All About Seduction(91)

Her eagerness to see him heated her like a hot fire after a day outside in the winter. Would he be glad to see her? Anticipating her visit in the night? She pressed hands to her hot cheeks, trying to cool them.

She had to calm down. No one could know of what transpired last night. She must act as she always did. Not think about Jack’s dark eyes holding her gaze, his hands on her hips guiding her and his member inside her, filling her.

As she reached for the handle, the butler stopped beside them.

“Uh, ma’am . . . Mr. Applegate isn’t here.”

Caroline’s chest squeezed. “Where is he?”

“I don’t rightly know,” answered the butler.

Like a stuck plaster had been ripped off her entire being, Caroline felt raw.

The butler turned away.

“Stop.” Her mind was spinning with the idea that Jack wasn’t where she left him. “When was Mr. Applegate last seen?”

“He had the tweeny bring him clothes early this morning, but no one saw him leave. We were all busy.”

Why had he left? Had he hated their encounter so much? Caroline wanted to dissolve on the ground into a puddle, but she couldn’t let the butler—or for that matter the gentlemen standing about reading their correspondence—know how much Jack’s leaving upset her.

Caroline’s knees buckled. Jack was gone. What of their bargain?

And what was she to do? If she sent servants after him, everyone would question why she was so concerned with the welfare of one injured worker.

Her hands shook so badly she could scarcely untie her cloak. Jack had left.

She’d known the minute he had clothes he would leave. But after last night, she would have thought . . .

What? That he truly thought she was pretty and desirable? She’d always known she wasn’t the kind of woman who inspired passion.

As if a demon had ripped out all her entrails and left a big gaping hole inside, she clutched her stomach. She wanted to curl into a ball on the floor. She had to regain her composure. Thankfully, none of the gentlemen seemed interested in her. With Jack gone, she would have to try again with one of them. Dread knotted her spine.

She couldn’t help but look in the breakfast room, as if she might find Jack lurking behind the sideboard.

But he wasn’t here. She felt brittle, as if she might break into a thousand pieces. She touched the headboard as though it would give her some assurance that Jack would return, but the bedstead was cold and sucked all the warmth from her.

“Caro.”

She swiveled hoping to find Jack behind her, even as she recognized the voice as her brother’s.

“In here,” she called, and was alarmed at how foreign her voice sounded to her ears.

“Caro,” her brother repeated. He hesitated in the doorway.

She whirled, staring at the empty bed so out of place in the breakfast room. Her heart thumped hard in her chest and a tingling sensation ran down her arms.

She drew in a deep breath and tried to gather all the pieces of her into one whole that could act as she should. Robert’s face was as white as the letter he clutched in his fist. He vibrated with agitation.

Bad news from home? Her breath ripped out of her. She couldn’t bear more bad news.

“What is it?” She rushed toward him. “Are the children . . . ?”

Robert shook his head and held out his palm. “Whitton has been slain.”

For a minute Caroline searched her brain for which of her brother’s children might be called Whitton before it dawned on her that Mr. Whitton—the man she had tried to seduce while drunk—was whom Robert was talking about.

“What?”

“Whitton was murdered by a highwayman.” Robert thrust the letter at her.

Caroline crushed the page to her chest, trying to still the mad racing of her heart. Mr. Whitton was dead? Murdered?

“We returned for the day and this letter was awaiting me,” Robert explained. “Actually there were several letters. Langley said they were stopped by a ruffian in a greatcoat, low hat, and high muffler who demanded to know which was Whitton, and then he shot him.”

Beyond Robert, the men milled about the hall. Their mutterings drifted in to her.

“Who would kill Whitton?”

“Too much like the revenge of a cuckolded man,” said one man.

Lord Tremont narrowed his eyes and stared at Caroline.

What was a lady to do when her legs might give out on her and her heart was beating faster than any drum could be beaten?