Chapter Five

C onstance, what is this made of?" Caro held the makeshift hairpiece between her forefinger and thumb as if it were a rodent. It did look rather ratlike.

"Burlap, wool batting, and hair from Gingersnap's brush." Constance glanced between the women, then rolled her eyes. "What? Gingersnap and I have essentially the same hair color."

"Gingersnap is a cat, luv. What possessed you to make a hairpiece out of cat hair?" Hattie's dry comment made Caro grin.

"My hair will cover it. This makes my bun larger." Constance snatched the furry hairpiece out of Caro's hands and positioned it at the back of her head, then pinned her coppery gold in place over top. "See? Otherwise, my bun is a pathetic, puny thing. I have a lot of curls, not a lot of hair. In the styles everyone is wearing, the difference is quite obvious." The result was rather fetching. But still. Cat hair.

"You look beautiful, as always. However, the method by which you achieve that look is revolting," Caro said.

Constance shrugged, completely unconcerned with another's viewpoint, as always. It was an admirable trait to be able to roll opinions off your back like a duck with water.

"The end justifies the means," she said. "Help me into this?" She held up the gown they'd made over with bits and bobs harvested from other gowns and bonnets.

While the frost fair had lasted less than a week, London was still dealing with a frigid February, which meant limited options for romantic outings for a woman with as many beaus as Constance. A line of beaus. A veritable herd of them. She held court over her suitors like a queen, never choosing one. She liked them all equally, and in the end, she disliked them all equally. But tonight, she'd dance, and Caro was happy for her.

Hattie secured the wool overdress with a brooch whose pin could double as a weapon in a pinch. "There. That will do nicely."

"Mr. Hudson will be enthralled," Caroline said.

With a swish of skirts and partially faux hair, her cousin kissed them each on the cheek, then left.

Hattie collapsed on the bed and stared at the ceiling. "Mr. Hudson struck me as rather staid. What does she see in him?"

"I have no idea. Perhaps opposites do attract."

"I don't think I'd like to fall in love with my opposite. Would you?"

Caro cocked her head and considered the question. Finding a husband who would cherish her the way her heroes adored her heroines seemed impossible. It was difficult to imagine a man who would not only accept her writing but support it. Although nearly two years had passed, there were days when her father's betrayal still felt fresh. He'd treated Caro's mother with similar controlling bully tactics.

When she died while trying to bring Caro's sister into the world, he'd claimed the labor would have gone differently if she'd been pregnant with a son instead of another useless daughter. They'd buried them together, since her father refused to pay for two caskets. Even though he'd denied her little sister her own burial plot, Caro found comfort in the thought of her being held forever by their mother.

Was it any wonder she'd started writing stories where everything ended happily? There'd been so little joy in her world Caro had to create her own. Wrenching away from the painful memories, Caro returned to the topic at hand. "I'd think there would need to be enough similarities to have common ground. A like-mindedness. But too much might eventually be… boring, perhaps? Yet to have him be entirely my opposite seems like a lot of hard work." Had the duke and his wife been similar in disposition? According to the gossip she'd heard and read since word got out about his desire to remarry, the late duchess had been part of every social gathering, seen and adored everywhere… which was the opposite of everything she'd observed about the duke.

Hattie shook her head. "Not that I plan to marry. But if I did, it seems there are already enough opposites at play by virtue of a husband being a man. Putting up with a man seems like enough mental labor, thank you. We needn't add contrary interests on top of that."

Caro bit back questions, as she always did when Hattie spoke of her aversion to marriage. A few years ago, she'd been hurt. Badly. While she refused to share details, Caro and Connie knew enough not to challenge Hattie's assertion that she'd never marry.

"Perhaps the cousins with the empty social calendar shouldn't be the ones passing judgment," Caro said. "Mr. Hudson might be exactly what she wants."

"My social calendar is exactly as I wish it. However, I can't help feeling you're made for romance and all that—"

"You want to say nonsense , don't you?"

Hattie laughed. "I was going to say rot . You're made for all that rot. I am not."

A pair of blue eyes rose in her mind. Now she knew they had an equal impact on her system when smiling as they did when flooded with pain. She'd touched him. It was meant to comfort, but she'd still been surprised at the way he clung to her hand rather than pushing her away. "I have my books. Besides, who could possibly compare to the heroes I write?" Caro shrugged.

"Girls? Last chance to come with us! You haven't been to a social gathering in an age." Aunt Mary's voice carried down the hall.

"I have correspondence to see to," Caro called back.

"Do you really?" Hattie hissed.

"I always do." Especially after spending so many hours at the ducal townhome instead of her desk.

"How about you, Hattie? There are several young men I'd like you to meet."

Hattie widened her eyes at Caro, silently pleading.

Caro tried to disguise her laughter when she raised her voice. "I'm afraid I'm stealing her for office duties, Aunt Mary. Please give our regards to the gossipy matrons. We can't wait to hear all the latest when you return."

"You're an angel of mercy," Hattie whispered.

Downstairs, their family chattered, doors opened and closed. When all was quiet, the women made their way to the office.

"I love it when it's like this. When everything is dark and still," Caro said, keeping her voice low. Not that there was a reason to be quiet, but it felt profane somehow to disturb the space.

"When I can't sleep, sometimes I come down here, curl up in the chair by the window, and soak it all in." Hattie sighed happily. "All those stories, all that knowledge. On the shelves for the taking."

On the other side of the wavy glass panes, Londoners went about their night in a mix of horses, carts, carriages, working clothes, and evening wear. Hattie dragged a wood chair from behind the sales counter to the office and plopped down beside Caro at the desk. "Hand me a stack."

Caro stifled a yawn. "Thank you for the help. I don't know why I'm so tired already."

Hattie took a few of the letters from the pile on the desk and began scanning one. "Perhaps you're exhausted from the mental circles you've been spinning all day, matching books to collectors. At least it seems there will be plenty of valuable titles in the duke's collection." She drew out a sheet of paper and penned a quick reply to whatever the letter said.

The first note in Caro's pile was from her friend Gerard, who lived on the top floor a few buildings down. Gerard and his partner, Leo, wanted her to join them at the theater when she was available. The men had adopted her in a sense when they realized she rarely went out in the evenings and had few friends beyond her cousins. Smiling, she dashed off an agreement to check her schedule, then moved on to the next one.

"Being in the duke's home is unsettling." As much as she wanted to share about the letter she'd found, it didn't seem right to discuss something so intimate. Especially when he'd reacted the way he had.

Hattie's gaze flew to hers as a pinch between her brows appeared. "You don't need to go alone. If you don't feel safe, Caro—"

"No, that's not it. I don't feel threatened. I'm a bit embarrassed, to be honest." A wry smile tilted her lips. "I… I don't want to look like an arse in front of him. If he catches me staring cow eyed, I will quite literally die of mortification. Wither and turn to ash on his no-doubt priceless carpet." Except, when you touched him, he welcomed it.

"He might return your regard. Or be flattered. Or look down his ducal nose and sniff about commoners. We won't know until we know." Hattie held out a letter from the general delivery pile. "This one is yours. From your publisher, looks like. He's still pressing for the next book?"

Caro sighed as she took the square of folded paper with its familiar green wax seal. "I'm sure that's what it's about." After arriving in London, she'd established a mail account for her publishing correspondence, under the same name. Only this time, everyone who worked in the bookstore knew Mrs. Delia Wallace was actually Caro, and not a reclusive widow.

"Well? Open it. No use putting off bad news. It will still be waiting for you tomorrow."

Wrinkling her nose, Caro muttered, "You're overflowing with pithy pragmatism tonight, aren't you?" As she unfolded the sheet, she continued, "The duke would never be so undignified as to experience attraction, least of all to me. All that emoting might rumple the perfect fit of his coat…" The letter revealed no surprises. Mr. Mathers needed a date—preferably a close one—for when he could expect the next Blanche Clementine manuscript. "My publisher's patience with my lack of progress is wearing thin, I think."

Hattie winced in sympathy. "In that case, perhaps the duke can be inspiration. Spending time in his company might spark a story."

Did Hattie realize the Duke of Holland had inspired the last book? Caro bit back the question and focused on replying to her publisher. In black ink, she scrawled a few breezy lines about the story being ready soon and promised it would be worth the wait. A twist of anxiety in her throat spoke of her worry that she could deliver on the claim.

Thus far, the characters in this story were wooden and uninspired, making them uninteresting and difficult to push through the plot. Something had to change if this book was ever going to make it to print. In the past, if words weren't flowing, she'd tried writing letters as the heroine or hero to explore them deeper. If the letters were decent, she would incorporate the material into the story somehow. Given how long she'd been struggling with the current couple, it was probably time to try that approach.

Thinking back on how the duke had looked in his study earlier that day, and the way she'd felt witnessing his pain, she wondered what kind of woman would know what to do in that scenario. Instead of feeling helpless, as she had, what kind of heroine could turn such raw emotion into something intimate?

"Caro, look at this." Hattie's excited voice pulled her from her thoughts. A piece of paper nearly hit Caro in the face as her cousin waved it about before she managed to grab it and read.

Mrs. Adams, a matron from Kent, needed tips on preparing a wild goose and asked that a cookery book be added to her husband's account. Mrs. Adams was a chatty woman and a regular customer, so she explained she'd been given wild fowl, but after following instructions for cooking a domesticated goose, even the dogs would not eat the result. What followed was news about their upcoming move to her husband's family farm, and personal details about people Caro would never meet.

Hattie pointed to the bottom of the page. "Did you read the last bit? About them moving?"

"Yes; pity about his father's gout, but I don't see why it's cause for you to be grinning so madly."

Hattie wiggled in her chair, barely containing her excitement. "Their cottage in Kent is perfect. Absolutely perfect, Caro. It's everything you need, and all the things you've said you want. Uncle Owen and I delivered an order last fall. Don't you see? If they're selling their cottage, you could buy it ."

The clock on the mantel chimed, and the second hand filled the expectant silence. Slowly, Caro leaned back in the chair and drew in a careful breath.

"Caro, why aren't you saying anything?"

A million questions, scenarios, and what-ifs tumbled through her mind. Finally, she asked, "Do you think I have enough saved?" Before Hattie could answer, Caro shook her head. "Probably not. But I have to be close, don't you think?" As Blanche Clementine's popularity grew, so had her royalty checks. The last one brought her savings back to the amount she'd lost to her father. "This next book should bring my funds to where they need to be." If I can write the damned thing.

Hattie waved her pen in the air. "I'll ask about their price and tell Mrs. Adams you'll be delivering the cookery book in person as soon as the roads allow. You can see the place for yourself. It never hurts to have details."

A home. Her own bed. It was all she'd wanted for so long. A place where she could fully relax and be herself. No one watching. No meeting expectations from others that involved pinning down or pruning off parts of her personality. A place where being Caro was enough. The idea of it being within reach—once she finished the book—was downright scary. Exciting, but scary. Owning a house wasn't as fantastical a dream as marrying a prince or duke. However, life had taught her that dreams came true on paper, not in real life. Only heroines had their dreams come true. Everyone else was teased with hope.

Hope was terrifying. Resentment rose in the wake of the fear. "I'd have enough saved if Father weren't such a scab."

Hattie grimaced. "I wish we'd been able to retrieve your savings." She brightened. "Speaking of your worthless parent—I sent out the packages today. I'm sorry it took so long. The fair was entertaining but a lot of extra work. I didn't have the time before now."

Some of Caro's emotions faded to satisfaction. "Thank you for handling that."

"Trust me—it was my pleasure. Few things are more enjoyable than tormenting sanctimonious men of the cloth." Hattie finished her reply to Mrs. Adams with a flourish, then sealed the paper with wax. "It's my favorite part of release day. Sending notes and books to all those village lending libraries. I wish I could witness their reaction every time they open a parcel with erotic literature, seemingly donated by their local vicar. I hope they write each man and thank him personally. Your father and his friends deserve every bit of the confusion and discomfort it brings."

"And then some."

Hattie nudged the letter to Mrs. Adams toward Caro. "You'll have enough money soon."

Caro's gaze flitted over the pile of correspondence, then the mostly empty story journal pushed to the edge of the desk. "If not with the sales from this book, then the next one. Perhaps Mrs. Adams and her husband aren't in a rush to sell."

At last, excitement filled her, lending a warm glow under her sternum. If the timing worked in her favor, Caro could have a home of her own soon. There was that hope, again, rearing its head.

"I see you eying your story journal. Between the duke and this cottage, you may have enough incentive to write those characters into compromising positions." Hattie wagged her eyebrows and handed Caro the journal. "I'll leave you to it."

Within moments, the ticking clock was the only thing to keep Caro company. As tempting as it was to join Hattie upstairs, the blank pages on the desk wouldn't fill themselves.

The earlier pondering over the heroine had created a tickle in her brain, which was better than the desolate moor of blank space her creative well supplied when she'd thought about her before. Imagining the hero, Caro's mind offered nothing except blue eyes and a serious mouth. Groaning, she rested her forehead on folded arms atop the empty page. Damn Holland for being so appealing. Even when brokenhearted and so tightly wound it made her fingers twitch with the need to muss him.

One book already existed with him as the hero inspiration. Could she get away with writing another? Average men didn't sell as many books, so this hero needed to be a count or a duke, or maybe a prince. Details spun, twisted, then sorted themselves into a version of the man living in her imagination full-time these days.

Fine. The hero would have blue eyes (which may or may not deepen with his mood), but rather than explicitly stating the color of his hair (dark upon first glance but turned gold when lit by the sun), she'd focus on the wavy texture. Everyone appreciated windswept curls. Out of contrary impulse, she decided he'd be a little bumbling in the bedroom, and the heroine could be the experienced, confident one. With that, the spark of idea caught flame, and a familiar rush of excitement pushed through her.

Yes, the heroine would be the teacher this time, capable of handling every situation that came her way. Picking up her pen, Caro began to write.

I fear, Your Grace, you have much to learn. While you hold the power to command parliament and advise the king himself, your reach does not extend to me, or our bed. In this domain, I reign and demand your vow of fealty. It is not a ring you must kiss, however, but parts of me I will only share for as long as you please me…

Two hours later, Hattie slipped into the room with the tin of spiced biscuits Aunt Mary had baked earlier.

Caro blinked as the real world asserted itself. "I thought you'd gone to bed."

Hattie shook her head. "I was reading. Constance will wake us when she comes home, so it's no use trying to sleep. How's the story coming along?"

Caro flexed fingers that were cramped from holding a pen. "The characters are talking again." The characters in her head had been loosed to speak, and goodness, how they'd shown up. A flush warmed her cheeks at the things the heroine had written to her lover. Being so bold may be beyond her personal experience, but that was what imagination was for.

A murmur of voices reached them as their family arrived home.

Uncle Owen peered into the office. "You two still working?"

Hattie waved a biscuit in greeting. "Caro is."

He raised a brow at the open journal on the desk. "New book?"

"If I can ever finish it, yes. But I made progress tonight."

Aunt Mary entered the room, Constance trailing behind. "I overheard three different conversations tonight about your latest one. The hero really has everyone talking. We're so proud of you, sweetheart." She kissed the top of Caro's head as she walked by. "Don't stay up too late working."

"I was finishing for the night. How was your evening?" Caro closed the journal and capped her ink.

"Such fun. I'll let Connie fill you in on what happened," Aunt Mary said wryly, then shooed her husband up the stairs.

Constance collapsed in Hattie's abandoned chair, then let loose a high-pitched giggle, which turned into a rolling laugh.

Hattie raised a brow, then held out the biscuit tin to Caro. Settle in for story time.

"Lord, it was the funniest thing. Well, not for him. At the time, I was horrified, but now I can't stop laughing." A snort punctuated Constance's statement.

"Whatever happened, you're clearly not heartbroken about it," Caro said.

Connie shook her head, still giggling. "It started with Eloise Graham. Remember her?"

Hattie scrunched her nose in thought. "Too many curls and has those stays that lift her breasts so high she nearly smothers herself in church?"

"That's her. She's been walking out with Bugsy Peterson."

"I can't believe a grown man calls himself Bugsy. That alone should disqualify him for an adult relationship," Caro commented.

"Absolutely agree. However, darling Bugsy is quite the attentive beau. Either that, or Eloise is finally bringing him up to scratch. Tonight, she was showing off a nosegay of hothouse flowers."

"In February? Those cost a pretty penny. Bugsy is wooing in earnest, then." Hattie perched on the corner of the desk and bit into another biscuit.

"Indeed. So, we're sitting next to Eloise and Bugsy when Mr. Hudson starts sneezing. Not once or twice, but violently sneezing. He says he needs me to scoot over because flowers make him sneeze. I scoot, but he's still sneezing. His eyes start watering, nose turns red, and he keeps inching away from the flowers. Everyone around us is gaping, open-mouthed, as the poor man practically sits on my lap to get away from them." Constance, a natural storyteller, was completely in her element. Caro exchanged a grin with Hattie.

"There we are, shocking all the matrons around us—" Constance snorted midgiggle, then paused for dramatic effect. "He says, ‘I don't know what's wrong. The only thing that makes me sneeze worse than flowers is cats .'"

Hattie gasped. "Gingersnap!"

"Yes." Constance was wheezing now. "My hairpiece."

"This might be the first time a beau's been felled by a hair accessory," Caro said through her laughter.

"It's a personal first. I'm quite proud of myself."

Hattie shook her head. "Will you give him another chance? Sans cat hair next time?"

"Of course not. I love Gingersnap. Where I go, he goes. If Mr. Hudson can't be near a fur hairpiece, imagine how he would react to the whole cat. No. My future husband will be perfectly content allowing Gingersnap to sleep on the pillow next to our heads."

Since Caro and the animal had been locked in a battle of wills over that exact subject for nearly two years, she kept her skepticism to herself. Instead, she raised a biscuit in the air, and the women raised theirs as well, in a cinnamon-spiced toast of sorts. "Farewell, Mr. Hudson. We hardly knew ye."