Caroline lay in her beautiful mahogany bed—a bed she’d never shared with Freddie, he hadn’t brought her to London—and stared dry-eyed into the thick darkness. She felt restless and jumpy and achy.
She’d craved for the relief of tears, but by the time she sent her maid away, her misery had calcified into a hard, painful monolith inside her. So she remained awake, revisiting the night’s events and loathing herself. And thinking over her time in London and before that, the barren years of Freddie’s illness. Back further to the unhappy young wife—bored, unfulfilled, smothered by an isolation that crushed every drop of life out of her.
It wasn’t a very impressive history.
She wasn’t a very impressive person.
But until now, at least she’d prided herself on her sharp wits. When it turned out she was the greatest fool in London. In England. In the world.
With a groan, she turned over to bury her hot face in the cool linen of her pillow. Tonight had battered her with the devastating truth that she’d struggled so hard against acknowledging. Three simple words tortured her. Not the three that had haunted her since she’d looked across a crowded ballroom. Silas. And Fenella.
That was bad enough. But worse by far were the three now tormenting her.
I love Silas.
Of course she did. She’d loved him for months. Perhaps from the moment he’d smiled at her across his sister’s drawing room and said something teasing to Helena about her ability with calculus contrasting with her ineptitude with tea. Caroline had laughed—he’d made her laugh so often since. She loved his generous spirit. She loved his perceptive, acute mind. She loved his curiosity and his humor.
She loved his quirky, expressive face, and his hazel eyes bright with private amusement. She loved his tall, loose-limbed body with its broad shoulders and narrow hips and strong swordsman’s thighs. She loved his competent, powerful hands and his firm, smiling mouth.
She wanted Silas Nash in her bed. She wanted him to press her deep into the mattress as he thrust inside her.
Panting, she rolled onto her back and slid her hand down her belly to her mound. It didn’t help. Her touch couldn’t answer this desire. Only Silas could do that.
At last the tears broke, trickling down her temples to the pillow. Everything was such a blasted mess. Her love for Silas didn’t change the path she followed. After a lifetime of pandering to other people, she refused to surrender her newly acquired freedom.
Not even for love’s sake.
Just thinking about her life with Freddie slung crushing chains of fear around her chest. She gasped for air, staring up at the ceiling and telling herself she was free.
Surely there was no need to be so frightened. As long as she didn’t yield to this unacceptable love, she’d remain free. She’d sworn on Freddie’s early grave that she’d never marry again. Her marriage had been a ten year prison sentence, and while she was sorry Freddie was dead, her strongest and utterly shameful reaction at his passing had been overwhelming relief. Both that Freddie’s sufferings were over and that she was no longer obliged to serve him.
Even if Silas wanted her, she couldn’t marry him. Not if she meant to be true to herself as she’d never had the chance to be true to herself before. Between her father and Freddie, her every moment had been under another’s control. Like a fox in a poacher’s trap, her soul had strained against that subjugation. These last months, she’d tasted the ambrosia of ordering her own life. The prospect of yielding that independence to a man, no matter how benevolent, made those chains around her chest tighten to the point of agony. Love was just another cage.
That meant if she wanted Silas, she must join the endless parade of his paramours. How long would she hold his attention? A week? A month? Even a year, unprecedented for him, would leave her devastated once it was over. What freedom was there in that?
The stark fact remained. She needed a lover, not someone she loved.
Anyway, if she was right, Silas wasn’t remotely interested in Caroline Beaumont. He was in thrall to sweet, charming, delicate Fenella. Even someone as jaded about marriage as Caroline could see how well they suited each other.
She winnowed her memories from the Oldhams’ ball for some indication that she was wrong about Silas and Fenella. Perhaps she’d overreacted, although it was hard to argue with Silas and Fen’s compatibility. But say he didn’t marry Fenella, he’d marry someone. Someone capable of giving him the wholehearted devotion that Caroline couldn’t risk because it meant accepting fresh captivity.
Silas wasn’t for her, no matter how her stupid heart keened after him.
Far better to enjoy a short, civilized liaison with a sophisticated man who offered pleasure without emotional involvement. West couldn’t hurt her because she could never love him. He was perfect.
Even if right now, the thought of handsome Lord West’s hands on her body made her stomach heave.
But first she had to make things right with Silas. She owed him an apology for acting like a harpy. Then she owed him her friendship. The excruciating truth was that unless she retreated to the country, she was doomed to see him again and again. He was her best friend’s brother. He courted—oh, wicked agony—another close friend.
But tonight, tonight with her love so fresh and so sharp, she’d give herself over to the luxury of imagining Silas Nash in her bed. She’d forget about the shackles of possession and commitment and obedience, and think only of the pleasure her rebellious soul denied her.
Tonight she’d pretend, then she’d put all such dangerous illusions away forever.
With a tremulous sigh, she tugged up the hem of her nightgown and raised her knees. Her hand slipped between her legs, seeking the slick, secret flesh.