gifted him with a friendship that, to his shame, counted as his most rewarding relationship with a female
outside his family.

Tonight, like a fathead, he’d put all that dedicated hard work at risk.

But dear God, he’d wanted to smash his fist into the wall when, after a year without so much as a kiss, she spoke in such an offhand manner about
taking a lover. A lover who was not Silas Nash, Viscount Stone.

“Silas, you’re holding me too tightly.”

He emerged from his fit of the sullens—confound it, no woman but Caro pierced his sangfroid—to find her watching him curiously. And with more
of that dashed wariness.

Careful, Silas.

He made himself smile and loosened the hand clutching her waist the way a falling man clutched an overhang on a mountainside. “My apologies.”

He’d imagined that their friendship would offer him some advantage over other predatory males. Now he wondered if he’d made a basic mistake in
his strategy. He’d become part of the furniture of her life when she was on the hunt for novelty and excitement.

His fear of competition was well founded. In this room a host of men, good and bad, watched the beautiful widow with avid eyes. He could hardly blame them.
In unrelieved black, she’d been lovely. In a red gown with gold embroidery and a décolletage that skimmed the edges of propriety—and a few
other things—she was breathtaking. With difficulty, Silas kept his attention on her face and not on the wealth of white skin displayed below her
collarbones.

As he whirled her around the room, her smile became more natural. “No, I’m sorry. I spoke inappropriately. It’s partly your fault.
You’ve become a mainstay of my life since I came to London. Like Helena or Fenella.”

Bugger him to hell and back. He only just hid a wince. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

Which was true, if not the whole truth. He intended to be the man to introduce her to sensual delight. She’d only ever mentioned her married life in
passing. But hints—and the few stultifyingly dull occasions when he’d met Freddie Beaumont, a good soul, but as thick-witted as a
sheep—had led him to some interesting conclusions about her sexual experience. She was ripe with womanly promise, but every instinct screamed that
all her bottled-up passion had never yet found outlet.

His declaration left her unmoved. “I intend to have some fun, Silas. I’m not looking for anything significant.”

He knew it was a mistake to ask. What point torturing himself? And worse, inviting another set-down. “Have you decided on a lucky candidate?”

For a second, he worried that he’d betrayed how important her answer was. But after a pause, she responded. “A few gentlemen have caught my
interest.”

He sucked in a relieved breath. She hadn’t made her choice yet, so the affair remained in the realm of theory.

She lowered her voice. “Lord West is a most charming gentleman.”

Shock made Silas trip, he who had learned to dance at eight years old and hadn’t made a misstep since.

“West?” he choked out, forgetting all his plans for a subtle pursuit. Luckily his inamorata watched that popinjay West waltz with Helena a few
feet away. Caro was too distracted to notice that her dance partner contemplated murder.

“We’ve met several times. He’s articulate and handsome and seems considerate.”

The unconcealed interest in her dark blue eyes threatened to make Silas lose his dinner. In an attempt to rein in his explosive reactions, he looked at
Vernon Grange, Baron West, the man he’d previously considered his best friend. “Until he moves on to his next mistress. West has an appalling
reputation with women.”

“That’s the pot calling the kettle black,” she retorted.

He looked down into Caro’s piquant face under the elaborate coronet of dark brown curls set with glittering diamond pins. His darling was no fragile
beauty like her friend Fenella Deerham. Her face was too angular and full of character to be fashionably pretty. But the sight of her transformed his day
from the mundane to the extraordinary.

And she talked about wasting herself on that scoundrel West.

Silas told himself that a short affair with another man didn’t toll a death knell to his dreams. But everything male roared denial. Silas
didn’t want Caro Beaumont in West’s bed. He wanted her in
his
bed. For always.

With difficulty, he found the rhythm of the music again. “He’ll leave you once he’s bored—and that usually means after only a few
weeks.”

She was back to regarding him like a complete stranger, blast her. “Stone, I’m contemplating a fling, not lifelong slavery.”

Slavery? What a clod he was. Finally and reluctantly, he recognized that her opposition to a second marriage was real—and deep-seated. Dear God in
heaven, all the clues had been there. He’d just been too lost in a rosy fog of love and hope to see them.

Given time, that was a problem he could surely overcome. The threat of Caro tumbling into West’s bed in the meantime was far more immediate.
“He’s a debauchee and incapable of fidelity.”

She frowned in puzzlement. “I thought he was your friend.”

He used to be.
“That doesn’t mean I’m blind to his faults.”

Silas’s blood thundered to haul her out of that blackguard West’s reach. Not to mention all the other boneheads infesting this room. He
retained enough of his previously civilized self to resist the impulse. Just.

Love, it seemed, made beasts of men. How wise he’d been to avoid it all these years.

“You could be useful in my search for a lover, you know.” Her tone was thoughtful rather than hostile.

Yes, I can kill every one of the encroaching buggers, until I’m the only man standing.

“I can certainly alert you to the rogues and wastrels.” Which meant London’s entire male population, except for the newly reformed Lord
Stone. He tightened his hold on her trim waist and performed a breathtaking twirl, privately claiming her as his and devil take any fellow with different
ideas.

“That’s what I mean.” Despite his childish acrobatics, she remained disgustingly level-headed. “Ladies are at such a disadvantage
when it comes to what a man is really like. We see gentlemen all polished and careful of their manners, when any fool knows that they show their true
selves to their friends, away from the artificial light of polite society.”

Silas regarded her in horror. “You expect me to pimp you to my friends?”

She blushed again. It was odd—until tonight, he’d never seen her blush. This made twice in the space of half an hour. “No, of course not.
But if you think I’m making an unwise choice, I’d like you to tell me.”

His gut tightened with self-hatred. Her trust remained, despite tonight’s numskullery. Now she invited the wolf to guard the sheepfold. If he
retained a shred of honor, he should say no. He used to have some principles, for pity’s sake.

“I’ll do my best,” he said, and knew himself the biggest rogue of all.

She glanced over his shoulder again. “Good. Although despite what you say, I still think West might be my best bet—and he’s indicated an
interest.”