Authors: Danelle Harmon
"They don't, but — Oh, never mind, it
doesn't matter. Even gentlemen have to find ways to feed their
families, don't they?"
"Gareth, I —"
He turned, picked up a bundle he'd left
propped against the steps, and, grinning, held it out. It was a
beautiful bunch of red roses, tied with an expensive silk ribbon.
"Here, I got you a present. It's to celebrate."
"Gareth — " she shook her head and looked at
him in mock exasperation — "if you're going to start being frugal,
you can't be wasting money on buying me flowers. Money should be
spent on necessities!"
He grinned. "Do you like them?"
"Of course I do, but that's not the point
—"
"I said, do you like them?"
"Well, yes, but —"
"Then they are a necessity. Now, go fetch
Charlotte and let's get out of London before the neighborhood
awakes, shall we?" He gazed down at his humble clothes with a
mixture of amusement and ruefulness. "I don't want to give those
miserable old gits anything more to talk about than they already
have."
~~~~
"What do you mean, she left London?!"
The bellow came rolling through the foyer
and into Lady Brookhampton's parlor like a thunderclap. Nervously,
she set down her little telescope — with which she had been
perusing de Montforte House across the street, from where the Duke
of Blackheath had just stormed — and hurried out to the door where
the chalky-faced footman was shrinking from the wrath of that very
same duke. Lady Brookhampton paled. Never had she seen Blackheath
so furious.
"Your Grace! What a pleasure it is to see
—"
He tore off his hat and stalked inside, the
walls themselves seeming to shrink in terror of his fury. "You know
everything that goes on in this city; where is she?
And where's
that confounded brother of mine?
"
There was no use pretending ignorance; the
duke knew she had a telescope, knew she was a valuable font of
information. Lady Brookhampton waved the footman off and bravely
met Lucien de Montforte's black glare. "He abandoned her for three
days, you know. Married her, lost all their money, then dumped
her." She cupped a hand to the side of her mouth and whispered, "Is
it true that the brat is Charles's?"
"Never mind that, where did they go?"
"Surely, Your Grace, your own staff would be
better prepared to answer such a question than I —"
"
Where — did — they — go?
" he ground
out, a blood vessel throbbing in his temple.
"Well! If you must know, I
did
just
happen to see Lord Gareth return this morning, then come back out
with that ... that woman. But as to where they were headed, why,
that is beyond me, Your Grace." She saw him growing angrier and
angrier, and, in an attempt to mollify him, wrung her hands in a
pretense of concern. "Oh, Lucien! You know as well as I that your
brother will never be able to care for her and that babe! He'll
have them sleeping in the street and starving for want of food!
He'll have them begging like waifs! You have to find them!"
"Where is Perry?"
"I don't know, I never know where Perry is
nowadays, thanks to —"
"And those useless friends of theirs?"
"I'm sorry, but I don't know that, either
..."
The duke swore angrily and strode back out
the door, jamming his tricorn on his head as he went. His face was
thunderous. His grip on his riding crop was savage. He swung up on
that vicious black beast he called a horse and, without a backward
look, went galloping off down the street.
Her knees shaking, Lady Brookhampton
released her pent up breath, leaned back against the wall, and
dabbed at her forehead. For the first time in all these years, she
actually pitied the Wild One.
God only knew what the duke would do to his
errant brother when he found him.
~~~~
They caught the stage out of London. This
time, there were no highwaymen to lend excitement and danger to
their journey, no muddy roads to slow them, no rain pouring out of
the sky to make the trip a miserable one for those riding on the
roof. The team was eager to be off, and they were out of London and
on their way in no time.
Sitting inside with Charlotte on her lap and
her husband dozing in the seat just across from her, Juliet lost in
thought as she stared out at the shifting clouds and changing
scenery. Uncertainty prickled her spine. She may have trusted her
husband's fidelity during his three-day absence, but she didn't
have quite so much faith in this dubious scheme that filled him
with such excitement. He was a nobleman, bred to a life of leisure
and elegance. As a second son blessed with charm and charisma, she
could see him as an MP, or even an ambassador to some foreign post;
but she could not envision him lowering himself to something so
vulgar as swordfighting for show. What was he getting them
into?
At least Abingdon, just south of the
university city of Oxford, was not so far from the Duke of
Blackheath that she could not send to His Grace for help, if they
needed it.
Not that Gareth ever would. At her
questioning, he'd confessed — somewhat reluctantly and in no great
detail — where he'd spent the remainder of their wedding night.
Just the thought of him sleeping in the cold, wet mews made her
want to strangle him. His pride was going to be the downfall of
them all if she didn't keep a check on it. It was what had kept him
shivering in the mews when he could have joined her at de Montforte
House. It was what prevented him from bringing them all back to
Blackheath Castle and the duke's more-than-competent care. But he
had
decided to accept Snelling's offer, and, as an
impoverished aristocrat, that had to be plenty galling in
itself.
Why had he done so?
She gazed at his peaceful face, framed by
hair that had come loose from his queue and now tumbled haphazardly
over his brow. He had no trouble setting aside his pride to work
for a man who ranked far below him in status and breeding — yet the
world might end before he would seek Lucien's help. Was that pride,
then, all tied up with his relationship with his autocratic older
brother? The inevitable, annoying — and hurtful — comparisons to
Charles? Whatever it was, it was obvious he wanted to prove
himself, if not to her, then to Lucien, and Juliet found herself
desperately hoping that he would succeed.
They stopped to change horses at a coaching
inn. Several passengers alighted from the roof, and three more got
on. On the seat opposite, Lord Gareth stretched his long legs,
yawned, and leaned the side of his head against the squab, giving
her a sleepy, confident smile before drifting off once more. His
knees were crammed against hers, and only the fact that there were
other passengers inside the coach kept her from putting her hand on
that hard thigh of his and leaning over to kiss his parted lips.
How boyish and charming he looked, as though he didn't have a care
in the world. She shook her head with a little smile. In all
likelihood, he didn't.
Of all the nonsense Lady Brookhampton had
gone on about, one thing was certain: He and Charles were chalk and
cheese. She could not quite see Charles bringing them all on some
half-baked adventure and then dozing off with total confidence that
everything would turn out just fine. She could not quite see
Charles drawing his rapier and displaying his fighting skills for
money.
She could not quite see Charles, period.
Her brow furrowed in bewilderment. She had
not looked upon Charles's face for over a twelve-month, and it came
as something of a shock to realize that his features had now grown
fuzzy and distant in her memory. When she tried to envision
Charles's serious mouth, all she saw was Gareth's slow, teasing
grin. When she tried to recall the timbre of Charles's voice, all
she heard was Gareth's careless laughter. When she tried to
remember what it had been like to make love to Charles, all she
could evoke was that steamy, intense night at Mrs. Bottomley's,
when her virile husband had brought her to heights that had robbed
her of air and made her feel dizzy and faint and gloriously
alive.
Inadvertently, her gaze went to those
long-fingered, aristocratic hands lying loosely in his lap, and as
she recalled what he had done with them — and with that mouth that
looked so lazy and relaxed at the moment — she squirmed, her body
aching with sudden longing. Her breasts tingled and her heart gave
an erratic flutter. And then she remembered, almost guiltily, the
man who lay dead and buried three thousand miles away. The man who
had fathered her little daughter.
"Charles," she whisperered, trying to call
his memory back. She quietly reached for the miniature that hung
from around her neck, letting it rest upon her palm as she looked
down at it. It had been painted in Boston two months before
Charles's death, the artist's tiny, exquisite brush strokes
perfectly capturing his likeness. She gazed at it for a long time.
Gazed at the pale hair that he had powdered for the portrait, the
firm, soldierly mouth, the ambition in those deceptively lazy blue
eyes.
And felt only a strange nothingness.
Carefully, Juliet tucked the miniature back
beneath her bodice so that it rested once more against her heart.
Then, cuddling her daughter, she looked out the window, thinking
about her growing feelings for Gareth — and her dwindling ones for
Charles.
She never noticed that on the seat opposite
her, Gareth had woken, and was quietly watching her.
Chapter 25
Swanthorpe Manor was the most beautiful
house that Juliet had ever seen. Nestled on the fertile banks of
the River Thames and surrounded by manicured lawns, meadows, and
acres of young wheat, it was built of lovely pink brick, with
quoined stone and spectacular views over the river and distant
green hills to the south. As the carriage they'd hired at
Abingdon's Lamb Inn brought them down a drive bordered by budding
roses, carefully clipped yew hedge, and damson, peach and cherry
trees in full blossom, Juliet could see the spire of St. Helen's,
one of the town's two ancient churches, thrusting above the trees a
mile away. A cuckoo called from a nearby sycamore, and beyond,
sunlight dappled the water where swans, mallards, and coots paddled
lazily in the current.
"What a lovely home," she murmured as the
carriage came to a stop just outside the front steps.
Gareth smiled a bit ruefully. "Yes. Too bad
my fool grandfather lost it over a game of cards." His gaze met
hers, and in it she saw something like regret before he looked out
the window once more. "They say I'm just like him, you know.
Looking at what he had — and what he so carelessly threw away — I
begin to understand what a life of debauchery can cost."
"Oh, Gareth … surely you're not as debauched
as you think you are."
"Put it this way. Not as debauched as I
would have become, had I not met you." He gave her a teasing wink.
"And, of course, Charlotte."
"You mean to say we've had an influence on
you already?"
"My dear lady, you had an influence on me
from the moment I saw you bravely facing that highwayman's
pistol."
The door to the manor was opening, and in
the shadows beyond it, Juliet could just see an elegant chandelier
and a graceful wooden balustrade leading upstairs. Then a footman
was opening the carriage's door, and Snelling himself was coming
down the steps toward them, his smile as false and overly-wide as
it had been when Juliet had seen him last.
"Ah, Lord Gareth, Lady Gareth! You've had a
pleasant journey, I trust? You'll be happy here, I know you will.
We've prepared the dower house just for you. Come, come. I'm eager
to show it to you!"
Gareth inclined his head in what might have
been a nod and got out of the carriage. He stood just outside, the
sun lighting up his hair as he, ever the perfect gentleman,
assisted Juliet and Charlotte out. His intense dislike of Snelling
was almost palpable. Juliet could only wonder how humiliating it
must be for him, a duke's son, to be relegated to the dower house
of this magnificent home that had once belonged to his family while
its new owner, a self-made man of the lower orders, slept in the
master's bedroom. As much as she'd loved Charles, she couldn't
imagine him tolerating such a humiliating arrangement.
She certainly couldn't imagine Lucien or
Andrew tolerating it, either.
A wave of respect and admiration for her
husband came flooding over her, overwhelming her with its intensity
and bringing a sudden lump to her throat. And as they crossed the
lawn — Snelling carrying on a one-sided conversation about the
grounds, the estate, and the weather — Juliet tucked her hand in
the crook of her husband's elbow and gazed up at him with warm,
glowing eyes. Her heart thrilled to his nearness. It was a
wonderful feeling, one that put a bounce in her step and a flush on
her cheeks and made her feel like a young girl all over again.
My goodness, what
am
I
feeling?
But she knew. For the first time since she'd
met him, she was allowing herself to recognize and examine her
desire for this man she had married, without letting guilt — or her
so-called better judgment — move in to steal it away, and it felt
good. Liberating. Wonderful.
"And this is the dower house," Snelling was
saying, fitting a key in the lock and triumphantly pushing the door
wide. "What do you think, my lord?"
Juliet flinched. Addressed as it was to a
down-on-his heels aristocrat accustomed to living in one of the
most magnificent homes in England, the question in itself was an
insult — and something in Snelling's wide smile and watchful eyes
told her he knew it, as well.
Was he deliberately provoking her
husband?
But Gareth didn't move, didn't step over the
threshold, didn't deliver a swift reply of cutting rudeness. He
merely stood outside for a moment, his hands on his hips as he
tilted his head back to look up at the house with lazy, unhurried
detachment.