“I can’t wait,” a lower toned voice exclaimed. “Is it true that he has a special surprise this year? I wonder what it could be with the theme beingA Midsummer Night’s Dream. It’s an oddtheme for a party thrown in May. He should have waited until June perhaps…”
“Who cares about the theme? As long as there are plenty of girls to fuck.”
Caroline gasped. What the blazes kind of party was a bacchanal?
“That’s enough of that.” Morgan tugged her in the opposite direction of the voices.
Caroline turned her head to look back and see if she could catch any more of the men’s conversation. If she could just listen a little longer, she could probably figure out to whom the voices belonged. But Morgan dragged her along until they hit another wall of hedge.
“Which way?” he demanded. His lips were set in a thin line of annoyance. The scar along his temple stood out white against the red flush across his cheekbones.
Caroline pointed to the right, and they began to walk again. “Morgan, what is a bacchanal?”
He glanced over sharply. “Nothing for a lady to know about.”
As they exited the hedges, she turned to study his expression, which had turned downright thunderous. “You know you’re very scary-looking when you’re irritated.”
“But you’re not scared, are you?” Curiosity replaced the irritation in his expression. His mouth quirked up at one side in a rueful smile.
“Not at all.” She popped open her parasol. She would have to find out what kind of party the men were talking about from someone else. She much preferred Morgan’s smile to his scowl. “You are the hero type, not the scoundrel type. Trust me; I can tell the difference.” She slipped her hand around his forearm. “Shall we?”
Morgan walked her back to the table where her brother and Emma held court with Emma’s sister Lucy Davenport.
Andrew came to stand next to her. “You all right?” he asked out of the side of his mouth.
“Yes, of course. Lord Wrotham was kind enough to fetch me out of the maze. I was becoming hopelessly lost.” She laughed and rolled her eyes. Everyone else laughed as she intended. Only Morgan did not. He arched one eyebrow.
“Lord Wrotham, have you been introduced to our hosts? This is Lord and Lady Davenport.” Caroline gestured to Ethan and Lucy. “Lady Davenport is Emma’s sister.”
“It’s nice to meet you both.” Morgan gave a bow of his head. “Thank you for inviting me.”
Lord Davenport nodded as well. “It’s our pleasure. Any friend of Gilchrest is welcome.”
“Actually, Wrotham is a friend of Jack’s from the military,” Andrew interjected.
“Yes, Aston saved my life twice over the years. We met in the service.”
“A friend of Jack’s?” Caroline swung her gaze from her brother to Morgan and back again. Her brother ran a hand through his hair, a gesture he only did when uncomfortable. He and Morgan exchanged a look. What was going on?
Lucy Davenport broke the awkward silence. “Have you had any food, Lord Wrotham?”
Morgan shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Please go and choose something to eat, and then join us.”
No one could resist Lucy’s sweet but firm orders. Caroline watched Morgan do as he was told and walk over to the buffet table. A friend of her brother, hmmm. She knew that Jack worked in military intelligence for many years before retiring. And he had worked for Lord Winters, who oversaw the Foreign Office. The same Lord Winters who had invited Morgan to the masquerade ball. Very interesting indeed. What was Lord Wrotham doing in London?
Chapter 14
Caroline decided to use the early morning hours to paint. The house was quiet, and soft light spilled in through the windows. She set up her canvas and brushes in the alcove of her sitting room. The large windows looked out to the back gardens and offered endless inspiration. Pale pink gardenias, sunny daffodils, and pretty blue forget-me-nots mixed in a cheerful riot of color. A whitetail rabbit hopped across the pea gravel path through the rose beds. Then four baby bunnies followed their mother’s lead. The whole family disappeared under a hedge.
Picking up her charcoal pencil, Caroline bit her lip. She didn’t want to paint bunnies. She put her charcoal to paper and sketched a pair of eyes and the tawny-colored eyebrows that arched over them. Then she drew the thin scar that slashed down from temple to cheekbone, his nose with the bump that kept his face from being too handsome, and finally his wide smile that flashed slightly crooked teeth. She mixed the yellow and brown paints to create the right color for his mane of honey blonde hair. Wavy and always a bit unruly, it reminded her of his roguish personality. Time flew by as she painted, blending his skin tone to the perfect golden hue, and deciding how much green flecked in his hazel eyes.
A knock at her door interrupted her concentration. “Come in,” she said.
Her maid, Susie, entered. “Excuse me, miss. There’s someone who very much would like to talk to you.” She stepped aside, and Alice stood in the doorway. Eyes downcast on the floor, her hands were clasped tightly together in front of her.
Caroline put her paintbrush into a jar of water. “Of course. Come in, Alice.”
