Chapter Three

In total, including her first Season, Caroline had spent fifteen years in London. Seven of them had been during her marriage, and eight as a merry widow. Although at times she found herself under disagreeable strain, for the most part she enjoyed the life she had forged for herself.

Better she make her own way here than be beholden to a family which had near disowned her for her transgressions as a girl.

Her only concern was making the payments on Jacqueline's dowry. Without a lover to boost her meagre income, she was at risk of not being able to pay it at all, and she couldn't have that.

"You're scowling," Sir Percy Somerville, her long-time friend, said as she walked into her drawing room to greet him. "And yet still look remarkably lovely."

"Of course I do, darling." She presented her cheek for him to kiss, and he did so with an amused expression she did not appreciate. Perhaps surprisingly, she had Sir Percy had never been lovers, although they had known each other since her marriage. Then, he had been young and foolish, enjoying all London had to offer. Now he was older, madly in love with his estranged wife, and, in her opinion, as foolish as ever.

"Thank you for agreeing to join me tonight," he said. "I'm sure you have far better things to be doing."

Silently, Caroline cursed her generous heart. Instead of embarking on more profitable endeavours, she was participating in a scheme that would likely hurt everyone involved. "Not at all," she said throatily, deciding to make the most of it. "You know I delight in scandal."

"I do." His voice was dry. "Even so, let me give you a small token of appreciation." From his pocket, he withdrew a diamond bracelet, fastening it about her wrist despite her protests. "Sell it after tonight."

Of all her acquaintances, Sir Percy was the only one to know about the money she sent to the country—and why. Perhaps she should have demurred, but she merely held it to the light. "A pretty trinket."

"Don't accept a penny less than five hundred."

"And generous, too." Her earlier reservations eased, and she gave him a winning smile. Five hundred pounds did not a generous dowry make, and she needed to commission new gowns for the remainder of the Season, but it was a start. "You have my gratitude."

"Not at all." Sir Percy held out his arm. "Shall we? The opera awaits, my lady."

The night was warm, heralding summer, and she toyed with the edge of her wrap as she followed him out to his waiting carriage. For all they had been friends these past fifteen years, his relationship with his wife was a mystery that confounded Caroline.

Sir Percy had been the one to pursue her; she was almost twenty years his junior and had not wished to be married. Her mother insisted, however, and married they were. Deluded, perhaps, by the force of his affection, he had believed his love would bring her around to loving him in return, but she had never been anything but cold towards him. Now, rumour had it that she had another lover. And so, instead of confronting her about it, Sir Percy had retaliated by enlisting her to make the girl jealous.

A fool.

But a kind one, a generous one, and one Caroline deeply wished to see happy.

"We might be late," he said, checking his pocket watch. "I'd hoped to be established for when she arrives."

"Nonsense," she said, taking a hand to her curls and mussing them somewhat. "If we arrive late, she will only assume it's because you rose from my bed too late."

" If she notices once the curtain is up."

"A lady always notices when her husband is accompanying another woman to the opera."

"Even when she is herself accompanied by a dashing young man?"

"You are perfectly dashing," she said firmly. "And I am positively notorious. The combination will not escape her, I assure you." Ladies such as Lady Cecily Somerville always sought the company of the most fashionable young gentleman. Caroline knew—she had once been just like her. But no matter how difficult their home life, she strongly believed that even a young wife could not be blind to Sir Percy's handsomeness. In his early forties, he was perhaps a little greying around the ears, but nature had blessed him with charm and an excellent figure.

There was a time when Caroline might have been tempted to make a move. But disastrously in love as he was, he had eyes for no one but the flame-haired beauty he had married.

And now, the temptation had escaped her too, replaced by a frustratingly handsome man who had pinned her against the wall and recited poetry in her ear as he sank into her.

At the thought, her stomach tightened.

Really, it was his fault that she had not found another lover; what other gentleman could live up to the erotic imagery that George Comerford had left behind like a flare of light against closed eyelids? He was a firework in the dark—no candle could compare.

At least Sir Percy would expect nothing from her but light, meaningless flirtation.

He did not have one of the upper tier boxes in the opera, but they were nevertheless high enough to watch the glittering of the enormous chandelier. Candlelight reflected off the gilding in a way that seemed almost magical; for a moment, she was young again, the glamour of the city easing her heartbreak.

Sir Percy leant in, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear. "Do you see her?"

"Of course." Cecily was sitting in the box almost directly opposite, her red hair catching in the light. Much as she was sympathetic to Sir Percy's plight, Caroline felt a little for the beautiful young woman who had been so adamant against accepting her husband's proposal. It was no fun thing to be forced into marriage.

Sir Percy had been smitten enough to think that his love would be enough. Caroline could have told him otherwise.

"She's watching us," Caroline said, leaning in, her breasts brushing his arm. "And no doubt she assumes the worst."

"Good." There was no satisfaction in his voice, merely grim pain. "Perhaps when she comes home tonight, she might speak to me."

Caroline tilted her head, ringlets brushing the bare skin of her neck as she considered him. "And you believe this is truly the best way to win her back?"

"I've tried reasoning with her to no avail. What else am I supposed to do?"

Caroline looked at the young lady in the other box. They were too far apart to make out much other than the fiery hair, but she suspected there was a mulish cast to her jaw. "You could be patient and give her space."

"And watch her flaunt her beaus across London?"

She looked at him pointedly, and he gave a wry, crooked smile. "Yes, I'm aware I'm doing precisely the same thing."

"Well, we are making her jealous, at least." She gave him an adoring smile, but before she could see what effect that might have had, her gaze snagged on a gentleman standing in the pit and staring at her.

Ordinarily, that was where she would be: in the pit with all the other gentlemen and ladies of the ton who did not have a box for the Season. That was, if she attended the opera alone at all, which was rare.

But Comerford, she knew, had purchased a box for the Season, so she could think of no reason he would not be in it.

There was a young lady by his side, a dark-haired beauty who had bewitched many of the Season's bachelors. She was pixie-thin, and her neckline daringly low. Some gentlemen preferred waifs they could easily pick up, whose stomachs were flat, whose thighs were slim and easily spread.

George Comerford, who had explored every inch of Caroline's body with his tongue, did not.

He still had not looked away. There was the darkness of possession in his gaze. The low throb of jealousy.

She was immediately back in the library at Worthington House, her front pressed against the books, his hand at her neck, and his mouth whispering filthy secrets into her ear. The way he'd held her against him had made her toes curl.

"We should be sensible about this," she'd told him as they'd dressed after a late-night rendezvous.

"In what way?"

"When we return to London."

"Oh?"

She'd kept her voice light as she'd looked at him, biting her lip in a way she knew he found irresistible. He'd said so against her stomach, murmuring his appreciation into the soft rise and fall of her flesh. "You are on the hunt for a wife."

"So?"

"So it would do you no good to be seen in my company."

His smile was especially roguish, and reminded her a little of Byron when he had been the height of fashion. "The purpose of being in your company, my dear, is not to be seen."

"Yes," she said wryly. "But word gets out. And I am not what one might consider reputable."

He kissed her neck, interrupting her as she laced up her stays. "Why, what is your reputation?"

"You know very well."

"I know that you have had your fair share of lovers," he mused, teeth grazing the tender skin below her ears. "And I know I am fortunate enough to benefit from your experience."

"Yes, but, George." She twisted in his arms so he would meet her gaze. "We both know that you have worked long and hard to establish yourself, and you are under obligation to marry. You admitted as much to me yourself. I will not get in the way of that."

He pulled back, and she wondered if he saw her excuse for what it was: a reason not to allow herself to become too invested. He was to marry, and she could not lose her head or her heart again. Her arguments over his reputation were flimsy, and they both knew it.

Still, there was resignation in his eyes, and she knew she had won. "Then let us waste no time," he said, and he had undone all her work in dressing.

Now he was watching her with something hard and fixed in his expression. The sort of expression she might have seen in a vengeful Greek statue, all marble and hard, uncompromising features.

How odd that she had once thought him soft.

He finally looked away and tossed a comment to Miss Browning, who laughed, showing perfect white teeth. They were too far away for Caroline to hear the sound, but she knew it would be softly tinkling. A girl like that never laughed with her belly.

Once, Caroline had been taught to be that way, too.

"Do you know that gentleman?" Sir Percy asked, nodding at Comerford. She could feel her heartbeat in her ears, and she cursed George Comerford from the bottom of her heart.

"Somewhat," she said.

"A past lover?"

"Yes. He is looking for a wife now."

Sir Percy gave her a sympathetic look. "And you do not consider yourself a candidate for his hand?"

"I consider myself a candidate for no man's hand," she told him, prodding him in the arm with her fan. If Comerford was looking, she could not see him. "I would not make a proper wife."

"Even if a gentleman wishes to marry you?"

"You are mistaken," she said, turning to the curtains as they jerked and slid away to the side, revealing the stage. "It is not marriage George Comerford wants from me."