Just One Touch (5 page)

“Aunt Alice bought me a commission. Gave me a direction.”

“And you went to the Peninsula to fight against Napoleon. But you ended up in an enemy prison.”

“Yes.” For an instant he saw Isabel’s face again, pale and beautiful, and very dead. He closed his eyes and willed the vision away.

“You weren’t ransomed when the rest of the noble sons were.”

“No.”

“You were ransomed later.” The duke locked gazes with him. “
I
ransomed you, when your aunt Alice asked it of me.”

Rogan sat frozen, unable to move, unable to utter a single syllable. He could barely comprehend the words the duke had just spoken, yet at the same time, everything inside him howled in denial.

“Did you hear me, Hunt?”

Honor. It bound him like chains.

“I will marry your daughter,” he said, his lips barely moving.

“Excellent.” The duke sagged back in his chair, relief sweeping over his face. “I will make the arrangements.”

“Fine.” Anger bubbled up beneath the surface, but Rogan reined it in with sheer will and allowed nothing to show on his face. He rose and bowed
to the duke. “Summon me when it’s time to sign the settlement papers.”

Belvingham forced himself to his feet, his arms trembling as he used the chair for balance. “It would be best if you married quickly. I can procure a special license.”

Rogan nodded stiffly. “I will await your messenger.” Without another word, he turned and opened the door to the study.

On the other side of it, Caroline stumbled backward, having clearly attempted to eavesdrop. Rogan reached out and grabbed her arm, steadying her. She gave a soft gasp and glanced from his fingers banded around her forearm to his face. Her lovely brown eyes widened, and she tugged at her arm.

He released her, and she took a step back. She smoothed her disheveled dark hair with a trembling hand, tugging loose curls back into the knot at her nape. The stubborn locks merely fell back into tangled disarray. Beneath the shabby green velvet riding habit, he could see her chest rising and falling with anxious breaths.

“Mr. Hunt.” She drew herself up and smoothed a hand over the skirt of her habit. “Am I to assume you’ve purchased a mare today?”

“In a matter of speaking.”

Frustration flickered across her face. “Sir, please answer my question.”

He bent closer to her. “Actually, Lady Caroline, I seem to have purchased
you
.”

C
aroline took only a moment to watch Rogan walk down the hall, then she turned and hurried into her father’s study. “Papa, what did he mean?”

The duke still stood, but then one arm gave way, and Caroline hurried forward to help her father ease back into his chair. He gave her a smile and patted her arm fondly. “Good news, daughter; I’ve just arranged your marriage. I hope you are pleased.”

“You—” Her knees went weak, and she sagged into a nearby chair. “Marriage? To Mr. Hunt?”

Concern rippled across the duke’s face. “He’ll make you a good husband.”

“But—”

“You need a husband.” He held up a hand when she opened her mouth to protest. “Caroline,
we cannot pretend anymore. We both know that I am dying.”

“No,” she whispered.

“Yes,” he corrected gently. “And when I am gone, who will take care of you? The estate is entailed. Once Randall inherits—” He took a wheezing breath as if he choked on something distasteful. “Once he inherits, you will have nowhere to live.”

A spike of fear pierced her heart. For so long she had lived, safe and protected, on her father’s estate. The thought of being alone was nearly as frightening as the idea of marriage. She clenched her hands in her lap. “I don’t want anything to change.”

“Nonetheless, things do.” Her father leaned forward and took one of her clenched fists in his hand, tenderly prying open her fingers. “Daughter, you’re twenty years old. Many girls your age are already married. I believe Rogan Hunt will be a good husband to you.”

“But what about—” She fluttered her hand, then dropped it, and her gaze, to her lap.

“He knows,” her father said. “He’s a good man, a strong man. I see kindness and patience in him—just look at how he treats his horses. How he came to your rescue last night. I feel certain the two of you will come to some kind of accord.”

“I hope so.”

“Perhaps if you got to know each other better. We could have him to dinner.”

“Perhaps.” She tried to smile for him, fighting back the panic.

“Caroline.” The sternness in her father’s voice had her meeting his gaze. “Daughter, I ask you to do this for me. Let me go to my grave without worry, knowing you are cared for.”

She couldn’t refuse the plea in his eyes. “Very well, Papa. Invite Mr. Hunt to dinner.”

Rogan stood before the mirror and carefully scraped the razor along his jaw, flicking the suds into the basin in front of him. Tonight he was to dine with the duke…and his future bride.

He scowled, but then wiped the expression away since it interfered with the smooth sweep of the razor. How had he ended up in such a position? He had vowed never to marry, yet here he was, turning out his best appearance for the woman he had agreed to wed.

He dropped the razor beside the basin and grabbed a towel. As he wiped traces of soap from his face, he wondered how he was going to make this work. Tossing down the towel, he grabbed either side of the bureau, leaning close to the mirror. He searched his reflection for some hint of the beast that lurked within him. It was there, in the sharp features of his Irish ancestors, in the shadows in his eyes. Damn the Hunt curse anyway!

He spun away from the mirror and reached for his shirt. The curse went back in his family for generations. The Hunts were known for two
things: horses and a nasty temper. Most of the Hunts were hotheaded, but when the gift for horses manifested in a Hunt male, it was usually accompanied by the blackest temperament of all. Twice in his life Rogan had lost his sanity to the kind of berserker rage that had endangered the people around him. They had managed to save Effingham’s son; Isabel had not been so lucky.

Grief and guilt swept over him, leaving the bitter taste of regret in his mouth. He could still see her slim form stretched out on the floor of her tiny cottage, beautiful dark eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling as a pool of red gathered beneath her head. He’d loved her, and yet she’d died at his hands.

He swallowed back the emotions and tucked the ends of his shirt into his trousers. From that moment on, he’d sworn never to put another innocent at risk. When he’d been released from prison, he’d come home expecting to throw himself into working with the horses. But his father and brother had sold every stick and pillow of the estate to fund their life of debauchery, and the valuable mares and stallions had been the first to go.

Lost, he’d refused to join his relatives on their path of depravity—that way only lay more death for some other unsuspecting innocent. But then Aunt Alice had died, and though he grieved for this woman who had been more a mother to him than his own, he’d also felt pitifully grateful that
she had left him her small estate. Without it, he truly would have gone mad by now.

Alice had always watched over him like a guardian angel from the very first moment he’d come over from Ireland as a lad of ten. She’d stood by helplessly as his father and brother destroyed everything her husband had loved, but when Rogan showed signs of following in his sire’s footsteps, she had stepped in and bought him a commission. To make a man of him, she’d said.

And now he discovered that she’d bought him his freedom as well.

Obligation hung like a yoke on his shoulders. He took a cravat out of the drawer and slipped it around his neck, then began tying it in an elegant yet simple knot. He met his own gaze in the mirror and smiled grimly as an image of tying a noose around his neck was briefly superimposed on his reflection in the glass. Despite the money, despite Destiny, he would have avoided this course of action if he’d had a choice.

But he had no choice. He’d been able to stand firm against the offer of money and the mare, against the paranoid rantings of the duke about his heir. Even against his undeniable attraction to Caroline. But the duke had trapped him neatly with the slippery net of honor.

He only hoped Caroline would not regret it.

Panic washed over him, and he pushed it back. How was he going to do this? It was madness to
wed a woman who feared men to a husband with a filthy temper like his. Would she cry the first time he went into a rage?

Just the idea of Caroline shedding tears made him want to shove the bureau out the window. This was insanity. It would never work.

But it had to. He had no choice.

With a snarl at his reflection, he turned to find his coat.

Never before had she dressed for a man.

Stopping before a mirror in the hall, Caroline stared at the stranger reflected back at her. She wore a dinner dress of pale rose with a hint of lace tucked discreetly into the uncomfortably low neckline. The dress had been a gift from her father, as Caroline possessed nothing in the latest style that might be suitable for a woman dining with her betrothed.

Her maid, Marie, had wound her hair into a fashionable confection of upswept curls, artfully threading a rose-colored ribbon through the coiffure, which somehow anchored it in place while making it look like the dark locks might come tumbling down at any moment. Pearls graced her neck and ears, and a cloud of attar of roses accompanied her every movement. The effect was one of innocent seduction.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the drawing room.

Rogan was already there, looking darkly handsome in his basic black evening clothes. He chat
ted with her father as she slipped into the room, but then he turned and looked at her, as if sensing her presence. The instant his eyes met hers, the breath left her lungs with a soft
whoosh
.

“Caroline, you are a vision!” her father said. From his chair, he signaled her to come closer.

She obeyed, bending to kiss her father’s cheek. When she straightened, she saw that Rogan still watched her, a hungry ferocity in his expression that made her heart stutter. “Good evening, Mr. Hunt,” she whispered.

He gave her a nod. “Lady Caroline. You look lovely.”

Her tongue refused to form a reply. His very presence made her feel like a schoolgirl. For the first time, she wished she’d had the opportunity to socialize like the other girls of her age group, to learn to flirt and tease her interested suitors. Instead she’d spent those years sequestered away from society, haunted by memories of the dark side of men.

But ever since the highwaymen had attacked her carriage, it was as if she had awakened from a long sleep. She had become more aware of what she had been missing, more aware of the life that was passing her by. She hadn’t wanted to wed in such a manner, but since her father had already arranged everything, and since the groom he’d chosen was a man she would have chosen herself, she had decided to accept the inevitable. To even enjoy it.

“I believe dinner is served,” her father said.
“Hunt, do escort Caroline into the dining room. John Footman will assist me.”

Rogan’s mouth tightened, but he nodded in acquiescence and then extended his arm to her. Though his face gave nothing away, as she rested her fingers on his forearm, she got the feeling that there was more going on inside Rogan than his inscrutable demeanor would have her believe.

No doubt dinner would prove quite interesting.

Dinner dragged on with interminable slowness. The duke talked of the wedding plans—plans Rogan had had no part in making. Caroline barely said a word. Barely looked at him. She focused on her meal, cutting her pheasant into tiny, bite-sized pieces that she delicately chewed without raising her eyes from her plate.

His future father-in-law had arranged and paid for
his
wedding, and his bride couldn’t even look at him. With every moment that passed, Rogan felt more and more superfluous. Manipulated. Used.

He hated feeling used.

Irritation grew. His replies became monosyllabic. Caroline cast him fleeting, fearful looks from across the table. A frown furrowed the duke’s brow. The conversation eventually faded to uncomfortable silence.

Rogan ate his pheasant with methodical precision, each slice of the knife biting deeper until the metal scraped harshly against the plate. He put down his knife and fork, tried to breathe. His
clothing suddenly fit too tight, his neck cloth all but choking him. The room felt too warm, too stuffy.

Caroline sent him another of those worried looks, biting her bottom lip with her small white teeth. The movement caught his attention, held it. He couldn’t take his eyes away from her mouth.

He knew the instant she sensed his interest. Her dark eyes widened with alarm, and she pressed her lips closed. Still he watched her. His bride. She looked so beautiful in the light of the candles, the flattering rose-colored dress bringing out the lovely shade of her dark brown hair and emphasizing her creamy skin.

What would she look like wearing nothing but the candlelight?

Lust grabbed him with hot talons, twisting his loins into throbbing discomfort. For an instant he could imagine it, the two of them tangled in the sheets of his bed, her body trembling with pleasure as he introduced her to the world of sex. Was she the type to make that breathless keening sound in the back of her throat, the one that sounded like a crying kitten and drove a man wild? Or perhaps she was a screamer. Would she scream his name as she took her pleasure?

She met his gaze again. He gave her a slow smile, pleasantly aroused by his fantasy. Crimson swept into her cheeks as she read his expression, and her lips parted as if in protest. Then he read the gleam of interest in her eyes.

Followed immediately by fear.

The terror that flashed across her face doused his hunger like a bucket of icy water. What was he doing? He knew about Caroline. Yes, they were to be married, but with the way things currently stood, he knew he would be seeking his bed alone come their wedding night.

He focused on breathing, took a sip of wine to calm his overheated libido. He was no monster to be devouring his innocent bride. Wooing Caroline would take extreme patience and delicacy. He didn’t want to scare her. He wanted her to come willingly to his bed.

Even if it killed him.

Caroline breathed a sigh of relief when dinner ended. Rogan’s heated stare had left her edgy and uncomfortable. She thought to politely excuse herself and retire to her room, there to contemplate the strange events of the evening. But when they had all retired to the drawing room (the men eschewing their nightly cigars and port since Caroline was the only woman present), her father spoke before she could escape.

“I’m weary and would seek my bed,” he said, remaining in the doorway with John Footman supporting him. “The betrothal agreement has been signed, and it would do the two of you good to become acquainted before the wedding on Friday. I’ll trust you to conduct yourself as a gentleman, Hunt.”

Rogan stiffened where he sat in the chair across from her, but merely nodded.

The duke turned his gaze to Caroline, who sat on the settee. “And should you need assistance, daughter, the footmen are outside the door.”

Caroline flushed with embarrassment, because of both her father’s lack of subtlety and her own relief at hearing that help was close at hand. “Good night, Papa.”

Belvingham quit the room, leaving the door ajar.

She was alone with Rogan Hunt. Her fiancé.

She searched her mind for clever conversation, but found only flutterings of fear and nerves.

“Lady Caroline.” His deep voice rumbled like a cannon in the silent room. “Should you continue to twist your fingers like that, I fear you will do yourself harm.”

She glanced down, saw she was indeed clenching her fingers together like a brainless ninny. Deliberately she opened her hands, smoothed her palms over her skirt, and met his gaze with far more composure than she felt. “The situation is awkward, Mr. Hunt. I am not given to fretting and vapors, I assure you.”

A smile quirked one side of his mouth. “I’m aware of that, Lady Caroline. Remember, I’ve seen you under difficult circumstances, and I’ve yet to meet a woman less likely to succumb to the vapors.”

His sincere admiration washed over her like warm sunshine. “Thank you. But these circumstances…our betrothal…” She dropped her gaze. “It is…difficult.”