The Rake's Rainbow (23 page)

“Goodness. I would hardly expect such a considerable breach to be healed this Season. Would you?”

“No. Perhaps next year.”

Again the dance separated them.

“Mother is most appreciative of your help with Eleanor’s ball,” he said sincerely later on with no sign of his usual lisp.

“I have enjoyed it immensely,” she admitted. “And I expect I will bless the experience one day.”

“She is calmer now than after Emily’s come-out, despite her winter illness. I am grateful.”  Intelligence simmered in his usually vacuous eyes. Had Emily and Thomas underestimated his abilities?  Just because he was not bookishly brilliant, one could not assume stupidity. Did he employ an empty-headed demeanor to avoid competing intellectually with his siblings? 

“Thank you for a most gracious compliment.”  She smiled, dipping into a curtsy at the end of their dance.

Supper proceeded smoothly and Caroline was able to relax, enjoying Drew’s wit. They shared a table with the Wembleys and Captains Felton and Harrington, home from the Peninsula to recover from wounds. For once Drew abandoned his ingrained flirting, engaging in a lively discussion on the prognosis for the war following Napoleon’s disastrous retreat from Moscow the past winter. From there, conversation turned to Wembley’s efforts on behalf of veterans, and then to dissecting Byron’s latest,
The Giaour
, which all had actually read in its entirety. It was the most entertaining exchange she had enjoyed in London.

But most of the time, her duties as assistant hostess kept her busy. The ball was a sad crush, made insufferable by the unusually warm evening. She lost count of the ladies overcome by the heat. Even some gentlemen were affected. She was helping yet another dowager to find a cooler place in which to recover when she came upon an agitated Lady Marchgate in the hall.

“I will take care of Edna,” the countess declared. “But would you please check with the caterers and discover why the punch bowl has been allowed to empty?  We ordered plenty. Even the heat cannot have depleted the supply.”

“Immediately.”  But it took nearly half an hour to resolve the contretemps that had arisen between the Marchgate servants and the caterer’s staff.

Thomas’s suspicions, and that snippet of conversation with Wroxleigh, goaded him into watching Caroline even more than usual this night. Not even Alicia held his thoughts for long. His stomach tightened as Wroxleigh led her out for the second set, eliciting smiles and far more animation than she had accorded him. Anger increased when the notorious viscount also shared the supper dance with her. And anger turned to fury late in the evening when he could locate neither of them in the ballroom. Nor were they in the refreshment room.

* * * *

Caroline had just dismissed Dawson for the night when a glowering Thomas pushed open the connecting door and raked her with a cold stare.

“Is something amiss?” she asked calmly. She knew of no problem that could be blamed on her, not that Thomas would let that stand in his way. Despite the pretense of cordiality he generally adopted, he now looked as icy as he had in the worst days at Crawley.

“Why were you gone so long this evening?” he demanded.

“After supper?  There was a problem with the caterers.”

“Surely Mother should have seen to it, if such a thing really happened,” he snapped.

Caroline’s brows drew together, his blatant disbelief fanning her own anger. “Your mother asked me to handle it as she had her hands full with Lady Blakeley. Or are you unaware that the lady took ill?”

“And I suppose it was coincidence that Wroxleigh was absent from the ballroom for the same length of time?”  Sarcasm dripped from every word.

“Yes, if he was. What are you implying?”

“I imply nothing. I am telling you. Leave Wroxleigh alone. I don’t want to see you near him again.”

“How dare you dictate my friends, Thomas,” she sputtered. “How dare you!  You gave up any right to run my life when you chose to ignore me and sent me to town without so much as an introduction.”

Fury threatened to strangle him. “Enough!  I should have known better than to marry one of Waite’s brood. Be warned. I am wise to your game, wife. But I will not be cuckolded by anyone, least of all by that unprincipled libertine. Are you aware that you are nothing to him but another conquest?  He specializes in seducing dissatisfied wives.”

Caroline’s fury at his unwarranted charges loosened her temper, particularly in light of his own disreputable past and continuing obsession with Alicia. “You are incredibly stupid if you believe such ridiculous fantasies,” she snarled. “Or are you attributing your own failings to me?  Does it excuse your behavior if others are worse?  Your reputation is hardly spotless, nor can I assume that tales of your exploits are confined to the past. But at least you admit I have cause to be dissatisfied!”

Thomas abandoned any curb over his temper, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking violently. “So,” he spat as she struggled to escape, landing a punch in his stomach, “my pious vicarage wife has claws. You have remained far too long in town. It has not improved your character. No one ever implies I leave them unsatisfied.”

“Arrogant fool!” she hissed. “Conceited toad!  How long has it been since you paid the slightest attention to my needs?  Dissatisfied doesn’t begin to describe
this
wife, sirrah!”  She shoved against his chest, trying to break free of his grasp.

“How dare you!” he roared, green eyes flashing fire as he batted her hands aside. Jerking her closer, he crushed his mouth across hers, temper goading him to brand her as his own. She parried his tongue, their furious fencing suddenly transforming to a sensuous duel as each became aware of the moist heat and velvety texture of the other.

Passion exploded, blinding them to all else. His hands tore frenziedly at her bedgown, while hers frantically attacked his nightshirt, both intent only on shredding the barriers that separated them.

His loins tightened painfully as her bounteous breasts burst into view, exquisite twin globes that had haunted his dreams for months. He shoved her onto the bed, his mouth already closing about one rigid peak, his tongue lapping greedily at its tip. His fingers clutched its mate, stroking, kneading, driving her into writhing ecstasy, her moans a siren’s song that banished all thought.

Caroline’s body tingled as sparks ignited every nerve. It had been so long. So very long. She pulled him closer, arching into his touch, her hands clawing desperately at his back, her mouth working on anything within reach. Her legs twined about his, stroking up and down, reveling in his masculinity. His mouth swooped to hers, his plunging tongue plundering her depths even as his hand sank into her nest of curls. She screamed, shudders convulsing her body.

Need exploded through him. Urgent need. Jerking her hips to meet his own, he frantically sheathed himself, pounding her mercilessly into the bed, agony building as she locked her legs around his hips to pull him deeper. Again he fastened lips to her breast, suckling until her taut nipple teased the roof of his mouth, sending new fire racing through his veins. His rhythm accelerated, thrusting deeper and deeper, building tension, concentrating it...

Her teeth sank into his shoulder as a shattering climax engulfed them both, more intense than ever before, a cataclysmic explosion rending flesh from bone that went on and on and on.....

Utterly drained, they drifted in darkness for an eternity before opening their eyes. Brown met green like clashing swords. For with satiation, memory returned. And anger. And pride. Neither would admit to enjoying this night.

And nothing had changed.

Thomas sat up and glared. Both her nightclothing and his had suffered irreparable damage in their mutual onslaught. “You are mine, wife. You will not permit Wroxleigh to hover around you again,” he ordered coldly.

“I will choose my own friends, sirrah,” snapped Caroline, just as coldly. His continued intransigence hardened her heart. “As you choose yours. Does Darnley ring the same peal over his wife concerning you?”

“How dare you compare me to a vile seducer like Wroxleigh!  I have never been in the habit of bedding other men’s wives!”  But his voice wavered on the last word. The Graystone bookroom shimmered before his eyes, along with the remembered sensation of light fingers caressing his length. Pain suffused his face before he fastened his social mask in place.

She saw that flash of agony. And understood it. Turning her back, she pulled the coverlet to her neck lest her own pain be remarked. Her fingernails dug into her palms as she fought to hold tears at bay. Arrogant, odious wretch!  How lowering that he believed her capable of such deceit. But even if he were right, how dare he hold her to standards he himself flouted! 

Her apparent rejection cut deep into his heart. An unexpected urge to explain pushed his hand out to her in supplication before anger again took control. Why should he justify his one lapse to someone guilty of far more crimes?  Her attack on his expertise still rankled. Sliding to the floor, he slammed out of her room.

He sounds jealous,
whispered her inner voice through the reverberation of the door.

Fustian, she replied, lips quivering. He is merely dictatorial, suspicious, and odiously possessive, even of that which he does not want. The last thought shattered all control.

Her muffled sobs lasted until dawn.

It took a decanter of brandy to put Thomas to sleep.

Chapter 13

A nearly sleepless night left Caroline lightheaded and slightly nauseated, but she hid her indisposition and accompanied the countess on her morning rounds. Their first stop was Lady Beatrice’s mansion where several callers were already ensconced in the drawing room.

“Lady Martha Fitzgerald and Sir Jason Bromley were caught in a most indecent embrace at the Dumbarton soiree last night,” reported Lady Debenham, her voice hinting at envy.

“I presume a betrothal announcement will be in tomorrow’s paper,” commented the purple-robed Lady Beatrice.

“Hardly surprising,” Lady Stafford put in. “He’s been living in her pocket for weeks.”

“Could they have planned it?” murmured an ample matron swathed in puce. “Her father has been vacillating over granting approval for the match. Despite Sir Jason’s fortune, he is merely a baronet.”

The company discussed this possibility for some time while Caroline sipped tea and nibbled on lemon wafers and seed cake. She had not partaken of breakfast, fearing to face the astute earl who would certainly have noted her sleepless night and deduced that she and Thomas had indulged in a rather nasty fight. Which they had, of course. Recounting that scene, even in memory, would have sent her into fresh tears.

In retrospect, she never should have married him. The lack of any pretense of affection doomed them from the start. Nor had he been truthful, despite his words at the time. In the confusion of the moment she had allowed his charm to overrule her usual good sense, condemning them both to this charade. She should have brazened out the possible scandal. After all, what was the worst outcome?  Loss of her position, leaving her back at the vicarage. She would have survived. Instead, she was trapped for life with someone who resented her very existence. And her fortitude was rapidly running out. But she could not yet see a solution.

“Lord Darnley passed away last night,” reported Lady Beatrice, preening that she was the first with the news. Her voice recalled Caroline’s attention to the conversation.

“Probably just as well,” commented Lady Stafford. “He could not have been happy confined to bed.”

“I wonder... Will his wife observe mourning?” a malicious voice asked.

“She certainly has made no secret that she cares nought for the man,” agreed another.

“Scandalous behavior,” condemned a third. “I will not receive her. My dear Lisa’s reputation could be ruined by contact with the woman. She is little better than...”  She halted abruptly as she recalled that innocent maidens were present.

Two matrons started a murmured conversation detailing what each had heard of Lady Darnley’s exploits and the growing estimate of how many gentlemen she had welcomed. Caroline tuned it out, pondering how this would affect her own situation.

Disastrously.

Already regretting their marriage, Thomas would now have further cause to resent her. Alicia was free. Though convention demanded at least a year of mourning for a deceased husband, Lady Darnley would hardly adhere to such an empty gesture.

Nor did she believe that Thomas could resist his passion for the woman of his dreams. Despite his denial that he bedded wives, he had obviously made an exception for Alicia. Now that she was a widow, he would have no cause to restrain himself. Such a liaison could only drive the wedge further between them, for Caroline now represented the only barrier between Thomas and his heart’s desire. He would not only curse her existence, he would also curse the fate that forced their union only months before Alicia was free to marry him herself.

Talk had now moved into the normal channels of who had driven with whom in the park, which couples had slipped into the gardens the evening before, and how much money had changed hands at the tables. Caroline and Lady Marchgate rose to leave. Already new callers had arrived to be greeted with the latest news.

Two more calls elicited no additional gossip. The same stories graced everyone’s lips. Speculation was rampant on how Lady Darnley would greet widowhood. Many welcomed the news of a mourning period. It would allow them to drop her from their guest lists without offering a direct cut. Scandalous though it was, her behavior had not quite reached a point demanding ostracism. Darnley had maintained enough credit to protect his wife.

* * * *

Thomas learned of Darnley’s demise directly from Alicia. He had hardly finished his breakfast – a meal that sat heavily in his stomach after a night of anger and brandy – when a footman brought him a scented note. He stared at the words for a long time, thought suspended as his mind fought to make sense of the message.