Someone to Cherish Page 3

  Gregory was an irksome sycophant who was desperate to be liked. He struggled to be fascinating, but he never succeeded. He’d fallen in with a wicked crowd in London who reveled in the very worst habits, and he was proving he could be as dissolute as the rest of them.

  He fancied himself a rich dandy, and he certainly carried on as if he was incredibly wealthy. His grandfather had been a miser who’d lived like a pauper, but once he’d died, Gregory and his father had begun spending like fiends.

  Gregory was working hard to empty his bank accounts, and Caleb was happy to help him destroy himself. If he’d liked Gregory at all, he might have been suffering a bit of guilt over how he was behaving, but he didn’t like Gregory, so he wasn’t ruing a single act he’d undertaken.

  Supper was over, and several dozen guests were milling and chatting in the front parlor. Dancing would start shortly, and there was a card room where neighborhood gentlemen could play for pennies if they were inclined to have a spot of fun.

  After the party ended, and family members went to bed, Gregory’s London guests would wager as if they were in town.

  Caleb was delighted to have Gregory arranging more games. Gregory was an unlucky and reckless gambler, and Caleb was an excellent and lucky one. He probably should have stopped Gregory from digging such a deep hole, but he wasn’t Gregory’s nanny.

  Was it Caleb’s fault that Gregory was a negligent idiot? He didn’t think so.

  “We missed you at the theater.”

  The comment was directed at Caleb by Gregory’s special friend, Lucretia Starling. She and Gregory had been a couple for years, and they lived openly and in sin in Gregory’s town house. He wondered if pretty, sweet Caroline Grey had heard any of those rumors.

  Since Lucretia was standing by Gregory’s side as a wedding guest, Caleb was betting not.

  “I had a problem arise at the last minute,” Caleb claimed. “I couldn’t make it.”

  “It took us forever to get the tickets. We saved a seat for you, but if we’d known you weren’t coming, we could have brought someone else.”

  “Sorry,” Caleb said, even though he wasn’t sorry.

  “Lucretia, don’t nag,” Gregory said. “It was a Friday. You’re aware of how busy Fridays can be for him.”

  Caleb owned a gambling club, and his old friend and substitute mother, Sybil Jones, ran a faro parlor in it that earned them small fortunes every evening. He hadn’t ever planned to engage in such dubious commerce, but he’d stumbled into it after he’d been kicked out of the navy.

  With his having few skills other than manning the sails on a sailing ship, he hadn’t had many choices. After his career had been yanked away, he hadn’t wanted to generate money in such a duplicitous fashion—or even to stay in England for that matter—but as Sybil constantly advised, he didn’t force their customers to gamble.

  “I’m not nagging,” Lucretia said to Gregory. “I simply can’t believe he passed up the chance to see Libby Carstairs.”

  Caleb calmly sipped his drink, pretending scant interest. “Was she as amazing as the gossips contend?”

  “Oh, it’s impossible to describe her,” Lucretia gushed. “She’s celebrated for being stunningly beautiful, but she’s stunningly talented too.”

  Gregory scowled. “I thought it was stuff and nonsense. She’s likely a charlatan who wasn’t even on that accursed island. She’s deluded people into listening to her sob stories.”

  “You did not think it was nonsense.” Lucretia’s tone was scolding. “Her tale of woe had you sniffling in your kerchief—along with the whole audience.”

  Caleb snorted at that and asked Gregory, “Were you sniffling?”

  “Perhaps a little,” Gregory said, “but she was extraordinary. I’m embarrassed to confess it, but her performance was extremely moving.”

  “Next time you can manage to obtain tickets,” Caleb said, “be sure to apprise me. It sounds as if I shouldn’t miss her.”

  The statement was a total lie. He had no intention of ever seeing Miss Libby Carstairs on the stage.

  He’d always known who she was: Libby Carstairs, Mystery Girl of the Caribbean! She was one of the three waifs rescued by British navy sailors when she was five. She’d made a career for herself by repeating various accounts of the shipwreck that had left them stranded on a deserted island.

  Previously, she’d traveled around the country, spinning yarns about her ordeal in tiny villages and at rural fairs. She’d only recently arrived in town to dazzle all of London.

  She’d taken the city by storm, and even though the event had occurred two decades earlier, Londoners couldn’t get enough of her sad, mystifying narrative. They couldn’t talk about anything else.

  He had his own connection to the Lost Girls through his despicable, deceased father, Captain Miles Ralston. Caleb never mentioned it—Miles was a sore spot for him and his brother, Blake—but his father was the captain who’d found them, and Caleb had no desire to dwell on any of those memories.

  He glanced over Lucretia’s shoulder, and Caroline Grey was behind her and gaping at Lucretia as if she’d just heard shocking news. For a moment, his gaze locked on hers, then she vanished into the crowd.

  She was a petite female and nimble as a fairy, so she’d been hiding from him, and he couldn’t blame her for being so determined to avoid him. He’d uttered several rude insults about her nuptials, and no doubt, she was affronted and annoyed. It served him right for being such an ass.

  He couldn’t imagine leaving her alone though. She was gorgeously pretty, and she appeared young and vulnerable too. It was obvious she needed a strong, stable man by her side, but Gregory wasn’t that man. He wasn’t the man any woman needed.

  Plus, he was amorously attached to Lucretia Starling. Apparently, he was so devoted to her that he’d brought her to his wedding, as if he couldn’t bear to be apart from her for even a few days.

  Did Miss Grey realize what was happening? Was she curious as to why Lucretia was there? Then again, Gregory had invited numerous acquaintances from London, so Miss Grey probably figured Lucretia was merely another friend.

  Should Caleb disabuse her of that notion? Should he tell her truths she desperately ought to discover? He’d blurted out the fact that Gregory gambled, and she’d insisted that he didn’t, which proved Gregory had concealed his habit from her.

  Should she be informed of the quagmire that was approaching?

  He swallowed down a scoff of disgust. He was not Caroline Grey’s savior, and if she was foolish enough to bind herself to Gregory Grey, it wasn’t any of Caleb’s business.

  It was just that their encounter out on the lane had been so strange. He’d felt the oddest attraction to her, as if the universe approved of their meeting. As Caleb had strolled with her, he’d caught himself leaning in, as if he should lay a hand on her waist and pull her close so their bodies would touch.

  He was handsome, dashing, and rich, so he’d had his share of lovers, but he’d never experienced a sensation similar to what Miss Grey had stirred. He was keen to deduce what was causing it, and until he did, he couldn’t ignore her.

  She snuck onto the verandah, and he grabbed a glass of wine from a passing waiter and slipped away from Gregory and Lucretia to chase after her.

  It took him a minute to find her. She was in the garden, walking down a lighted path. She halted under a hanging lantern, and when she turned to study the house, he studied her. She was slender and willowy, but curved in the right places. England was a world of blond girls, and with her black hair and striking blue eyes, she was refreshingly different.

  She emitted an alluring mix of beauty and innocence, and she’d have many interesting layers. He would be delighted to peel them all away.

  She saw him on the verandah, and for a charged interval, they froze, a peculiar excitement swirling, as if something wild and uncontrollable wa
s about to transpire. What would it be?

  He toasted her, downed the wine, then set the glass on the balustrade. He marched to the stairs and started toward her. She didn’t scurry off into the dark to escape. She stood her ground, watching warily, as if she wasn’t sure what he intended. He wasn’t certain himself. Any bizarre conduct was likely.

  He continued until they were toe to toe, and instantly, so many sparks ignited that he felt, should he point his finger, fire might shoot from the tip.

  “Are you following me, Mr. Ralston?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he blatantly admitted.

  “Why?”

  “You fascinate me.”

  She scoffed. “I do not. Don’t be absurd.”

  “You’ve dodged me all evening so we haven’t had a chance to chat.”

  He thought she’d deny her ploy, but instead, she confessed, “Yes, I’ve been dodging you.”

  “Are you frightened of me? Have my awful manners scared you? Please tell me you’re not that silly.”

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “Then why have you been hiding?”

  “We shouldn’t be cordial. It’s not a good idea.”

  “Are we to be enemies then? Is that your plan?”

  “No, we won’t be enemies. We won’t be anything.”

  “Why not? I’m an amiable person and you are too.”

  She frowned. “Must I provide an explanation?”

  “I guess it’s not necessary.” Besides, he knew the answer: She perceived their heightened connection, and she was about to marry Gregory. It seemed illicit for them to simply be talking. “Why have you tiptoed away from your party?”

  She shrugged. “I’m often claustrophobic. The fresh air helps.”

  “Are you a nervous Nelly? If you claim you are, I won’t believe it.”

  “I have occasional. . . issues that render me breathless. It’s always been a problem for me. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  “Let’s just,” he murmured.

  He wondered what those issues were. Had she been neglected by her family? Had she been abused? The stories about her grandfather were horrific. What must it have been like to grow up under his cruel thumb?

  She exuded an aura of vulnerability that would have emboldened a bully like her grandfather. He’d been dead for years though, so how was she treated by Gregory’s father, Samson Grey? How was she treated by Gregory?

  Not very well, Caleb suspected, and he was being pelted by the most powerful impression that she needed protecting from her Grey relatives, and that he, Caleb, should be the man to supply that protection.

  The concept was unfathomable, and he’d already reminded himself that he could never be her savior. He wasn’t anyone’s savior. He’d learned that lesson from guiding his brother, Blake, through his debacle with the navy.

  All Caleb had gotten for his efforts was a black stain on his character and a quick trip to being a civilian. He’d been roiling with fury ever since, so while Miss Grey generated many odd impulses, he wouldn’t act on any of them.

  “May I still call you Caro?” he asked.

  “I suppose—when we’re alone—but I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t attempt it when we’re in my front parlor.”

  He grinned. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because I am about to be married, and you are a pompous roué. I can’t have my guests thinking you’re flirting with me.”

  “Is that why you decided we shouldn’t be cordial? Your guests might think we’re flirting?”

  “Among other reasons. I’ve been pondering our earlier meeting.”

  “Ooh, I love it when a beautiful female ponders me.”

  “Don’t compliment me and don’t be smart.” She sounded like a grumpy schoolteacher.

  “You are so strange. How can you not like compliments?”

  “When they’re delivered by a cad like you, I’m sure you don’t mean them.”

  “I might mean them, and you are very beautiful. It’s not a lie.”

  “You’re too much man for me to handle.”

  “I’m too much man for every woman.”

  “I’m certain that’s true, so I’ll avoid you at all costs. It’s how I cope with dicey situations.”

  “I’m not a situation you can escape by ignoring me.”

  “It’s always worked for me in the past, so I’m positive it will work with you too.”

  She peered at the house, clearly trying to devise a pithy parting remark, then abandon him in the garden like a spurned suitor, but he couldn’t bear to have her go inside just yet. If she did, he’d have to go in too, then he’d have to pretend he didn’t know her.

  So far, she was the only person in the manor who intrigued him at all. He was bored and simply waiting for the high-stakes gambling to start later on. It was her party, and she was the hostess. Didn’t she have a duty to keep him entertained?

  “How is your claustrophobia?” he asked. “Has it waned? Or should we walk until it’s completely vanquished?”

  She inhaled a deep breath. “I’m fine now, but thank you for worrying about my condition.”

  “We should walk anyway. You can tell me about yourself.”

  “I never talk about myself.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s not much to say. I live in the country with my relatives. I’m about to wed my cousin. That’s the sum total of my biography.”

  “You’re a veritable bump on a log, aren’t you? We can talk about me then. I’ll wax on about how marvelous I am.”

  The comment dragged a laugh out of her. “You’re so accursedly vain.”

  “Yes, I am.” He extended his arm, urging her to grab hold. She didn’t move, and he goaded, “Are you a coward, Caro?”

  “I’m not a coward, but you just might be a bully.”

  “I might be.”

  “We can walk for a bit, but I’ll turn back if you attempt any mischief.”

  “Such as what?”

  “I’ll let you know if you cross any lines with me.”

  “I shall be on my very best behavior.”

  “I doubt that very much. It’s clear you are a wastrel, and I’d better be careful around you.”

  “Yes, you’d better be.”

  They strolled away, the lights and noise from the manor quickly fading. Up ahead, he saw a lake and a gazebo.

  “Would you like to sit in the gazebo?” she asked.

  “I would.”

  They sauntered over to the structure and climbed into it. She went to the side facing the lake and clambered onto the cushioned bench. She balanced on her knees and stared out at the water. The moon was up, so it was a pretty night, and its silver glow reflected in a magical way.

  He plopped down next to her, and he dawdled in the silence, aware that his lack of conversation would spur her to ease the tension by chattering away. He’d learn all sorts of useful details.

  As for himself, he perceived everything about her on a level that was nearly frightening in its intensity.

  He could smell the soap with which she’d washed, could feel her bodily heat emanating from under her clothes. There was an air about her that called to his masculine drives, making him want to throw her down and engage in wicked conduct she should never allow.

  It was peculiar and thrilling, and he was transfixed, struggling to figure out what it indicated.

  “Can I ask you a question?” she said.

  “You can ask me a thousand questions.” He braced, hoping it wasn’t a request for devastating information about Gregory.

  “When we were in the manor,” she said, “Gregory and Mrs. Starling were discussing the London theater. They mentioned a Miss Libby Carstairs and that she performed on the stage there.”

  “Yes, she’s famous in the
city.”

  “Libby Carstairs? You’re certain that’s her name?”

  “Yes. She was one of those Lost Girls. From twenty years ago? Do you remember them? They were traveling to Jamaica with their parents, but their ship sank in a storm in the Caribbean.”

  “Yes, I remember. They were rescued on an island by British sailors.”

  “The whole country has always been riveted by the tragedy.”

  “The whole country has been?” She appeared flummoxed by the notion.

  “Yes. People still talk about it all the time.”

  “My goodness,” she murmured. “I had no idea. Why is Miss Carstairs on the stage? Is she an. . . an. . . actress?”

  “I guess you could describe her as an actress. She tells stories and sings songs about her ordeal. I’ve never seen her, but I’m told she’s extraordinary. She’s a celebrity now.”

  “Libby Carstairs is a celebrity?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “What makes sense about it? I’ve never understood the fascination with those girls or that tragedy, and it’s been two decades since it happened. I can’t believe Miss Carstairs earns money from it.”

  “I absolutely can,” she said dreamily, as if Miss Carstairs was her idol.

  He shifted so he could study her, and he was struck again by how beautiful she was. The moon circled her in a silver halo so she seemed to shimmer as if she were an apparition and not a real woman.

  He kept staring, his focus potent, demanding she look back at him, but she didn’t. Perhaps she was stronger and more stubborn than he’d assumed.

  “How long were you in the navy?” she ultimately inquired.

  “Ten years.”

  “Why are you retired? I’ve always heard it’s a difficult existence that’s suitable for younger men. Was that it? Was your anatomy failing you?”

  He huffed with feigned offense. “I’m hardly decrepit. I’m only thirty, so no, I wasn’t failing—as you so delicately put it. And how old are you? Twenty-four?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whew!” he teased. “It’s a good thing you’re about to marry. You just avoided being a spinster.”