Page 32 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

“No. That is, I—” Fanny stuttered, rocking onto her toes and back again. “I suppose it planted the idea in my mind, the idea that something nefarious might have happened, and well, the duke does have a certain…reputation.”

She spoke only the truth: dreadful rumors surrounded the man. Still Caro sucked in a sharp breath through her nose. She’d insisted time and again that she wasn’t afraid of him.

Perhaps you should have been.

“I overstepped.” Fanny’s cheeks flushed almost red. “Can you forgive me?”

Before Caro could answer, one of the drawing room doors opened, revealing the Duke of Hartwell. His color was high too, and for a moment she wondered whether he had overheard their conversation. But he didn’t look angry—at least, not any angrier than usual. Damp had darkened his overlong hair even further and made it curl against his collar almost boyishly. His chest rose and fell with deeply drawn breaths, as if he’d hurried up the stairs.

“I apologize for interrupting,” he said with a bow. “I was told only that you’d come down, Caro. Not that you had company.”

Fanny curtsied. “I should go.”

“Not on my account,” he said, holding up a hand. “I’m just on my way to change.”

“Your man, Leclerc, said you’d gone sea bathing.”

His brows shot up. “Bit brisk for that, I’d say. I was rowing. I asked Leclerc to find me a boat. Thought I might work off a bit of—” Restlessness? Spleen? Whatever it was he’d hoped to exorcise, he did not finish the sentence. “Yes. Well. I’ll leave you ladies to it.” He bowed once more, then fixed his gaze on Caro. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. But don’t overtax yourself, my dear.”

She recognized something in the tone of those last words, the softness and warmth with which he had once whispered to her in French. Her scalp prickled—in apprehension, she told herself. Oh, his newfound concern for her was charming, all right.

But when had the man ever shown any inclination to charm?

As soon as he was gone, Fanny stepped toward her, this time with her hands at her sides. “I’ll go too. But please believe my concern was kindly meant.”

A fresh wave of weariness washed over Caro. She was tired, so tired, of being alone. But who could she, should she trust—her friend? her husband?

Both were little more than strangers.

Fanny was almost to the door before Caro mustered a shaky “wait.”

She half turned, looking at Caro over her shoulder, but saying nothing.

“I don’t believe he would hurt me,” Caro said at last.

A curious mix of emotions washed over Fanny’s face. Sympathy. Exasperation. “He already has.”

Caro closed her eyes, let the words tumble around her aching skull. Nothing made any sense. “Will you send Mrs. Horn to me? I need to lie down.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And Fanny—”

“Yes?”

“Come back again tomorrow. Please?”

Pleasure and relief gleamed like tears in the other woman’s pale eyes. With a nod, she was gone.

Chapter 11

Maxim tapped quietly against Caro’s bedchamber door. Almost too quietly to be heard. When he got no response, he laid a hand on the knob. If it was locked, he would turn and go. The worn leather case full of lock picks never left his pocket. But he could not stoop to—

The knob turned easily in his hand.

Caro lay on the bed fully clothed, facing the door this time, her eyes closed, her breathing soft and even. He should let her rest. He’d only wanted—well, needed, if he were honest—to see that she was well.

That need was a knife to the gut, a sharp and sudden pain, its damage all out of proportion to the size of the wound.