did care for her. Why then had he sent her to the Colonies? Surely he realized that over a time, she would begin to call her aunt and uncle Mama and Papa. She had only been four when she became their 'baby.' It was only natural that Charity's brothers would become her brothers. Surely he knew that her early memories would fade with new surroundings and a new family.
Guilt invaded her thoughts. He had made a sacrifice for her. Mama had told her that countless times! She had explained that the earl wanted his daughter to have a stable family life and felt that she would be more content, more loved, with his younger brother and his family.
Why hadn't he considered that perhaps his love would have been enough?
Lord, she had given him nothing as a daughter. She remembered how she balked when forced to take a few minutes to write a kind word to him! She had been selfish and, as much as the admission pained her, disloyal! She had plotted and planned to remain in Boston, had called another Papa, and worst of all, had forgotten to love her real father.
She wished she hadn't seen the drawings. Her eyes turned teary and she hurried from the room. She wished that she was back in Boston and felt ashamed of herself for wishing it. It made her feel guilty and unworthy. It made her a coward. Could she give her father a portion of the love and loyalty she had so freely given to her Boston family?
Caroline went up to her bedroom and stretched out on the canopy bed, determined to sort out her emotions. The logical part of her brain insisted that she had just been a baby when she was uprooted and given to another family, and therefore the issue of love and loyalty was not significant. Yet her heart continued to ache. How much easier it would have been to deal with a cold, unloving earl! She had played the role of the tragic heroine all the way from Boston to London and now admitted that it was just a role after all. Reality was quite different.
How was she to proceed? She couldn't find the answer and finally let exhaustion overtake her, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Caroline slept until the next morning, except for one interruption.
Sometime during the night, she awoke to the sound of the door squeaking open. She was instantly alert but pretended sleep as she watched an older man hesitate at the doorway and then slowly walk over to the bed. She closed her eyes, but not before she saw the tears that were streaming down the man's face. He looked like an older version of his brother, and she knew that the man standing next to her bed was her father.
Caroline felt the quilt being pulled up and tucked securely around her shoulders and ached inside with emotion over the tender action. And then she felt his hand, trembling as it brushed against her temple, ever so lightly, and heard him whisper in a soft, loving voice, 'Welcome home, Daughter.'
He leaned down and kissed her on her forehead, a feathery touch that brought a smile to her heart, and then he slowly straightened and made his way back to the doorway. The aroma of tobacco and spices lingered after him, and Caroline's eyes suddenly opened wide. She recognized the scent, remembered it. She tried to summon up pictures to go with the aroma, the feeling, but like the fireflies she had tried to capture as a child, they all proved too elusive. Memory seemed to be just within grasp, yet she wasn't able to touch it.
The fragrance was enough for now, for with it came the feeling of contentment and love, as hazy as a fine morning mist as it surrounded her, hugged her, and filled her with peace.
She waited until her father's hand was on the doorknob and he was about to pull it closed behind him. She couldn't keep the words from tumbling out and said, 'good night, Papa.'
She felt as if she was repeating a nightly ritual of years gone by, and though she didn't remember all of it, she instinctively knew that there was more to be said. She struggled to put the feelings into words even as she heard herself say, 'I love you, Papa.'
The ritual was complete. Caroline closed her eyes and let the memories, like the fireflies of yesterday, skitter away.
She had come home after all.
Chapter Three
The duke of Bradford couldn't get the beautiful blue-eyed woman out of his mind. Her innocence tempted him, her smile dazzled him, but most of all, her ready wit absolutely pleased him. The duke was given to a cynical nature and it was a fact that he wasn't easily pleased by any female. Yet every time he thought of how she had brazenly challenged him with the bold threat to shoot his horse, he found himself grinning. The lady had courage and Bradford admired her for it.
By the end of the day of the accident, Bradford had Brummell comfortably settled in his rooms and left him to the pampering attention of his faithful servants. He then traveled to his own London home and undertook the task of finding out just who Caroline belonged to. The only clue he had to her identity was that she was returning to London to visit her father. From the way she spoke about the gatherings of the ton, he assumed that her father was indeed a member of the socially elite. Perhaps he was titled as well. The little cousin had mentioned returning to a townhouse in London to await Caroline's father. Bradford concluded that the man owned a country home and was still in retirement there until the season started.
He felt confident that he would have his answers by nightfall. But by the end of the fourth day, his confidence had deserted him. Not a hint of a single clue had presented itself and the frustration was beyond his
His mood turned sour, and the smiles the servants had been so amazed to see when the duke had first returned to his home completely vanished. The help now whispered that they had surely been mistaken. Their employer was back to his usual nature, gruff and unapproachable. Cook told everyone within earshot that she was glad for it, as she disliked anyone or anything that wasn't predictable, but Bradford's man, Henderson, knew that something quite significant had occurred to his employer and found himself concerned.
Henderson was both eager and relieved when the duke's best friend, William Franklin Summers, the Earl of Milfordhurst, arrived for an unexpected visit. Henderson was pleased to escort the earl up the curved stairway to the library. Perhaps, Henderson considered, walking beside him, the earl could nudge his employer back into his pleasant mood.
Henderson had served Bradford's father for ten good years, and when the tragedy had taken both the father and the firstborn son, he had turned his loyalty and attention to the new Duke of Bradford. Only Henderson and Bradford's best friend, Milford, remembered the duke before the title was thrust upon his young shoulders.
Glancing over at Milford, Henderson remembered that the two friends used to be quite alike. At one time, Bradford was just as much the rascal as his dark-haired friend, and just as much the mischief maker with the ladies of the ton. Yet over the five years he had served his new master, Henderson had all but given up hope that the duke would ever return to the carefree, easygoing disposition of long ago. Too much had happened. Too many betrayals.
'Brad giving you fits, Henderson? You're frowning all over the steps,' the earl asked with his usual wide grin, looking every bit the scoundrel Henderson knew him to be.
'Something has happened to cause his Grace distress, 'Henderson replied. 'I, of course, am not privy to my lord's thoughts, but I do believe that you will notice a subtle change in his disposition.'
Henderson wouldn't make further comment, but his remarks caused Milford to frown in speculation.
As soon as Milford got a good look at his friend, he decided that Henderson was the master of understatement. Subtle was the last descriptive word he would have considered, for the Duke of Bradford looked like he had just returned from a rather long carriage ride, being dragged below the vehicle instead of sitting inside.
Bradford was slouched behind his massive desk, frowning with intent as he scribbled a name on one of several envelopes littering the desktop.
The mahogany table was a cluttered mess, but then so was Bradford, Milford decided. His friend was in desperate need of a shave and a fresh cravat.
'Milford. I'll be finished in just a minute,' Bradford told his friend. 'Pour yourself a drink.'
Milford declined the drink and settled himself in a comfortable chair in front of the desk. 'Brad, are you writing to everyone in England?' he asked as he ungraciously propped the heels of his polished boots on the desktop.
