Page 21 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

He turned away from her, toward the large bow window at the front of the house, overlooking the water. The sun was setting, painting the channel and the pebbled strand and the glass itself with its reflected glory.

The next time he saw its colors, he would be on his way to London.

When he turned back, she was gone.

Chapter 7

When sunrise began to streak the sky, Caro untangled herself from the bed where she had passed a sleepless night. She had dined on a tray in her room rather than face him over the table, and retired soon after—a mistake, she had soon discovered. Lying in the dark led to thinking in the dark, and hadn’t she learned to avoid that after all these years?

She had not locked the door to her chamber; she knew full well it would not stop her husband if he wanted to come to her. His intent to master the stubborn lock on Lord Earnshaw’s library door had led them to this pass.

She had lain stiff as a board, listening and waiting—for what, she did not know.

But she’d heard no more than a few indecipherable murmurs through the wall that divided the two bedchambers, the opening and closing of doors other than her own, and once, something that might have been a snore. When exhaustion at last forced her rigid muscles to slacken, she had looked up at the ceiling and tried to picture the stars in the sky beyond, so that she might count them.

All she could picture in her mind’s eye was him.

She had not forgotten his scars. In fact, it was possible her memory had exaggerated them, made them more than they really were. But his appearance had never bothered her, never frightened her. He had never frightened her—at least, not at first.

Now, she better understood the sort of pain he was prepared to cause.

After six years, his outward appearance was largely unchanged. A little older, a little more haggard, a little more sun browned—one might say much the same of her, she supposed, though she had always taken scrupulous care with her complexion.

The inward changes, however… She was not the same person she had been, a naïve girl whose reading had given her romantic aspirations, who imagined she had escaped her father’s cruelty. Whether her husband had changed—was capable of change—was something that could only be discovered with time. But time with him, thank God, was fleeting. In a few hours, he would be gone.

The Duke of Hartwell. The rumors of his rupture with his grandfather must have had some truth in them, after all. She had suspected as much, when the man had never so much as acknowledged her existence. And now, she was a duchess, a woman with an important role to fill in society—though mostly dependent on whether her husband chose to fill his. She could not predict how her life would change from this point forward, with one exception.

Her family’s letters, when they came, would demand even more.

When the first glimmers of sunrise began to dispel the night’s gloom, she rose and dressed without ringing for her maid. Through the bow window in her bedchamber, identical to the window in the drawing room below, she looked out on the expanse of silvery gray water, a shade or two darker than the sky. Wind and sea dueled, neither showing any signs of tiring. It would be cold on the strand. Uncomfortable. Even if Fanny Drummond had understood her invitation, she would not expect to meet her at this hour, under these conditions. But Caro could not wait another moment.

On the landing, someone had left a tray on the hall table between the two doors. Ordinarily, she took breakfast only after she returned from her walk. But perhaps Mrs. Horn had anticipated that Caro would need some fortification this morning. Or perhaps the repast had been left for…their guest. Hearing no bustle of departure from the other room, Caro filled a cup with as much as she could of the steaming coffee, added sugar, and took great delight in swallowing half of the black brew before she reached the ground floor.

Despite the early hour, Geoffrey, the footman, stood at the ready in the entry hall. “You needn’t step out this morning,” she assured him, handing off her mostly empty cup. She thought she caught a glimmer of relief in his face as he took it from her, opened the door, and bowed her through it.

The sharp morning air stole her breath, but it carried with it a welcome greeting.

“I’m here,” called Mrs. Drummond, rounding the western end of Royal Crescent. “So sorry to be late.” Her manservant trudged along behind her, looking sleepy, his wig askew enough to reveal ginger hair beneath.

“Not late,” Caro reassured her as they met at the foot of the stairs. “I’m setting out half an hour earlier than usual, at least. I…” Fanny’s eyes were already searching her face through the veil. Not much point in denying it. “I didn’t sleep a wink.” Though the morning light wasn’t especially bright, she found herself squinting against it as a headache pierced her temples.

“You poor dear. He didn’t—” Fanny’s cheeks flamed. “Oh, I beg your pardon. It wasn’t my intention to ask an improper question. I was merely worried—”

“He didn’t,” Caro reassured her, looping her arm through her friend’s and feeling some of the night’s tension ease from her shoulders. “And by the time we return, he will be gone again.”

“Gone? I…see.”

From her expression, she plainly didn’t see, and she certainly might be forgiven her lack of understanding. Caro herself felt befuddled. They walked along in silence for some time, the scuff of their walking boots nearly lost to the noise of wind and water. She glanced over her shoulder to spy the drowsy footman leaning against a paling, pretending to watch their progress from a distance. “He has important business in London,” she explained, her voice low. “He merely stopped in Brighton to”—Unsettle me? Upset me? Undo whatever meager peace the passage of six years has brought?—“deliver the news of his grandfather’s passing.”

“Of course.” Fanny managed, somehow, to make it sound as if the Duke of Hartwell’s behavior was eminently reasonable. “I ought to have offered my condolences yesterday, but I was—”

“Surprised? Not more than I was, I assure you. But I never met the man, and Hartwell…” She recalled his harsh words at her suggestion the household observe the usual practices of mourning. “I don’t believe Hartwell and his grandfather were close.”

Fanny made a murmur but said nothing more.

“I suppose word of my husband’s return is already being bandied about?” Caro asked when they had walked another dozen yards, the pounding in her head only growing worse, rather than being cleared by the sea air.

Fanny’s arm stiffened. “I’m no gossip. But…yes. I fear it is.”