Page 5 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

Perhaps there was hope for his new wife after all.

* * * *

Caro felt quite certain that any young woman in her right mind would be afraid of Lord Chesleigh. What did it say of her that she was not?

Not that her new husband was not intimidating. But given the choice between her father’s familiar cruelties and the temperament of a perfect stranger, she’d been more than ready to take her chances.

“Did he strike you?”

Was it her imagination or had Lord Chesleigh’s already dark eyes darkened a shade further?

“With words,” she answered after a moment, “more often than his hand. I have been a grave disappointment to him, you see. I was expected to marry well to save the family fortunes, but alas, until a few days past, my charms had proved insufficient to overcome my lack of dowry.”

Skepticism flashed across his features. “And your sister?”

Would he relent on his vow never to help her family, if she pleaded on their behalf? But the truth was, her father’s wrath had never been meted out equally. And in spite of a proper Christian upbringing, she was not quite ready to forgive. “Catherine is clever enough not to displease him.” A wicked, humorless laugh tugged at her lips before she could chase it away. “She is not, for example, a great reader.”

He folded his arms across his chest and muttered a few words she did not catch.

They rode the rest of the way in silence. The house before which the carriage stopped was large and grand, befitting a man of Lord Chesleigh’s station. His family’s townhome, she assumed.

But once inside, he surrendered her to the care of the housekeeper, Mrs. Horn, who explained in the most delicate terms possible that his lordship, who had lived abroad for many years, had only recently acquired the property, following the previous proprietor’s unfortunate accident.

“I do believe,” Mrs. Horn told her in a low voice, her matronly cheeks a surprising shade of pink, “that his lordship has held off on any redecorating, in order to give his bride the pleasure.”

For her part, Caro saw little need for great changes. The public rooms were not done up in the latest fashion, it was true, but neither were they shabby. Her own chambers were airy and bright, with pale blue walls and draperies framing wide windows through which she could just glimpse the green expanse of Hyde Park. She could imagine any number of ways to better use her time than looking at swatch books and wrangling with decorators and tradesmen.

After promising to send up a tray, Mrs. Horn left her to rest. In the dressing room, Caro discovered that her things had already been unpacked—hardly a daunting task, for there had been neither funds nor time to order a lavish trousseau. Would Lord Chesleigh be displeased tonight to find her wearing the same nightgown in which he had first seen her?

Despite a sudden flush of nervousness, she mustered a laugh. He did not strike her as the sort of man who noticed such things at all.

By the time she had removed her gloves and unpinned her hat, the breakfast tray had come. Afterward, she lay down on the bed, as Mrs. Horn had urged. She had slept little enough the last few nights that when she awoke, it was midafternoon. After writing a letter to Miss Shelley, she made her way downstairs and asked one of the servants where she might find her husband.

“His lordship’s gone out, ma’am, and begs you not to wait for him to dine.”

At seven, then, she dined alone, at one end of a vast table, in a room that smelled of flowers, though there were none. At eight, restless, she peered into the drawing room and two sitting rooms, but finding nothing with which to amuse herself, she asked whether there was a library in the house.

“Only his lordship’s study, ma’am.” And though the footman’s eyes directed her to the proper door, she demurred, curious but reluctant to trespass, and retired to her chambers instead, to bathe and ready herself for bed.

At half past nine, clad in her high-necked cambric nightgown, both the hem on one sleeve and her nerves beginning to fray, she answered the diffident tap at her door—Mrs. Horn, or one of the maids—with a rather testy-sounding, “Come.”

The door swung open to reveal Lord Chesleigh, wearing a brocaded silk dressing gown over his shirt and trousers and carrying a paper-wrapped parcel. “Should I take it from that rather insincere invitation that you do not wish to be disturbed?”

When she’d gone to bed, she’d left three candles burning, two on the mantelpiece, their flames doubled by a gilt-framed mirror hanging above the hearth, and one on the bedside table. Their combined light was insufficient to make out the expression in his hooded eyes, but enough to silver the wicked scar along the side of his face. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs—though what drove its rhythm still was not fear.

“Is that for me?” She pushed herself more upright against the pillows and nodded toward the package.

He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “A wedding gift, you might say.” He laid the parcel on the bed beside her.

She tugged at the bow of twine, and the paper fell away to reveal three duodecimo volumes, neatly bound in claret-colored leather. With one fingertip, she lifted the topmost cover. “The Highwayman’s Hostage,” she breathed, surprise nearly robbing her of breath. The book she’d mentioned in Lord Earnshaw’s library. He’d remembered. “Thank you. But I haven’t anyth—”

I haven’t anything for you.

Foolish, foolish words. She knew why he had come, of course.

Just as he knew what she had been about to say. A sardonic smile twisted his features. “If you would rather read, I can leave you in peace,” he said.

Words stuck in her throat. Methodically, she wrapped the books again and laid them on the table. When the place beside her on the bed was free, he took it, settling just on the edge of the mattress, not touching her, though she had never in her life been so aware of another person’s presence.