No Regrets Read Online Free PDF Page B

back, and he'd been waiting for what felt like hours.
       The fresh east wind that sent gray clouds scudding across a watery blue sky whipped a strand of hair into his eyes. He hunched deeper into his greatcoat. He could go inside and wait, but the thought of a house full of young females curdled his blood. What the hell was keeping Caro, anyway?
       "Shall I walk 'em, my lord?" asked Tigs, his diminutive tiger. Stretched to his full height, the wizened man held the tossing heads of the spirited team of grays, while the footman kept the reins from tangling from his perch on the box. Hitched to the back of the carriage, Maestro lifted a back hoof and gazed his reproach.
       Lucas shook his head. Surely she couldn't be much longer?
       Damn it. If marriage meant hanging about waiting, he already didn't like it.
       The front door opened. At last!
       The three younger Torringtons poured out in a swirl of warm wool cloaks and beribboned bonnets, followed by a tall, gray-haired woman, Miss Salter, their governess. He winced as their twittering chatter bounced around inside his skull.
       Last to emerge, Caro lingered on the steps, hugging and kissing her sisters in turn. The tawny velvet cloak he'd sent over yesterday suited her unusual coloring much better than black. With fashionable clothes, something more flattering to her fulsome figure, and a little town bronze, she might even look striking.
       Caro glanced over at him with a hesitant smile, a tiny curve of her full lips.
       His wife. A strange warmth stole into his chest, something he hadn't felt for a long time. If his head wasn't aching like the inside of a kettledrum being marched up the hill by the Duke of York, he might have smiled back.
       Lizzie pulled her black shawl tight, as if daring the wind to tug it loose, and marched down the path to the carriage. He scowled. He'd wanted to leave the self-opinionated maid behind.
       A pain stabbed his temples.
       He dragged himself to the front door, and in a blur he shook hands with the stick of a governess, bade the tearful sisters farewell, and then escorted Caro to the carriage.
       "Are you ready?" he croaked through a dry throat, holding in check his mad instinct to flee.
       She nodded, ran a considering gaze over him, and frowned.
       That frown didn't bode well. His stomach felt heavy, as if a lead ball had landed in its pit. "What?"
       "You might have worn a decent cravat instead of that handkerchief thing."
       A wedding didn't give her the right to dictate what he wore. "I never wear cravats. Not unless I absolutely have to."
       Huge in her oval face, her fawn eyes stared back at him. "It is the correct attire for a gentleman, surely."
       The belcher knotted around his throat tightened as if he'd made a noose and volunteered to put his neck in it. "How I choose to dress isn't really your concern."
       She recoiled, pressing her lips together as if to swallow another admonition. After a moment's hesitation, she rested a hand on his proffered arm and stepped up into the carriage.
       He regretted his harsh tone, if not the words. Bloody hell. He hadn't expected her to take her wifely role to heart. "Spring 'em," he growled at Tigs, and dove in after her.
       "Good-bye," the girls chorused as Caro leaned forward and waved from the window.
       He pressed his head against the squabs and closed his eyes against the hammers of hell. Damn his father for leaving him no choice.

    * * *

       Rain dripped from the footman's tricorn hat onto his shoulders as he held open the carriage door for Caro to alight into a dull grey afternoon.
       "Surely we haven't arrived already?" Caro said, glancing at Lizzie on the opposite seat.
       Lizzie shrugged. "It's only been two hours since we stopped for lunch."
       Peering through the steady downpour, Caro made out the shape of a low building beyond the footman's shoulder. "Is this the Red