All About Seduction(42)

Caroline stumbled and then looked at the ground for the rock or log that tripped her, but as she pulled her skirts back she saw nothing but the flat surface of the drive.

The man said nothing.

Her stomach continued to rot. The opportunity was slipping away. Did she have to spell it out for him letter by letter? “I have needs,” she whispered.

“And you had your brother gather together men so you could pick one to service your ‘needs’?”

“God no!” She stared at the man, but his features were too blurry for her to understand.

“I . . . no. Nothing to do with . . . arrangements. I thought, since you are here.” Her head bobbed back and forth without her meaning it to. She struggled to gain control of her body, which felt as if it were ready to fall off her bones. Finally, the drink was hitting her. She had a moment of realizing the sensation of not caring must be what heavy drinkers sought. “I wished I’d given Mr. Broadhusht a baby and now he can’t . . . can’t . . .”

“Perform?”

“Yesh.” Finally, Mr. Whitton seemed to understand.

“You want me to give you a baby?”

“Yesh.”

“How much have you had to drink?”

Caroline rolled her eyes and then wished she hadn’t, as the world kept right on rolling after she stopped moving her eyes. “ ’Nough.”

He tugged on her arm and moved her into the dark shadows of the trees.

The rough bark bit into her back and startled her out of a stupor. She knew she’d moved because they weren’t on the paved drive anymore, but she could not remember how. He bent and pressed his mouth against hers. Her head lolled to the side. He repositioned her head. The smell of cigar smoke hung thickly on him.

His tongue thrust between her lips as his hand closed around one breast. He tasted sour and smoky, like a wet ashcan. She fought her revulsion and tried to pretend she liked his kiss, while a new hoard of spiders with cold clickety-clacking legs crawled over her. But it was too much. Her gorge rose in her throat. She futilely shoved him as she dropped to her knees and was sick all over his thighs.

Sometime in the night, her room had stopped spinning, but with the morning light her head pounded. She was afraid to move for fear her stomach would revolt again. And what in heaven’s name had she told Mr. Whitton? She vaguely remembered asking him to give her a baby. How could she have been so stupid?

Her cheeks burned as she remembered the humiliating apologies, blaming the cigar and Mr. Whitton’s calm questions about the canal, which he found and immersed himself in, while she fretted about him drowning—in four feet of water. But he emerged wet, cold, and uninterested. Oh he had been gentleman enough to drag her weaving, unresponsive-to-commands-body back inside. At her insistence, he’d left her slumped on a bench in the entry hall.

She wasn’t entirely certain how she made it to her bedroom. She thought she might have crawled up the stairs and then slithered along the wall. For a person with two good legs, her inability to ambulate was shameful.

Groaning, Caroline rolled to her side. She would have pulled a pillow over her head to block the excruciating light, but she’d had all her extras taken down to Jack. Her stomach boiled like a witches’ cauldron.

Jack. Would he be open to a brief affair with her? She’d thought he was about to kiss her when the footman interrupted them. She’d have to move Jack to a bedroom with locks on the door. All the guest bedrooms were occupied. Her pounding head protested solving a problem as if an engineer decided to install hydraulic looms and they were knocking back and forth against her skull.

“Ma’am, did you want woken?” her maid asked in a booming whisper.

Caroline jerked upright. “What o’clock is it?”

“It’s gone seven, ma’am.”

Heavens, she never slept past six, let alone seven. She would be late for the mill office. “I will be down directly.”

Moving slowly, Caroline swung her feet to the floor. Her head pounded, but at least her limbs functioned. Her maid had brought a large basin and towels, and Caroline reached to strip off what remained of her petticoats—apparently she hadn’t made it into a nightgown.

But the moment she tried to stand up, her stomach rebelled. She swallowed hard, trying to control the revolt of her body. How on earth was she going to function today, feeling as if she’d been bowled over by a locomotive?

The visitors had started shortly after dawn. The footman dozing in the chair beside Jack jerked awake and then went out across the tiled floor to open the door. He returned with an uncertain look on his face and asked if Jack was “at home.”