Authors: Danelle Harmon
"Which room, milady?"
Nerissa turned and, thoughtfully tapping a
fingernail against her lip, looked at Juliet. "In Lord Charles's
rooms, I think."
Juliet gasped. After the robbery, meeting
Lord Gareth, and the awful interview through which she'd just been
put, could she possibly endure sleeping in Charles's bed without
falling apart completely? Lady Nerissa gave her no time to think
further upon the matter. Chattering happily, she bade Juliet to
follow her from the library.
"Now, you must
not
allow Lucien to
upset you," she said, lightly touching Juliet's sleeve as they
walked side by side. "He can be a monster even at the best of
times, but he's been particularly bad-tempered ever since Lady
Hartfield tried to blackmail him into marriage last month. Needless
to say, my brother does not have the highest opinion of women at
the moment! But never mind. Would you like to say good night to
Gareth before you retire for the evening?"
Still reeling from the thought of sleeping
in Charles's bed, Juliet was caught by surprise. "I, uh...."
Lady Nerissa mistook the reason for her
hesitation. "It would make him very happy, I think," she prodded
softly.
"But is it proper?"
"Of course. I shall be with you."
She beckoned Juliet to follow her and,
skirts whispering over ancient stone, led her up a flight of stairs
so magnificent and wide that five people standing arm to arm could
have climbed them with room to spare.
At their top was a long, paneled corridor
with several doors leading off it. From behind one of them came a
drunken verse of song and an answering roar of laughter.
Without hesitation, Lady Nerissa pushed the
door open and the guffaws immediately stopped.
"
Gentlemen?
" she said, stressing the
word in a way that led one to think she didn't consider the
inhabitants of the room to be such at all. "I have a visitor to see
Gareth. Behave yourselves."
She opened the door wide for Juliet,
motioning her forward.
Hesitantly, Juliet stepped over the
threshold and paused just inside. The room was velveted in gloom
and shadow. Ornately plastered ceilings rose some fifteen feet
above her head. A few burned-down candles, their tongues of flame
swaying in the drafts, struggled to give the huge chamber light.
Juliet blinked, trying to adjust her eyes to the rich dimness.
And then she saw Lord Gareth's friends,
lying about the bedroom in various states of repose — Chilcot,
perched on a window seat, his forefinger stuck in an empty bottle
and swinging it back and forth; Perry, sprawled in a damask-backed
chair with his waistcoat unbuttoned, his cravat askew, and a bleary
smile on his handsome face. The names of the others had escaped
her. There was the one with the big nose, his eyes bloodshot
beneath the straggles of wavy brown hair that had escaped his
queue; the one who was as wide and burly as a draft horse, flat on
his back and snoring, his wig looking like a dead rat on the floor
beside his head; a third, thin and cocky, hiccuping drunkenly and
saluting Juliet with his bottle: "To the lady ...
hic
! ...
o' the hour!"
And Lord Gareth de Montforte.
He lay propped against a mountain of
brocaded pillows in a massive bed of carved oak, his hair tousled,
a sheet drawn loosely over his bare torso, a sleepy little smile
flirting with one corner of his mouth. His gaze lifted to Juliet,
and for the second time that night, her hand went to her heart to
still its sudden wild palpitations.
Beneath that sheet she knew he was
naked.
It was suddenly too hot in the room. It was
suddenly too hard to breathe. Juliet felt every part of her that
made her a woman go up in flames, thrumming and tingling in wild
response to the sight he made against the bedsheets and pillows.
She would have turned and fled had Lady Nerissa not been standing
just behind her.
Candlelight made his skin glow like honey,
bathing his upper body in warmest gold. It picked out the hollows
created by bone, sinew, and beautifully honed muscle, flowed over
the taut bulges of his upper arms and the base of his neck. Whorls
of brown hair brushed his chest, but in the kiss of the bedside
candle, each one glinted a mellow gold, as did the stubble just
hazing his jaw. As he looked up at Juliet her knees went suddenly
weak, for he had a certain, lethal charm that even Charles could
not have matched. The thought — and her own physical reaction to
the seductive picture he made against those sheets and pillows —
made her feel oddly guilty, as though she was betraying the man she
loved. She swallowed, hard.
"Come here," he said, softly.
The room went still, with only the candles
throwing moving shadows and light up the walls, the carved
moldings, and across the high ceiling.
Juliet moved forward, aware that every eye
in the room was on her. Her heart pounded madly. Her palms went
damp. As she neared the bed Lord Gareth reached out, took her hand,
and kissed it.
"You're ... an angel," he said thickly, his
fingers warmly enclosing her own.
She smiled. "And you, Lord Gareth, are
foxed."
"Shamefully so. But useful, under the
circumstances."
"Are you in much pain?"
He grinned, still holding her hand. "To be
honest, Miss Paige, I cannot feel a thing."
Behind her, Chilcot guffawed, but Juliet,
entranced, never heard it. As Gareth gazed up at her through the
loose hair that fell endearingly over his brow and tangled in his
lashes, she saw, at last, that his eyes were a pale, sleepy
blue.
"I guess you were right," she said and,
pulling her fingers from his grasp, reached over and brushed the
strands of hair off his brow. Her hand was trembling. "You're not
going to die after all."
"Wouldn't dream of it. I rather like being a
hero, you know. Think I'll stick around and rescue damsels in
distress more often." He looked up at her, those beautiful blue
eyes of his warm, earnest, and reaching areas of her heart that
she'd forgotten had existed. "Don't let Lucien scare you off, will
you?"
"I won't."
He nodded once, satisfied, and let his eyes
drift shut. "Thank you for coming to see me, Miss Paige."
She swallowed, trying to find her voice.
"And thank you, Lord Gareth, for what you did for us tonight." And
then, on a sudden impulse, she bent down and, through the loose
strands of his hair, dropped a kiss on his brow. "We owe you our
lives."
~~~~
She was far from cold, but Juliet was
hugging her arms to herself as she and Nerissa moved along the
shadowy corridor, their passing the only sound in the now-quiet
house. Her heart was still pounding, and she longed to rush outside
and drink deeply of the cool night air. What was wrong with her?
Why had she had such a reaction to Lord Gareth?
She hadn't experienced
those
sort of
feelings since ... well, since Charles.
She shuddered, throwing off her thoughts. Of
course her heart was beating so hard because they were headed for
Charles's rooms, an experience she was both dreading and eagerly
anticipating. Of course the only reason she'd reacted so to Gareth
was because he was Charles's brother, nothing more. It had nothing
to do with Gareth. It had everything to do with Charles.
Didn't it?
"Are you well, Juliet?" Lady Nerissa asked,
beside her.
Juliet managed a feeble smile. "Yes, thank
you — it's just been a rather trying day, that's all."
"Of course," the other woman said kindly,
but her blue eyes were sharp, and Juliet had a feeling she had
guessed more than she was letting on. What must Lady Nerissa think
of her, lighting up over one brother while supposedly still
mourning the other?
They continued down the hall. On the walls,
sconces glowed orange and cast flickering light over portraits and
paintings, ancient statues and busts. Finally they reached a
massive carved door. There Lady Nerissa paused, her hand on the
latch.
Juliet tensed, mentally bracing herself. She
felt Nerissa's gaze upon her.
"Charles would have been proud of you," said
the younger woman, quietly. "Coming all the way to England just to
give your baby a name and a family.... Please don't worry about
Lucien. If he won't help you, one of us will." She pushed the door
open slightly while Juliet hung back. "Martha?" called Lady Nerissa
softly, into the darkness within. "You can go off to bed now. And
oh, good — you've brought the cradle up from the nursery."
Juliet, still standing outside, hugged
herself and traced a design on the rug with her toe while Lady
Nerissa conversed with the maid.
The matronly woman who had made off with
Charlotte emerged from the room, yawning. "Lord Andrew 'ad it done,
milady. Said 'e didn't think mother and daughter'd want to be
separated. Also said it was too short notice to find a wet nurse in
the village, so the babe would 'ave to stay in 'ere with 'er mother
instead of up in the nursery. The little mite's a-sleepin' now, but
I 'spect she'll need a feedin' soon."
"My goodness! I am amazed that Andrew knows
anything about such matters," Lady Nerissa mused, raising her
brows.
Juliet lifted her head. "Thank you for your
help, Martha." She turned to Charles's sister. "And you, too, Lady
Nerissa. You have all been so kind to us."
Martha beamed. "Think nothink of it, mum. We
ain't 'ad a babe in this 'ouse for far too long, if'n ye ask
me."
"Indeed," Nerissa said wryly. "Off with you
now, Martha. I am sure Miss Paige wishes to rest. We can both see
Charlotte at breakfast."
"Yes, milady. Lookin' forward to it, I
am!"
Martha bobbed in a curtsy and ambled off
down the hall.
Nerissa watched her go. "I sense that you're
an independent sort, but if you need Molly's assistance, there's a
bellpull behind the bed." She put her hands on Juliet's arms,
looking at her for a long moment before pulling her forward in a
quick embrace. "I'm so glad you've come here. Good night, now, and
I shall see you in the morning."
Juliet returned the other woman's smile.
"Good night, Lady Nerissa."
Charles's sister moved off down the hall,
her footfalls fading. Juliet stood watching her, hating to see her
go. But she had to face the inevitable. Taking a deep breath, she
slowly pushed open the door ... and entered the room that had
belonged to Charles.
All was still. Dark. A sleepy fire crackled
in the hearth, and before it, in silhouette, stood a brass bath and
a towel stand and the cradle that held Charlotte. Juliet took a
step forward, softly closing the door behind her. A great curtained
bed filled the shadows. Dim shapes marked out furniture. On a chest
of drawers, a lone candle flickered in the drafts, a tiny finger of
light against the darkness. Arms at her sides, barely able to
breathe, Juliet stood very still in the silence, letting it engulf
her.
Charles.
She had thought to feel him here, but the
room was empty. There was only the little candle, herself, and her
sleeping daughter. Nothing else. No overwhelming sense of his
presence, no lingering hint of his scent, no rush of memories,
nothing. It was just a room, and nothing more.
She moved slowly around the huge, chilly
chamber, her skirts whispering over the floor he had once walked,
her fingers trailing atop the furniture that had once held his
clothes. He was not here. He was as far away from her here, as he
had been all these past lonely months in Boston.
Oh, Charles… I have never felt so alone in
all my life.
The fire snapped. A little shower of embers
trickled through the grate, a mournful sound in the darkness. She
leaned against the bedpost and gazed dismally at their red glow,
feeling somehow betrayed by his absence, feeling sad and confused
and lonely and lost.
"Charles...."
But there was no answer.
The baby awoke, whimpering. Juliet went to
the cradle, picked her up, and hugged her to her breast, rocking
back and forth in quiet, dry-eyed agony.
Charlie-girl
, Lord
Gareth had called the baby. What an endearment. Grief welled up in
the back of her throat.
He's dead, Juliet. Dead and gone. Doesn't
this empty, lifeless room prove it?
She held Charlotte close for a long time,
gathering what comfort she could from her baby and trying, in vain,
to cling to something she'd once had but would never have again.
The wild and breathless euphoria of first love. A heart that had
leaped with joy at just the thought of her handsome British
officer. How young and naive she had been, assuming that with
Charles she had found her "forever," that death would never touch
someone as youthful, as virile, as he had been. And how far away
those memories, that giddy, soaring, girlish excitement, now
felt.
And yet something inside her had stirred
tonight when she'd seen his brother — beautifully masculine,
powerfully muscled — lying in his bed, his nakedness covered only
by a loose sheet. Something she hadn't felt in a long, long
time.
Desire.
She shook her head. No wonder she didn't
feel Charles here. How could she, with the image of that splendid
younger brother emblazoned so vividly across her brain?
"Ouch!" Charlotte had grasped a lock of
Juliet's hair, yanking it hard from its pins and reminding Juliet
that she had someone else to think of besides herself. Gently, she
pried the hair from the baby's fist and pulled up a chair, where
she sat nursing her daughter and staring into the red embers of the
dying fire. She thought of Charles. She thought of her reaction to
Lord Gareth. She thought how horrible she was for even having such
a reaction.
And eventually, she became so tired she
didn't think at all.
The water was cool by the time she had
finished tending to Charlotte, shed her soiled clothes, and
crawled, shivering, into the bath. It had grown much colder still
when she finally emerged. She toweled herself dry, put on her
nightgown and crawled beneath the cool, crisp sheets, her cheek
sinking into the feathery softness of the pillow that had once held
his
dear head.