Chapter Eighteen

W hat's the book we're delivering?" Dorian had shaken out his coat and attempted to put himself to rights in the carriage on the way to the Adams cottage.

Caro craned her neck to see through the window glass as the coach slowed. Even in the grayish depths of winter, the landscape promised verdant grass and full tree branches. Despite the weather, the road was in decent condition, and while they bounced and jostled quite a bit in the hired carriage, it wasn't so bad they risked a broken wheel. The book, wrapped in brown paper and twine, was clutched to her chest.

"Caro? Are you all right?"

"Oh. Yes, of course. We are taking Mrs. Adams a cookery book. But more importantly, I am looking at her cottage."

"Why is the cottage special?"

"Because I might want to buy it." Caro grinned, watching the landscape roll by. Someday, would this view be familiar? Would she walk or drive this lane each time she visited the shops or called on a friend? The village was a decent size; surely there might be a few kindred spirits there, waiting for her to find them.

"What do you mean, buy it?" Something in his tone almost made her turn, but a small wood sign on a tidy, whitewashed fence read ADAMS , and she gasped.

"This is it. Hattie swears it's perfect for me, but I had to see it for myself before approaching them about making an offer."

Dorian was silent for a moment before joining her at the window. "What is it that makes it perfect for you?"

The house itself came into view, and Caro's cheeks ached with the width of her smile. "You mean besides how beautiful it is? Oh, look at it, Dorian. The porch is the perfect size for a chair in the summer. I bet those front windows let in the morning sun. Are we facing east? Yes, I think they must be perfect for watching sunrises." Caro settled back against the seat, now that the house was right there. "It's quiet. Private. No one to judge me or expect me to be perfect. When you grow up as a vicar's daughter, every move you make is under scrutiny. I don't want that life. I've lived that life, and it's hell."

"I understand. Everyone watches a duke… and a duchess," he said quietly.

"More than anything, though, this would be mine. Just mine. No one could throw me out on the street. I've been saving for years to own a place like this. Private and safe." It felt right to share this with him. Last night she'd offered her body, but this was a part of her heart. She took his hand and squeezed. He tightened his grip until the pressure was nearly painful. "I'm glad you're here. Thank you."

He dropped a kiss on her forehead as the coach rocked to a stop. "Thank you for letting me be here. Shall we go meet Mrs. Adams?"

At the gate to the front garden, an older dark-skinned woman with round cheeks and a sweet smile greeted them. "You're from Martin House?"

Caro introduced herself, and Dorian sent the woman a charming grin. "Mr. Dorian Whitaker. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Adams."

"Well, aren't you a handsome fella? Come in, come in, before the wind bites you. You two missed the weather yesterday. Mercy, it was something. I've never been so content to sit in front of a fireplace. I finished knitting a scarf for my son—he's married and grown now—and wrote three letters. Stew simmered all day, and I sat there, snug as a bug by the fire. Poor Mr. Adams was wet through every time he ventured out to feed the animals." And so she went, chattering as she led them along a stone path to the house. Caro exchanged an amused wink with Dorian before becoming distracted with trying to identify the plants lining the garden beds.

Herbs grew in pots by the door, with a particularly hardy thyme plant refusing to brown, even when face-to-face with winter. Thorny sticks of dormant rosebushes stood guard along the fence. "Mrs. Adams, what color are your roses when they're in bloom?"

"Oh, all sorts. Why grow one color when there are so many?" She unlatched the door and chuckled ruefully. "You'll see. I'm not afraid of vibrant colors in my home. Mr. Adams doesn't even argue anymore when I ask him to paint something. The man is used to me by now, bless him."

The door opened, and Caro stepped inside and felt overcome. She knew her mouth hung open, but she couldn't help it as she took in the most delightful home she'd ever seen. "As of this moment, I believe in love at first sight. Mrs. Adams, your house is an absolute treasure." With a hand over her pounding heart, Caro had no trouble imagining returning to this every day and proudly calling it hers.

What a life that would be. Behind her, Dorian closed the door and wiped his boots on the mat.

"Aren't you the sweetest thing to say so? Do you have time for a cup of tea?" Mrs. Adams was already putting the kettle on, so that answered that.

"Before I forget, this is yours. I'm sorry it has taken so long to deliver." The parcel exchanged hands, and Caro immediately went back to examining every nook and cranny she could see from where she stood.

Wood trim around the windows had been painted in blues and greens. The stone floor was swept clean and contrasted perfectly with the whitewashed walls. Colorful paintings the likes of which she'd never seen before decorated the house. If she had to hazard a guess, she'd say those were Caribbean and African motifs in the art, with strong shapes and lines that caught the eye.

This was a home. She couldn't help thinking happy people lived here—and had for a long time. They'd gathered around the scarred wood kitchen table and bundled under the rainbow of knitted blankets they'd thrown casually over every sofa arm and chair seat. More knitting spilled from a large grass woven basket on the floor.

When she tore her eyes from the room, she felt her face heat. More time than she'd realized must have passed, because Mrs. Adams watched her with an amused smile, holding out an earthenware mug. "I'm sorry for gawking. Your home is just…"

"Everything you've ever wanted?" Dorian asked gently, taking his own proffered mug.

Caro chuckled. "Yes. I can't imagine how difficult it must be to consider leaving, Mrs. Adams."

Hugging the thick book to her chest, Mrs. Adams sighed, then picked up her own cup and took a sip. "Moving will be painful, I imagine. But Mr. Adams and I, we've lived our life here as long as we needed to. We raised our children here. Welcomed two grandchildren to this house." She blinked away the moisture gathering in her eyes. "It's time for someone else to love here and live here. We're needed elsewhere. This house needs young people." She glanced pointedly between Caro and Dorian.

Biting her lip, Caro debated the wisdom of showing her hand so early but knew she'd regret it if she didn't. "If someone wanted to lease this home to give them more time to save the full purchase price, is that something you'd consider?"

Mrs. Adams cocked her head. "It would be worth discussing with my husband if that person appreciated this home as much as I did. We aren't planning to move out until late spring, though. Just doesn't make sense until then."

Dorian studied Caro intently, but she couldn't decipher his expression. "Who knows? Perhaps by spring, this person would have rounded out her savings sufficiently to purchase instead of lease," Caro said. Hope surged, and for once, it didn't feel like a threat of loss in disguise.

"Then I imagine I will be keeping in touch with someone who would be interested in such an arrangement." Mrs. Adams winked, and Caro couldn't contain her grin.

As they finished their tea, Mrs. Adams told her about the village characters. The baker's perfect hot cross buns. The seamstress who could make magic out of seemingly nothing. How the older gentlemen couple next door were nosy but meant well, and raised goats on their small farm.

Caro listened but grew increasingly aware of how quiet Dorian had been since they arrived. Nothing about his demeanor suggested he was angry or petulant. However, after years of enduring her father's stony silences over every little infraction (always her fault, according to him), it was a habit to wonder if she'd done something wrong. As her mind wandered that path, replaying the events of the morning, searching for her error, Caro stopped herself. It would be too easy to slip back into that pattern of pacifying a man out of a mood.

Instead of dwelling on it now, she sipped her tea, let herself imagine she knew who the people were that Mrs. Adams spoke of, and vowed to poke at the duke about his odd mood when they returned to the carriage. Should the conversation not go well, there was time to return their hired carriage to the posting yard near the Hawk and Fan and catch the mail coach back to London as planned. She knew that if Constance were here, she'd roll her eyes and make a remark about pessimism pretending to be pragmatism.

It wasn't long before she said goodbye to Mrs. Adams, promising to be in touch. Since putting off the inevitable never served anyone, Caro raised her eyebrows expectantly as soon as Dorian closed the coach door. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, of course."

She waited, but he didn't explain or fill the silence. "No, it's not. Clearly, you have something on your mind. Would you like to share what it is, or am I expected to guess, like charades? I'm awful at charades, so I suggest avoiding that." She wouldn't normally be so blunt, but the man had repeatedly said he wanted to know what she was thinking.

Dorian studied her, smiling ruefully. "Hattie was right. The property is perfect for you. I can imagine you living there, and the thought of you so far away makes my chest tight." Holding out his hand, he waited for her to take it.

It was sweet that he was upset over the idea of her leaving London. The prickly willingness to fight wilted, and she took his hand, then rested her head on his shoulder. "Caro, if you want the house, I'll happily buy it for you."

Never mind—the sweetness was short-lived. "What on earth makes you think I would want you to buy me a cottage? Weren't you listening earlier when I waxed poetic about having something of my own?"

"It would be your own." He winced, and she suspected the words were louder than he had intended. "I don't mean to yell. But the house would be in your name. It would be yours."

Caro cocked her head, studying him. Did he truly not understand why she was upset? "Property is something a man buys his mistress. Let me make one thing clear, Your Grace." He flinched again. "I let you in my bed last night, and I might very well do it again. However, I am not your mistress. Agreeing to that position, even until you wed, would mean I'd be at your beck and call. I'm my own woman, with work and dreams and aspirations that have nothing to do with you." She stopped herself before emotions could get the better of her tongue and make her say something they'd both regret. For his part, he appeared hurt, rather than mad, and she hated the idea of causing him pain. Drawing in a calming breath, she gentled her tone. "Dorian, we agreed to part ways when you choose a bride. Please understand the awkward position in which I find myself. It brings me no joy to think of the day I see you for the last time. Anticipating a move to this place is something I can look forward to. Because you and I both know you have pressing reasons for marrying again, so that day will arrive soon. I won't be the reason you shirk your duty, and I refuse to let you be the reason I give up my independence. Or worse yet, allow myself to hurt another woman by staying with you after you wed. I'm no man's mistress. Not even yours."

Dorian rubbed his palm over his face. "I don't mean it like that."

She firmed her jaw. "I see no other way you could mean it. Explain to me how a duke purchasing a property for a woman he's had a sexual relationship with does not equal some sort of payment or mistress agreement."

Silence. Finally, he sighed. Pain and frustration weighed heavily in the sound, but there wasn't a trace of anger. "I hoped to have more time with you."

The admission was an olive branch of sorts. It was Caro who now offered her hand, and he took it. He interlaced their fingers, as if needing to hold her in place.

"By the time I'm ready to move, you might have chosen a bride, and we'd be saying goodbye anyway." She squeezed his hand. "Let us enjoy the time we have."

He nodded, then raised their hands to kiss her fingers.

When they'd returned the hired coach, then settled into his carriage, the mood between them had settled back into the comfortable companionship they shared in his library.

But as the carriage wheels splashed through puddles, and a gentle rain began to fall, neither of them mentioned the coming spring.

Sleep eluded Dorian. The midnight velvet curtains around his bed kept out the drafts, but they couldn't stop the ghosts from his past or emotions of the present from finding him.

As the hours passed, Bloomsbury quieted outside the window. The murmurings and creaking footsteps of the servants moving about the house faded, slowed, then went to sleep, along with most of London.

The antique clock he'd brought home from Vienna chimed the hour from the mantel.

An eternity later, the chime broke the silence again. And again, until he stopped counting the chimes.

Hard to believe the previous morning, he'd awoken in a musty inn deep in Kent. With her marks on his skin and her scent on the pillow beside him, Dorian had been loose-limbed and content. At least, until he thought Caro had crept out and abandoned him in the middle of the night.

Relief had swamped him when he'd spied her across the public room.

A few hours later, relief was a distant memory as he'd felt his heart wither a little while watching Caro fall in love with a house. Ironic that on the morning after finally holding her, he had to stand aside as she chased a dream that would take her away from London. Attempting to insert himself into that dream by offering to buy the house had been a spectacular misstep.

To think he'd been a diplomat during a war yet couldn't negotiate a conversation with one prickly, brilliantly independent woman who'd slipped under his skin as thoroughly as she'd slipped under his body.

Dorian rolled onto his side and stared, unseeing, into the cavernous dark of his bed.

A bed that hadn't felt this empty in years.

"It was one night, Holland. One night. You're a grown man capable of enjoying a woman without throwing your heart at her feet." Never mind that the woman in question was not only beautiful but intelligent, adventurous… He rolled over again and huffed.

In his defense, it would be impossible not to be entranced by the way she'd lit with triumph as she shared the information she'd learned in Tippering. Caro had been so damned happy and proud of herself, and rightly so. No part of this hunt for Sherman could have happened without her.

The women in his life tying him in knots didn't stop with Caro. When he returned home late last evening, Gloria had been in a mood. No one exhibited righteous indignation with as much flair as the dowager, and she'd been in fine form. It would seem that while he was gone, Lady Humphry had called with her daughter. Over the course of tea, they'd informed his mother that they'd chosen to discourage any further wooing from the Duke of Holland.

Since his attention toward Miss Humphry had been half-hearted and lackluster at best, Dorian didn't take offense at this development. If Miss Humphry had an ardent suitor, then he applauded her parents for ignoring his title and encouraging her to follow her heart toward happiness elsewhere.

Gloria, however, acted as if they'd walked into their home and spit in her face. Since he wasn't distraught over the news, she'd declared she would find more sympathetic listening ears elsewhere and stormed from the house.

Poor Hastings looked like he needed a stiff drink by the time she left. God only knew how much the butler had to hear before Dorian had arrived home.

Across the room, his door creaked open, followed several seconds later by scraping in the grate. The scullery maid going about her work.

Thank fuck it was morning.

Dorian sat up, letting the bedding pool around his hips, and rubbed his face. Rough stubble abraded his palms, and the stench of his morning breath seemed apropos to his mood.

Since rest was clearly not an option, he'd have to resort to action.

Rupert Street wasn't too far away. Oliver's home was practically on the way, and as they'd already established, visiting a friend's dead wife's lover was the kind of things friends did for one another.

And Dorian would remind Oliver of that fact when he pulled him away from his kippers and toast.

An hour later, Oliver didn't appreciate the reminder.

"There is something seriously wrong with your head, friend," he grumbled around a mouth of breakfast.

Dorian shrugged. "Be that as it may, are you coming with me or not?"

"Of course I am. You'll need an alibi if all of this goes horribly wrong. But making me do it before nine in the morning is downright vile, so you're a bastard."

"False. I have my father's eyes."

"And your mother's stubborn nature, unfortunately," Oliver grumped.

"Mother would be flattered to hear you say so. More coffee?"

Oliver waved a hand to push away the offer. "Don't rush me. Either you want my company, or you don't. And we've already established that you need me, so calm yourself. Maybe have a slice of toast. Breathe. Ask yourself why this has to happen now ."

Beneath the table, Dorian's knee bounced with impatience. Exhaustion from a sleepless night dulled his usually sharp mind and reflexes, but an anxious urgency kept him from feeling the pull to rest. Why did it have to happen now? Because he'd crawl out of his skin if he couldn't do something.

The only person he wanted to be spending time with more than Oliver was Caro. His knee paused midjiggle, then resumed the movement. Why couldn't he see Caro? Most of the information he had was because of her anyway, and she'd been thrilled to visit Tippering and play a part. She'd probably enjoy it, and if he was terribly lucky, he might convince her to stay the night. Then his bed wouldn't be so empty.

He would have to sneak her past his mother, but that wouldn't be too difficult, since Gloria was expected at two events that night. Which meant he could make Caro scream his name well into the wee hours of the morning without fear of the dowager knocking on his door.

Motioning to a footman, Dorian asked for a piece of paper and pencil. After scrawling a note warning her of his pending arrival and plans, he sent the footman on his way. That would give Caro time to clear her day if possible. If she couldn't join them, at least he would be able to see her for a moment and ask to see her later.

As Oliver raised his cup to his lips, Dorian could swear he did it with the speed of a turtle.

"Are you moving as slowly as I think you are in a bid to annoy me? If so, it's working. Bravo."

His oldest friend rubbed a hand over his face, and that was when Dorian took note of the darker-than-normal shadows under legitimately grumpy eyes. "It might surprise you to learn, Your Grace, but the world doesn't revolve around you. I didn't sleep well last night after a particularly vexing evening with Althea."

Dorian forced his knee to still. It was on the tip of his tongue to flippantly ask if there was trouble in paradise, but he held back the works when he noticed the tight lines bracketing Oliver's mouth.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly. Mostly because I don't know that there's anything to tell. If I didn't know better, I'd suspect she was trying to make trouble. She seemed to be deliberately obnoxious, although to what end I can't imagine."

"Have you asked her if there's something bothering her? Discussed the friction you're sensing?" Irony tasted metallic in his mouth. How many times had he dismissed Juliet's silences and moods, believing all would be well eventually? As if her problems could be solved by neglect and magic. "Don't assume all is well if you are having misgivings."

"She'll talk when she's ready," Oliver said, offering solid evidence to Dorian's way of thinking that the survival of the human species to that point was a bleeding miracle.

Dorian sighed. "Oliver, you are one of the most intelligent men I know. But please, as a friend and a man who discovers more ways every day that I bungled my marriage, I am begging you to talk to Althea. Ask her what she wants. What she needs. Assume nothing . If you intend to marry her, you need to start as you mean to go on. And if you intend to live your life waiting for her to come to you with her thoughts, then I wish you good luck on what is sure to be a lifetime of misery for you both."

Silence descended. With Oliver, silence could mean his friend was angry, was confused and puzzling it out, or had slipped out of the room while he'd been talking.

Judging by the pinched lips and furrowed brow, Oliver was pondering. After what seemed like an eternity, he spoke. "Althea and I are not like you and Juliet were. I am fond of her and am content with the engagement. She has all the qualities I want in a countess. Excellent family, pleasant disposition—usually—and enough education that she won't bore me to tears."

"May I ask which is more important to you: the impact her behavior had on your evening or the cause of her behavior?"

Oliver took a drink from his coffee but remained quiet. That was one reliable thing about Oliver. If someone asked a question of him, he would consider the answer before speaking.

"Neither. If there is something upsetting her, she should approach me with it."

That Oliver effectively spoke aloud what Dorian had been thinking about his own missteps made him blink. "What I am hearing is you don't care enough to ask."

When had he stopped asking after Juliet? After a decade together, when had he let the checks and balances of their marriage impact him less than those in the ledgers of the estates? When she'd needed time, affection, or attention, had he given it freely? Or had he treated those moments like he would the estate business—minimum effort and cost for maximum yield?

In the early years, all he'd wanted was to make her happy, to keep her happy, to see her smile. As time passed, newness faded into contentment—which he thought meant nothing could shake them. When had contentment turned to complacency? Did any of this excuse her decision to stray? Of course not. But there were things in their marriage, early cracks in the relationship, that Sherman could not help identify.

Dorian had wanted Juliet to be happy, but at some point, he had been so distracted or disconnected he'd failed to notice when he stopped being a source of happiness to her.

The realization settled on him like bricks, pinning his feet to the floor and killing the need to fidget.

How different the course of their relationship could have been if someone had given him the advice he offered Oliver, and he'd listened.

"What is the address we are visiting?" Oliver asked, changing the subject. A sure sign the conversation had ventured into sore subjects his friend had no intention of discussing further.

"First, I'm hoping to go to Martin House and pick up Caro. She's been part of this from the beginning, and it would be a shame to leave her out now. It was she who discovered that Sherman has rooms on Rupert Street in Westminster. Narrowing the search to a specific building might take time."

The cup hit the table with a finality, confirmed by Oliver standing. "All right. Let's go amateur sleuthing."