Maybe her brother.
No, not her brother. He loved her, but he knew too much about her and pitied her too much to befriend her.
Maybe a woman. A woman friend who would be like her mother, patient and kind. A woman who would be willing to wait for Caroline’s words and want to know her thoughts. Not all of her thoughts. Just some of them.
Caroline must turn her energies to finding a friend.
Seven
Phineas jerked.
He was sitting inthe chair, the best chair in the reading room of his club, ostensibly reading a newspaper, his eyelids drooping behind his spectacles.
Damn, he should get up and get active, arrange to do some boxing, sweat a little. He shouldn’t be napping in the afternoon like Sir Matthew Elliot or the octogenarian Lord Marsburn, snoring over there in the corner.
And Phineas needed the exercise. He had noted a bit of roundness to his belly lately and as a man who was—well, not tall, he couldn’t afford to carry any extra weight. He needed to stay trim. In fighting trim.
But he was so tired of late. So tired and yet unable to sleep. His nights were restless, filled with dreams of a pink-tongued mouth and dark hair and a long, sleek body with endless legs that wrapped around his waist. And governed by the demands of his own cock. He hadn’t used his own fist so much since he was a boy. At least twice a night since coming back from Sudbury, followed by a few hours of brandy-induced voyaging to the land of Nod. And both the hunger for his enchantress and the exhaustion were still present when he woke.
Strangely, he did not seek relief from anyone but himself. He had broken ties to all his mistresses. He had simply stopped calling on most of the widows, and they soon found other gentlemen to occupy them.
However, Lady Starling had required some special handling. As he had anticipated, Horatia had not taken the news well. At all. She had flown into a rage, screeching at him without surcease for fully a quarter of an hour about how she had abandoned George Danforth to take up with him and now, he had the temerity to leave her? Phineas had weathered it only by uncharacteristically biting his tongue and ducking out of her drawing room when Lady Starling began to hurl china statuettes at his head.
And he had not been to a brothel even though it had occurred to him. But he knew it would be an exercise in futility. He wouldn’t find what he was looking for there.
Instead, he had made do with his hand and thoughts of Caro’s kisses, her groans, her unbelievably sweet quim—the memories as vivid and arousing as they had been the morning after that night.
He was off to his country seat of Burchester in a few days. Maybe the problems he would have to face there could distract him from his thoughts of Caroline. Caro. Mmmmm. That soft skin, those sweet plums, those green eyes.
The darling.
Normally, the problems of his estate would be the last thing to interest Phineas Edge. He preferred to look on the brighter side, to ignore difficulties until they faded away or became insurmountable and then there was nothing he could possibly do about them, was there?
But he needed to sink his teeth into something and since he hadn’t yet devised a way to get his incisors into Lady Caroline, he might as well have a go at trying to save his finances. Then he could buy her some lavish gift. Something with emeralds in it, maybe, to go with her eyes. All ladies liked jewels.
And town had been so dull for Phineas recently. His friends were disappearing like flies after the first frost of autumn. The Duke of Dunmore, Jack-the-Lady-Killer-MacNaughton, was married up in Scotland and had written he had no plans of coming back to London in the foreseeable future. And George Danforth had married his friend Lady Phoebe Finch less than a week after the shooting party’s return to London and was now out at his barony with his new wife.
Phineas had been a witness to the small, private ceremony. Given the expeditious nature of the wedding, the paleness of the bride, and the anger on the face of the bride’s brother who had just been made the Duke of Abingdon, a new Danforth would almost certainly be found under a gooseberry bush in fewer than nine months.
George had gotten careless with his little Phoebe. Lucky George.
Lucky? Wait, what? Not lucky. Stupid George.
Hmmm. Maybe stupidandlucky. After all, George had gotten what he wanted, his Phoebe.
Meanwhile, Phineas’ woman was just as unattainable as ever.
Phineas sighed. The blue devils had him in their grip, and he must exorcise them. This was so unlike him. He was a cheerful man. Jovial. Light of heart. And, currently, light of purse as well. He sighed again.
Maybe he could think of a reason to drop by Sudbury Manor on his way to Burchester? Not for baby-making—as much as he wanted coitus, he could imagine no circumstances under which it would be possible—but for tea? Sudbury was quite a long distance out of his way, but he’d like to flirt with the Amazon who ruled his dreams. Caro.
“Phin.”
He started again and looked up. Edmund Haskett stood over him. Oh-ho, the brother of the beauty about whom he had just been brooding. Here was a chance to talk about Caro and bringing her to town. The day was improving. Phineas sat up out of his slump.
Edmund dragged another wing chair closer as Phineas folded the unread newspaper and removed his spectacles. Edmund’s brow was furrowed, and he looked gloomier than usual.
“I just received news. My father died two days ago.”
