As she realized adults would be in charge, that adults would begin making the decisions, tears flooded her eyes and dripped down her cheeks. Maybe everything would finally be all right.
Twenty years later . . .
Caroline Grey strolled down the lane, her heavy basket banging against her thigh. She’d been to the village, having offered to complete some errands for their housekeeper, Mrs. Scruggs. She was on her way back to the manor, but she was in no hurry.
It was a beautiful July afternoon, the sky blue with fluffy clouds drifting by. The temperature was so warm she hadn’t needed a shawl, and she’d left her bonnet behind too, enjoying the chance to have the sun shine on her face.
Though it was considered unladylike to have her skin darken even the tiniest bit, she always worried that she looked much too pale. It was an exasperating affectation she’d adopted after she’d been rescued from her deserted island where she’d lived with Libby and Joanna.
When those navy sailors had stumbled on them—quite by accident, she’d been told—she’d been bronzed as a penny. Over the subsequent weeks and months, as her tanned hue had faded, she’d suffered from the constant perception that she was becoming invisible and that, shortly, no one would be able to see her.
As with so many aspects of that terrible period, she’d never shared the story with others. Her relatives didn’t like to be reminded of her history, so at an early age, she’d learned not to talk about it, but whenever she could revel in the sun, she did.
She wasn’t invisible. She hadn’t disappeared. She’d survived the very worst ordeal a person could survive, and it had imbued her with odd quirks and old fears she kept carefully hidden.
If her uncle or cousins had the slightest inkling of some of the musings that consumed her, they’d probably lock her in an asylum. Her family liked to blend in and never be noticed for any peculiarity, so they didn’t like people gossiping about what had happened to her.
Then of course, there was the issue with her parents who’d perished in the shipwreck. Her father had been a wastrel who’d driven her Puritanical grandfather to fantastic levels of outrage. The last straw had occurred when he’d wed Caroline’s mother without permission, so at the time of his death, he’d been disowned and disinherited.
Her grandfather had never forgiven her parents. In his stern, unbending opinion, not even their violent demise absolved them of the sins they’d committed. She’d been exhaustively lectured over how she had their tainted blood flowing in her veins and that she would have to fight the immoral urges that would rule her if she wasn’t cautious.
She thought it was all very silly. She didn’t remember her parents and couldn’t guess if they’d been wildly immoral.
When she, Libby, and Joanna had arrived in England from Jamaica, they’d been dubbed the Lost Girls and the Mystery Girls of the Caribbean. Shocking articles had been printed in the newspapers about their being abandoned and alone on their tiny island.
They’d been too young to provide much information about their kin, and the authorities had struggled to locate their relatives. In the process, they’d fended off charlatans and liars as various criminal types had stepped forward to claim connections.
She’d been sent to live with her Grandfather Walter who hadn’t wanted to have her thrust on him. To her great dismay, there had been no more dour, grim man in the whole kingdom, so it had been a horrific spot for her, and it had guaranteed her recuperation from the tragedy was very slow.
His household had been a quiet, miserable place, so even though she’d returned to England with a myriad of emotional problems, there had been no kindly aunties or even any servants who might have helped her adapt.
Every adult had pretended that no unusual incident had transpired, so she’d had to pretend too. With it being the twentieth anniversary of their rescue, she was more overwhelmed than ever, but putting on a good show.
She spent every second trying to fit in, to prove she’d overcome the dreadful event, but she hadn’t really. Who would have?
A horse’s hooves clopped on the gravel behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder, curious as to who was approaching. Over the next week, they had company arriving, with numerous people scheduled to roll in from London, so it could be anyone.
She wasn’t nearly as excited about the pending festivities as she should have been, which was the main reason she’d gone to the village for Mrs. Scruggs. Caroline was the lady of the house, serving as hostess for her widowed Uncle Samson, and she should have been pacing in the front parlor and eager to greet their guests.
Yet she was conflicted about what was occurring, conflicted about her role, conflicted about her future. When she was distressed, she felt very claustrophobic, so she’d had to get outside, knowing she would calm down once she could breathe the fresh air.
The walk had been beneficial. It had settled her down, so she could display a modicum of civility. She forced a smile and spun toward the horse. A man was on its back, and she caught herself gawking at him. She couldn’t stop.
He was incredibly handsome in a way that was stirring. His hair was blond, the color of golden wheat, and he had aristocratic features—high cheekbones, strong nose, generous mouth. He was thin and muscular, his shoulders broad, his waist narrow, his legs muscled and impossibly long.
His eyes were the most riveting. They were very blue, very direct and probing. They seemed to cut right through her and catalogue every detail.
He reined in and studied her too, and she didn’t have to wonder what he saw. Her grandfather had relentlessly scolded her about pride, but she wasn’t blind.
With her black
