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Her mother was still sputtering when Caroline let her shoulders slump and gave up. “Oh, all right, if you must know it was wretched. But Mother, what does it matter? It could have been far worse, and still I cannot regret it. We have been given a marvelous opportunity. And the earl was not bad, not at all. A tad arrogant, perhaps, and more than a little imperious, but had he been a demon I would still wed him and gladly.”
Audrae controlled her trembling lip with a quick sniff. She held her hands out for her daughter. Caroline moved into the embrace. It was familiar and soothing. She lay her head upon the slight shoulder, remembering the comfort that coveted place had afforded her through the years. Yet, now it seemed so small.
Audrae smoothed the silken strands of Caroline’s hair and sighed. “Ah, my beautiful child. I wanted so much for you, so much more than this.”
“Hush, Mother,” Caroline said bravely, pulling away with back straight and chin held high. “We are blessed to have this chance to save James. So, don’t think of it as any hardship for me. Think upon how wonderful it all is.”
Her mother gazed at her with eyes shining. She opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it and simply smiled, nodding, then turning away. “I have waited luncheon for you, Cara.”
“Very good.” In truth, Caroline was not the least bit desirous of food. What she wanted more than anything was to be by herself. To think. To ingest what had happened this morning at Hawking Park, let it settle in her brain. To reflect on the enigmatic and incorrigible man who just might become her husband.
Hawking Park was dark when the midnight hour struck, save for a miserly gas lamp in the library which was turned way down low. Magnus prowled among the shadows, traveling the length of the book-lined shelves, rounding, then heading back to his desk. The remains of his meal were littered among an untidy scatter of papers. He picked up a particular document, brushed off some crumbs and fingered it thoughtfully. Miss Wembly’s preliminary history, he saw. He had read it already, twice in fact. Tossing it back onto the desk, he watched dispassionately as it fluttered onto the mess of documents like a feather settling after a brisk ride on the wind.
He sighed, turned away and refilled his glass with three fingers of whiskey. It burned its way down to his stomach, warming him.
Miss Wembly. Just a girl, really. Only twenty and two, she had said. Not so very young, then, but making him feel, at three and thirty, like he was robbing the cradle.
Well, he thought as he threw back the last drops of his drink, turnabout is fair play. After all, she is robbing the grave!
God, he was in a foul mood tonight. He sat down at his desk and shuffled through the papers, thinking the work would distract him. It didn’t.
Why was he feeling like smashing every priceless object in the house? He should be delighted! The report on Miss Wembly was promising. He had been given a thorough review of her background—quite august—her family-blessedly small, and her character. Everything had shown her to advantage. This was a tremendous relief after the two applicants he had interviewed so far. Completely unacceptable, both of them. One, a thin wisp of a woman who looked as if the sight of her own shadow would send her into fits, and the other a strange, quirky girl of good breeding who had the annoying habit of twisting her nose, as if she were smelling something foul. Miss Wembly was far and away the best candidate.
Not only that, but he was favorably impressed with the woman herself. Perhaps too much so. He might as well admit it. Might as well also admit he had known she was the one from the first.
Well maybe not from the very first. When he had caught her gazing at her own reflection, he assumed she was some vapid, inadequately-bred chit. What he found on subsequent acquaintance was a woman who could match his wit. A woman who wanted his money, but was brave enough to say so directly. She had not breached propriety, yet neither had she fainted when he had laid his hands on her, showing herself able to handle herself in difficult situations.
And she could set his blood on fire.
That was what had him on edge tonight. Miss Wembly.
Lovely Miss Wembly, who dressed like a siren, acted the prig and yet looked at him with such challenge. An excellent choice to bear his child.
Miss Wembly who could tempt a saint with her pouting mouth and flashing eyes and who was—damn her—making him feel a new and terrible dread of leaving this world.
He pushed the thought away, crossed quickly to the decanter and splashed more whiskey in his glass. He downed it in a single swallow.
He must not think of dying. He would lose his focus, his mission. He would lose himself.
Glancing at the stack of papers on his desk, he swiped them off with a growl. Dishes and scraps of food scattered onto the floor, ruining the documents.
It made no difference. Caroline Wembly would be his wife. Waiting had merely been a formality, and his investigation of her halfhearted. It did not matter if a dozen fullblooded princesses wanted the position. He had decided. Miss Wembly’s mother could sport a cockney accent and her dead father turn out to be a fishmonger, and still Magnus knew he would have no other.
Impatiently, he unfastened the studs at his collar, opening the fine lawn shirt to midchest. He was growing warm. Perhaps he had drunk too much. Even as he thought it, he knew otherwise.
His suspicion was borne out when he began to sweat and his stomach curled gently, a teasing premonition of what was to come.
This is how it always started. His pulse quickened, as if his blood had grown thick and unwieldy in his veins. His heart felt ready to burst out of his chest, he struggled to his feet. He needed to call Arthur. Assessing his position quickly, he saw he was closer to the door than to the bell-. pull.
He made his way to the hallway, advancing only a few steps before he was able to go no farther. Cursing himself for waiting too long to summon help, he stumbled as his legs began to buckle. He was falling. Reaching out, he grabbed at a marble pedestal, knocking it askew and bringing the Chinese vase which had been set upon it down with him. The sound of it breaking into countless shards was satisfying, and sufficient to wake the entire house. He smiled wryly. He had been wanting to break something all night.
A young parlor-maid, Wendy, was the first to arrive. Arthur was fast on her heels, barking for her to return to her room. The manservant called for two burly footmen who hurried out of the attics in their nightshirts. With the efficiency and care of much practice, they hauled Magnus to his feet and bore him to his rooms.
“Get me the chamber pot,” Magnus managed to say. Arthur cleared the room, locked the door and brought his master the basin, holding it as Magnus retched in violent spasms. He was on fire, feeling as if his skin were suddenly too small for his organs. It was a nasty attack, one of the worst. How many more would he endure? When he felt well, he could scarcely fathom the fact that he was ill, but in these moments when his whole being screamed in torment, he knew with certainty he would not survive long.
Arthur gave him his paltry measure of laudanum. The beneficial effects set in immediately. The valet was summoned and undressed his master, laying Magnus carefully on the bed. Cool cloths were placed on his feverish skin. He slept, occasionally waking to vomit and shiver and wait until it was safe to administer another dose of soothing medication.
It went on like this throughout the night and most of the next day. In his waking moments, Magnus could think only of the woman who had sat with him in the grand salon. He feared he would never have the chance to act on the carnal desires which she stirred in his blood, making him crave a lifetime of such pleasures as she offered. Worse, if he died now, he would not be given the opportunity to lay his seed in her belly to take root and bring forth his redemption.
Magnus