Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T he carriage came to a standstill outside the Mayfair townhouse. Remembering not to make the same mistake twice, Max opened the door and held out his hand to his wife.

Carrying the cat in one arm, Caroline accepted the proffered hand. They walked together to the bottom of the porch steps where, for reasons quite unknown to Max, he decided that he would carry them both—feline and wife alike—over the threshold of his London residence.

"What are you—!" Caroline gasped, clinging more tightly to Powder Puff.

"It is more for the little beast than you," Max replied nonchalantly. "I would hate for her to think she was not being treated like a princess for even a moment."

How could he tell her that he had no idea why he thought it important to make right what he had done wrong the first time? Nor could he tell her that he was suddenly and inexplicably nervous, wondering what she would make of the townhouse. It was the only thing he had kept in the transfer of the earldom to Dickie, as it was not technically part of that neatly wrapped parcel. The only thing unchanged.

Dickie had not cared at all, for when he was in London, he took it upon himself to be a nuisance to as many of his friends as possible, overstaying his welcome wherever he chose to reside.

Caroline's arm slipped around Max's neck, coming all the way around to drape over his chest. As if she was comfortable in his embrace, as if she was glad that he was making things right. A far cry from the way they had begun.

"Welcome to your city residence," he said awkwardly, reaching the door.

Some of the staff had made the journey the previous day to prepare the house for the couple's arrival after months without use, so the door graciously creaked open as Max managed to turn the knob.

Mrs. Whitlock had evidently been waiting for the Duke and Duchess, but the moment she saw them enter in such a surprising fashion, she darted into the nearest hallway in a manner that was not at all subtle. If Caroline had noticed, she did not say so, her gaze leisurely taking in the fine entrance hall.

"This is beautiful," Caroline said, making no demand to be let down. "It is so much… brighter than my brother's. That townhouse has not been altered in a long time. Oh… look at that chandelier! How pretty!"

The hanging crystals caught the late afternoon light, the glow coming through the windows veering toward the bronze of sunset. And down below on the elegantly painted tiles—pale blue vines and ivy leaves on white—the crystals cast rainbow shards that, in turn, reflected on Caroline's face.

Carefully, Max set his wife down. "I know it is somewhat abrupt…" he began, his nerves rising as Caroline's eyes widened slightly as if she was expecting him to say something profound.

"Go on…" she urged when he did not speak.

"There is a small gathering this evening," he said, concentrating on the cat so he did not have to hold Caroline's gaze. "Not quite a ball, but larger than a dinner party. An evening soirée of sorts to whet our appetites for the London Season, or so the invitation said."

He could almost feel Caroline's disappointment. Nevertheless, he continued, putting on a teasing tone, "I realize it is unseemly of me to ask a lady to ready herself in fewer than two hours, but if you think it can be done, we ought to attend."

"Do I know the host?" she asked, her voice too tight in its brightness.

"I doubt it," he replied. "He is a friend from Eton, but I hear his wife is an affable sort. They are a happy result of my sister's romantic meddling, in truth."

He did not add that the friend in question might be the one in possession of Caroline's future residence: a pleasant country house that was not even an hour's journey from Westyork, situating her perfectly for visits with friends and family.

Caroline straightened up. "Will Anna be there?"

"I do not know," Max admitted. "Perhaps."

Caroline looked off toward the shadow of the hallway where Mrs. Whitlock had tucked herself away, giving the couple some privacy. "Mrs. Whitlock, might you fetch Lila so that we can begin my transformation?"

"Of course, Your Grace," came an embarrassed voice from the corridor.

"I shall see you in two hours," Caroline said to her husband, a look of determination upon her face.

Max longed to brush back the lock of dark hair that had fallen loose from her bonnet, but he clenched his hand to stop himself. He needed to be more careful of his actions, for though their honeymoon had eventually been a pleasant month, he could not be the husband she deserved in the longer term. He was too busy, too absent, too concerned with his work, and much too jaded to be what a vivacious young wife needed.

I will not be your shackles, Caro. You will have the freedom you were promised.

"We do not have to if you still feel unwell from the journey," he said, in case she was only agreeing because she thought she should.

But she shook her head. "Nonsense. I am perfectly well, and if we are to show society that we are hopelessly in love, it must start with a most astonishing gown." She smiled, but it did not reach her beautiful, honey-hazel eyes. "I have just the one. Now, if you will excuse me."

She set off up the curving staircase, only to halt as Max called out, "Do you know where you are going?"

"A good point, well made," Caroline replied with a stiff chuckle.

"Would you like me to show you to your bedchamber? It adjoins mine," he said, unable to stop his mind from drifting back to the Grayling Ball, and the sight of her standing in his guest room.

If he had known then that they would be married, he wondered how he would have behaved. Would he have been kinder? Would he have been envious that she had gone there to speak with someone else? Would he have realized then just how beautiful she was, just how wonderful she was, instead of seeing her as a nuisance?

"No, thank you," Caroline replied. "Mrs. Whitlock can show me."

The housekeeper shot out of the hallway and followed her up the stairs, the two women disappearing around the upward bend of the staircase and out of sight.

Max paced the entrance hall, shoes scuffing on the tile, as he checked his pocket watch for the thousandth time. For a moment, he was transported back to the church, waiting for the brother who had no intention of turning up.

Is this what I would have felt like if I had known that day was my wedding day?

His chest was winched tight with nerves, his heart beating unsteadily, his stomach churning, making sitting still an impossible task. He had tried but had jumped up two seconds later, resuming his pacing, splitting his watchful gaze between the staircase and his pocket watch.

A floorboard creaked above, and Max's attention shot toward the stairs.

He waited with bated breath as his wife descended, escorted by a rather gleeful-looking Mrs. Whitlock.

But he was utterly breathless by the time Caroline appeared on the last stretch of steps, facing him as she continued her descent. She might have been a Spanish queen, in a gown of garnet red, with rubies at her throat and a thin diadem of gold filigree in her raven dark hair; the locks woven around the golden band. A red rose, made of velvet to weather every season, was fastened into the braided bun atop her head.

Against that bold red, her skin glowed, her complexion like peaches and cream, her eyes gleaming with confidence, while her lips seemed a shade darker than usual as if she had bitten them into blushing.

Max doubted he had ever seen anyone more beautiful, more ethereal, more enchanting than the woman approaching him. The woman who, quite by accident, was also his wife.

"Twenty minutes late," Caroline said with laughter in her voice. "That is assuredly the fastest I have ever dressed and prepared for an evening soirée of any kind."

Max could not speak, his tongue tied by the otherworldly vision she had become, his eyes still feasting on all of the details of her appearance.

Caroline frowned. "Are you so cross with me that you cannot say anything? I did not think I was that late."

"I am not cross," he replied huskily. "I am… waiting for my wife."

"Pardon?"

"She is up there somewhere," he said, clearing his throat. "I apologize, but it would be improper of me to converse with any other woman, even a queen like yourself, for I am a married man. Please, continue to the king who is assuredly waiting for you in his gilded carriage."

It took a few moments before Caroline burst into laughter, her hand covering her mouth in that way she always did. Every part of Max wanted to reach out and pull that hand away, so he could see her laughter, her mirth in its full glory, but he did not trust himself to touch her at all. If he did, he was sure she would cast a spell upon him; rather, weave a stronger spell upon him, that he would not be able to resist.

I said she was a sorceress. I was not mistaken.

"What if I were to grant you Royal permission to escort me to this evening's revels?" she teased, her cheeks flushing with such a pretty shade of pink that it made his skin feel suddenly feverish.

Max bowed his head. "I would not be able to refuse a Royal decree."

"Very well, Duke of Harewood, lead me to the party," Caroline said, clearly delighted by the response she had gained from her husband.

With a steadying breath, he offered her his arm, for though he wanted to take her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers, he could not risk the intimacy of it.

She looped her arm through his and leaned into his side as he escorted her across the entrance hall. All around, in the hallways, in the doorways, on the landing above, the smaller cohort of servants had come to spectate. They were restrained in their delight, but Max could feel their excitement, and see the enchantment on each of their faces.

But he had little time to concentrate on them, as the scent of Caroline's perfume struck him like a kick to the chest: sweet and spicy and exotic, applied more liberally than the fashion of the day dictated. It was overwhelming in the best possible way, infiltrating his senses until he was dizzy with the scent, sight, and touch of his wife at his side.

She was almost hugging his arm, leaving no gap between them, her giddiness apparent in the spring of her step and the light in her eyes as she began to tug him toward the carriage. The bubble of Harewood Court had popped—evidently, she was ready to shuffle off the quiet countryside life and launch herself into society again.

Once inside the carriage, Caroline surprised him by choosing to sit on his side of the squabs with him. She perched delicately, pressed up close against him, and though he would have been content to keep his hands to himself, she suddenly grabbed his hand and squeezed it.

"I never thought I would be looking forward to spending more time in London," she confessed. "I adore the Season in Bath, I adore house parties at country manors, I adore the Countess of Grayling's London gatherings, but I have never actually been excited to reside in London for any considerable length until now."

Max stared down at her hand in his. "That… surprises me. I assumed you would look forward to London the most."

"Oh, do not mistake me, I relish the social events, but London itself has never been a favorite of mine," she replied, chattering with a new confidence. "But… it is like I am seeing it for the first time, and I cannot wait to see what it is like now that I have greater freedom to explore. I suppose I was always aware that my every move was being watched, whether by society or by a chaperone, but that is no longer true—not the chaperone part, anyway."

He let his hand relax, sliding his fingers between hers to better hold hers. "Are you nervous, Caro?"

Her breath caught, though he did not understand why. "Nervous? Not exactly," she replied, lowering her gaze. "Apprehensive might be a better word. You know, we really must scold that postman for not delivering the papers and scandal sheets to us. I might know what I am about to face if I had scoured them for any news of me."

"No one will say anything," Max insisted. "No one will so much as whisper behind their hands to one another with me at your side. I can have quite the glare when I choose to use it, and it has been known to stop gossip in an instant."

"Is that so?" She chuckled, peering up at him. "Let me see it."

He shook his head. "I could not. It might frighten you."

"I am not so easily scared."

But as long as she was gazing at him like that, with eyes so bright and warm, with that winning smile upon her face, there was no possible way he could scowl at her. Not even as a pretense.

Instead, he reached his other hand up to cradle her cheek, brushing his thumb lightly across the rosy apple. His heart began to race, his teeth grazing his lower lip as if to bite them into submission, punishing them for what they suddenly desired to do. He could not—would not—kiss her, for if he did, it would undoubtedly alter the course of the future that they had both decided to walk upon, separately.

"Tonight, you will silence anyone who would even think of saying anything unkind," he told her. "And anyone who still has something to say will only be speaking from jealousy. I know this was not your dream, Caro, but what you will become is only just beginning. That dream is not over. It starts now."

She echoed him, chewing anxiously on her lip. "What do you mean?" Her gaze was a whirlpool of temptation, pulling him in while he fought to swim against it. "What starts now, husband?"

Husband… Of course, he knew that was what he was to her, but she had never spoken that word so softly, so enticingly before. It had always been said with a note of sarcasm or teasing.

"Everything you have ever wanted," he replied, his throat tight. "And if part of that is still love…"

"Yes…" she murmured, eyes shining.

"Then perhaps you will find him at this gathering tonight," he said. "Of course, short of me dying, you will not be able to marry him. But I want you to have everything you desire, Caro, in whatever capacity is possible. Any children you have will be raised as mine, will inherit as if they were mine, for it was a mere chance that I inherited the dukedom in the first place. I have no emotional bond to it as I did Greenfield."

Her gaze frosted over, and she slowly drew her hand out of his, resting both hands primly in her lap. "You are too generous, Max, but do you not think that is also somewhat insulting?"

"In what respect?" He missed the feeling of his fingers interlaced with hers, and basking in the warmth of her eyes. But perhaps that was for the best, to miss briefly what could never be his permanently.

She furrowed her brow. "That I would, even with your permission, make you a cuckold. This might not have been my dream, as you said, but I have dignity, and I have honor. I would not be a traitor to the vows I made. That is not how I was raised."

"But you should not be held to vows that were made under duress," he insisted, bemused by her unexpected desire to be faithful. And twice as bemused by the feeling of relief that gave him.

She sniffed, turning her gaze away to watch the London landscape roll by the window—uniform townhouses, pretty private parks, leafy streets, evening vendors on the corners selling posies and ribbons, and hardy lavender to sweeten the scent inside carriages.

"If you feel that way," she said thickly, "then perhaps we should not be putting on a united ruse for society. Instead, perhaps we should spend the next few weeks discussing an annulment."