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.
"Damn near," Bradford muttered without looking up.
"Looks like you haven't slept in days," Milford commented. He kept the grin on his face but his eyes showed his concern. Bradford didn't look at all well and the longer he watched him, the more concerned he became.
"I haven't slept," Bradford finally replied. He dropped the pen and leaned back against the soft cushion of his wingback chair. His boots joined his friend's on the top of the desk and he let out a long sigh.
And then, without further hesitation, he told his friend about his encounter with the woman named Caroline, leaving out only the portion with Brummell as he, too, had promised not to say a word about his friend's humiliating incident with the bandits. He found himself embellishing her physical characteristics, taking quite a length of time to adequately describe the color of her eyes, but finally caught himself and rushed out the ending of the tale with the furious statement that all his inquiries had led down dark alleys.
"You're looking in all the wrong places," Milford advised with a smug voice when he had stopped laughing over Bradford's retelling of the event. "She actually believes that the Colonies are more sophisticated than our London?"
Bradford ignored the question and homed in on the former statement. "What do you mean when you suggest that I'm looking in the wrong places? She's returning to her father. I'm following that lead." Bradford's voice sounded harsh.
"Most of the ton have not yet returned for the coming season," Milford patiently pointed out. "And that is the simple reason you haven't heard any gossip. Get hold of yourself, man, she'll be at Ashford's bash. You can count on it. Everyone attends."
"The season holds no promise for her." Bradford lowered his voice as he repeated Caroline's statement concerning the activities of the ton and found himself shaking his head. "Those were her exact words."
"Most odd." Milford was trying hard not to laugh. He hadn't seen his friend so rattled in such a long time, and the relief that the cause was not from a serious matter made him light-headed. It also made him wish to bait his friend, just like he used to in the old days when the two roamed London together.
"Not so odd," Bradford contradicted with a shrug. "I don't attend any of the functions."
"You mistake my meaning. I meant that you are behaving most odd," Milford replied with a chuckle. "I don't believe I've ever seen you in such a state. This is an occasion to savor! And the cause is a lady who hails from the Colonies no less." Milford would have continued, but laughter got the better of him, and much to his friend's frowns of displeasure, he couldn't contain several loud snorts.
"You're really enjoying yourself, aren't you?" Bradford snapped when Milford had quieted enough to hear him.
"That's a fact," Milford readily admitted. "I seem to remember a rather fervent vow made by you a couple of years back," he continued. "Something to the effect that all women served one purpose only and to give your heart would be the height of stupidity."