Susan Johnson - Again and Again

Let her scream. Templar had stretched out into a pounding gallop, his huge strides lengthening, picking up speed.

And no one was going to follow them on Twelfth Night.

The ride to Kettleston Hall was brief and surprisingly silent. Once they’d left the castle, Caroline decided it was pointless to scream; it would be like baying at the moon. And her throat actually hurt from shrieking at the top of her lungs-as if it had done her any good, she sullenly noted. For which Simon was entirely to blame. As he was for this entire, ridiculous, senseless, outrageously outdated abduction. Why he couldn’t act like a normal, well-behaved man was beyond her. Although with Simon that might be asking entirely too much. In any case, she alone was going to be in charge of her liberation and to that purpose, as she lay mute in Simon’s arms, she systematically surveyed her… relatively limited options as it turned out.

Since Simon had what he wanted, it mattered little to him whether Caroline talked or not. But he was grateful she’d stopped screaming. Ignoring Caroline’s outcries had stretched the limits of his patience. Taking advantage of her protesting lull, he reviewed the schedule of events planned for Kettleston Hall. Hopefully, all his directions had been received and since they were riding double, Aubrey should soon overtake them. Once they reached the house, he’d remind Aubrey again to keep the ceremony brief. Caroline was unpredictable. Like now. He glanced down, wondering if she’d fallen asleep.

She looked at him from under her lashes. “I’m planning your demise.”

And then, of course, in other ways, she was completely predictable.

He hoped he wouldn’t have to truss her for the ceremony.

Even having to travel by the roads, the journey to Kettleston Hall wasn’t long. On reaching the drive, Simon saw the fresh coach tracks and smiled. Good. Everything had arrived from London.

Tapers were burning beside the front door, the house was alight. He took note of the facade for the first time as they rode up the drive, pleased to see his purchase had clean lines. Some regional architects were eclectic in their tendencies, thinking more was better. The simple four-square brick house, flanked by graceful wings had a pleasing purity of design. He surveyed the three stories, the windows on every floor glowing with candlelight and wondered which of the windows were those of the master suite.

He’d sent orders ahead to prepare the rooms.

And the chapel.

He glanced down at Caro and smiled. Her eyes were shut now. She was pouting. But then he knew how to alter that pout He’d learned how years ago.

Grooms came running up as they approached the entrance, familiar faces from his home in London. He’d sent a small contingent of servants north.

Dismounting with Caro in his arms, he surreptitiously glanced at her, hoping she wouldn’t make a scene. Although, scene or not, he would marry her. He’d not once changed his mind on that score since he’d left Louvois’s house in Paris. And while he may not know what love was, raw desire he knew. His craving for her had consumed his thoughts, destroyed his peace of mind, and had withstood a serious attempt to drink it into oblivion.

So, he’d traveled three days over hellish roads.

And curbed his tongue at Netherton Castle.

In order to marry a woman who said she didn’t want him.

In a way, he was glad Caro was so far from London.

He would have been ridiculed mercilessly by his friends had his nuptials taken place there.

While the betting books at the clubs would have been filled with predictions on the birth date of their first child-and all the gossipy females would have been counting on their fingers. They still might He grimaced, the issue of birth dates bringing a contentious matter to mind.

The front door opened and a butler came hurrying out, curtailing Simon’s disconcerting thoughts.

As the elderly man approached them, his expression took on a note of concern. “Is the lady ill, my lord?”

Simon had been wondering as much himself, both Caroline’s silence and compliance unusual.

“She’s fatigued,” he said, hoping Caroline wouldn’t say something outrageous.

“I am tired,” Caroline remarked. While she had no scruples about venting her spleen on Simon, she didn’t wish to embarrass the old butler.

“Why don’t we get you inside where it’s warm?” Simon offered, moving toward the door. “By the way, I’m Hargreave,” Simon added, turning to the butler who was keeping pace.

“So we assumed, my lord. I’m Eaton, Your Grace, and this is my wife, Mrs. Hopper,” he added, beckoning to a woman who was hanging back at the entrance. “She’s been housekeeper to Viscount Manley for some twenty-odd years.”

Stopping just short of the door, Simon smiled at the plump woman bobbing a curtsy. “I’m hoping you can serve me as well. I presume the staff is still all in place.”

“Yes, sir.” The undercurrent of trepidation disappeared from Eaton’s voice.

“Good. Excellent. Well, then.” Simon smiled again, the relief on his butler’s and housekeeper’s faces revealing. He should have had Gore assure them of their positions long ago, he reflected with a small twinge of guilt.

“Yes, sir, this way, sir. Everything that you wished for has been done. If you’ll follow me.”

Caroline felt de trop and overlooked, like part of the baggage. If she resisted, she would only make an awkward situation more awkward. The servants didn’t know them. Apparently, Simon had never been here before. Nor were they likely to help her; she too had seen their expressions of relief when Simon had told them they could stay on. No doubt they’d spent a lifetime on the estate.

And if anyone understood the uncertainty of employment, she surely did.

But was she required to marry their master because she didn’t wish to put them in a position that might endanger their livelihoods? Or more realistically, would anything she did have any bearing on Simon’s attitude toward his staff or their marriage?

The answer, of course, was unpalatable.

And nonplussed, she wondered what her next move might be.

“Will you behave?” Simon whispered as they crossed the threshold.

“Do I have a choice?” she whispered back.

“Good girl.” He set her on her feet as though it had been his intention from the start

“We’ll see about that,” she said under her breath. “I’m hungry,” she announced, in a carrying voice.

Simon cast her a suspicious look, but only met a bland smile.

“What would you like, my dear?” His voice was smooth as silk, but his gaze was wary.

“Cake,” she said. “And tea to start with.”

Her implication that there might be some mysterious more to follow, added to Simon’s unease. “We’ll have tea in my apartments.” Perhaps a defendable position wouldn’t be out of order. “And brandy for myself.”

“Yes, sir, this way.” Bowing to Simon and Caroline, the butler led them to the stairway.

The rooms in the master’s apartment were large, a fire lit in each chamber, the furniture new and fashionable-perhaps one of the reasons besides gambling that Viscount Manley had decimated his fortune. Eaton showed them through the suite, shut all the drapes and with a courteous bow, left them to go and fetch Caroline’s tea.

Walking to where Caroline stood in the middle of the sitting room, his cape so long on her it dragged on the floor, Simon unwrapped the layers of black wool and lifted it from her shoulders. Then he lightly touched her cheek with the back of one finger. “You look tired.”

“After twelve nights of parties, I have a right to be.” It was a deliberate remark, meant to provoke.

He tossed his cape on a chair before replying, needing the moment of delay to curb his temper. “Perhaps I won’t be as demanding as your opera-loving beau.” His eyes had turned cool. “Does he like to fuck all night?”

She realized she’d made a mistake when he looked at her like that “I wouldn’t know,” she said, aware retreat was called for. “He only kissed me once.”

“You expect me to believe that? Maybe when you were thirteen or fourteen I might.” His drawl was pronounced. “But we both know you were a precocious little girl after that, don’t we?”

“Not as precocious as you,” she snapped, taking exception to his remark when it had been he who had prompted her precociousness. “Was it your nanny or governess? I forget.”

“Both.” He smiled. “Which makes me doubly suspicious of governesses.” Reaching out, he gently stroked her throat. “I’m going to have to keep my eye on you after we’re married.” His long fingers slowly circled her neck. “Knowing you as well as I do,” he added in a whisper before releasing his light hold. He plucked at the azure velvet of her sleeve. “I brought you something to replace this,” he said in a normal tone of voice, as though he’d not just given her warning. “I hope you like your wedding gown.”

“And I hope you have some plan other than coercing me into marriage,” she replied tartly, having been his playmate for so many childhood years, she was the last person he could intimidate.

A hint of a smile played across his mouth. “Sorry. That’s my only plan.”

“You’re completely, bloody mad, of course. I don’t suppose you’ve once considered how grossly unfair this dragooning of yours is? Not just to me, but think how it will look to the outside world.”

He didn’t care about fairness although there was no graceful way to say that “Come, Caro, is it so awful?” he asked instead, his tone cajoling, since he understood her objections even if he chose to overlook them. “You can have your freedom. You know I’m not an ogre. I missed you, that’s all.” The degree and scope of that deprivation indeterminate and highly problematic.