“This isn’t a whim. I’ve thought long and hard about my plans.” It was her turn to sound glum. “The world leaves widows a lot of time to think. I’ve had more than a year to mull over my intentions.”
He’d spent a year mulling over his intentions, too. He’d been planning a journey down the aisle. She’d been planning a progress from one lucky sod’s bed to the next. The most galling element was that she seemed ready to consider any fool in London as a potential lover. Except for one Silas Nash.
It was enough to drive a fellow stark, staring mad.
“I don’t believe you’ve thought of the consequences,” he said, wishing he could come up with something scary enough to deter her.
Her blue eyes remained steady. “I suppose you mean pregnancy.”
He brightened. Yes, that would fit the bill perfectly. It said something for his distraction that he hadn’t immediately mentioned the possibility. “It’s a risk.” He paused. “Especially after vigorous and prolonged sexual activity.”
He’d shoot the scoundrel who invited her to partake of such activity. If anyone was going to talk her into bed, it was him. Then he’d give her vigorous and prolonged until she was dizzy with pleasure. He’d panted after Caro for an eon. He had a lot of energy to burn off.
He’d hoped his plain speaking might discourage her. Of course it didn’t. Instead that damnably guileless gaze fastened on his face. “I want a lover worthy of the name. A bit of heat is well overdue.”
Good God, her frankness compounded his torment. He shifted on his spindly seat to relieve his discomfort and thanked heaven that the poor light hid his swift physical reaction. A bit of heat? At this rate, the Theatre Royal would go up in flames before Almaviva won the caterwauling Rosina.
“What will you do if you find yourself with child?” How ironic that he, the great debaucher, counseled prudence. Somewhere the angels were laughing their heads off at him.
“I was married for ten years without conceiving.” Fleeting sadness dulled her eyes. “The most obvious conclusion is that I’m barren.”
Her prosaic tone didn’t deceive him. He forgot his schemes and wounded pride, and only remembered that he hated to see her unhappy. He took the slender gloved hand resting on the box’s edge. “I’m sorry, Caro.”
For a moment, her hand lay in his and he hoped she might at last confide in him about her marriage. Only after she brought her fears into the light could he vanquish them. But to his regret, she swiftly resumed her social mask and withdrew. The warmth of her touch lingered. For a year, his love had survived on these small crumbs. He felt like he slowly starved to death.
She attempted a smile. “I’ve been listing candidates.”
He straightened in his chair, the need to assuage her heartache battling with his primitive masculine compulsion to see off all competitors. “Oh?”
She nodded with every appearance of confidence, but the hands she twined together betrayed uncertainty. Was that a sign that she wasn’t as set on this path as she sounded? He stifled the urge to tell her to give up this tomfoolery and marry him. Last night’s quarrel had been a sharp reminder that he could still lose this game.
When he didn’t question her sanity the way he had at her ball, she sucked in a relieved breath. “Perhaps you can tell me about them.”
With difficulty he kept his expression neutral. “Delighted to help,” he said, lying through his teeth.
After a hesitation as if she sensed something amiss but couldn’t place it, she said, “Mr. Harslett has been very attentive and he has pretty manners.”
“Old Johnny Harslett?” Silas asked, playing for time.
“Yes, there he is. The tall gentleman with red hair.”
“I know who he is.” Silas shot a poisonous glare at the oblivious clodpoll standing in the pit below them.
“Then what do I need to know?”
Hell. Silas had never heard a word against Harslett, something of a miracle in the vicious world they inhabited. Time for a bit of creativity. He lowered his voice to a confidential murmur. “Completely under his mother’s thumb. Doesn’t have a thought to call his own.”
“I’m not expecting him to invite me to tea with his family.”
Silas lowered his voice further. “Yes, but his mother insists on…choosing his mistresses. And interviewing them after every…encounter.”
She gaped with shock before distaste crossed her features. “Ugh. Very well. I take your point. He’s not suitable.” She pointed to another section of the crowded ground floor. “What about him?”
“Lord Pascal?”
“He’s very handsome.”
Devil take the fellow, he was. Amy, Silas’s youngest sister, had been moon-eyed over him when she was twelve. These days, at sixteen, she was more interested in efficient farming methods, thank heaven. Silas racked his brains for some reason to veto Pascal as Caro’s lover.