Chapter Twenty-Eight

C onstance's wedding day dawned as bright as the bride's mood.

Overcast and without any sign of the sun.

Since Caro's mood was also suffering due to man problems, she couldn't blame her. That didn't mean she wasn't worried. Especially when Connie stared at nothing, silent and subdued as the family entered the church early that morning.

Walter's return from the coast two nights ago should have been met with celebration by everyone, but Caro and Hattie couldn't muster the enthusiasm. Hattie because she had too many opinions on the marriage, and Caro because she'd gone numb at some point since leaving Dorian in the alleyway behind the Matthewses' bookshop.

Hattie gave their normally cheerful cousin a concerned look, then caught Caro's eye and mouthed, What do we do? Right. They should do something.

"Connie, might we steal you away for a moment? We'd like one last chance to hug you before you're an old married woman." Caro forced cheer into her voice as she and Hattie tugged the tight-faced bride toward the back of the church.

"Talk to us," Hattie demanded in a low hiss.

Constance's cheeks were pale, and dark circles only enhanced the wild look in her eyes. "My heart has been beating too fast all morning. I feel like I'm going to be ill—or maybe faint, and I've never fainted in my life. Not for real, anyway." She pressed a hand to her belly. "Tell me I'm doing the right thing."

Caro wrapped her arms around her, then Hattie embraced them both. "If you have doubts, there's no one forcing you to go through with it today."

"Everyone knows we're supposed to get married." Constance's voice was barely audible.

"That is not reason enough to tie yourself to someone," Hattie said.

"Did something else happen with Walter, or is this just an overall sense of…" Caro began.

"Wanting to run away? Panic? Sweating through my wedding gown, even though it's dreary and cold today?"

"I, for one, am in full support of you leaving. Eventually you'll find someone who wants the same things you do," Hattie said.

"When we're apart, all I can think about is that fight when he yelled and said those things. But then I see him, and I feel happy again. Then I start questioning if what Walter wants is better. Betsy has that kind of marriage, and she seems happy. We're twins—why can't we be alike in this way? What can't I want that too and just be happy ?"

Sobs shook Connie's shoulders, and Caro tightened her arms around her. "Darling, you're the most cheerful person I know. It's Walter that doesn't make you happy."

"He thinks I'll change and be more like Betsy. He said it like he was looking forward to it. But I like me ."

Tears pricked at Caro's eyes. "Don't say that as if it's a bad thing. You have a true north within you, and that is worth protecting."

"You can't marry someone who thinks changing you is something to look forward to. There's not a bloody thing wrong with you," Hattie said.

Slowly, Constance straightened, forcing them to loosen their arms. They kept her in the circle of their embrace as she wiped her eyes and firmed her chin. "I want to go home."

Caro heaved a sigh. "Thank God. I was afraid we'd have to drag you from the altar by your hair, and it would be a shame to ruin that hat. Now, do you want to tell them, or would you like one of us to do it?"

But Connie was returning to her usual self now that she'd made up her mind. She raised her voice to be heard throughout the room. "Thank you all for coming, but I won't be getting married after all. Walter, I'm terribly sorry. I'll explain everything when I can. But for now, I am going to go."

With the early hour, the hack made short work of the ride to Martin House. Tears dripped silently from Constance's chin as they unlocked the new back door that had been installed two days before. Wood crates stood by the door like sentries, full of Juliet's books.

In the last week, Caro had found herself thinking of the late duchess more often by her first name. After seeing the books she'd collected and loving the man Juliet had once married, Caro couldn't help feeling she knew her. At least a little.

Upstairs, they helped Constance out of the gown they'd retrimmed for the wedding and set aside the bonnet she'd created for the special day. Scents of the wedding breakfast filled the house from the kitchen.

And silently, they all crawled into the bed they shared each night. Except, instead of taking the places they'd established almost two years ago, they tucked Constance in the middle. Hattie by the wall. Caro on the outside edge defending them from the world. They wrapped their arms around her and didn't press for conversation.

Rain fell against the windows as it often did during a late-March morning in London.

No one spoke. But then, no one had to.

Dearest Readers,

Firstly, thank you to those who have enjoyed my stories since the beginning. I'm grateful to each of you for being part of my journey. Secondly, I'd like to offer a warm welcome to my new readers.

Now, on to my purpose for writing to you all. It has come to my attention that certain readers believe A Dalliance for Miss Lorraine was born from my relationship with a specific high-ranking member of society.

I'd like to lay those rumors to rest.

During the writing of A Dalliance for Miss Lorraine , this particular peer and I had never shared more than five minutes of conversation at one time. I hate to disappoint you, dear readers, but the duke who falls in love with Miss Lorraine is an amalgamation of my own concept at the time of my perfect man. Looking back, I realize I allowed my personal preferences to inhabit one character far more than I have in the past, which means this book is dear to my heart.

In conclusion, I'd like to state unequivocally that A Dalliance for Miss Lorraine is a work of fiction.

Thank you for reading,

Blanche Clementine

The newsprint blurred on the page. Dorian rubbed his eyes and heaved a sigh.

Of course Caro had followed through, because in addition to being an excellent keeper of secrets—his and her own—she was a woman of her word. He hoped she realized Gloria's threat of a lawsuit was empty now that they knew Blanche Clementine's identity. Even so, she'd fulfilled her promise down to the literal letter.

Last night's abandoned brandy glass sat on the table beside the chair, next to this morning's cup of tea. The cut crystal of the glass played with the light from the fireplace, similar to the way it made Caro's ring sparkle from its spot on his pinky finger.

It seemed like forever ago when he'd sat in this chair and drunkenly hallucinated Juliet. Or perhaps it was a dream. Truthfully, he hoped it had been her ghost. The idea gave him comfort. There was a time when he'd have tried his damndest to duplicate that night for just a few more moments with her. So much had happened since then that if she were to appear, he wouldn't know where to begin.

No—that wasn't true. He knew exactly where he'd start. Caro. He'd talk about Caro. About how he'd not only fallen in love, but he'd done so with a woman society deemed unacceptable. He'd show Jules the ring and hope she would be happy for him despite the unavoidable scandal of the Duke of Holland marrying a bookseller.

He'd been prepared not to care, because it was actually Dorian Whitaker marrying Caroline Danvers.

Given the chance, he'd tell Juliet's ghost about the night he'd walked in on Sherman Snyder tied to a chair. Even a week later, the memory of Caro and her girls catching Sherman cheered him as he turned the ring this way and that to admire the play of color.

Despite a decade of marriage, he couldn't say what Jules would think about the kidnapping of her lover. Once upon a time, he thought he knew her inside and out, but he clearly hadn't. The fact there was a lover to kidnap was proof of that.

Even though he had only been with Caro a short time, he could imagine in his mind her and her cousins referring to the kidnapping by a suitable caper name like The Great Catch and Release. He hoped, when they discussed it, they were proud of themselves. They should be. He hoped they laughed. And he hoped Caro remembered that when it came down to it, despite how they'd ended things, Dorian cared more about protecting her than asking the questions that had once haunted him.

If Juliet were here, he would ask her opinion on the king's letter. It shamed him to remember how little discussion there'd been the first time he was summoned to war. At the time, he'd felt answering the call was a matter of duty and service to his country. Those things had felt more important than what he'd wanted, or what Juliet needed. He would welcome the chance to apologize for that.

Juliet's ghost would have to accept that he'd severed all ties with her loathsome cousin. Rather than waiting for the rest of the valuable books in the library to sell, Dorian would cut a cheque for an estimated value. Today, he would enclose it with Mr. Bellmore's legal notice.

Several merchants had sent panicked letters after learning that the dukedom no longer supported Timothy's line of credit. A year ago, Dorian might have disregarded the worried words of the business owners and let them handle their accounts as they saw fit.

This week, he'd replied to each of them and asked to be invoiced for anything purchased on credit before they'd received notice. Anything after that handshake would be Timothy's responsibility. But he didn't want the merchants to suffer.

Dorian had finally taken a stand. Now he would like to hide from the world and nurse his broken heart. Sprawled as he was in one of the ugly wingback chairs, someone might mistake him for being jug-bit from the night before.

Alas, he wasn't drunk. Just sad. Drapes still covered the windows, blocking out the world, and he wanted them to stay that way for a while longer, so he raised the wick on an oil lamp and opened the book he'd already read twice this past week. Funny, he'd started to read it the night he met Juliet's ghost, then set it aside. Perhaps he wasn't supposed to have read it until he'd fallen in love with the author.

Blanche Clementine wrote one hell of a great story. He'd always thought so. Knowing what he knew now, the novel played out in his head as if read in her voice. It was the next-best thing to having her beside him.

As he sipped his cold tea distractedly, a passage leapt from the page with new significance.

There were numerous mentions of the hero's hands. This one made him look from the page to his fingers. Ink stained the hero's right pointer finger, so Lorraine knew he'd spent the day working and taking care of people.

A dark smudge marked the usual identical place on Dorian's finger. One could map his hands by the way she'd written them. Long fingers, dark-gold hair, the silvery scar on his palm under the thumb. The hero had earned that scar in a sword duel.

Dorian's was from a far less romantic slip of the blade while cutting an apple about a decade ago.

Maybe it was because he could hear Caro reading the words on the page to him, but this book felt different from her others. A Dalliance for Miss Lorraine wasn't only about the trials and triumphs of a pair of lovers—this was a love letter. It might have been a love letter to a stranger, but that stranger had been him. Or at least, the version of himself he'd shown the world.

When he'd been one hard emotional blow away from losing his ability to breathe, Caro had seen a hero.

Although broken and bitter, he'd still been enough to inspire her. It was humbling to realize how much grace she'd shown him when he was struggling.

If there was any version of him on the page in the next book, Dorian was curious to see how it would differ from this one. The relationship between them had changed so drastically. Of course, given how he acted in her shop, the next character she based on him would probably be a villain. Or a dead body floating in a canal.

A Dalliance for Miss Lorraine should have been a success without people connecting him to it. The things about the author that had won him over in real life were evident on the page. Not just to him, but to everyone who read it. That alone should have ensured readers flocked to her work.

She'd been right, as she often was, to walk away. If she'd bent and bargained or pleaded and cajoled for his forgiveness while he'd been angry… well, she wouldn't have been Caro.

Society would look down their noses at her, but the irony was that at every turn of their relationship, she'd required him to rise to meet her, not the other way around. To win her body, he'd had to stop hiding his desire. To win her affection, he'd had to let go of the icy reserve he'd used as a shield. To win her respect, he'd had to see the world through a more equal lens instead of the hierarchy of titles he'd been taught.

This was no different. Any woman who commanded attention without needing words would never be content with being partially adored. She knew her heart was more valuable than that and wouldn't hand it over easily.

If he wanted Caroline Danvers and all the ramifications that would bring with the ton, he would have to not just accept but celebrate Blanche Clementine as well. Convincing her he was willing to do that would be a challenge.

In Kent, she'd dreamed aloud for him as she shared her heart's desire. He'd watched her fall in love with the Adams cottage. At the time, that had inspired a selfish response. Instead of feeling gratitude for her willingness to be vulnerable, he'd feared her leaving.

Staring at the matching ugly chair across from him, Dorian smiled. He could live in Kent. People would think him mad if he ran away to live with an author in a cottage. But if their opinion didn't matter enough to stop him from wanting to marry a bookseller, or being openly proud of her identity as an author of erotic fiction, then why would their judgment be enough to sway him in this?

When the roses along the cottage fence began to bloom, he wanted to be there to share in Caro's wonder over the riot of color. And when night temperatures fell to freezing, he would keep her warm.

He'd offered to buy it for her, and Caro refused because it made her feel like a mistress. Now he needed to buy that property to help convince her that he wanted his wife to have everything her heart desired.

Dorian set his book on the table. He needed to talk to his solicitor.

"What do you mean the cottage isn't for sale? Are you sure?"

Gerard Bellmore nodded, the picture of calm as always.

Dorian was the opposite of calm. "Damn it."

It had been a good plan. He was going to buy Caro the cottage of her dreams and bring her the key, with the ring tied to it. Dorian was going to apologize for disparaging her work and tell her he'd do everything within his power to make her dreams come true.

A simple apology wouldn't be sufficient.

Dorian needed to show Caro he'd been paying attention. That he'd been listening. After all, wasn't that the lesson he'd learned from Juliet? Despite offering every creature comfort, he'd failed to fully offer himself. It wasn't an excuse for her choices. But he could learn from the mistakes he'd made before he made them again.

Oh… So why was his plan contingent on offering creature comforts?

He thumped back into the chair feeling as if he'd been slapped.

"Are you quite all right, Your Grace?"

"Yes. I'm having a bit of an epiphany. I assume Caro told you what an unmitigated arse I was? She ended things, and rightly so."

The solicitor nodded, but if he was agreeing with the summary of events or acknowledging he already knew of them, Dorian wasn't sure.

"Wait. Did the book sell enough that she bought the house?"

"Since she's already disclosed her nom de plume, I feel comfortable sharing that I am the legal representation for Blanche Clementine."

Dorian leaned forward. "Are you negotiating with the publisher for a more favorable contract? Because we both know that whatever she was being paid before is less than what she deserves."

Mr. Bellmore raised one eyebrow but kept silent.

"Damn it, you are annoyingly discreet."

That earned him a smile.

"I assume, then, if you are involved with her contracts, Caro would also ask for you to draw up paperwork for a significant transaction, such as purchasing property."

Mr. Bellmore neither confirmed nor denied.

Dorian chuckled ruefully. "Blink once if I'm correct."

A small smile, then the solicitor slowly blinked one time.

The humor was short-lived. Dorian rested his forehead in his palms. "I need to convince Caro that I only want what is best for her and that I am proud of her. Not just Caro, but Blanche. Hopefully, once the anger has abated somewhat, she will realize she wants me as much as I want her." His hands fell to the desk, and he stared at her friend. "How do I show a woman I've wronged that she can trust me? I don't want to live without her. But I'm not sure what else I can do to prove my sincerity. Her heroes would make a grand gesture. That was supposed to be the house. She fell in love with that cottage, and I wanted to give her something she loved."

Gerard cocked his head, still silent.

"You know more than you're letting on. But you won't say, because you're so bloody discreet, and her friend. Fuck, Bellmore. I can't see the forest for the trees. Please help." An idea occurred to him. "Cross-examine me."

"I don't understand, Your Grace."

"Cross-examine me, like I am a witness on the stand in court."

"I'm not a barrister. I'm a solicitor—"

Dorian waved away the protestations. "Using the information you have, ask me questions to help me find a new plan."

Finally, his legal counsel heaved a sigh and asked in a voice that would not be out of place in the courtroom, "Very well, Your Grace. Are you in love with Caroline Danvers?"

That was easy. "Yes. Very much so."

"What is it you love about her?"

"Countless things. She's confident. Her sense of humor. God, her laugh. It lights up a room, doesn't it? Her mind—it's amazing what she's created in her novels." As he stared at the shining surface of his desk and his eyes lost focus, he turned his gaze inward. "The bravery she's shown in not only putting her work out into the world but claiming it like she did last week. I'm proud of her. I love the way that stubborn chin of hers gets really hard right before she tells me I'm being a prig." The solicitor's low laugh pulled him back to the moment.

"And if she returns your devotion, what do you think she loves about you?"

Dorian rubbed at the ink smudge on his hand as if it held the answer. "She doesn't care about a coronet. My money doesn't matter—it makes her uncomfortable, I think. Hell, it took her weeks to relax in this place." He waved a hand toward the study. "I can't imagine what she'd think of the Dorset estate. It's an honest-to-God castle." Dorian and Mr. Bellmore winced in unison.

When writing Lorraine's hero, she'd loved his hands. Not just the body parts themselves, but specifically the signs of work on his hands. There had been a few evenings when she'd read on the sofa while he finished the last of his work for the day or pored over books explaining modern water-filtration systems and the latest innovations in farming equipment. Those had been nights she asked about his projects—investments previous dukes had considered too costly when their benefits would be immediately felt by tenants and employees rather than the ducal coffers.

"Caro likes when I use my position to help people. She was so excited to donate my library to all those schools and orphanages." The memory of that day made his throat dry. God, he missed her. A glance at the solicitor showed him watching with a sympathetic smile.

"Anything else?"

"She loved it when I asked her to speak the pause." At Mr. Bellmore's obvious confusion, he explained. "Before she spoke, she would hesitate, then say something exceedingly professional and polite. The first time we kissed, I asked her to say whatever it was she thought during that pause, because that was where the real Caroline was. It became a sort of code for us. Speak the pause. Let me in. Say what's on your mind. I think if there's one thing Caro might love about me, it's that I have always wanted to know the real her."

"What else did she say she wanted besides the house? Think, Your Grace."

Dorian recalled the conversation in the coach. "Something that was just hers that couldn't be taken away. That's why I was going to put the cottage in her name and have it in a trust, separate from my estates. No matter what, it would be hers."

Mr. Bellmore nodded encouragingly. "Work from there. Ask yourself what you can give Caro that no one else can. And I'll give you a hint: it's not a house."