A Season for Love (4 page)

Not her father’s sort of woman at all.

But, then, her mother had been exactly the
Duke of Longville’s sort of woman, and look at the disaster they
had made of their marriage.

It was fortunate, Caroline decided, that she
had convinced herself she did not want a Season, for in less than
twelve hours in London she had ruined any hope she might have had
of finding a niche in London society. Then again, after she met
with her father in the morning, it was likely there would be no
marriage. No Lady Eugenia, no Tony, no future. Now that she had
made such a mull of it, Caroline was forced to admit she had
harbored, deep down, a faint hope that a new, quite wonderful life
awaited her in London.

Another tear splashed onto the blue velvet
coverlet.

“
Papa.” Caroline curtsied to the Duke
of Longville, who was standing before the fireplace in the
bookroom, the very same fireplace that had crackled so merrily
during her highly irregular conversation with a perfect stranger.
An anxious glance at her father’s face could find no indication
that the duke had heard of last night’s indiscretion. On a wave of
relief, Caroline sank into the same black leather wingchair she had
occupied the night before.

“
You have broken your fast?” the duke
inquired politely.

“
Yes, papa. I breakfasted in my room.”
A cowardly maneuver, but as the dreaded moment approached,
Caroline’s gift for polite conversation had deserted her. Hiding
had seemed the lesser of two evils.

Her father seated himself in the chair across
from her. The comparison with her companion of the night before was
inevitable. Oddly enough, the younger man was not the easy winner.
The Duke of Longville, at only two and forty, was still a
stunningly attractive man, his wealth and power adding an
additional confidence to the set of his shoulders, an unconsciously
arrogant tilt of his head. It would be a number of years, if ever,
before even the insouciant panache of the man called Tony could
compete with Marcus Carlington, Duke of Longville.

How odd, Caroline thought, as her
father clutched the arms of the chair, shifted uneasily on the soft
leather upholstery. Almost . . . almost she could suspect he was as
disquieted as herself. As unsure of what to say and how to say it.
How
did
one talk, father to
daughter, after eight years of nothing more than a letter at
Christmas, duly channeled through her parents’ respective
solicitors? Years when the duke had not known where his wife and
child had gone, a secrecy insisted upon by Amy, Duchess of
Longville, and reluctantly agreed to by her husband.

“
Caroline,” the duke declared, a spark
flickering in the depths of his amber eyes, “how is it you have
arrived on my doorstep accompanied by a young person who looks and
speaks not more than a cut above a tavern wench?”

Ah!
Mama had
warned her of this gentleman’s ploy. In a spurious effort to avoid
an emotional issue, the duke was attacking on a minor and totally
irrelevant front. “Nell Brindley reminds you of a tavern wench,”
Caroline responded briskly, “because that is exactly what she is.
Her parents own the one and only tavern in Little Stoughton, and
Nell was the only female in town brave enough to accompany me to
London.”

And what of Miss Tompkins?” the duke inquired
most awfully. “Surely I still pay her salary?”

Not yet, oh, please, not
yet
. She wasn’t ready. Caroline clenched her teeth,
fighting panic. “Miss Tompkins was unwell, papa,” she lied. “It
would have been cruel to ask her to make the journey.”

The duke nodded, evidently accepting her
explanation. “Little Stoughton,” he murmured. “Is that not in the
Lake District?”

“
Near Windermere, papa. A very fine
place. Believe me, we have not been deprived.” Another nod, then
the duke fell into a scowl. Obviously, he was not comfortable with
his thoughts.

“
Caroline,” he announced stiffly, “I
did not invite you to the wedding because I thought you would not
come. And, to be frank, your grandmother, the Dowager Duchess, felt
it would be painful for you.” Not to mention painful for his
prospective bride who was well aware that her step-daughter could
not possibly like her. “I am abjectly sorry if you feel I have
slighted you,” the duke rushed on. “You did receive my invitation
to live with us, to make your come-out in society as a girl your
age should?”

Her father’s fears were so far from the
problem at hand that Caroline had difficulty making sense of his
words. “Ah . . . yes, papa. Most generous,” she murmured, “but I am
quite certain you and Lady Eugenia do not care to have an
additional person intrude when you are newly married.” And where
had that cloying sentiment come from? She doubted her papa would be
marrying Lady Eugenia at all.

Which was fortuitous, considering the scene
in this very room only a few hours earlier.

“
Nonsense!” the duke decreed. “Lady
Eugenia is well aware that one of her duties will be to arrange
your entrance into the
ton
.
You are my daughter, Caroline. Now that the period of mourning is
complete, I am scarcely going to leave you moldering in the wilds
of the Lake District.”

“
Papa,” Caroline ventured, her heart
thudding even more erratically than it had last night when she
gazed up at the handsome stranger from her ignominious perch on the
bookroom floor, “there is something I must—”

“
Caroline—” The duke leaned forward,
thrusting long aristocratic fingers through the black hair his
valet had taken such pains to arrange. “Caroline, you are old
enough now to understand what happened between your mother and
myself—”

“
No!” Caroline’s protest was close to
wail. “No, I do not wish to hear it.”

“
You will,” the duke declared, “for I
find I cannot tolerate your thinking the fault was all
mine.”

“
I never thought the fault was all
yours.”

Father and daughter stared at each other.
“You do not think me a villain?” the Duke of Longville inquired on
a note of disbelief.

“
No, papa, nor do I think my mother a
saint.” Lady Caroline toyed with the folds of her beige wool gown,
scalloped at neckline and hem in dark blue. Her very best gown,
packed with exactly this momentous meeting in mind. When she raised
her eyes to meet her father’s, Caroline was astonished to see
vulnerability, even pleading. Whatever had happened eight years
ago, it was time to let the animosity go.

“
I confess I do not have a good opinion
of the
ton
and its ways,”
Caroline admitted. “I must tell you the manners and morals of the
people I know in Cumberland seem far superior to those of London
society. But, then, it is possible the
on
dits
I read in the newspapers and the gossip I hear in
Little Stoughton are greatly exaggerated.”

The look he gave her was so full of gratitude
Caroline was almost totally disarmed. Perhaps it was not going to
be so difficult to tell him after all. “Papa . . . you must listen
to me now,” she declared earnestly. “I did not come to London for
the wedding or to make my come-out.” Amber eyes, so like her own,
grew darker. Behold, the Duke of Longville, bewildered. It was a
moment Caroline would cherish.

If he didn’t wring her neck before she had an
opportunity to enjoy it.

“
I want you to understand,” Caroline
said carefully, “that I have been bound by a promise to mama. I
have never understood why she felt so strongly about secrecy, and I
have always known that, promise or no, I would one day have to tell
you. As it is, I have been able to observe a year of mourning for
mama and can now come to you with a clear conscience. This, you
see, was something even mama knew she could not keep from you
forever.”

“
For God’s sake, Caroline,” the duke
snapped, “stop this roundaboutation and say what you have to
say!”

Caroline peered at the duke over hands
clasped tightly under her chin. The moment had come, and she was
nearly petrified. The words stuck in her throat. He was going to be
so angry. “When we left, mama and I—”

“
Get on with it!”

Caroline gulped. “Mama—well, you see
mama was
enceinte
.” Somehow
the French word was easier for her to say. Not quite such a blatant
blow.

Slowly, the Duke of Longville straightened up
in his chair, his piercing eyes fixed on his daughter’s face. “You
are saying there is a child?” he whispered.

“
An heir,” Caroline nodded. “Kenrick
Laurence Carlington, age seven.” It was Caroline’s turn to lean
forward in an unconscious plea for her father’s forgiveness. “Do
you recall the Gainsborough portrait at Longville, the one of you
at that age? Well, Laurence could have posed for that portrait
himself. Perhaps that’s why mama wished to wait,” Caroline rushed
on hopefully. “She wanted you to see that Laurence is truly
yours.”

“
By God, if she were not already dead,
I swear I’d—”

“
Do not say it, papa, I beg of
you!”

The Duke of Longville squeezed shut his eyes,
drew in a deep breath. A shudder wracked his tall elegant frame. It
was some moments before he unclenched his fists and regarded his
daughter with something less than murder in his eye. “Was the birth
properly recorded?” he demanded.

“
Yes, Your Grace. The doctor and the
vicar have always known, but they are highly discreet.”

“
A bit too discreet,” the duke
snapped.

“
Papa, you could not wish them
to—”

Would I not?” His tone was ominous.

Hastily, Caroline fumbled with her reticule,
finally producing much-folded letters from both the doctor and the
vicar who served the small village not far from Windermere. After
handing the documents to her father, Lady Caroline folded her hands
and waited with wary fortitude. Was not “kill the messenger” a
well-known ancient adage? Would he beat her? Cast her into the
street? Tell her never to darken his door again?

When the duke finished reading, he let the
letters rest in his lap, one finger slowly tapping against the fine
parchment. “Caroline,” he said gently, almost as if she were a
child caught sneaking an extra biscuit from the tea tray, “did you
truly believe I would doubt your mother’s virtue?”

For a moment she was speechless. “No-o,” she
stammered at last, “but I knew you would insist on having
proof.”

“
For me, proof is seeing the child.” He
looked down at the letters in his lap. “But the solicitors will, of
course, demand more. Tell me,” he asked with sudden intent, “did
Hervey, your mother’s solicitor, know about the boy?”

“
Oh, no, we never told him.”

“
And no one in the Lake District ever
revealed your secret?”

“
We—mama—that is . . .you see,”
Caroline raised her anguished gaze to confront her father bravely.
“No one knew who we were. Mama was Mrs. Tennet, just another widow
forced to rusticate in a cottage in the country.”

The duke’s supreme effort to be reasonable
failed. “You know perfectly well she might have lived in a manor
house of her choosing,” he roared. “There was never a need for her
to wear a hair shirt or live without the deference due her.”

“
Yes, papa,” Caroline murmured, “but
she did not see it so. I assure you, though we lived quietly, we
lived most comfortably. Mr. Hervey never failed to deliver our
allowance in timely fashion.”

After several moments of vibrating silence,
Lady Caroline was treated to the surprising sight of His Grace, the
Duke of Longville sinking his teeth into the knuckle above his
index finger. “He looks like me?” he said at last. “He is
healthy?”

“
Oh, yes, papa. To both your questions.
And he has had Miss Tompkins to teach him all that is proper. I
knew, of course, even before I heard of your intended marriage,
that I must tell you soon, so he might go to school as a marquess
should, but . . . when I read of your betrothal, I knew I must come
straightway.”

Two pairs of amber eyes, father and
daughter, met in an odd moment of complete understanding. Longville
was appalled. His Caroline was too young to be so world weary, to
be so certain he was marrying again solely for an heir. Of course,
that was undoubtedly the word being spread as fast as the mail
would travel by the meddling tabbies of the
ton
. Nor was there any point in denying it. The
dukedom needed an heir. Therefore, the duke needed a wife. A sorry,
but absolute, fact.

Wedding. Lady
Eugenia
. Here he was about to go haring off to the
Lake District, with his nuptials less than a fortnight away. Strong
and particularly pungent profanity was trapped behind closed lips
only when Marcus Carlington recollected, in the nick of time, the
company he was keeping. Instead, he shot out of his chair, threw
the letters onto his desk, before slamming several drawers in a
search for fresh parchment, which was exactly where he always kept
it. His quill was not sharp enough, the inkwell seemed on the verge
of going dry. While his blasted daughter, who he had thought would
never serve him such a back-handed turn, watched him in wide-eyed
wonder, the duke scribbled a note to his betrothed advising her
that he must attend to a family emergency. He would, of course,
return in time for their wedding.