Caroline and the Duke: A Regency Short Story (4 page)

“You’ll send for me?”

“Surely you didn’t pursue me for only one afternoon’s encounter?” she mocked, purposely ignoring the dangerous quiet of his words. She reached out, tapped his chest lightly. “My terms, John, or nothing at all.”

Time stretched out into a wall of tension in the inch between them. Stalemate.

Then he stepped back, did the work of gathering his clothes from their varied locales about the room. He had backed down, and yet she felt as if she had lost. She watched him, frozen where he had left her, the hard lip of the washbasin pressed into her back.

He shrugged angrily into his shirt. The silence grew laughable.
Someone
must say something. But a thousand sentences stilled on Caroline’s tongue.

Finally, he was dressed, rumpled but devastating. He stopped in front of her. She couldn’t help but admire the lines of his body, ones that she now knew intimately, now that she understood their power.

“Less than nothing,” he rasped, and her gaze snapped to the tense angles of his face. “Before this we had friendship at the very least. But I don’t want friendship and I don’t want your body. I want every part of you.” He paused, and she swallowed hard under the intensity of his eyes. “I want your love.”

A sharp, sweet pain sliced through her, as if he’d thrust into her body once more, and yet she was empty there, between her legs. As she watched him walk away, the emptiness spread until she was simply a gasping cavity.

So easy to be tricked, to convince oneself that these flights of fancy added up to some ephemeral love. No, there was lust and there was loss. Those emotions were visceral and real.

So Sutbridge was gone. She’d find another lover. Now that she knew what she desired, such a quest should be easy. After all, Julia had had nearly a dozen lovers.

Lovers.
Even the word perpetuated the lie.

• • •

Caroline attended more routs, balls and fetes, musicales and soirees in the next week than she had attended in the previous weeks altogether. She pushed herself from one entertainment to the next as if the constant company of acquaintances could ease the loss of her two dearest friends.

Worse yet, her desires had become near insatiable. Her solitary bed had become a torment where she struggled to please herself with only the fantasy of memory as an aid.

Of course, she had no lack of male admirers, each of whom had heard the gossip and wished to fill the position Sutbridge had so briefly held. Caroline considered it, considered Lord Travistock and Mr. Ardeley, simply because an affair might prove to Sutbridge once and for all how ridiculous he was.

If Caroline had worried that society might shun her for having an affair, she needn’t have. Women she had hardly known sought her out, commiserating over men, husbands and lovers, and giggling over the attributes of various men of the ton. It was as if she had been let into a secret club.

But she longed for Julia. And she longed for Sutbridge, the way it had been before she had ruined everything in asking for an affair.

One evening, in the crushing heat of yet another ball, in yet another stale and stifling town house, someone took Caroline’s arm. The familiar waft of jasmine made her heart clench in longing and then she turned. Her heart released, expanded into hope.

“Julia, it’s good to see you.”

“No pleasantries, darling, I’m still furious with you,” Julia returned, guiding her toward the balcony. “But I wanted to tell you before it became public news––”

“Tell me what?” Caroline asked cautiously.

“Out of regard for our long friendship,” Julia continued as if Caroline hadn’t spoken. “Sutbridge is taking a wife.”

“Who?” Her voice was calm, no trace of jealousy, but inside Caroline seethed with that undignified emotion and knew it. “Though it’s hardly any concern of mine,” she added a moment too late.

“Artemesia Landry.”

Landry. There had been an Ophelia Landry, married a few years past. This girl must be her sister or cousin at least. Younger. Seventeen maybe. Not even one London season behind her. Foolish too. A marriage of convenience, of course, though perhaps the child thought herself in love with John, as Caroline had once.

Perhaps this was a ruse, and Sutbridge merely intended to inspire jealousy, to make Caroline beg him to marry her instead. After all, he’d pledged his love.

And then he’d left.

“Caro?”

“Sorry,” she murmured, suddenly aware she’d been silent and still for an unnecessary length of time.

Yet inside, her mind raced––around and around in an ever-tightening circle of understanding.

He’d pledged his love. And, as she’d always thought, it meant nothing.

“You’re shaking, darling,” Julia said, her voice sounding overly sweet. “Are you ill?”

Ill, no. But Caroline
was
shaking. Fury filled her, too much to contain. How unfair was life? How much a lie?

She looked around the room blindly, distinct bodies and shapes melded into a wash of brilliant and disorienting color. Still Julia pressed to her, cloying, pushing. The room was far too hot and Caroline needed fresh air, needed to be alone.

“Perhaps you’d best go home.” Caroline nodded, though home wasn’t where she wanted to go. She started forward. Julia, arm linked with hers, accompanied her that step. “Ah! There’s my brother. I’ll have him call your carriage.”

Yes, there he was. The traitor, the liar! And Julia was waving him down. He looked surprised, wary. And well he should be. Caroline turned her head, took a breath and then looked down to find her fists clenched.

But Julia had her arm, and she was pulling her toward him, toward the last man Caroline ever wanted to see. He was far worse than her husband had been. At least that horrible man had never pretended to care.

They met at the open doors, where the ballroom merged with the foyer beyond, where a light breeze actually lifted the tendrils of hair at Caroline’s neck. She wanted to throw herself at him, hit him with her fists, make him feel the pain she was feeling. But there were too many people around.

“Caro is ill, Sutbridge,” Julia was saying, and pushing Caroline toward him. “See her to her carriage, won’t you?”

Caroline dug in her heels, wanted to say no, but the words were caught deep in her chest, in the anger that colored everything. He took her other arm, even as Julia released her. His touch shouldn’t still make her feel that ridiculous longing for life to be different.

“You do look flushed.”
He
looked flushed. And he sounded worried, as if he cared.

She followed him into the foyer, where only a few people stood conversing. Shaking, she found herself leaning on him as they descended the stairs.

“You should hardly be spending your gallantry on me,” she said bitterly, pulling her arm away.

He stopped, a step below her, impeding her progress. Finally she was forced to look at him, to see him. He was ridiculously handsome, beguilingly familiar––that same devastating lock of hair falling over his brow––and the sight hurt.

“And why shouldn’t I?” he demanded. “You think I can erase my emotions in the course of a week?”

“Hah!” She pushed past him, hurried down the rest of the stairs before she remembered it had not been her idea to go home. She wasn’t sick. Only furious.

The entryway was empty but for the footman who stared at her, awaiting an order. She twirled where she was and found a wall of heat, of Sutbridge, before her.

“Such pretty words you said,” she hissed, glaring up at him. “But now even you know such devotion is a lie.”

Sutbridge loomed over her, the sudden darkening of his expression, the coal-hard cast of his brown eyes stopping the next burst of vitriol unspoken on her tongue. She bent back under his fierce attention, the edges of her vision a blur of shadows.

“Say what you like,” he said, each word lined with danger. “Live in your prison of fear, but don’t dare presume to know what I feel.”

Before she could respond, he was holding her, pulling her with him and the mere touch of his hand made her pulse flutter. She tripped after him, desperate to break away, to tell him hotly that she was not afraid. But he pushed her past him into a dark, empty dining room, caught her against the wall between his arms. She was breathless and aware that in some way the force of his actions thrilled her.

“But I’d rather you didn’t,” he whispered. “I’d rather you accept that I love you, consider that you feel some small regard for me.” He was so close and his head bent down, as if he wanted to kiss her. Worse, she wanted to kiss him. But he wasn’t hers and he never would be.

“Let me go!” she demanded, pushing at him. “You’re insane. You can’t get engaged one day and maul another woman the next.”

“I’m hardly—” He stopped, raised his head. She could see the shape of him now, her eyes adjusted to the darkness. In the long silence of his aborted speech, she started to close her eyes against the sight. “What are you talking about?”

Over the deafening tread of hundreds of guests upstairs, and the faint strains of the orchestra, Caroline could hear the pounding of her heart and the raggedness of Sutbridge’s breath.

“Artemesia Landry,” she said softly, the name an accusation. “Just one week ago, you said you loved me. Said I meant something to you. And now you’re marrying some seventeen-year-old idiot!” She pushed at his chest, angry with him, furious at herself for caring.

He laughed, but there was little humor in the sound.

“I’m not marrying her and I don’t know where you got that idea. But why should you care, Caro?” He pinned her with his questioning gaze. “You gave up the right to care about anything I do the day you refused me. Refused my honorable suit.”

He wasn’t marrying the Landry girl. Was this the truth? Had Julia’s words been a ruse, to inspire jealousy?

“But you’re jealous,” he said, as if he could read her thoughts. There was an edge to his voice, as if he thought he could peel her like an onion, expose the most vulnerable part of her. Her skin grew cold and her chest clenched tight. She’d given too much already.

“You planned this! You and your sister. Trying to manipulate me into desperation. Let me go!”

But he didn’t move. Instead he smiled, a harsh, demanding curve of the lips that never met his eyes.

“I had nothing to do with it, but if it worked, I’m pleased.” He lifted one hand, stroked the bare skin at her throat and she shuddered. “Are you desperate, Caro? Are you scared of losing me forever?” His hand claimed her neck and his thumb made lazy circles where her cheek met the lobe of her ear. The power of it made her whole body gasp, made her want to give her breath up to him. “Because that’s how I felt when I heard of your marriage. Then ten years later, my heart opened again with hope.”

The words were as drugging as the touch of his fingers, and they pulled at her chest, enticing her, lifting her… but she couldn’t believe.

“You had me in your hands, Caro,” he continued, but it was she he had in his. “I would do anything for you, anything for your love. But I
need
you as my wife.”

She held her breath, head resting against the cloth-lined wall. She could give in. She could just say yes. Be his forever. Know he was forever hers.

Or she could say no, and someday he would marry. Some seventeen-year-old fertile thing, who danced and blushed and thought she was in love.

He wasn’t asking for her love.

Caroline’s chest clenched. If he’d asked a decade earlier, she would have given him her hand, her love, anything she had to give.

“Caro, life is too short for this.”

“Then why force me to choose?”

“Because when you reject my proposal, you’re telling me you don’t trust me to take care of you, to not hurt you.”

“Maybe I don’t want to only be with one man,” she shot back, chin raised. But his words stuck, and she considered them, tried to be reasonable even when nothing inside of her made sense. His thumb drew wetness across her cheek and she blinked, noticing the tears. How unfair! But she couldn’t stop.

“Is that it, Caro?” He didn’t seem to believe her, and she didn’t have the will to say some other cutting remark, to protect herself. She had only ever wanted one man. Instead fate had seen fit to give her someone else. And she’d had two sons. She didn’t regret her sons. But perhaps she would regret losing Sutbridge for a second time.

He was waiting for her, and the silence was so
heavy
. Was a mere possibility worth…the chance of losing everything?

She took a deep breath.

“I’m scared, John,” she said finally and turned her cheek into the curve of his palm. “I…” The words caught in her throat and she met his eyes again, wishing he could understand. But he said nothing, waited for her to speak.

She lifted her head from his touch and took a deep breath. “I loved you then. Wanted nothing but you.”

“Could you love me now?” he asked. For the first time since that moment when he’d hovered above her on the divan, she saw him vulnerable. It gave her strength, made her feel less weak and fearful.

“I could…I do.” The words came out of her in a gasp, and she felt light, full of air and yet empty of breath at the same time. She was lost––she was drowning––but his hands were supporting her, holding her up, and she raised her own to cling to him.

His head rested on her shoulder, and she understood from the weight, from the dampness of his face against her skin, that she was supporting him too.

“Ah, is this the infirmary, then?”

At the sarcastic, familiar voice, Caroline and Sutbridge broke away. There at the threshold of the dining room was Julia, silhouetted by the hallway light, looking rather self-satisfied.

“Julia,” Sutbridge said, and Caroline was grateful that he spoke. “You must stop meddling in my life.”

“Why?” Julia scoffed. “Clearly neither of you could have put your match together on your own.”

Sutbridge made a warning sound.

“No,” Caroline said suddenly, wiping at her eyes. She was still too raw for this scene but there was no use in fighting anymore. She had missed her friend. “She’s right. Who knows each of us better? Better than we know ourselves. But don’t let that get to your head, Julia.”