She tensed. “I’m a bit what?”
“Well, it’s just that you’re a bit . . .” His voice trailed off.
This was far worse than she’d ever imagined. Plain. That’s what he was going to say. She knew it. She was a bit plain to pass as a mistress. Well, better to get it out in the open. “A bit
what,
Mr. Granville?”
“It isn’t a bad thing,” he assured her, hastily. “It’s just that you’re quite young—”
Young? Did he think he could fool her? She knew what he’d been going to say. “I happen,” she said, stiffly, “to be twenty-one years old.”
“Really?” He seemed inordinately surprised by this information. “You seem a good deal younger. That’s part of the problem—”
There it was. Plain. It was on the tip of his lips. Those supremely masculine, yet oddly sensitive-seeming, lips.
“What problem?” Caroline choked.
“Well, just that you seem—” He shrugged those massive shoulders. “—a bit
virginal
to be a mistress.”
Virginal! Virginal! Well, maybe it wasn’t as bad as plain, but . . .
virginal?
Seeing her horrified expression, he added, “Virginity isn’t a bad thing, Lady Caroline. Most men, as a matter of fact, require it in a bride.”
“But not in a mistress,” Caroline wailed, wanting to bury her burning face in her hands.
“Well,” he said. “No, I suppose not. But there are some men who prefer—”
“Certainly,” she said, with a good deal of bitterness. “Men who don’t care to try their trousers on before they buy them. And what kind of fool does
that?”
“Trousers?” Braden Granville looked puzzled. “Who said anything about trousers?”
“I suppose you tried
yours
on before you bought them. Jacquelyn Seldon doesn’t exactly strike me as the virginal type.”
Braden Granville’s dark eyebrows rose again. “I believe,” he said, “that you have just slandered my future bride.”
“We both know, Mr. Granville, that your future bride is hardly an innocent,” Caroline said, still stung at the
virginal
slur. “I happen to know for a fact that that’s the
last
thing she is.”
She wasn’t expecting it, so when he suddenly leaned forward, his wide torso blocking everything else from view, and those large fists of his reaching out to grasp the arms of her chair, effectively trapping her, she let out a little yelp of surprise. She looked up, and found her entire field of vision filled with the furious face of Braden Granville.
And Braden Granville’s face, she discovered, definitely did not qualify as nice looking when it was twisted with fury.
“Tell me,” he barked at her. “Tell me who you saw her with, or by God—”
Much as he intimidated her—and by now, Caroline had decided that Braden Granville intimidated her very much indeed: she felt like kindling in the heat of his fury—Caroline could not but be impressed by the fact that everything she saw before her—the lushly furnished office on the most expensive stretch of commercial property in London; the busy front rooms, filled with employees; even the impeccably cut morning coat and intricately tied cravat he wore, had been earned by the labor of the hard hands on either side of her. It was something that could be said of few men of her acquaintance. It wasn’t something that could be said of Hurst, that was for certain. In fact, just about the only man of whom it could be said, besides Braden Granville, was Caroline’s own father.
But that was no reason, she decided, he ought to get away with such churlish behavior.
“For heaven’s sake, Mr. Granville,” she said, and was proud when her voice didn’t shake. “I don’t think in this particular case violence will get you what you want.”
He released her chair so suddenly that a wind seemed to rush in and cool all the places that he’d singed, previously, with his nearness.
“Forgive me, Lady Caroline,” he said, in that familiar growl, his back to her, his hands buried deep in his pockets, as if to keep them still. He seemed to be trying to regain his composure. Caroline welcomed the brief respite from that darkly penetrating gaze. It gave her a chance to catch her breath. Even an act as simple as breathing seemed, for some reason, to become very difficult for her whenever Braden Granville was around.
“That’s quite all right, Mr. Granville,” she said, hoping her relief that the storm was over didn’t show in her voice. “It was my fault. I should not have said anything so . . . inflammatory about your fiancée.”
He swung upon her again, only this time, he wore an expression of contrition, not fury. Even more surprising was her realization that contrition became Braden Granville. His features had softened just enough so that they might have almost passed for handsome—not in the common, blond-haired, blue-eyed way, like the Marquis of Winchilsea—but in a rugged, more earthy sense.
“The fault is mine,” he said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “Not yours.”
“Still,” Caroline said. In spite of herself, she was moved. Who would have thought that the great “Granville” was a man capable of such humility? Not her.
“You have a right to be angry. You love your fiancée,” she said, in a gentle voice, “every bit as much as I love mine, and I’m certain it must hurt you very much indeed to hear that she has been unfaithful—”
He interrupted, quite drily, considering his earlier emotion. “You mention your fiancé. He hasn’t, I suppose, any idea that you’ve come to me with this . . . interesting proposal?”
Caroline’s jaw dropped. “Of course not!”
“No.” He nodded. “I thought not. Though I take it that the reason you’re in such dire need of this information is that you intend to use it upon him.”
“Well,” Caroline said. “Of course. Who else?”
“Who else, indeed?” Braden asked, in a thoughtful manner. “And yet I hardly think, Lady Caroline, that he will be at all pleased when he learns what you’ve done.”
Caroline said, “Oh, but he won’t. Learn of it, I mean.
I
certainly shan’t tell him. And I am trusting that you, sir, will be discreet—”
“Ah,” Braden Granville said. “But what will you say when he asks how it is you happen to have come by your newfound knowledge?”
“Simple,” Caroline interrupted, with a shrug. “I shall tell him I learnt it all in a book.”
“A book,” Braden Granville repeated, looking as if he did not believe her.
“Yes, a book. There are such books, I believe. I have never read one, but Tommy told me he saw one, up at Oxford—”
“Your brother,” Braden Granville muttered, taking his hands from his pockets and beginning to pace impatiently, “talks a good deal too much. But that was not precisely what I meant to ask. I meant, what do you think your fiancé is going to think when you inform him that you will be acting as a witness on my behalf at Lady Jacquelyn Seldon’s breach of promise suit?”
She bit her lip. This was, of course, something she’d thought long and hard about. Because Hurst would not be happy about it. No, indeed. The idea of his wife—for she would, she was quite certain, be his wife when the trial took place, since court cases moved so slowly—taking part in anything so scandalous would surely horrify Hurst.
But the fact that she would be testifying against his lover . . . well, that was going to be interesting, to say the least.
But it seemed so far away, Braden Granville’s court date—for all she knew, it might never come. Her hope was that, by the time it did, she would have Hurst well in hand, besotted with her, as he should be, and perfectly mortified at the thought that he had ever so much as looked sideways at Jackie Seldon.
That, at least, was what she told herself. To Braden Granville, she said something quite different:
“Mr. Granville, I must say, you are not living up to your reputation as either a Don Juan or a businessman. I have made you a perfectly sound offer. Let me do the worrying over details such as what I am going to explain to my fiancé . . . such as how I feel it is my duty to share with the court what I know. Hurst understands that I frequently volunteer my time for charitable causes. This is no different.”
Caroline tried to maintain an air of casual indifference. She didn’t want Braden Granville to see how worried the thought of testifying made her. Her mother, she knew, would be furious with her, and Hurst wouldn’t like it—not in the least. Even if she told her family what she intended to tell the court—that the face of the gentleman in question had been turned away from her—Hurst would always wonder if she really knew. How could he help but wonder?
But maybe, she thought, a little wondering would do him some good.
When Braden Granville didn’t say anything else for a little while—though several times she thought him on the verge of doing so—Caroline finally said, hesitantly, “So. Will you help me, Mr. Granville? In exchange for my helping you?”
Braden Granville, looking thoughtful, strolled toward one of the tall windows on the far side of the room. He stood there for a moment, apparently admiring the view, and Caroline, standing behind him, did the same. Because, truthfully, Braden Granville did have a very impressive physique. Rarely did Caroline see such a broad and powerful back, such wide shoulders, such muscular thighs, in the circles in which she traveled. At the smithies, maybe, when she took her horses for shoeing. Or in the stable yard, when feeding time came around, and the oats were being divvied out by strong-armed stable boys. But certainly not in the ballrooms, where Caroline was required to put in such regular appearances.
But then, Braden Granville, as the marquis had reminded her so bluntly that night at Dame Ashforth’s, was
not
one of them. He was an outsider, and would always remain so, even if—
especially
if—he ended up marrying the daughter of a duke.
“If your fiancè truly loves you, Lady Caroline,” Braden said, not turning from the window, and speaking in a voice that was so soft and low that she found herself leaning forward a little in order to hear it, “then, I feel obligated to inform you, nothing I can teach you will be of any use at all. However unskilled you might consider yourself in the bedroom, he will only find you enchanting if he loves you. But if—” Here the voice lost all of its silkiness, and became hard as flint again. “—if he is only marrying you for your money—”
Caroline sucked in her breath. Really, this was getting worse and worse! Certainly the man was purported to be a genius, but why had no one bothered to mention that he was also a mind reader?
“Yes?” she asked, trying not to sound too eager. “What then?”
He turned to face her. The bright sunlight, pouring in from outside, threw his face into shadow. “Then, Lady Caroline, nothing you do or say will change that. You cannot force someone to fall in love with you. Oh, you might tantalize him, for a time. You might win his respect, even his admiration. But love . . . true love. . . . That’s something few find, and even fewer are able to hold onto, when they do happen to find it.”
She stared at him, feeling oddly deflated. He sounded so sad, so . . . fatalistic. Could this be the man Thomas admired so much, the great Braden Granville, the man who could do no wrong? Braden Granville, waxing eloquent on the mystery of love? Braden Granville, whom nothing, no one could stop, telling her to give up?
Well, she wouldn’t give up.
He
might be willing to abandon his fiancée, but Caroline didn’t have that luxury. How could she leave Hurst—now, with the invitations already out, and more gifts arriving every day? Everyone would think her the most ungrateful girl in the world, forsaking the man who’d done so much for her brother, for her family. True love. What did Braden Granville know of true love? Not so bloody much.
There, she’d said it. Well, to herself, anyway. Not so
bloody
much, did he, with his own fiancée going about, making a fool of him all over London . . . just as Hurst had made a fool of her, with those endearments he’d whispered in her ear, the secret hand holding beneath the table, all those kisses. . . .
Those kisses he hadn’t meant. Not a one.
Well, she’d make him mean them. See if she didn’t.
She lifted her chin, preparing to tell Braden Granville exactly what she thought about his treatise on true love, when something in his expression silenced her. Quite suddenly, she knew. She knew even before she asked, “You aren’t going to help me, are you, Mr. Granville?”
“No,” he said, gently. She could not tell what he was feeling. He might as well, she thought, be refusing a tea-cake, his face was that impassive. “I’m extremely grateful, Lady Caroline,” he went on, “for your more than generous offer, but I think I would prefer not to drag you into this rather . . . tawdry situation between myself and my fiancée. You are a very respectable young lady, and it would be unconscionable of me to allow you to tarnish your reputation for my sake. So I hope you will understand when I say I’m afraid I cannot accept your terms.”
She set her jaw. “I see,” she said, coolly . . . though in truth, she felt very much like crying. Still, she held back the tears, and went on, bravely, “Well, that is unfortunate. Especially since, from what I understand, the only person in England with more experience with women than you, Mr. Granville, is the Prince of Wales. And I’m not at all sure he’ll see me.”