The Husband List

  “We must improve Rosemeade’s grounds and refurnish it immediately. It’s entirely lacking in elegance. If we didn’t need to be in residence no later than July first, I’d say to raze the whole thing and start over. But with both Bremerton and the season upon us, I shouldn’t get carried away,” Mama said to Papa after being sure Caroline had left her quail to languish.

  “Do whatever you wish,” Caroline’s father replied. That was his stock answer for anything regarding the family’s residences, which he left wholly to his wife.

  Caroline wasn’t feeling quite so calm. Their Newport summer cottage was her favorite. While it was hardly small at forty rooms, its Tudor-style stone-and-timber exterior gave it a sense of simplicity that this house lacked. Rosemeade also held memories of the many summer days when she’d chased after Eddie and Jack. Her heart would break if those were wiped away.

  “Why would Rosemeade need improvement? It’s perfect just as it is,” she said.

  “Perfect? Perfect to entertain a duke?” Mama asked.

  Caroline could feel her hard-fought control evaporating.

  “What duke?” she asked. “Bremerton’s not a duke unless both his father and grandfather conveniently die.”

  Her mother couldn’t have looked more shocked if frogs had sprung from Caroline’s mouth.

  “Caroline, really!”

  “It’s true, Mama. That’s the one fact you have. What you don’t know is what sort of man he is … if he’s kind or smart or has a good smile,” she said, thinking of Jack’s smile. “And—”

  “Caroline, be quiet!” her mother commanded.

  But Caroline’s words might as well have been those frogs because she couldn’t stop them. “And for once, could we have something that isn’t made to look like something other than what it is?”

  She waved her hand at the room’s rosewood moldings that her mother had ordered covered in gold-leaf. “Could we have wood and not make it look like gold?”

  She pointed a finger at the marble fireplace that had been detailed to look like burled oak. “And stone that isn’t painted like wood?”

  She settled one hand against the half-high bodice of her silk-and-chiffon dinner dress, which, as far as she was concerned, was too fussy to be tolerated.

  “And me? What about me, Mama? Couldn’t we just agree that my hair is as straight as a pin and stop torturing it into curls? Couldn’t we stop dressing me as though I’m royalty when I’m just me … plain, unremarkable me?”

  Caroline’s words caught up with her, and her anger passed as quickly as it had come. She’d never been able to hang on to it, which she supposed was a decent trait. A handier one would have been keeping her frustration to herself.

  Her mother and father were staring at her, aghast. Amelia and Helen looked as though they were about to burst into tears. And poor Eddie was gazing raptly into his wine goblet as though the secrets to life rested there.

  Caroline didn’t dare look at Jack. If she did, her humiliation would be complete. She pushed back her chair and rose.

  “I … I think I’m feeling unwell,” she said into the silence that hung over the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just…”

  But because she had no idea what she planned to do, she simply turned and left. Her new shoes skidded on the hard floor, making her steps as wobbly as she felt inside.

  She passed Annie in the hallway, but didn’t stop to ask her what in heaven’s name she was doing by the dining room. And instead of heading upstairs as she, too, should have done, Caroline rushed to the conservatory.

  Once inside, she closed the glass and wrought-iron door that kept the room’s warmth and humidity neatly trapped. She paused at the finch cage and shook her head.

  “I know just how you feel,” she said to the birds.

  At least the birds couldn’t see through the room’s foliage to know that their kind flitted freely outside. Caroline had to watch Eddie being given full rein, while she and the twins were groomed to be Mama’s idea of perfect wives.

  But that was not going to change.

  The best she could do was work well within the cage that surrounded her, too. Caroline touched the tip of one finger to the pinkish edge of a delicate orchid blossom and watched it quiver. At least it was a very pretty cage, if over-furnished.

  “I knew I’d find you here,” said a male voice.

  TWO

  Caroline looked away from the flower. Jack stood between the tall potted palms that framed the room’s entry.

  “It’s just where I’d find you at Rosemeade, too. Would you mind some company?” he asked.

  In his right hand was a plate bearing a thick slice of chocolate cake. Even though her appetite had fled with her outburst in the dining room, Caroline revised her prior assessment. Jack Culhane was not just perfect, he was gloriously so.

  Caroline couldn’t recall the last time she’d been alone with a male who wasn’t a family member. Mama had deemed it unacceptable under any circumstance once Caroline had turned twelve. But here she was, alone with Jack. She couldn’t think of a better man with whom to break a few rules.

  “Of course I don’t mind company, especially when it arrives with chocolate cake,” Caroline said to him. “But why aren’t you still in the dining room?”

  “Amelia and Helen started sniffling, and I got the sense the dam was about to burst. Since I believe in self-preservation, I did what I had to do.” He extended the cake. “Are you going to take this, or should I give it back to the red-headed maid who came running after me with it?”

  So Annie was behind the miracle of the cake. She might prove to be a wonderful ally if she wasn’t fired first. Caroline eyed the treat. Perhaps her appetite hadn’t fled as far as she’d thought.

  “I’d hate to send you out of your way over mere dessert,” she said, reaching for the plate and fork. She speared a fat chunk of cake and sighed when its rich flavor met her mouth.

  Jack grinned. “I take it the cake’s more to your taste than quail?”

  “That’s me,” Caroline said after she’d swallowed. “Plain, old me.”

  Jack followed her as she walked down the mossy green tile pathway between the benches of plants and on to a small wrought-iron table on which sat an open-mouthed blue-and-white jar holding a white water lily.

  “Not plain, not old … and in no way unremarkable,” he said.

  She glanced over her shoulder at him. He appeared to be sincere.

  Caroline sat, taking care not to snag her dress on the metal chair. She didn’t usually believe compliments from gentlemen, because she had millions of reasons in the bank to doubt the giver’s sincerity. Jack was rich, though.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re welcome.” He was looking at her much as Eddie had been at that wine goblet. “You look different tonight.”

  “My temper must have brought some color to my face,” she said.

  He seemed to shake off the moment as he took the seat opposite her. “That’s probably it.” He paused and then added, “So, are you going to offer me some of that cake?”

  Caroline froze. “From the same plate? And with the same fork?”

  He laughed. “A lightning bolt won’t strike us. I’ve been in parts of the world where everyone shares from the same pot, no utensils at all, and to the best of my knowledge, God hasn’t turned on them yet.”

  Jack had brought her the cake and missed dinner, too. Caroline glanced toward the conservatory door. If her drama at dinner had stunned her mother, this would give her fits. But no one was watching, not even the ghostly O’Brien. She handed Jack the fork and felt a tingle of rebellious glee.

  “Tell me about your almost duke,” Jack said after he’d had a bite of cake. “From the stories I’ve heard about your visit to London last year, I’d have thought all Englishmen would be cowering on their side of the Atlantic.”

  “Exaggerations, mostly,” she said.

  “Mostly?” He leaned back in his chair and smiled at her
. “Care to share?”

  “I share cake, not tales,” she said. “But as a point of information, the almost duke isn’t mine. And I don’t want him to be, either.”

  “That’s not a very welcoming attitude. Almost un-American,” Jack commented with a smile.

  “I’m American enough that I don’t see the benefit to the Maxwell name if I snare an English title.”

  “Point taken, again,” he said. “But cheer up. You might even like the almost duke once you meet him.”

  Caroline couldn’t sort out which part of Jack’s statement she liked least: that he wanted her to welcome this latest marriage candidate or that he thought marriage must be orchestrated.

  “Is that what you hope for with your future wife? That you’ll like each other?” she finally asked.

  He didn’t look as though he appreciated having the conversation turned back on him.

  “I don’t have a future wife, and I don’t plan on looking for one,” he said. “But from my bachelor’s point of view, liking one’s spouse isn’t all bad.”

  Caroline made a scoffing sound.

  The corner of his mouth quirked in response.

  “So what is it you want, then?” he asked.

  Caroline rubbed her fingertip against the thin, silver-gilt edge of the cake’s plate. She’d spent a lot of time thinking about what she wanted, and apparently could not have.

  “I want passion,” she said. “I want to adore my husband so much that the thought of life without him crushes me. I want love. True, forever, burning love.”

  He blinked. “You want Romeo and Juliet?”

  The play happened to be one of her favorite Shakespearean works. She re-read it each summer by candlelight at Rosemeade. If that made her a romantic ninny, so be it.

  “What’s so horrible about Romeo and Juliet?” she asked.

  “Other than that they died stupidly young?” he countered before tucking into the cake.

  She glared at him. “Do you have a romantic bone in your body?”

  “I’ve got practical bones,” he replied. “Tough, Irish practical bones. And what do you know about burning love, anyway?”

  Caroline knew about unrequited love. She knew how she felt nearly breathless—and not from a tight corset—when Jack entered a room. But she would never tell him that. He thought highly enough of himself already.

  “I don’t know as much as I plan to,” she said aloud.

  He laughed. “Your mother would keel over if she heard you say that.”

  She took the fork from him. “Which is why I watch my words in front of her.”

  “You’re smart,” he said. “And quick, too. If a little greedy with that cake.”

  “Ha! You try being starved nightly and let me know how it works for you,” she said before taking more.

  “Eat more in the afternoon,” he suggested.

  Caroline smiled, but also wished life were that uncomplicated.

  “Is it so bad having your future mapped out?” Jack asked.

  “Yes,” she replied. “I want to do the mapping.”

  “We both know that’s unlikely. You need to make the best of the situation. You’ll be a lot happier if you do.”

  She had been thinking the same thing earlier, but that didn’t mean she liked hearing it from Jack, of all men.

  “That’s easy for you to say, when your future’s your own,” she pointed out.

  “Be practical,” Jack urged. “You’re lucky. You’re a wealthy heiress who happens to be witty and attractive.” He hesitated. “Some men might even find you beautiful.”

  But not you, she thought.

  “Yes, I have money,” she said. “And I can put words together, and I’m decent looking. But if you were in my shoes, would that and a spouse foisted upon you make you happy, Jack?”

  He stared at her as though she were speaking in tongues.

  “Well, that’s different. I’m a man.”

  He couldn’t have chosen a worse answer. Caroline stood.

  “Which gives you a list of rights I don’t have, but should,” she said. “I can and will take care of myself. And if you maintain this attitude about women, Jack, you’re going to wind up eating your cake alone.”

  She picked up her plate and fork, and left. Jack Culhane was not gloriously perfect. He was another big, lumbering male who deserved no chocolate at all.

  * * *

  LATER THAT night, Jack sat in one of the pair of timeworn gold brocade chairs in front of the drawing room fireplace, at the home he shared with his father.

  Home?

  It was a mansion, though not as serious in its pursuit of the title as the Maxwell family’s near-palace. Less stuffed to the rafters, too. Having lived in a male household since his mother’s death twenty years before, Jack didn’t understand the apparent female need for clutter-gathering. And after dessert tonight with Caroline Maxwell, he was beginning to believe he didn’t understand females, either.

  The scrawny little girl trailing after him had grown up. He supposed he’d known that for a while, but somehow Caroline had become part of the landscape to him. Until tonight. When her face had lit up as she’d started speaking her mind, he’d realized she was beautiful.

  Her black hair and those thick lashes fringing light brown eyes weren’t what a man saw on the usual American Miss. Neither was her plump lower lip, which had riveted his attention. And her declaration of wanting to experience burning love wasn’t the usual talk from a demure debutante, either.

  Jack stretched out his legs and smiled. He’d enjoyed Caroline’s opinions and independence, even when she’d turned on him. He’d bet that spark was going to be extinguished, though. Bernard and Agnes would marry her off to the highest title, and she’d end up in a damp ruin of a house with a man who would find her more odd than interesting. That was a shame, but it wasn’t his business.

  The pungent scent of the peat his father had shipped from Ireland wafted from the fireplace, drawing Jack from thoughts of Caroline Maxwell’s circumstances. Others had struggled and won; she might, too.

  Da had taken on America and ended up owning timber tracts and coal mines from here to the Mississippi. And he’d raised Jack to understand the benefits of hard work. One trip to Da’s birthplace in hardscrabble County Donegal had driven that home.

  And so Jack worked. Today’s purchase had been six months in the making. After he picked up one more brewery he had his eye on in Rhode Island, his holdings would be complete. Da was proud, though he wished Jack had chosen whiskey over beer. But Jack had been keeping a close eye on the temperance groups. Hard spirits stood a greater risk of eventually being outlawed. And Jack liked beer, as wrong-headed as whiskey-loving Da might find that.

  The fat, round-faced clock on the mantel had just chimed ten when Jack’s father entered. Jack knew he was seeing what he’d look like in thirty years. They shared the same stubborn set of the jaw and the same dark Irish skin. And like his father, he’d probably still be dressed in his day clothes well into the night, with shirtsleeves rolled up and wrinkled after a hard day’s work.

  “You, again?” Da asked in a teasing voice as he settled into the chair next to Jack’s. “Does it not bother you, livin’ under my roof? When I was your age, I was long gone from home.”

  “I’ve seen the place. You had more incentive to leave.”

  Da gave a bark of laughter. “True enough. I should have made things rougher on you.”

  Jack grinned. “Are you kicking me to the curb?”

  “I could have ten of you under this roof and our paths would still not cross more than once a day.”

  Jack noted the lack of a real answer. Da was crafty with his words.

  “You are home early, though,” his father said.

  “Dinner was cut short. Domestic drama at the Maxwell’s.”

  “No surprise there.” Da gave Jack a sideways glance. “Are you not going to ask me why I’m home before midnight on a card night?”

  “I’m not su
re I want to know,” Jack replied.

  His father grinned. “Sure, you do. I won myself a Newport cottage off Harry Benton. The man doesn’t know when to quit, and I do.”

  But Harry had also once won a tract of Michigan timber from Da. Jack had no doubt that winning the cottage had felt sweet.

  “How large a cottage?” he asked.

  “A house on Mill Street, looking over Touro Park. The place is small, I’m hearing. Less than twenty rooms, but more than a Culhane has owned there before.”

  “Great, but what are you going to do with it?”

  “Why, sign it over to you, of course,” Da said. “You can fix it up. It will make a grand gift for your bride.”

  “I don’t have a bride.”

  “At your age, you should.”

  If today’s warm spring air had spurred all the marriage talk, Jack hoped for a cold snap.

  “Keep the house, Da. You might marry again.”

  “No other woman could be what your mam was to me. You, though … it’s time you found a wife.”

  “I like being single.”

  “I’m meaning this, Jack. There comes a time when a man needs to move on. This is yours. You’ve had your fun, and it’s time to think of the future. Do you want to be alone?”

  “I’m not. I’ve got you to bother the hell out of me.”

  Da snorted. “Only when you’re being an arse. I’ve not given you many orders, and mostly you’ve done what you should. But now I’m telling you to get married and be sure there’s an heir to grow what we’ve both built.”

  It looked as though Caroline’s parents hadn’t cornered the market on empire building. Now Jack had an inkling of how she felt. Of course, he had money of his own and could walk if he chose. But he respected his father and would hear him out.

  “Is there any special sort of heiress you think I should be shopping for?” he asked, letting out some of his general annoyance.

  “Don’t be an eejit,” Da replied. “The money doesn’t matter. Marry for love.”

  Love. That, at least, should buy him some time.

  * * *

  CAROLINE’S SATURDAY started with an early summons to her mother’s sitting room. Mama let Caroline linger on the thick, floral Aubusson rug outside her door for a few minutes before she was allowed inside—just long enough for Caroline to begin to worry about the repercussions of last night’s speech. She could take a lecture, but not another curtailment of her freedom. She’d had precious little of that since her last London season, when her methods for running off suitors hadn’t impressed her mother.