Caroline dragged herself somewhat reluctantly out of bed the following morning. If she’d had any say in it, the bed covers would have remained over her face and she would have slept through to noon. But members of her family apparently had other ideas.
“Your father wishes to speak to you as a matter of urgency,” said her maid.
With a large huff, she threw back the blankets. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she dropped to the floor. “Ow!”
She looked down and spotted the bruise on the outside of her right foot.
“Big-footed lump,” she muttered.
She had little doubt in her mind that Lord Newhall had deliberately trodden on her foot. She had seen the sly smile which threatened at the corner of his mouth as his boot connected with her dance slipper.
A mouth that was blessed with full lips. They made her heart flutter when she looked at them. And those grey eyes. They promised all manner of wicked delights. Julian Palmer had featured strongly in her dreams that night.
He was most certainly an unusual man. He had openly challenged her status as queen of the ballroom. Few other men in the ton would have had the temerity to address her the way he did. It was clear that whatever magic she wielded over others had little effect on Earl Newhall.
He instilled in her a heady mix of frustration, annoyance, and simmering lust. She was innocent in the ways of love, but the thrill of heat which coursed through her body every time he was near told her all she needed to know. He could teach her a great deal about desire.
After dressing and hurriedly putting her hair up in a simple bun, she knocked on the door of her father’s study.
“Ah, there you are,” said Charles Saunders, stepping out from behind his desk.
Caroline closed the door behind her and took a seat in her usual spot on the couch nearest the fire. Her father’s office, though small, was always cold.
He came and sat in the armchair opposite her. “I have had a visitor this morning.”
The look on his face, coupled with those words made her heart sink. How many more times would they have this conversation?
“Who?” she asked.
Her father sighed. “The fact that you had to ask who could be visiting me to offer for your hand in marriage speaks volumes, Caroline. It was Timothy Walters. I hope the name at least rings a bell.”
“I am sorry, Papa. He had not spoken to me, nor made me aware that he was coming to see you,” she replied.
Charles sat back in his chair and brought his hands together. He looked at her over steepled fingers. “This cannot go on. Your mother is deeply concerned that you are getting a reputation as a . . . well—and we French do not use the word lightly—an allumeuse,” he said.
Heat raced to Caroline’s cheeks as she reeled from her father’s words. Her parents thought she was a tease. “But I never encouraged him. In fact, only a matter of days ago I asked him to stay away from me,” she pleaded.
“Yes. I know you don’t think you encourage these young men, but clearly, they feel that you do. Now while neither your mother nor I are saying you are giving them mixed signals, we think it best that you stay away from social gatherings for a little while. Some time at home might do your reputation some good,” he said.
Caroline rose from the couch. She felt nauseous. No unmarried young woman wanted her reputation held up to scrutiny. Society matrons were inclined to discourage their sons from offering marriage to young ladies with sullied reputations. Even those such as Caroline who came from one of the top ton families.
“Actually, Papa, I was thinking I might ask Uncle Ewan if I could go to Scotland and stay at Strathmore Castle. That will keep me out of social circulation for a little while,” she replied.
Charles nodded. “That is an excellent idea. While you and Francis are off boating in Hyde Park this afternoon, I shall send word to Strathmore House. If his grace is agreeable, you could leave for Scotland soon.”
Caroline hugged her father. “Thank you, Papa.”
Her plan to escape London was now in motion.